The Lady's Book. March, 1839 || The Richmond County Mirror. March 23, 1839
Written for the Lady's Book.
THE SMUGGLER'S DAUGHTER.
BY MISS M. MILES.
STAR after star had come forth, and the clock of the old church of the village had pealed forth the midnight hour as Roland Cranstoun knelt for his mother's blessing. On the morrow he was to go forth from the familiar scenes of his boyish days, to tempt the wild waste of ocean; and the sweet spell of poesy was on his spirit as he murmured forth
“Pray for me mother, pray that no blight
May come o'er my hopes and prospects bright,
Pray that my days may be long and fair,
Free from the withering touch of care”—
And most fervently did the mother's prayer go up amidst the deep hush of the midnight.
Roland Cranstoun's step had ever been amidst lordly halls; but his father was dead, leaving him but a younger son's portion and a haughty spirit for an inheritance. The army was open to him, and soon the name of Capt. Cranstoun was read in the public papers of the day, and that his regiment was ordered abroad.
“What! though these broad lands are mine, brother, are not our hearts the same as in the days of our boyhood? Is not one home large enough for us both? Stay with your kindred, Roland, stay to witness my happiness, and my sweet Anna shall be to you a sister.”
Roland Cranstoun wrung his brother's hand with strong feeling, and there was a slight quiver of his proud lip as he answered: “I know your generous spirit Henry; I know what I sacrifice, but you must have the means of supporting the dignity of our ancient house, and I could not brook dependence. Do not tempt me my brother; I must go forth unshrinkingly.”
The mother felt he had chosen the wiser part, and strengthened him with counsel and prayer. It was his last evening in his home; and each loved haunt had been visited again and again. Each old tenant had been up to the Abbey with a tear in the eye, and a kind word for master Roland; and with much emotion had he wrung each toil-worn hand. The evening wore away, and with a kiss upon the cheek of his new sister, and a smothered God bless you, as he returned his brother's embrace, he broke from the family circle, and when all preparations were made for his departure, early the next morning sought his mother's chamber for her parting blessing.
The morning dawned fair and bright, but there was a “vacant seat at board and hearth;” and the inmates of Cranstoun Abbey felt as if one gleam of sunshine had departed from their dwelling:
Speed on, speed on, thou gallant bark!
Thy flag is waving free,
And let the ocean caves give forth,
A fitting minstrelsy!—
And Roland Cranstoun was pacing the deck of the gallant ship with a thoughtful brow but proud step, as the merry shores of England receded from view.
“Whither are those sighs wafted, Cranstoun, my good fellow?” asked a brother officer, upon whose arm leaned a young and beautiful female. “Is there any maiden fair
“Weeping in lonely bower?”
“No! I am free, but my thoughts were homeward bound, Sedley!”
“So would mine be,” replied his friend, “but that this foolish girl chose to leave home and kindred to follow a soldier's fortunes;” and the look of fondness that he cast upon the young being beside him, showed how much he felt her devoted love. “Come, I must introduce you to Mrs. Sedley.”
Roland turned to greet her, and inwardly wondered that the fragile girl before him should ever have dreamed of tempting the dangers of the sea. A feeling of pity for a moment took possession of his heart, for he as yet knew not woman's strength in her hour of need.
Sedley and he had been friends from their earliest days; but the former's duties the last two years had cast their lots in different places; and it was with all the warmth of kindly feeling that they met previous to their embarkation on board the same ship. He bad recently married his cousin, and to Roland she soon became almost as a sister; so confiding was she in her friendship for her husband's friend.
“Do you know who that young girl is, Roland,” she asked one day, just as they came in view of their “destined haven;” “I have noticed her earnest gaze more than once, fixed upon you. There is something singularly beautiful about her face.”
“I have seen those brilliant eyes before, I am sure, but where I cannot think. There, she has vanished again. They say yon dark-browed subaltern is her father, and that he has forbidden her appearing on deck. Her face haunts me like some vision of my childhood.”
“Her name is Florence, so I heard them call her,” said Sedley joining them, “but her father, Cranstoun, do you know him?” and a shade of anxiety passed over the face of the speaker.
“No! I know no one of the name of Ridgley; why do you ask?”
“Only to bid you be on your guard; I fear he means you some evil.”
“Me!” but ere he could give expression to his astonishment, the glad shout of the seamen and soldiers, as they neared the shore, called off their attention and the conversation dropped.
“Spain! sunny Spain! Oh, there is breathing beauty beneath thy skies,” murmured the young officer as he was wandering forth one evening. His regiment was stationed not far from ——, the then seat of war; though as yet they had seen no actual service. He was alone and sad, for his dreams were of the “ancient Abbey;” and the voices of his kindred seemed blent with the evening wind sighing through orange groves. The shadows of night were beginning to fall ere he turned towards his quarters. Suddenly a sweet and thrilling voice warbled close to his ear—
“There's danger when the soft winds sigh,
And stars beam out in yon sweet sky—
There's danger in the star-lit path,
The warning comes from one of earth.”
Startled, he darted forward to discover the hidden songstress, but he caught only a glimpse of a slight figure as it disappeared amidst the grove of limes. The warning was evidently intended for him; but he was perplexed and amazed. Who in this stranger land could do him injury; and who, for the voice was that of a female, should take this interest in his fate? But he was not long suffered to indulge his meditations. A bright weapon flashed before his eyes, and he found himself attacked by three ruffians. Determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, he drew his sword, and for a few moments kept them at bay. He had received a severe wound in the shoulder, and was fast losing strength from the effusion of blood; a sudden faintness was stealing over him, and he sunk to the ground; but ere the bared knife of the taller ruffian had reached his heart, a shout recalled his fleeting senses, and Sedley and a band of his gallant soldiers burst upon them. One of the ruffians was killed, but the others escaped. The body was recognized as that of a peasant, who was supposed to hold communication with a well known brigand band. Cranstoun's wound was not dangerous, but it was of such a nature as to prevent him from using his arm for many months, and he soon obtained leave of absence; though inwardly murmuring that his proud hopes of distinguishing himself in the approaching strife, were crumbled to the dust. The laurel wreath he coveted was not to grace his brow.
Home! home! was his thought; and all preparations being made, he was to start on the morrow. He was sitting with his friends beneath the sweet moonlight, that was resting on the mouldering ruins of what was once a palace, belonging to some proud grandee, whose very name had died on time's records.
“Would that I too could see the faces of mine own,” softly whispered Mrs. Sedley, through her tears. “Mother! sisters! you will see them all, and tell them that their Flora's heart is often with them.”
“But still, my Flora would follow me to share my dangers and privations,” said Sedley. “Does she now repent? The soldier's bride must give up much, but the soldier's heart feels deeply her devotion.”
“Never, Horace! Your lot is mine;” and her eye was lifted to his face, with a look he could not mistake. “But, even you sometimes long for a sight of old England; and Roland will soon see her dear shores.”
“Turn! turn! from fair England, there's death in thy path,
Tho' her bowers may smile the fairest of earth;
There's danger around thee,
Its meshes have bound thee,
And mourning shall be in the halls of thy birth.”
Every one started up as the words fell upon their ear, chanted in a low sweet voice, yet distinct enough for them to catch each sound. They searched the ruins but could find no trace of any one's having been secreted there.
“Strange!” exclaimed Cranstoun. “That I have some enemy I cannot doubt; but from whom come these mysterious warnings? I will stay and unravel this plot.”
“Do not stay, Roland,” said Sedley earnestly, “Nor seek England either. Distrust not this second warning; I will endeavour to find some clue to this labyrinth. You must leave to-morrow, but your destination must be a secret, and a chosen band shall guard you beyond the reach of danger. I suspect Ridgley has something to do with these dark doings; for I have seen such a look of scowling hate upon his dark face, when his eye has been bent upon you, as has curdled my very blood.”
“But why should he seek my destruction? I know not the man, except as one who holds aloof from all companionship with his fellows. Why should he thus pursue me!”—and his haughty brow darkened as he looked at his disabled arm. “Could I but wield my good sword,” he fiercely added, “I would soon call him to a dread account.”
Mrs. Sedley laid her hand upon his arm imploringly, “Roland, Roland, beware! there may be more listeners beneath these sweet skies than you wot of now. Hush! for pity's sake, and let us leave this spot.”
“Yes!” said her husband, “for you know mine are only conjectures. We can bring forward no proof of this man's villainy. Let us be wending to our own dwelling, and there we can form our plans.”
And they left the old ruin, with the sweet moonbeam resting peacefully on the desolate ruins of halls, where mirth and music once had been. Their forms were nearly hid from view by the embowering trees, when a dark figure came forth from behind a ruined arch, and gazed after them with a fiend-like smile upon his face.
“Ah! go forth Roland Cranstoun, with your lofty brow and stately bearing. Go forth with your sage advisers to 'scape me—Ha! ha! my coils are round thee, and I will compass sea and land for revenge. When your heart's blood is red upon my blade, then, only then shall I rest satisfied.” And he shook the bared weapon tauntingly in the direction they had taken.
Suddenly a young girl sprung forth, and knelt low at his feet. The shadows of sixteen summers could hardly have touched her fair brow, and there she knelt,
“With head upraised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art”—
but no sound broke the deep silence.
“Lelia!” and the tones of the voice were stern and low, “what do you here girl?”
“Father!” and the thrillingly sweet accents came like music on the ear. “Father! by the memory of my sainted mother, abjure this dark deed. Are we not forbidden to take vengeance?”
“Tush, girl, have I not told you that blood alone can wash out the memory of that hour. And mark me, Lelia, I do distrust you of late. By my faith I believe you entertain some girlish affection for this same youth. Ha! do you dream one of the proud Cranstoun's race would wed a smuggler's daughter. Lelia, he dies by my hand—and you, girl, may wear the willow if you will.”
The maiden sprung to her feet: “Beware, father, or you will find your child has some portion of your own spirit. Taunt me again with my deep love, and I will say one word that shall give you to a dungeon and chains. I love you not, father; and but that I promised my gentle mother, on her death bed, to watch your dark course, I would go forth a wanderer through the world. I tell you again, that I will warn Roland Cranstoun—and the knife shall reach the heart of your daughter ere it be stained with his life blood;” and with a light step she bounded away.
“Fool! idiot that I was to trust her,” muttered the man as he slowly followed.
Cranstoun was in Venice, and two months went by without bringing any solution of the mystery; the third found him laid low with fever. In his delirious dreams he fancied that the mysterious warnings were again on his ear, and he was conscious that a gentle hand smoothed his pillow, and held the cordial to his parched lip. A long heavy sleep fell upon him; when he awoke, he saw one in the garb of a sister of mercy by his bedside; he was too exhausted for speech; but she held a cooling draught, and put her finger to her lip in token of silence. In a half dreaming state he again sunk back, but not before he was conscious of looking upon a face of exceeding beauty. A heavy step was heard outside of the door—it opened, and the dark-browed figure of the ruined palace softly entered the room. Cautiously he stole towards the table, on which was many a drink and medicine.
“Simpletons!” he muttered, “they are afraid of the fever; and laud me for braving the danger for my friend. Well friend, let it be, this powder will give him short shrift, and 'tis surer than the dagger or knife;” and he turned the contents of a small paper into a small chrystal cup that held some prescribed drink, and hastily left the room. Roland saw the whole, and knew 'twas Ridgley's form and face, but he was too weak to raise his voice or hand. But there was one other watcher, the fair being who was watching his weary couch. She sprang to the table, and with a glance at the contents of the cup dashed it to the ground, where it shivered into a hundred pieces. It was poison.
The stars looked down in their quiet beauty, and the soft air of evening, such an eve as is only met with beneath Italia's skies, was stealing gently into the sick room of Roland Cranstoun. He was reclining on a couch propped by pillows near the open window, and there with an anxious brow was Sister Theresa.
“Tell me your name, sweet lady? It is strange that one so young and fair should keep such fearful vigils by my couch.”
“'Tis my vocation to soothe the sick and sorrowful,” answered she in tones of music.
“Surely I have heard that voice before, and met a face strangely like thine. But my head is weak yet, and I cannot recollect. Surely it was not always Sister Theresa.”
A knock at the door interrupted them, and ere she could reply, it was burst hastily open, and the glad greeting of Horace Sedley fell like a tone from home upon the yearning heart of the sufferer.
“Now the blessed virgin be praised,” murmured Sister Theresa, and the shade of anxiety passed from her brow.
“Sedley, my dear friend, where do you come from?” exclaimed Roland, as he warmly wrung his hand—“I thought you still in sunny Spain.”
“No! my old uncle has departed this life, leaving me heir to his wealth and titles—a good long rent roll mine is too. I immediately sold out, and shall expect you to receive Sir Horace Sedley, and lady, with a deal of form and ceremony.”
“What, is Flora with you?”
“Yes! Nothing would do, but the silly girl must see Italy, though she has since confessed that she had a presentiment you were in some danger.”
“And so I have been, Horace, from more than one cause—Ridgley has been here, and though this gentle maiden warded off the blow, and from her lips I can gather nothing, yet I am confident he has attempted to remove me by poison.”
“Ah! I was just going to say that Ridgley deserted but a few weeks after you left. Can he be taken, his fate is certain.”
Sister Theresa laid her cold hand on Sedley's arm—“Guard well your friend—my duty calls me away, there is danger around him—and as he values life let him leave not this room till I bid.” And gathering her veil about her, she glided from the apartment.
Sedley started—“Why, Cranstoun, that surely is the same voice that I heard in the old ruin.”
Conviction flashed upon Roland's mind. Yes, he was sure he had heard those thrilling tones before, and met that sweet pale face. “Sedley—yon beautiful being is certainly a guardian angel by my side. Is it not strange that fortune should have singled me out as the hero of a romance like this—I would give my good sword to know what the end will be.”
A gondola is gliding swiftly o'er the blue waves, and the moonlight is giving a silver gleam, and the soft evening air just curling their surface—strange that evil thoughts should have place in such a scene of loveliness.
“Antonio, I tell you that twice, thrice I have failed; that girl is my bane. I verily believe that there is an evil spirit in that beautiful form to circumvent my designs. Before her only do I quail. Take her off my hands, and gold, aye, gold beyond your thought shall be yours.”
“Ridgley, I have told you I love the girl, and I will be kinder to her than her own father—but she hates me, I read it in her eye”—
“But nevertheless shall wed thee to-morrow, Antonio, she shall be yours. And then, when you have borne her afar, you, boy, shall know the depth of Ridgley's hate.
The gondola glided onward, and those dark spirits formed their plans for the morrow.
Silence was in the streets of Venice, as Ridgley entered his temporary dwelling. A young fair girl had laid her weary head upon her arm by the open window, with only her own clustering ringlets for a screen from the night air. The step roused her from her slumbers, and springing up she stood erect before him.
“Lelia, I have blithe news for you. To-morrow, ere the sun goes down, you will be the bride of Antonio Montoli; am I not a kind father to provide so well for you?”
The beautiful being before him raised her eyes to his face. The rich colour that had tinged her cheek faded away, and gave place to a marble paleness. There was a smile on her father's lip that the maiden too well understood.
In a moment her resolution was taken.
“Father, for naught have I to thank you, save for sending me to the convent where I early learned lessons of Christian love and duty. For the education there received, I do thank you; for it has fitted me to fulfil higher duties than fall to one of my station. But, father! you have reviled and tormented me. You have turned the sweet waters of affection to bitterness. I have borne all in silence, but father, henceforth our destinies are sundered for ever. I will not give my hand to your match—I will die sooner—no force shall compel me. Father, farewell for ever.” And she turned to go forth a wanderer from the home of him who should have shielded her from harm.
But the passions of the parent were roused, and he sprang forward and grasped her fiercely by the hand. There was a glitter of something in the moonshine—but with a powerful effort she burst away.
Mrs. Sedley was anxiously awaiting her husband's return, when her servant ushered into the apartment a muffled figure. She started up.
“Lady, fear nothing,” said a low sweet tone that thrilled to her heart. “Lady, I claim your protection;” and whilst she held one hand pressed to her side, with the other she flung up the veil, and discovered the features of Florence Ridgley.—Mrs. Sedley uttered an exclamation of wonder.
“Lady, I am alone in the wide world, and throw myself on your protection. My strength is fast failing me—I am wounded, and by my father's hand.”
She sunk upon a couch pale as death, and Mrs. Sedley saw with horror that her hand and dress were stained with the dark current that was oozing from her side. In terror she despatched a servant for her husband and medical attendance, and then applied what means she had within her reach to staunch the wound. It was not deep, and after dressing it, the English physician, who had attended Cranstoun, enjoined strict quietness; and having administered an opiate, left them.
Two days went by, and Roland was impatient to breathe the fresh air of heaven. Sister Theresa came not, and the third, in spite of Sedley's remonstrances, he determined to accompany him in his carriage to the —— Villa, which he had hired during his stay. His foot was already on the step when the click of a pistol fell on his ear, and a ball whizzed past him. Involuntarily he started back—it saved his life, for in another moment William, his faithful English servant had caught another from the hand of the assassin, and fired it; the man fell with a groan, disclosing the dark features of Ridgley. He was conveyed into the very room in which he had attempted to poison Roland.
A priest was soon sent for, at his own request, to shrive the dying man, and Cranstoun bent above him.
He raised himself up.
“The sands are running low, my son,” said the holy man, crossing himself. “Is there aught on thy conscience?”
He replied not, but turning to Roland with a look of undying hate, hoarsely cried—“Do you remember the smuggler's cave by the sea shore, near the village of A——, in merry England, Roland Cranstoun?—Aye, do you remember when a youth, you wandered to the lone spot one summer eve. One met you and warned you to depart; but you, with your fearless daring, would go on. The man laid a strong hand on you to turn you back, and your fierce spirit was roused, and with the bitter words of 'dog and smuggler,' you struck him a blow in the face. The remembrance of that hour has never been washed away, and in it was sworn a deep oath of vengeance. Look at the subaltern Ridgley, and read in his countenance the name of Matteo Levesci; a name at which you have often quailed in days gone by.
“I have followed your footsteps, and vengeance would have been mine, but that, dolt that I was, I trusted a child with the secret. She warned you well—my malison be on her head for it. I hate you with a bitter hatred”—and clenching his teeth he sunk back.
It all came back to Roland Cranstoun's memory. The sunny spot and the dark cave that had beguiled him from his home in the days of his boyhood to see what treasure it contained, and the bounding step, and bright beautiful smile in the fairy-like child who often stole away with him by the sea-shore, when the smuggler's bark was afar; and the moment of passion in which that blow had been struck, and the disappearance of Martin Walters soon after. It all come back to him like some half-forgotten dream. Now he knew where he had heard the voice, and met the eye of the young girl whose kindly warning had so often saved his life; and he turned shuddering away from the dark page of human passions which Walters' life presented. Ridgley waved them all from him, and desired to be alone with his priest. When the old man came forth from the chamber, it was to say that his soul had gone to its final account.
Gently as possible was the news of his death communicated to his suffering child. A feeling of pity and horror at his impious end was all the emotion it could excite. His own hand had torn asunder the strong ties of filial love.
“No! no! my sweet Lelia, as this is your true name, I cannot so soon part from you. Immure yourself in a convent for life—No! you shall go back with me to England, and be to me a sister.”
“But, kind lady”—and her tones were
——“Musical, but sadly sweet,
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,”
“I have none to welcome me there. I am poor and alone. Few years may go by ere I shall be as one forgotten, whilst you, and those with whose destiny mine has been so fearfully interwoven, will be in halls of gladness and mirth, surrounded by all you love.”
“Never, Lelia, never,” exclaimed Cranstoun, who stood now before the astonished girl—“never—I love you, Lelia—nay, turn not away; and it must be as my bride that you again go forth into the world that has so sorely tried your youth.”
“But I am not of your faith or country, for my mother was an Italian, and I am poor in wealth and name.”
“My kindred shall be thine, Lelia. They owe you a deep debt, it shall be repaid in affection; and though our creeds differ, our hearts worship the same being.”
Still she hesitated, and flush after flush was mantling her cheek and brow. She, the smuggler's daughter, to be the bride of the high-born Cranstoun, and carry naught of dowry to him. There was woman's strong love, and stronger pride, contending for mastery.
Lady Sedley took her hand—“You are young, Lelia, to quit the bright world, and pass years of lonely vigils and penances. Think deeply—a happy home, and affection's spells may yet be yours.”
The maiden's face was bowed down, but not before one single word had pledged her faith to her lover.
“Why, you all look in sober guise,” exclaimed the gay voice of Sedley, about half an hour after as he entered the room. “But cheer up, Cranstoun, there is blithe news from fair England. My old uncle, with the eccentric generosity that characterised him, has left you the pretty estate of Mossville, with sixty thousand pounds to support its dignity, in consideration of the affection he bore you in your childhood—so runs the will, a copy of which has just reached me. I give you joy, Cranstoun, for I have still more than I know well what to do with. So my pretty little Lelia will have almost a fairy house, for Moss-side is a little paradise.”
Home, home—the “Old Abbaye” is in sight, the gates are thrown open, and Roland Cranstoun is again in the midst of his kindred. The mother blesses her son, the brother grasps his hand, and they turn with deeper blessings upon the head of the beautiful being beside him, whom they greet as his bride. She had saved their Roland from death, she had watched him in sickness in a foreign land, and their hearts yearned towards the stranger. Never was such a joyous peal rung out, or did the old walls resound to such shouts of merriment as shook them that eve, for there were warm hearts to welcome back the wanderer; but, there was a deeper well-spring of happiness in his soul a few months after when his young wife had been converted to his creed, and knelt a humble worshipper at the same shrine of prayer with himself.
