GLORIA A Novel

CHAPTER I A SPOILED BEAUTY

“David Lindsay, will you marry me?”

The speaker was a girl scarcely past childhood, young, beautiful, good, wealthy, and yet—desperate, as not only her words, but her every look, tone, and gesture proved.

Her voice was low, her tone steadied by a powerful self-control. She stood there with a pale horror, yet fixed resolution, on her face; as one might stand on the deck of a burning ship, wrought up to choose death between fire and water, ready to escape the flames by plunging into the sea.

He to whom she spoke was a poor fisherman on the estate, young, strong, healthy and handsome, with the good looks that youth and health give, but bronzed by exposure, roughened by toil and rudely clothed.

4The scene of this strange interview was a small, sandy island on the coast of Maryland. The time, an overclouded and blustering morning near the end of January.

He had been hard at work mending his boat, which lay bottom upwards on the beach, when she came suddenly upon him.

Then he stood up, took off his old tarpaulin hat, and respectfully waited her orders.

What a contrast they formed, as they stood there facing each other—she, the delicate, patrician beauty, wrapped in richest furs and finest velvets, yet with that look of pale horror and fixed resolution on her beautiful face—he, the hardy son of the soil, bronzed and rugged, clothed in a rough pea-jacket and loose corduroy trowsers, with their legs tucked into high, coarse, bull-hide boots; robust, erect, cordial, yet with a look of unbounded astonishment in his fine dark eyes.

They might have been the last young man and maiden left in the world, for all sign of human life or habitation near them, as they stood on that little sterile isle—around them the dark-gray sea roughened by a high wind—behind them the mainland in its wintry aspect of skeleton forests, rising from snow-clad hills.

“David Lindsay, will you marry me?” repeated the girl, seeing that he had not answered her question, but stood before her dumfounded with amazement.

“Miss de la Vera!” was all that he could utter, even now.

“I know that you love me,” she continued, speaking now with more vehemence, and looking over her shoulder, from moment to moment, as if, even 5in that remote, sea-girt isle, she dreaded espionage, eavesdroppers, discovery, pursuit, arrest. “I know that you love me, David! It is that which gives me courage to come to you for refuge in my dreadful desperation. I know that you love me, for I heard you say so once—when you saved my life that time at the imminent risk of your own.”

“And, oh, is it possible that you can love me?” breathed the young man, in deep tones vibrating with his heart’s profound emotions; for with his whole heart he had loved her, deeply, ardently, hopelessly—with his whole soul he had worshiped her, afar off, as some exalted and forever unattainable good. “Is it possible that you can love me?”

“No!” she answered, hurriedly. “I do not love you! That is, I mean I love everybody, and you more than others; but oh, David, feeling sure that you love me, for you told me so once——”

“I was mad in my presumptuous folly——” began the youth.

“Feeling sure that you love me, because you told me so once, although I do not love you yet more than others, I will be your wife and try to love you more, if only you will take me far away from this place at once and forever, David! If you ever cared for me, stop to ask no questions; but do as I ask you, and you shall have my hand and all that I possess!” she breathed hardly, looking over her shoulder at intervals, with a nervous, expectant, terrified manner.

“Miss de la Vera, it is you who are mad now!” he replied, in a tone of ineffable sadness and longing, as he gazed on her with something like consternation.

6And well he might! The situation was astounding!

Here was this young girl, Gloria de la Vera, the daintiest beauty, the wealthiest heiress in the country, proposing to marry HIM, the poor young fisherman attached to the estate! It was wonderful, unprecedented, incredible!

Why, half the young men in the community were mad to get her. A smile of hers would have brought the best of them to her feet.

And yet she came to give her hand and her fortune to this poor, unlearned young fisherman!

“Nothing, nothing but temporary insanity could have betrayed her into such a reckless proposal,” said the young fisherman to himself.

Yet the girl who stood there before him, calm, pale, and steadfast as a marble statue, was not insane—no, nor immodest, nor unmaidenly, however appearances might tell against her.

Neither had she done any wrong, or even suffered any wrong; for she had scarcely a fault in her nature to lead her into any evil, and never an enemy in the world to do her any injury.

Nor had she quarreled with a betrothed lover and sought to revenge herself upon him by rushing into this low marriage; but she had never been in love and never been engaged.

Neither did she hurry towards matrimony as a refuge from domestic despotism, for she was the petted darling of a widowed and childless uncle, who had been a father to her orphanage; and she had had her own right royal will and way all her little life.

If there were any despotic tyrant at old Promontory Hall, that tyrant was the dainty little beauty, 7Gloria de la Vera herself, and if there were any “down-trodden” slave, that victim was the renowned military hero, Colonel Marcellus de Crespigney!

Why, then, since no reasonable, nor even unreasonable motive could be found for the mad act, should Gloria de la Vera wish to hurl herself head-long down into the deep perdition of a low and loveless marriage?

To elucidate the mystery we must narrate the incidents of her short life.

On the coast of Maryland there is a bleak head of land thrown out into the sea, and united to the main only by a long and narrow neck of rocks.

If this weird headland had been a little loftier it would have been a promontory—or if the neck of rocks had been a little lower it would have been an island.

As it happened, it was neither, or it was both; for, at low tide, when the neck was bare, the head was a promontory, and at high tide, when the waves rolled over the rocks, it was an island entirely surrounded by the sea.

The ground arose gradually from the shore to the centre, upon the highest and safest part of which stood a large, square, heavy, gray stone building, in a yard inclosed by a high stone wall.

Lower down on the shore was another wall, called the sea-wall.

Beyond this, on the sand, were a few scattered fishing huts and boat-sheds.

There was but little vegetation on the place, and the nearer the shore the sparser the growth. On the hill near the house, indeed, there were a few old oaks, said to have been planted more than two 8centuries before by the first owners of the soil and builders of the house. There were also a few gigantic horse-chestnuts and other fine forest trees; but all these had been transplanted from the mainland ages before. There was nothing of native growth on the promontory.

Behind the house was an old garden, where “made soil” was so rich that the place had grown into a perfect thicket of shrubs, vines, creepers, bushes, and all sorts of hardy old plants, flowers, and fruit-trees.

Behind this was a kitchen garden, where a few vegetables were with difficulty raised for the use of the family, and beyond were fields of thinly growing grass and grain, that barely afforded sustenance for the cattle and sheep on the premises.

Altogether this half sterile promontory, with its square, massive gray stone mansion, its high stone yard-wall, its strong stone sea-wall, its iron gates, and its grim aspect, looked more like a fortress or a prison than the hereditary home of a private family.

The locality had also a bad reputation, and a worse tradition, besides as many aliases as any professional burglar.

It was called Pirates’ Point, Buccaneers’ Bridge, and La Compte’s Landing.

The story, or the history, was that this place had been the frequent resort of the notorious freebooter, La Compte, whose nom-de-guerre of “Blackbeard” had been, in the old colonial days, the terror of the Chesapeake and its tributaries.

Vast treasure, it was said, had once been buried 9here, and might still be waiting its resurrection at the hands of some fortunate finder.

However that might have been, whatever wealth of gold, silver, or precious stones might have lain hidden for ages in the depths of that sterile ground, it is certain that the last proprietor of the promontory was poor enough.

He was Marcellus de Crespigney, a retired officer of the army, an impoverished gentleman.

At the time our story opens, Colonel Crespigney was a young widower, without children and without family, if we except his maiden aunt, Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, and his youthful ward, Gloria de la Vera.

His history may be very briefly summed up. He was the second son of a wealthy Louisiana planter, whose estate being entailed upon the eldest male child, left little or nothing to younger brothers or sisters.

Marcellus, when required to select a profession, being of a grave and studious disposition, would have preferred divinity or medicine, but finally yielded to the wish of his father, and entered West Point Military Academy to be educated for the army.

At the age of twenty-one he graduated with honors, and then went to spend a short leave with his parents previous to joining his regiment.

He met them by appointment at Saratoga, which was at that time the headquarters and great summer resort of Southern families, flying from the fierce heat and fatal fevers of their native districts to the cool breezes and healing waters of the North.

And here, Marcellus, or, as he was most frequently called, Marcel de Crespigney, met the great 10misfortune of his life, for here he first saw the lady who was destined to be his wife.

Marcel de Crespigney was one of the handsomest men of his time. At the age of twenty-one he was as beautiful as Apollo. His form was of medium size and fair proportions, his head stately and well set, his features Romanesque in their regularity and delicacy of outline; his hair and beard were dark brown, and closely curled; his eyes dark hazel, with a steady, thoughtful, sympathetic gaze that had the effect of mesmerizing any one upon whom it fell.

Such beauty is too often an evil and a cause of weakness in man. It frequently inspires and nourishes vanity, and saps and blights true manliness.

Such, however, was not its effect upon Marcel de Crespigney.

He had his fatal weakness, as you will presently discover; but that weakness did not take its root in self-love—quite the contrary.

If he had possessed vanity, however, he would have found a surfeit of food for it.

Wherever he appeared, he was noticed as the handsomest man in the company, and many were the light-headed and soft-hearted girls who fell more or less in love with him.

At Saratoga, in the immediate circle of his mother and sisters, he met a party of West Indians—the Count Antonia de la Vera, an aged Portuguese grandee, his young wife, the Countess Eleanor, her sister, Eusebie La Compte, and their three-year-old daughter, named after the good Queen of Portugal, Maria da Gloria; but for the radiant beauty of her fair complexion, golden hair, 11and sapphire eyes, which she inherited from her mother, they called her Gloria only.

Of all the people present, this child took suddenly and solely to the young lieutenant. She would leave father, mother, auntie or nurse, to leap into the arms of her “Own Marcel,” as she soon learned to call him. It was wonderful; and superficial people said it was his gay uniform that attracted the child—but then the child looked only at his eyes!

But there was another of the West Indian party who found great pleasure in the presence of Marcel de Crespigney. This was Miss Eusebie La Compte, the sister of the Señora Eleanor.

They, the sisters, were not West Indians, but Marylanders, orphan daughters and co-heiresses of old George La Compte, of La Compte’s Landing and Pirates’ Promontory.

In the division of the estate after the death of their parents, the most valuable portion, La Compte’s Landing, had been given to the eldest daughter, Eleanor, and the least desirable, Promontory Hall, to the youngest, Eusebie.

It was while the sisters were residing at the house of their guardian, an eminent lawyer of Washington city, that they made the acquaintance of the Count de la Vera, then ambassador from Portugal. He was a bachelor, and attracted by the radiant blonde beauty of the elder sister, he had proposed for her hand.

Eleanor, whose heart was free, and whose fancy was fascinated by the prospect of rank, wealth and position, promptly accepted the offer, and in due time became Madame de la Vera.

12A brilliant season in Washington followed their marriage, then a tour of the fashionable watering-places.

Finally, when the ambassador was recalled, he went to Lisbon to resign his portfolio, and then he came back and settled down on his West Indian estates.

But not for long.

Troubles broke out. Possessions were insecure.

Count de la Vera sold off his property and came to Maryland, the native State of his beautiful wife, where he invested largely in land.

By this time the Señora Eleanor’s health began to fail. Then her doting husband sent for her sister to travel with her, and to help to relieve her of the care of their infant daughter, Gloria.

They all went to Saratoga together, and thus it happened that we found them in the company of Madame de Crespigney and her daughters.

Eusebie La Compte, the heiress of the bleak promontory, had not the radiant beauty of her sister, whose brilliant complexion, shining golden hair and sparkling blue eyes had been inherited by her daughter; no, the pale face, sandy locks and gray eyes of Eusebie formed but a tame copy of the brighter picture.

Yet Eusebie could not be called “plain,” and far less “ugly.” Her form seemed cast in the same mold as that of her beautiful elder sister, only it was thinner. Her profile had the same classic facial angle, but it was sharper. Her complexion was quite as fair, only it was paler. Her hair was of the same color, only it was duller. Her eyes were of the same hue, but they were dimmer.

13If Eusebie had been healthy and happy, she would have been as beautiful and brilliant as her sister; or if she had been smitten, as Eleanor had, by hectic fever only, which gives color to the cheeks and light to the eye. But to be afflicted with malaria, which dulls the complexion and dims the eyes, is quite another thing.

Nevertheless, there were times when Eusebie was almost beautiful. It was when any strong emotion flushed her cheeks and fired her eyes.

The West Indian party did not go much into society. The health of Señora Eleanor forbade their doing so. The only company they saw was our party from Louisiana.

The illness of the mother and the negligence of the nurse, threw the little Gloria very much upon the care of Eusebie, who was almost always to be found in Madame de Crespigney’s circle.

Thus it happened that Eusebie and Marcel were brought daily together, and united by their common interest in the beautiful child, Gloria.

So Eusebie, the pale, agueish girl, fell in love with the handsome young Marcel—fell in love with him, not after the manner of the soft-hearted girl, who sighed in secret and slipped out of sight, but after the manner of the woman who says to herself, “Love or death,” and thinks towards her victim, “Your love or your life!”

Marcel de Crespigney being of a tender, affectionate, sympathetic nature, had been more or less in love all the days of his youth. In earliest infancy he was ardently in love with his nurse. At five years old he was passionately enamored of his nursery governess, a bright young Yankee girl. 14And when she married the Methodist minister, Marcel wept tears of agony. His Sunday-school teacher, an amiable old maid, was his next flame. When she died of yellow fever he put crape on his little cap and flowers on her grave.

Then followed, as queens of his soul—his sisters’ music mistress, his mother’s seamstress, and the overseer’s sister-in-law. At the age of fifteen he actually offered marriage to the doctor’s widow, a genial, soft-eyed, warm-hearted matron of thirty-five, who, in her wisdom and goodness, refrained from wounding his affection by contempt, but gravely and kindly assured him that, though she declined to be engaged then, yet she would wait for him, and if he should be in the same mind five years from that time, she would listen to him.

The boy left her, in ecstasies of hope and happiness, after vows of unchanging, eternal fidelity.

But he did not remain in the same mind, which was fortunate, as the doctor’s widow also died, and—of yellow fever.

At the age of seventeen, when the young man entered West Point, as we have said, he would have speedily contracted a pure, platonic love for the colonel’s wife, a handsome and intellectual lady of middle age, only a high sense of honor warned him of the danger of such moral quicksands.

After this the boy devoted himself to his military studies, and the sentiment of spoonyism soon gave place to the sentiment of heroism.

Yes, Marcel de Crespigney had been in love nearly all his life; but he was neither vain enough nor observant enough to perceive the preference bestowed on him by his young lady friends; nor would he ever have known the infatuation of Eusebie La 15Compte, had not his mother discovered and revealed it to him.

In the eyes of Madame de Crespigney, the pale Eusebie seemed a very eligible match for her portionless son. Report had exaggerated the riches of the co-heiresses. The elder sister had married a Portuguese grandee. Altogether the connection seemed a good one in a social and financial point of view.

Of course, Madame de Crespigney did not set the matter before her son in that light. She knew Marcel too well. She adroitly directed his attention to the delicate girl, and enlisted his sympathies for her, so that he soon perceived how the pale cheeks would flush, and the dim eyes fire, and the whole plain face grow radiant and beautiful in the love-light of his presence. His heart was free, and so he became interested in her. He thought she was the first who had ever loved him, and so he grew to believe that he loved her.

At least he proposed to her and was accepted.

As the young officer had but a month’s leave before joining his regiment, that was under orders to march for Mexico to join General Scott’s army on the first of September, and as the bride-elect decided to accompany her intended husband, “even to the battlefield,” the engagement was a short one. The wedding was hurried.

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of August the young couple were quietly married in the nearest church, and immediately after the ceremony they set out for Washington, where Lieutenant de Crespigney joined his regiment, which was on the eve of departure for the seat of war.

I do not mean here to tell over again, even the 16least part, the oft-repeated story of the Mexican War, but only to allude in the briefest manner to Marcel de Crespigney’s share in it. He went to Mexico, accompanied by his bride, who was with him wherever duty called.

She spent the first three years of her married life in camps, on battle-fields, and in hospitals, and so did her woman’s share of the work.

He behaved gallantly from first to last, as is best shown by his military record. For, having entered the service at the beginning of the war with the rank of second lieutenant of cavalry, he left it at the close with that of colonel and brevet brigadier-general.