“Reason, Captain Ludlow, has limited female propriety within narrow limits,” she said. “In answering your letter, I have consulted good-nature more than prudence; and I find that you are not slow in causing me to repent the error.”
“If I ever cause you to repent confidence in me, sweet Alida, may disgrace in my profession, and the distrust of the whole sex, be my punishment! But, have I not reason to complain of this inconstancy, on your part? Ought I to expect so severe a reprimand–severe, because cold and ironical–for an offence, venial as the wish to proclaim my gratitude?”
“Gratitude!” repeated Alida, and this time her wonder was not feigned. “The word is strong, Sir; and it expresses more than an act of courtesy, so simple as that which may attend the lending a volume of popular poetry, can have any right to claim.”
“I have strangely misconceived the meaning of the letter, or this has been a day of folly!” said Ludlow, endeavoring to swallow his discontent. “But, no; I have your own words to refute that averted eye and cold look; and, by the faith of a sailor! Alida, I will believe your deliberate and well-reflected thoughts, before these capricious fancies, which are unworthy of your nature. Here are the very words; I shall not easily part with the flattering hopes they convey!”
La belle Barbérie now regarded the young man in open amazement. Her color changed; for of the indiscretion of writing, she knew she was not guiltless,–but of having written in terms to justify the confidence of the other, she felt no consciousness. The customs of the age, the profession of her suitor, and the hour, induced her to look steadily into his face, to see whether the man stood before her in all the decency of his reason. But Ludlow had the reputation of being exempt from a vice that was then but too common among seamen, and there was nothing in his ingenuous and really handsome features, to cause her to distrust his present discretion. She touched a bell, and signed to her companion to be seated.
“Francois,” said his mistress, when the old valet, but half awake, entered the apartment, “fais moi le plaisir de m’apporter de cette eau de la fontaine du bosquet, et du vin–le Capitaine Ludlow a soif; et rapelle-toi, bon Francois, il ne faut pas déranger mon oncle á cette heure; il doit être bien fatigué de son voyage.”
When her respectful and respectable servitor had received his commission and departed, Alida took a seat herself, in the confidence of having deprived the visit of Ludlow of its clandestine character, and at the same time having employed the valet on an errand that would leave her sufficient leisure, to investigate the inexplicable meaning of her companion.
“You have my word, Captain Ludlow, that this unseasonable appearance in the pavilion, is indiscreet, not to call it cruel,” she said, so soon as they were again alone; “but that you have it, in any manner, to justify your imprudence, I must continue to doubt, until confronted by proof.”
“I had thought to have made a very different use of this,” returned Ludlow, drawing a letter,–we admit it with some reluctance in one so simple and so manly,–from his bosom: “and even now, I take shame in producing it, though at your own orders.”
“Some magic has wrought a marvel, or the scrawl has no such importance,” observed Alida, taking a billet that she now began to repent having ever written. “The language of politeness and female reserve must admit of strange perversions, or all who read are not the best interpreters.”
La belle Barbérie ceased speaking, for the instant her eye fell on the paper, an absorbing and intense curiosity got the better of her resentment. We shall give the contents of the letter, precisely in the words which caused so much amazement, and possibly some little uneasiness, to the fair creature who was perusing it.
“The life of a seaman,” said the paper, in a delicate and beautiful female hand,” is one of danger and exposure. It inspires confidence in woman, by the frankness to which it gives birth, and it merits indulgence by its privations. She who writes this, is not insensible to the merit of men of this bold calling. Admiration for the sea, and for those who live on it, has been her weakness through life; and her visions of the future, like her recollections of the past, are not entirely exempt from a contemplation of its pleasures. The usages of different nations–glory in arms–change of scene–with constancy in the affections, all sweetened by affluence, are temptations too strong for a female imagination, and they should not be without their influence on the judgment of man. Adieu.”
This note was read, re-perused, and for the third time conned, ere Alida ventured to raise her eyes to the face of the expectant young man.
“And this indelicate and unfeminine rhapsody, Captain Ludlow has seen proper to ascribe to me!” she said, while her voice trembled between pride and mortification.
“To whom else can I impute it?” No other, lovely Alida, could utter language so charming, in words so properly chosen.”
The long lashes of the maiden played quickly above their dark organs, and then, conquering feelings that were strangely in contradiction to each other, she said with dignity, turning to a little ebony éscritoire which lay beside her dressing-box–
“My correspondence is neither very important, nor very extensive; but such as it is, happily for the reputation of the writer’s taste, if not for her sanity, I believe it is in my power to show the trifle I thought it decorous to write, in reply to your own letter. “Here is a copy,” she added, opening what in fact was a draught, and reading aloud.
“I thank Capt. Ludlow for his attention in affording me an opportunity of reading a narrative of the cruel deeds of the buccaneers. In addition to the ordinary feelings of humanity, one cannot but regret, that men so heartless are to be found in a profession that is commonly thought to be generous and tender of the weak. We will, however, hope, that the very wicked and cowardly, among seamen, exist only as foils to render the qualities of the very bold and manly more conspicuous. No one can be more sensible of this truth than the friends of Captain Ludlow,” the voice of Alida fell a little, as she came to this sentence, “who has not now to earn a reputation for mercy. In return, I send the copy of the Cid, which honest François affirms to be superior to all other poems, not even excepting Homer–a book, which I believe he is innocent of calumniating, from ignorance of its contents. Again thanking Capt. Ludlow for this instance of his repeated attentions, I beg he will keep the volume, until he shall return from his intended cruise.”
“This note is but a copy of the one you have, or ought to have,” said the niece of the Alderman, as she raised her glowing face from leaning over the paper, “though it is not signed, like that, with the name of Alida de Barbérie.”
When this explanation was over, both parties sat looking at each other, in silent amazement. Still Alida saw, or thought she saw, that, notwithstanding the previous professions of her admirer, the young man rejoiced he had been deceived. Respect for delicacy and reserve in the other sex is so general and so natural among men, that they who succeed the most in destroying its barriers, rarely fail to regret their triumph; and he who truly loves can never long exult in any violation of propriety, in the object of his affections, even though the concession be made in his own favor. Under the influence of this commendable and healthful feeling, Ludlow, while he was in some respects mortified at the turn affairs had taken, felt sensibly relieved from a load of doubt, to which the extraordinary language of the letter, he believed his mistress to have written, had given birth. His companion read the state of his mind, in a countenance that was frank as face of sailor could be; and though secretly pleased to gain her former place in his respect, she was also vexed and wounded that he had ever presumed to distrust her reserve. She still held the inexplicable billet, and her eyes naturally sought the lines. A sudden thought seemed to strike her mind, and returning the paper, she said coldly–
“Captain Ludlow should know his correspondent better; I much mistake if this be the first of her communications.”
The young man colored to the temples, and hid his face, for a moment, in the hollow of his hands.
“You admit the truth of my suspicions,” continued la belle Barbérie, “and cannot be insensible of my justice, when I add, that henceforth–”
“Listen to me, Alida,” cried the youth, half breathless in his haste to interrupt a decision that he dreaded; “hear me, and as Heaven is my judge, you shall hear only truth. I confess this is not the first of the letters, written in the same hand–perhaps I should say in the same spirit–but, on the honor of a loyal officer, I affirm, that until circumstances led me to think myself so happy–so–very happy,–”