“It must have been the longest cut I ever gave in my life. I only wish I could cut that far off—I know some who should suffer”—and she laughed again. “It’s the first time I ever heard of a sane gentleman, standing in the Champs Elysées, to take off his hat to a lady in Brussels.”
The laugh was decidedly against me, and we were soon on the best of terms.
That night a new train of thoughts engaged me. Poor Roderick’s story returned, and the memory of his grief with all its thrilling intensity. Had I seen Ella? It must be. That pale, thoughtful, hiding countenance could be only hers. Poor Roderick! I feel for you deeply! I wonder if your sorrow feels any alleviation in your new country! I fear not.
The next day I made sufficient inquiry to certify me that I had seen Count Reisach, and with him, Ella. I saw them once again, it was for a moment, and she seemed paler still; as I gazed, again she turned her face away. Poor Ella! how she shrank from the eyes of men! There was a deep remorse preying upon that wasting beauty; a secret sorrow and shame blighting every bud of pleasure and of hope. How bitter will thy end soon be, poor trusting, fragile daughter of Eve!
I saw them no more. I walked every day with Miss Thornton to show her the lady that she so closely resembled; but we did not see them. They were probably seeking new scenes to beguile her short life of its fleeting days.
A few weeks after, we were in Havre, awaiting the sailing of the first packet ship for New York. We had determined to “go together,” as Mrs. F. had desired, and our rooms were taken in the Zurich, one of the fleetest of the line. At that time, a line of French government steamships was plying between Havre and New York; and one, which was advertised to sail on the day we arrived, was to be detained some ten days, to undergo a repairing of machinery. Havre is the great port of emigration for the French, German, and Swiss emigrants; and the French steamships, offering low fares and speedy passage, generally sailed with their between-decks well filled with emigrant passengers. On this occasion, some two hundred poor creatures had engaged passage upon the detained vessel, and few had the means to await in Havre her postponed day of departure; consequently there was a rush upon the office of the sailing packets. We went aboard about 3 o’clock, P. M. The lower deck was crowded with steerage-passengers; and a single glance sufficed to show that they were three-fourths Germans. I could not help wondering how many of the two hundred poor emigrants below me, I might have seen before, as I journeyed through their country a few months ago. Many a one, I thought, I might have seen before his cottage door, or through the window of his work-shop, ere poverty had at last decreed, that he must go to the land beyond the seas, far from his fatherland.
The ship was moving from the dock. The crowds upon the piers cheered us on. The stars and stripes sprung into the breeze. O, how my heart bounded to feel again the protection of my country’s flag! The first time, for years, did the feeling of home thrill through my bosom: and tears of patriotic love and pride rushed to my eyes. I was going home;—there they stood in melancholy groups, gazing their last on land contiguous to their own, upon the receding shores of the old world. The tri-colors in the distance soon faded into one indefinable hue. The green hills of Normandy came forth once again; but “twilight gray soon in her sable livery all things clad;” and we were away, away upon the sea. After tea, we all came upon deck. The last loom of the land was fading away; and my thoughts and feelings, memory and fancy, were busy with home before, and the friends and associations I was leaving behind—perhaps forever. I was overflowing with expectation and regret. Miss T. stood beside me, kindly hearkening to my outpouring feelings. The emigrants were all below, save a few scattered ones, and a larger group gathered about the fore-mast. They were leaving country, home, kindred, all, to seek a refuge in a foreign land: I was leaving friends that I had made in many lands; countries and scenes made dear to me by long and intimate association; returning to a home wherein death had made sad changes during my long sojourn: she was going on a trip of pleasure, and present enjoyment was her occupation. Suddenly I heard an exclamation—“Oh!” and I thought she was taken ill. I looked, and she was pointing to the group around the mast; I saw and recognized a face I could never forget. We continued to gaze in astonishment. The few women who were there were all in tears; one, whose head was bowed upon her knees, sobbed violently. The men were drinking farewell to Fatherland, and many an absent friend and fair, was pledged by name. Then there was a cry for “a song!” “a song!”—“Let’s have a song from Roderick!” Immediately there pealed out those boisterous but musical tones that I had heard before, far away from there. My heart thrilled as I listened. Every voice hushed. Even the sailor, as he trod the deck, paused to listen to that fine, deep voice, as it rang through the ship.
THE EMIGRANT’S SONG.
Ho for the deep where the sea-bird sings!
Ho for the bowers where his merry voice rings!