A carriage shortly afterwards came to the door, and I accompanied my new friend—Emilie wishing to remain with Henri. Monsieur de Villereine, who had observed our approach, received as at the door. He welcomed me with marked politeness, but it struck me that his manner was much more stiff and formal than it had before been. He conducted us to the drawing-room, where I hoped to see Sophie, but her mother alone was there. I was struck also by the change of manner of the old lady, though she was as studiously polite and courteous as her husband. Having begged me to be seated, and made various common-place inquiries, he led his brother out of the room, while the old lady continued the conversation in the same formal strain. When I inquired for Sophie, expressing my hope that she had recovered from the fatigues of the voyage, she answered that her daughter was in her room, and that she did not think she would be able to leave it that morning.
After some time, when it seemed to me that we had exhausted all subjects of conversation, and my tongue had begun in a most uncomfortable way to cling to my mouth, for I somehow or other had forgotten all about Mrs Falconer, and that I had undertaken to narrate her history to her uncle and aunt, I was in truth thinking only of Sophie and myself, the two brothers returned and the old lady retired. They then sat down opposite to me, and I could not help feeling, by the expression of their countenances and their manner, that something not over agreeable was coming. Monsieur de Villereine looked at his brother and then at me, and hummed and hawed several times, as if he did not like to begin what he had to say. At last he mustered courage.
“My dear Captain Laurel,” he began, “I am sure that as a sailor you like open and frank dealing. Now, I need not tell you how much we esteem you, and how grateful we are for the inestimable service you have rendered us, and for your kindness and attention while we were on board your ship; but you must acknowledge that I ought not as a father to allow these considerations to bias me when my daughter’s future prospects are concerned. Now you will understand, my brother and I had agreed that she should marry her cousin Henri, although she herself is not aware of this arrangement. My astonishment was nevertheless very great when she told me that you had offered her your hand, and that she, young and inexperienced as she is, had, without consulting me, ventured to accept you. Such a thing, my dear sir, is against all precedent. The whole of society would be subverted, and all parental authority destroyed, were I as a father to allow what you do me the honour of proposing to take place. I am, I repeat, deeply grateful to you for the inestimable service you have rendered me, but I must ask you to be generous, and not insist on my giving you the reward you demand.”
“My dear sir,” I exclaimed, “I do not ask for your daughter’s hand as a reward for anything I have done, though I esteem it the highest prize I could win. The service you are pleased to say I have rendered you, I should equally have given to any fellow-creature, and I therefore ask your daughter’s hand as a free gift. I love her devotedly, and she has consented, with your permission, to be mine.”
“My permission I cannot give, Captain Laurel,” exclaimed the old gentleman, growing more and more agitated. “I desire to reward you to the utmost of my power, and you have my sincere and hearty gratitude; but more I cannot and will not offer. I regret deeply to say this, and I am grieved—greatly grieved. My brother knows my determination, and I am sure that you will agree that it is better I should express it at once.”
In vain I attempted to plead my cause. I entreated to see Sophie, but her father replied that that would only be painful and useless; and at length the elder Monsieur de Villereine observing that his carriage was ready, I took the hint, and, feeling as if I was walking in a dream, I got into it. I felt dreadfully cast down. It seemed to me that Sophie was lost to me for ever, and I might not again have an opportunity of seeing her.
“I have some few commissions to perform in the town,” said my friend, “and we will drive there. But notwithstanding what has occurred, I must insist on your coming back with me to see Henri: he and his sister will afford you all the consolation they can. But my brother is very determined, and I know him so well that I cannot tell you to keep up your hopes. It would be wiser for you to abandon them altogether.”
We reached the town, and when we got there I was much inclined to go on board the ship and remain: but Monsieur de Villereine pressed me so earnestly to return, that, for the sake of Henri, I agreed to do so. As, however, I wished to go on board for a short time, he undertook to wait for me. Taking a boat from the shore, I pulled out to the Ellen. I had not been long on board before Dick asked me to step into the cabin, as he had something of interest to communicate to me.
“Well, Captain Laurel,” he said, as soon as we were seated, “I went on shore yesterday evening and walked up the town, and I am as sure as I am alive that this is the very place where you came from. As I walked up the street, I came to the very spot where the black woman handed you to me when you were a little chap scarcely higher than my knee—I could swear to it in any court of justice, if it were necessary—and, as I think I have told you, I have always carried about me the very coral you had on at the time; and now I would advise you to lose no time in making inquiries about the matter among your friends.”
So wretched did I feel, that I was very little disposed to do this, and had I not promised to rejoin Monsieur de Villereine, I think that I should have remained on board, to get ready for sailing as fast as possible. I however told Dick that I would do as he recommended.