Ten Books on Architecture, Vitruvius [great novels to read .txt] 📗

Half an hour afterward Langley and I were as much at home as could be, laughing and chatting with Mary and Ellen Stowe. Mary was a tall, handsome brunette of eighteen, and my chum had always preferred her to her sister, but my predilections were in favor of the gentle Ellen. While we were children the elders often predicted that when we grew up there would be a wedding some day, but her father had carried her with him when he moved from Boston to the West Indies, and there seemed an end to our intimacy. She was two years younger than I, and consequently, at the time I saw her in Matanzas, about sixteen. I wish I could describe her—perhaps I may be able to give you some idea of her. She was of the middle height, and bade fair to be exquisitely formed; her face was intellectual, a tolerably high forehead, straight nose, a small mouth with pretty rosy lips, white, even teeth, small and thorough bred hands and feet, and her eyes, which I have purposely left to the last, are, notwithstanding Mr. Stewart's encomiastic account of the dark orbs of the Creole girls, I think, the most beautiful in the world; they are large, dark-blue and loving, and when she looks up at you, even if you are the most wicked man in the world, it will calm your thoughts and make you still and quiet. Dear reader, imagine Ellen very beautiful, and take my word for it that your fancy will not deceive you. Ellen and I resumed our former friendship almost immediately, and after dinner we walked into the garden to talk over auld lang syne.

"Do you remember, Ellen," said I, "how we both cried when I bade you good-bye?"

"Did I?" asked Ellen, mischievously.

"Yes, you little sinner, much more than I did, because I was fourteen and had the dignity of manhood to support."

"Well," said Ellen, "I think I do remember something about it."

"Is it possible! and does your memory serve you still farther; you said that if I would ever come to see you, you would never refuse to kiss me again."

"Why, Frank Byrne, what a fertile invention you have got."

"Not so," I replied, "only an excellent memory, come, now, own the truth, didn't you promise me so?"

"But, Frank, I was a little girl then, and my contracts were not valid you know; however, if—"

"If what?" demanded I, perceiving that she blushed and hesitated.

"Why, if you wish to kiss me, I don't know that I should object a great deal."

Of course I did no such thing.

"Why, Ellen," I said in a few moments, "you've grown very prudish; where did you learn to be?"

"Oh! I don't know," she replied, "unless it was among the nuns."

"The nuns!" I repeated, my thought taking a new turn."

"Ay, the nuns, my lad, the nuns," cried Ellen, laughing immoderately at my abstracted look.

"At what convent?" I asked.

"The Ursuline. I went to school there immediately after our arrival, and, Frank, only think! my particular preceptress, Sister Agatha, father says is your own cousin. She understood English so much better than any of the rest that I was put under her immediate care."

I was peculiarly interested in this piece of information, as the reader may suppose. I questioned Ellen closely, and finally told her the story of the loves and misfortunes of Mr. Stewart and Clara. The tears stood in the beautiful eyes of my auditor as I finished. "Langley and I have a plan for her escape," I added.

"Oh! Frank, she would not escape; she has taken the veil; she will not break her vow."

"Yes she will, when she hears that her brother is free and Stewart is alive."

"Well," said Ellen, "I know what I would do in her place, but what is your plan? In case she is willing to escape how do you propose to manage?"

"That's the difficulty; don't the nuns ever come out of the convent?"

"Never alone; always by twos. Sister Agatha is a great saint, and has a deal of liberty, but she is always in company."

"Well, well," said I, "we shall have to scale the walls then."

"Pooh! you are as romantic as William."

"Well, Miss Wisdom, wont you suggest something?"

"Certainly. Frank," replied Ellen. "Sister Agatha always took quite a liking for me, because I was her scholar I suppose, and an American, and she and the Superior, who is a very good-natured person, came immediately to see me, when I was sick last summer, and afterward called very often. Now, if papa is willing, when your ship is ready to sail I'll fall sick again and send for Sister Agatha, who will be sure to come with some one else, but she can slip out through the court after awhile, and down the garden-walk here to the river, and go into your boat, which shall be waiting, and then you can take her off to the ship."

"That is a capital plan, dear Ellen," said I, "but there is one grand objection to it."

"What is that, Frank?"

"You would get into trouble by it."

"Oh, no! I think not; but yonder comes papa with mother, and William is saying fine things to Mary, behind them."

"Ah, Frank!" cried Mr. Stowe, as we made our appearance, "we were looking for you. I did not know but that you had run away with Ellen."

"No," said I, "not yet; but we were contriving the best plan to run away with a nun."

"Hush! you fool!" whispered Langley, pinching my arm.

"Go to thunder!" was the reply, "I know what I'm about." I then related to Mr. Stowe the story the reader well knows, and which I found Mr. Stowe knew very well also, and finally disclosed Ellen's very excellent plan for the deliverance of my cousin.

"If," said Mr. Stowe, in reply, when I had finished, "if you can get sister Agatha's consent to elope at the proper time, Ellen may fall sick if she pleases. I may be suspected in having a hand in the matter; but if the affair is properly managed, they can do no more than suspect, and that I care nothing about, as I'm going to move back to Boston in the spring. But the grand difficulty you will find to be in persuading Sister Agatha to break her vow."

"Let me alone for that," replied I, "if I can only have an interview with her."

"That is easily done," said Mary Stowe, "the nuns are allowed to see their friends at the grate."

"And I will go with you to the convent to-morrow, and engage the superior's attention while you talk with your cousin," added her father.

In the evening Langley and I held a council of war, wherein it was decided, nem. con., that our plot was in a fair way to be accomplished.

The next day Mr. Stowe and myself set out for the convent in that gentleman's carriage. Upon our arriving there we were shown into a spacious parlor, at one end of which was a larger grated window, opening into a smaller room. In a few moments the Lady Superior entered. She was a tall, handsome woman, and surprised my Protestant prejudices by receiving us very cordially, and immediately engaging with Mr. Stowe in a very lively, animated conversation in Spanish. Suddenly she turned toward me,

"My good friend, Señor Stowe, says that you wish to see Sister Agatha, who was your cousin."

"Yes, señora."

"Well, the señor and myself are going to the school-room, and I will send her to you; but you must not make love to your cousin—she is very pretty, and you Americans have very sad morals;" and so saying, the lively superior led the way to the school-room, followed by Mr. Stowe.

After they had retired I went up to the grate, and waited several minutes, until at last a door of the inner room opened, and a nun entered. Her face bore the traces of deep melancholy; but notwithstanding that, and the unbecoming dress which half concealed her form, I thought I had never seen a woman so lovely, so completely beautiful. I stood in mute wonder and admiration.

"Did you wish to see me, señor?" asked the nun, in a low, soft voice.

"I did, madam," I replied. "If you are Clara Garcia, allow me to introduce myself as your cousin, Frank Byrne."

"Madre di Dios!" cried the nun, her face lighting up with a smile of astonished delight, "can it be possible! How did you come here?"

"In one of my father's ships," I replied. "I am a seaman on board of her."

"What, the Cabot?" asked Sister Agatha, suddenly, with a color in her cheeks.

"No, a new ship—the Gentile."

The nun made many inquiries about my father and mother, and her cousins in Boston; and we chatted away quite merrily for some minutes.

"You seem to take an interest in the world, after all," said I, striving to lead the conversation so that I might introduce the matter which was my business.

"Not much, generally," sighed Sister Agatha. "I sometimes think of past times with regret, but I am for the most part very happy."

This was a stumper. I determined to see if all this composure was real.

"Can any one hear us?" I whispered.

"No," answered the nun, opening her great eyes.

"Well, then, I've a great deal to tell you. Let me ask you, in the first place, if you know where your brother Pedro is."

I was frightened at the expression which my cousin's face assumed. "Yes!" she said, in a hoarse voice, "he is in the Guarda-Costa. My God! Frank! I saw him a year ago in the streets, toiling as a scavenger."

I saw that there was yet deep feeling under the cold, melancholy exterior. I had but little time to work, and hastened to proceed.

"Cousin Clara," I resumed, "you are mistaken; your brother has escaped from confinement, and is now on board my ship, the Gentile."

"Thank God!" cried the nun, clasping her hands, "now am I willing to die."

"And further," said I, immediately continuing my revelations, "can you repress your feelings?"

"What more can you have to tell me?" whispered Sister Agatha. "Go on, I am not so nearly stone as I thought myself; but I can hear without any dangerous outbreak of emotion whatever you have to say."

"Well," I resumed, "you were mistaken about Mr. Stewart's death—"

I had been too abrupt. The nun turned deadly pale, and clung to the bars of the grate for support; but the emotion was momentary. "Go on," said she, in a hoarse whisper.

"Can you bear it?" I asked, anxiously.

"Yes, no matter what it may be."

"Command yourself, then; Mr. Stewart is not only alive, but well; he loves you yet most ardently, but without hope; he is now on board of the Gentile, he and Pedro—not three miles from you."

While thus by piecemeal I doled out my information, I watched the effect on my auditor. There was no more fainting. Her lips parted, and displayed her white teeth firmly set against each other, and her little hands grasped the bars of the grate convulsively.

Quickly and concisely I stated my plan for her escape; but still she maintained the same attitude; she did not even seem to hear me.

"Clara, do you consent?" I cried, in despair, for I heard the steps of the Superior and Mr. Stowe.

Suddenly she extended her hand through the grate and grasped mine. "I do," she said, "if I'm damned for it."

"Right, then; you shall be warned in time. Go now, for your features are any thing but calm."

The nun vanished as the Superior entered.

"I have been taking advantage of your confidence, señora," said I; "I have been trying to persuade my cousin that she is discontented and unhappy, but without success."

"Ah! no fear of that, señor," cried the lady, with a smile, while Mr. Stowe stood aghast; "girls who have been disappointed in love make good nuns."

"Then you will dare to trust me to see her again. I promised