CHAPTER V.

Flora's mind was filled with interest in the young lady of whom Madame Hird had spoken. On the morning after their visit to the Villa Ianthe she read all the papers which Madame Hird had given them about their little _protégée_. They consisted, first, of a letter from Madame de St. Severan; next, of the manuscript containing Marie's history. They were as follows:--

"Although, dear Madame Hird, we have lost sight of each other for many years, and you would not recognise, under my present name, the Caroline Murray of our merry school days, yet I am sure that you, like myself, remember those days. I venture, therefore, to ask you to interest yourself in a young lady who will soon be an inmate of your convent, and who is dear to me because she is so to my husband.

"For some time I have been in correspondence with your superioress, and have obtained permission for our little friend to be received at the Villa Ianthe, and placed especially under your care. We are very anxious that she should spend a few months in a convent in Europe before making her _entrée_ into the _beau monde_ of Paris, and knowing that you are in Rome, I have made every exertion to have her confided to your care; and in this I have fortunately succeeded. Will you, then, dear friend, kindly undertake this charge, and direct her studies?

"A good priest will protect her from Algiers to Rome. As I am writing to you I know that I need not say, be very kind to her. She is, by all accounts, a most affectionate little creature, and is now in great grief at being separated from the guardians of her childhood.

"I have compiled a little sketch of her history, which I now send you. The first part of it is drawn from my husband's account of his African experience; the rest from the joint accounts of Marie and the good nuns who had charge of her...."

Here the remainder of the letter was torn off, not relating, as Flora supposed, to the little Arab girl. She next took up the manuscript, which ran thus:--

"After the battle in the plain of Cheliff, where the Duc d'Aumale and his little army so bravely captured Abd-el-Kader's encampment, many of the officers left their tents in the evening and wandered over the scene of their late conflict. Among them was Colonel, then Captain de St. Severan. He had strayed to some distance beyond the rest, following the direction which the fugitives had taken, and was about to return, when, standing for a moment gazing back upon the battle-field, he was startled by the sound of a half-smothered cry. A few paces before him lay the body of an Arab; he approached it, and as he shook the cloak which nearly covered it, the cry was repeated. Within the folds of the _bernous_ there was a little child, whose large black eyes were wide open with fright, and little hands stretched out, as if to ward off some coming danger. With no slight effort he drew the child from the dead Arab, and tried to quiet its cries by caresses and marks of endearment. After taking it up in his arms he returned to his tent, and sent for one of the camp women, to whom he related his adventures, adding that he had determined to adopt the child as his own, and confiding it to her care.

"Having been wounded in one of the later skirmishes, Captain de St. Severan was sent back to Algiers with a detachment of troops, when he took care that the woman to whom he had entrusted the little foundling was to accompany them. The child was a little girl of about two or three years old, and was christened Marie. Day by day she became a greater darling--the pet, indeed, of the whole brigade--and was in danger of being completely spoiled, when her protector was ordered again on active service. Of course, he could not take little Marie with him, so he yielded to the advice of his lady friends, and, stipulating that she should learn her father's language, placed her under the good guardianship of the French nuns at Algiers.

"It so happened that he never returned to Algiers, save to pass through it almost in a dying state on his way home. After a long and tedious illness in Paris, which left great depression of spirits upon him, a friend, Mr. Molyneux, induced him to accept an invitation to the family seat of Mr. Molyneux's father in England, and try there the invigorating tonic of English country life. At this house I met him, and the sequel of that meeting was, that a few months afterwards I became Madame de St. Severan.

"I need scarcely say that I heard many stories of Algiers, and of Marie. We had agreed to send for her as soon as we should get to France, but, on our arrival in Paris, my husband was offered an important post in one of the colonies, and thought he could not well refuse it without retiring from the army, which he did not wish to do, therefore he consented to go; in consequence, Marie was left at the convent in Algiers. We remained away nearly ten years, and only returned to Paris last winter, when we wrote at once to request that Marie should be sent to us; being doubly anxious to have her, as we had, alas! lost our own dear ones. But the answer received from the superioress caused us the greatest pain and anxiety. She said, that shortly before our last letter arrived Marie had been missed one evening from prayers at church, when it was found that she had obtained permission to walk in the grounds, as she was suffering from headache, and that, on search being made for her, a door in the garden was discovered to have been forced open from without, and a scarf, which had been worn by Marie, found on the ground there. These, with other facts, left no doubt that she had been carried off by some Arabs, who had before been seen about the place.

"Three months passed without any tidings of poor Marie. At length a letter came containing the joyful news that she had been safely restored to the convent, and was suffering only from weakness and exhaustion.

"Marie's account of what occurred tells us that, having obtained permission, she went out alone and sought shade and repose in a summer-house at the far end of the grounds--a favourite retreat of hers. She supposes that she had been asleep, when she was roused by feeling something thrown over her head and twisted tightly across her mouth, so that she could not speak or scream. She was then carried for a short distance, placed upon a horse by some one, who got up behind her and galloped away. Save the rapid movement through the air, Marie remembers nothing until she found herself lying on a bed of moss in what appeared to her to be a rocky cavern. As she awoke the bright rays of the sun were pouring in upon her, and for a moment she thought she must have dreamed some fearful dream. An old man in a white _bernous_ then entered the cavern, and all the terrible reality was revealed to her. He came and bent over her, when she exclaimed, 'Oh, sir, take me back! What injury have I ever done you that you should steal me away from all those whom I love? Only take me back and you shall have as much money as you like.'

"'Money!' he sorrowfully repeated. 'Can money buy me back my beautiful, my brave children whom the hateful Roumi killed? Can money make the old man young again, and give him new sons to perpetuate his race?'

"'I pity you very much, sir; but what have I to do with your misfortunes? Why revenge upon a poor weak girl like me the death of those who were dear to you?'

"'What have you to do with my misfortunes? Are you not the child of my firstborn, his only one? Did they not tear you from his dead body, to which you clung with all your baby strength? Did I not see it all? Yes; lying wounded at some distance from my brave boy, your cries roused me from the almost death swoon into which I had fallen, and I saw you taken away from him. I vowed then to the Prophet, that if I recovered from my wounds, my life should be spent in trying to rescue you from our enemies, that you might become the mother of a race of strong warriors to struggle against those hated usurpers. During all those weary years I never flagged for an hour, and repeated failures did but urge me to new exertions. At last the great Prophet rewarded my fidelity by giving you up to me, and now you cry and pray to be taken back to your father's murderers, and ask what you have to do with my misfortunes? Child, I have told you.'

"He stopped as if exhausted by his own vehemence, and gazed at her in seeming anger. Poor Marie could not repress the shudder which crept over her as her eyes rested on her grandsire. Visions of what her fate would be with him, and still worse as the slave--for what else is an Arab's wife?--of an infidel husband, rose up vividly before her eyes and filled her with horror.

"At length the old man went out, and Marie, being left alone, rose from her rude couch, and kneeling, she drew forth her silver crucifix--it was Colonel de St. Severan's parting gift--and prayed earnestly to Him who had died for her, that He would save her now from worse than death, and restore her to the care of His true followers. Hearing a step she rose, and carefully hiding the precious crucifix, she stood waiting to see what would happen next. She had come to the conclusion that the best chance of escape was to endeavour to win the old man's heart, and, as he entered with cakes and fruits which he had brought for her on the previous night, she thanked him and began to eat. This seemed to please him greatly.

"As soon as she had finished he said, 'Now we must start again, for we have a long ride to take before we reach the tribe.' He gave her an old cloak, and told her to draw its hood over her head; then he desired her to wait for a few moments in the cavern while he got the horse ready. Again he went away and left poor Marie alone. Her heart began to sink. That night they were to reach the tribe. What hope was there now for her.

"Journeying on, the old man tried to amuse her by talking of the handsome young chief whom he wished her to marry. Then he related stories of the brave deeds of her ancestors, and of her father especially. He told her that her mother was a Frenchwoman whom the Arabs had taken captive, and whom his son fell in love with and married. He spoke much, too, about the great honour which his son had done her in making her his wife, and about her ingratitude to him, and said that she fretted and pined until she lost all her beauty, got ill, and died shortly before the battle on the river Tanguin.

"At last, after a long and, to Marie, a terrible day's ride, they came to the encampment. As soon as they got to the entrance of the circle of tents they were surrounded by the men of the tribe; the women stared, but remained at their occupations. Many questions were asked of the old man, but, before he answered any of them, he lifted Marie almost tenderly from the horse; she could scarcely stand, and terrified by all those strange faces which crowded round her, she clung to him for support and protection. At this moment a witch-like looking woman came and asked, 'Is this the lost child of thy brave son, Ben Arbi?'

"'It is, Masaouda,' he replied; 'help her to my tent and take care of her; she is weary, and, as I fear, ill?'

"The old woman obeyed, and as soon as they got into the tent Marie saw a seat, and fell upon it with a moan of pain. Masaouda knelt down beside her, felt her hands, her forehead, and cheeks, and then left her to repose.

"Marie was alone, but she could not rest; all that Ben Arbi had said to her about the chief whom he wished her to marry haunted her, and when at last sleep stole upon her, fantastic and horrible forms seemed to crowd around, driving her to despair. This, she says, is the last thing that she remembers of that night.

"When next she awoke to consciousness it was broad day-light, and she saw Ben Arbi and Masaouda sitting at the door of the tent. She felt strangely weak, and closed her eyes almost as soon as she opened them, yet not before Ben Arbi had seen that one returning ray. Approaching her, he asked in a low anxious tone--

"'Does my child know me?'

"Again she looked up for a moment; he saw that she had recognised him, and exclaimed--

"'Allah be praised! She may live now!'

"By degrees Ben Arbi's presence and Masaouda's recalled her sad history to her. Soon she was able to connect all the links of that chain so coiled around her. One day as she lay with closed eyes thinking over her forlorn condition she heard Masaouda and Ben Arbi talking together. From their conversation she learned that she had been more than three weeks ill, and that at one time they had almost despaired of her recovery. He spoke much of his anxiety that she should get well quickly, as war was menacing, and he wished her to be married before it broke out, otherwise it might be impossible for some time.

"How Marie's heart bounded as she heard these words! And how she prayed that God would not permit her to get well until this, for her, blessed war should have begun! She determined to speak as little as possible and to avoid giving any signs of returning strength. Accordingly, day after day she resisted all the efforts made to rouse her, and refused much of the nourishing things which they constantly brought to her, and thus she endeavoured to retard this dreaded recovery. Nevertheless, she felt that she _was_ rapidly improving, and every day it became more difficult to repress the natural restlessness of convalescence.

"Time passed on slowly, and nothing more was said of the war; she was beginning to lose hope, when one evening she heard Masaouda come into the tent with Ben Arbi, who was questioning her eagerly about his child's health; he asked if it would be possible for her to be married in a week from that time, as the war had been determined upon, and the chiefs would depart. 'It is impossible,' the old woman answered; 'the child is too ill, and a relapse would probably cause her death.' Ben Arbi sighed deeply, but made no reply; while Marie felt that she could have fallen at Masaouda's feet and have blessed her for speaking these words. She knew, however, that she must remain silent, and from the depths of her heart she sent up a fervent thanksgiving to God. She was not yet saved, but this was a respite, and whilst it lasted might not her friends find and rescue her? It was a renewal of hope, and that is almost a renewal of life.

"At length the happy day arrived when the greater portion of the tribe set out for the scene of war, and from that day forward Marie improved rapidly. She devoted herself completely to Ben Arbi, vaguely hoping that if she could make him very fond of her she might perhaps be able to induce him to take her back to Algiers. She succeeded to her heart's content in exciting his tender affection for her, but he would not hear a word about taking her back, and appeared to be as intent as ever upon her marrying.

"Marie observed that his strength seemed to decline, and he himself said frequently that the old man's course was nearly run, and that if he could live to see his child married the object of his life would be gained, and he would be glad to sleep in peace with his brave sons.

"About two months from the time when the chiefs set out for the war, the survivors returned in triumph, and, with pride and joy lighting up his countenance, Ben Arbi told Marie that her husband elect was waiting to see her. She fell upon her knees, and clinging to him, besought him not to force her to marry, if he would not see her die of grief, as her poor mother had died. He sternly repulsed her, and left the tent in anger. It was a rude shock to Marie's hopes, and now, for the first time, she felt despair.

"Passively she submitted; she heard them agree that her marriage should take place in a few days, and even this did not rouse her. Ben Arbi tried to caress her and win her from this deep sadness, but she shook off his hand roughly, as she exclaimed, 'Do not touch me,--do not add hypocrisy to your cruelty. Is it not enough for you to force me to do that which will be to me a living death, without making false professions of affection for me? As you killed my mother, so will you kill me!' She stopped her ears and would not listen to a word from him.

"A few days before the fatal one named for Marie's wedding, Ben Arbi said that he must go to visit some holy shrine, to which there was then a great pilgrimage, but that he would be back on the day of the wedding. They were to be married, as is the Arab custom, in the evening.

"Early on the morning of this eventful day an old man tottered across the encampment and entered Ben Arbi's tent. Marie was already out, and was sitting at a little distance from it in a state of mute despair, yet she recognised her grandfather's form, and followed him into the tent. He had fallen upon the ground, and was lying there moaning as if in mortal agony. A feeling of sickness came over Marie as she looked at him, and she leaned against the side of the tent for support.

"At this moment the whole camp seemed roused, and were gathering round the tent, and he to whom she was betrothed implored her to come to him, saying that they must lose no time in departing from a place which was cursed by the plague.

"'What!' she cried; 'you would leave the old man here to die alone? Go; I will remain with him!'

"'Are you mad, girl!' exclaimed her betrothed. 'Come before you are yourself infected--before you have touched him!'

"He advanced a little way into the tent and took hold of her arm, but she shook him off, and springing to her grandfather's side, she laid her hand upon him and said--

"'Now come and take me away if you will, but with me take this fell disease!'

"One and all they stood as if spell-bound, gazing at her; then slowly and silently they withdrew.

"At last, Marie, and the sufferer by whose side she knelt, heard the heavy tramping of men and flocks, as the caravan moved away from the presence of the plague-stricken. Marie turned and kissed the old man's forehead.

"That kiss seemed to thrill through him. He raised himself up, and looking intently at her, he exclaimed--

"'My child!--I have never wrought thee aught but evil. I stole thee from those who were dear and kind to thee. I spurned thy prayers and tears, entreating to be taken back to them; and even this very day I was about to force thee into a marriage against thy inclinations. Nevertheless, in my hour of need and misery thou remainest with me, whom all others have abandoned! Child, who taught thee to act thus?'

"'Grandfather, it was the lesson which our God came down from heaven to teach us. He died to save those who most cruelly injured him. His doctrine and example are summed up in this one sentence--"Love thy God above all things, and thy neighbour as thyself!" And it was He who said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me!" And I have only done to you as I would that you should have done to me were I struck with this terrible disease, whilst I know that in thus attending to you I am ministering to Him.'

"The old man bowed his head, and said, 'Thy God shall be my God! The religion that could make thee act as thou hast done must be divine. Child, make me what thou art.'

"Marie clasped her hands together in deep but silent thankfulness; then she exclaimed, 'Would that some one were here to teach you; yet I can baptize you and make you a Christian. Oh, how happy you have made me! I can even thank you now for having stolen me from my dear convent!'

"'Do not say thou canst not teach me, child; for thou hast taught me so great a lesson that nothing could surpass it. Make me what thou art, and I shall die in peace. But what is to become of thee, my poor child! If thou shouldst survive this danger they will claim thee, and thou wilt not escape them. Would that thou wert in safety with thy Christian friends!'

"Marie trembled; yet a moment after she smiled brightly, and said, 'Fear not for me, grandfather; God is with us, and He will protect me. I no longer fear for myself; but say, are we far from Algiers?'

"'Not more than a good day's journey on foot. I brought thee by a longer route, in order to elude pursuit. But what does that avail; there is no one to send thither!'

"'It is all in the hands of God, and all will be well; do not let us think any more about me, but about yourself.' And when she had done all she could to soothe him, she sat down beside him and talked to him about the loving Saviour, whose follower he wished to become; and related to him as much as she could remember of the touching Gospel histories.

"Towards evening he fell into a light sleep, then Marie went out to breathe the fresh air, and was thinking of the happiness it would be to her if she could send for the dear old chaplain of the convent, who would baptize her grandfather, and, if he lived, find means to have him as well as herself removed to Algiers. Whilst she was musing, a sound of footsteps fell upon her ear, and looking up, she saw coming towards her a poor, half-witted boy, to whom she had been kind, and who seemed to have taken an ardent fancy for her. He was leading a goat; and, as soon as he saw her, he hastened to her, and said he had brought the goat for her that she might have some milk to drink.

"Marie took his hand, and pressing it within her own, thanked him warmly for thus thinking of her. The boy blushed, and laughed sillily; then he asked if he could do anything for her.

"'Yes,' she answered quickly; 'if you would go to Algiers, and bring back something--some medicine--for my grandfather, I shall love you so much.' The boy assented gladly; and then she asked him to wait until she had obtained the necessary instructions.

"Finding Ben Arbi asleep, Marie had to wait some time before she could speak to him; then she told him that God had sent them in the poor boy a messenger to Algiers, and asked him if he knew any Arab there to whom she could entrust a message to the convent. The old man thought for a few moments, and said he knew one who was under great obligations to him, and in whom he could trust. 'Then all is well,' she answered; 'only tell me how I am to describe the place where we are?' She had her little pocket-book still with her; and what a treasure it proved to her now, since it gave her the means of communicating with her friends!

"The old man having given her the necessary directions, dictated a few lines to the Arab, to desire him to give the messenger a little phial containing a certain cordial, and above all to lose no time in conveying Marie's packet to its destination.

"When all this was done, and the messenger had departed, Ben Arbi seemed inclined to sleep again, and she began her night-watch; a lonely one indeed would it have been had not the bright star of hope shone through all its gloom.

"Slowly passed the hours until the next day, when, about noon, the faithful messenger appeared again. He gave her the phial, and told her that the Arab desired him to say that Ben Arbi's wishes should be executed. Marie could have cried for joy, and her gratitude to the poor boy was far greater than she could express. It was necessary, however, to send him away; and this cost her a severe pang, as she thought of when he would return and find the place deserted by them.

"Every feeling was, however, soon merged in an intense longing for the arrival of the good chaplain. Her grandfather was sinking rapidly, and she began to think that Père de la Roche would not be there in time to baptize him; and how she shuddered at the thought of being left there alone with the dead. Evening came, and twilight waned into night, but no Père de la Roche; and poor Marie's heart began to droop again. Perhaps he had not received the note, and, if so, what was she to do? She almost shrieked aloud as she thought of her probably forlorn condition, for she felt sure that her grandfather had not long to live,--he had said so more than once; and during the whole day he had been tormenting himself about what was to become of her if no one came from Algiers.

"The old man had fallen asleep; the bright light of the moon showed Marie that his eyes were closed. In her anxious hope she went out of the tent and climbed up a tree which stood near, to gaze across that vast plain; but nothing appeared. She then determined to descend, and baptize her grandfather herself as soon as he awoke. One last yearning look, however, brought before her something which made her heart throb almost aloud. It was but a small spot; but it seemed to move, and to draw nearer to her. At last she could see that it was a man on horseback. There was no Arab dress; it must be, it was Père de la Roche! She almost sprang from the tree, and ran towards him.

"Père de la Roche and Marie hastened to the tent, and Marie went in to announce the glad tidings. The old man was lying with his eyes wide open, and looked at Marie fondly and sadly as she entered; but when she told him that Père de la Roche had arrived, his countenance lit up, and he exclaimed, 'Then thou art happy. I can now die in peace, and thou wilt go back to those whom thou lovest! But go, child, and send him to me quickly, for my course is nearly run.' Marie went out and led Père de la Roche into the tent. She left him there, and waited without for him.

"She was roused by the good father, whose hand lightly shook her. 'Come, my child,' said he; 'thy grandfather would see thee again before he dies. He is now a Christian, and will be with his God before many minutes have passed. Ah! what a great work thy faith has wrought!'

"Hardly were Ben Arbi's eyes closed in his happy death, when the sound of horses caused Marie once more to tremble. Père de la Roche reassured her by saying that it was probably a detachment of cavalry from Algiers, sent to guard their safe return. Taking her by the hand, he led her out of the tent, and there she saw again the beloved French uniforms. This second shock of joy, and the death scene she had just witnessed, were too much for her. She sank down quite overcome; and they laid her upon the long grass, where they left her to slumber, whilst they hurriedly performed the last rites to Ben Arbi.

"When all was done, they gently awoke her; and placing her on horseback, they returned to Algiers. Poor Marie was carried exhausted into the convent just as the bell was tolling for matins. The nuns came gathering round their lost child, now restored to them, to their great joy."