Nearly twelve months had now elapsed since the disclosure of the
crime. Maxwell, our young Englishman, had spent the time among the
neighbouring plantations; and failing to enlist more than friendly
considerations from Franconia, resolved to return to Bermuda and
join his family. He had, however, taken a deep interest in Clotilda
and Annette,--had gone to their apartment unobserved, and in secret
interviews listened to Clotilda's tale of trouble. Its recital
enlisted his sympathies; and being of an ardent and impressible
temper, he determined to carry out a design for her relief. He
realised her silent suffering,--saw how her degraded condition
wrangled with her noble feelings,--how the true character of a woman
loathed at being the slave of one who claimed her as his property.
And this, too, without the hope of redeeming herself, except by some
desperate effort. And, too, he saw but little difference between the
blood of Franconia and the blood of Clotilda; the same outline of
person was there,--her delicate countenance, finely moulded bust,
smoothly converging shoulders. There was the same Grecian cast of
face, the same soft, reflective eyes,--filling a smile with
sweetness, and again with deep-felt sorrow. The same sensitive
nature, ready to yield forth love and tenderness, or to press onward
the more impassioned affections, was visible in both. And yet, what
art had done for Franconia nature had replenished for Clotilda. But,
the servile hand was upon her, she crouched beneath its grasp; it
branded her life, and that of her child, with ignominy and death.
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