To the inhabitants of La Brousse's cottage the rest of the day passed
in peace. With the old man and his young relative it went by in their
usual occupations. To Clara de la Roche it passed in sleep; for grief
and fatigue weighed heavy upon her eyelids, and she had not known one
undisturbed hour of secure repose for many a long day. She was still
asleep, when a light tap on the concealed door awoke her, and the
voice of Ninette was heard, informing her that she might venture out
of concealment, as the house was closed for the night. Clara now found
herself in complete darkness, and had some difficulty in opening the
door; but at length she discovered the spring, and issued forth
gladly--for, whatever security it may bring along with it, confinement
to one small space is never without its pain. The wide kitchen of La
Brousse's farm-house was only lighted by one small resin candle; but
the eyes of Clara de la Roche were dazzled for a moment, and she was
in the midst of the room, ere she perceived another figure besides
those of the good farmer and his young relation. It was that of a man
of about six-and-twenty years of age, dressed in the garb of a
peasant, and with a complexion so bronzed by the sun, as to speak
plainly habits of constant exposure and toil. But still there was
something in his appearance which at once made Clara de la Roche doubt
that he was altogether that which he seemed. It was not alone that his
face and his figure were as handsome and as finely formed as it is
possible to behold; for impartial nature as often bestows her more
perfect gifts upon the children of active industry as upon those of
cultivation--and his was evidently a frame inured to toil and
exertion; but it was that, with all, there was a calm grace, and
easiness of position and of movement which is generally acquired, not
given--which springs more frequently from cultivation of mind than
from perfection of body--and which is difficult of attainment, even
under every advantage of station and fortune.
When Clara entered, he was leaning with one hand upon a large oaken
chair, his head slightly bent, and his eyes raised towards the opening
door; but the moment he perceived that the steadfast gaze with which
he regarded the fair fugitive raised a bright blush upon her cheek, he
dropped his look to the ground; and, though there was space enough for
all, drew back a step, as if to give her greater room to advance.
Old La Brousse, who saw their eyes meet, and the surprise that
painted itself on Clara's countenance at beholding a stranger,
instantly came forward to quiet her apprehension, by saying, "My
nephew, Mademoiselle!" But though Ninette looked from Auguste to the
face of the young lady, with a glance that seemed to claim Clara's
admiration for the handsome young peasant, yet she appeared, the
moment after, to think that the eyes of Auguste de la Brousse
expressed somewhat more of admiration for the fair fugitive than was
necessary or becoming. The whole family, however, were kind and gentle
towards her, and Clara sat down with them to their homely supper.
Ninette was soon all gaiety; but the young peasant was grave, and even
sad. Nevertheless, in the course of the evening, he spoke to
Mademoiselle de la Roche more than once; and, when Clara retired to
her place of concealment, she needed no other voice to tell her that
neither his birth nor his education had been amongst the peasantry of
Bretagne.
To some persons, who he could be, and what could be his real
situation, would have afforded matter for much thought and
speculation; but Clara de in Roche settled it in her own mind at once.
"He must be one of the young nobility of la Vendée," she thought. "He
could be none else than one, like herself, seeking refuge in
concealment and incognito from persecution and destruction;" and, of
course, a bond of sympathy and esteem was instantly established
between her own heart and that of the young stranger.
She saw neither him nor La Brousse, however, during the whole of the
next day, though Ninette visited her more than once, and often turned
the conversation to Auguste. It is wonderful how keen women's eyes are
in seeing into other women's hearts; and although Clara herself was
yet scarcely nineteen, and had possessed as few opportunities as any
one of judging what love is, yet she was not long in discovering that
there was a spark of affection for the young stranger lighted in the
bosom of poor Ninette, which she feared, from what she suspected of
his real station, might prove hereafter dangerous to her peace. Many
were the questions that she asked concerning Auguste's history; and
Ninette, with whom the subject was a favourite one, replied to them
all, although, at the same time, she thought that Mademoiselle was
somewhat too particular in her inquiries. The answers that Clara
received, however, were not such as tended to clear away her
suspicions. Ninette declared that Auguste came from a branch of old La
Brousse's family, which had long inhabited another part of the
country, and that he had not been more that ten days at the farm,
whither he had come to help his uncle, who found some difficulty in
carrying on his agricultural operations since the death of his two
sons.
At night, as soon as the house was completely closed in, and all
prying eyes excluded, Clara again ventured from her place of
concealment; and certainly, if she had before appeared handsome in the
eyes of Auguste, she now, refreshed by repose, looked loveliness
itself. Clara could not but feel that she was admired; and perhaps, at
another moment, the admiration of the young stranger--whose tone, and
manner, and language, as well as his appearance, all belied the
character he assumed--might not have been unpleasant to a heart
naturally gentle and affectionate, and ready to cling to any thing for
support and consolation. But she saw, at the same time, that every
look which Auguste turned towards her, every word that he addressed to
her, inflicted a pang upon Ninette; and though Clara well knew that
the passion the poor girl was nourishing could only end in her ruin,
if the object of it was base, and in her unhappiness, if he were noble
and virtuous, yet her heart was not one willing to inflict pain upon
any human being; and she remained cold, silent, and reserved, where,
she would gladly have confided her feelings, her sorrows, and her
hopes.
During the course of the day that followed, Ninette scarcely came near
the place of Mademoiselle de la Roche's concealment; and although, two
days before, Clara had regarded it with delighted satisfaction, as the
first secure resting-place she had found for long, she now began to
feel the confinement and the solitude irksome. Her own thoughts, which
were full of painful memories, varied by hardly any thing but
apprehensions as painful, were certainly not the sweetest of
companions during the long hours of a solitary summer's day, and she
would have given much for a book to while away the time. At length,
however, night came, and this time it was the voice of La Brousse
himself that gave the signal for her to come forth. Ninette was
sitting pettishly in one corner of the room, while Auguste stood by
the table with his hand resting upon a small packet of books, which he
was not long in offering to Clara, as a means of occupying her
solitary hours. He did so with the calm and graceful ease that
characterized his every action; but there was a light in his eye as he
did so, that added a pang to all those that Ninette was already
inflicting on herself, and gave even Clara no small pain on her
account, though her own heart beat, and her own cheek burned, she
scarce knew why.
Clara would fain have shrunk into herself, although the society even
of a peasant was a relief, after the long hours of solitude which she
had lately passed; but good old La Brousse strove to win her into
cheerfulness, by all that simple unaffected kindness could effect; and
the young stranger, without attempting to assume the air or tone of a
lower station than her own, led her onward into conversation in
despite of her determination, by a gentle, unobtrusive mingling of
respect and tenderness, in which there was nothing to repress or to
repel.
The conduct of Ninette, indeed, acted as a restraint upon all. She sat
gloomy and frowning, biting her pretty lips in silence, while old La
Brousse chid her, though not unkindly, for her ill-humour; and the
young stranger, unconscious of the feelings he had himself excited,
gazed upon her with surprise. Perhaps it was Clara de la Roche alone
that saw and understood the real motives of the poor girl's behaviour,
She did not, indeed, know that from the first hour that Auguste la
Brousse, as the young stranger called himself, had set his foot across
the threshold of the farm of Dervais, Ninette had determined that he
should be her lover whether he would or not. She did not know that he
had treated her from the first with cool indifference; nor that
Ninette, in order to attract his admiration, had coquetted herself
into a passion for him, which had received no encouragement; but she
clearly saw that love was at the bottom of the poor girl's heart, and
she felt grieved that her presence should in any way give her a
foretaste of the disappointment that she was destined ultimately to
undergo. Her own heart, however, was clear. She could not but
acknowledge to herself, indeed, that the young stranger was perhaps
the handsomest man she had ever yet beheld; that his beauty was not
alone the beauty of feature, but the beauty of expression also; that
he was graceful in person; and that his conversation had a varied
power, which carried attention into admiration, and a tone of noble
feeling that gave admiration the basis of esteem. But the heart of
Clara de la Roche, though kind, and gentle, and tender, was not one
easily to be won. The scenes in which she had mingled--the dangers,
the sorrows, the privations which she had undergone--had raised her
spirit above all lighter things; and the only qualities that could win
her love, were those which had been tried by the fiery ordeal of
difficulties and perils. Though she was but nineteen, she had learned
to distrust imagination, and rely upon deeds rather than appearance.
There was another safeguard, too, to her heart. Her hand, she knew,
had been promised by her father to the son of an old and dear
friend; and although she had never yet met him to whom she was
destined--though the death of her father and brother left her free
from all such engagements--yet a touch of the same enthusiasm which
inspired the loyalty of her house, mingled with her veneration for
her father's memory, and made her set a watch upon her own feelings,
lest she should ever be tempted to violate the promise that he had
given.
The evening passed, however; and at length, Clara again retired to her
place of concealment. Sleep came not near her pillow for many hours;
for the pain that her presence was inflicting upon Ninette, grieved
her deeply, and she revolved in her own mind the idea of quitting the
asylum she had found, and once more seeking an abode where her sojourn
might occasion no uneasiness, except such as was absolutely
inseparable from her situation. We will not say, indeed, that when she
looked into her own heart, she might not there find some feelings that
confirmed her in such a purpose. She did not love the young stranger,
it is true; for she was one of those who had been taught early to
avoid the first seeds of any thing that we do not wish to cultivate.
But she would not but acknowledge that he was amiable, interesting,
graceful, and handsome; and he was, moreover, the only one so gifted
that she was likely to behold, if she remained where she was. She
determined then, ere long, to make her way, if possible, to the house
of some relations in the neighbourhood of Rennes.