The mind of Harland now enjoyed a serenity hitherto unknown; the
mildness of Louise, the increasing knowledge of her virtues, whilst they
added to his love, softened the harshness of his manners: and, from
experiencing the sweets arising from beneficence, he was taught to
regard the happiness of others, as conducive to his own.
It was one of those evenings when the serenity of the heavens shed its
influence on mankind, and harmonized the mind to happiness, that the
Captain, with his youthful companions, after long enjoying the tranquil
beauties of the declining day, retired to his cabin. The careful
mariner, freed for a time from toil, reclined in easy repose on the
deck, or carrolled his humble ditty, as he watched the different
vessels, of which he might be deemed in part the safeguard. A transient
peace possessed every bosom: when Harland, after a considerable pause,
addressing his Louise, said--"I have often designed, my dear girl, to
request some account of the occurrences attending your childhood; of
which I have hitherto had a very imperfect knowledge: the present moment
is favourable for the relation, which I think would prove equally
gratifying to Sir Henry and our friends."
"There is not any thing in the account, Harland," replied Louise, "to
repay your attention in the hearing: a monastic life affords but little
variety."--However, as Sir Henry and Frederick joined in the request,
she without farther hesitation complied.
"Of the manner in which I was left at the gate of the Convent, you have
already, Harland, been informed. I was found there in the morning by the
portress, and by her carried to the mother St. Claire, the venerable
Abbess. The meanness of my clothes by no means accorded with the
valuable miniature tied round my neck; but rather tended, as the worthy
Abbess said, to show that my parents were actuated by shame, not
poverty. She, however, hesitated not a moment to take me in, and, after
an ineffectual search to discover the authors of my being, determined to
rear me, and dedicate my life me to the God who had placed me under her
protection.
"I was accordingly given to the care of a lay sister, who faithfully
discharged her trust; and as my infant mind expanded, the Abbess became
each day more partial to me. The friendship of the mother St. Claire was
followed by the real or pretended love of the other inmates of the
Convent, and I was soon the avowed favourite of all.
"Amongst those, however, who evinced a sincere regard for me, was the
sister Francoise; between whom, and the venerable Abbess, my early
affection was divided. Under their more immediate care, I was instructed
in every useful and ornamental branch of education; and their
approbation and praise were the rewards of my diligence. Thus passed my
earlier days, unclouded with a sorrow; sister Francoise and the Abbess
were all the world to me, nor knew I of one beyond the walls of the
Convent.
"The frequent visits, however, paid to the other children by their
friends, could not but lead me, at length, to reflect on the difference
of my lot. No father, no mother, ever inquired for me; and the first
sigh that ever swelled my bosom, was for those relations, whom fate
prohibited me from ever knowing."
A half-stifled sigh escaped Sir Henry; which was gently returned by
Louise, who, after a moment's pause, again proceeded.
"Sister Francoise soon observed, and learned the cause of my dejection.
'You have no acknowledged parents, Louise,' she said; 'but I will be
your mother, and you shall love me as a daughter.' She burst into tears;
I kissed them off her cheek as she embraced me, and, pleased with the
idea of mother, soon regained my cheerfulness. From that time, I became
the nearly inseparable companion of sister Francoise: I addressed her
by the name of mother, I believed her such, and fully did her tenderness
authorise the title.
"It was not till I was fourteen, that mother St. Claire put into my
possession the miniature found with me, and informed me of the
circumstance which had placed me under her protection, and of her
intentions that I should take the veil. The latter intelligence,
repugnant as it was to my inclinations, affected me less than the
knowledge of my orphan state. 'And is not sister Francoise then my
mother?' I would have asked; but tears impeded my utterance; and,
throwing my arms round the neck of St. Claire, I wept in silence. She
tenderly embraced me; and when the violence of my grief was abated,
exhorted me to resignation to the state that Providence had assigned me;
and explained the reasons which rendered a life of seclusion necessary
to one, who without friends could only look for infamy and destruction
in the world.
"'Yet do not, dear mother,' I exclaimed, 'force me to be a nun--at
least, not yet!'
"'Force you, my child!' repeated the venerable woman, 'never! Forced
vows cannot be sincere; and sincere indeed ought those to be, which are
offered to your God! You yet are young: but two years hence, if I be in
existence, I hope to receive you at the altar. I have pointed out the
dangers which would attend you, in a world you are a stranger to; you
know the peaceful happiness, the security which reign within these
walls: let both be the subject of your reflections; and too well am I
assured of the sense, the goodness of heart my girl possesses, to doubt
her cheerful acquiescence in the lot assigned her."
"Never before had my heart refused accordance to the sentiments or
wishes of this my earliest friend; but the fascinating picture, the
young Victoire, and Julie de Valois, (for three years my intimate
companions) had often painted of the world, had first engaged my
attention by its novelty, then taught me to wish for those pleasures,
with which I thought it abounded. The world,--however, its
gaieties--all were absorbed in the circumstance of my deserted infancy;
and I left the worthy Abbess, overwhelmed with the only real sorrow I
had ever known.
"Instead of going to my beloved mother, as I had hitherto termed her, I
sought the gloomy solitude of the cloister; and was indulging in an
unrestrained flow of tears, when the approach of two nuns caused me to
retreat into an adjoining chapel. They seated themselves at the
entrance, nor could I then have re-passed without discovery; which would
have exposed me to a severe reproof from sister Brigide (one of them),
for my intrusion into a place, sacred to the sisterhood. They, however,
continued their discourse without the slightest suspicion of unhallowed
ears, and I soon found sister Francoise was the subject of their
conversation.
"'I, who have been an inmate here these six-and-thirty years,' said
sister Brigide, 'am less regarded by the superannuated mother St.
Claire; I may, however, one day be head of this convent; then woe betide
some, whom I shall not name.'
"'How long is it since she took the veil?' asked the other, whom, by her
voice I discovered to be a sister lately professed. 'Fourteen years,'
answered Brigide: 'just after the Abbess's favourite Louise was left
here; and much I mistake, if Francoise be not really her mother!'
"'Her great partiality to the child,' answered sister Marie, 'may
certainly justify the suspicion.'
"'Suspicion'--repeated Brigide; 'I have proofs--facts, indubitable ones!
I know more of sister Francoise than she thinks.'
"The curiosity of Marie thus raised, induced her to press Brigide to an
explanation; whilst I scarcely respired lest a syllable of the important
intelligence should escape me.
"'It is now about fifteen years,' said Brigide, 'since sister Francoise,
then Mademoiselle de Colline, was a reigning belle; though, for my part,
I never could discover the surprising beauty they say she possessed:
being, however, the youngest daughter, she was designed for a monastic
life; but was by nature more inclined to vows of love than religion. By
her artful coquetries she at last fascinated a young Englishman who was
on his travels, and who demanded her of her father in marriage. Monsieur
de Colline refused him, he being an heretic; and the gallant apparently
ceased his addresses; but after a lapse of some time, he was detected
one morning by her father, descending from her chamber window. Justly
enraged at the depravity of his daughter and the young fellow, Monsieur
de Colline seized his pistols, and as the lover was scaling the
garden-wall, a brace of bullets brought him to the earth!
"'Not satisfied with this victim to his injured honour, he hastened to
the apartment of his daughter, taxed her with her crime, and was
proceeding to tell her the vengeance he had taken, when the guilty
wretch fell into fits, and was discovered to be in a state of pregnancy!
"'Her sisters, who before had been inclined to pity her, then abandoned
her to the fury of her father; and happy had it been, if she had then
expiated her sin by the loss of life; but an old servant, who had been
privy to her amour, preserved her from the effects of his passion. She
was, however, by his order, confined in an obscure part of the Chateau,
and treated with the greatest rigour; but, instead of bewailing her
fault, she only deplored the loss of her lover! There, with the
assistance of her old confidant, she was delivered of an infant: its sex
I never learned, or what became of it; but about that time Louise was
found at the gates of the convent!'
"'Oh, a clear case--a clear case!' exclaimed sister Marie. 'But, with
all the search they say St. Claire caused to be made for the parents, do
not you think it strange these circumstances did not lead her to them?'
"'Not at all,' replied Brigide. 'The events I have related were
transacted in too secret a manner to let suspicion even point a finger
at the De Collines; nor do I believe there is another in the Convent,
except the Abbess, who is acquainted with these particulars respecting
her; nor should I have known them, but for the old confidant I
mentioned; who, about five years since, became a lay sister, and died
here. She too was very fond of Louise: and a few words she one day
inadvertently uttered, raised my suspicion there was more concerning
sister Francoise than I knew; and I determined never to rest till I had
discovered what it was; and by a thousand questions, and indeed by
pretending I was in the confidence of Francoise, I learned what I have
now related.'--
"Sufficient indeed," interrupted Sir Henry, starting from his seat, and
pacing the cabin, "to blast her character; but not to draw the tear of
pity, the unhappy--injured Francoise deserved! Not even a convent, I
find, can screen the unfortunate from malice and detraction!--But
proceed, my dear Louise; I meant not to interrupt you."
"And did you, my brother," asked Louise, "ever before hear the
misfortunes of Francoise?"
"I learned them from herself, Louise."
"From herself, Sir Henry! When did you know her?"
"Not till after you, my sister, left the convent. And here let me
endeavour to do justice to her character. To the lover sister Brigide
mentioned, Francoise, on her father's refusal, was privately united:
and, by the assistance of the old servant, who witnessed their marriage,
he was secretly admitted into the house. This intercourse had continued
several months, when her father saw, and shot the unhappy husband; who
was soon after found nearly lifeless, by some peasants, and by them
conveyed to the house of a surgeon.
"In Monsieur de Colline's subsequent interview with Francoise, she
avowed her marriage; but he either did not--or would not believe her. He
caused her to be confined, and fearing, if she persisted in her
declaration of marriage, he could not force her to take the veil; he not
only informed her, her lover was dead, but, to further his purpose, that
her infant likewise expired soon after its birth. By him it was indeed
doomed to expiate, by its death, the supposed fault of its wretched
mother: but Providence preserved it for a better fate.
"Francoise, however--her heart nearly broken by the double loss of her
husband and child--gladly availed herself of the fate designed her, to
escape the reproaches of her father, and the taunts of her sisters, and
threw herself into the convent of St. Ursule; where she took the veil at
the very time her husband, recovered of his wound, was searching the
country to discover her: but Monsieur de Colline had taken his measures
too effectually; and at last, supposing her dead, he returned to
England. At the old man's death, however, the letters the unhappy Henry
had addressed to Francoise, and to him, were discovered by his
Confessor; as likewise the Monk who had married them; and as her husband
was then living, a dispensation was obtained, and sister Francoise,
freed from her vows, returned with my father to England."
"Your father! O God, my brother!" exclaimed Louise, clasping her hands.
"Tell me, I entreat you, if Francoise de Colline was really my mother!"
Sir Henry appeared confused--distressed: but at last said--"Seek not, my
dear girl, the knowledge which cannot add to your happiness, but would
plunge me still deeper in the gulf of misery. Your mother lives: and you
shall one day know her. The time, alas! will too soon arrive, when every
midnight deed must be brought to light: but, till then--let not the hand
of Louise level an unnecessary shaft at my bosom!"
Louise could urge no farther; her anxiety to be satisfied on this
subject, yielded to the visible concern and agitation her question had
occasioned Sir Henry. She sighed, and a pause ensued, from which they
were relieved by the Captain requesting her to proceed in her narrative.
"Little more passed," continued Louise, "between sister Brigide and
Marie, than what I have related. The latter mentioned the miniature
found with me, as a proof that must instantly confirm the truth of
Brigide's allegation; but Brigide ridiculed the idea. She had seen the
miniature, she said, it was not of Francoise: but Monsieur de Colline
and his daughter were both too cunning, she added, to leave any proof
with me, which must discover them; the miniature was a trinket, by
which if ever they chose to reclaim me, they could; but a ring or a seal
would have answered the purpose equally the same.--They were here
interrupted by the arrival of another nun, with whom they proceeded to
the refectory; whilst I, freed from the danger of detection, hastened to
the cell of sister Francoise, and, throwing myself into her arms,
exclaimed--'I am--I am your child; oh, do not attempt to deceive me, but
say that you are indeed my mother!'
"Sister Francoise was at first alarmed at the wildness of my address,
but, on my relating the discoveries of the morning, her agitation far
exceeded my own.--'No--no, Louise,' she sighed, 'you are not my child:
would to heaven that you were: but I am indeed widowed--and childless!'
"She wrung her hands, and, bursting into tears, sunk on her humble
couch. I mingled my tears with hers; I strove to soothe her; yet still
urged my claim to maternal acknowledgment. She referred me to the
miniature:--'The resemblance you bear to it, Louise,' she said, 'must
convince you it was done for a parent; but no likeness can be traced in
it to me. Cease then to wring my soul by forcing to remembrance, scenes
long since passed. I love you, Louise; but utterly disclaim all kindred
with your blood. Be satisfied then with my affection, nor ever again
renew this subject to me or any one!'
"Thus prohibited, I forbore to speak, but sighed in secret over the
mystery of my birth; my mind by degrees lost its serenity, and I was
apprehended to be in a decline; when the Marchioness de Valois came to
the Convent. The friendship of her lovely daughters had before
introduced me to her notice; she regarded me with an eye of pity, and
proposed my going with her to Montpellier. The worthy St. Claire readily
consented; and taking an affectionate leave of her and sister Francoise,
for the first time in my life, I re-passed the gates of the Convent.
"What were my sentiments of the various objects I beheld, I shall leave
to your own conceptions; all indeed was wonder, joy, and amazement! The
amiable Marchioness, pleased with my inquiries and remarks, pointed out
and explained whatever she thought worthy my notice or regard. She did
more: she traced the grief which oppressed me to its source, and wiped
the tear of dejection from my cheek. She taught me to look forward with
hope, and to rely with confidence on the wisdom of Providence, which, in
its own time, would develope the mystery that distressed me. The
friendship of this amiable woman, the paternal behaviour of the Marquis,
who joined us at Montpellier, and the amusements of that celebrated
place, to me so novel, soon restored my wonted cheerfulness and health;
and, after an absence of three months, I returned to the Convent; where
the increased infirmities of mother St. Claire, and a fever with which
sister Francoise was seized, called forth all my tenderness and
attention.
"They were repaid by the restoration of this mother of my affection, and
the mild serenity of the venerable Abbess; who, unalarmed, awaited the
hour of dissolution, with a smile of confidence and peace, that
anticipated the reward of a life passed in piety and benevolence. Her
fondness for me appeared daily to increase; but, to my great surprise
and satisfaction, she no longer urged my taking the vows, or even
expressed a wish for my engaging in a monastic life.
"Thus passed a twelvemonth, happy as those I had formerly known; when
the Marchioness again came to the Convent, to take Victoire and Julie
finally from under the care of St. Claire.
"It was then that she declared her intentions in my favour; to which St.
Claire added--'For this reason, my child, I have long ceased importuning
you to enter on your probation. You dislike the life of a nun, and, how
much soever I wish for your society, I prefer your happiness and real
advantage to my own gratification. Here you would be secure from the
storms and cares of life; but, from what I have learned respecting
sister Brigide, who will undoubtedly be my successor, you could hope for
nothing more, save the peace arising from internal religion; and even
that, the mother of a sisterhood has it in her power to disturb, though
not to destroy. With me, you might experience the happiness a life of
religion is calculated to afford; but see, my child,' and she turned a
glass whose last sands were running out, 'my hour is nearly expired! To
the Marchioness then I resign you.--Let the religion, the precepts I
have inculcated, the example I have given you, prove the guides of your
conduct.--Transfer the obedience you have shown me, to her; and may
every happiness attend you!'
"Tears of affection and gratitude were my only answer; I could not
speak, but, sinking at her feet, hid my face on her knees; the world I
had sighed for, faded on my imagination before this instance of her
love; and the thoughts of leaving her far outweighed the life of liberty
she had awarded me.
"Orders, however, were given for my departure; nor did St. Claire
provide for me as the orphan of her charity, but as the child of her
tenderest regard. To the former marks of her munificence, she added many
valuable presents. 'They will remind you of my lessons, Louise,' she
said, 'even in the assemblies of the gay. I shall feel the loss of your
attentions, but sister Francoise will supply your place; and remember,
my child, whilst I have life, you shall be welcomed here with open
arms!'
"All was soon prepared, and receiving her final blessing, with that of
sister Francoise, I followed the Marchioness to her carriage.
"We proceeded to Paris, where a continued round of amusements for some
time banished reflection, and the remembrance of the worthy St. Claire.
Pleasure, however, at length lost its attractions, and only in the
friendship of the Marchioness, and a few select families, I found that
real satisfaction I had in vain expected in the more brilliant, but
dissipated circles of the fashionable world.
"Twelve months had elapsed, since I quitted the Convent; I had
repeatedly written to St. Claire and sister Francoise, but never
received an answer: and as we were then going to the Marquis's country
seat, the Marchioness consented that I should cross the country to
Rennes. It was late in the evening when I arrived at the Convent;
painfully anticipating the intelligence of St. Claire's death: there,
instead of the benevolent mild old sister Marthe, who first succoured my
helpless infancy, a lay sister I had never seen, attended the summons to
the gate, and demanded my business?
"'Is mother St. Claire still living?' I tremulously asked.
"'She has been dead eleven months,' replied the portress; 'and mother
St. Brigide is now the head of this Convent. If you wish to speak with
her, send in your name and business, and I will endeavour to gain you
admittance.'
"'Oh no,' I exclaimed--'not with her: but tell sister Francoise, her
child--her Louise, wishes to see her.'
"'Louise--sister Francoise!' she repeated with a frown. 'There is no
such sister within these walls.'
"'O God!' I cried. 'Is she too dead?'
"'I have positive orders,' said the portress, 'not to answer any
questions, or take in any message from you.'--She closed the grate: and
Jacques hearing what passed, of his own accord drove to an hotel, where
I passed the night in mournful reflections, and the next day, with an
oppressed heart, rejoined the Marchioness at Rohan.
"No occurrence happened from that time, till nearly a twelvemonth after,
when the Count de Dreux declared himself my admirer. He was nearly
fifty--vain, self-sufficient, and affected; but likewise rich; and, for
the last consideration, the Marquis advised my encouragement of his
addresses: to the Marchioness, however, I avowed my real sentiments
respecting him; and she gave him a gentle, but positive refusal. At the
same time she undeceived him respecting my birth, by which he had
supposed me nearly related to her; and that consideration, I believe,
reconciled him to her rejection; but though he ceased to regard me as
longer worthy his honourable addresses, he still pursued me, as an
object of desire.
"At that time the Marquis was unexpectedly appointed Governor of
Pondicherry; for which place he was ordered immediately to depart.
"The Marchioness accompanied him to L'Orient, whither I should likewise
have attended her with Victoire and Julie, but indisposition obliged me
to remain at the Chateau. The opportunity was too favourable to the
projects of the Count, to be neglected; he wrote me a passionate letter,
with a brilliant offer of settlements, jewels, &c.: of which I did not
deign to take the least notice. My silence produced a second, on the
supposition that he had not been sufficiently liberal: and he sent a
carte blanche. To evince my contempt, I tore the letters, and returned
them in a cover; and, as I was surrounded by faithful servants, and two
days elapsed without hearing of him, I apprehended no farther
molestation or danger.
"On the morning of the third, however, a courier, covered with dust,
and apparently fatigued, arrived at the Chateau. He came, he said, from
L'Orient, where the Marchioness, who had been overturned in her
carriage, was in the most imminent danger. He brought a letter, as he
pretended, from her femme-de-chambre, which repeated the information,
and begged my immediate presence, as Victoire and Julie were in the
greatest affliction.
"Alarmed at this account of my beloved benefactress, I gave orders for a
chaise to be instantly prepared; and, without an idea occurring that the
tale might be fictitious, assisted my maid to pack up a change of
apparel. The chaise was soon ready, and I set out for L'Orient, attended
by Janette, the false courier, and two old servants, who, on hearing
the accident which had happened, entreated they might accompany me. We
proceeded with great expedition, and were within a few miles of
L'Orient, when, on passing a thicket, two men on horseback suddenly
approached; one stopped the horses, whilst the other, presenting a
pistol to Jacques, threatened to shoot him if he offered to proceed. The
faithful Gregoire, perceiving the situation of his fellow-servant, would
have advanced to his assistance, but was withheld by the pretended
messenger; who seized him by the collar, and a scuffle immediately
ensued. A carriage then approached, from which the Count himself
alighted; and, opening the door of my chaise, he attempted to force me
out. Vain would have been my resistance, had not a sailor, attracted I
believe by my screams, darted from the thicket, and with a bludgeon
struck the Count to the ground.
"What directly followed, I cannot say, as I fainted; but, as Janette
afterwards informed me, the men who first stopped us, seeing their
master fall, sprung to defend him, and old Jacques finding himself at
liberty, without regarding the sailor who had so gallantly come to our
assistance, or Gregoire, drove off with the utmost velocity.--When I
recovered, we were far from the scene of contention; and as Jacques,
equally alarmed as myself, still urged the speed of his horses, we soon
arrived at L'Orient.
"I found my beloved benefactress well, but dejected from the departure
of the Marquis, who had sailed the day before. On relating my tale, she
expressed her satisfaction at my escape from the Count; and, convinced
the greatest care was necessary to guard me from his machinations,
determined in future not to trust me from her own immediate protection.
"Soon after this, Gregoire arrived, and informed us that the men who
first stopped us, prepared to pursue me; but were remanded by the valet,
on the supposition that the Count was dead.--After some time, however,
he showed signs of returning life and sense, and whilst they were
replacing him in his carriage, to re-convey him to a seat he possessed
near the spot, (whither he had proposed to carry me), the sailor, who
had at first been secured, made his escape again into the thicket. As
for Gregoire, he was no longer regarded either in a hostile or amicable
manner, and accordingly remounted his horse, and followed us to
L'Orient.
"The next day we returned to the Chateau, at which place the Marchioness
proposed remaining, till the vessel preparing to take the family, should
be ready to sail. A month of tranquillity ensued, when we were surprised
by a visit from the Count. The obstacles he had met with, it appeared,
so far from abating, had added to his desire of obtaining me; but,
convinced of the impracticability of either seducing, or forcing me from
the protection of the Marchioness, and being, he said, unable to exist
without me, he again demanded my hand in marriage. The Marchioness would
have urged my accedence to an establishment so brilliant; but, on
declaring my utter dislike to him, she yielded, and again gave him a
positive refusal.
"The Count, mortified and enraged at my repeated rejections, vowed never
to quit the pursuit, till he had, either by honourable or other means,
subdued my obduracy. Secure, however, in the friendship of the
Marchioness, I equally disregarded his entreaties and threats; and the
vessel appointed for us, being fully prepared, and the fleet ready to
sail, we bade adieu to France; and I was thus happily freed from the
importunities of a troublesome lover."
"Thanks, my dear Louise," said Harland, "for your interesting tale;
which, though unmarked with any extraordinary occurrences, proves you to
have been truly the child of Providence."
"The child of Providence indeed," repeated Sir Henry, "nor can I
sufficiently admire the wisdom of that Power, who directs the most
trivial of our actions. Little did I think, when I hastened to your
rescue, it was to that of the sister, of whom I was then in search. Your
fainting, and the confusion arising from the unlucky blow I gave the
Count, prevented me from observing you; and on that nobleman's partial
recovery, I was glad to elude the vigilance of his servants, and seek
the shelter the luxurious foliage of the thicket afforded."
"And was it you, my brother," said Louise, in a voice of grateful
mildness, "who then preserved me from the Count? But what accident
conducted you to so solitary a spot? and why in a garb so unsuitable to
your station and character?"
"Mrs. Harland has anticipated the question, I was in part going to ask
Sir Henry," said the Captain; "and as you have raised my curiosity, if
you will acquaint us with the particulars of your peregrination in
France, which you mentioned when at St. Helena, it will add to the
pleasure I have received in hearing the relation of your sister?"
Sir Henry readily complied--"although I have little to recite," he said,
"except an action I must ever remember with regret, as a weakness for
which one so long inured to sorrow as myself, can offer no excuse."