The ladies retired to their several rooms, and after a general
rearranging of toilets descended to the great parlor, where they were
joined by Messire La Lande, the curé of the parish, a benevolent, rosy
old priest, and several ladies from the neighborhood, with two or three
old gentlemen of a military air and manner, retired officers of the army
who enjoyed their pensions and kept up their respectability at a cheaper
rate in the country than they could do in the city.
Felix Beaudoin had for the last two hours kept the cooks in hot water.
He was now superintending the laying of the table, resolved that,
notwithstanding his long absence from home, the dinner should be a
marvellous success.
Amélie was very beautiful to-day. Her face was aglow with pure air and
exercise, and she felt happy in the apparent contentment of her brother,
whom she met with Pierre on the broad terrace of the Manor House.
She was dressed with exquisite neatness, yet plainly. An antique cross
of gold formed her only adornment except her own charms. That cross she
had put on in honor of Pierre Philibert. He recognized it with delight
as a birthday gift to Amélie which he had himself given her during their
days of juvenile companionship, on one of his holiday visits to Tilly.
She was conscious of his recognition of it,--it brought a flush to her
cheek. “It is in honor of your visit, Pierre,” said she, frankly, “that
I wear your gift. Old friendship lasts well with me, does it not? But
you will find more old friends than me at Tilly who have not forgotten
you.”
“I am already richer than Croesus, if friendship count as riches,
Amélie. The hare had many friends, but none at last; I am more fortunate
in possessing one friend worth a million.”
“Nay, you have the million too, if good wishes count in your favor,
Pierre, you are richer”--the bell in the turret of the château began to
ring for dinner, drowning her voice somewhat.
“Thanks to the old bell for cutting short the compliment, Pierre,”
continued she, laughing; “you don't know what you have lost! but
in compensation you shall be my cavalier, and escort me to the
dining-room.”
She took the arm of Pierre, and in a merry mood, which brought back
sweet memories of the past, their voices echoed again along the old
corridors of the Manor House as they proceeded to the great dining-room,
where the rest of the company were assembling.
The dinner was rather a stately affair, owing to the determination of
Felix Beaudoin to do especial honor to the return home of the family.
How the company ate, talked, and drank at the hospitable table need not
be recorded here. The good Curé's face, under the joint influence of
good humor and good cheer, was full as a harvest moon. He rose at last,
folded his hands, and slowly repeated “agimus gratias.” After dinner
the company withdrew to the brilliantly lighted drawing-room, where
conversation, music, and a few games of cards for such as liked them,
filled up a couple of hours longer.
The Lady de Tilly, seated beside Pierre Philibert on the sofa, conversed
with him in a pleasant strain, while the Curé, with a couple of old
dowagers in turbans, and an old veteran officer of the colonial marine,
long stranded on a lee shore, formed a quartette at cards.
These were steady enthusiasts of whist and piquet, such as are only to
be found in small country circles where society is scarce and amusements
few. They had met as partners or antagonists, and played, laughed, and
wrangled over sixpenny stakes and odd tricks and honors, every week for
a quarter of a century, and would willingly have gone on playing till
the day of judgment without a change of partners if they could have
trumped death and won the odd trick of him.
Pierre recollected having seen these same old friends seated at the same
card-table during his earliest visits to the Manor House. He recalled
the fact to the Lady de Tilly, who laughed and said her old friends had
lived so long in the company of the kings and queens that formed the
paste-board Court of the Kingdom of Cocagne that they could relish no
meaner amusement than one which royalty, although mad, had the credit of
introducing.
Amélie devoted herself to the task of cheering her somewhat moody
brother. She sat beside him, resting her hand with sisterly affection
upon his shoulder, while in a low, sweet voice she talked to him,
adroitly touching those topics only which she knew awoke pleasurable
associations in his mind. Her words were sweet as manna and full of
womanly tenderness and sympathy, skilfully wrapped in a strain of gaiety
like a bridal veil which covers the tears of the heart.
Pierre Philibert's eyes involuntarily turned towards her, and his
ears caught much of what she said. He was astonished at the grace and
perfection of her language; it seemed to him like a strain of music
filled with every melody of earth and heaven, surpassing poets in beauty
of diction, philosophers in truth,--and in purity of affection, all the
saints and sweetest women of whom he had ever read.
Her beauty, her vivacity, her modest reticences, and her delicate tact
in addressing the captious spirit of Le Gardeur, filled Pierre
with admiration. He could at that moment have knelt at her feet and
worshipped in her the realization of every image which his imagination
had ever formed of a perfect woman.
Now and then she played on the harp for Le Gardeur the airs which she
knew he liked best. His sombre mood yielded to her fond exertions, and
she had the reward of drawing at last a smile from his eyes as well as
from his lips. The last she knew might be simulated, the former she felt
was real, for the smile of the eye is the flash of the joy kindled in
the glad heart.
Le Gardeur was not dull nor ungrateful; he read clearly enough the
loving purpose of his sister. His brow cleared up under her sunshine.
He smiled, he laughed; and Amélie had the exquisite joy of believing she
had gained a victory over the dark spirit that had taken possession of
his soul, although the hollow laugh struck the ear of Pierre Philibert
with a more uncertain sound than that which fluttered the fond hopes of
Amélie.
Amélie looked towards Pierre, and saw his eyes fixed upon her with
that look which fills every woman with an emotion almost painful in its
excess of pleasure when first she meets it--that unmistakable glance
from the eyes of a man who, she is proud to perceive, has singled her
out from all other women for his love and homage.
Her face became of a deep glow in spite of her efforts to look calm and
cold; she feared Pierre might have misinterpreted her vivacity of
speech and manner. Sudden distrust of herself came over her in his
presence,--the flow of her conversation was embarrassed, and almost
ceased.
To extricate herself from her momentary confusion, which she was very
conscious had not escaped the observation of Pierre,--and the thought of
that confused her still more,--she rose and went to the harpsichord, to
recover her composure by singing a sweet song of her own composition,
written in the soft dialect of Provence, the Languedoc, full of the
sweet sadness of a tender, impassioned love.
Her voice, tremulous in its power, flowed in a thousand harmonies on the
enraptured ears of her listeners. Even the veteran card-players left a
game of whist unfinished, to cluster round the angelic singer.
Pierre Philibert sat like one in a trance. He loved music, and
understood it passing well. He had heard all the rare voices which Paris
prided itself in the possession of, but he thought he had never known
what music was till now. His heart throbbed in sympathy with every
inflection of the voice of Amélie, which went through him like a sweet
spell of enchantment. It was the voice of a disembodied spirit singing
in the language of earth, which changed at last into a benediction and
good-night for the parting guests, who, at an earlier hour than usual,
out of consideration for the fatigue of their hosts, took their leave of
the Manor House and its hospitable inmates.
The family, as families will do upon the departure of their guests, drew
up in a narrower circle round the fire, that blessed circle of freedom
and confidence which belongs only to happy households. The novelty
of the situation kept up the interest of the day, and they sat and
conversed until a late hour.
The Lady de Tilly reclined comfortably in her fauteuil looking with
good-natured complacency upon the little group beside her. Amélie,
sitting on a stool, reclined her head against the bosom of her aunt,
whose arm embraced her closely and lovingly as she listened with
absorbing interest to an animated conversation between her aunt and
Pierre Philibert.
The Lady de Tilly drew Pierre out to talk of his travels, his studies,
and his military career, of which he spoke frankly and modestly. His
high principles won her admiration; the chivalry and loyalty of his
character, mingled with the humanity of the true soldier, touched a
chord in her own heart, stirring within her the sympathies of a nature
akin to his.
The presence of Pierre Philibert, so unforeseen at the old Manor House,
seemed to Amélie the work of Providence for a good and great end--the
reformation of her brother. If she dared to think of herself in
connection with him it was with fear and trembling, as a saint on earth
receives a beatific vision that may only be realized in Heaven.
Amélie, with peculiar tact, sought to entangle Le Gardeur's thoughts in
an elaborate cobweb of occupations rivalling that of Arachne, which she
had woven to catch every leisure hour of his, so as to leave him no time
to brood over the pleasures of the Palace of the Intendant or the charms
of Angélique des Meloises.
There were golden threads too in the network in which she hoped to
entangle him: long rides to the neighboring seigniories, where bright
eyes and laughing lips were ready to expel every shadow of care from the
most dejected of men, much more from a handsome gallant like Le Gardeur
de Repentigny, whose presence at any of these old manors put their fair
inmates at once in holiday trim and in holiday humor; there were shorter
walks through the park and domain of Tilly, where she intended to
botanize and sketch, and even fish and hunt with Le Gardeur and Pierre,
although, sooth to say, Amélie's share in hunting would only be to ride
her sure-footed pony and look at her companions; there were visits to
friends far and near, and visits in return to the Manor House, and
a grand excursion of all to the lake of Tilly in boats,--they would
colonize its little island for a day, set up tents, make a governor and
intendant, perhaps a king and queen, and forget the world till their
return home.
This elaborate scheme secured the approbation of the Lady de Tilly, who
had, in truth, contributed part of it. Le Gardeur said he was a poor
fly whom they were resolved to catch and pin to the wall of a château
en Espagne, but he would enter the web without a buzz of opposition on
condition that Pierre would join him. So it was all settled.
Amélie did not venture again that night to encounter the eyes of Pierre
Philibert,--she needed more courage than she felt just now to do that;
but in secret she blessed him, and treasured those fond looks of his in
her heart, never to be forgotten any more. When she retired to her
own chamber and was alone, she threw herself in passionate abandonment
before the altar in her little oratory, which she had crowned
with flowers to mark her gladness. She poured out her pure soul in
invocations of blessings upon Pierre Philibert and upon her brother and
all the house. The golden head of her rosary lingered long in her loving
fingers that night, as she repeated over and over her accustomed prayers
for his safety and welfare.
The sun rose gloriously next morning over the green woods and still
greener meadows of Tilly. The atmosphere was soft and pure; it had been
washed clean of all its impurities by a few showers in the night. Every
object seemed nearer and clearer to the eye, while the delicious odor of
fresh flowers filled the whole air with fragrance.
The trees, rocks, waters, and green slopes stood out with marvellous
precision of outline, as if cut with a keen knife. No fringe of haze
surrounded them, as in a drought or as in the evening when the air
is filled with the shimmering of the day dust which follows the sun's
chariot in his course round the world.
Every object, great and small, seemed magnified to welcome Pierre
Philibert, who was up betimes this morning and out in the pure air
viewing the old familiar scenes.
With what delight he recognized each favorite spot! There was the
cluster of trees which crowned a promontory overlooking the St. Lawrence
where he and Le Gardeur had stormed the eagle's nest. In that sweep of
forest the deer used to browse and the fawns crouch in the long ferns.
Upon yonder breezy hill they used to sit and count the sails turning
alternately bright and dark as the vessels tacked up the broad river.
There was a stretch of green lawn, still green as it was in his
memory--how everlasting are God's colors! There he had taught Amélie to
ride, and, holding fast, ran by her side, keeping pace with her flying
Indian pony. How beautiful and fresh the picture of her remained in his
memory!--the soft white dress she wore, her black hair streaming over
her shoulders, her dark eyes flashing delight, her merry laugh rivalling
the trill of the blackbird which flew over their heads chattering
for very joy. Before him lay the pretty brook with its rustic bridge
reflecting itself in the clear water as in a mirror. That path along
the bank led down to the willows where the big mossy stones lay in the
stream and the silvery salmon and speckled trout lay fanning the water
gently with their fins as they contemplated their shadows on the smooth,
sandy bottom.
Pierre Philibert sat down on a stone by the side of the brook and
watched the shoals of minnows move about in little battalions, wheeling
like soldiers to the right or left at a wave of the hand. But his
thoughts were running in a circle of questions and enigmas for which he
found neither end nor answer.
For the hundredth time Pierre proposed to himself the tormenting enigma,
harder, he thought, to solve than any problem of mathematics,--for it
was the riddle of his life: “What thoughts are truly in the heart of
Amélie de Repentigny respecting me? Does she recollect me only as
her brother's companion, who may possibly have some claim upon her
friendship, but none upon her love?” His imagination pictured every look
she had given him since his return. Not all! Oh, Pierre Philibert! the
looks you would have given worlds to catch, you were unconscious of!
Every word she had spoken, the soft inflection of every syllable of her
silvery voice lingered in his ear. He had caught meanings where
perhaps no meaning was, and missed the key to others which he knew were
there--never, perhaps, to be revealed to him. But although he questioned
in the name of love, and found many divine echoes in her words,
imperceptible to every ear but his own, he could not wholly solve the
riddle of his life. Still he hoped.
“If love creates love, as some say it does,” thought he, “Amélie de
Repentigny cannot be indifferent to a passion which governs every
impulse of my being! But is there any especial merit in loving her
whom all the world cannot help admiring equally with myself? I am
presumptuous to think so!--and more presumptuous still to expect, after
so many years of separation and forgetfulness, that her heart, so loving
and so sympathetic, has not already bestowed its affection upon some one
more fortunate than me.”
While Pierre tormented himself with these sharp thorns of doubt,--and
of hopes painful as doubts,--little did he think what a brave, loving
spirit was hid under the silken vesture of Amélie de Repentigny, and
how hard was her struggle to conceal from his eyes those tender regards,
which, with over-delicacy, she accounted censurable because they were
wholly spontaneous.
He little thought how entirely his image had filled her heart during
those years when she dreamed of him in the quiet cloister, living in a
world of bright imaginings of her own; how she had prayed for his safety
and welfare as she would have prayed for the soul of one dead,--never
thinking, or even hoping, to see him again.
Pierre had become to her as one of the disembodied saints or angels
whose pictures looked down from the wall of the Convent chapel--the
bright angel of the Annunciation or the youthful Baptist proclaiming the
way of the Lord. Now that Pierre Philibert was alive in the
flesh,--a man, beautiful, brave, honorable, and worthy of any woman's
love,--Amélie was frightened. She had not looked for that, and yet it
had come upon her. And, although trembling, she was glad and proud to
find she had been remembered by the brave youth, who recognized in the
perfect woman the girl he had so ardently loved as a boy.
Did he love her still? Woman's heart is quicker to apprehend all
possibilities than man's. She had caught a look once or twice in the
eyes of Pierre Philibert which thrilled the inmost fibres of her being;
she had detected his ardent admiration. Was she offended? Far from it!
And although her cheek had flushed deeply red, and her pulses throbbed
hard at the sudden consciousness that Pierre Philibert admired, nay,
more,--she could not conceal it from herself,--she knew that night that
he loved her! She would not have foregone that moment of revelation for
all that the world had to offer.
She would gladly at that moment of discovery have fled to her own
apartment and cried for joy, but she dared not; she trembled lest his
eyes, if she looked up, should discover the secret of her own. She had
an overpowering consciousness that she stood upon the brink of her fate;
that ere long that look of his would be followed by words--blessed,
hoped-for words, from the lips of Pierre Philibert! words which would be
the pledge and assurance to her of that love which was hereafter to be
the joy--it might be the despair, but in any case the all in all of her
life forever.
Amélie had not yet realized the truth that love is the strength, not the
weakness of woman; and that the boldness of the man is rank cowardice
in comparison with the bravery she is capable of, and the sacrifices she
will make for the sake of the man who has won her heart.
God locks up in a golden casket of modesty the yearnings of a woman's
heart; but when the hand in which he has placed the key that opens it
calls forth her glorified affections, they come out like the strong
angels, and hold back the winds that blow from the four corners of the
earth that they may not hurt the man whose forehead is sealed with the
kiss of her acknowledged love.