Amélie, after a night of wakefulness and wrestling with a tumult of
new thoughts and emotions,--no longer dreams, but realities of
life,--dressed herself in a light morning costume, which, simple as
it was, bore the touch of her graceful hand and perfect taste. With a
broad-brimmed straw hat set upon her dark tresses, which were knotted
with careless care in a blue ribbon, she descended the steps of the
Manor House. There was a deep bloom upon her cheeks, and her eyes
looked like fountains of light and gladness, running over to bless all
beholders.
She inquired of Felix Beaudoin of her brother. The old majordomo, with a
significant look, informed her that Monsieur Le Gardeur had just ordered
his horse to ride to the village. He had first called for a decanter of
Cognac, and when it was brought to him he suddenly thrust it back and
would not taste it. “He would not drink even Jove's nectar in the Manor
House, he said; but would go down to the village, where Satan mixed the
drink for thirsty souls like his! Poor Le Gardeur!” continued Felix,
“you must not let him go to the village this morning, mademoiselle!”
Amélie was startled at this information. She hastened at once to seek
her brother, whom she found walking impatiently in the garden, slashing
the heads off the poppies and dahlias within reach of his riding-whip.
He was equipped for a ride, and waited the coming of the groom with his
horse.
Amélie ran up, and clasping his arms with both hands as she looked up
in his face with a smile, exclaimed, “Do not go to the village yet, Le
Gardeur! Wait for us!”
“Not go to the village yet, Amélie?” replied he; “why not? I shall
return for breakfast, although I have no appetite. I thought a ride to
the village would give me one.”
“Wait until after breakfast, brother, when we will all go with you to
meet our friends who come this morning to Tilly,--our cousin Héloise de
Lotbinière is coming to see you and Pierre Philibert; you must be there
to welcome her,--gallants are too scarce to allow her to spare the
handsomest of all, my own brother!”
Amélie divined truly from Le Gardeur's restless eyes and haggard look
that a fierce conflict was going on in his breast between duty and
desire,--whether he should remain at home, or go to the village to
plunge again into the sea of dissipation out of which he had just been
drawn to land half-drowned and utterly desperate.
Amélie resolved not to leave his side, but to cleave to him, and inch by
inch to fight the demons which possessed him until she got the victory.
Le Gardeur looked fondly in the face of Amélie. He read her thoughts,
and was very conscious why she wished him not to go to the village. His
feelings gave way before her love and tenderness. He suddenly embraced
her and kissed her cheeks, while the tears stood welling in his eyes. “I
am not worthy of you, Amélie,” said he; “so much sisterly care is lost
on me!”
“Oh, say not that, brother,” replied she, kissing him fondly in return.
“I would give my life to save you, O my brother!”
Amélie was greatly moved, and for a time unable to speak further; she
laid her head on his shoulder, and sobbed audibly. Her love gained the
victory where remonstrance and opposition would have lost it.
“You have won the day, Amélie!” said he; “I will not go to the village
except with you. You are the best and truest girl in all Christendom!
Why is there no other like you? If there were, this curse had not come
upon me, nor this trial upon you, Amélie! You are my good angel, and I
will try, oh, so faithfully try, to be guided by you! If you fail, you
will at least have done all and more than your duty towards your erring
brother.”
“Le Brun!” cried he to the groom who had brought his horse, and to whom
he threw the whip which had made such havoc among the flowers, “lead
Black Caesar to the stable again! and hark you! when I bid you bring
him out in the early morning another time, lead him to me unbridled and
unsaddled, with only a halter on his head, that I may ride as a clown,
not as a gentleman!”
Le Brun stared at this speech, and finally regarded it as a capital
joke, or else, as he whispered to his fellow-grooms in the stable, he
believed his young master had gone mad.
“Pierre Philibert,” continued Amélie, “is down at the salmon pool. Let
us join him, Le Gardeur, and bid him good morning once more at Tilly.”
Amélie, overjoyed at her victory, tripped gaily by the side of
her brother, and presently two friendly hands, the hands of Pierre
Philibert, were extended to greet her and Le Gardeur.
The hand of Amélie was retained for a moment in that of Pierre
Philibert, sending the blood to her cheeks. There is a magnetic touch in
loving fingers which is never mistaken, though their contact be but for
a second of time: it anticipates the strong grasp of love which will
ere long embrace body and soul in adamantine chains of a union not to be
broken even by death.
If Pierre Philibert retained the hand of Amélie for one second longer
than mere friendship required of him, no one perceived it but God
and themselves. Pierre felt it like a revelation--the hand of Amélie
yielding timidly, but not unwillingly, to his manly grasp. He looked in
her face. Her eyes were averted, and she withdrew her hand quietly but
gently, as not upbraiding him.
That moment of time flashed a new influence upon both their lives: it
was the silent recognition that each was henceforth conscious of the
special regard of the other.
There are moments which contain the whole quintessence of our
lives,--our loves, our hopes, our failures, in one concentrated drop of
happiness or misery. We look behind us and see that our whole past has
led up to that infinitesimal fraction of time which is the consummation
of the past in the present, the end of the old and the beginning of the
new. We look forward from the vantage ground of the present, and the
world of a new revelation lies before us.
Pierre Philibert was conscious from that moment that Amélie de
Repentigny was not indifferent to him,--nay, he had a ground of hope
that in time she would listen to his pleadings, and at last bestow on
him the gift of her priceless love.
His hopes were sure hopes, although he did not dare to give himself the
sweet assurance of it, nor did Amélie herself as yet suspect how far her
heart was irrevocably wedded to Pierre Philibert.
Deep as was the impression of that moment upon both of them, neither
Philibert nor Amélie yielded to its influence more than to lapse into a
momentary silence, which was relieved by Le Gardeur, who, suspecting not
the cause,--nay, thinking it was on his account that his companions
were so unaccountably grave and still, kindly endeavored to force the
conversation upon a number of interesting topics, and directed the
attention of Philibert to various points of the landscape which
suggested reminiscences of his former visits to Tilly.
The equilibrium of conversation was restored, and the three, sitting
down on a long, flat stone, a boulder which had dropped millions of
years before out of an iceberg as it sailed slowly over the glacial
ocean which then covered the place of New France, commenced to talk over
Amélie's programme of the previous night, the amusements she had planned
for the week, the friends in all quarters they were to visit, and the
friends from all quarters they were to receive at the Manor House.
These topics formed a source of fruitful comment, as conversation on our
friends always does. If the sun shone hot and fierce at noontide in the
dog-days, they would enjoy the cool shade of the arbors with books and
conversation; they would ride in the forest, or embark in their canoes
for a row up the bright little river; there would be dinners and
diversions for the day, music and dancing for the night.
The spirits of the inmates of the Manor House could not help but be
kept up by these expedients, and Amélie flattered herself that she would
quite succeed in dissipating the gloomy thoughts which occupied the mind
of Le Gardeur.
They sat on the stone by the brook-side for an hour, conversing
pleasantly while they watched the speckled trout dart like silver arrows
spotted with blood in the clear pool.
Le Gardeur strove to be gay, and teased Amélie in playfully criticizing
her programme, and, half in earnest, half in jest, arguing for the
superior attractions of the Palace of the Intendant to those of the
Manor House of Tilly. He saw the water standing in her eyes, when a
consciousness of what must be her feelings seized him; he drew her to
his side, asked her forgiveness, and wished fire were set to the Palace
and himself in the midst of it! He deserved it for wounding, even in
jest, the heart of the best and noblest sister in the world.
“I am not wounded, dear Le Gardeur,” replied she, softly; “I knew you
were only in jest. My foolish heart is so sensitive to all mention of
the Palace and its occupants in connection with you, that I could not
even take in jest what was so like truth.”
“Forgive me, I will never mention the Palace to you again, Amélie,
except to repeat the malediction I have bestowed upon it a thousand
times an hour since I returned to Tilly.”
“My own brave brother!” exclaimed she, embracing him, “now I am happy!”
The shrill notes of a bugle were heard sounding a military call to
breakfast. It was the special privilege of an old servitor of the
family, who had been a trumpeter in the troop of the Seigneur of Tilly,
to summon the family of the Manor House in that manner to breakfast
only. The old trumpeter had solicited long to be allowed to sound the
reveille at break of day, but the good Lady de Tilly had too much
regard for the repose of the inmates of her house to consent to any such
untimely waking of them from their morning slumbers.
The old, familiar call was recognized by Philibert, who reminded Amélie
of a day when Aeolus (the ancient trumpeter bore that windy sobriquet)
had accompanied them on a long ramble in the forest,--how, the day being
warm, the old man fell asleep under a comfortable shade, while the three
children straggled off into the depths of the woods, where they were
speedily lost.
“I remember it like yesterday, Pierre,” exclaimed Amélie, sparkling at
the reminiscence; “I recollect how I wept and wrung my hands, tired out,
hungry, and forlorn, with my dress in tatters, and one shoe left in a
miry place! I recollect, moreover, that my protectors were in almost as
bad a plight as myself, yet they chivalrously carried the little maiden
by turns, or together made a queen's chair for me with their locked
hands, until we all broke down together and sat crying at the foot of
a tree, reminding one another of the babes in the wood, and recounting
stories of bears which had devoured lost naughty children in the forest.
I remember how we all knelt down at last and recited our prayers until
suddenly we heard the bugle-call of Aeolus sounding close by us. The
poor old man, wild with rapture at having found us, kissed and shook us
so violently that we almost wished ourselves lost in the forest again.”
The recollection of this adventure was very pleasing to Pierre. He
recalled every incident of it perfectly, and all three of them seemed
for a while transported back into the fairy-land of their happy
childhood.
The bugle-call of old Aeolus again sounded, and the three friends rose
and proceeded towards the house.
The little brook--it had never looked so bright before to
Amélie--sparkled with joy like her own eyes. The orioles and blackbirds
warbled in the bushes, and the insects which love warmth and sunshine
chirmed and chirruped among the ferns and branches as Amélie, Pierre,
and Le Gardeur walked home along the green footpath under the avenue of
elms that led to the château.
The Lady de Tilly received them with many pleasant words. Leading
them into the breakfast-room, she congratulated Le Gardeur upon the
satisfaction it afforded her to see her dear children, so she called
them, once more seated round her board in health and happiness. Amélie
colored slightly, and looked at her aunt as if questioning whether she
included Philibert among her children.
The Lady de Tilly guessed her thought, but pretending not to, bade Felix
proceed with the breakfast, and turned the conversation to topics more
general. “The Iroquois,” she said, “had left the Chaudière and gone
further eastward; the news had just been brought in by messengers to
the Seigniory, and it was probable, nay, certain that they would not be
heard of again. Therefore Le Gardeur and Pierre Philibert were under
no necessity of leaving the Manor to search for the savages, but could
arrange with Amélie for as much enjoyment as they could crowd into these
summer days.”
“It is all arranged, aunt!” replied Amélie. “We have held a cour
plenière this morning, and made a code of laws for our Kingdom of
Cocagne during the next eight days. It needs only the consent of our
suzeraine lady to be at once acted upon.”
“And your suzeraine lady gives her consent without further questioning,
Amélie! although I confess you have an admirable way of carrying your
point, Amélie,” said her aunt, laughing; “you resolve first what you
will do, and ask my approbation after.”
“Yes, aunt, that is our way in the kingdom of pleasure! And we begin
this morning: Le Gardeur and Pierre will ride to the village to meet our
cousin Héloise, from Lotbinière.”
“But you will accompany us, Amélie!” exclaimed Le Gardeur. “I will not
go else,--it was a bargain!”
“Oh, I did not count myself for anything but an embarrassment! of course
I shall go with you, Le Gardeur, but our cousin Héloise de Lotbinière is
coming to see you, not me. She lost her heart,” remarked she, turning to
Pierre, “when she was last here, at the feast of St. John, and is coming
to seek it again.”
“Ah! how was that, Amélie?” asked Philibert. “I remember the lovely
face, the chestnut curls, and bright black eyes of Héloise de
Lotbinière. And has hers really gone the way of all hearts?”
“Of all good hearts, Pierre,--but you shall hear if you will be good and
listen. She saw the portraits of you and Le Gardeur, one day, hung in
the boudoir of my aunt. Héloise professed that she admired both until
she could not tell which she liked best, and left me to decide.”
“Ah! and which of us did you give to the fair Héloise?” demanded
Philibert with a sudden interest.
“Not the Abélard she wanted, you may be sure, Pierre,” exclaimed
Le Gardeur; “she gave me, and kept you! It was a case of clear
misappropriation.”
“No, brother, not so!” replied Amélie, hastily. “Héloise had tried the
charm of the three caskets with the three names without result, and at
last watched in the church porch, on the eve of St. John, to see the
shade of her destined lover pass by, and lo, Héloise vowed she saw me,
and no one else, pass into the church!”
“Ah! I suppose it was you? It is no rare thing for you to visit the
shrine of our Lady on the eve of St. John. Pierre Philibert, do you
recollect? Oh, not as I do, dear friend,” continued Le Gardeur with a
sudden change of voice, which was now filled with emotion: “it was
on the day of St. John you saved my poor worthless life. We are not
ungrateful! She has kept the eve of St. John in the church ever since,
in commemoration of that event.”
“Brother, we have much to thank Heaven for!” replied Amélie, blushing
deeply at his words, “and I trust we shall never be ungrateful for its
favor and protection.”
Amélie shied from a compliment like a young colt at its own shadow.
She avoided further reference to the subject broached by Le Gardeur
by saying,--“It was I whom Héloise saw pass into the church. I never
explained the mystery to her, and she is not sure yet whether it was
my wraith or myself who gave her that fright on St. John's eve. But I
claimed her heart as one authorized to take it, and if I could not marry
her myself I claimed the right to give her to whomsoever I pleased, and
I gave her to you, Le Gardeur, but you would not accept the sweetest
girl in New France!”
“Thanks, Amélie,” replied he, laughing, yet wincing. “Héloise is indeed
all you say, the sweetest girl in New France! But she was too angelic
for Le Gardeur de Repentigny. Pshaw! you make me say foolish things,
Amélie. But in penance for my slight, I will be doubly attentive to my
fair cousin de Lotbinière to-day. I will at once order the horses and we
will ride down to the village to meet her.”
Arrayed in a simple riding-dress of dark blue, which became her as did
everything else which she wore,--Amélie's very attire seemed instinct
with the living graces and charms of its wearer,--she mounted her horse,
accepting the aid of Philibert to do so, although when alone she usually
sprang to the saddle herself, saluting the Lady de Tilly, who waved her
hand to them from the lawn. The three friends slowly cantered down the
broad avenue of the park towards the village of Tilly.
Amélie rode well. The exercise and the pure air brought the fresh color
to her face, and her eyes sparkled with animation as she conversed gaily
with her brother and Philibert.
They speedily reached the village, where they met Héloise de Lotbinière,
who, rushing to Amélie, kissed her with effusion, and as she greeted Le
Gardeur looked up as if she would not have refused a warmer salutation
than the kind shake of the hand with which he received her. She welcomed
Philibert with glad surprise, recognizing him at once, and giving
a glance at Amélie which expressed an ocean of unspoken meaning and
sympathy.
Héloise was beautiful, gay, spirited, full of good humor and
sensibility. Her heart had long been devoted to Le Gardeur, but never
meeting with any response to her shy advances, which were like the
wheeling of a dove round and round its wished-for mate, she had long
concluded with a sigh that for her the soul of Le Gardeur was insensible
to any touch of a warmer regard than sprang from the most sincere
friendship.
Amélie saw and understood all this; she loved Héloise, and in her quiet
way had tried to awaken a kinder feeling for her in the heart of her
brother. As one fights fire with fire in the great conflagrations of
the prairies, Amélie hoped also to combat the influence of Angélique des
Meloises by raising up a potent rival in the fair Héloise de Lotbinière
but she soon found how futile were her endeavors. The heart of Le
Gardeur was wedded to the idol of his fancy, and no woman on earth could
win him away from Angélique.
Amélie comforted Héloise by the gift of her whole confidence and
sympathy. The poor disappointed girl accepted the decree of fate, known
to no other but Amélie, while in revenge upon herself--a thing not rare
in proud, sensitive natures--she appeared in society more gay, more
radiant and full of mirth than ever before. Héloise hid the asp in her
bosom, but so long as its bite was unseen she laughed cruelly at the
pain of it, and deceived, as she thought, the eyes of the world as to
her suffering.
The arrival of Héloise de Lotbinière was followed by that of a crowd of
other visitors, who came to the Manor House to pay their respects to
the family on their return home, and especially to greet Le Gardeur and
Colonel Philibert, who was well remembered, and whom the busy tongues
of gossip already set down as a suitor for the hand of the young
chatelaine.
The report of what was said by so many whispering friends was quickly
carried to the ear of Amélie by some of her light-hearted companions.
She blushed at the accusation, and gently denied all knowledge of it,
laughing as a woman will laugh who carries a hidden joy or a hidden
sorrow in her heart, neither of which she cares to reveal to the world's
eye. Amélie listened to the pleasant tale with secret complaisance, for,
despite her tremor and confusion, it was pleasant to hear that Pierre
Philibert loved her, and was considered a suitor for her hand. It was
sweet to know that the world believed she was his choice.
She threaded every one of these precious words, like a chaplet of pearls
upon the strings of her heart,--contemplating them, counting them over
and over in secret, with a joy known only to herself and to God, whom
she prayed to guide her right whatever might happen.
That something would happen ere long she felt a premonition, which at
times made her grave in the midst of her hopes and anticipations.
The days passed gaily at Tilly. Amélie carried out the elaborate
programme which she had arranged for the amusement of Le Gardeur as well
as for the pleasures of her guests.
Every day brought a change and a fresh enjoyment. The mornings were
devoted by the gentlemen to hunting, fishing, and other sport; by the
ladies to reading, music, drawing, needlework, or the arrangements of
dress and ornaments. In the afternoons all met together, and the social
evening was spent either at the Manor House or some neighboring mansion.
The hospitality of all was alike: a profusion of social feeling formed,
at that day, a marked characteristic of the people of New France.
The Lady de Tilly spent an hour or two each day with her trusty land
steward, or bailli, Master Coté, in attending to the multifarious
business of her Seigniory. The feudal law of New France imposed great
duties and much labor upon the lords of the manor, by giving them an
interest in every man's estate, and making them participators in every
transfer of land throughout a wide district of country. A person who
acquired, by purchase or otherwise, the lands of a censitaire, or
vassal, was held to perform foi et hommage for the lands so acquired,
and to acquit all other feudal dues owing by the original holder to his
seigneur.
It was during one of these fair summer days at Tilly that Sieur
Tranchelot, having acquired the farm of the Bocage, a strip of land
a furlong wide and a league in depth, with a pleasant frontage on the
broad St. Lawrence, the new censitaire came as in duty bound to render
foi et hommage for the same to the lady of the Manor of Tilly, according
to the law and custom of the Seigniory.
At the hour of noon, Lady de Tilly, with Le Gardeur, Amélie, and Pierre
Philibert, in full dress, stood on a dais in the great hall; Master Coté
sat at a table on the floor in front, with his great clasped book of
record open before him. A drawn sword lay upon the table, and a cup of
wine stood by the side of it.
When all was arranged, three loud knocks were heard on the great door,
and the Sieur Tranchelot, dressed in his holiday costume, but bareheaded
and without sword or spurs,--not being gentilhomme he was not entitled
to wear them,--entered the door, which was ceremoniously opened for him
by the majordomo. He was gravely led up to the dais, where stood the
lady of the Manor, by the steward bearing his wand of office.
The worthy censitaire knelt down before the lady, and repeating her name
three times, pronounced the formula of foi et hommage prescribed by the
law, as owing to the lords of the Manor of Tilly.
“My Lady de Tilly! My Lady de Tilly! My Lady de Tilly! I render you
fealty and homage due to you on account of my lands of the Bocage, which
belong to me by virtue of the deed executed by the Sieur Marcel before
the worthy notary Jean Pothier dit Robin, on the day of Palms, 1748,
and I avow my willingness to acquit the seigniorial and feudal cens et
rentes, and all other lawful dues, whensoever payable by me; beseeching
you to be my good liege lady, and to admit me to the said fealty and
homage.”
The lady accepted the homage of Sieur Tranchelot, graciously remitted
the lods et ventes,--the fines payable to the seigneur,--gave him the
cup of wine to drink when he rose to his feet, and ordered him to be
generously entertained by her majordomo, and sent back to the Bocage
rejoicing.
So the days passed by in alternation of business and pastime, but all
made a pleasure for the agreeable inmates of the Manor House. Philibert
gave himself up to the delirium of enchantment which the presence of
Amélie threw over him. He never tired of watching the fresh developments
of her gloriously-endowed nature. Her beauty, rare as it was, grew
day by day upon his wonder and admiration, as he saw how fully it
corresponded to the innate grace and nobility of her mind.
She was so fresh of thought, so free from all affectation, so gentle and
winning in all her ways, and, sooth to say, so happy in the admiration
of Philibert, which she was very conscious of now. It darted from his
eyes at every look, although no word of it had yet passed his lips. The
radiance of her spirits flashed like sunbeams through every part of the
old Manor House.
Amélie was carried away in a flood of new emotion; she tried once or
twice to be discreetly angry with herself for admitting so unreservedly
the pleasure she felt in Pierre's admiration; she placed her soul on a
rack of self-questioning torture, and every inquisition she made of her
heart returned the self-same answer: she loved Pierre Philibert!
It was in vain she accused herself of possible impropriety: that it was
bold, unmaidenly, censurable, nay, perhaps sinful, to give her heart
before it had been asked for; but if she had to die for it, she could
not conceal the truth, that she loved Pierre Philibert! “I ought to be
angry with myself,” said she. “I try to be so, but I cannot! Why?”
“Why?” Amélie solved the query as every true woman does, who asks
herself why she loves one man rather than another. “Because he has
chosen me out in preference to all others, to be the treasure-keeper of
his affections! I am proud,” continued Amélie, “that he gives his love
to me, to me! unworthy as I am of such preference. I am no better than
others.” Amélie was a true woman: proud as an empress before other men,
she was humble and lowly as the Madonna in the presence of him whom she
felt was, by right of love, lord and master of her affections.
Amélie could not overcome a feeling of tremor in the presence of Pierre
since she made this discovery. Her cheek warmed with an incipient flush
when his ardent eyes glanced at her too eloquently. She knew what was
in his heart, and once or twice, when casually alone with Philibert, she
saw his lips quivering under a hard restraint to keep in the words, the
dear words, she thought, which would one day burst forth in a flood
of passionate eloquence, overwhelming all denial, and make her his own
forever.
Time and tide, which come to all once in our lives, as the poet says,
and which must be taken at their flood to lead to fortune, came at
length to Amélie de Repentigny.
It came suddenly and in an unlooked-for hour, the great question of
questions to her as to every woman.
The hour of birth and the hour of death are in God's hand, but the hour
when a woman, yielding to the strong enfolding arm of a man who loves
her, falters forth an avowal of her love, and plights her troth, and
vows to be one with him till death, God leaves that question to be
decided by her own heart. His blessing rests upon her choice, if pure
love guides and reason enlightens affection. His curse infallibly
follows every faithless pledge where no heart is, every union that is
not the marriage of love and truth. These alone can be married, and
where these are absent there is no marriage at all in the face of
Heaven, and but the simulation of one on earth, an unequal yoking,
which, if man will not sunder, God will at last, where there is neither
marriage nor giving in marriage, but all are as his angels.
The day appointed for the long-planned excursion to the beautiful Lake
of Tilly came round. A numerous and cheerful water-party left the Manor
House in the bright, cool morning to spend the day gipsying in the
shady woods and quiet recesses of the little lake. They were all there:
Amélie's invitation to her young friends far and near had been eagerly
accepted. Half a dozen boats and canoes, filled with light-hearted
companions and with ample provisions for the day, shot up the narrow
river, and after a rapid and merry voyage, disembarked their passengers
and were drawn up on the shores and islands of the lake.
That bright morning was followed by a sunny day of blue skies, warm yet
breezy. The old oaks wove a carpet of shadows, changing the pattern
of its tissue every hour upon the leaf-strewn floor of the forest.
The fresh pines shed their resinous perfume on every side in the still
shade, but out in the sunshine the birds sang merrily all day.
The groups of merrymakers spent a glorious day of pleasure by the side
of the clear, smooth lake, fishing and junketing on shore, or paddling
their birch canoes over its waters among the little islands which dotted
its surface.
Day was fast fading away into a soft twilight; the shadows which had
been drawing out longer and longer as the sun declined, lay now in all
their length, like bands stretched over the greensward. The breeze went
down with the sun, and the smooth surface of the lake lay like a sheet
of molten gold reflecting the parting glories of the day that still lit
up the western sky.
A few stars began to twinkle here and there--they were not destined to
shine brilliantly to-night, for they would ere long be eclipsed by
the splendor of the full moon, which was just at hand, rising in a
hemisphere of light, which stood like a royal pavilion on the eastern
horizon. From it in a few minutes would emerge the queen of heaven, and
mildly replace the vanishing glory of the day.
The company, after a repast under the trees, rose full of life and
merriment and rearranged themselves into little groups and couples as
chance or inclination led them. They trooped down to the beach to embark
in their canoes for a last joyous cruise round the lake and its fairy
islands, by moonlight, before returning home.
Amid a shower of lively conversation and laughter, the ladies seated
themselves in the light canoes, which danced like corks upon the water.
The gentlemen took the paddles, and, expert as Indians in the use of
them, swept out over the surface of the lake, which was now all aglow
with the bright crimson of sunset.
In the bow of one of the canoes sat the Arion of Tilly, Jean de La
Marche; a flute or two accompanied his violin, and a guitar tinkled
sweetly under the fingers of Héloise de Lotbinière. They played an old
air, while Jean led the chorus in splendid voice:
“'Nous irons sur l'eau,
Nous y prom-promener,
Nous irons jouer dans l'isle.'”
The voices of all united in the song as the canoes swept away around a
little promontory, crowned with three pine-trees, which stood up in the
blaze of the setting sun like the three children in the fiery furnace,
or the sacred bush that burned and was not consumed.
Faint and fainter, the echoes repeated the receding harmony, until at
last they died away. A solemn silence succeeded. A languor like that of
the lotus-eaters crept over the face of nature and softened the heart to
unwonted tenderness. It was the hour of gentle thoughts, of low spoken
confidences, and love between young and sympathizing souls, who alone
with themselves and God confess their mutual love and invoke his
blessing upon it.