Love is like a bright river when it springs from the fresh fountains
of the heart. It flows on between fair and ever-widening banks until it
reaches the ocean of eternity and happiness.
The days illuminated with the brightest sunshine are those which smile
over the heads of a loving pair who have found each other, and with
tender confessions and mutual avowals plighted their troth and prepared
their little bark for sailing together down the changeful stream of
time.
So it had been through the long Indian summer days with Pierre Philibert
and Amélie de Repentigny. Since the blessed hour they plighted their
troth in the evening twilight upon the shore of the little lake of
Tilly, they had showed to each other, in the heart's confessional, the
treasures of true human affection, holy in the eyes of God and man.
When Amélie gave her love to Pierre, she gave it utterly and without a
scruple of reservation. It was so easy to love Pierre, so impossible not
to love him; nay, she remembered not the time it was otherwise, or when
he had not been first and last in her secret thoughts as he was now in
her chaste confessions, although whispered so low that her approving
angel hardly caught the sound as it passed into the ear of Pierre
Philibert.
A warm, soft wind blew gently down the little valley of the Lairet,
which wound and rippled over its glossy brown pebbles, murmuring a quiet
song down in its hollow bed. Tufts of spiry grass clung to its steep
banks, and a few wild flowers peeped out of nooks among the sere fallen
leaves that lay upon the still greensward on each shore of the little
rivulet.
Pierre and Amélie had been tempted by the beauty of the Indian summer
to dismount and send their horses forward to the city in charge of a
servant while they walked home by way of the fields to gather the last
flowers of autumn, which Amélie said lingered longest in the deep swales
of the Lairet.
A walk in the golden sunshine with Amélie alone amid the quiet fields,
free to speak his love, and she to hear him and be glad, was a pleasure
Pierre had dreamt of but never enjoyed since the blessed night when they
plighted their troth to each other by the lake of Tilly.
The betrothal of Pierre and Amélie had been accepted by their friends on
both sides as a most fitting and desirable match, but the manners of
the age with respect to the unmarried did not admit of that freedom in
society which prevails at the present day.
They had seldom met save in the presence of others, and except for a
few chance but blissful moments, Pierre had not been favored with the
company all to himself of his betrothed.
Amélie was not unmindful of that when she gave a willing consent to-day
to walk with him along the banks of the Lairet, under the shady elms,
birches, and old thorns that overhung the path by the little stream.
“Pierre,” said she smiling, “our horses are gone and I must now walk
home with you, right or wrong. My old mistress in the Convent would
shake her head if she heard of it, but I care not who blames me to-day,
if you do not, Pierre!”
“Who can blame you, darling? What you do is ever wisest and best in my
eyes, except one thing, which I will confess now that you are my own, I
cannot account for--”
“I had hoped, Pierre, there was no exception to your admiration; you
are taking off my angel's wings already, and leaving me a mere woman!”
replied she merrily.
“It is a woman I want you to be, darling, a woman not faultless, but
human as myself, a wife to hold to me and love me despite my faults, not
an angel too bright and too perfect to be my other self.”
“Dear Pierre,” said she, pressing his arm, “I will be that woman to you,
full enough of faults to satisfy you. An angel I am not and cannot be,
nor wish to be until we go together to the spirit-land. I am so glad I
have a fault for which you can blame me, if it makes you love me better.
Indeed I own to many, but what is that one fault, Pierre, which you
cannot account for?”
“That you should have taken a rough soldier like me, Amélie! That one
so fair and perfect in all the graces of womanhood, with the world to
choose from, should have permitted Pierre Philibert to win her loving
heart of hearts.”
Amélie looked at him with a fond expression of reproach. “Does that
surprise you, Pierre? You rough soldier, you little know, and I will not
tell you, the way to a woman's heart; but for one blindfolded by so much
diffidence to his own merits, you have found the way very easily! Was it
for loving you that you blamed me? What if I should recall the fault?”
added she, laughing.
Pierre raised her hand to his lips, kissing devotedly the ring he had
placed upon her finger. “I have no fear of that, Amélie! The wonder
to me is that you could think me worthy of the priceless trust of your
happiness.”
“And the wonder to me,” replied she, “is that your dear heart ever
burdened itself with my happiness. I am weak in myself, and only strong
in my resolution to be all a loving wife should be to you, my Pierre!
You wonder how you gained my love? Shall I tell you? You never gained
it; it was always yours, before you formed a thought to win it! You are
now my betrothed, Pierre Philibert, soon to be my husband; I would not
exchange my fortune to become the proudest queen that ever sat on the
throne of France.”
Amélie was very happy to-day. The half-stolen delight of walking by the
side of Pierre Philibert was enhanced by the hope that the fatal spell
that bound Le Gardeur to the Palace had been broken, and he would yet
return home, a new man.
Le Gardeur had only yesterday, in a moment of recollection of himself
and of his sister, addressed a note to Amélie, asking pardon for his
recent neglect of home, and promising to come and see them on St.
Martin's day.
He had heard of her betrothal to Pierre. It was the gladdest news,
he said, that had ever come to him in his life. He sent a brother's
blessing upon them both, and claimed the privilege of giving away her
hand to the noblest man in New France, Pierre Philibert.
Amélie showed the precious note to Pierre. It only needed that
to complete their happiness for the day. The one cloud that had
overshadowed their joy in their approaching nuptials was passing away,
and Amélie was prouder in the anticipation that Le Gardeur, restored to
himself, sober, and in his right mind, was to be present at her wedding
and give her away, than if the whole Court of France, with thousands of
admiring spectators, were to pay her royal honors.
They sauntered on towards a turn of the stream where a little pool lay
embayed like a smooth mirror reflecting the grassy bank. Amélie sat
down under a tree while Pierre crossed over the brook to gather on the
opposite side some flowers which had caught her eye.
“Tell me which, Amélie!” exclaimed he, “for they are all yours; you
are Flora's heiress, with right to enter into possession of her whole
kingdom!”
“The water-lilies, Pierre, those, and those, and those; they are to
deck the shrine of Notre Dame des Victoires. Aunt has a vow there, and
to-morrow it must be paid; I too.”
He looked up at her with eyes of admiration. “A vow! Let me share in its
payment, Amélie,” said he.
“You may, but you shall not ask me what it is. There now, do not wet
yourself further! You have gathered more lilies than we can carry home.”
“But I have my own thank-offering to make to Notre Dame des Victoires,
for I think I love God even better for your sake, Amélie.”
“Fie, Pierre, say not that! and yet I know what you mean. I ought to
reprove you, but for your penance you shall gather more lilies, for I
fear you need many prayers and offerings to expiate,--” she hesitated to
finish the sentence.
“My idolatry, Amélie,” said he, completing her meaning.
“I doubt it is little better, Pierre, if you love me as you say. But you
shall join in my offering, and that will do for both. Please pull that
one bunch of lilies and no more, or Our Lady of Victory will judge you
harder than I do.”
Pierre stepped from stone to stone over the gentle brook, gathering the
golden lilies, while Amélie clasped her hands and silently thanked God
for this happy hour of her life.
She hardly dared trust herself to look at Pierre except by furtive
glances of pride and affection; but as his form and features were
reflected in a shadow of manly beauty in the still pool, she withdrew
not her loving gaze from his shadow, and leaning forward towards his
image,
“A thousand times she kissed him in the brook,
Across the flowers with bashful eyelids down!”
Amélie had royally given her love to Pierre Philibert. She had given it
without stint or measure, and with a depth and strength of devotion of
which more facile natures know nothing.
Pierre, with his burden of golden lilies, came back over the brook and
seated himself beside her; his arm encircled her, and she held his hand
firmly clasped in both of hers.
“Amélie,” said he, “I believe now in the power of fate to remove
mountains of difficulty and cast them into the sea. How often, while
watching the stars wheel silently over my head as I lay pillowed on a
stone, while my comrades slumbered round the campfires, have I repeated
my prayer for Amélie de Repentigny! I had no right to indulge a hope of
winning your love; I was but a rough soldier, very practical, and not
at all imaginative. 'She would see nothing in me,' I said; and still I
would not have given up my hope for a kingdom.”
“It was not so hard, after all, to win what was already yours, Pierre,
was it?” said she with a smile and a look of unutterable sweetness;
“but it was well you asked, for without asking you would be like one
possessing a treasure of gold in his field without knowing it, although
it was all the while there and all his own. But not a grain of it would
you have found without asking me, Pierre!”
“But having found it I shall never lose it again, darling!” replied he,
pressing her to his bosom.
“Never, Pierre, it is yours forever!” replied she, her voice trembling
with emotion. “Love is, I think, the treasure in heaven which rusts not,
and which no thief can steal.”
“Amélie,” said he after a few minutes' silence, “some say men's lives
are counted not by hours but by the succession of ideas and emotions. If
it be so, I have lived a century of happiness with you this afternoon. I
am old in love, Amélie!”
“Nay, I would not have you old in love, Pierre! Love is the perennial
youth of the soul. Grand'mère St. Pierre, who has been fifty years an
Ursuline, and has now the visions which are promised to the old in the
latter days, tells me that in heaven those who love God and one another
grow ever more youthful; the older the more beautiful! Is not that
better than the philosophers teach, Pierre?”
He drew her closer, and Amélie permitted him to impress a kiss on each
eyelid as she closed it; suddenly she started up.
“Pierre,” said she, “you said you were a soldier and so practical. I
feel shame to myself for being so imaginative and so silly. I too would
be practical if I knew how. This was to be a day of business with us,
was it not, Pierre?”
“And is it not a day of business, Amélie? or are we spending it like
holiday children, wholly on pleasure? But after all, love is the
business of life, and life is the business of eternity,--we are
transacting it to-day, Amélie! I never was so seriously engaged as at
this moment, nor you either, darling; tell the truth!”
Amélie pressed her hands in his. “Never, Pierre, and yet I cannot see
the old brown woods of Belmont rising yonder upon the slopes of St.
Foye without remembering my promise, not two hours old, to talk with you
to-day about the dear old mansion.”
“That is to be the nest of as happy a pair of lovers as ever went
to housekeeping; and I promised to keep soberly by your side as I am
doing,” said he, mischievously twitching a stray lock of her dark hair,
“and talk with you on the pretty banks of the Lairet about the old
mansion.”
“Yes, Pierre, that was your promise, if I would walk this way with you.
Where shall we begin?”
“Here, Amélie,” replied he, kissing her fondly; “now the congress is
opened! I am your slave of the wonderful lamp, ready to set up and pull
down the world at your bidding. The old mansion is your own. It shall
have no rest until it becomes, within and without, a mirror of the
perfect taste and fancy of its lawful mistress.”
“Not yet, Pierre. I will not let you divert me from my purpose by your
flatteries. The dear old home is perfect, but I must have the best suite
of rooms in it for your noble father, and the next best for good Dame
Rochelle. I will fit them up on a plan of my own, and none shall say me
nay; that is all the change I shall make.”
“Is that all? and you tried to frighten the slave of the lamp with the
weight of your commands. A suite of rooms for my father, and one for
good Dame Rochelle! Really, and what do you devote to me, Amélie?”
“Oh, all the rest, with its mistress included, for the reason that what
is good enough for me is good enough for you, Pierre,” said she gaily.
“You little economist! Why, one would say you had studied housekeeping
under Madame Painchaud.”
“And so I have. You do not know what a treasure I am, Pierre,” said she,
laughing merrily. “I graduated under mes tantes in the kitchen of the
Ursulines, and received an accessit as bonne menagère which in secret I
prize more than the crown of honor they gave me.”
“My fortune is made, and I am a rich man for life,” exclaimed Pierre,
clapping his hands; “why, I shall have to marry you like the girls of
Acadia, with a silver thimble on your finger and a pair of scissors
at your girdle, emblems of industrious habits and proofs of a good
housewife!”
“Yes, Pierre, and I will comb your hair to my own liking. Your valet
is a rough groom,” said she, taking off his hat and passing her finger
through his thick, fair locks.
Pierre, although always dressed and trimmed like a gentleman, really
cared little for the petit maître fashions of the day. Never had he felt
a thrill of such exquisite pleasure as when Amélie's hands arranged his
rough hair to her fancy.
“My blessed Amélie!” said he with emotion, pressing her finger to his
lips, “never since my mother combed my boyish locks has a woman's hand
touched my hair until now.”
Leaning her head fondly against the shoulder of Pierre, she bade him
repeat to her again, to her who had not forgotten one word or syllable
of the tale he had told her before, the story of his love.
She listened with moistened eyelids and heaving bosom as he told her
again of his faithfulness in the past, his joys in the present, and his
hopes in the future. She feared to look up lest she should break the
charm, but when he had ended she turned to him passionately and kissed
his lips and his hands, murmuring, “Thanks, my Pierre, I will be a true
and loving wife to you!”
He strained her to his bosom, and held her fast, as if fearful to let
her go.
“Her image at that last embrace,
Ah! little thought he 'twas the last!”
Dim twilight crept into the valley. It was time to return home. Pierre
and Amélie, full of joy in each other, grateful for the happiest day
in their lives, hopeful of to-morrow and many to-morrows after it, and
mercifully blinded to what was really before them, rose from their seat
under the great spreading elm. They slowly retraced the path through the
meadow leading to the bridge, and reëntered the highway which ran to the
city, where Pierre conducted Amélie home.