Cameron of Lochiel
- -
- 100%
- +
To this Madame D'Haberville added the following impromptu stanza:
"If our endeavor to make your cheerBe not in vain (repeat),Consider you're the masters here,And come again (repeat),And it shall be your care that weMake Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"Then Jules added a verse:
"Without a spice of rivalryDan Cupid nods (repeat),challenge him to cups, and he'Ll accept the odds (repeat).Bacchus and he, as well as we,Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"At the end of each stanza every one pounded on the table with their hands or rapped on the plates with their forks and spoons, till the din became something indescribable.
Blanche, being asked to sing her favorite song of Blaise and Babette, endeavored to excuse herself and substitute another; but the young ladies insisted, crying: "Let us have Blaise and Babette by all means; the minor is so touching."
"Yes," said Jules, "that is a minor, with its 'My love it is my life'; a minor to touch the tenderest chord in the feminine heart. Quick, let us have the sweet minor, to touch the hearts of these charming young ladies!"
"We'll make you pay for that in blindman's buff," said one of them.
"And in the game of forfeits," said another.
"Look out for yourself, my boy," said Jules, addressing himself, "for in the hands of these young ladies you stand no better chance than a cat without claws would in – hades! No matter. Sing away, my dear sister. Your voice, perhaps, like that of Orpheus, will assuage the fury of your enemies."
"The wretch!" chorused the young ladies, "to compare us – But, never mind, we'll settle with you later. Meanwhile, sing us the song, Blanche, dear."
The latter still hesitated. Then, fearing to attract attention by her refusal, she sang the following song with tears in her voice. It was the cry of a pure love finding utterance, in spite of all her efforts to bury it in her heart:
"For thee, dear heart, these flowers I twine.My Blaise, accept of thy BabetteThe warm rose and the orange-flower,And jessamine and violet.Be not thy passion like the bloom,That shines a day and disappears.My love is an undying light,And will not change for time or tears."Dear, be not like the butterflyThat knows each blossom in the glades,And cheapen not thy sighs and vowsAmong the laughing village maids.Such loves are but the transient bloomThat shines a day and disappears.My love is an undying light,And will not change for time or tears."If I should find my beauty fade,If I must watch these charms depart,Dear, see thou but my tenderness —Oh, look thou only on my heart!Oh, look thou only on my heart!Remember how the transient bloomShines for a day and disappears.My love is an undying light,And will not change for time or tears."Every one was moved by her touching pathos, of which they could not guess the true cause. They attributed it, lamely enough, to her emotion on seeing Jules thus brought back to the bosom of his family. To divert their attention, Jules hastened to say:
"But it's myself that has brought the pretty song with me from France."
"Let us have your pretty song," arose the cry on all sides.
"No," said Jules, "I am keeping it for Mademoiselle Vincelot, to whom I wish to teach it."
Now the young lady in question had for some years been declaring herself very hostile to the idea of marriage; indeed, she had avowed a pronounced preference for celibacy. But Jules knew that a certain widower, not waiting quite so long as decorum required, had overcome the strange repugnance of this tigress of chastity, and had even prevailed upon her to name the day. This declared opponent of marriage was in no hurry to thank Jules, whose malicious waggery she knew too well; but every one cried persistently: "The song! Give us the song, and you can teach it to Elise at your leisure."
"As you will," said Jules. "It is very short, but is not wanting in spice:
"A maiden is a birdThat seems to love the cage,Enamored of the nestThat nursed her tender age;But leave the window wideAnd, presto! she's outsideAnd off on eager wingTo mate and sing."They chaffed Elise a good deal, who, like all prudes, took their pleasantries with rather a bad grace, seeing which, Madame D'Haberville gave the signal, and the company arose and went into the drawing-room. Elise, as she was passing Jules, gave him a pinch that nearly brought the blood.
"Come, my fair one, whose claws are so sharp," exclaimed Jules, "is this such a caress as you destined for your future spouse, this which you are now bestowing on one of your best friends? Happy spouse! May Heaven keep much joy for him at the last!"
After the coffee and the customary pousse-café the company went out into the court-yard to dance country dances and to play fox and geese and my lady's toilet. Nothing could be more picturesque than this latter game, played in the open air in a yard studded with trees. The players took their places each under a tree. One only remained in the open. Each furnished his or her contribution to my lady's toilet – one being her dress, another her necklace, another her ring, and so forth. It was the office of one of the players to direct the game. As soon as he called for one of these articles the one representing this article was obliged at once to leave his post, which was promptly taken possession of by another. Then, as the different articles of my lady's toilet were called for rapidly, a lively interchange of positions was set up between the players, the one left out in the first place striving to capture any post that might be left for an instant vacant. This merry game was continued until my lady considered her toilet complete. Then, on the cry, "My lady wants all her toilet," all the players change places with alacrity, and the one who was left out had to pay a forfeit. It is not to be supposed that this game was conducted without a vast deal of laughter and clamor and ludicrous mishaps.
When the ladies were tired the party went into the house to amuse themselves less vigorously with such games as "does the company please you," or "hide the ring," "shepherdess," or "hide and seek," or "hot cockles," etc. They ended up with a game proposed by Jules, which was ordinarily productive of much laughter.
The early Canadians, though redoubtable warriors on the battle-field, were thorough children in their social gatherings. Being nearly all kinsfolk or friends of long standing, many of their games which in these days might be regarded in the best circles as overfamiliar were robbed of the objectionable element. The stranger would have said that they were a lot of brothers and sisters letting their spirits have free play within the privacy of the family.
It was not without deliberate purpose that Jules, who still felt the pinch Elise had given him, proposed a game by which he hoped to get his revenge. This is the game: A lady seated in an arm-chair begins by choosing some one as her daughter. Her eyes are then blindfolded, and, by merely feeling the faces of the players, who kneel before her one by one, with their heads enveloped in a shawl or scarf, she is required to pick out her daughter. Every time she makes a mistake she has to pay a forfeit. It is often a man or an old woman who kneels before her thus disguised, whence arises many a laughable mistake.
When it came the turn of Elise to take the arm-chair, she did not fail to select Jules for her daughter, with the purpose of tormenting him a little during the inspection. As each person knelt at the feet of the blindfolded lady, all the others sang in chorus:
"Oh, lady, say, is this your daughter?Oh, lady, say, is this your daughter?In buckles of gold and rings galore,The watermen bold are at the oar."The blindfolded lady responds in the same fashion:
"Oh, yes, it is, it is my daughter, etc."Or else:
"Oh, no, it is not, it is not my daughter;Oh, no, it is not, it is not my daughter.In buckles of gold and rings galore,The watermen bold are at the oar."After having inspected several heads, Elise, hearing under the shawl the stifled laughter of Jules, imagined she had grasped her prey. She feels his head. It is not unlike that of Jules. The face, indeed, seems a trifle long, but this rascally Jules has so many tricks for disguising himself! Did he not mystify the company for a whole evening, having been introduced as an old aunt just arrived that very day from France? Under this disguise, did he not have the audacity to kiss all the pretty women in the room, including Elise herself? The wretch! Yes, Jules is capable of anything! Under this impression she pinches an ear. There is a cry of pain and a low growl, followed by a loud barking. She snatches the bandage from her eyes, to find herself confronted with two rows of threatening teeth. It was Niger. Just as at the house of Farmer Dinmont, of whom Scott tell us, all the dogs were named Pepper, so at the D'Haberville mansion all the dogs were called Niger or Nigra, in memory of their ancestor, whom the little Jules had named to show his progress in Latin.
Elise at once snatched off her high-heeled shoe, and made an attack on Jules. The latter held poor Niger as a shield, and ran from room to room, the girl following him hotly amid roars of laughter.
Oh, happy time when lightness of heart made wit unnecessary! Oh, happy time when the warmth of welcome made superfluous the luxury which these ruined Canadians were learning to do without! The houses, like the hearts of their owners, seemed able to enlarge themselves to meet every possible demand of hospitality. Sleeping-places were improvised upon the slightest occasion; and when once the ladies were comfortably provided for the sterner sex found no difficulty in shifting for themselves. These men, who had passed half their life in camp during the harshest seasons; who had journeyed four or five leagues on snow-shoes, resting by night in holes which they dug in the snow (as they did when they went to attack the English in Acadia), these men of iron could do without swan's-down coverlets to their couches.
The merry-making paused only for sleep, and was renewed in all its vigor in the morning. As every one then wore powder, the more skillful would undertake the rôle of hairdresser, or even of barber. The subject, arrayed in an ample dressing-gown, seated himself gravely in a chair. The impromptu hairdresser rarely failed to heighten the effect of his achievement, either by tracing with the powder puff an immense pair of whiskers on those who lacked such adornment, or, in the case of those who were already provided, by making one side a great deal longer than the other. The victim frequently was made aware of his plight only by the peals of laughter which greeted him on entering the drawing-room.
The party broke up at the end of three days, in spite of the efforts of M. and Madame D'Haberville to keep them longer. Archie alone, who had promised to spend a month with his old friends, kept his word and remained.
CHAPTER XVII.
CONCLUSION
Ainsi passe sur la terre tout ce qui fut bon, vertueux, sensible! Homme, tu n'es qu'un songe rapide, un rêve douloureux; tu n'existes que par le malheur; tu n'es quelque chose que par la tristesse de ton âme et l'eternelle mélancolie de ta pensée! —Chateaubriand.
After the departure of the guests the family fell back into the sweet intimacy of former days. Jules, whom his native air had restored to health, passed the greater part of the day in hunting with Archie. The abundance of game at that season made the pastime very agreeable. They took supper at seven, they went to bed at ten, and the evenings seemed all too short even without the help of cards. Jules, who was ignorant of what had passed between his sister and Archie, could not but be struck with his friend's unusual sadness, of which, however, he failed to guess the cause. To all questions on the subject he received an evasive answer. Finally, imagining that he had found the root of the difficulty, one evening when they were alone together he put the question directly.
"I have noticed, my brother," said he, "the sadness which you endeavor to conceal from us. You are unjust to us, Archie, you do yourself an injustice. You should not brood over the past. In saving the lives which would otherwise have been lost in the shipwreck of the Auguste, you have done my family a service which more than compensates for what took place before. It is we now who owe you a debt of gratitude which can never be repaid. It was very natural that, prejudiced by report and for the moment forgetful of your noble heart, even such friends as we, imbittered by our losses, should lend an ear to calumnies against you; but you know that a simple explanation was enough to re-cement our old friendship. If my father bore his grudge for a long time, you know his nature and must make allowance for it. He feels now all his old affection for you. Our losses have been in great part repaired, and we live more tranquilly under the British Government than we did under the rule of France. Our habitants have followed the example of Cincinnatus, as Uncle Raoul would say, and exchanged the musket for the plow-share. They are opening up new land, and in a few years this seigneurie will be in a most prosperous condition. With the help of the little legacy which I lately received, we shall soon be as rich as we were before the conquest. Therefore, my dear Archie, drive away this gloom which is making us all miserable and resume thy former lightheartedness."
Lochiel was silent for some time, and only answered after a painful effort.
"Impossible, my brother. The wound is more recent than you imagine and will bleed all my life, for all my hopes are destroyed. But let us leave the subject; for I have already been wounded in my tenderest and purest emotions, and an unsympathetic word from you would finish me."
"An unsympathetic word from my lips, do you say, Archie? What can you mean by that? The friend whom I have sometimes vexed with my raillery knows very well what my heart is toward him, and that I was always ready to crave his pardon. You shake your head sadly! Great heaven, what is the matter? What is there that you can not confide to your brother, the friend of your boyhood? Never have I had anything to conceal from you. My thoughts were as open to you as your own, and I had imagined that you were as frank with me. A curse upon whatever has been able to come between us!"
"Stop, Jules, stop," cried Archie. "However painful my confidences may be to you, I must tell you all rather than let you harbor such a cruel suspicion. I am going to open my heart to you, but on the express condition that you shall hear me uninterruptedly to the end, as an impartial judge. Not till to-morrow will we return to this sore subject. Meanwhile, promise to keep the secret that I am going to confide to you."
"I give you my word," said Jules, grasping his hand.
Thereupon Lochiel recounted minutely the conversation that he had had with Blanche. As soon as he came to an end he lit a candle and withdrew to his own room.
As for Jules, he stormed within himself all night. Having studied women only in the salons of St. Germain, his vigorous common sense could ill appreciate the sublimity that there was in the sacrifice which his sister was imposing upon herself. Such sentiments appeared to him mere romantic and exaggerated nonsense, or the product of an imagination rendered morbid by calamity. With his heart set upon an alliance which would gratify his dearest wishes, he resolved that, with the consent of Archie, he would have a very serious conversation with Blanche, from which he felt confident he would come off victorious. "She loves him," thought he, "and therefore my cause is already gained."
Man, with all his apparent superiority, with all his self-confident vanity, has never yet sounded the depths of the feminine heart, that inexhaustible treasure-house of love, devotion, and self-sacrifice. The poets have sung in every key this being who came all beauty from the hands of her Creator; but what is all this physical beauty compared to the spiritual beauty of a noble and high-souled woman? Indeed, who is more miserable than man in the face of adversity, when, poor pygmy, he leans on the fortitude of a woman, who bears the burden uncomplainingly. It is not surprising then that Jules, knowing woman only on the surface, expected an easy triumph over his sister's scruples.
"Come, Blanche," said Jules to his sister, the next day, after dinner, "there's our Scottish Nimrod setting out with his gun to get some birds for our supper. Let's you and I see if we can scale the bluff as nimbly as we used to."
"With all my heart," answered Blanche. "You shall see that my Canadian legs have lost none of their agility."
The brother and sister, assisting themselves by the projecting rocks, and by the shrubs which clung in the crevices of the cliff, speedily scaled the difficult path that led to the summit. After gazing in silence for a time at the magnificent panorama unrolled before them, Jules said to his sister:
"I had an object in bringing you here. I wanted to talk to you on a subject of the greatest importance. You love our friend Archie; you have loved him for a long time; yet for reasons that I can not comprehend, for over-exalted sentiments which warp your judgment, you are imposing upon yourself an unnatural sacrifice and preparing for yourself a future of wretchedness. As for me, if I loved an English girl, and she returned my affection, I would marry her just as readily as if she were one of my own countrywomen."
Blanche's eyes filled with tears. Taking her brother's hand affectionately, she answered:
"If you were to marry an English girl, my dear Jules, I should take her to my heart as a sister; but that which you could do without incurring any reproach, would be cowardice on my part. Nobly have you paid your debt to your country. Your voice has nerved your soldiers through the most terrible conflicts. Twice has your bleeding body been dragged from our battle-fields, and three times have you been wounded in Old World struggles. Yes, my beloved brother, you have fulfilled all your duty to your country, and you can afford to indulge, if you wish, the whim of taking a daughter of England to wife. But I, a weak woman, what have I done for this enslaved and now silent land, this land which has rung so often of old with the triumphant voices of my countrymen? Shall a daughter of the D'Habervilles be the first to set the example of a double yoke to the daughters of Canada? It is natural and even desirable that the French and English in Canada, having now one country and the same laws, should forget their ancient hostility and enter into the most intimate relationships; but I am not the one to set the example. They would say, as I told Archie, that the proud Briton, after having vanquished and ruined the father, had purchased with his gold the poor Canadian girl! Never, never shall it be said!" And the girl wept bitterly on her brother's shoulder.
"No one will know of it," she continued, "and you yourself will never realize the full extent of the sacrifice I am making, but fear not, Jules, I have the strength for it. Proud of the sentiments by which I have been inspired, I shall pass my days serenely in the bosom of my family. Of this be sure," she continued in a voice that thrilled with exaltation, "that she who has loved the noble Cameron of Lochiel will never soil her bosom with another earthly love. You made a mistake in selecting this spot, Jules, wherein to talk to me on such a subject – this spot whence I have so often gazed proudly on the mansion of my fathers, which is now replaced by yonder poor dwelling. Let us go down now, and if you love me never mention this painful subject again."
"Noble soul!" cried Jules, and he held her sobbing in his arms.
Archie, having lost all hope of wedding Blanche D'Haberville, set himself to repaying the debt of gratitude which he owed Dumais. The refusal of Blanche changed his first intentions and left him more latitude; for he now resolved upon a life of celibacy. Archie, whom misfortune had brought to an early maturity, had studied men and things with great coolness of judgment; and he had come to the wise conclusion that marriage is rarely a success unless based on mutual love. Unlike most young men, Lochiel was genuinely modest. Though endowed with remarkable beauty, and with all those qualities which go to captivate women, he nevertheless remained always simple and unassuming in his manner. He further believed, with Molière's Toinette, that the pretense of love often bears a very close resemblance to the reality. "When I was poor and in exile," thought he, "I was loved for my own sake; now that I am rich, who knows that another woman would love in me anything but my wealth and my rank, even supposing that I should succeed in banishing from my heart my first and only love." Archie decided then that he would never marry.
The sun was disappearing behind the Laurentian hills, when Lochiel arrived at the farm of Dumais. The order and prosperity which reigned there gave him an agreeable surprise. The good wife, busy in her dairy, where a fat servant girl was helping her, came forward to meet him without recognizing him, and invited him to enter the house.
"This is the house of Sergeant Dumais, I believe," said Archie.
"Yes, sir, and I am his wife. My husband should be back presently from the fields with a load of grain. I will send one of the children to hurry him up."
"There is no hurry, madam. I have called to give you news of a certain Mr. Archie de Lochiel, whom you once knew. Perhaps you have forgotten him."
Madame Dumais came nearer. After studying his face intently for some moments, she said:
"There is certainly a resemblance. Doubtless you are one of his kinsfolk. Forget Mr. Archie! He could never think us capable of such ingratitude. Do you not know, then, that he faced almost certain death to save my husband's life, and that we pray to God every day that he will bless our benefactor? Forget Mr. Archie! You grieve me, sir."
Lochiel was much moved. Lifting into his lap the little seven-year-old Louise, Dumais's youngest child, he said to her:
"And you, my little one, do you know Mr. Archie?"
"I have never seen him," said the child, "but we pray for him every day."
"What do you pray?" asked Archie.
"O God, bless Mr. Archie, who saved papa's life, as long as he lives; and, when he dies, take him to your holy paradise."
Lochiel continued to chat with Madame Dumais till the latter heard her husband's voice at the barn. She ran to tell him that there was a stranger in the house with news from Mr. Archie. Dumais was preparing to pitch off his load, but he threw down the fork and rushed into the house. It was by this time too dark for him to make out the stranger's face.
"You are indeed welcome," said he, "coming with news from one so dear to us."
"You are – Sergeant Dumais?" inquired Archie.
"You are Mr. Archie!" cried Dumais, clasping him in his arms. "Do you think I could forget the voice that cried to me 'Courage!' when I was hanging on the brink of the abyss – the voice I heard so often in my sickness?"
Toward the end of the evening Archie said:
"My dear Dumais, I am come to ask a great favor."
"A favor!" exclaimed Dumais. "Could I, a poor farmer, be so fortunate as to do you a favor? It would be the happiest day of my life."
"Well, Dumais, it depends upon you to restore me to health. Though I may not look it, I am sick, more sick than you could imagine."
"Indeed," said Dumais, "you are pale, and sadder than of old. Good heaven! What is the matter?"
"Have you ever heard of a malady to which the English are very subject, and which they call the spleen, or blue devils?"
"No," said Dumais. "I have known several of your English who, if I may say it without offense, seemed to have the devil in them; but I had imagined that these devils were of a darker hue."
Archie began to laugh.
"What we, my dear Dumais, call the blue devils is known among you Canadians as 'peine d'esprit.'"