Newspaper Page Text
1852.]
THE DYING MOTHER’S CON
FESSION.
[Continued from our last..]
The new acquaintance thus cavalierly
saluted however, showed himself not only
fully satisfied with the terms of his wel
come, but resolved to improve into
friendliness his acquaintanceship with the
good matron of St. Medard, by every
possible art and concession. lie laid
aside his self-conceit—he laid aside his
dandyism. Rising superior to the supe
riority he had felt or affected over Gros
Pierre and Jean-Marie, he accepted, with
out any overstrained expressions of gra
titude, the homely fare set before him;
and having at length persuaded the hos
pitable widow to take her place at the
board, and share the matchless bottle of
old Medoc brought forward by Manon at
her kinswoman’s suggestion from the
most recondite hoard of her cellar, which
on being uncorked, sent forth a musky
fragrance as of some choice flower-gar
den, he eventually succeeded in dispell
ing from her goodly face every shadow 7
of mistrust, and even in qualifying the
gloom of its shades of sorrow.
As evening closed in, Manon saw fit to
light the Veillte lamp in honor of their
unexpected visiter; while Captain R ,
with growing familiarity,drew the w idow’s
wickerchair tow aids the hearth. The doors
were barred against intrusion; the farm
lad despatched to the beach, had already
brought back news that the boatmen,
profiting by their employer’s permission,
had found shelter for themselves for the
night at the mill of II net; and the trio at
the fireside of St. Medard were conse
quently free to enjoy the warmth and
comfort of the salle. without any draw
back from the dreariness of the night
and the howling winds against the case
ment.
And they did enjoy it; and already be
gan to interchange familiar words and
phrases, as if unconsciously adopting each
ottier as friends. The stranger was no
longer a stranger. Whatever motive,
! whether a love of the picturesque, or a
tender reminiscence of the prettiness and
liveliness of the waiting maid of the
Governor’s daughter, had brought him to
the Farm, he now sojourned there as one
w ho was not the less welcome for coming
unbidden.
‘Your friend, Monsieur de St. Sauveur,
appears to have been a martyr to political
revolutions?’ —he observed, alter having
listened with great patience to Madame
Le Tellier’s diffuse and repeated la
mentatious over the loss of her Norman
patron.
‘And yet I do not call to mind his
name as connected with any particular
party, or any great public catastrophe ?’
‘How should you ?’ —replied the old
lady briskly. ‘St. Sauveur was the name
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
borne by the family during their volun
tary exile. It does not follow that my
friends w'ere not recognized under a more
illustrious designation in their native
country.’
‘Aha?’ cried Manon, instinctively lav
ing down her knitting pins, and toss
ing back the ringlets from her open
forehead, on this hint of a secret to
be unfolded. ‘Yet every one at St.
Medard’—
‘Every one was scarcely likely to be
admitted into their confidence,’ inter
rupted the widow pettishly. ‘The good
Marquis chose his confidants as his own
clear judgement suggested; nor did he,
1 trust, find cause to regret its sug
gestions.’
‘He was in fact, then, a very great
man, and living incog, at the Chateau ?’
said Capt. R , interrogatively.
‘He w 7 as living under an assumed name,
Sir,’ replied la Maman; ‘nor should 1 ad
in it so much, but that, although no public
cause for concealment now exists, I am
satisfied it would be impossible for you
to obtain a clew to his real title and posi
tion in life. For my own part, ignorant
as I am of the very nature of what you
are pleased to term political revolutions,
I cannot presume to decide upon Mon
sieur de St. Sauveur’s personal or public
consequence : but this 1 know, that it, by
a ‘great man,’ you mean a man of mighty
purposes, of great and good principles, a
man, above all, holding control over his
own passions, and able to carve out for
himself the duty path of his own ca
reer, — s uch a one was the friend whom I
have lost! Yes! he was a great man !’ —
repeated the widow 7 , after some moment’s
meditation; ‘few greater, —few capable of
such sacrifices, —such moral heroism. The
idols he made for himself were not of
common dust; and who ever worshipped
with half so much piety of affection ?
God bless him, —God rest him! —He is
now reaping his great reward among the
elect of the children of God !’—
‘You speak with considerable enthusi
asm,’ observed R , rising from the
Lit de Veille , on which he had inadver
tently seated himself. ‘Recollect, how
ever, that I know nothing of the St. Sau
veur family, and am forced to accept
their virtues upon trust.’
‘Listen then!’ resumed Madame Le
Tellier. ‘Take the seat again which you
have just quitted, and for once I will play
the gossip; in order that, although our
Veillee is impossible, you may not quit
the island without imbibing some notion
of its fashions. To you, who have no in
terest in penetrating the secret of my
friends, I may venture to confide a mys
tery, such as 1 should be loth to breathe
in the ears of my neighbours here of the
hamlet!’ — 1
‘A mystery which regards the young
ladies, Sophie, Antoinette, and Claire?’
cried Manon, clapping her hands with
the excitement of the moment. ‘Dear
aunt! you will surely allow me to sit up
and profit by the Veiltte? —You well
know that you can have conlidence in
my discretion !’
‘Not much in your discretion, my poor
child,’ said her kinswoman, kindly tap
ping the cheek of the girlish face that
presented itself, as Manon knelt anxious
ly yet playfully at her feet; ‘but not a
little in your good will; and still more,’
she added with a good humoured smile,
‘in the impossibility of your turning to
mischievous account the information I
am about to impart. The very name of
my friends is undreamed of in Guernsey;
even that under which it was their plea
sure to be known, will be heard here no
more. Two of the young ladies are on
the eve of honourable marriage; the third,
my pretty Antoinette, is already a wife
and a mother; and when the grey head of
old Victorine Le Tellier shall be laid in
the grave, with her will rest the secret ot
their probation!’
‘Except such a portion of their history
as you have promised to communicate V
cried Captain R , bent upon enticing
his companions into stirring up to bear
him company, rather than curious to
learn the promised particulars.
‘My promise will cost me a pang or
two!’ was the old lady’s reply. ‘Manon,
lay down another log upon the hearth,
and bring down the lamp a link. The
room looks cheerless, or my eyes are
dimmer than usual. And set upon the
fire a skillet of Bordeaux, with a stick of
cinnamon, and the zest of otie of our
own citrons, —for the English Captain
will w r ant a sleeping draught to make
him turn a deaf ear to the whistling of
the north-wester in our chimneys. So !
now be seated and quiet,’ continued Ma
dame Le Tellier, evidently prolonging
her directions and injunctions, so as to
postpone the commencement of her task,
and subdue the emotions which a mere
recurrence to the name of St. Sauveur
had sufficed to draw’ forth.
‘lt was six years ago, and summer
time.’ said she, commencing at last
abruptly, ‘when a French family came
to settle at the Chateau of St. Medard;
and no sooner did I set eyes upon them
than 1 felt that they ought to come with
the summer —with the butterflies —with
the roses —with all things that are beau
tiful in nature; for more beautiful than
all these were the three daughters of
Monsieur de St. Sauveur! Never shall
I forget their appearance as they stood,
the very evening after their arrival at the
Chateu, hand in hand at my garden gate,
with the sunshine streaming upon their
flowing curls; and not all its brightness,
nor all the brightness of the flowers which
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