Charles Heavysege

“This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here,

Is in opinion, and in honor, wronged;

That in the rescue of Lavinia,

With his own hand did slay his youngest son”

Titus Andronicus.

The elder Montigny, wrathful and irresolute, and like a beast in the toils, had yesterday again visited the advocate on the same errand as before, and with a like unsatisfactory result. But instead of returning to Mainville he had proceeded to the Duchatel Manor House; partly for counsel, but chiefly to ascertain whether its owner—who, he deemed, had an equal interest with himself in the removal of Amanda—would join with him in furnishing the demanded dower. The subject was broached privately to the shrewd and worldly AndrÉ, who on hearing it propounded swore indignantly at the advocate's audacity, and roundly refused to accede to any such appropriation of his substance: so after fierce denunciations of the insolence of upstart English adventurers, and censure of the infatuation of young fellows in affairs of the heart, the theme was dropped for the present, and the remainder of the day spent in looking over the estate, and in those attentions that are usually bestowed on a visitor, be he ever so familiar a one, much more when he is both distinguished and in prospective relationship. The next day the topic was resumed, but this time in the presence of Samson Duchatel, as he sat yawning between asleep and awake, but who, on hearing the conversation, aroused himself, and bade Montigny be easy, and not dream of endowing the foreigner, since he, Samson, had already secured the troublesome fair one. Montigny took little notice of this, thinking it to be but the jest or boast, or, at furthest, merely the loose announcement of the intention of the unscrupulous giant; who soon afterwards invited him to walk abroad. The company of Samson was not coveted by the more refined and anxious Seigneur, but the former pressed him, and he thought that locomotion might divert his mind from the contemplation of the coming degradation and folly of his son. He consented, and issuing from the ancient and flower-festooned porch of the Manor House, they walked along in mid-morning of late September, the drowsy charms of the summer's faded foliage just awakening to a resurrection in the glorified beauty of Autumn; and, almost in silence, they proceeded along the road or lane, till they came to the dubious dwelling where, some hours before, Amanda was left a prisoner. The sullen and sloven-looking female who had received her was now dressed in gaudy attire, and saluted them as they entered, at the same time casting a look of enquiry and surprise into the face of Samson, and of suspicion on the Seigneur.

“Bring up the body of your prisoner;” growled the former, loudly, as he threw his huge frame into an arm-chair. “Come, habeas corpus, habeas corpus. Now, if we had Alphonse here,” he continued, “he could repeat the whole writ in Latin. Habeas corpus, habeas corpus,” muttered the puzzled savage, fumbling in his brains for the context, “habeas corpus, habeas corpus;—” then, relinquishing the vain search, and addressing himself to the woman, at the same time elevating his voice, he vociferated: “Hillo, come, lady sheriff, bring up the body of your prisoner, I say;” when, as if in obedience to the call of a magician, a door opened, and from an inner room, with face flushed, brow dark and fretted with indignation, lips pouting, breast heaving, and her eyes overflowing with tears, in bounded his sister, Seraphine Duchatel, exclaiming: “And is this the creature that has stood between me and Claude? and brought here, too, to flout me to my face! I'll not endure it;” and she burst into a fresh torrent of tears.

“Who has stood between you, girl?” enquired the brother, half teasingly, half tenderly: “if there be a stump between here and Mainville that hinders you from driving your carriage thither, tell me, and we'll pull it up as quickly as Doctor Lanctot would pull you a tooth out.”

“You have done well, indeed,” continued the angry girl, weeping, and not minding his clumsy badinage, “you have done well indeed, to bring her here to answer me, to scorn me, to defy me, to parade herself before me, to stand in my presence as proud as any peacock,—only not half so beautiful.”

“Fine feathers make fine birds, Phin,” drily retorted her brother.

“She is not fine, and if she be, she shall be plucked of her finery;” exclaimed the sister: “I'll tear her eyes out; what business has she to look at me, and speak so insolently? I'll have her face flayed; her hair shall be plucked up by the roots;” and she stamped with her little foot.

“We'll have her scalped, girl!” condoled her brother.

“Yes, this is the way you always think to manage me; by laughing at me,” cried the spoiled child, in renewed agony of tears.

“Why, what is the matter?” demanded the Seigneur, wondering, and startled by these threatening allusions: “What is the meaning of all this, Samson?”

“Oh,” answered the latter, striving to perpetrate a pun, “Only that we have brought Phin a handmaiden, and she finds her handsomer than is agreeable;—but there is many a servant comelier than the mistress.”

“Let me behold this Paragon,” said the Seigneur, at the same time rising, and moving towards the door of the inner room, that had been left ajar by the rude Seraphine, in her indignant exit. Pushing it slowly open, he beheld Amanda, with half-averted form, seated upon a chair, her head bowed, but her face wearing an expression of proud serenity mixed with grief. His first impulse was to retire; but pity, respect, admiration, and even awe, bound him to the spot, and he remained gazing till curiosity and commiseration alike combined to induce him to address a figure so incongruous with that mean place, and whose majestic sorrow seemed too sacred for interruption.

“Young lady, by your leave; pray pardon me; but can a stranger be of service to you?” he at length enquired.

Amanda looked upward. “Oh, if you are, as you seem to be, a gentleman, do not leave me;” she exclaimed beseechingly, as she slowly rose and approached him: “do not leave me, but convey me back to Stillyside, from whence I have been stolen by that man. Oh, sir, you do not know with what a load of thanks its owner will repay you, should you rescue me from this base durance.”

The seigneur looked enquiringly at Samson, but the latter seemed more disposed to wait to see how the seigneur regarded the appeal, than to reply to the tacit question.

“Why have you been brought hither, and against your will?” resumed the seigneur, respectfully.

“I am as yet ignorant of the cause;” she answered: “I do not know, I cannot divine, why I am here a prisoner.”

“She does know;” fiercely interrupted the sobbing Seraphine, “She does, she does,” she reiterated, and seemed disposed to fly at her tooth and nail. “She knows she is a bold and wicked creature,—she, she, she; she is a, a,—I don't know what she is;” she cried, spurting out the last words in a paroxysm of sorrow and vexation, and flung herself into a chair sobbing hysterically, with toilet and temper alike disordered.

“Calm yourself, Seraphine,” said the Seigneur.

“Yes, calm thyself, girl,” echoed the ponderous Samson. “Why, what a wild duck thou art, sister, flapping and quacking because an unshotted barrel has been fired at thee. She is an unshotted gun, she has no name; and what is a thing without a name? nothing: for if it were something it would have been called something. What thing is there—that is a thing—that has not got what a pudding has? a name,” and he laughed till his sides shook, and drawing a pouch from his pocket, took thence a quid of tobacco, and put it into his cheek, at the same time playfully offering another to the outraged Seraphine, who petulently dashed it from his fingers, and affected to bridle at the insult.

Meantime Amanda stood in silent sadness, and the Seigneur, who had been watching her during the heartless flirtation between the brother and sister, advanced one pace into the room, and said: “I know your story, and have reason to be angry, not so much with you as with my son, whom, I believe, you are acquainted with, one Claude Montigny.” Amanda turned away her face and blushed.

Meantime Amanda stood in silent sadness, and the Seigneur advanced one pace into the room.

“You do know him I perceive,” the Seigneur continued, “and if by chance he has happened to know you I do not blame him, much less can I blame yourself: but, lady, remember,” and the proud Montigny advanced, and bending over her whilst his voice fell, as if it were intended for her ear alone, said “remember, we are not all of the same degree, though Heaven has fashioned all of the same clay. The proudest and the wealthiest in Canada might hail you as a daughter; but old prescription, antecedents, prospects, all combine to render impossible your union with my son.”

Amanda blushed yet deeper, and both of them stood for awhile embarrassed, but at length she said falteringly, and glowing like a crimson poppy in her confusion:

“I own it just that you should urge these large considerations; yet, believe me, sir, I have been passive in this matter, and have not sought your son's acquaintance; neither, indeed, has he, if he be rightly judged, (and you would not wrong your son), perhaps, sought mine; for it would seem there are amities that Providence provides for us, without our will or knowledge. It was accident that brought us face to face; as we observe the sun and moon—that are separate in their seasons, and withal so different in their glory's given degree—brought monthly, and as if fortuitously, though, in reality, by eternal, fixed design, into conjunctive presence amidst the sky.

Yet who shall blame the sun and moon for that?

“None,” said the Seigneur.

“Then let no one blame your son and me,” continued Amanda, “if Heaven, perhaps to try us, has ordained that our paths should cross each other, as might two strange and diverse celestial bodies pass apparently too hazardously near each other in their appointed orbits. For the rest, forgive me, sir, and may He who best knows what is for the benefit of his creatures, and who sometimes for their good, sees it right that they should suffer wrongfully, assist me. Since this has pleased Him, I bow, and bear it the best I may, and trust too, that He will, in His good pleasure, deliver me from this that He has permitted to fall upon me, my present sad and dangerous estate of a poor prisoner here.”

“Heaven will indeed rescue you from this infamous restraint, and I will gladly be its minister,” returned the Seigneur, melted almost to love with pity, and dropping a tear; “none shall detain you here; you are safe. Let me, myself—if thereby to some extent may be atoned to you the wrong you have sustained in being hurried hither—conduct you to your guardian.”

“And raise the devil!—ay, and bring him here: her guardian is his half brother,” suddenly roared Samson in surprise and terror. “No, Montigny, she has given too much trouble in the catching to be so lightly released. Besides, is she to be still allowed to stand between her betters. Leave her with me.”

“Yes, leave her with Samson,” cried the sulking Seraphine, starting up in her chair. “He has known better girls, and handsomer, too;—umph! how much men can be mistaken. It is wonderful that Claude should covet her. Take her to her guardian! fie, Monsieur Montigny,” and half turning away in her seat with scorn and disgust, she cast a look of ineffable hatred and disdain at the suppliant Amanda, whilst the woman of the house fixed her jealousy-filled eyes on Samson as he murmurred: “She shall not go: she is my prisoner.”

“She must return with me, sir,” said the Seigneur, quietly but firmly. “Are you not aware how great is the penalty that you have incurred by this disgraceful scandal? Think it fortunate if you shall be able in any way to compound for it with the lady's guardian. Seraphine, mollify your indignation towards one who has not meant to thwart you. Return to the hall with your brother, whilst I conduct this injured lady to the parsonage, to remain there until I can escort her home, and (as I hope) with the aid of her intercession, obtain the pardon of her cruel abductors.”

“It is you that is cruel:” cried the weeping Seraphine: “it is Claude that is cruel. Not meant to thwart me! she has thwarted me, and you encourage her, you justify her, Monsieur Montigny.”

“We will crucify her,” cried Samson.

“Say no more,” commanded the seigneur: “you are both of you ignorant of the heinous nature of what you have done. Her guardian has the power to punish you. Tremble lest he should exercise it.” And, with these words, he gave his arm to Amanda, and, passing amidst the scowling trio, led her from the place.