The mind of Harland now enjoyed a serenity hitherto unknown; the mildness of Louise, the increasing knowledge of her virtues, whilst they added to his love, softened the harshness of his manners: and, from experiencing the sweets arising from beneficence, he was taught to regard the happiness of others, as conducive to his own.

It was one of those evenings when the serenity of the heavens shed its influence on mankind, and harmonized the mind to happiness, that the Captain, with his youthful companions, after long enjoying the tranquil beauties of the declining day, retired to his cabin. The careful mariner, freed for a time from toil, reclined in easy repose on the deck, or carrolled his humble ditty, as he watched the different vessels, of which he might be deemed in part the safeguard. A transient peace possessed every bosom: when Harland, after a considerable pause, addressing his Louise, said—"I have often designed, my dear girl, to request some account of the occurrences attending your childhood; of which I have hitherto had a very imperfect knowledge: the present moment is favourable for the relation, which I think would prove equally gratifying to Sir Henry and our friends."

"There is not any thing in the account, Harland," replied Louise, "to repay your attention in the hearing: a monastic life affords but little variety."—However, as Sir Henry and Frederick joined in the request, she without farther hesitation complied.

"Of the manner in which I was left at the gate of the Convent, you have already, Harland, been informed. I was found there in the morning by the portress, and by her carried to the mother St. Claire, the venerable Abbess. The meanness of my clothes by no means accorded with the valuable miniature tied round my neck; but rather tended, as the worthy Abbess said, to show that my parents were actuated by shame, not poverty. She, however, hesitated not a moment to take me in, and, after an ineffectual search to discover the authors of my being, determined to rear me, and dedicate my life me to the God who had placed me under her protection.

"I was accordingly given to the care of a lay sister, who faithfully discharged her trust; and as my infant mind expanded, the Abbess became each day more partial to me. The friendship of the mother St. Claire was followed by the real or pretended love of the other inmates of the Convent, and I was soon the avowed favourite of all.

"Amongst those, however, who evinced a sincere regard for me, was the sister FranÇoise; between whom, and the venerable Abbess, my early affection was divided. Under their more immediate care, I was instructed in every useful and ornamental branch of education; and their approbation and praise were the rewards of my diligence. Thus passed my earlier days, unclouded with a sorrow; sister FranÇoise and the Abbess were all the world to me, nor knew I of one beyond the walls of the Convent.

"The frequent visits, however, paid to the other children by their friends, could not but lead me, at length, to reflect on the difference of my lot. No father, no mother, ever inquired for me; and the first sigh that ever swelled my bosom, was for those relations, whom fate prohibited me from ever knowing."

A half-stifled sigh escaped Sir Henry; which was gently returned by Louise, who, after a moment's pause, again proceeded.

"Sister FranÇoise soon observed, and learned the cause of my dejection. 'You have no acknowledged parents, Louise,' she said; 'but I will be your mother, and you shall love me as a daughter.' She burst into tears; I kissed them off her cheek as she embraced me, and, pleased with the idea of mother, soon regained my cheerfulness. From that time, I became the nearly inseparable companion of sister FranÇoise: I addressed her by the name of mother, I believed her such, and fully did her tenderness authorise the title.

"It was not till I was fourteen, that mother St. Claire put into my possession the miniature found with me, and informed me of the circumstance which had placed me under her protection, and of her intentions that I should take the veil. The latter intelligence, repugnant as it was to my inclinations, affected me less than the knowledge of my orphan state. 'And is not sister FranÇoise then my mother?' I would have asked; but tears impeded my utterance; and, throwing my arms round the neck of St. Claire, I wept in silence. She tenderly embraced me; and when the violence of my grief was abated, exhorted me to resignation to the state that Providence had assigned me; and explained the reasons which rendered a life of seclusion necessary to one, who without friends could only look for infamy and destruction in the world.

"'Yet do not, dear mother,' I exclaimed, 'force me to be a nun—at least, not yet!'

"'Force you, my child!' repeated the venerable woman, 'never! Forced vows cannot be sincere; and sincere indeed ought those to be, which are offered to your God! You yet are young: but two years hence, if I be in existence, I hope to receive you at the altar. I have pointed out the dangers which would attend you, in a world you are a stranger to; you know the peaceful happiness, the security which reign within these walls: let both be the subject of your reflections; and too well am I assured of the sense, the goodness of heart my girl possesses, to doubt her cheerful acquiescence in the lot assigned her."

"Never before had my heart refused accordance to the sentiments or wishes of this my earliest friend; but the fascinating picture, the young Victoire, and Julie de Valois, (for three years my intimate companions) had often painted of the world, had first engaged my attention by its novelty, then taught me to wish for those pleasures, with which I thought it abounded. The world,—however, its gaieties—all were absorbed in the circumstance of my deserted infancy; and I left the worthy Abbess, overwhelmed with the only real sorrow I had ever known.

"Instead of going to my beloved mother, as I had hitherto termed her, I sought the gloomy solitude of the cloister; and was indulging in an unrestrained flow of tears, when the approach of two nuns caused me to retreat into an adjoining chapel. They seated themselves at the entrance, nor could I then have re-passed without discovery; which would have exposed me to a severe reproof from sister Brigide (one of them), for my intrusion into a place, sacred to the sisterhood. They, however, continued their discourse without the slightest suspicion of unhallowed ears, and I soon found sister FranÇoise was the subject of their conversation.

"'I, who have been an inmate here these six-and-thirty years,' said sister Brigide, 'am less regarded by the superannuated mother St. Claire; I may, however, one day be head of this convent; then woe betide some, whom I shall not name.'

"'How long is it since she took the veil?' asked the other, whom, by her voice I discovered to be a sister lately professed. 'Fourteen years,' answered Brigide: 'just after the Abbess's favourite Louise was left here; and much I mistake, if FranÇoise be not really her mother!'

"'Her great partiality to the child,' answered sister Marie, 'may certainly justify the suspicion.'

"'Suspicion'—repeated Brigide; 'I have proofs—facts, indubitable ones! I know more of sister FranÇoise than she thinks.'

"The curiosity of Marie thus raised, induced her to press Brigide to an explanation; whilst I scarcely respired lest a syllable of the important intelligence should escape me.

"'It is now about fifteen years,' said Brigide, 'since sister FranÇoise, then Mademoiselle de Colline, was a reigning belle; though, for my part, I never could discover the surprising beauty they say she possessed: being, however, the youngest daughter, she was designed for a monastic life; but was by nature more inclined to vows of love than religion. By her artful coquetries she at last fascinated a young Englishman who was on his travels, and who demanded her of her father in marriage. Monsieur de Colline refused him, he being an heretic; and the gallant apparently ceased his addresses; but after a lapse of some time, he was detected one morning by her father, descending from her chamber window. Justly enraged at the depravity of his daughter and the young fellow, Monsieur de Colline seized his pistols, and as the lover was scaling the garden-wall, a brace of bullets brought him to the earth!

"'Not satisfied with this victim to his injured honour, he hastened to the apartment of his daughter, taxed her with her crime, and was proceeding to tell her the vengeance he had taken, when the guilty wretch fell into fits, and was discovered to be in a state of pregnancy!

"'Her sisters, who before had been inclined to pity her, then abandoned her to the fury of her father; and happy had it been, if she had then expiated her sin by the loss of life; but an old servant, who had been privy to her amour, preserved her from the effects of his passion. She was, however, by his order, confined in an obscure part of the Chateau, and treated with the greatest rigour; but, instead of bewailing her fault, she only deplored the loss of her lover! There, with the assistance of her old confidant, she was delivered of an infant: its sex I never learned, or what became of it; but about that time Louise was found at the gates of the convent!'

"'Oh, a clear case—a clear case!' exclaimed sister Marie. 'But, with all the search they say St. Claire caused to be made for the parents, do not you think it strange these circumstances did not lead her to them?'

"'Not at all,' replied Brigide. 'The events I have related were transacted in too secret a manner to let suspicion even point a finger at the De Collines; nor do I believe there is another in the Convent, except the Abbess, who is acquainted with these particulars respecting her; nor should I have known them, but for the old confidant I mentioned; who, about five years since, became a lay sister, and died here. She too was very fond of Louise: and a few words she one day inadvertently uttered, raised my suspicion there was more concerning sister FranÇoise than I knew; and I determined never to rest till I had discovered what it was; and by a thousand questions, and indeed by pretending I was in the confidence of FranÇoise, I learned what I have now related.'—

"Sufficient indeed," interrupted Sir Henry, starting from his seat, and pacing the cabin, "to blast her character; but not to draw the tear of pity, the unhappy—injured FranÇoise deserved! Not even a convent, I find, can screen the unfortunate from malice and detraction!—But proceed, my dear Louise; I meant not to interrupt you."

"And did you, my brother," asked Louise, "ever before hear the misfortunes of FranÇoise?"

"I learned them from herself, Louise."

"From herself, Sir Henry! When did you know her?"

"Not till after you, my sister, left the convent. And here let me endeavour to do justice to her character. To the lover sister Brigide mentioned, FranÇoise, on her father's refusal, was privately united: and, by the assistance of the old servant, who witnessed their marriage, he was secretly admitted into the house. This intercourse had continued several months, when her father saw, and shot the unhappy husband; who was soon after found nearly lifeless, by some peasants, and by them conveyed to the house of a surgeon.

"In Monsieur de Colline's subsequent interview with FranÇoise, she avowed her marriage; but he either did not—or would not believe her. He caused her to be confined, and fearing, if she persisted in her declaration of marriage, he could not force her to take the veil; he not only informed her, her lover was dead, but, to further his purpose, that her infant likewise expired soon after its birth. By him it was indeed doomed to expiate, by its death, the supposed fault of its wretched mother: but Providence preserved it for a better fate.

"FranÇoise, however—her heart nearly broken by the double loss of her husband and child—gladly availed herself of the fate designed her, to escape the reproaches of her father, and the taunts of her sisters, and threw herself into the convent of St. Ursule; where she took the veil at the very time her husband, recovered of his wound, was searching the country to discover her: but Monsieur de Colline had taken his measures too effectually; and at last, supposing her dead, he returned to England. At the old man's death, however, the letters the unhappy Henry had addressed to FranÇoise, and to him, were discovered by his Confessor; as likewise the Monk who had married them; and as her husband was then living, a dispensation was obtained, and sister FranÇoise, freed from her vows, returned with my father to England."

"Your father! O God, my brother!" exclaimed Louise, clasping her hands. "Tell me, I entreat you, if FranÇoise de Colline was really my mother!"

Sir Henry appeared confused—distressed: but at last said—"Seek not, my dear girl, the knowledge which cannot add to your happiness, but would plunge me still deeper in the gulf of misery. Your mother lives: and you shall one day know her. The time, alas! will too soon arrive, when every midnight deed must be brought to light: but, till then—let not the hand of Louise level an unnecessary shaft at my bosom!"

Louise could urge no farther; her anxiety to be satisfied on this subject, yielded to the visible concern and agitation her question had occasioned Sir Henry. She sighed, and a pause ensued, from which they were relieved by the Captain requesting her to proceed in her narrative.

"Little more passed," continued Louise, "between sister Brigide and Marie, than what I have related. The latter mentioned the miniature found with me, as a proof that must instantly confirm the truth of Brigide's allegation; but Brigide ridiculed the idea. She had seen the miniature, she said, it was not of FranÇoise: but Monsieur de Colline and his daughter were both too cunning, she added, to leave any proof with me, which must discover them; the miniature was a trinket, by which if ever they chose to reclaim me, they could; but a ring or a seal would have answered the purpose equally the same.—They were here interrupted by the arrival of another nun, with whom they proceeded to the refectory; whilst I, freed from the danger of detection, hastened to the cell of sister FranÇoise, and, throwing myself into her arms, exclaimed—'I am—I am your child; oh, do not attempt to deceive me, but say that you are indeed my mother!'

"Sister FranÇoise was at first alarmed at the wildness of my address, but, on my relating the discoveries of the morning, her agitation far exceeded my own.—'No—no, Louise,' she sighed, 'you are not my child: would to heaven that you were: but I am indeed widowed—and childless!'

"She wrung her hands, and, bursting into tears, sunk on her humble couch. I mingled my tears with hers; I strove to soothe her; yet still urged my claim to maternal acknowledgment. She referred me to the miniature:—'The resemblance you bear to it, Louise,' she said, 'must convince you it was done for a parent; but no likeness can be traced in it to me. Cease then to wring my soul by forcing to remembrance, scenes long since passed. I love you, Louise; but utterly disclaim all kindred with your blood. Be satisfied then with my affection, nor ever again renew this subject to me or any one!'

"Thus prohibited, I forbore to speak, but sighed in secret over the mystery of my birth; my mind by degrees lost its serenity, and I was apprehended to be in a decline; when the Marchioness de Valois came to the Convent. The friendship of her lovely daughters had before introduced me to her notice; she regarded me with an eye of pity, and proposed my going with her to Montpellier. The worthy St. Claire readily consented; and taking an affectionate leave of her and sister FranÇoise, for the first time in my life, I re-passed the gates of the Convent.

"What were my sentiments of the various objects I beheld, I shall leave to your own conceptions; all indeed was wonder, joy, and amazement! The amiable Marchioness, pleased with my inquiries and remarks, pointed out and explained whatever she thought worthy my notice or regard. She did more: she traced the grief which oppressed me to its source, and wiped the tear of dejection from my cheek. She taught me to look forward with hope, and to rely with confidence on the wisdom of Providence, which, in its own time, would develope the mystery that distressed me. The friendship of this amiable woman, the paternal behaviour of the Marquis, who joined us at Montpellier, and the amusements of that celebrated place, to me so novel, soon restored my wonted cheerfulness and health; and, after an absence of three months, I returned to the Convent; where the increased infirmities of mother St. Claire, and a fever with which sister FranÇoise was seized, called forth all my tenderness and attention.

"They were repaid by the restoration of this mother of my affection, and the mild serenity of the venerable Abbess; who, unalarmed, awaited the hour of dissolution, with a smile of confidence and peace, that anticipated the reward of a life passed in piety and benevolence. Her fondness for me appeared daily to increase; but, to my great surprise and satisfaction, she no longer urged my taking the vows, or even expressed a wish for my engaging in a monastic life.

"Thus passed a twelvemonth, happy as those I had formerly known; when the Marchioness again came to the Convent, to take Victoire and Julie finally from under the care of St. Claire.

"It was then that she declared her intentions in my favour; to which St. Claire added—'For this reason, my child, I have long ceased importuning you to enter on your probation. You dislike the life of a nun, and, how much soever I wish for your society, I prefer your happiness and real advantage to my own gratification. Here you would be secure from the storms and cares of life; but, from what I have learned respecting sister Brigide, who will undoubtedly be my successor, you could hope for nothing more, save the peace arising from internal religion; and even that, the mother of a sisterhood has it in her power to disturb, though not to destroy. With me, you might experience the happiness a life of religion is calculated to afford; but see, my child,' and she turned a glass whose last sands were running out, 'my hour is nearly expired! To the Marchioness then I resign you.—Let the religion, the precepts I have inculcated, the example I have given you, prove the guides of your conduct.—Transfer the obedience you have shown me, to her; and may every happiness attend you!'

"Tears of affection and gratitude were my only answer; I could not speak, but, sinking at her feet, hid my face on her knees; the world I had sighed for, faded on my imagination before this instance of her love; and the thoughts of leaving her far outweighed the life of liberty she had awarded me.

"Orders, however, were given for my departure; nor did St. Claire provide for me as the orphan of her charity, but as the child of her tenderest regard. To the former marks of her munificence, she added many valuable presents. 'They will remind you of my lessons, Louise,' she said, 'even in the assemblies of the gay. I shall feel the loss of your attentions, but sister FranÇoise will supply your place; and remember, my child, whilst I have life, you shall be welcomed here with open arms!'

"All was soon prepared, and receiving her final blessing, with that of sister FranÇoise, I followed the Marchioness to her carriage.

"We proceeded to Paris, where a continued round of amusements for some time banished reflection, and the remembrance of the worthy St. Claire. Pleasure, however, at length lost its attractions, and only in the friendship of the Marchioness, and a few select families, I found that real satisfaction I had in vain expected in the more brilliant, but dissipated circles of the fashionable world.

"Twelve months had elapsed, since I quitted the Convent; I had repeatedly written to St. Claire and sister FranÇoise, but never received an answer: and as we were then going to the Marquis's country seat, the Marchioness consented that I should cross the country to Rennes. It was late in the evening when I arrived at the Convent; painfully anticipating the intelligence of St. Claire's death: there, instead of the benevolent mild old sister Marthe, who first succoured my helpless infancy, a lay sister I had never seen, attended the summons to the gate, and demanded my business?

"'Is mother St. Claire still living?' I tremulously asked.

"'She has been dead eleven months,' replied the portress; 'and mother St. Brigide is now the head of this Convent. If you wish to speak with her, send in your name and business, and I will endeavour to gain you admittance.'

"'Oh no,' I exclaimed—'not with her: but tell sister FranÇoise, her child—her Louise, wishes to see her.'

"'Louise—sister FranÇoise!' she repeated with a frown. 'There is no such sister within these walls.'

"'O God!' I cried. 'Is she too dead?'

"'I have positive orders,' said the portress, 'not to answer any questions, or take in any message from you.'—She closed the grate: and Jacques hearing what passed, of his own accord drove to an hotel, where I passed the night in mournful reflections, and the next day, with an oppressed heart, rejoined the Marchioness at Rohan.

"No occurrence happened from that time, till nearly a twelvemonth after, when the Count de Dreux declared himself my admirer. He was nearly fifty—vain, self-sufficient, and affected; but likewise rich; and, for the last consideration, the Marquis advised my encouragement of his addresses: to the Marchioness, however, I avowed my real sentiments respecting him; and she gave him a gentle, but positive refusal. At the same time she undeceived him respecting my birth, by which he had supposed me nearly related to her; and that consideration, I believe, reconciled him to her rejection; but though he ceased to regard me as longer worthy his honourable addresses, he still pursued me, as an object of desire.

"At that time the Marquis was unexpectedly appointed Governor of Pondicherry; for which place he was ordered immediately to depart.

"The Marchioness accompanied him to L'Orient, whither I should likewise have attended her with Victoire and Julie, but indisposition obliged me to remain at the Chateau. The opportunity was too favourable to the projects of the Count, to be neglected; he wrote me a passionate letter, with a brilliant offer of settlements, jewels, &c.: of which I did not deign to take the least notice. My silence produced a second, on the supposition that he had not been sufficiently liberal: and he sent a carte blanche. To evince my contempt, I tore the letters, and returned them in a cover; and, as I was surrounded by faithful servants, and two days elapsed without hearing of him, I apprehended no farther molestation or danger.

"On the morning of the third, however, a courier, covered with dust, and apparently fatigued, arrived at the Chateau. He came, he said, from L'Orient, where the Marchioness, who had been overturned in her carriage, was in the most imminent danger. He brought a letter, as he pretended, from her femme-de-chambre, which repeated the information, and begged my immediate presence, as Victoire and Julie were in the greatest affliction.

"Alarmed at this account of my beloved benefactress, I gave orders for a chaise to be instantly prepared; and, without an idea occurring that the tale might be fictitious, assisted my maid to pack up a change of apparel. The chaise was soon ready, and I set out for L'Orient, attended by Janette, the false courier, and two old servants, who, on hearing the accident which had happened, entreated they might accompany me. We proceeded with great expedition, and were within a few miles of L'Orient, when, on passing a thicket, two men on horseback suddenly approached; one stopped the horses, whilst the other, presenting a pistol to Jacques, threatened to shoot him if he offered to proceed. The faithful GrÉgoire, perceiving the situation of his fellow-servant, would have advanced to his assistance, but was withheld by the pretended messenger; who seized him by the collar, and a scuffle immediately ensued. A carriage then approached, from which the Count himself alighted; and, opening the door of my chaise, he attempted to force me out. Vain would have been my resistance, had not a sailor, attracted I believe by my screams, darted from the thicket, and with a bludgeon struck the Count to the ground.

"What directly followed, I cannot say, as I fainted; but, as Janette afterwards informed me, the men who first stopped us, seeing their master fall, sprung to defend him, and old Jacques finding himself at liberty, without regarding the sailor who had so gallantly come to our assistance, or GrÉgoire, drove off with the utmost velocity.—When I recovered, we were far from the scene of contention; and as Jacques, equally alarmed as myself, still urged the speed of his horses, we soon arrived at L'Orient.

"I found my beloved benefactress well, but dejected from the departure of the Marquis, who had sailed the day before. On relating my tale, she expressed her satisfaction at my escape from the Count; and, convinced the greatest care was necessary to guard me from his machinations, determined in future not to trust me from her own immediate protection.

"Soon after this, GrÉgoire arrived, and informed us that the men who first stopped us, prepared to pursue me; but were remanded by the valet, on the supposition that the Count was dead.—After some time, however, he showed signs of returning life and sense, and whilst they were replacing him in his carriage, to re-convey him to a seat he possessed near the spot, (whither he had proposed to carry me), the sailor, who had at first been secured, made his escape again into the thicket. As for GrÉgoire, he was no longer regarded either in a hostile or amicable manner, and accordingly remounted his horse, and followed us to L'Orient.

"The next day we returned to the Chateau, at which place the Marchioness proposed remaining, till the vessel preparing to take the family, should be ready to sail. A month of tranquillity ensued, when we were surprised by a visit from the Count. The obstacles he had met with, it appeared, so far from abating, had added to his desire of obtaining me; but, convinced of the impracticability of either seducing, or forcing me from the protection of the Marchioness, and being, he said, unable to exist without me, he again demanded my hand in marriage. The Marchioness would have urged my accedence to an establishment so brilliant; but, on declaring my utter dislike to him, she yielded, and again gave him a positive refusal.

"The Count, mortified and enraged at my repeated rejections, vowed never to quit the pursuit, till he had, either by honourable or other means, subdued my obduracy. Secure, however, in the friendship of the Marchioness, I equally disregarded his entreaties and threats; and the vessel appointed for us, being fully prepared, and the fleet ready to sail, we bade adieu to France; and I was thus happily freed from the importunities of a troublesome lover."

"Thanks, my dear Louise," said Harland, "for your interesting tale; which, though unmarked with any extraordinary occurrences, proves you to have been truly the child of Providence."

"The child of Providence indeed," repeated Sir Henry, "nor can I sufficiently admire the wisdom of that Power, who directs the most trivial of our actions. Little did I think, when I hastened to your rescue, it was to that of the sister, of whom I was then in search. Your fainting, and the confusion arising from the unlucky blow I gave the Count, prevented me from observing you; and on that nobleman's partial recovery, I was glad to elude the vigilance of his servants, and seek the shelter the luxurious foliage of the thicket afforded."

"And was it you, my brother," said Louise, in a voice of grateful mildness, "who then preserved me from the Count? But what accident conducted you to so solitary a spot? and why in a garb so unsuitable to your station and character?"

"Mrs. Harland has anticipated the question, I was in part going to ask Sir Henry," said the Captain; "and as you have raised my curiosity, if you will acquaint us with the particulars of your peregrination in France, which you mentioned when at St. Helena, it will add to the pleasure I have received in hearing the relation of your sister?"

Sir Henry readily complied—"although I have little to recite," he said, "except an action I must ever remember with regret, as a weakness for which one so long inured to sorrow as myself, can offer no excuse."