 | CHAP. X. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution |  |
10. CHAP. X.
She's a woman; therefore to be won.”
Henry VI.
On the second day after this adventure, Mr. Wilson
departed from Boston, in order to obtain an interview
with Edward Percival, and ascertain the destiny of his
daughter. Aware to how much danger she would be
exposed, if she came forth into the world wealthy and
inexperienced, beautiful and unguarded, he felt exceedingly
anxious to give her into the protection of a young
man whom he knew to be so entirely estimable as the
one we have mentioned; at the same time he was painfully
conscious of the unfavourable impression his own
notorious character must produce; and, in order to remove,
as far as possible, this obstacle to the respectability
of his child, he resolved to arrange his dress,
equipage, and manners with the most studious care. It
was indeed a striking proof how much influence the
affections have over the most reckless and depraved,
that this man, so unfeeling and unprincipled to all the
world beside, should evince tenderness and even delicacy,
where this one beloved object was concerned.
The young man, for whom these preparations were
making, was the son of Mr. Townsend's only sister;
but in every respect unlike his parsimonious relation.
He was generous, to a fault; and was remarkable for a
that sometimes touched upon the very verge of
tyranny. For his covetous uncle he could not always
restrain his contempt; but he was by no means romantic
enough to despise the wealth he had accumulated, and
he really regarded the desolate old man with compassion
that bordered on kindness.
He had from his earliest infancy been educated in
Canada, and at the time we choose to present him to
our readers, he was mounted on a dapple-gray steed,
traversing the road between Montreal and Quebec,—
which, at that early period, was certainly none too
smooth to typify the path of life. It was autumn,—and
the earth, as if weary of the vanities of her children,
was rapidly changing her varied and gorgeous drapery
for robes as sad and unadorned as those of the cloister.
The tall and almost leafless trees stood amid black and
mouldering stumps, like giants among the tomb-stones;
the faint-murmuring voice of the St. Lawrence was
heard in the distance; and the winds rustled among the
leaves as if imitating the sound of its waters.
The melancholy that we feel when gazing on natural
scenes in the vigor of young existence, is but pleasure
in a softened form. It has none of the bitterness, none
of that soul-sickening sense of desolation, which visits
us in our riper years, when we have had sad experience
of the jarring interests, the selfish coldness, and the
heartless caprice of the world. A rich imagination, like
the transparent mantle of light, which the Flemish artists
delight to throw around their pictures, gives its own
of autumn, as well as to the freshness of spring and the
verdure of summer; and if the affections are calm and
pure, forests and streams, sky and ocean, sunrise and
twilight, will always bring deep, serene, and holy associations.
Under the influence of such feelings, our
young traveller entered Quebec, just as the rays of the
declining sun tinged the windows and spires with a fiery
beam, and fell obliquely on the distant hills in tranquil
radiance. At the sign of St. George and the Dragon,
the horse made a motion to pause; and thus reminded
of the faithful creature's extreme fatigue, he threw the
bridle over his neck, and gave him into the care of
a ragged hostler, who in bad French demanded his
pleasure.
In the same language his hostess gave her brief
salutation of, “A clever night to ride, please your
honour.”
Percival civilly replied to her courtesy, and gave
orders for supper. The inn was unusually crowded
and noisy; and, willing to escape awhile from the bustling
scene, he walked out into the city. The loud
ringing of the cathedral bells, summoning the inhabitants
to evening prayer, and the rolling of drums from the
neighbouring garrison, were at variance with the quietude
of his spirit. He turned from the main street, and
rambled along until he reached the banks of the little
river St. Charles, about a mile westward from the town.
He paused before the extensive and venerable-looking
hospital, founded by M. de St. Vallier, the second
portals, beneath which various images of the saints were
safely ensconced in their respective niches, were indistinctly
seen in the dimness of twilight; but a rich gush
of sound, from the interior of the building, poured on
the ear, mingling the deep tones of the organ with
woman's sweetest melody.
All that painting and music, pomp and pageantry can
do, to dazzle the imagination and captivate the heart,
has ever been employed by that tremendous hierarchy,
“whose roots were in another world, and whose far-stretching
shadow awed our own.” At this time, the
effect was increased by that sense of mystery so delightful
to the human soul. “Ora, ora pro nobis,” was
uttered by beings secluded from the world, taking no
part in the busy game of life and separated from all
that awakens the tumult of passion, and the eagerness
of pursuit. How then could fancy paint them otherwise
than lovely, placid, and spotless? Had Percival been
behind the curtain, during these sanctified dramas,—
had he ever searched out the indolence, the filth, and
the profligacy, secreted in such retreats,—the spell that
bound him would have been broken; but it had been
rivetted by early association, and now rendered peculiarly
delightful by the excited state of his feelings. Resigning
himself entirely to its dominion, he inquired of one who
stood within the door, whether it was possible for him to
gain admittance.
The man held out his hand for money, and having
received a livre, answered, “Certainly, sir. You must
is to be a procession of white nuns to-night, in honour
of M. de St. Vallier.” So saying, he led the way into
the building.
An old priest, exceedingly lazy in his manner, and
monotonous in his tone, was reading mass, to which
most of the audience zealously vociterated a response.
An arch, ornamented with basso relievo figures of the
saints, on one side of the chancel, surmounted a door,
which apparently led to an interior chapel; and beneath
a similar one, on the opposite side, was a grated window,
shaded by a large, flowing curtain of black silk.
Behind this provoking screen were the daughters of
earth, whom our traveller supposed to be as beautiful as
angels and as pure.
For some time, a faint response, a slight cough, or a
deep drawn sigh, alone indicated the vicinity of the seraphic
beings.
At length, however, the mass, with all its thousand
ceremonies, was concluded. There was silence for a
moment, and then was heard one of the low, thrilling
chants of the church of Rome.
There was the noise of light, sandalled feet. The
music died away to a delicious warbling, as faint and
earnest as woman's entreaty;—then gradually rising
to a bold, majestic burst of sound,—the door on the opposite
side opened, and the sisterhood entered amid a
glare of light.
That most of them were old and ugly passed unnoticed;
for whatever visions an enthusiastical imagination
figure that preceded the procession.
Her forehead was pale and lofty,—her expression
proud, but highly intellectual. A white veil, carelessly
pinned about her brow, fell over her shoulders in graceful
drapery; and as she glided along, the loose white
robe, that constituted the uniform of her order, displayed
to the utmost advantage that undulating outline of
beauty, for which the statues of Psyche are so remarkable.
A silver crucifix was clasped in her hands, and her
eyes were steadily raised toward heaven; yet there
was something in her general aspect from which one
would have concluded that the fair devotee had never
known the world, rather than that she had left it in
weariness or disgust.
Her eye happened to glance on our young friend, as
she passed near him; and he fancied it rested a moment
with delighted attention.
The procession moved slowly on in pairs, the apostles
bearing waxen lights on either side, until the last
white robe was concealed behind an arch at the other
end of the extensive apartment.
The receding sounds of, “O sanctissima, O purissima,”
floated on the air mingled with clouds of frankincense;
and the young man pressed his hand to his
forehead, with a bewildered sensation, as if the airy
phantoms of the magic lanthorn had just been flitting
before him.
A notice from the porter that the nuns were now at
the altar performing silent mass, and that the doors were
shortly to be closed, recalled his recollection; and slipping
money into the hands of his informer, he left the
church, and bent his footsteps towards the sign of St.
George and the Dragon.
The wrangling and discordant sounds of an inn were
never so unwelcome to him; and with peculiar vexation
he heard a loud voice, inquiring of the landlady, “Are
you sure that the tall, handsome young man I mentioned,
with light brown hair and blue eyes, has been here
to-night?”
“I tell you yes. In troth, he is not one a woman
would be likely to forget.”
“Where did he go, when he left here?”
“That is what I know nothing of. May-be he is a
New England rebel, come to raise the country in arms
against His Majesty;—and yet I should not think so. He
spoke better French than the Yankees do.”
The inquirer, who was none other than Mr. Wilson,
took a heavy silver watch from his pocket, looked at the
hour, and replaced it with an air of great impatience,
as he said, “It is after nine. The trumpets from the
fort have sounded the hour of rest. What can have
become of him?”
“Perhaps he is one of your moon-struck folks that
gaze on the stars till they forget to eat their supper. So
much the better for those who take their pay whether or
no.”
Just at that moment, the subject of their conversation
entered the room.
In a confused manner, Mr. Wilson stammered out,
“Mr. Percival, I believe?”
“I think I have seen you before, Mr. Wilson,” rejoined
the young man, with a look of coldness bordering
on hauteur.
“Pardon my intrusion, sir. I have business of importance.”
“It is very well,” replied Percival. “Be seated, if
you please. I cannot attend to you, just now; for I
have eaten nothing since I entered Quebec.”
He was about to seat himself at the table; but compelled
himself to say, “Have you taken supper, sir?”
“I did at an early hour; but I must acknowledge
that I am ready for another.”
“Move to the table, then, if you will.”
The invitation, ungracious as it was, was accepted;
and though neither the quality of the food, nor its cleanliness,
would have tempted a New England appetite,
the hostess certainly had no reason to conclude that
either of her guests preferred star-gazing to solid food.
With hunger too keen to be fastidious, the travellers
devoured a hearty meal, with no other interruption than
an occasional bow from Mr. Wilson, as he raised the
mug of cider to his lips.
When the landlady had retired, and closed the door
after her, the young gentleman inquired what important
business had procured him this unexpected visit.
“You have an uncle in Boston,” said Wilson, who
seemed to be strangely awed by the gentleman-like
manner of his auditor.
Percival bowed to this unimportant remark, and his
companion continued, “You expect considerable property
from him, I presume?”
“I have always treated Mr. Townsend with proper
attention; and I am his only relation; but these things
are very uncertain,” replied Percival.
“Well, sir, I have come to inform you upon what
grounds the whole of his large property may be insured
to you.”
“You, sir!” exclaimed Percival, with an expression
of contempt so strong and undisguised, that Wilson felt
his blood boil in his veins, as he answered, “Yes, I, sir.
Your uncle has committed crimes for which the rigid
laws of England would take his life; and the evidence
of them is in my hands. To bring the matter to a
point at once, I have a daughter. If you will marry
her, the fortune is yours;—if not, it all descends to her,
with the exception of a trifling legacy. The will is
made and attested; and should he presume to alter it,
his life must pay the forfeit.”
Percival eyed him for a moment with extreme scorn,
and asked, “What is the meaning of this artifice, sir?”
“It is no trick,” replied Wilson; and he handed him
a letter from Mr. Townsend, and another from the lawyer
who had written the will.
The young gentleman to whom they were addressed,
had too much pride to think of such a father-in-law with
very romantic ideas concerning love; and he was by no
means pleased with the business air of this transaction.
He thought of affection, as some people think of religion,
that it could not be genuine, unless it came upon him at
once with irresistible power; and however apocryphal
his creed might be, the white-robed vision he had that
evening seen, tended not a little to confirm it.
After one or two impatient strides across the room,
he stopped suddenly, and said, “A wife is not to be
bought and sold like your southern slaves; nor are my
affections like a garment, to be put on and off as interest
may dictate. My uncle must dispose of his money as
he chooses. I trust to my own energies. Good evening,
sir.”
“Stop, I beg of you,” said Wilson earnestly. “Do
not decide till you have seen Gertrude. I am a wretch,
and you know it; but she has been kept from all the
pollutions of this tempting world, and has grown up in
the convent of St. Vallier, as pure, as lovely, and as
elegant as the proudest lady in the land.”
“Is she—is she a novitiate at St. Vallier's?” eagerly
inquired Percival.
“She is; and how deeply soever I may have plunged
into guilt, nobody can say that I have not been to her all
that I should be. It is impressed upon my mind that I
shall not live long. No matter whether I am a fool for
believing it or not. When I am gone, she will be left
beautiful and wealthy, an easy prey to the sharper or
the sensualist. Your character is all that I wish my
over, if you were her protector.”
“But,” said Percival, crimsoning to the very temples,
“even if she is all I hope, she is—illegitimate.”
Mr. Wilson drew his breath hard, in the agony of his
spirit; after a pause, he replied, “I was the husband of
her mother. Sit down, young man, and I will tell you
all; though it is a subject on which I never meant to
speak to mortal man. I was once as proud as you are;
and perhaps with as much reason. The world prophesied
my success in life, and considered me a master-spirit,
born to sway my fellows. With a gentleman and
a scholar I still have some touches of my former spirit;
but I will say no more on that point. In my best days,
I won the heart of a beautiful young creature, the
daughter of a miserable, half-crazed woman in Halifax.
I was aristocratic then,—and it was long before I could
bring myself to think of marriage with one so much my
inferior. However, her confiding fondness gained upon
my affections, and I finally made a sort of half atonement
by a private marriage.” He stopped, and his
whole frame shuddered. “It must be told,” continued
he. “Captain Fitzherbert was then in port. He was
too handsome, and too attentive to my young wife.
Gertrude knew it gave me uneasiness; but conscious of
her innocence, and loving to exert her power, she continued
as gay and as free as ever. Day after day passed
in this manner, till she became a mother. Fitzherbert
dared to reproach me for my ungenerous conduct; and
Gertrude, after having besought me, with tearful eyes,
friend in the world but Fitzherbert. Maddened to insupportable
jealousy, I....stabbed her.” From different
causes, both were silent for a long time; and the
convulsed features of Wilson alone betrayed his agitation.
“She was innocent,” he added; “and here—
here,” pressing his hand upon his heart, “her memory
`biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.'
After that dreadful deed, I never cared what became of
me. I have been a drunkard, a pirate, and a ruffian;—
but a father still.”
He wrung Percival's hand with desperate energy, as
he spoke, and the tears started to his eyes. There was
an air of majesty about him, fallen as he was, that found
its way to the young man's heart. When he first spoke
of his crime, Percival could not restrain a loathing expression
of hatred and horror; but now he turned to
the window to conceal how much he had been affected
by such deep and frenzied remorse.
When the conversation was again resumed, Wilson
said, “For a few weeks the infant Gertrude was in the
hands of her grandmother; but I could not trust the
sweet little being, now doubly dear for her murdered
mother's sake, in the care of one so low and vicious.
I therefore gave orders that she should be placed at the
hospital of St. Vallier, and that her grandmother should
never be permitted to see her. I gave money enough
to ensure a punctual obedience to my commands, and
departed for the West Indies, where many a bloody
deck has borne witness to my courage and my sins.
so earnestly entreated to come out into the world, and
I have been so entirely unable to make her situation
respectable, that I have forborne to visit her.”
To this frank avowal, Percival replied by reminding
the wretched man that it was never too late to repent
of crime, and to atone for it by a life of usefulness and
piety.
“The best thing you can do,” said he, “is to purchase
some secluded dwelling, to which you can retire
with your daughter, and there forget every thing but the
duties you owe to God and her.”
“It cannot be, young man,” answered Wilson.
“Here on my vitals the vulture will prey forever. Besides,
ought one so young and fair, to be thus buried for
a father's guilt?”
“She will have sufficient wealth to purchase every
luxury,” replied he; “and no doubt she would think the
freedom of such a situation perfect paradise, compared
with her convent.”
“Mr. Percival,” said the father, taking his hand most
fervently, “had I sooner met with one that would have
advised me thus, one whose friendship would have
soothed my tortured soul, I should not have been the
wreck I now am. Alas, how little are the strong in
virtue aware of the cruel temptations and the bitter
misery of a heart willing to return to the paths of rectitude,
if the voice of kindness would but give it welcome
and encouragement.”
With more respect than he had yet evinced, Percival
into money as soon as she came into possession of it,
and to retire to some country unacquainted with his
crimes, where he might fulfil the duties of a citizen and
christian.
“Young man,” exclaimed Wilson, “I forced your
uncle to make a will in my favour; but I protest I am
sorry for it, from the bottom of my soul.”
“If it is the means of reforming one from vice, and
of making another happy, I shall esteem it well bestowed.
I can make a fortune for myself,” rejoined Percival.
“Then you reject the idea of being connected with
such a one as I am?”
Percival then frankly told him of the captivating being
he had seen in the procession of White Nuns, and expressed
his wish to ascertain her character and history.
Full of the belief that the person described was his beloved
daughter, Wilson the next morning applied to the
Lady Abbess for an interview.
The torment of the never dying worm ceased for
a while, when the fair creature clasped him to her heart,
and exclaimed, “Father, dear father.”
“Well, Gertrude,” said he, looking on her with great
affection, “I see you have not taken the black veil.”
“Oh, no. Did you think I ever could?”
“Then you still wish to go out and look upon the gay
world?”
“I think,” said the young novitiate, with a deep sigh,
“that I should come back here more contented, if I
could go away for a few years.”
Smiling at casuistry dictated by the heart, her father
answered, “I mean that you shall return to New England
with me, my love.”
Gertrude clasped her hands, with an exclamation of
joy.
Her father smiled and left the room. When he returned
with Mr. Percival, animation was still glowing on
her fine features.
Both blushed deeply, when they were introduced;
for each remembered having seen the other, the preceding
evening.
Mr. Wilson eagerly watched their countenances, and
saw that all was as he wished. It was the first moment
of pure enjoyment he had known for years; and he felt
then as if he had strength to be all that his unsuspecting
child believed him.
During the general conversation that followed, guilelessness
of thought and childlike simplicity of manner
completed the conquest, which beauty had begun.
The hours in which novitiates were allowed to receive
visiters having expired, both bade Gertrude farewell,
with a promise to call again the ensuing morning.
The Abbess said that her young favourite was
strangely bewildered during that day. She failed to
respond to the “Dominus vobiscum” of the priest, and
the hymn which she had daily sung to the Holy Mother
for many years, escaped from her memory.
The interview terminated much as Percival had
hoped, and even expected. Perhaps had he not believed
the heiress of his uncle and the stately devotee
in the arrangements of Mr. Wilson. We must admit
that on his way to the convent, he conjectured whether,
in case of a disappointment, he could not prove his uncle's
will to have been obtained by force, without risking
the life of the poor old man. “If Wilson is disposed
to be virtuous,” thought he, “surely a handsome legacy
is sufficient to give his daughter honourable support, and
to keep him from temptation.”
Very different ideas occupied his mind as he returned.
He gazed on the monastery as long as its towering roof
could be discerned. “How glad I am,” thought he,
“that I met her as I did. I could not have been in
love, had I known that it was expected of me.”
As for Mr. Wilson, it was the happiest day he had
known since his youth; but when he retired to rest, he
felt a sort of uneasy, reluctant wish to palliate his own
crime,—and he could not help murmuring, “She does
look cursedly like Fitzherbert.”
Necessary business detained the father and lover a
few weeks, which no doubt passed rapidly and delightfully
enough. Every thing that Percival heard of Gertrude
from the Abbess and nuns, strengthened the impressions
he had received.
With many a sigh, and many a bitter tear, the unsophisticated
girl bade adieu to the sisterhood; (for the
ties of habit are not easily burst asunder; especially
when formed in seclusion, and rivetted by daily kindness;)
and though they said they only wept at giving her
strong current of natural affection.
When the bride and bridegroom stood before the altar
in the church where they first met, it was said the
priest had never united a lovelier couple. Percival was
somewhat in the Adonis style of beauty,—and might
perhaps have been charged with effeminacy, had not a
highly arched nose, and a general loftiness of expression,
redeemed him from the imputation.
Gertrude was as stately as the Juno of Titian; and
had the same vivid glow of life, and health, and beauty.
These charms were certainly heightened by pearl-coloured
damask, and Brussels lace, closely fitted to
her majestic from; but they were by no means her
surest hold upon the affections of her high-minded husband.
Accustomed from her earliest youth to an implicit
obedience to a superior, whom she fondly loved, she
had acquired a most charming ductility of character;
and now that she was to be introduced to a world, of
which she was so totally ignorant, she peculiarly felt the
need of some guiding hand. To her husband, therefore,
she looked for support and encouragement, with
all the winning deference of woman's gentlest and most
exclusive affection.
| CHAP. X. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution | |