University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

—Shak. As You Like It.

If the Baron Montaigne was not a little delighted at the safe
arrival of his daughter, he was scarcely less so with the reflection
that her rescue had been achieved by the count, upon whom he now
looked as her affianced husband. The exploit in a military point
of view also gratified his vanity; and renewing the remembrance
of his own masterly escape, afforded him a double source of
triumph.

“You have done most nobly, sir count,” he said, when on the
same evening they conversed alone on the subject; “you have
snatched Blanche from the very paws of the British lion: you tell
me there was an attempt to arrest her as a prisoner of state?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Carlton, who had heard the story repeated:
“yes, sir, on the very morning after my messenger, the Lynx,
brought her out of the city; I had warned him to lose no time; I
had told him of the danger; I had instructed him to hasten back
to the camp, and he came off with her in the night, sir; yes, sir, the
next morning would have been too late: yes, sir,—yes, out of the
very paws of the lion—it is a very pretty thought.”

“They reached your camp, then, the same night, I presume,”
remarked Montaigne.

“A—a—not precisely: we had started forward a little, finding
our position not quite safe, and left word for them to follow: they
overtook us.”

“Yes—yes—” said the baron, wonderingly.

“Yes—out of the paws of the Lion—very pretty, indeed—yes,
that's precisely where she was,” added Carlton, anxious to divert the
dangerous attack of minute questions.

“They had discovered her name and rank, it seems; perhaps
they had even heard of this affair of Seabury, which would, of course,
exasperate them; but no matter: she is safe at home now, thanks to
your vigilance and valor, my friend, and we may now snap our
fingers at our Southern foes. The details of your report I will
receive at some other time, when we are both less excited and more
at leisure.”

So strong had been the baron's prepossessions in favor of the
count, created by his pleasing manners, and by the Marquis Vaudreuil's
representations, and so fully had this impression been confirmed
by the success of the recent expedition, that it would have
been no easy matter to change or shake his views. Nor was any
such labor directly attempted. Rumors, indeed, were soon afloat,
well calculated to wither the laurels of the hero, and to transfer the
whole weight of his honors to other hands, leaving to him the
inglorious substitute of ridicule and contempt; but they did not
reach the ears of Montaigne, precisely because there was no one
whose peculiar duty it was to bear them, or who was willing to
communicate unwelcome tidings to a haughty and opinionated man.
The general voice had, indeed, accorded the credit of once saving
the party from destruction, and again from a most hazardous
engagement with the Iroquois, to the mysterious hunter who had
joined them on the way; and even Carlton was compelled to
acquiesce in this statement, after some futile attempts to evade its
force.

The Lynx and Algonquin tarried but briefly at the castle on the

day of their arrival, being prompted, both by their domestic and
clannish feelings, to mingle first with their own people, and enjoy a
breathing spell of repose, where they could recount their achievements,
and exhibit the baron's munificent presents in proof of his
approbation. They preferred to leave to Blanche the task of
unmasking her pretended champion at such time and place as she
should deem fit, little imagining how wide an interval separated the
parent and child, unbridged by any familiar or confidential intercourse.
Besides this, the extreme respect paid to rank in that age
had secured to the count a strong party among the adherents of
Montaigne, both civilized and savage, and the four soldiers who had
formed part of his command were entirely subservient to him; so
that, fixed already in the baron's prepossessions, and propped by
such accessaries, he who attempted rashly to shake his position, might
only succeed in jeoparding his own.

The disguised Henrich accompanied the Lynx to his quarters,
being warned by his friend that it might be unsafe to expose himself
at once to the wrath of the count, and the easily excited suspicions
of Montaigne, during the plentitude of the former's power and
influence. It would, at least, the Indian urged, be prudent to
withdraw for a few days, until the sentiments of the baron could be
sounded, and until Carlton had unwittingly accorded to Huntington,
in his assumed character, that credit for his achievements which he
would never concede to an acknowledged enemy. Henrich readily
anticipated the character of the charges which would be likely to be
adduced against him by a man to whom he had thrown defiance but
a few days previous, and how apt a listener Montaigne would prove
to any accusation involving the crimes of insubordination or mutiny
against his own delegated authority. If these offences, exaggerated
by a malignant ingenuity, should not be deemed sufficient to annul
the debt of gratitude due to the chivalrous youth, there was yet
another, in his conjectured aspiration for the hand of Miss Montaigne,
which would more than cancel the whole remaining score of credit.

Blanche, indeed, understood Huntington's withdrawal from the
precincts of the castle to be only for the purpose of a re-transforma-tion
to his proper semblance, and that he would on the ensuing day,
at the farthest, return, accompanied by his Indian friends, to receive
the meed of applause which was so justly his due, and to become her
father's honored guest for whatever time he chose to continue his
abode in New France. She knew nothing of his quarrel with
Carlton, or of the great reason which he had to dread the count's
resentment, and if she had at all suspected the views and apprehensions
which actuated him in departing with the Lynx, a sense of
justice would have impelled her to fly to her father, reveal the whole
story, and secure, at least, his protection and hospitality for her
friend.

It was an unhappy error growing out of a singularly complex
state of influences and the want of opportunity for counsel or concert
of action between the pretended Beaver and those who were
cognisant of his real character. Had the latter at once declared the
whole story of Henrich's heroism, and his wrongs, and promptly and
unitedly denounced the count's injustice and cowardice, there would
have been some reason to hope that the baron might prove a just
and impartial listener; but delay and indecision weakened their
cause, and proportionably strengthened that of their common
adversary.

If other excuse is wanting for Blanche's remissness, it will be
found in the sense of maidenly delicacy which forbade her manifesting
too deep an interest in Henrich, and in the exciting emotions
incident to an arrival at her new home, and a first interview with
those near yet dreaded relatives who had so long occupied a
prominent position in her thoughts.

The Baroness Montaigne was a woman of about forty years, of
tall and comely figure, and with a countenance which only its olive
hue would prevent an European taste from pronouncing handsome.
Her features were nearly regular, and her face was entirely void of

that inelegant prominence of the cheek bones, so common to her
race, while in her well shaped mouth, with its unimpaired treasures,
in her black eyes and hair, and in her smooth broad forehead there
was much to attract admiration. She was dressed neatly, in the
fashion of the age, spoke the French language intelligibly, although
with many inaccuracies, and but for a subdued and timid demeanor,
would have manifested no little dignity of deportment.

Blanche was both astonished and relieved to find her so little
repulsive in appearance: she addressed her with frankness and
courtesy, expressed a sincere pleasure at meeting her, and was by her
presented, in turn, to Myrtle, who, standing like a startled fawn at
her side, seemed only to restrain herself by an effort from running
away. If Miss Montaigne had been pleased before, she was now
unspeakably delighted; Myrtle, whose striking charms, both of
face and figure, have been described, was dressed in white, and wore
a few simple ornaments, and her soft black eyes were moist with
emotion, and her glossy raven hair, hanging in natural curls, trembled
around her cheek and neck and shoulders, as she received in silence
the sisterly kiss of Blanche.

What were the forest maiden's thoughts in that moment of
agitation it would not be difficult to conjecture. She had never
before seen a European lady, and she knew, as she gazed at her fair
relative, that her own more sombre charms were in every way outshone.
The entire novelty to her perceptions, of that variety of beauty
which she now beheld, added to its value in her estimation; a
white transparent skin, tinted with roseate rays which seemed rather
to shine through than to dwell upon its surface; eyes of blue,
eloquent with a thousand varying expressions; soft silken hair,
which seemed to change its hue with the changing light, and yet
was ever beautiful, these were strange and enchanting charms to
Myrtle, who possessed an apt appreciation of elegance, and under
other circumstances, would never have wearied of gazing upon
them.

But they were associated now with mournful thoughts, for she
had long looked forward to Blanche's coming with a sad presentiment
that she was to prove her successful rival for the affections of
one who however unworthy of regard, did not seem so to her. She
had seen only the bright and dazzling side of Carlton's character, and,
despite her already bitter experience, would not believe in its dark
reverse. Was he faithless to her? She had erred in ever supposing
that he regarded her other than as the playmate of a day—the
little sister of his future brilliant bride. What madness indeed in
her to compete with the magnificent Blanche, for the heart of a
man of taste, talents, and fashion! Alas it was but a delusion, into
which, in her simplicity and ignorance she had fallen, and from
which, now only, she was fully though roughly awakened.

Such were Myrtle's thoughts, and little need be the wonder that
it was with no light or buoyant spirits that she received the greetings
of Miss Montaigne. But she entertained no unkindly feelings
towards her: she had hoped, unconsciously, guilelessly, that Blanche
might not prove to be endowed with extraordinary personal attractions,
but this hope had vanished, and with it, for the time, almost
every other. She knew that her father designed his elder daughter
for the bride of Carlton, for she had listened with mournful heart to
his own declarations of such a purpose, and had heard with forced
calmness, and even with smiles, the often repeated details of his
plans and expectations in regard to it.

Miss Montaigne, meanwhile, most fortunately for her own peace
of mind suspected nothing of Myrtle's sentiments either towards the
count or herself. She gazed upon the sweet sad face of her sister,
and thought it was seclusion and solitude alone which had given her
an air and habit of melancholy, for she did not reflect that when
positive grief withholds its leaden load from the heart, there is an
internal melody and beauty ever upspringing from its mysterious
depths, imparting to all things their harmony and brightness. How
deep and intricate a thing is that human heart! How little can the

eye discover upon its faithless dial—the face—of its inner workings,
of those subtle and involved emotions, which, ever impervious to
another's gaze, often defy even its own analyzation! Worlds of
wearying misapprehensions, of groundless suspicions, and tangled
errors of every kind lie hidden in its darkened vaults—but, thanks to
Heaven! worlds, too, of generous and gentle affections, of unknown
truth, and charity, and love, viewless to man, but plainly visible
to Him who formed its labyrinthine halls.

Ignorance of Myrtle's sentiments was not the only immunity
which Miss Montaigne unconsciously enjoyed, and of which she was
soon to be deprived, for she was equally unaware of any serious
design on the part of her father to bestow her own hand upon
Carlton. Of the count's wishes in that respect she was not wholly
unsuspicious, for he had found time, even amidst the excitement and
perils of their voyage, to pay such marked addresses to his fair
charge as scarcely admitted of misconstruction. These, however, she
supposed, if sincere, would soon reach a point which would admit
of their suppression, little imagining that they were to be supported
by the full weight of parental sanction and authority, nay, that
her whole change from her trans-Atlantic life to the western world
had been made with a direct reference to this very event.