University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

—Shak. Two Gentlemen of Verona.

A few days sufficed to enlighten Blanche in regard to her situation;
for the baron was a man direct in all his movements, seeking
no subterfuges, and who had been too long supreme in his little
forest-realm to fear opposition to his designs. There were reasons,
too, connected with his schemes for political advancement, which
induced him, not only to desire an alliance with Carlton, but that it
should take place immediately; for it would connect him more
intimately with the Marquis Vaudreuil, whose growing age and
infirmities induced him to contemplate resigning his office as Viceroy
of New France, and whose long and valuable services to his country
almost entitled him to name a successor to his post. The count's
direct influence at court, also, it was supposed, would not be inconsiderable,
especially when he had returned to Paris with his fair
bride, and with the reputation, magnified tenfold by rumor, of having
rescued her from captivity, by a series of exploits unexcelled in
the annals of chivalry.

“You are thrice fortunate, my Blanche,” said the baron, when, a
few days after the return of the party, he conversed with his daughter,
alone; “you have not only triumphed over the English and the
Iroquois, but if I can read signs aright, you have achieved still another

victory, scarcely less important: Count Carlton has not left you in
ignorance, I presume, of an admiration which he has already freely
expressed to me.”

Blanche slightly colored as she replied: “The count, like most of
his countrymen, deals much in compliments, and Emily and myself
have, I believe, no reason to complain of not having received our
share at his hands.”

“I am much deceived if he is not prepared to offer you the
highest compliment which a gentleman can pay to a lady,” answered
Montaigne; “and must congratulate you on such a prospect; I
need not, of course, remind you that his proposals will do us great
honor, and that you will be able, at your wish, to exchange this no
doubt dreaded wilderness for the gaieties of Parisian life.”

“I have no such ambition, I assure you, my father,” replied
Blanche, with a serious air; “the wilderness has no terrors for me,
nor Paris any temptations; I have long been separated from you,
and should be unfilial, indeed, to wish so soon again to leave you.”

“That shall you not, if such is your desire, my child,” responded
the baron, with a gleam of kindness inspired by her remark, and by
the elevated position in which he was already accustoming himself
to view her; “the Countess Carlton shall always find a home here
while she desires it—yet I do not doubt you will at least gladly visit
Paris for a wedding trip.”

“You misunderstand me still,” answered Blanche, with a sweet
smile; for as yet she knew nothing of the iron will of her parent,
nor of the unbending strength of his resolution; “it would be folly
to refuse an offer before it is made, but if you are really cognizant of
any such design of the count, I beg you will dissuade him from
it; it will save him some mortification, and me much embarrassment.”

“What is it that you mean?” exclaimed the baron, severely, and
with vast astonishment,—“but I perceive—I perceive—you wish to
avoid a personal eclaircissement and to have it all arranged between

your lover and myself; you are right, after all; it is the more dignified
way, and not unusual among people of rank.”

“Why will you misunderstand me—father?” replied Blanche, hesitatingly,
yet rising, and advancing a step nearer to him as she spoke;
“I do not like Count Carlton: I have given him no encouragement,
and wish to be spared from openly refusing him; I repeat I do not
like him, and never shall.”

Montaigne's countenance no longer expressed surprise, or anger,
or any violent emotion; the cold serenity of command had settled
upon his features, and for aught of feeling evinced, they might have
been marble lips which now replied to the young lady:

“You are unfortunate,” he said, “in not fancying a man, who
within a fortnight at the farthest, will be your husband.”

So saying, he withdrew, once more the stern and stately man
whom Blanche had beheld at the hotel in Ostend, all the slight
relentings of his gelid heart again congealed, and betokening that its
winter was finally set in.

Miss Montaigne stood for a moment awed by the words and
manner of the baron, and nearly bewildered by her conflicting emotions.
She had hailed with ecstasy the first traits of seeming
tenderness which he had exhibited towards her, had treasured the
memory of his welcoming kiss on the day of her arrival, and had
begun to look forward with fond hope to a full return of that affection,
which she still entertained for him—the result of early instruction,
and of habitually exercised duty, through the long years of her
secluded life. This dream was suddenly dispelled; these hopes
were dashed, and her own perhaps unnecessary rashness had checked
this flowing stream of kindness. Pained chiefly by this reflection,
she scarcely thought of the real danger which impended over her;
for she still did not believe that her father was capable of a resort to
coercion to obtain her assent to a marriage with the count, although
she well knew the facilities for despotic power which he possessed.

But, as she reflected, her misgivings increased. Neither Huntington

nor the Lynx had yet returned to the castle, and their delay,
which had before been simply a matter of wonder, now created
serious uneasiness. She feared that her father, of whose discernment
she had the most exalted idea, had already penetrated Henrich's
disguise, and even his sentiments towards herself; and that this
discovery had been followed by the summary banishment of her
friend from the country. If she dismissed these apprehensions, she
yet reflected with sad forebodings on the probable reception Huntington
would meet, upon his arrival, which might be hourly expected.
How inopportune was the time for his coming! How surely would
her father's suspicions be at once aroused and his ire excited!
Herself laboring under his disfavor, she felt painfully conscious that
any representations which she could make in Henrich's behalf would
be comparatively ineffectual, and that even their Indian friends in
lauding their young ally must proclaim their own insubordination,
which alone had placed him in a condition to aid them, and thus
materially lessen their influence with Montaigne. She even thought
with shame that their delay in re-appearing at the castle might be
occasioned by a pusillanimous fear of her father's censure for the
clandestine act which had enabled Huntington, unknown to the
count, to continue a member of his party; and in whatever light she
viewed the subject, she saw the deepest cause for regret that there
had been any delay in an explanation, the hazard of which, whatever
it might have been at the time of their arrival, was now tenfold
increased.

The baron, meanwhile, had passed from the presence of his
daughter directly to that of Carlton, whom, with no circumlocution,
he informed both of Blanche's sentiments, and of his own intentions
to disregard them; inquiring at the same time if Carlton was
conscious of any cause which could have produced so unexpected a
result. The chagrined count was not backward in alleging a reason
which, while it salved his wounded vanity, would, he well knew,
strengthen the baron's resolution.

“Prepossessions, my lord baron, prepossessions are the trouble,”
he said: “and I regret to say, for a very unworthy object. I had
forborne, out of regard to your feelings, to mention to you, that a
young man, who evidently had the presumption to consider himself
a suitor of Miss Montaigne, accompanied her from New York to
my—a—camp, and continued with us as far as Albany; even there,
I with difficulty succeeded in dismissing him, after the most mutinous
language and conduct towards me. I anticipate your question,”
he continued, observing the signs of wrath which had gathered upon
the baron's brow; “but I did not punish him with death, in consideration
of some services which he was said to have rendered the
ladies and the Lynx in escaping from the city.”

“Perhaps you were right,” responded Montaigne; “and yet I
could wish it had been otherwise. You amaze me beyond expression!
Could my daughter have so far forgotten herself—?”

“Nay, I do not say that she had given him encouragement,”
answered Carlton: “but she seemed fond of his society—conversed
frequently with him, and probably fancies, since his departure, that
she has an affection for him.”

Montaigne seemed much disturbed by this intelligence, into which
he inquired with great minuteness, and afterwards, as his companion
had expected, not only reiterated his resolution as to Blanche's
marriage with the count, but expressed a determination that the
nuptials should be solemnized with very little delay.

“She is a minor,” he said, “and more immature in judgment than
in years; I have the legal and moral right to dispose of her in
marriage, and believe me, sir count, I shall exercise it without
scruple or remorse.”

“Exactly so,” replied Carlton; “Indeed your parental responsibility
for her welfare requires that you should enforce her compliance
with what your riper wisdom approves; it—ah—really becomes a
sort of moral obligation which you are not at liberty to evade,
although it may be a little unpleasant.”

“Not a whit unpleasant, believe me, sir count,” responded
Montaigne: “I have spent my life in overcoming obstacles, of one
kind and another, and never feel more at ease than when one of
these familiar phantoms is blockading my path; I glory in obstacles,
sir, and since Blanche is disposed to rebel, I only regret that she has
not a little more force of will, that the pleasure of subduing it might
be the greater.”

“I fear —”

“Fear nothing!” retorted the baron, emphatically; “go, and
propose to her, but with no school-boy cant of sentiment; speak
your admiration briefly and like a soldier, and tell her that you have
my consent to pay your addresses to her. She is prepared for
your proposition.”