CHATEAU DE ROSSILLON.
In the year 1828, three years after the occurrences related in the last chapter, Adèle Dubois, grown into a superb beauty, stood near the Aphrodite fountain, in front of the chateau de Rossillon, feeding from her hand a beautiful white fawn. It was a warm, sunny afternoon in June. Majestic trees shaded the green lawn, and the dark brown hue of the old chateau formed a fitting background for the charming tableau. Adèle was enveloped in a cloud of white gauzy drapery, a black velvet girdle encircling her waist, fastened by a clasp of gold and pearls. Her hair was laid in smooth bands over her brow, then drawn into one mass of heavy braids upon the back of the head, and secured by a golden arrow shot through it.
One who by chance had seen Adèle in the wilds of Miramichi, at the age of sixteen, would at once recognize the lady feeding the fawn as the same. At a second glance, the hair would be seen to have grown a shade darker and a gleam more shining, the large sloe-colored eyes more thoughtful and dreamy, the complexion of a more transparent whiteness, and the figure to have ripened into a fuller and richer symmetry.
Nothing could surpass the exquisite moulding and fairness of the arm extended alternately to feed and caress the pet animal before her. No wonder the little creature looked up at her with its soft, almost human eyes, and gazed in her face, as if half bewildered by her beauty.
With a proud and stately grace, she moved over the sward, up the marble steps and passed through the great saloon of the chateau. Was there not a slight air of indifference and ennui in her face and movements? Possibly. It has been noticed that people who are loved, petted, and admired, who have plenty of gold and jewels, who sit at feasts made for princes, and have the grand shine of splendor always gleaming round them, are more likely to carry that weary aspect, than others. Queens even do not look pleased and happy more than half the time. The fact was, that Adèle of Miramichi, having spent much time in Paris, during the last three years, where she had been greatly admired, now that the novelty was over, had become tired of playing a part in the pageantry of courtly life and longed for something more substantial.
As she crossed the saloon, a page informed her that Mrs. Dubois wished her presence in the library. She immediately obeyed the summons.
This apartment, one of the pleasantest in the chateau, was a favorite with the Count; and as age and infirmity crept upon him, he grew more and more attached to it, and was accustomed to spend there the greater part of his time, amused and soothed by the attentions of Mrs. Dubois and Adèle. It was a lofty, but not very large apartment, the walls nearly covered with bookcases of oak, carved in quaint old patterns and filled with choice books in various languages. Several finely executed statues were placed in niches, and one large picture, by Rubens, gathered a stream of sunshine upon its gorgeous canvas.
The Count was sitting, buried in the purple cushions of an easy-chair, fast asleep, and as Adèle entered the room, her mother held up her finger, warningly.
"Ma chère", said Mrs. Dubois, in a low tone, "here is a packet of letters for you, from Paris".
Adèle took them from her mother's hand, indifferently. She read and crushed together a note bearing the impression of a coat of arms.
"Count D'Orsay and sister wish to come here next week", she said, with a half sigh.
"Eh, bien! ma chère, they are agreeable people. I shall be glad to see them".
"Yes", replied Adèle, "Gabrielle is very lovely. Nevertheless, I regret they are coming".
"Do you know, Adèle, how highly your father esteems the young Count?"
"Yes, mamma, and that is one reason why I do not wish him to come now to Rossillon. You know he loves me, and my father approves. I can never marry him. But I esteem and respect him so much, that it will give me infinite pain to say nay".
Mrs. Dubois looked at Adèle very tenderly, yet gravely, and said, "Ma fille, do not throw away a true, devoted affection, for the sake of a phantom one. I fear that, while you are dreaming and waiting, happiness will slip out of your path".
"Dreaming and waiting", repeated Adèle, a slight red color kindling on her cheek, "am I dreaming and waiting?"
"It seems to me you are, ma chère; I fear it will at last spoil your peace. I do not see how the Count D'Orsay can fail to win your heart. Do not decide hastily, Adèle".
"I have considered the affair a long time already. I have looked into my heart and find nothing there, for Count D'Orsay, but simple respect, esteem, and friendship. It would be a wrong to him, should I consent to marry him, without a warmer, deeper sentiment. It is of no use thinking about it longer. The subject must be closed. I know I shall not change, and his affection is too true and pure to be tampered with. I shall tell him all frankly next week".
"Eh, bien!" said Mrs. Dubois, with a sigh, and returned to her letters.
Adèle, who felt quite unhappy to disappoint her mother's hopes in the case, looked thoughtful. They were both silent for several minutes.
"Here is a letter from the good missionary", suddenly whispered Mrs. Dubois, holding up to her daughter several sheets of large paper, well covered. "See what a nice long one. Now we shall hear the news from our old home".
She began to read the missive in a low tone, looking occasionally to see if her voice disturbed the sleeper, and Adèle, whose countenance had instantly brightened upon the mention of the letter, drew her seat nearer to her mother and listened intently.
MIRAMICHI RIVER, APRIL, 1828.
DEAR FRIENDS—
I am again on the memorable spot. You can scarcely imagine my interest in retracing the scene of my brief mission here, in the summer and autumn of 1825, or the deep emotion with which I revisit your former residence, the house under whose roof you so kindly sheltered and entertained one, then exiled, like yourselves, from home. I shall ever rejoice that Providence threw me into your society, and bestowed upon me the precious gift of your friendship.
Three years have passed since those eventful weeks we spent together, on the banks of this beautiful river, and you will be interested to know what changes have taken place here during that time.
Traces are still distinctly visible of the awful fire, but Time, the great healer of wounds, and Nature, who is ever striving to cover up the desolations of earth, are both at work, silently but diligently overlaying the hideous black disfigurement with greenness and beauty. The Miramichi and its picturesque precincts are now more alive than ever, with a hardy and active population. New villages are springing up on the banks of the river, and business, especially in the branches of lumbering and fishing, is greatly increasing. There is also a marvellous change in the moral aspect of the country. It is ascribed in a great degree to the deep impression made upon the minds of the people by the conflagration, and doubtless this is the fact. It must be that God had a retributory end in view in that great event. It was a judgment upon the community for its exceeding wickedness. Nothing short of a grand, widespread illumination like that, could have penetrated the gross darkness that hung over the land.
The way has been thus prepared for the reception of the truth; and whereas formerly the people, if they came at all to hear the preaching of God's word, were only drawn by motives of vain curiosity, or the desire of novelty, they now come in great numbers and with a sincere desire, as I believe, to be instructed in the way of salvation. Last year, I came to this region early in the spring and labored until late in the autumn, preaching up and down the river, from house to house and from grove to grove, and found the people, almost everywhere, ready to hear. Many were baptized in the flowing waters of the Miramichi, made a profession of their faith in Christ, and have since exhibited in their daily lives, good and in some cases shining evidence of their sincerity.
You may perhaps be interested to know that yesterday, which was the Sabbath, I discoursed, as in days gone by, in Micah's Grove. The people came in from a great distance around, and it was estimated that there were not less than eight hundred present.
My soul was completely filled with a sense of God's unbounded love to the human family, and my heart was enlarged to speak of the wonderful things belonging to His goodness and mercy towards us, as a race. I was like a bottle filled with new wine, my heart overflowing with the remembrance of God's love. Conviction was carried in a most signal manner to the souls of many present. The whole assembly seemed for a time to be overshadowed by the immediate Divine presence.
It is remarkable, that though the people do at the present time seem to be under profound religious impressions, yet there are scarcely any traces of the delusion and wildfire usually accompanying such seasons, among a somewhat uncultivated and undisciplined population. That great fire sobered them, perhaps.
But, my dear friends, I know you are impatient to hear some details respecting the state of affairs at the "Dubois Settlement", so called from the grateful attachment felt by the inhabitants for a distinguished family once residing there. The new people who have established themselves here of late, are acquainted with the family just alluded to, of course only by tradition, but so deep has been the impression made upon the minds of the new comers, by Mrs. McNab, Micah Mummychog, and others, of the worth, benevolence, power, and present grandeur of said family, that these persons are more than willing, they feel honored in retaining the name of Dubois in this parish. The above is written, to elucidate to your minds the fact, obvious enough here, that you are not forgotten.
Now, you will wish to hear what has befallen some of the queer notabilities of the Settlement. By courtesy, I begin with Mrs. McNab. You will remember her, as the general oracle and adviser of a certain portion of the female population in the neighborhood, and as greatly opposed to some of the "doctreenes", as she called my instructions to the people. Well, she remains in her entireness and individuality, her costume as grotesque and her speech as Scotch as ever.
You will be surprised, however, to learn that she has a far more favorable opinion of your humble servant than formerly. I have had some difficulty in accounting for this change in her disposition. It seems, however, that she had early taken a prejudice against Yankees, and had got an idea, in the beginning, that I had some wily and sinister intentions toward the people, connected with my labors here. No developments of that kind having been made, she began to look more complacently upon my efforts, and she thinks now that the way in which I have endeavored to lead the community, is not so bad after all.
"The warst thing I had agen ye, was this", she said to me not long since. "My meenister o' the Kirk at Dumfries used to preach that a pusson, might repent o' his sins, an' pray and pray a' his life lang, but wad nae ken, in this warld, whether or nae he was to be saved. Whereas, ye ken ye told the people that ef they repented o' their sins and believed in Christ and gave the evidence o' gude warks they might settle right doon, and ken they'd be saved, anyhow. I ca' that a peskalent doctreen, an a loose ane to promoolgate. Though I must confess, ye hae na dune the meeschief I luked for".
I did not think it best to go into a discussion of our theological differences, lest it should stir up the waters of strife, and therefore waived the subject.
Mrs. McNab occupies two comfortable rooms at Mrs. Campbell's house, from whence she issues forth, whenever occasion calls, to perform the duties of nurse, counsellor, and supervisor-general of the domestic affairs of the community. The tea-drinkings in her parlor seem to be occasions of great social enjoyment to the fortunate neighbors invited. After the regular gossip of the day has been discussed, she entertains her company with the same old stories of her former life in Scotland, among its grand families, and to these she has added, for the benefit of those who have more recently come into the Settlement, accounts of the "Doobyce" family, characterizing its members by remarking, that "Mr. Doobyce was a braw, princely mon, his wife a sweet, fair spoken leddy, an' Miss Ady was a born queen, ef there ever was ane. She had her ane way wi' everybody, an' e'en I mysel' hae gien up to her, whiles".
Micah Mummychog, alias Jones, Miss Adèle's special devotee, never a bad-hearted person, has now become one of the influential men of the neighborhood, and sustains here every good word and work. About a year after the great fire, he had a long and dangerous illness, brought on by great exposure to cold while lumbering in the woods.
Mrs. McNab voluntarily went to his house and took care of him most assiduously, for many weeks, until his recovery. Micah said, that "it looked remarkable kind in the old soul to come of her own accord and take keer of him, when he'd allers plagued her so unmascifully".
He felt very grateful to her and paid her handsomely for her services. Nevertheless, he teases her yet occasionally and says "he dont know neow, which skeered him most, the great fire, or comin' to his senses one night when he was sick, and seein' Aunt McNab with her head wropped up in its cotton night gear".
Subsequent to Micah's recovery, he went to the Kennebec River and visited his friends. After his return, he commenced trading, and is now doing quite an extensive business. He has entirely broken off from his old habits of swearing and gambling, and discountenances them among the people. He attends religious worship constantly, and sets a worthy example in keeping the Sabbath day.
He is also getting his ideas up on the subject of education. Not long since, he told me it was his opinion that "there warn't half school larnin' enuf among the people, and there'd oughter to be longer schools. There's Jinny Campbell, there, a bright leetle imp as ever was, and ef she'd had a chance would a taken to her books, like a chicken to a dough dish. And there's others, most as smart as she is, all reound, that need schoolin'. I feel the want of it myself, neow its tew late to git it".
A few days ago, Micah told me he expected to build a new house for himself soon.
"Ah! Micah", said I, "have you got tired of that comfortable old house of yours, where we have had so many nice suppers and cosey times together?"
"Well, no, Captin'; I hain't, and I'm afeerd I shall never like another place as I dew that. But ye see, ef a feller is a goin' to git merried, he's got to stir reound and dew what suits other folks as well as hisself".
"Married! Micah", I said, in complete astonishment, "are you going to be married?"
"That's jest the way I expected yeou'd look", said he, "when I told ye abeout it, because ye knew I used to talk agin it, like fury. But ye see, Captin'; I aint just as I used to be, abeout some things. I'll tell ye heow it came reound, any heow, so as to sahtisfy ye I ain't crazy. Well, when I was a beginnin' to git better o' that terable sickness, the fust and only one I ever had in my life, Miss Campbell, she used to send Jinny up, with bits o' briled chicken, nice broth and sech, to kinder tempt my appetite like. The little critter used to bring 'em in and be so pitiful to me and say, do Micah try to eat this, so that you may git well; and she seemed so pooty, sincere and nateral like in all her ways, that I took to her mightily, specially as I hadn't Miss Adèle to look arter and chore reound for, any more. Once or twice, when she came to bring suthin, Ant McNab kinder advised her to do this and that, and the way the leetle critter spunked up and had her own way, made me think o' Miss Adèle and pleased me some, I tell ye.
"Well, arter I got well, she seemed to be just as chipper and pleasant as ever, and was allers glad when I went to the heouse, and so it went on (I won't bother abeout the rest on't) till six months ago. As I was a walkin' hum from a meetin' at the Grove with her, she sed, 'what a pooty Grove that is, of yours, Micah;' Witheout a considerin' a half a minit, I sed, right away, 'Jinny, I'd give yeou that Grove and all I have beside, upon one condition.' I looked at her, arter I'd sed it, as skeered as I could be, fur fear she'd fly right at me, fur sayin' sech a thing. But she didn't. She only colored up awfully and sed, in a fluttered kinder way, 'what condition, Micah?' 'Pon condition that you'd merry me, Jinny.' You may believe that arter I sed that, my heart stood still, better'n a minit. She didn't say a word at fust, seemed ruther took by surprise, and then, all of a sudding, she turned her head and looked up inter my face as sarcy as ye ever see anything, and says she, 'Do yeou think I'd ever merry a man with sech a horrid name as Mummychog?' 'Is that all the objection you hev, Jinny?' ses I. Ses she, ''Tis the greatest, I know of.' Then ses I, 'There ain't no diffikilty, for my name aint Mummychog, and never was. When I came deown to this kentry, I was a wild, reckless kind of a critter, and I thought I'd take some outlandish name, jest for the joke on it. I took Mummychog, and they allers called me so. But my real name is Jones.' 'Well, Mr. Jones,' ses she, lookin' sarcier than ever, 'I shall expect yeou to hev a sign painted with your real name on it and put up on your store, and yeou must build a new heouse before I merry yeou.' That sobered me deown a leetle. I sed, 'But Jinny, I don't want ye to merry me, unless ye like me. I'll build a heouse and gin it tew ye, ef that's what ye want. But ye needn't merry me unless ye like me—neow remember.' She looked at me, jest as soon as I sed that, and caught up my big hand inter her little one, and ses she, 'O law, Micah, I'd merry ye ef yer name was Mummychog, and ye needn't build a heouse, nor nuthin'. I ken go right to the old place jest as well. I'd merry ye ef ye hadn't a cent, for I like ye better'n anybody else in the world, Micah.' And then she began to cry, and I hushed her up. And so, neow it's all settled".
"Well Micah", said I, after hearing this account of his courtship of Jenny Campbell, "I congratulate you on your choice; Jenny is a good girl and a pretty one. But isn't she rather young?"
"Well, yis. I thought yeou'd be speakin' o' that. I'm forty year old and she's abeout eighteen, or so. Consid'able difference in eour ages. I told her abeout that t'other day, and she sed, well she didn't see but I 'peared abeout as young as she did. She didn't see much difference. So ef she's sahtisfied, I'd oughter be. But Captin,' I'll tell ye, she's a curus leetle critter as ever ye see. She has spells of playin' off all kinds o' tricks on me and hectorin' me every way she ken, but the minit she sees me look sober, as ef I felt any way bad, she leaves right off, and comes up and kisses me, and ses she didn't mean anything by it, and is as good as a kitten".
Alas! poor Micah! You see, Miss Adèle, he is in the meshes, and there we must leave him for the present. I have taken pains to give you the above in his own language, as it is so much more graphic than any I could employ.
My letter of Miramichi gossip has, swollen, unconsciously, to an enormous size, and I fear I am getting tedious. Be patient a few minutes longer, dear friends, while I tell you of Mr. John Lansdowne.
I happened in the city of P—— last winter, on business, and just before leaving town I went to call on Mr. Lansdowne. Aunt Esther, Mr. John's nurse, an aged negro woman who has been a member of the household many years, answered my ring at the door. Finding that none of the family were at home, I was turning to leave when Aunt Esther begged me to come in, saying she reckoned they would soon be back, as they had already been several hours absent, adding, good soul, that "they'd all be dreffully disapinted not to see me".
I knew that several months prior to this, Mr. Lansdowne had been admitted to the practice of law and had become junior partner in business, to the distinguished Mr. Eldon of P. And I now gathered from Aunt Esther, that the Supreme Court was in session, and that a great criminal case was being tried before the jury. Mr. Eldon had been taken ill, just before the trial came on, and had urged Mr. Lansdowne to take his place in Court, saying, he could argue the case as well as himself. Mr. John, as Aunt Esther informed me, did it with great reluctance, though she didn't see why. "He always does everything he sets out to do, 'markable nice. But Massa and Missus felt kind of anxious, and they v'e gone into Court, with other gemmen and ladies, to hear how't goes. I feel no concern about it. I know he'll make a splen'id talk, anyhow, cos he always does".
After waiting half an hour, I was obliged to leave messages of regret with Aunt Esther and hasten home.
I observed in "The Eastern Gazette" of the following week, a notice of Mr. Lansdowne's plea before the jury, in the great case of "The Commonwealth vs Jenkins," in which he was eulogized in the highest terms. He was said to have displayed "great acumen, extensive legal acquirements, and magnificent powers of oratory". So, Aunt Esther's confidence, about the "splen'id talk," was not without a reasonable basis.
I was highly gratified, myself, in reading the flattering paragraphs. You know we all greatly admired the young gentleman at Miramichi. He has a brilliant earthly future before him, should his life and faculties be spared.
Micah was much charmed with the intelligence I brought him of his old favorite.
"I ain't a mite surprised at what you v'e sed abeout the young man. Ever sence I took that trip inter the woods with him, I know'd he'd the genooine ring o' trew metal tew him. When he gits to be President o' the United States, I shall sell eout here and go hum to the Kennebec".
Please let me hear from you soon, my dear friends. It seems long since I have had tidings from you.
With an abiding gratitude for past kindness, shown by you to a weary wanderer from home, and with the warmest respect and friendship, I remain as ever,
Yours truly,
SAMUEL J. NORTON.
Mrs. Dubois not having but one pair of eyes, and those being fully occupied with the contents of the above letter, and the Count de Rossillon remaining asleep during the entire reading, of course it could not be expected that they observed the changes that took place on Adèle's countenance. But an author, as is well known, has ways and means of observation not common to others, and here it may be remarked, that that young lady's face, had exhibited, during the last fifteen minutes, or more, quite a variety of emotions. It had at first, been thoughtful and interested, then lighted with smiles, then radiant with enjoyment of the good missionary's sketches of Mrs. McNab and Micah. But the moment her mother read the name of John Lansdowne, her face was suffused with a deep crimson, and she listened almost breathlessly, and with glistening eyes, to the close.
"Oh! the good noble man!" said Mrs. Dubois, as she folded up the sheets. "It will please your father to read this, where is he, Adèle?"
"He rode away with Pierre, not long ago. Please let me take the letter. I must read it again", said Adèle, having conquered her emotion, without her mother perceiving it.
She took it away to her own boudoir, and as she read the pages, the flowing tears fell fast. Why should she weep over such a cheerful letter as that? Why?