The Hour and the Man Part 47

"It is not that, reverend mother. But I cannot stay here always."

"You will find it a very different thing when you have a companion of your own age, which I hope will be the case very soon. There is a negotiation on foot respecting a sweet girl, every way worthy of being your companion--"

"But, madam, I do not want that--I do not wish for any companion while I am here. I had much rather be alone; but--"

"But you would like to leave us--eh? You would like to be on a plantation, where you could amuse yourself with playing with the little negroes, and driving about the country, and visiting your neighbours two or three times a week?"

Euphrosyne smiled, and plucked a twig to play with.

"You would like," continued the abbess, "to live with accomplished people--to have a fine library, to lie on a couch and read during the hot hours; and to sing gay songs in the piazza in the evening."

Euphrosyne smiled again.

"You would like," the abbess went on, "to dance, night after night, and to make pic-nic parties to the cacao walks, and to the sh.o.r.e. You would like to win over your guardian to let you have your own way in everything: and, to be sure, in comparison with his house, our convent--"

"My guardian!" exclaimed Euphrosyne. "Live at Monsieur Critois'! Oh no!" And she laughed as she went on--

"He would be telling me every day that we should be very good friends.

He would be saying all day long that it was his desire fully to discharge his duty to me. I can hardly help shaking off his hand now, when he strokes my hair: and, if it came to his doing it every morning, we should certainly quarrel. They say Madame Critois never speaks; so I suppose she admires his conversation too much to interrupt it. There she and I should never agree.--Live at my guardian's! Oh no!"

"You were thinking of some other house while I was describing your guardian's, my dear. What were you thinking of? Where would you live?"

Euphrosyne plucked another twig, having pulled the first to pieces. She smiled again, blushed, and said she would tell her reverend mother very soon what home she was thinking of: she could not tell to-day; but in a little while--

"In the meantime," said the abbess, with a scrutinising gaze,--"in the meantime, I conclude Father Gabriel knows all that is in your mind."

"You will know in good time what I am thinking of, madam: everybody will know."

The abbess was troubled.

"This is beginning early," she said, as if thinking aloud; "this is beginning early with the mysteries and entanglements of life and the world! How wonderful it is to look on, to be a witness of these things for two or three successive generations! How every young creature thinks her case something wholly new--the emotions of her awakened heart something that G.o.d never before witnessed, and that man never conceived of! After all that has been written about love, upon the cavern walls of Hindoo temples, and in the hieroglyphics of old Egypt, and printed over all the mountains and valleys of the world by that deluge which was sent to quench unhallowed love, every young girl believes in her day that something unheard-of has happened when the dream has fallen upon her. My dear child, listen to one who knows more of life than you do-- to one who would have you happy, not only in the next world, but in this."

"Thank you, reverend mother."

"Love is holy and blessed, my dear, when it comes in its due season-- when it enters into a mind disciplined for new duties, and a heart waiting for new affections. In one who has no mother to help and comfort--"

"No mother, it is true," said Euphrosyne.

"The mother is the parent naturally most missed," said the abbess, supposing she was reading her pupil's mind. "Where there is no mother by a young girl's side, and no brothers and sisters to serve, the fancy and the heart are apt to fix prematurely on some object--too likely, in that case, to be one which will deceive and fail. But, my dear, such a young girl owes duty to herself, if G.o.d has seen fit to make her solitary in the world."

"One cannot say solitary," interposed Euphrosyne, "or without duties."

"You are right, my love. No one is, indeed, solitary in life, (blessed be G.o.d!) nor without duties. As I was going to say, such a young girl's business is to apply herself diligently to her education, during the years usually devoted to instruction. This is the work appointed to her youth. If, while her mind is yet ignorant, her judgment inexperienced, and her tastes actually unformed, she indulges any affection or fancy which makes her studies tedious, her companions dull, and her mind and spirits listless, she has fallen into a fearful snare."

"How long then would you have a girl's education go on? And if her lover be very particularly wise and learned, do not you think she may learn more from him than in any other way? And if she be not dull and listless, but very happy--"

"Every girl," interrupted the abbess, with a grave smile, "thinks her lover the wisest man in the world: and no girl in love would exchange her dreams for the gayest activity of the fancy-free."

"Well, but, as to the age," persisted Euphrosyne; "how soon--"

"That depends upon circ.u.mstances, my dear. But in all cases, I consider sixteen too early."

"Sixteen! Yes. But nineteen--or, one may say, twenty. Twenty, next month but one."

"My dear," said the abbess, stopping short, "you do not mean to say--"

"Indeed, madam," said Euphrosyne, very earnestly, "Afra will be twenty in two months. I know her ago to a day, and--"

"And you have been speaking of Mademoiselle Raymond all this time!

Well, well--"

"And you were thinking of me, I do believe. Oh, madam, how could you!

Why, I never saw anybody."

"I was wondering how it could be," said the abbess, striving to conceal her amus.e.m.e.nt and satisfaction. "I was surprised that you should have seen any one yet; and I was going to give you a lecture about half-confidences with Father Gabriel."

"And I could not conceive what Father Gabriel had to do with Afra's affairs, or how you came to know anything about it. I have let it out now, however; and I do not know what Afra will say."

"You have not told me who the gentleman is, you know; so there is not much harm done. No, do not tell me, my dear, till Mademoiselle Raymond desires it."

"Oh, I may as well, now you know so much. I dare say Afra would have no objection; particularly as you will then understand what I meant about living somewhere else. When you talked of a fine library," she continued, laughing, "how could I suppose you were thinking of any in the colony but Monsieur Pascal's?"

"So he is the gentleman," said the abbess. "How times are changed! A lady of colour may be Madame Pascal now, without reproach."

"I am glad it is out," said Euphrosyne, gaily. "I can speak now to somebody about Afra. Oh, madam, you do not know, you cannot imagine, how they love one another."

"Cannot I?"--and the abbess sighed.

"And I may look forward to living with them. They say I may, madam.

They say I must. And surely my guardian will have no objection. Do you think he can, madam?"

"Indeed I do not know. I am acquainted with the parties only by hearsay. Report speaks highly of Monsieur Pascal. Some persons at Paris, and some formerly in office here, are surprised at his unqualified adherence to the Ouverture system; but I never heard anything worse of him than that."

"And that is nothing but good, as any one would say who really knew all those dear people. L'Ouverture and Monsieur Pascal are almost like father and son. Afra says--"

"My dear," interposed the abbess, "you wondered how I knew of this affair. You must allow me to wonder how you have gained all this intelligence. Mademoiselle Raymond must have crossed her letters with sympathetic inks, which the warmth of your friends.h.i.+p brought out; for not a syllable of what you have told me have her letters conveyed to me."

The abbess did not mean to press for an answer; so indulgent was she made by the complacency of discovering that her charge was not entangled in a love affair. While Euphrosyne was blus.h.i.+ng, and hunting for a reply which should be true and yet guarded, she was relieved by the rapid approach of sister Benoite.

"Something is amiss," said the abbess, a.s.suming the look of calmness with which she was wont to await bad news. "What has happened to alarm you, my daughter?"

"There is a message, reverend mother," said the breathless nun, "from Madame Oge. She invites herself to our evening repast. If you cannot receive her to-day, she will come to-morrow."

"She shall be welcome," said the abbess; without, however, much of the spirit of welcome in her tone.

"So this is our calamity!" said Euphrosyne, laughing.

"There is calamity at hand, a.s.suredly," sighed sister Benoite. "Nay, nay, my daughter. This is superst.i.tion," said the abbess.