The Life of Gen. Francis Marion | Page 7

of distress too big for utterance, Marion, deeply
sighing, at length broke silence.
"Ah, Louisa! and must we part so soon!"
At this, starting up with eyes suffused with tears but beaming immortal
love, she hastily replied -- "Part!"
"Yes!" continued he, "part! for ever part!"
"No, Marion, no! never! never!"
"Ah! can you, Louisa, leave father and mother, and follow a poor
banished husband like me?"
"Yes -- yes -- father, mother, and all the world will I leave to follow
thee, Marion!"
"O blessed priest, I thank you! Good bishop Rochelle, holy father in
God, I thank you -- your persecution has enriched me above princes. It
has discovered to me a mine of love in Louisa's soul, that I never
dreamed of before."
"My dearest Gabriel, did you ever doubt my love?"
"Pardon me, my love, I never doubted your love, Oh no! I knew you
loved me. The circumstances under which you married me gave me
delicious proof of that. To have preferred me to so many wealthier
wooers -- to have taken me as a husband to the paradise of your arms,
when so many others would have sent me as a heretic to the purgatory
of the inquisition, was evidence of love never to be forgotten; but that
in addition to all this you should now be so ready to leave father and

mother, country and kin, to follow me, a poor wanderer in the earth,
without even a place where to lay my head ----"
"Yes, yes," replied she, eagerly interrupting him, "that's the very reason
I would leave all to follow you. For, oh my love! how could I enjoy
father or mother, country or kin, and you a wanderer in the earth,
without a place whereon to lay your head! That single thought would
cover my days with darkness, and drive me to distraction. But give me
your company, my Gabriel, and then welcome that foreign land with all
its shady forests! Welcome the thatched cottage and the little garden
filled with the fruits of our own fondly mingled toils! Methinks, my
love, I already see that distant sun rising with gladsome beams on our
dew-spangled flowers. I hear the wild wood-birds pouring their
sprightly carols on the sweet-scented morning. My heart leaps with joy
to their songs. Then, O my husband! if we must go, let us go without a
sigh. God can order it for our good. And, on my account, you shall cast
no lingering look behind. I am ready to follow you wherever you go.
Your God shall be my God. Where you live I will live, and where you
die, there will I die, and will be buried by your side. Nothing my
beloved, but death, shall ever part me from you."
"Angelic Louisa!" cried Marion, snatching her to his bosom in
transports -- "Wondrous woman! what do I not owe to God, ever
blessed, for such a comforter! I came just now from Rochelle with the
load of a mountain on my heart. You have taken off that mountain, and
substituted a joy most lightsome and heavenly. Like a ministering angel,
you have confirmed me in duty; you have ended my struggles -- and by
so cheerfully offering to forsake all and follow me, you have displayed
a love, dear Louisa, which will, I trust, render you next to my God, the
eternal complacency and delight of my soul."
In the midst of this tender scene, a servant came running to inform
Louisa that her mother, Madame D'Aubrey, had just arrived, and was
coming to her in the garden. This startled our lovers into a painful
expectation of another trial. For as Louisa was an only daughter, and
her parents dotingly fond of her, it was not to be imagined that they
would give her up without a hard struggle. Seeing the old lady coming
down the walk towards them, they endeavored to adjust their looks, and
to meet her with the wonted smile. But in vain. The tumult in their
bosoms was still too visible in their looks to escape her discernment.

She eagerly asked the cause. Their changing countenances served but to
increase her fears and the vehemence of her curiosity. The bishop's
letter was put into her hands. Its effects on the good old lady were truly
distressing. Not having, like her daughter, the vigor of youth, nor the
fervors of love to support her, she was almost overcome.
Soon as her spirits were a little recovered, she insisted that her daughter
and son-in-law should instantly step into her coach and go home with
her. "Your father, my dear," said she to Louisa, "your father, Monsieur
D'Aubrey, will, I am certain, do something for us."
But in this she was woefully mistaken, for Monsieur