The Young Seigneur | Page 2

old Mr. Chrysler (the Ontarian) fell in on the steamer
descending to Sorel, and who had been giving him the names of the
villages they passed in the broad and verdant panorama of the shores of
the St. Lawrence.
In truth, it is a queer, romantic Province, that ancient Province of
Quebec,--ancient in store of heroic and picturesque memories, though
the three centuries of its history would look foreshortened to people of
Europe, and Canada herself is not yet alive to the far-reaching import of
each deed and journey of the chevaliers of its early days.
Here, a hundred and thirty years after the Conquest, a million and a half
of Normans and Bretons, speaking the language of France and
preserving her institutions, still people the shores of the River and the
Gulf. Their white cottages dot the banks like an endless string of pearls,
their willows shade the hamlets and lean over the courses of brooks,
their tapering parish spires nestle in the landscape of their new-world
patrie.
"What is that?" exclaimed the Ontarian, suddenly, lifting his hand, his
eyes brightening with an interest unwonted for a man beyond middle
age.
The steamer was passing close to the shore, making for a pier some
distance ahead; and, surmounting the high bank, a majestic scene arose,
facing them like an apparition. It was a grey Tudor mansion of
weather-stained stone, with churchy pinnacles, a strange-looking bright
tin roof, and, towering around the sides and back of its grounds a lofty
walk of pine trees, marshalled in dark, square, overshadowing array,
out of which, as if surrounded by a guard of powerful forest spirits, the
mansion looked forth like a resuscitated Elizabethan reality. Its mien
seemed to say: "I am not of yesterday, and shall pass tranquilly on into
the centuries to come: old traditions cluster quietly about my gables;
and rest is here."
"That is the Manoir of Dormillière," replied the Montrealer, as the
steamer, whose paddles had stopped their roar, glided silently by.

Impressive was the Manoir, with its cool shades and air of erect
lordliness, its solemn grey walls and pinnacled gables, the beautiful
depressed arch of its front door; and its dream-like foreground of river
mirroring its majestic guard of pines.
"I knew," said Chrysler, "that you had your seigniories in Quebec, and
some sort of a feudal history, far back, but I never dreamed of such
seats."
"O, the Seigneurs[A] have not yet altogether disappeared," returned the
Montrealer. "Twenty years ago their position was feudal enough to be
considered oppressive; and here and there still, over the Province, in
some grove of pines or elms, or at some picturesque bend of a river, or
in the shelter of some wooded hill beside the sea, the old-fashioned
residence is to be descried, seated in its broad demesne with trees,
gardens and capacious buildings about it, and at no great distance an
old round windmill."
[Footnote A: The old French gentry or noblesse]
"Who lives in this one?"
"The Havilands. An English name but considered French;--grandfather
an officer, an English captain, who married the heiress of the old
D'Argentenayes, of this place."
"Mr. Haviland is the name of the person I am going to visit."
"The M.P.?"
"Yes, he is an M.P."
"A fine young fellow, then. His first name is Chamilly. His father was a
queer man--the Honorable Chateauguay--perhaps you've heard of him?
He was of a sort of an antiquarian and genealogical turn, you know, and
made a hobby of preserving old civilities and traditions, so that
Dormillière is said to be somewhat of a rum place."

The Ontarian thanked his acquaintance and got ready for landing at the
pier.
CHAPTER II.
THE YOUNG SEIGNEUR.
A young man stepped forward and greeted him heartily. It was the
"Chamilly" Haviland of whom they had been speaking.
Mr. Chrysler and he were members together of the Dominion
Parliament and the present visit was the outcome of a special purpose.
"It is a pity the rest of the country does not know my people more
closely," Haviland wrote in his invitation:--"If you will do my house
the honor of your presence, I am sure there is much of their life to
which we could introduce you."
"I am delighted you arrive at this time;" he exclaimed. "My election is
coming." And he talked cheerfully and busied himself making the
visitor comfortable in his drag.
As luck will have it, the enactment of one of the old local customs
occurs as they sit waiting for room to drive off the pier. The rustic
gathering of Lower-Canadian habitants who are crowding it with their
native ponies and hay-carts and their stuff-coated, deliberate persons, is
beginning to break apart as the steamer swings heavily away. The
pedestrians are already stringing off along the road