I deem'd that time, I deem'd that prideHad quench'd at length my boyish flame;Nor knew, till seated by thy side,My heart in all, save hope, the sameLord Byron.
I deem'd that time, I deem'd that prideHad quench'd at length my boyish flame;Nor knew, till seated by thy side,My heart in all, save hope, the sameLord Byron.
"Then you do not think Mademoiselle de Courcy very beautiful?" asked De Valette, detaining Stanhope a moment after the family had retired.
"Not exactly beautiful," replied Stanhope; "though she has,—what is in my opinion far more captivating,—grace, spirit, and intelligence, with beauty enough, I allow, to render her—"
"Quite irresistible, you would say!" interrupted De Valette; "but, in good truth, I care not to hear you finish the sentence, with such a lover-like panegyric!"
"Your admiration of her is very exclusive," said Stanhope, smiling; "but you should not ask an opinion, which you are not willing to hear candidly expressed."
"I have no fear of the truth," answered De Valette; "and, after a voluntary absence of two years, on your part, I can scarcely suspect you of feeling a very tender interest in the lady."
"Your inference is not conclusive," returned Stanhope; "and I should much doubt the truth of that love, or friendship, which could not withstand the trial of even a more prolonged absence."
"I suspect there are few who would bear that test," said De Valette, who evidently wished to penetrate the real sentiments of Stanhope; "and one must have perseverance, indeed, who can remain constant to Luciè, through all her whims and disguises."
"Her gaiety springs from a light and innocent heart," replied Stanhope; "and only renders her more piquant and interesting;—but, speaking of disguises,—how long, may I ask, has she played the pretty page, and for what purpose was the character assumed?"
"It was at the suggestion of Mad. de la Tour, I believe, and Luciè's love of frolic induced her readily to adopt it. You know the fort was seriously threatened before our return; and Mad. de la Tour, who had few around her in whom she could confide, found her little page extremely useful, in executing divers commissions, which, in her feminine attire, could not have been achieved with equal propriety."
"I do not think a fondness for disguise is natural to her," said Stanhope; "though she seems to have supported her borrowed character with considerable address."
"Yes, she completely deceived me at first; andthis evening, I again lost the use of my senses, and mistook her for the sauciest knave of a priest, that ever muttered an ave-marie."
"Long as it is, since I have seen her," said Stanhope, "I think I could have sworn to that face and voice, under any disguise."
"You obtained a full view of her features, at once," said De Valette; "when I first met her, they were carefully shaded by a tartan bonnet, and she entirely altered the tones of her voice; and this evening, again, she would scarcely have been recognized in the imperfect light, had she not suffered her vexation to betray her. But the night wanes, and it is time for us to separate; I must go abroad, and see that all things are quiet and in order, after this unusual revelling."
De Valette then quitted the house, and Stanhope gladly sought the solitude of his own apartment, where he could reflect, at leisure, on the agitating events of the few last hours. He walked to and fro, with rapid steps, till, exhausted by his excitement, he threw himself beside an open window, and endeavoured to collect the confused ideas, which crowded on his mind and memory. The noise of mirth and music had long since passed away, and the weary guard, who walked his dull round of duty in solitude and silence, was the only living object which met his eye. No sound was abroad, but the voice of the restless stream, which glittered beneath the rising moon;—the breath ofmidnight fanned him with its refreshing coolness, and the calm beauty of that lonely hour gradually soothed his restless spirits.
He had encountered the object of a fond and cherished attachment, but under circumstances of perplexity and doubt, which marred the pleasure of that unexpected meeting. More than two years had elapsed since he first saw Luciè de Courcy, then residing in the north of England, whither she had accompanied a maternal aunt, the widow of an Englishman of rank and fortune. Madame Rossville, who was in a declining state of health, had yielded to the importunity of her husband's connexions, and left her native land for the summer months, hoping to receive benefit from change of scene and climate. She had no children, and Luciè, whom she adopted in infancy, was dear to her, as a daughter could have been. They resided at a short distance from the elder Mr. Stanhope; and the strict Hugonot principles of the French invalid interested the rigid puritan, and led to a friendly intimacy between the families.
Arthur Stanhope had then just retired from his profession, and the chagrin and disappointment, which at first depressed his spirits, gradually yielded to the charm which led him daily to the house of Mad. Rossville. Constant intercourse and familiar acquaintance strengthened the influence, which Luciè's sweetness and vivacity had created, and he soon loved her with the fervor and purity of a youngand unsophisticated heart. Yet he loved in silence,—for his future plans were frustrated, his ambitious hopes were blighted; a writ of banishment and proscription hung over his father's house, and what had he to offer to one endowed by nature and fortune with gifts, which ranked her with the proudest and noblest in the land! But love needs not the aid of words; and the sentiments of the heart, beaming in an ingenuous countenance, are more forcible than any language which the lips can utter. Luciè was too artless to disguise the feelings which she was, as yet, scarce conscious of cherishing; but Arthur read in the smile and blush which ever welcomed his approach, the sigh which seemed to regret his departure, and the eloquent expression of an eye, which varied with every emotion of her soul, a tale of tenderness as ardent and confiding as his own. The future was unheeded in the dream of present enjoyment; for who, that loves, can doubt of happiness, or bear to look forward to the melancholy train of dark and disappointed hours which time may unfold!
In the midst of these dawning hopes, Arthur Stanhope was called to a distant part of the kingdom on business, which nearly concerned his father's private interest. Luciè wept at his departure; and, for the first time, his brow was clouded in her presence, and his heart chilled by the bodings of approaching evil. Several weeks passed away, and he was still detained from home; to add to hisuneasiness, no tidings from thence had reached him, since the early period of his absence. Public rumor, indeed, told him that new persecutions had gone forth against the puritans; and the inflexible temper of his father, who had long been peculiarly obnoxious to the church party, excited the utmost anxiety, and determined him, at all events, to hasten his return.
After travelling nearly through the night, Arthur ascended one of the loftiest hills in Northumberland, just as the sun was shedding his earliest radiance on a beautiful valley, which lay before him. It was his native valley, and the mansion of his father's looked cheerful amidst the group of venerable trees which surrounded it. Time, since he last quitted it, had seared the freshness of their foliage, and the golden tints of autumn had succeeded the verdure of summer. A little farther on, the house of Mad. Rossville was just discernible; and Arthur's heart bounded with transport, as he thought how soon he should again embrace those whom he most loved on earth! But a different fate awaited him, and tidings, which withered every hope he had so long and fondly cherished. The ecclesiastical tyranny, which had exiled so many of the non-conformists from their friends and country, was, at last, extended to the elder Mr. Stanhope. His estates were confiscated, and a warrant was issued for his imprisonment; but, with extreme difficulty, he succeeded in effecting an escape to the sea-coast. He was there joined by his wife;and, through the kind assistance of friends, they collected the remains of a once ample fortune, and only waited the arrival of their son, to quit their country forever, and embark for New-England.
There was yet another blow, for which Arthur was wholly unprepared. Mad. Rossville, whose health rapidly failed on the approach of cooler weather, had died a short time previous to his return, leaving her orphan niece under the protection of her only sister, who hastened to England on hearing of her danger, and arrived but a few hours before her decease. Her late cheerful abode was deserted; and Arthur could obtain no information respecting Luciè, except that she had gone back to France with her relative, immediately after the melancholy event.
"Gone, without one kind farewell, one word of remembrance!" was the first bitter reflection of Arthur, on receiving this intelligence. "She, who might have been all the world to him, whose sunny smiles could have cheered the darkest hour of affliction,—she was gone! and, amidst the attractions of wealth, and the charms of society and friends, how soon might he fade from her remembrance!"
But that was not a time to indulge the regrets of a romantic passion; the situation of his parents required the support and consolations of filial tenderness; and no selfish indulgence could, for a moment, detain him from them. He hastily abandoned the home of his childhood—the scenes of maturer happiness; and, re-passing the barrier of his native hills, in a few days rejoined his parents at the sea-port, where they waited his arrival. They had made arrangements to take passage in the first vessel which sailed for Boston, and Arthur did not hesitate a moment to attend them in their arduous undertaking. For a time, indeed, his active spirit bent beneath the pressure of disappointment, and all places were alike indifferent to him. But the excitement of new scenes and pursuits at length roused his interest, and incited him to mental exertion. With the return of spring also, hopes, which he believed forever crushed, began to regain their influence in his mind. He was about to revisit England, on some affairs of consequence; and he resolved to improve the opportunity to satisfy his anxiety respecting Luciè, and learn, if possible, what he had still left to hope or fear. But an alarming illness, which attacked his mother, and left her long in a dangerous state, obliged him to defer his design; and another winter passed away, and various circumstances still rendered the voyage impracticable. Time gradually softened, but it could not destroy, the impression of his ill-fated attachment; and, though the image of Luciè was still cherished in his remembrance, he began to regard the days of their happy intercourse as a pleasant dream which had passed away,—a delightful vision of the fancy, which he loved to contemplate, but could never hope to realise.
It was, indeed, with emotions too powerful for disguise, that he found himself again, and so unexpectedly, in the presence of his beloved Luciè. He was ignorant of the name, even, of the relative to whom Mad. Rossville had entrusted her,—he had not the most distant idea, that she was connected with the lady of La Tour; and, in approaching the fort of St. John's, he little thought, that he was so near the goal of his wishes. But the first joyful sensations were not unmingled with doubt and alarm. He found her lovely and attractive, as when he had last seen her; but, since that time, what changes had taken place, and how might her heart have altered! De Valette, young, handsome, and agreeable, confessed himself her lover; he was the favorite of her guardians, and what influence had he, or might he not obtain, over her affections!
Such reflections of mingled pain and pleasure occupied the mind of Stanhope, and alternate hopes and fears beguiled the midnight hour, and banished every idea of repose.
I pray you have the ditty o'er again!Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing,The lover's one for me. I could expireTo hear a man, with bristles on his chin,Sing soft, with upturn'd eyes, and arched brows,Which talk of trickling tears that never fall.Let's have it o'er again.J.S. Knowles.
I pray you have the ditty o'er again!Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing,The lover's one for me. I could expireTo hear a man, with bristles on his chin,Sing soft, with upturn'd eyes, and arched brows,Which talk of trickling tears that never fall.Let's have it o'er again.J.S. Knowles.
The meditations of Stanhope were suddenly interrupted by the loud barking of a dog, which lay in his kennel below the window; and it was presently answered by a low, protracted whistle, that instantly quelled the vigilant animal's irritation. Arthur mechanically raised his head, to ascertain who was intruding on the silence of that lonely hour, and saw a figure approaching, with quick, light footsteps, which a glance assured him was M. de Valette. He was already near the building, and soon stopped beneath a window in a projecting angle, which he appeared to examine with great attention. Arthur felt a painful suspicion that this casement belonged to Luciè's apartment, and, as it was nearly opposite his own, he drew back, to avoidbeing observed, though he watched, with intense interest, the motions of De Valette. The young Frenchman applied a flute to his lips, and played a few notes of a lively air,—then, suddenly breaking off, he changed the measure into one so soft and plaintive, that the sounds seemed to float, like aerial harmony, upon the stillness of the night. He paused, and looked earnestly toward the window: the moon shone brightly against it, but all was quiet within, and around, while he sang, in a clear and manly voice, the following serenade:
Awake, my love! the moon on highShines in the deep blue, arched sky,And through the clust'ring woodbine peeps.To seek the couch where Lucie sleeps.Awake, my love! for see, afar,Shines, soft and bright, the evening star;But oh! its brightest beams must die,Beneath the light of Lucie's eye.Awake, my love! dost thou not hearThe night-bird's carol, wild and clear?But not its sweetest notes detainWhen Lucie breathes her sweeter strain.Awake, my love! the fragrant galeSteals odours from yon spicy vale;But can the richly perfum'd airWith Lucie's balmy breath compare?Awake, my love! for all around,With beauty, pleasure, hope, is crown'dBut hope nor pleasure dawn on me,Till Lucie's graceful form I see.Awake, my love! for in thy bower,Thy lover spends the lonely hour;—She hears me!—from the lattice screenBehold my Lucie gently lean!
Awake, my love! the moon on highShines in the deep blue, arched sky,And through the clust'ring woodbine peeps.To seek the couch where Lucie sleeps.
Awake, my love! for see, afar,Shines, soft and bright, the evening star;But oh! its brightest beams must die,Beneath the light of Lucie's eye.
Awake, my love! dost thou not hearThe night-bird's carol, wild and clear?But not its sweetest notes detainWhen Lucie breathes her sweeter strain.
Awake, my love! the fragrant galeSteals odours from yon spicy vale;But can the richly perfum'd airWith Lucie's balmy breath compare?
Awake, my love! for all around,With beauty, pleasure, hope, is crown'dBut hope nor pleasure dawn on me,Till Lucie's graceful form I see.
Awake, my love! for in thy bower,Thy lover spends the lonely hour;—She hears me!—from the lattice screenBehold my Lucie gently lean!
The window had, indeed, slowly opened, towards the conclusion of the song, and Arthur observed some one,—Luciè, he doubted not,—standing before it, partially concealed by the folds of a curtain.
"Sung like a troubadour!" exclaimed a voice, which he could not mistake; "but, prithee, my tuneful knight, were those concluding lines extempore, or had you really the vanity to anticipate the effect of your musical incantation?"
"And who but yourself, Luciè, would doubt that charms like yours could give inspiration to even the dullest muse?"
"Very fine, truly; but I will wager my life, Eustace, that mine are not the only ears, which have been charmed with this melodious ditty,—that I am not the first damsel who has reigned, the goddess of an hour, in this same serenade! Confess the truth, my good friend, and I will give thee absolution!"
"And to whom but you, my sweet Luciè, could I address such language? you, who have so longreigned sole mistress of every thought and hope of my heart!"
"Sole mistress in the wilderness, no doubt!" said the laughing girl; "where there is no other to be found, except a tawny damsel or two, who would scarcely understand your poetic flights! but you have just returned from a brighter clime, and the dark-eyed demoiselles of merry France, perchance, might thank you for such a tribute to their charms!"
"And do you think so meanly of me, Luciè," asked De Valette, reproachfully, "as to believe me capable of playing the flatterer, wherever I go, and paying court to every pretty face, that claims my admiration?"
"Nay, I think sowellof you, Eustace; I have such an exalted opinion of your gallantry, that I cannot believe you would remain three months in the very land of glorious chivalry, and prove disloyal to the cause! Be candid, now, and tell me, if this nonpareil morceau has not served you for a passport to the favor of the pretty villagers, as you journeyed through the country?"
"I protest, Luciè, you are"—
"No protestations," interrupted Luciè, "I have not the 'faith of a grain of mustard seed,' in them;—but, in honest truth, Eustace, your muse has been wandering among the orange groves of France; she could never have gathered so muchfragrance, andbrightness, and all that sort of thing, from the pines and firs of this poor spot of earth!"
"And if she has culled the sweets of a milder region," said De Valette, "it is only to form a garland for one, who is worthy of the fairest flowers that blossom in the gardens of paradise."
"Very well, and quite poetic, monsieur; your Pegasus is in an ambling mood to-night; but have a care that he do not throw you, as he did, of old, the audacious mortal who attempted to soar too high. And I pray you will have more regard to the truth, in future, and not scandalize the evening star, by bringing it into your performance so out of season; it may have shone upon the vineyards of Provence, but it is long since it glittered in our northern hemisphere."
"Have you done, my gentle mentor?" asked De Valette, in an accent of vexation.
"Not quite; I wish to know whether you, or the melodious screech-owl, represent the tuneful bird of night, alluded to in the aforesaid stanzas? I have heard no other who could pour forth such exquisite notes, since my destiny brought me hither."
"And it will be long ere you hear me again," said De Valette, angrily. "I shall be careful not to excite your mirthful humor again, at my own expense!"
"Now you are not angry with me, I hope, Eustace," she said, with affected concern; "you well know, that I admire your music exceedingly; nay, I think it unrivalled, even by the choice psalmody of our worthy chaplain; and as to the poetry, Idoubt if any has yet equalled it, in this our ancient settlement of St. John's."
"Farewell, Luciè," said De Valette; "when I waken you again"—
"Oh, you did not waken me," interrupted Luciè, I will spare your conscience that reproach; had I gone to rest, I should scarcely have risen, even had a band of fairies tuned their tiny instruments in the moonlight, beneath my window. But, go now, Eustace,—yet stay, and tell me first, if we part in charity?"
"Yes, it must be so, I suppose; Iwasvexed with you, Luciè, but you well know that your smiles are always irresistible."
"Well, you will allow that I have been very lavish of my smiles to-night, Eustace; so leave me now, lest I begin to frown, by way of variety. Adieu!"
She immediately closed the window, and De Valette turned away, playing carelessly on his flute as he retired.
"Thank heaven! he is gone;" was the mental exclamation of Stanhope, whose impatience and curiosity were painfully exercised by this protracted conversation; for he had retreated from the window, at its commencement, to avoid the possibility of hearing, what was not probably intended to reach the ears of a third person. "Would any but a favored lover," he thought, "be admitted to such an interview?" The idea was insupportable; he traversed his apartment with perturbed and hasty steps, and it was not till long after De Valette retired, that he sought the repose of his pillow, and even then, in a state of mind which completely banished slumber from his eyes.
When Stanhope looked out, on the following morning, he saw Luciè, alone in a small garden, adjoining the house, busily employed in training some flowers; and the painful impression of the last night was almost forgotten, in the impulse which he felt to join her. He was chagrined to meet De Valette, as he crossed a passage, but repressing a repugnance, which he felt might be unjustly excited, he addressed him with his usual cordiality, and they entered the garden together. Luciè's face was turned from them, and she did not seem aware of their approach, till startled by the voice of De Valette.
"You do not seem very industriously inclined," he said; "or are you resting, to indulge the luxury of a morning reverie?"
"Iwasin a most profound reverie," she replied, turning quickly round; "and you have destroyed as fair a vision, as ever dawned on the waking fancy."
"Was your vision of the past or future?" asked De Valette.
"Only of the past; I care not for the future, which is too uncertain to be trusted, and whichmay have nothing but misfortunes in reserve for me."
"You are in a pensive mood, just now," said De Valette; "when I last saw you, I could scarce have believed a cloud would ever cross the sunshine of your face."
"Experience might have rendered you more discerning," she answered, with a smile; "but you, who love variety so well, should not complain of the changes of my mood."
"Change, as often as you will," said De Valette; "and, in every variation, you cannot fail to please."
"And you," said Luciè, "cannot fail of seeming very foolish, till you leave off this annoying habit of turning every word into a compliment:—nay, do not look displeased," she added, gaily; "you know that you deserve reproof, occasionally, and there is no one who will administer it to you, but myself."
"But whatyoudefine a compliment," said Stanhope, "would probably appear, to any other person, the simple language of sincerity."
"I cannot contend against two opponents," returned Luciè; "so I may as well give up my argument, though I still maintain its validity."
"We will call it a drawn game, then," said De Valette, laughing; "so now, Luciè, candidly confess that you were disposed to find fault with me, without sufficient cause."
"There is certainly no flattery in this," replied Luciè; "but I will confess nothing,—except that I danced away my spirits last evening, and was most melodiously disturbed afterwards, by some strolling minstrel. Were you not annoyed by unseasonable music, Mr. Stanhope?"
"I heard music, at a late hour," he replied; "but it did not disturb me, as I was still awake."
As he spoke, he was vexed to feel the color mount to his very temples; and Luciè, who instantly comprehended the cause of his confusion, bent her eyes to the ground, while her cheeks were suffused with blushes. An embarrasing pause ensued; and De Valette, displeased at the secret sympathy which their looks betrayed, stooped to pluck a rose, that grew on a small bush beside him.
"What have you done, Eustace?" asked Luciè, hastily, and glad to break the awkward silence; "you have spoiled my favorite rose-bush, which I would not have given for all the flowers of the garden."
"It is a poor little thing," said De Valette, turning it carelessly in his hand; "I could gather you a dozen far more beautiful, and quite as fragrant."
"Not one that I value half as much," she answered, taking it from him, and breathing on the crushed leaves, to restore their freshness; "I have reared it with much care, from a stock which I brought from Northumberland; and it has now blossomed for the first time—a memento of many happy days."
Her words were addressed to Stanhope, and he was receiving the rose from her hand, when her countenance suddenly changed, and, closing her eyes, as if to exclude some unwelcome object, she clung to his offered arm for support. He was too much absorbed by her, to seek the cause of her alarm; but De Valette observed father Gilbert, standing at a little distance, his eyes intently fixed on Luciè, while his features betrayed the conflict of powerful emotions.
"Why are you thus agitated, Luciè?" asked De Valette, in surprise; "surely you recognize the priest; you do not fear him?"
"Hemakesme fear him, Eustace; he always looks at me so fixedly, so wildly, that I cannot—dare not meet his gaze."
"This is mere fancy, Luciè," he answered, lightly; "is it strange that even the holy father should gaze on you with earnestness?"
"It is no time to jest, Eustace," she answered, with a trembling voice; "speak to him,—he is coming hither,—I will not stay."
While she spoke, the priest drew near her,—paused a moment,—and, murmuring a few words in a low voice, turned again, and, with a thoughtful and abstracted air, walked slowly from them. De Valette followed him; and Luciè, glad to escape, returned, with Stanhope, to the house.
Untaught in youth my heart to tame,My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late!Yet I am chang'd; though still enough the sameIn strength, to bear what time cannot abate,And feed on bitter fruits, without accusing fate.Lord Byron.
Untaught in youth my heart to tame,My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late!Yet I am chang'd; though still enough the sameIn strength, to bear what time cannot abate,And feed on bitter fruits, without accusing fate.Lord Byron.
Father Gilbert stopped a few paces from the spot which Luciè had just quitted, and, leaning against a tree, appeared so entirely absorbed by his own reflections, that De Valette for some moments hesitated to address him. The rapid mutations of his countenance still betrayed a powerful mental struggle; and De Valette felt his curiosity and interest strongly awakened, by the sudden and uncontrollable excitement of one, whose usually cold and abstracted air, shewed little sympathy with the concerns of humanity. Gradually, however, his features resumed their accustomed calmness; but, on raising his eyes, and meeting the inquiring gaze of De Valette, he drooped his head, as if ashamed to have betrayed emotions, so inconsistent with the vow which professed to raise him above the influence of all worldly passions.
"I fear you are ill, father," said De Valette, approaching him with kindness; "can I do anything to assist or relieve you?"
"Iwasill, my son," he replied; "but it is over now—passed away like a troubled phantasy, which visits the weary and restless slumberer, and flies at the approach of returning reason."
"Your language is figurative," returned De Valette, "and implies the sufferance of mental, rather than bodily pain. If such is your unhappy state, I know full well that human skill is unavailing."
"What knowyouof pain?" asked the priest, with startling energy; "you, who bask in the sunshine of fortune's smile,—whose days are one ceaseless round of careless gaiety,—whose repose is yet unbroken by the gnawing worm of never-dying repentance! Such, too, I was, in the spring-time of my life; I drained the cup of pleasure,—but misery and disappointment were in its dregs; I yielded to the follies and passions of my youthful heart,—and the sting of remorse and ceaseless regret have entered my inmost soul!"
"Pardon me, father," said De Valette, "if I have unconsciously awakened thoughts which time, perchance, had well nigh soothed into forgetfulness!"
"Awakened thoughts!" the priest repeated, in a melancholy voice; "they can never, never sleep! repentance cannot obliterate them,—years of penance—fastings, and vigils, and wanderings, cannot wear them from my remembrance! Look at me, my son, and may this decaying frame, whichtime might yet have spared, teach thee the vanity of human hopes, and lead thee to resist the impulses of passion, and to mistrust and regulate, even the virtuous inclinations of thy heart!"
"Your words will be long remembered, father!" said De Valette, touched by the sorrow of the venerable man; "and may the good saints restore peace and hope to your wounded spirit!"
"And may heaven bless you, my son, and preserve you from those fatal errors which have wrecked my peace, and withered the fairest hopes that ever blossomed on the tree of earthly happiness! Go now," he added, in a firmer tone, "forget this interview, if possible, and when we meet again, think not of what you have now heard and witnessed, but see in me only the humble missionary of the church, who, till this day"—his voice again trembled, "tillshecrossed my path"—
"She!" interrupted De Valette; "do you mean Mademoiselle de Courcy?"
"De Courcy!" repeated the priest, grasping the arm of Eustace, while the paleness of death overspread his features; "who bears that most unhappy name?"
"The niece of Mad. de la Tour," returned De Valette; "and, however unfortunate the name, it has, as yet, entailed no evil on its present possessor."
"Was it she, whom I just now saw with you?" asked the priest, with increasing agitation.
"It was; and pardon me, father, your vehemence has already greatly alarmed her."
"I meant it not," he replied; "but I will not meet her again—no, I dare not look again upon that face. Has she parents, young man?" he continued, after a brief pause.
"She has been an orphan from infancy," replied De Valette; "and Mad. de la Tour is almost the only relative whom she claims on earth."
"She is a protestant?" said father Gilbert, inquiringly.
"She is," said De Valette; "though her parents, I have heard, were Catholics, and Luciè has herself told me, that in her early childhood she was instructed in that faith."
"Luciè!" muttered the priest, to himself, as if unconscious of another's presence; "andthatname too! but no,—shewas not left among the enemies of our faith,—it is a strange—an idle dream."
He covered his face with his hands, and remained several moments, apparently in deep musing; and when he again looked up, every trace of emotion was gone, though a shade of melancholy, deeper even than usual, had settled on his features.
"Go!" he said to De Valette, "and betray not the weakness you have witnessed; go in peace, and forget, even to pity me!"
Father Gilbert's manner was too imposing to be disputed, and De Valette left him with silent reverence,—perplexed by the mystery of his words, andthe singularity of his conduct. Before he reached the house, however, he had convinced himself, that the priest was not perfectly sane, and that some fancied resemblance had touched the chords of memory, and revived the fading images of early, and perhaps unhappy days. This appeared to him, the only rational way to account for his eccentricity; and under this impression, as well as from the priest's injunction, he resolved not to mention the interview and conversation to any person. He was particularly anxious to conceal it from Luciè, whose apprehensions might be increased by the account; and, in a short time, indeed,—with the lightness of an unreflecting disposition,—a circumstance which had, at the moment, so strongly impressed him, was nearly effaced from his remembrance. Father Gilbert left the fort, and its vicinity, in the course of that day; but as the priests were continually called to visit the scattered and distant settlements, his absence, though prolonged beyond the usual time, was scarcely heeded.
In the mean while, La Tour was informed that M. D'Aulney continued to embrace every opportunity to display his hostility towards him. Disappointed in the result of his meditated attack on fort St. John's, he had recourse to various petty means of injury and annoyance. The English colony, at Pemaquid, were friendly to La Tour, and their vessels frequently visited his fort to trade in the commodities of the country. A shallop fromthence had put in at Penobscot, relying on the good faith of D'Aulney; but, on some slight pretence, he detained it several days, and though, at length permitted to proceed on its voyage to St. John's, the delay produced much loss and embarrassment. La Tour resolved to avenge these repeated insults; and, hearing that the fort at Penobscot was at that time weakly defended, he made immediate preparations to commence an attack on it.
Arthur Stanhope still lingered at St. John's, and every day increased his reluctance to depart from it. Happy in the society of Luciè, he could not resolve to quit her till the hopes, which her smiles again encouraged, had received her explicit sanction or rebuke. He felt too, that honor required of him an avowal of the sentiments which he had not attempted to disguise; he, therefore, sought the earliest opportunity to reveal them, and with grateful pleasure he received from her, a blushing confession, that his affection had been long reciprocated. His happiness, however, was slightly diminished by an injunction of secresy which she imposed on him; though he found it difficult to object against the motives which induced her to urge the request. Luciè believed their attachment was already discovered; but she had no doubt that an open disclosure would occasion a prohibition from her guardian, who, during her minority, had a right to restrain her choice. She was reluctant toact in open defiance to his commands; and she also resolved never to sacrifice her happiness to his ambitious schemes. It had long been a favorite object with La Tour, to unite her to his nephew, De Valette, whose rank and expectations would have rendered an alliance equal, and, in many respects, advantageous. Mad. de la Tour also, favored the connexion; and, though Luciè had invariably discouraged their wishes, her aversion was considered as mere girlish caprice or coquetry, which would eventually yield to their solicitations and advice. De Valette's religion was the only obstacle which Mad. la Tour was willing to admit, and he possessed so many desirable qualifications, she was ready to pass that over, as a matter of minor importance. Both, she alleged, might enjoy their own opinions; and, even in so close a connexion, perfect union of religious sentiment was not essential to happiness. Luciè thought otherwise; she had been educated a protestant, and, with many of the prejudices which the persecuted Hugonots of that period could scarcely fail of cherishing towards a church which had sought to crush them by its perfidy and oppression. These feelings, alone, would have induced her to persist in a refusal; but, independently of them, she was convinced that it would never be in her power to return the affection of De Valette, with that fervor and exclusiveness which so sacred a bond demanded.
From her first acquaintance with Arthur Stanhope, Luciè had placed, perhaps, an imprudent value on his society and attentions; and when compelled during his absence to quit the scenes of their daily and happy intercourse, in haste and affliction, and without even a parting expression of kindness and regret, she felt, for a time, that her sun of happiness was shrouded in perpetual clouds. Romantic as this attachment seemed, it stood the test of time and absence, lingered in the recesses of her heart through every change of scene, and brightened the darkest shades of doubt, and difficulty, and disappointment. Hitherto, her firmness of mind and principle had enabled her to resist the wishes of her aunt, and the remonstrances of La Tour; but their importunity had, of late, increased, and evidently from an apprehension, that the undisguised partiality of Stanhope might obtain an influence over her, detrimental to their favorite and long cherished plans. Luciè sincerely regretted that her choice was so unfortunately opposed to the wishes of her aunt; and she feared to encounter the anger of La Tour, whose stern and irritable spirit, when once aroused, was uncontrollable as the stormy ocean. But time, she sanguinely believed, would remove every obstacle. Stanhope was soon to leave her, and, in his absence, she might gradually change the sentiments of Mad. la Tour; and she hoped the pride and generosity of De Valette would prompt him voluntarily to withdraw a suit, which was so unfavourably received. Even if these expectations were disappointed, she would attain her majority in the ensuing spring, when her hand would be at her own disposal, and she should no longer hesitate to bestow it, according to the dictates of her heart.
Stanhope had offered his assistance to La Tour, in the projected expedition to Penobscot; and, as the necessary arrangements were nearly completed, a few days only remained for his continuance at St. John's. To all, except Luciè, it was evident his absence would be unregretted; for he could not but remark the cold and altered manner of Mad. de la Tour, which she vainly endeavored to disguise, by an air of studied politeness; nor the reserve and petulance of De Valette, which he did not attempt to conceal. La Tour was too politic to display his dislike towards one, whose services were so useful to him; though his prejudices were, in reality, the most inveterate.
Father Gilbert returned to the fort, after an absence of three weeks, and he brought intelligence which deeply concerned La Tour. D'Aulney had entered into a negociation with the magistrates of Boston, by which he sought to engage them in his interest, to the exclusion, and evident disadvantage of La Tour. He had sent commissioners, duly authorised to conclude a treaty of peace and commerce with them, and also a letter, signed by the vice admiral of France, which confirmed his rightto the government. To this was added a copy, or pretended copy, of certain proceedings, which proscribed La Tour as a rebel and a traitor. Governor Winthrop had, in vain, endeavored to heal the differences, which subsisted between the French commanders in Acadia; D'Aulney refused to accede to any conciliatory measures. Till then, the Massachusetts colony had favored La Tour, on account of his religious principles; but the authority of M. d'Aulney now seemed so well established, and his power to injure them was so extensive, that they consented to sign the articles in question. They, however, entered into no combination against La Tour, nor debarred themselves from their usual friendly intercourse with him.
M. de la Tour listened to these details with extreme indignation, and felt an increased anxiety to depart without delay. The preparations were, therefore, soon concluded, and they waited only for a favorable wind, to convey them from the fort of St. John's.
My fear hath catch'd your fondness—* * *Speak, is't so?If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;If it be not, foreswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,To tell me truly.Shakspeare.
My fear hath catch'd your fondness—* * *Speak, is't so?If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;If it be not, foreswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,To tell me truly.Shakspeare.
Arthur Stanhope's protracted stay at St. John's, occasioned much discontent and repining among the crew of his vessel. Many of them became weary of their inactive life, and impatient to be restored to the friends and occupations they had left; while the laxity of the French soldiers,—the open celebration of popish ceremonies,—the very appearance of the priest,—excited the indignation of the more rigid and reflecting. The daily exhortations of Mad. de la Tour's chaplain were not calculated to allay these irritated feelings. One of the most austere of the Scotch dissenters, Mr. Broadhead, had been induced, by religious zeal, to follow the fortunes of his patron, Sir William Alexander, who, in 1621, received a grant of Acadia,or Nova Scotia, and established the first permanent settlement in that country. It had, till then, been alternately claimed and neglected, both by French and English; and he was, a few years after, induced to relinquish his grant to La Tour, whose title was confirmed by a patent from the king of England.
La Tour, in forming this settlement, was influenced principally by motives of interest; his colony was composed of adventurers from different nations, and it seemed a matter of indifference to him, to what master he owed allegiance. By the well-known treaty of St. Germain's, Acadia was ceded to the crown of France, on which it alone depended, till finally conquered by the English, when, at a much later period, its improvement and importance rendered it more worthy of serious contest. The policy of the French government, while it remained under their jurisdiction, induced them to attempt the conversion of the native tribes, as a means of advancing their own interest, and retarding the influence of the English colonies. For this purpose, they sent out Catholic missionaries, at an early period, to the different settlements; and Jesuits were particularly employed, as the address and subtlety which always distinguished that order of priests peculiarly fitted them for the difficult task of christianizing the idolatrous savages. Their power was slowly progressive; but, in time, they acquired an ascendancy, which was extendedto the minutest of the secular, as well as spiritual concerns of the province.
The puritans of New-England regarded these dangerous neighbors with distrust and fear; nor could they restrain their indignation, when the emblems of the Romish church were planted on the very borders of their territory. The haughty carriage, which La Tour at first assumed, increased their aversion, and, in their weakness, rendered him justly dreaded. He prohibited the English from trading with the natives, to the east of Pemaquid, on authority from the king of France; and, when desired to shew his commission, arrogantly answered, "that his sword was sufficient, while it could overcome, and when that failed, he would find some other means to prove and defend his right." The rival, and at times, superior power of D'Aulney, however, at length reduced these lofty pretensions, till he was finally obliged to sue for the favor, which he had once affected to despise.
Mr. Broadhead, glad to escape the storms of his native country, remained through all these changes of government and religion, and, at last, found an unmolested station in the household of Mad. de la Tour. His spirit, indeed, was often vexed by La Tour's indifference towards the protestant cause, which he pretended to favor; and, even with horror, he sometimes beheld him returning from the ceremonials of the papal church. The presence of the priests, also, about the fort, was a constantannoyance to him, and he seldom encountered one of them, without a clashing of words, which, occasionally, required the interference of La Tour, or his lady. In his zeal for proselytism, he seized every opportunity to harangue the Catholic soldiers; and his wrath, at what he termed their idolatry, was commonly exhausted in indiscriminate invectives, against every ceremony and doctrine of their religion. Frequent tumults were the result of these collisions, though restrained in some measure by the commands of Mad. de la Tour, who exacted the utmost respect towards her chaplain; and La Tour, himself, found it necessary to use his authority, in preventing such dangerous excitements. He was, therefore, compelled to retire within his own immediate sphere of duty, and, however grieved and irritated by the prevalence of error around him, he in time learned to repress his feelings, at least in the presence of those, to whom they could give offence.
The arrival of a New-England vessel at St. John's, opened to Mr. Broadhead a more extensive field of labor; and he soon found many who listened with avidity to his complaints, and joined in his censures, of the conduct and principles of La Tour. His asperity was soothed by the sympathy he received from them; and without intending to injure the interests of his lord, his representations naturally weakened their confidence in him; and many began seriously to repent engaging in acause, which they had espoused in a moment of enthusiasm, and without due consideration.
Arthur Stanhope, absorbed by one engrossing passion, had no leisure to mark the progress of this growing discontent; and his frequent absence from the vessel, which gave an appearance of alienation from their interest and concerns, increased the dissatisfaction of his people. It was, therefore, with equal surprise and displeasure, that he at length discovered their change of feeling, and received from a large majority a decided refusal to enter into any new engagements with La Tour. Their term of duty, they alleged, had already expired,—they were not satisfied with the proposed expedition, and would no longer remain in fellowship with the adherents of an idolatrous church. Anger, remonstrance, and persuasion, were equally ineffectual to change their determination. Their enlistment was voluntary, and they had already effected the object for which they engaged; they, therefore, considered themselves released from further orders, and at liberty to return to their homes; and, with a stern, yet virtuous resolution, they declared, their consciences could not be bribed by all the gold of France.
Stanhope, vexed at a result which he had so little anticipated, and conscious that he had, in reality, no control over them, for his command was merely nominal, was glad to secure the services of the few who still adhered to him, and to compromise withthe remainder. With some difficulty, he prevailed on them to continue at the fort till he returned from Penobscot, consenting to abandon his vessel to their use,—for they were not willing to mingle with the garrison,—and embark himself, with as many of his own men as chose to accompany him, and a few Scots, in a smaller one of La Tour's, which could be immediately prepared for the voyage, and was better adapted to their reduced numbers.
This alteration occasioned some delay; and La Tour's impatience was, more than once, vented in imprecations on the individuals, whose sense of duty interfered with his selfish projects. An adverse wind detained them a day or two, after every arrangement was completed; but so great was La Tour's eagerness to depart, that he embarked at sun-set, on the first appearance of a favourable change, hoping to weigh anchor by the dawn of day, or sooner, should the night prove clear, and the wind shift to the desired point. Stanhope remonstrated against this haste, as his nautical experience led him to apprehend evil from it; the clouds which for some time had boded an approaching storm, indeed, seemed passing away; but dark masses still lingered in the horizon, and the turbid waters of the bay assumed that calm and sullen aspect, which so often precedes a tempest. But La Tour was obstinate in his resolution; and, as it was important that the vessels shouldsail in company, Stanhope yielded to his solicitations, and left the fort with that dreariness of heart, which ever attends the moment of parting from those we love.
Mad. de la Tour, soon after her husband's departure, passed the gate, on a visit of charity to a neighboring cottage. The long summer twilight was deepening on the hills, as she returned; and, with surprise, she observed Luciè loitering among a tuft of trees, which grow near the water's edge, at a short distance from her path. Believing she had come out to seek her, Mad. la Tour approached the spot where she stood; but Luciè's attention was wholly engaged by a light boat which had just pushed from the shore, and rapidly neared the vessel of Arthur Stanhope, which lay at anchor below the fort. She could not identify the only person which it contained, but a suspicion that it was Stanhope, instantly crossed her mind. Suppressing her vexation, Mad. la Tour addressed Luciè;—she started, and a crimson glow suffused her face, as she looked up and met the eyes of her aunt, fixed inquiringly on her.
"You are abroad at an unusual hour this evening, Luciè," said Mad. de la Tour, without appearing to notice her confusion.
"Yes, later than I was aware," she answered, with some hesitation; "I have been to Annette's cottage, and was accidentally detained on my return."
"Accidentally!" repeated Mad. de la Tour, with a look which again crimsoned the cheek of Luciè; "you were not detained by any ill tidings, I trust, though your tearful eyes betray emotions, which, you know, I love you too well to witness, without a wish to learn the cause."
"How can you ask the cause, dear aunt, when we have just parted from so many friends, whose absence, and probable danger, cannot but leave us anxious and dejected!"
"You were not wont to indulge a gloomy or anxious spirit, Luciè; and why should younowyield to it? Nay, but an hour or two since, you parted with apparent composure from all; and what has since happened to occasion this regret? and why should you conceal it from me, who have so long been your friend and confidant?"
"Fromyou, dear aunt, I would conceal nothing; you have a right to know every thought and wish of my heart; but"—
"But what?" asked Mad. la Tour, as she hesitated; "answer me one question, Luciè; has not Mr. Stanhope but just now quitted you?"
"He has," said Luciè, deeply blushing, though her ingenuous countenance told that she was relieved from a painful reserve; "and now all is known to you,—all,—and more, perhaps, than I ought, at present, to have revealed."
"More, far more, than you ought ever to have had it in your power to reveal!" said Mad. de laTour, in an accent of displeasure; "and it is for this stranger that you have slighted the wishes of your natural guardians,—that you have rejected the love of one, in every respect worthy of your choice!"
"Those wishes were inconsistent with my duty," returned Luciè; "and that love I could never recompense! Dearest aunt," she added, and the tears again filled her eyes, "forgive me in this one instance; it is the only thought of my heart, which has been concealed from you; and, believe me,thiswas concealed, only to save yourself and me from reproaches, which, were I now mistress of my actions, I should not fear to meet."
"Rather say, Luciè, it was concealed to suit the wishes of your lover; but is it honorable in him to seek your affections clandestinely? to bind you by promises, which are unsanctioned by your friends?"
"You are unjust to him," said Luciè, eagerly; "you suspect him of a meanness, which he could never practice. I only am to blame for whatever is wrong and secret. He has never wished to disguise his attachment, and you were not slow to detect and regret it; he was encouraged by my dear aunt Rossville, but circumstances separated us, and I scarcely dared hope that we should ever meet again"—
"But youdidmeet," interrupted Mad. de la Tour, "and why all this mystery and reserve?"
"I dreaded my uncle's anger," said Luciè: "andpersuaded Stanhope, against his inclination, to leave me without any explanation to my guardian, till the time arrives when I shall be at liberty to choose for myself; and till then, I have refused to enter into any engagements,—except those which my heart has long since made, and which nothing ever can dissolve."
"To me, at least, Luciè, you might have confided this; you would not have found me arbitrary or tyrannical, and methinks, the advice of an experienced friend would not have been amiss on a subject of such importance."
"I well know your lenity and affection, dear aunt," returned Luciè; "but I was most unwilling to involve you in my difficulties, and expose you to my uncle's displeasure; in time, all would have been known to you; I should have taken no important step without your advice; and why should I perplex you, with what could now be of no avail?"
"I am willing to believe youintendedto do right, Luciè, though I am not yet convinced that youhavedone so; but we are near the gate, and will dismiss the subject till another opportunity."
Luciè gladly assented, and their walk was pursued in silence.