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Title: The Rivals of Acadia
An Old Story of the New World
Author: Harriet Vaughan Cheney
Release Date: December 19, 2005 [EBook #17351]
Language: English
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THE RIVALS OF ACADIA,
AN
OLD STORY
OF
THE NEW WORLD.
When two authorities are up,
Neither supreme, how soon confusion
May enter 'twixt the gap of both, and take
The _one by the other_.
SHAKSPEARE.
Boston:
WELLS AND LILLY, COURT-STREET.
1827.
THE RIVALS OF ACADIA
DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, TO WIT
_District Clerk's Office._
BE IT REMEMBERED, that on the twenty sixth day of January, A.D. 1827, in
the fifty-first year of the Independence of the United States of
America, Wells and Lilly of the said district, have deposited in this
Office the Title of a Book, the Right whereof they claim as Proprietors
in the Words following, _to wit_:
"The Rivals of Acadia, an Old Story of the New World.
When two authorities are up,
Neither supreme, how soon confusion
May enter 'twixt the gap of both, and take
The one by the other _Shakspeare._"
In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled
"An Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies of
Maps, Charts, and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of such Copies,
during the Times therein mentioned," and also to an Act, entitled "An
act supplementary to an Act, entitled, 'An Act for the encouragement of
Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the
Authors and Proprietors of such Copies during the times therein
mentioned,' and extending the Benefits thereof to the Arts of Designing,
Engraving, and Etching Historical, and other Prints."
JNO. W. DAVIS.
_Clerk of the District of Masachusetts._
THE
RIVALS OF ACADIA
CHAPTER I.
Far on th' horizon's verge appears a speck--
A spot--a mast--a sail--an armed deck!
Their little bark her men of watch descry,
And ampler canvas woos the wind from high.
LORD BYRON.
On a bright day in the summer of 1643, a light pleasure-boat shot gaily
across the harbor of Boston, laden with a merry party, whose cheerful
voices were long heard, mingling with the ripple of the waves, and the
music of the breeze, which swelled the canvas, and bore them swiftly
onward. A group of friends, who had collected on the shore to witness
their departure, gradually dispersed, till, at length, a single
individual only remained, whose eyes still followed the track of the
vessel, though his countenance wore that abstracted air, which shewed
his thoughts were detached from the passing scene. He seemed quite
unconscious of the silence that succeeded this transient bustle, and a
low murmur, which soon begun to spread along the shore, was equally
disregarded. Suddenly a confused sound of many voices burst upon his
ear, and hurried steps, as of persons in alarm and agitation, at once
aroused him from his reverie. At the same moment, a hand was laid
heavily on his shoulder, and a voice exclaimed, with earnestness,
"Are you insensible, Arthur Stanhope, at a moment, when every man's life
is in jeopardy?"
"My father!" replied the young man, "what is the meaning of all this
excitement and confusion?"
"Do you not know?" demanded the other; "a strange sail is approaching
our peaceful coast; and, see! they have unfurled the standard of popish
France."
"It is true, by heaven!" exclaimed young Stanhope; "and, look, father,
yonder boat is flying before them; this is no time to gaze idly on; we
must hasten to their rescue."
The vessel, which produced so much alarm, was, in fact, a French ship of
considerable force, apparently well manned, and armed for offensive or
defensive operations. The national flag streamed gaily on the wind, and,
as it anchored just against Castle Island, the roll of the drum, and the
shrill notes of the fife, were distinctly heard, and men were seen
busied on deck, as if preparing for some important action. The little
bark, already mentioned, was filled, chiefly, with females and
children, bound, on an excursion of pleasure, to an island in the bay;
and their terror was extreme, on thus encountering an armed vessel of
the French, who had, on many occasions, shewn hostility to the
colonists. The boat instantly tacked, and crowding sail, as much as
prudence would permit, steered across the harbor towards Governor's
Island. But it had evidently become an object of interest or curiosity
to the French; their attention seemed wholly engrossed by it, and
presently a boat was lowered to the water, and an officer, with several
of the crew sprang into it, and rowed swiftly from the ship's side. They
immediately gave chase to the pleasure-boat, which was however
considerably ahead, and so ably managed, that she kept clear her
distance; and with all the muscular strength, and nautical skill of the
enemy, he found it impossible to gain upon her.
In the mean time, the alarm had spread, and spectators of every age, and
either sex, thronged the shore, to witness this singular pursuit. The
civil and military authorities prepared for defence, should it prove
necessary; a battery, which protected the harbor, was hastily manned,
and the militia drawn up, in rank and file, with a promptitude, not
often displayed by the heroes of a train-band company. For several
years, no foreign or internal enemy had disturbed the public repose, and
the fortifications on Castle Island gradually fell into decay; and,
from motives of economy, at this time not a single piece of artillery
was mounted, or a soldier stationed there. The enemy, of course, had
nothing to oppose his progress, should he choose to anchor in the inmost
waters of the bay.
Governor's Island, however, at that moment, became the centre of
anxiety, and every eye was fixed upon the boat, which rapidly neared the
shore. The governor, as was often his custom, had on that day retired
there, with his family; and, attended only by a few servants, his person
was extremely insecure, should the French meditate any sinister design.
In this emergency, three shallops were filled with armed men, to sail
for the protection of the chief magistrate, and ascertain the intentions
of the French. Young Stanhope was invested with the command of this
little force; and perhaps there was no man in the colony, who would have
conducted the enterprize with more boldness and address. He had entered
the English navy in boyhood; and, after many years of faithful service,
was rapidly acquiring rank and distinction, when the unhappy dissensions
of the times threw their blighting influence on his prospects, and
disappointed his well-founded hopes of still higher advancement in his
profession. His father, an inflexible Puritan, fled to New-England from
the persecution of a church which he abhorred, and, with the malevolence
of narrow-minded bigotry, the heresy of the parent was punished, by
dismissing the son from that honorable station, which his valour had
attained. Deeply wounded in spirit, Arthur Stanhope retired from the
service of his country, but he carried with him, to a distant land, the
affection and esteem of his brother officers,--a solace, which
misfortune can never wrest from a noble and virtuous mind.
On the present occasion, Stanhope made his arrangements with coolness
and precision, and received from everyone, the most prompt and zealous
assistance. The alarm, which the appearance of the French at first
excited, had gradually subsided; but still there were so many volunteers
in the cause, that it was difficult to prevent the shallops from being
overloaded. Constables with their batons, and soldiers, with fixed
bayonets, guarded the place of embarkation, till, at a given signal, the
boats were loosed from their moorings, and glided gently over the waves.
A loud shout burst from the spectators, which was succeeded by a
stillness so profound, that, for several moments, the measured dash of
the oars was distinctly heard on shore. An equal silence prevailed on
board the shallops, which were rowed in exact unison, while the men, who
occupied them, sat erect and motionless as automatons, their fire-arms
glancing in the bright sun-shine, and their eyes occasionally turning
with defiance towards the supposed enemy.
Arthur Stanhope stood on the stern of the principal vessel, and beside
him Mr. Gibbons, a young man, who watched the progress of the
pleasure-boat with eager solicitude,--for it contained his mother and
sisters. It had then nearly reached the island; their pursuers, probably
in despair of overtaking them, had relaxed their efforts, and rested on
their oars, apparently undecided what course to follow.
"They are observing us," said Stanhope's companion, pointing to the
French, "and I doubt they will return to the protection of their ship,
and scarce leave us the liberty of disputing the way with them."
"They will consult their prudence, in doing so," replied Stanhope, "if
their intentions are indeed hostile, as we have supposed."
"If!" returned the other, "why else should they give chase to one of our
peaceable boats, in that rude manner? But, thank heaven!" he added,
joyfully, "it is now safe; see! my mother has this moment sprung on
shore, with her frightened band of damsels and children! ah! I think
they will not _now_ admire the gallant Frenchmen, as they did last
summer, when La Tour's gay lieutenant was here, with his compliments and
treaties!"
"I begin to think yonder vessel is from the same quarter," said Arthur,
thoughtfully; "Mons. de la Tour, perhaps, wishes to renew his alliance
with us, or seeks aid to carry on his quarrel with Mons. d'Aulney, his
rival in the government of Acadia."
"God forbid!" said a deep, rough voice, which proceeded from the
helmsman, "that we should have any fellowship with those priests of the
devil, those monks and friars of popish France."
"Spoke like an oracle, my honest fellow!" said Gibbons, laughing; "it is
a pity that your zeal and discernment should not be rewarded by some
office of public trust."
"Truly, master Gibbons, we have fallen upon evil days, and the righteous
no longer flourish, like green bay trees, in the high places of our
land; but though cast out of mine honorable office, there are many who
can testify to the zeal of my past services."
"I doubt not there are many who have cause to remember it," returned
Gibbons, with a smile; "but bear a little to the leeward, unless you
have a mind to convert yonder papists, by a few rounds of good powder
and shot."
This short dialogue was broken off, by an unexpected movement of the
French, who, after lingering, as in doubt, at some distance from the
island, suddenly recommenced rowing towards it, and at the same time
struck up a lively air on the bugle, which floated cheerily over the
waves. Soon after, their keel touched the strand, close by the
pleasure-boat, which was safely moored, and deserted by every
individual. The principal officer then leaped on shore, and walked
leisurely towards the house of governor Winthrop. Stanhope also landed
in a short time, and, with Mr. Gibbons, proceeded directly to the
governor's. The mansion exhibited no appearance of alarm; the windows
were thrown open to admit the cooling sea-breeze, children sported
around the door, and cheerful voices within announced, that the
stranger, who had just preceded them, was not an unwelcome guest. He was
conversing apart with Mr. Winthrop, when they entered, and they
instantly recognized in him, a lieutenant of M. de la Tour, who had, on
a former occasion, been sent to negociate a treaty with the magistrates
of Boston. He was believed to be a Hugonot, and, on that account, as
well as from the personal regard which his conduct and manners inspired,
he had been treated with much attention, during the time that he
remained there. Mons. de Valette,--so he was called,--had been
particularly intimate with the family of Major Gibbons, a gentleman of
consideration in the colony, and he quickly espied his lady in the
pleasure-boat, which he discovered in the bay. Gallantly inclined to
return her civilities, he endeavoured to overtake her, with the
intention of inviting her aboard the ship, quite unconscious that she
was flying from him in terror. But the formidable array of armed
shallops, with the assemblage of people on shore, at length excited a
suspicion of the truth, and he determined to follow the lady to her
retreat, to explain the motives of his conduct. His apology was
graciously accepted, and the late alarm became a subject of general
amusement.
De Valette also improved the opportunity, to prepare governor Winthrop
for the object of La Tour's voyage to Boston. M. Razilly,
governor-general of the French province of Acadia, had entrusted the
administration to D'Aulney de Charnisy, and St. Etienne, lord of La
Tour. The former he appointed lieutenant of the western part of the
colony, the latter of the eastern; they were separated by the river St.
Croix. La Tour also held possession in right of a purchase, confirmed by
the king's patent; and, on the death of Razilly, which happened at an
early period of the settlement, he claimed the supreme command. His
pretensions were violently disputed by D'Aulney; and, from that time,
each had constantly sought to dispossess the other; and the most bitter
enmity kept them continually at strife. Both had repeatedly endeavoured
to obtain assistance from the New-England colonists; but, as yet, they
had prudently declined to decide in favor of either, lest the other
should prove a dangerous, or at least an annoying enemy. La Tour was, or
pretended to be, a Hugonot,--which gave him a preference with the rulers
of the Massachusetts; they had shewn a friendly disposition towards him,
and permitted any persons, who chose, to engage in commerce with him. He
had just returned from France, in a ship well laden with supplies for
his fort at St. John's, and a stout crew, who were mostly protestants of
Rochelle. But he found the fort besieged, and the mouth of the river
shut up, by several vessels of D'Aulney's, whose force it would have
been temerity to oppose. He sailed directly to Boston, to implore
assistance in removing his enemy; bringing with him a commission from
the king, which established his authority, as lieutenant-general in
Acadia.
It was under these circumstances, that the French vessel appeared in the
harbor of Boston, the innocent cause of so much alarm to the
inhabitants. Governor Winthrop heard the details and arguments of De
Valette, with polite attention; but he declined advancing any opinion,
till he had consulted with the deputy, and other magistrates. He,
however, desired Mr. Stanhope to return with the young officer to his
ship, and request M. de la Tour to become a guest at the house of the
chief magistrate, until his question was decided.
CHAPTER II.
Fit me with such weeds
As may beseem some well-reputed page.
SHAKSPEARE.
The tardy summer of the north burst forth in all its splendor on the
woods and scattered settlements of Acadia, and even the harassed
garrison at St. John's, revived under its inspiriting influence. La Tour
had been compelled to return to France in the autumn, for a
reinforcement and supplies, leaving the fort defended only by a hireling
force, which could scarcely muster fifty men, fit for active service.
They were a mixture of Scotch and French, Protestants and Catholics;
their personal and religious disputes kept them at continual variance;
and the death of an experienced officer, who had been left in command,
produced a relaxation of discipline, which threatened the most serious
consequences. The protracted absence of La Tour became a subject of
bitter complaint; and, as their stores, of every kind, gradually wasted
away, they began to talk loudly of throwing down their arms, and
abandoning their posts. In this posture of affairs, the courage and
firmness of Madame la Tour alone restrained them from open mutiny. With
an air of authority, which no one presumed to question, she assumed the
supreme command, and established a rigid discipline, which the boldest
dared not transgress. She daily witnessed their military exercises,
assigned to every man his post of duty, and voluntarily submitted to the
many privations which circumstances imposed on those beneath her.
M. d'Aulney, in the mean time, kept a vigilant eye on the movements of
the garrison. As spring advanced, his light vessels were sent to
reconnoitre as near as safety would permit; and it was evident that he
meditated a decisive attack. Mad. la Tour used the utmost caution to
prevent a surprise, and deceive the enemy respecting the weakness of
their resources. She restricted the usual intercourse between her
people, and those without the fort; and allowed no one to enter
unquestioned, except a French priest, who came, at stated times, to
dispense ghostly counsel to the Catholics.
On one of these occasions, as the holy father issued from a small
building, which served as a chapel for his flock, he encountered the
stiff figure and stern features of a Scotch Presbyterian, whom the lady
of La Tour, a protestant in faith, had received into her family, in the
capacity of chaplain to her household. It was on a Sabbath morning, and
both had been engaged in the offices of religion with their respective
congregations. Each was passing on, in silence, when the Scot suddenly
stopped, directly in the other's path, and surveyed him with an
expression of gloomy distrust. An indignant glow flashed across the pale
features of the priest, but instantly faded away, and he stood in an
attitude of profound humility, as if waiting to learn the cause of so
rude an interruption. In spite of passion and prejudice, the bigoted
sectary felt rebuked by the calm dignity of his countenance and manner;
but he had gone too far to recede, without some explanation, and
therefore sternly said,
"Our lady admits no stranger within these gates, and wo be to the wolf
who climbs into the fold in sheep's clothing!"
"The priest of God," he replied, "is privileged by his holy office to
administer reproof and consolation, wherever there is an ear to listen,
and a heart to feel."
"The priest of Satan," muttered the other, in a low, wrathful tone, "the
emissary of that wicked one, who sitteth on the seven hills, filled with
all abominations."
The priest turned from him with a look of mingled pity and scorn; but
his reverend opponent caught his arm, and again strictly surveying him,
exclaimed,
"It is not thou, whom my lady's easy charity permits to come in hither,
and lead poor deluded souls astray, with the false doctrines of thy
false religion! Speak, and explain from whence thou comest, and what
are thy designs?"
"Thy wrath is vain and impotent," said the priest, coolly withdrawing
from his grasp; "but the precepts of my master enjoin humility, and I
disdain not to answer thee, though rudely questioned. Father Ambrose
hath been called to a distant province, and, by his passport I come
hither, to feed the flock which he hath left."
Still dissatisfied, the chaplain was about to prosecute his
interrogatories, but the singular rencontre had already collected a
crowd around them, and the Catholics, with the vivacity of their
country, and the zeal of their religion, began loudly to resent the
insult offered the holy father. Voices rose high in altercation; but as
the worthy Scot was totally ignorant of their language, he remained, for
some moments, at a loss to conjecture the cause of this sudden
excitement. But the menacing looks which were directed towards him,
accompanied by gestures too plain to be misunderstood, at length
convinced him, that he was personally interested, and he commenced a
hasty retreat, when his progress was arrested by the iron grasp of a
sturdy corporal, from which he found it impossible to free himself. With
a countenance, in which rage and entreaty were ludicrously blended, he
turned towards the priest, whose earnest expostulations were addressed,
in vain, to the exasperated assailants. The corporal kept his hold
tenaciously, questioning him with a volubility known only to Frenchmen,
and, enraged that he was neither understood nor answered, he concluded
each sentence with a shake, which jarred every sinew in the stout frame
of the Scotchman. It is doubtful to what extremes the affray might have
been carried, as the opposite party began to rally with equal warmth,
for the rescue of their _teacher_; but, at that moment, a quick and
repeated note of alarum sounded in their ears, and announced some
pressing danger. Thrown into consternation by this unexpected summons,
the soldiers fled confusedly, or stood stupified, and uncertain what
course to pursue. Nor was their confusion diminished, when Madame la
Tour appeared in the midst of them, and, with a look, which severely
reproved their negligence, exclaimed,
"Why stand ye here, my gallant men, clamouring with your idle brawls,
when the enemy floats before our very gates? fly to your posts, or stay
and see what a woman's hand can do."
The appeal was decisive; in a moment every man filled his proper
station, and throughout the fort, the breathless pause of suspense
preceded the expected signal of attack or defence. M. d'Aulney had
entered the river with a strong force, and owing to the negligence of
the sentinels, appeared suddenly before the surprised garrison.
Emboldened by meeting no resistance, he drew up his vessels against the
fort, and incautiously approached within reach of the battery.
Perceiving his error too late, he immediately tacked, and gave a signal
to bear off, which was promptly obeyed by the lighter vessels. But
before his own, which was more unwieldly, could escape, Madame la Tour
seized the favourable moment, and, with her own hand, discharged a piece
of artillery, which so materially damaged the vessel, that it was found
difficult to remove her from the incessant fire, which was then opened
upon her. It was, however, effected; but, though repulsed at that time,
it was not probable that D'Aulney would relinquish his designs; and,
apprehensive that he might attempt a landing below the fort, a double
guard was set, and every precaution taken to prevent another surprise.
Madame la Tour, till the last moment of danger, was every where
conspicuous, dispensing her orders with the cool presence of mind, which
would have honored a veteran commander. It was near the close of day,
when she retired from the presence of the garrison, to seek repose from
her arduous duties. In passing an angle of the fort, she was attracted
by the sound of light footsteps; and, as she paused an instant, a figure
bounded from the shadow of the wall, and stood before her, wrapped in a
military cloak, which completely enveloped its person.
"Who are you?" demanded Madame de la Tour.
"I am ashamed to tell you," replied a soft, sweet voice, which the lady
instantly recognized; "but if you can forgive me, I will uncover myself,
for, indeed, I am well nigh suffocated already."
"Foolish child! where have you been, and what is the meaning of all
this?"
"I was coming to seek for you; but I lingered here a few moments, for,
in truth, I have no fancy to approach very near those formidable guns,
unless they are more peaceably disposed than they have been to-day, and,
now I must see if you forgive my cowardice!"
With these words the cloak was hastily unloosed, and the young page of
Mad. la Tour sprang lightly from its folds. A tartan kirtle, reaching
below the knees, with trews of the same material, and a Highland bonnet,
adorned with a tuft of eagle feathers, gave him the appearance of a
Scottish youth;--but the sparkling black eyes, the clear brunette
complexion, and the jetty locks which clustered around its brow and
neck, proclaimed him the native of a warmer and brighter climate. Half
laughing, yet blushing with shame, the boy looked with arch timidity in
his lady's face, as if deprecating the expected reproof; but she smiled
affectionately on him, and said,
"I have nothing to forgive, my child; God knows this is but a poor place
for one so young and delicate as you, and I wonder not, that your
courage is sometimes tested beyond its strength. I would not wish you
to share the dangers which it is my duty to encounter."
"I should fear nothing could I really be of service to you," replied the
page, "but, to-day, for instance, I must have been sadly in your way,
and I am very sure the first cannon ball would have carried me off the
walls."
"The enemy would doubtless aim at so important a mark," said the lady,
smiling, "but go now,--your valour will never win the spurs of
knighthood."
"I am not ambitious of such an honour," he answered gaily; "you know I
am but a fair-weather sort of page, fit only to hover around my lady's
bower, in the season of flowers and sunshine."
"Mine is no bower of ease," said Mad. la Tour; "but with all its perils,
I am resolved to guard it with my life, and resign it only into the
hands of my lord. You have promised to assist me," she added, after a
moment's pause, "and I wish you to redeem your word by remaining here
till I return. I care not to trust the faith of those idle soldiers,
who, perchance, think they have done enough of duty to-day, and your
keener eyes may keep a closer watch on the landing place, and sooner
espy the motions of the enemy, who still hold their station below."
"This I can do with pleasure," said the page, "and I am as brave as
heart can wish, when there is no danger nigh. I love to linger under the
open sky in the twilight of these bright days, which are so cheering
after the damp fogs of spring, that I can hardly regret the eternal
sunshine of my own dear France."
"Well, do not forget my commission in your romantic musings," replied
Mad. la Tour.
The page promised obedience, and, left to himself, assumed the post of
observation, retreating as far as possible from the view of the
soldiers. The soft and brilliant tints of twilight slowly faded away,
and the smooth surface of the river gradually darkened as its waves beat
in monotonous cadence against the walls of the fort. A slight breeze, at
intervals, lifted the silken folds of the banner, which drooped from the
tall flag-staff, displaying the escutcheon of La Tour, surmounted by the
arms of France. Far up, the noble stream, on either side, was skirted by
extensive intervals, covered with the rich, bright verdure, peculiar to
early summer, and occasionally rising into gentle acclivities, or
terminating in impervious forests. Tufts of woodland, and large trees
scattered in groups, or standing singly, like the giants of past ages,
spreading their broad arms to the winds of heaven, diversified the
scene; while here and there, the smoke curled gracefully from the humble
cabin of the planter, and at times, the fisherman's light oar dimpled
the clear waves, as he bounded homeward with the fruits of successful
toil. A bright moonlight, silvering the calm and beautiful landscape,
displayed the vessels of D'Aulney, riding at anchor below the fort,
while a thin mist, so common in that climate, began slowly to weave
around their hulks, till the tall masts and white top-sails were alone
visible, floating, like a fairy fleet, in the transparent atmosphere.
The page had gazed long in silent admiration, when his attention was
arrested by the appearance of a human figure, gliding cautiously along
beneath the parapet on which he stood. His tall, attenuated form was
clothed in the loose, black garments of a monk, and the few hairs which
the rules of a severe order had left on his uncovered head, were white
as the snows of winter. A cowl partially concealed his features, his
waist was girt by a cord of discipline, and, as he moved with noiseless
steps, he seemed counting the beads of a rosary, which he carried in his
hand. The page was at first on the point of speaking, believing it to be
father Ambrose, the Catholic missionary; but a second glance convinced
him he was mistaken, and with curiosity, mingled with a degree of awe,
he leaned forward to observe him more attentively. After proceeding a
few paces, he stopped, and threw back his cowl, and as he did so, his
eye encountered the page, whom he surveyed strictly for a moment, then
turned slowly away, and disappeared by an aperture through the outer
works. The boy looked over the wall, expecting the return of this
singular intruder; nor was he aware how fixedly he remained in that
position, till the touch of a hand, laid lightly on his arm, recalled
him to recollection. Turning quickly round, he involuntarily started
back, on perceiving the object of his curiosity close beside him. His
gliding footsteps and peculiar appearance awakened a transient feeling
of dread; but instantly repressing it, he ventured to raise his head,
and as he did so, the clear light of the moon fell full on his youthful
face. The stranger was about to speak, but as the page looked towards
him, the words died away on his lips, his cheeks were flushed, and his
cold features glowed with sudden and strong excitement.
"Holy St. Mary, who are you?" he asked, in an accent of deep feeling, as
he grasped the arm of the trembling youth.
"I am called Hector, the page of Mad. la Tour," he answered, in a voice
scarce audible from terror, and shrinking from the hand which held him.
"May God forgive me!" murmured the monk to himself, as he relaxed his
grasp; while, evidently by a strong effort, every trace of emotion was
banished from his countenance and manner. Hector still stood before him,
longing, yet afraid to flee, till the other, apparently comprehending
his feelings, said, in a slow, solemn voice,
"Fear me not, boy, but go, bear this message to the lady of La Tour.
Tell her, that her lord hath already spread his homeward sails, and a
few hours, perhaps, will bear him hither. Tell her, that M. d'Aulney
will send to parley with her for surrender; but bid her disdain his
promises or threats; bid her hold out with a brave heart, and the hour
of succor will surely arrive."
So saying, he turned away; and Hector hastened to the apartment of his
lady.
CHAPTER III.
Herald, save thy labor;
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald;
SHAKSPEARE.
The arrival of some fishermen on the following morning confirmed the
intelligence of father Gilbert--the name by which the priest, who
succeeded Father Ambrose, had announced himself at the fort. They had
eluded the enemy by night, and reported that several vessels lay
becalmed in the Bay of Fundy; and, though they had not been near enough
to ascertain with certainty, no doubt was entertained, that it was the
little fleet of M. la Tour, returning with the expected supplies.
The holy character and mission of father Gilbert was his passport in
every place; and, as his duty often called him to remote parts of the
settlement, and among every description of people, it was natural that
he should obtain information of passing events, before it reached the
ears of the garrison. The mysterious manner in which he had communicated
his intelligence on the preceding evening, occasioned some surprise; but
Mad. la Tour, in listening to the relation of her page, made due
allowance for the exaggerations of excited fancy; and she was also
aware, that the Catholic missionaries were fond of assuming an ambiguous
air, which inspired the lower people with reverence, and doubtless
increased their influence over them. Till within a day or two, father
Gilbert had never entered the fort; but he was well known to the poor
inhabitants without, by repeated acts of charity and kindness, though he
sedulously shunned all social intercourse, and was remarked for the
austere discipline, and rigid self-denial to which he subjected himself.
The spirits of the garrison revived with the expectation of relief,
which was no longer considered a matter of uncertainty. In the fulness
of these renovated hopes, a boat from M. d'Aulney approached with an
officer bearing a flag of truce. He was received with becoming courtesy,
and immediately shewn into the presence of Mad. la Tour. In spite of his
contempt for female authority, and his apathy to female charms, a
feeling of respectful admiration softened the harshness of his features,
as the sturdy veteran bent before her, with the almost forgotten
gallantry of earlier years. At that period of life, when the graces of
youth have just ripened into maturity, the lady of La Tour was as highly
distinguished by her personal attractions, as by the strength and energy
of her mind. Her majestic figure displayed the utmost harmony of
proportion, and the expression of her regular and striking features
united, in a high degree, the sweetest sensibilities of woman, with the
more bold and lofty attributes of man. At times, an air of hauteur
shaded the openness of her brow, but it well became her present
situation, and the singular command she had of late assumed. She
received the messenger of D'Aulney with politeness, but the cold reserve
of her countenance and manner, convinced him, that his task was
difficult, if not hopeless. For an instant, his experienced eye drooped
beneath her piercing glance; and, perceiving her advantage, she was the
first to break the silence.
"What message from my lord of D'Aulney," she asked, "procures me the
honor of this interview? or is it too bold for a woman's ear, that you
remain thus silent? I have but brief time to spend in words, and would
quickly learn what brave service he now demands of me?"
"My lord of D'Aulney," replied the officer, "bids me tell you, that he
wars not with women; that he respects your weakness, and forgives the
injuries which you have sought to do him."
"Forgives!" said the lady, with a contemptuous smile; "thy lord is
gracious and merciful,--aye, merciful to himself, perhaps, and careful
for his poor vessels, which but yesterday shivered beneath our cannon!
Is this all?"
"He requires of you," resumed the officer, piqued by her scornful
manner, "the restoration of those rights, which the lord of la Tour hath
unjustly usurped; he requires the submission of this garrison, and the
possession of this fort, and pledges his word, on such conditions, to
preserve inviolate the life and liberty of every individual."
"Thy lord is most just and reasonable in his demands," returned the
lady, sarcastically; "but hath he no threats in reserve, no terrors
wherewith to enforce compliance?"
"He bids me tell you," said the excited messenger, "that if you reject
his offered clemency, you do it at your peril, and the blood of the
innocent will be required at your hands. He knows the weakness of your
resources, and he will come with power to shake these frail walls to
their foundations, and make the stoutest heart within them tremble with
dismay."
"And bid him come," said the lady, every feature glowing with indignant
feeling, and high resolve; "bid him come, and we will teach him to
respect the rights which he has dared to infringe; to acknowledge the
authority which he has presumed to insult; to withdraw the claims, which
he has most arrogantly preferred. Tell him, that the lady of La Tour is
resolved to sustain the honor of her absent lord, to defend his just
cause to the last extremity, and preserve, inviolate, the possessions
which his king hath intrusted to his keeping. Go tell your lord, that,
though a woman, my heart is fearless as his own; say, that I spurn his
offered mercy, I defy his threatened vengeance, and to God, the
defender of the innocent, I look for succor in the hour of danger and
strife."
So saying, she turned from him, with a courteous gesture, though her
manner convinced him that any farther parley would be useless; and
endeavoring to conceal his chagrin by an air of studied civility, the
dissatisfied messenger was reconducted to the boat.
The vessels of M. d'Aulney left their anchorage below the fort, at an
early hour in the morning; but it was reported, that they still lay near
the mouth of the river, probably to intercept the return of La Tour. The
day passed away, and he did not arrive, nor were any tidings received
from him. Mad. la Tour's page remarked the unusual dejection of his
lady, and, emulous perhaps of her braver spirit, resolved, if possible,
to obtain some information, which might relieve her anxiety. With this
intention he left the fort soon after sunset, attended only by a large
Newfoundland dog, which was his constant companion, whenever he ventured
beyond the gates. For some time, he walked slowly along the bank of the
river, hoping to meet with some fishermen, who usually returned from
their labors at the close of day, and were most likely to have gathered
the tidings which he wished to learn. The gloom of evening, which had
deepened around him, was gradually dispersed by the light of the rising
moon; and as he stood alone in that solitary place, the recollection of
his interview with the strange priest on the preceding evening,
recurred to his imagination with a pertinacity, which he vainly
endeavored to resist. He looked carefully round, almost expecting to see
the tall, ghost-like figure of the holy father again beside him; but
there was no sound abroad, except the sighing of the wind and waves; and
the shadows of the trees lay unbroken on the velvet turf. From this
disquiet musing, so foreign to his light and careless disposition, the
page was at length agreeably roused by the quick dash of oars, and in a
moment he perceived a small bark canoe, guided by a single individual,
bounding swiftly over the waves. As it approached near the place where
he stood, Hector retreated to conceal himself in a tuft of ever-greens,
from whence he could, unseen, observe the person who drew near. He had
reason to congratulate himself on this precaution, as the boat shortly
neared the spot which he had just quitted, and in the occupant he
discovered the dark features of a young Indian, who had apparently been
engaged in the labor or amusement of fishing. Not caring to disclose
himself to the savage, the page shrunk behind the trunk of a large pine
tree, while the dog crouched quietly at his feet, equally intent on the
stranger's motions,--his shaggy ears bent to the ground, and his
intelligent eyes turned often inquiringly to his master's face, as if to
consult his wishes and inclination.
The Indian leaped from his canoe, the instant it touched the strand,
and began hastily to secure it by a rope, which he fastened around the
trunk of an uprooted tree. From his appearance, he belonged to one of
those native tribes, who, from constant intercourse and traffic with the
French Acadians, had imbibed some of the habits and ideas of civilized
life. His dress was, in many respects, similar to the European's; but
the embroidered moccasins, the cloak of deer-skins, and plume of scarlet
feathers, shewed that he had not altogether abandoned the customs and
finery of his own people. His figure was less tall and athletic than the
generality of Indian youth, and his finely formed features were animated
by an expression of vivacity and careless good-humour, very different
from the usual gravity of his nation. The page looked at him with a
degree of curiosity and interest which he could neither suppress nor
define. Half ashamed of his own timidity, he resolved to address him,
and seek the information he was so desirous of obtaining, if, indeed, he
had been sufficiently conversant with the French settlers to communicate
his ideas in that language. While he still hesitated, the Indian had
secured his canoe, and as he stooped to take something from it, he began
to hum in a low voice, and presently, to the great surprise of Hector,
broke into a lively French air, the words and tune of which were
perfectly familiar to his ear. The dog also seemed to recognize it; he
started on his feet, listened attentively, and then, with a joyful
bark, sprang towards the Indian, and began to fawn around him and lick
his hands, with every demonstration of sincere pleasure.
"By our lady, you are a brave fellow, my faithful Hero," said the
Indian, in very pure French, as he caressed the animal; then casting a
searching glance around, he continued to address him, "But how came you
here, and alone, to greet your master on his return?"
The page could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise, as he
listened to the well-remembered voice; but drawing his cloak more
closely round him, and confining his dark locks beneath the tartan
bonnet, which he pulled over his brow, he advanced nearer, though still
unseen, and said in a disguised tone,
"Methinks thou art but a sorry actor, to be thrown off thy guard by the
barking of a dog; if I had a tongue so little used to keep its own
counsel, I would choose a mask which it would not so readily betray."
"Thou art right, by all the saints," replied the other; "and be thou
friend or foe, I will see to whom I am indebted for this sage reproof."
So saying, he darted towards the place where the page was concealed, and
Hector, hiding his face as much as possible, bowed with an air of
profound respect before him.
"Ha! whom have we here?" he asked, surveying the page with extreme
curiosity.
"The page of my lady De la Tour;" returned Hector, his laughing eye
drooping beneath the inquisitorial gaze.
"A pretty popinjay, brought out for my lady's amusement!" said the
stranger, smiling; "you make rare sport with your antic tricks, at the
fort yonder, I doubt not, boy."
"I am but a poor substitute for my lord's lieutenant, whose mirth was as
far-famed as his courage;" returned the page, gravely.
"Thou art a saucy knave!" said the other, quickly; but instantly
checking himself, he added, "and how fares it with your lady, in the
absence of her lord?"
"She is well, thank heaven, but"--
"But what?" interrupted the stranger, eagerly; "is any one--has any
misfortune reached her?"
"None, which she has not had the courage to resist; the baffled foe can
tell you a tale of constancy and firmness, which the bravest soldier
might be proud to emulate."
"Bravely spoken, my little page; and your lady doubtless found an able
assistant and counsellor in you! ha! how fared it with you, when the din
of battle sounded in your ears?"
"Indifferently well," said the page, with a suppressed smile; "I am but
a novice in the art of war. But have you learned aught that has befallen
us?"
"A rumour only has reached me, but I hope soon to obtain more accurate
and satisfactory information."
"You will hardly gain admittance to the fort in that harlequin dress,"
said Hector; "and I can save you the trouble of attempting it, by
answering all the inquiries you may wish to make."
"Can you?" asked the other, with an incredulous smile; "then you are
more deeply skilled than I could think, or _wish_ you to be."
"It may be so," returned the page, significantly; "but you will soon
find that the knowledge which you seek to gain, is as well known to me,
as to any one whom you hope to find there."
"You speak enigmas, boy," said the other, sharply; "tell me quickly to
whom, and what you allude?"
"Go, ask my lady," said the page, with provoking calmness; "I may not
betray the secrets of her household."
"You!" said the other, scornfully; "a pretty stripling, truly, to
receive the confidence of your lady."
"If not my lady's," replied the page, "perhaps her young companion has
less discretion in her choice of confidants."
"Ha!" said the stranger, starting, and changing colour, in spite of his
tawny disguise; "what say you of _her_? speak; and speak truly, for I
shall soon know if thou art false, from her own lips."
"_Her_ lips will never contradict _my_ words," returned the boy; "but
go, take the pass-word, enter the fort, and see--you will not find her
there."
"Not find her there?" he repeated in astonishment, and with a bewildered
air; then suddenly grasping the page's arm, he said, in no gentle tone,
"Now, by my faith, boy, you test my patience beyond endurance; if I
thought you were deceiving me"--
He stopped abruptly, and withdrew his hand, as a laugh, which he could
no longer repress, burst from the lips of Hector, and at the same
instant the heavy cloak fell from his shoulders to the ground.
"What mountebank trick is this?" demanded the stranger, angrily; but, as
his eye glanced over the figure of the page, his countenance rapidly
changed, and in an altered tone, he exclaimed,
"By the holy rood, you are"--
"Hush!" interrupted Hector, quickly pressing his finger on the other's
lips; and, with a feeling of instinctive dread, he pointed to father
Gilbert, who was approaching, and in a moment stood calmly and silently
beside them. As the young man turned to scan the person of the priest,
Hector hastily gathered his cloak around him, and before they were aware
of his intention, fled from the spot, and was soon secure within the
walls of the fort. The pretended Indian would have pursued, when he
perceived the page's flight, but his steps were arrested by the nervous
grasp of the priest.
"Loose your hold, sirrah!" he said, impatiently; but instantly
recollecting himself, added, with a gesture of respect, "Pardon me, holy
father, my mind was chafed with its own thoughts, or I should not have
forgotten the reverence due to your character and office."
"Know you that boy?" asked the priest, in a tremulous voice, and without
appearing to notice his apology.
"I once knew him well," returned the other, looking at the monk in
surprise; "a few months since, we were companions in the fort of St.
John's. But why do you question me thus?"
"Ask me not," returned the priest, resuming his habitual calmness; "but,
as well might you pursue the wind, as seek to overtake that light-footed
page."
"You have kept me till it is too late to make the attempt;" murmured the
other; and, his thoughts reverting to what had just passed, he continued
to himself, "A pretty page, truly! and who, but a fool, or a mad-cap,
like myself, could have looked at those eyes once, and not know them
again?"
"You are disturbed, young man," said the priest, regarding him
attentively; "and that disguise, for whatever purpose assumed, seems to
sit but ill upon you."
"You speak most truly, good father; but I hope to doff these tawdry
garments before morning, if the saints prosper my undertaking."
"Time is waning, my son, and that which you have to do, do quickly; the
dawn of day must not find you lingering here, if your safety and honor
are dear to you."
"You know me!" said the young man, surprised, "but I am totally
unconscious of having ever seen you before."
"I am not sought by the young and gay," replied the priest, "but we may
meet again; yonder is your path," pointing towards the fort, "mine leads
to retirement and solitude."
With these words he turned from him; and the young man, with hasty
steps, pursued his lonely way to the fort of St. John's.
CHAPTER IV.
I am sick of these protracted
And hesitating councils:
LORD BYRON.
The appearance of M. de la Tour at Boston, became a subject of serious
inquiry and discussion to the inhabitants of that place. Time had rather
increased than mitigated the religious prejudices, which separated them
from the parent country, and the approach of every stranger was viewed
with distrust and jealousy. The restless spirit of fanaticism and
faction, curbed within the narrow limits of colonial government, gladly
seized on every occasion to display its blind and pertinacious zeal. The
liberal temper, and impartial administration of governor Winthrop, had
been often censured by the more rigid Puritans, and his open espousal of
La Tour's cause, excited much discontent and animosity. Though avowedly
a Hugonot, there was reason to believe La Tour embraced the sentiments
of that party from motives of policy, and it was rumored that he
entertained Romish priests in his fort, and permitted them to celebrate
the rites of their religion. This was sufficient food for passion and
prejudice; and though La Tour, and his principal officer, De Valette,
were entertained with the utmost hospitality at the house of the chief
magistrate, his cause obtained few advocates, and his person was, in
general, regarded with suspicion and dislike. But the actions of Mr.
Winthrop were always dictated by principle; he was, therefore, firm in
his resolves, and the voice of censure or applause had no power to draw
him from the path of duty.
La Tour had always shown himself friendly to the New-England colonists;
but M. d'Aulney, who was openly a papist, had in several instances
intercepted their trading vessels, and treated the crews in a most
unjustifiable manner. He had also wrested a trading house, at Penobscot,
from the New-Plymouth colonists, and established his own fort there,
unjustly alleging, that it came within the limits of Acadia. This
conduct rendered him extremely obnoxious, particularly to the
inhabitants of the Massachusetts; but his vicinity to them gave him so
many opportunities of annoyance, that they dreaded to increase his
animosity by appearing to favor a rival. With the most discordant views,
and widely differing feelings, the magistrates and deputies of Boston
convened, at the governor's request, to consult on the propriety of
yielding to the wishes of La Tour. A stormy council at length broke up,
with the decision, that they could not, consistently with a treaty,
which they had lately ratified with the neighboring provinces, render
him assistance in their public capacity; neither did they feel
authorized to prevent any private individuals from enlisting in his
service, either on his offer of reward, or from more disinterested
motives.
"We owe them thanks, even for this concession," said La Tour to his
lieutenant; "and, by my faith, we will return with such a force as shall
make the traitor D'Aulney fly before us to the inmost shelter of his
strong hold;--aye, he may thank our clemency if we do not pursue him
there, and make the foundations of his fort tremble like the walls of
Jericho."
"It must be with something more than the blast of a trumpet," returned
De Valette; "if common report speaks truth, he has strongly intrenched
himself in this same fort that he took from the worthy puritans, some
few years since. In truth, I think we do them good service by avenging
this old grievance, which they have so long complained of, and I doubt
if we are not indebted in some measure to this same grudge for the
benefit of their assistance."
"I care not by what motives they are actuated," said La Tour, "as long
as my own designs are accomplished; and our chief concern, at present,
is to take advantage of this favourable crisis, and, if possible, to get
under sail, before the enemy hears of our success, and makes his
escape."
"Yes," said De Valette, "and before our friends have time to change
their minds, and withdraw the promised assistance."
"Why do you suggest such an idea?" asked La Tour, his brow darkening
with displeasure; "by heavens, they dare not provoke me by so gross an
act of treachery!"
"I do not think they intend it," returned De Valette; "but you know
there is a powerful opposition to our interest in this good town, and if
any of their worthy _teachers_ should chance to hit upon a text of
scripture which they could interpret against us,--farewell to the
expected aid! Nay," he added, laughing, "I believe there are already
some, who fancy they see the cloven foot of popery beneath our plain
exterior, and, if that should once shew itself, why, they would as soon
fight for the devil, to whom they might think us very closely allied."
"You forget, Eustace," said La Tour, lowering his voice, and looking
cautiously around, "that we stand on open ground, and a bird of the air
may carry our secrets to some of these long-eared, canting hypocrites!
but go now, muster your volunteers as soon as possible, and our sails
once spread to a fair wind, their scruples will avail them little."
The apprehensions of De Valette were not without foundation, and his
keen observation had detected symptoms of retraction in some who were at
first most forward in their proffers of service. The decision of the
magistrates had been very generally condemned by the graver part of the
community; its advocates were principally found among the young and
enterprising, who gladly embraced any opportunity to signalize their
courage and activity. With these, Arthur Stanhope was conspicuous for
his zeal and perseverance, though he had many difficulties to contend
against, arising from the inveterate prejudices of his father.
"It is a cause, in which we have no lot or portion," said the elder
Stanhope, in reply to his son's arguments; "neither is it right that we
should draw upon ourselves the vengeance of M. d'Aulney, by
strengthening the power of a rival, who, perchance, hath no more of
justice, or the king's favor, than himself."
"The public," said Arthur, "is not responsible for the act of a few
individuals; and the evil, if any exists, must fall entirely on our own
heads."
"It is an idle distinction, which the injured party will never
acknowledge," returned the father; "and I much wonder that the governor
and magistrates suffer themselves to be blinded by such vain pretences."
"We shall at least serve a good cause," replied Arthur, "by humbling the
arrogant pretensions of a papist,--one who has set up a cross, and
openly bowed before it, on the very borders of our territory."
"And are you sure that the adventurer, La Tour, is free from the
idolatry of that abominable church?" asked Mr. Stanhope.
"We should, I think, have the charity to believe so, till it is fully
and fairly contradicted," said Arthur; "we know that the crew of his
vessel are mostly protestants from Rochelle, and would they follow the
standard of a popish adventurer?"
"You are young, Arthur," returned his father, "and know not yet the
wiles of the deceiver; God forgive me, if I am uncharitable, but the
testimony of many worthy persons goes to prove, that this same La Tour
hath openly employed a monkish priest, dressed in the habit of a layman,
as his agent in important concerns."
"These persons may have been mistaken, father; at any rate, if we do
sin, it is in ignorance, and we are certainly not accountable for the
errors of others."
"So, doubtless, reasoned Jehoshaphat," his father replied, "when he was
tempted, by a lying spirit, to join with Ahab, an idolater, against
Ramoth-Gilead; and was he not reproved for helping the ungodly?"
"The cases appear to me widely different," said Arthur; "and, in the
present instance, I think we only obey the dictates of Christian
charity, which enjoins us to assist the stranger in his distress."
"You know my opinion, Arthur," returned his father, "and I shall not
prohibit you from following your inclination, as you are of an age to
act and judge for yourself; but I require you to weigh the matter
maturely, and not yield, without due consideration, to the impulse of an
adventurous disposition."
Arthur Stanhope readily promised to deliberate, and decide with the
utmost caution; and the result of this deliberation was, to accept the
command of a vessel of respectable force, which La Tour had taken into
his service. Three, of smaller size, the whole manned by about eighty
volunteers, completed the equipment. Thus successful, M. la Tour sailed
from Boston, expressing the utmost respect and gratitude to its
citizens, for the friendly aid they had granted to him.
The little fleet made a gallant show, spreading its white sails to woo
the summer breeze, and boldly ploughing the deep waters of the bay. A
parting salute rolled heavily along the adjacent shores, and was
succeeded by the sprightly notes of a French horn, which floated merrily
over the waves. The town, and its green environs, shortly receded, the
distant hills faded in the horizon, and the emerald isles lay, like
specks, on the bosom of the ocean. Soon, the blended sky and water were
the only objects on which the eye could rest; and Arthur Stanhope felt
his spirits rise, as he again launched forth on the changeful element
which he had loved from childhood. Nothing occurred to interrupt their
passage, till they had advanced far up the Bay of Fundy, when the wind
suddenly died away, and left them becalmed, within a few hours sail of
the St. John's. This accident was a seasonable warning to D'Aulney, who
then lay near the mouth of the river, waiting for La Tour's return; but,
being apprized of his reinforcement, he prudently retreated from the
unequal conflict. With the caution of experience, he successfully
avoided La Tour's track; and the latter, who felt already sure of his
prey, had at last the vexation to discover him, at a safe distance, and
when the wind and tide rendered pursuit impossible. A thick fog, which
soon began to rise, entirely separated them; and approaching night
rendered it expedient to anchor, until the return of day. A report of M.
d'Aulney's menaced attack on the fort had already reached La Tour,
though it was too confused to convey much information, or relieve his
extreme anxiety. But he endured the suspense far better than his
lieutenant, who made no attempt to conceal his vexation at the necessary
delay. After pacing the deck for some time in silence, he suddenly
exclaimed to La Tour,
"It is tedious beyond measure to lie here, becalmed almost within sight
of the fort! and then so little reliance can be placed on the flying
reports which we have heard! I wish, as nothing can, at any rate, be
done to-night, you would allow me to push off in a boat by myself and
reconnoitre with my own eyes."
"And leave me to meet the enemy without you in the morning;--is that
your intention?" asked La Tour, pettishly.
"You do not ask that question seriously, I presume?" said De Valette.
"Why, not exactly, Eustace," he answered; "though I confess I think it
rather a strange request to make just at this time."
"Why so?" asked De Valette; "I would only borrow a few hours from
repose, and my plan may be accomplished with ease;--nor shall you have
reason to complain, that I am tardy at the call of duty."
"I understand you now, my brave nephew and lieutenant," said La Tour,
smiling; "you would play the lover on this moonlight night, and serenade
the lady of your heart, to apprise her of your safe return."
"There was not quite so much romance in my plot," replied De Valette;
"but if you permit me to execute it, I pledge myself to return before
midnight; and though you are not a lover, I am sure you are far from
being indifferent to the intelligence which I may bring you."
"Go, if you will, if you _can_ in safety," said La Tour; "though, could
your impatience brook the delay of a few short hours, it would be
well--well for yourself, perhaps; for if I remember right, you could ill
bear a look of coldness, and Luciè is not always lavish of her smiles."
"I fear it not," said De Valette; "she would not greet me coldly after
so long an absence; and though you smile at my folly, I am not ashamed
to confess my eagerness to see her."
"She already knows her power over you but too well," said La Tour; "shew
her that you are indifferent--disdainful, if you like--and trust me, she
will learn to prize the love, which she now pretends to slight."
"The heart of woman must be wayward indeed," said De Valette, "if such
is its nature or artifice; but my hopes are not so desperate yet, and if
my memory serves me truly, I have more smiles than frowns on record."
With these words, De Valette threw himself into a small boat, and in a
few moments reached the shore. He entered the hut of a half-civilized
Indian, and to avoid being recognized by any of D'Aulney's people whom
he might chance to encounter, borrowed his savage attire, and in that
disguise proceeded to the fort, near which he met the page of Mad. la
Tour, as has been already related.
CHAPTER V.
He that depends
Upon your favours, swims with fins of lead,
And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye?
With every minute you do change a mind.
SHAKSPEARE.
De Valette was true to his engagement, and before the promised hour,
returned in safety to his ship. With the first dawn of day, the vessels
were put in readiness to weigh anchor, and sail at a moment's warning.
At that crisis, La Tour had the vexation of finding his plans well nigh
frustrated by the stubborness of his New-England allies. Alleging that
they were restricted by their engagement to see La Tour in safety to his
fort, a large majority resolutely declined committing any act of
aggression, or joining in an attack which might be considered beyond the
limits of their treaty. Excessively provoked at what he termed their
absurd scruples, La Tour sent his lieutenant to request a few of the
leading men to meet aboard his vessel, hoping to prevail with them to
relinquish their ill-timed doubts. He walked the quarter-deck with
impatient steps, while waiting the boat's return, and even his French
complaisance could not disguise the chagrin and anger which he felt.
"I have desired your attendance here, gentlemen," he said in a haughty
tone, as they approached him, "to learn how far I may rely on the
services which have been so freely proffered to me."
"As far as our duty to God and our country will permit, sir," replied
one, whose seniority entitled him to take a lead in the discourse.
"Mr. Leveret hath spoken rightly," said another; "and I question if it
is our duty to draw the sword when we are not expressly called to do so,
and especially, as in this instance, when it would seem far better for
it to remain in the scabbard."
"I am ignorant," said La Tour, contemptuously, "of that _duty_ which
would lead a man to play the coward in a moment of difficulty, and
tamely turn from an enemy, who has insultingly defied him, when one
effort can crush him in his grasp."
"_We_ are not actuated by revenge," returned Mr. Leveret; "neither have
we pledged ourselves to support your quarrel with M. d'Aulney; but
touching our agreement to convoy you to your fort of St. John's, we are
ready to fulfil it, even at the peril of our lives."
"These are nice distinctions," said La Tour, angrily; "and had you
explained them more fully at the outset, I should have known what
dependence could be placed on your protection."
"We abhor deceit," said Mr. Leveret, calmly; "and that which we have
promised, we are ready to perform; but we are not permitted to turn
aside from this design, to pursue an enemy who flees before us."
"As our conduct in this affair is entirely a matter of conscience and
private opinion," said Arthur Stanhope, "I presume every one is at
liberty to consult his own wishes, and follow the dictates of his own
judgment; for myself, I have freely offered to assist M. de la Tour to
the extent of my abilities, and I wait his commands in whatever service
he may choose to employ me."
"I expected this, from the honour of your profession; and the frankness
of your character," said La Tour, with warmth; "and believe me, your
laurels will not be tarnished, in the cause you have so generously
espoused."
"I trust, young man," said Mr. Leveret, "that you are aware of the
responsibility you incur, by acting thus openly in opposition to the
opinion of so many older and more experienced than yourself."
"I have no doubt that many will be ready to censure me," returned
Stanhope; "and some, perhaps, whose judgments I much respect; but I
stand acquitted to my own conscience, and am ready to give an answer for
what I do, to any who have a right to question me."
"And the crew of your vessel?"--asked Mr. Leveret.
"I shall use no undue influence with any one," interrupted Stanhope;
"though I think there is scarcely a man in my service, who is not
resolved to follow me to the end of this enterprise."
"We part, then," said Mr. Leveret; "and may heaven prosper you in all
your _lawful_ undertakings."
"Your emphasis on the word _lawful_," returned Stanhope, "implies a
doubt, which I hope will soon be discarded; but, in the mean time, let
as many as choose return with you, and I doubt not there will be enough
left with us to assist M. de la Tour on this occasion."
The conference was shortly terminated; and it was amicably settled, that
those who hesitated to depart from the strict letter of their agreement,
should proceed in three of the English vessels, with M. de la Tour, to
fort St. John's. De Valette and Stanhope were left in command of the two
largest ships, with discretionary powers to employ them as circumstances
might render expedient.
The delay which these arrangements necessarily occasioned, was improved
to the utmost by M. d'Aulney. Convinced, that he was unable to cope with
the superior force, which opposed him, he took advantage of a favorable
wind, and, at an early hour, crowded sail for his fort at Penobscot. De
Valette and Stanhope pursued, as soon as they were at liberty; but,
though they had occasional glimpses of his vessels through the day, they
found it impossible to come up with them. Night at length terminated
the fruitless chase; they were imperfectly acquainted with the coast,
and again obliged to anchor, when day-light no longer served to direct
their course in the difficult waters they were navigating.
Morning shone brightly on the wild shores of the Penobscot, within whose
ample basin the vessels of De Valette and Stanhope rode securely at
anchor. The waves broke gently around them, and the beautiful islands,
which adorn the bay, garlanded with verdure and blossoms, seemed
rejoicing in the brief but brilliant summer, which had opened upon them.
Dark forests of evergreens, intermingled with the lighter foliage of the
oak, the maple, and other deciduous trees, covered the extensive coast,
and fringed the borders of the noble Penobscot, which rolled its silver
tide from the interior lakes to mingle with the waters of the ocean. The
footsteps of civilized man seemed scarcely to have pressed the soil,
which the hardy native had for ages enjoyed as his birthright; and the
axe and ploughshare had yet rarely invaded the hunting grounds, where he
pursued the wild deer, and roused the wolf from his lair. A few French
settlers, who adhered to D'Aulney, had built and planted around the
fort, which stood on a point of land, jutting into the broad mouth of
the river, and these were the only marks of cultivation which disturbed
the vast wilderness that spread around them.
The local advantages of this situation, rendered it a place of
consequence, and its possession had already been severely contested. As
a military post, on the verge of the English colonies, its retention was
important to the French interest in Acadia; and the extensive commerce
it opened with the natives in the interior, through the navigable
streams, which emptied into the bay, was a source of private emolument,
that D'Aulney was anxious to secure. To retain these advantages, he
wished to avoid an engagement with La Tour, whose newly acquired
strength rendered him, at that time, a formidable opponent. He was,
therefore, anxious to preserve his small naval force from destruction,
and, for that purpose, he found it necessary to run his vessels into
shallow water, where the enemy's heavier ships could not follow.
This plan was accomplished during the night; and when De Valette and
Stanhope approached the fort, at an early hour, they were surprised to
find that D'Aulney had drawn his men on shore, and thrown up
intrenchments to defend the landing-place. Though baffled in their first
design by this artifice, they were but the more zealous to effect some
object which might realize the expectations of La Tour. With this
intention, they passed up the narrow channel to the north of the
peninsula, in boats; and landing a portion of their men, attacked M.
d'Aulney in his intrenchments. The assault was so sudden and determined,
that every obstacle yielded to its impetuosity, and D'Aulney in vain
endeavored to rally his soldiers, who fled in confusion to the shelter
of the fort, leaving several of their number dead and wounded in the
trenches. Convinced, that it would be rashness to pursue, as the fort
was well manned, and capable of strong resistance, the young officers
drew off their men in good order, and returned to their vessels without
the loss of an individual. They remained in the bay of Penobscot for
several days, when, convinced that nothing more could be done at that
time, they thought it advisable to return to St. John's.
Night was closing in, as the vessels drew near the entrance of the
river; every sail was set, and a stiff breeze bore them swiftly onward.
A bright streak still lingered in the western horizon, and in the east,
a few stars began to glimmer through the hazy atmosphere. The
watch-lights of the fort at length broke cheerfully on the gloom, and
strongly contrasted with the dark line of forests, which frowned on the
opposite shore. The boding notes of the screech-owl, and the howling of
wild beasts, which came from their deep recesses, were silenced by the
animating strains of martial music, which enlivened the solitary scene.
They anchored before the walls, and the friendly signal of De Valette
was quickly answered by the sentinel on duty. With light footsteps the
young Frenchman sprang on shore, and followed by Arthur Stanhope,
passed the gateway, which led to the interior of the fort.
"Methinks the garrison have retired early to-night," said De Valette;
"there is scarcely a face to be seen, except a few long-favored
Presbyterians;--it is a Catholic holiday, too, and our soldiers are not
wont to let such pass by without a merry-making. Ho, Ronald!" he
continued, addressing the guard, "what is in the wind now, my honest
fellow? are you all dead, or asleep within here?"
"Neither, please your honor," he answered, in a dolorous accent; "but
what is worse, they have all gone astray, and are, even now, looking
with sinful eyes upon the wicked ceremonies of that abominable church of
Rome."
"You are warm, good Ronald; but where is your lord?"
"Even gone with the multitude, in this evil matter; and, as our worthy
teacher, Mr. Broadhead, hath observed, it is a double condemnation for
one like him--"
"Hush, sirrah!" interrupted De Valette, sharply; "not a word of
disrespect to your lord and commander, or I will throw you, and your
worthy teacher, over the walls of the fort. Speak at once, man, and tell
me, what has taken place here."
"It is a bridal, please your honor, and--"
"A bridal!" exclaimed De Valette, rapidly changing color; "and where
have you found a bride and bridegroom, in this wilderness?"
"My lady's young--" Ronald began; but De Valette waited not to hear the
conclusion, for at that moment a light, streaming from a low building
opposite, attracted his attention, and, with nervous irritability, he
advanced towards it. It was the building used for a Catholic chapel, and
the light proceeded from a nuptial procession, which was then issuing
from it. Two boys walked before it, in loose black garments, with white
scarfs thrown over their shoulders, and bearing flaming torches in their
hands. Next came father Gilbert, with slow, thoughtful steps; and La
Tour beside him, with the stern, abstracted countenance of one, who had
little concern in the ceremonies, which he sanctioned by his presence.
Behind them was the bridegroom, a handsome young soldier, who looked
fondly on the blushing girl, who leaned upon his arm, and had just
plighted her faith to him, by an irrevocable vow. The domestics of La
Tour's household followed, with the Catholic part of the garrison; and,
as soon as the door of the chapel closed, a lively air was struck up, in
honor of the joyful occasion.
"I am a fool," murmured De Valette to himself, when a full examination
had satisfied him,--"an errant fool; 'tis strange, that _one_ image must
be forever in my mind; that I should tremble at the very sound of a
bridal, lest, perchance, it might be _her's_."
Ashamed of the emotion he had involuntarily betrayed, De Valette turned
to look for Stanhope, who remained on the spot, where he had left him,
engrossed by a scene, which was amusing from its novelty, and the
singularity of time and place where it occurred.
"You must excuse me, Stanhope," he said; "but my curiosity, for once,
exceeded my politeness; it is not often that we 'marry, and give in
marriage,' in this wilderness,--though I will, by and by, shew you a
damsel, whom kings might sue for."
"_My_ curiosity is excited now," returned Stanhope; "and, if beauty is
so rare with you, beware how you lead me into temptation. It is an old
remark, that love flies from the city, and is most dangerous amidst the
simplicity of nature."
"Forewarned, forearmed; remember," said De Valette, laughing, "I am a
true friend, but I could ill brook a rival."
CHAPTER VI.
Good my complexion! dost thou think, though
I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet
And hose in my disposition?
SHAKSPEARE.
De Valette and Stanhope continued to watch the procession till it
stopped before the door of a comfortable house, which was occupied by La
Tour and his family. There, the music ceased, the soldiers filed off to
their respective quarters, and the new married pair received the parting
benediction of father Gilbert. That ceremony concluded, the priest
retired, as if dreading the contamination of any festive scene, attended
only by the two boys who had officiated as torch-bearers,--a service
generally performed in the Catholic church by young persons initiated
into the holy office.
"By our lady, my good uncle," said De Valette to La Tour, who had seen,
and lingered behind to speak with him, "our Puritan allies would soon
withdraw their aid from us, should they chance to see, what I have
witnessed this evening;--by my faith, they would think the devil was
keeping a high holiday here, and that you had become his chief favorite,
and prime minister."
"Your jesting is ill-timed, Eustace," returned La Tour; "you have,
indeed, arrived at an unlucky hour, but we must make the best of it;
and, be sure that none of the New-England men leave the ships to-night.
I hope we shall not need their succors long, if you have aimed a true
blow at D'Aulney. Say, where have you left him?"
"We have driven him back to his strong hold. But more of that
hereafter,--Mr. Stanhope waits to speak with you."
"Mr. Stanhope is very welcome," said La Tour, advancing cordially to
meet him; "and I trust no apology is necessary for the confusion in
which he finds us."
"None, certainly," returned Stanhope; "and I trust you will not suffer
me to cause any interruption. I am not quite so superstitious," he
added, smiling, "as to fear contagion from accidentally witnessing
forms, which are not altogether agreeable to my conscience."
"You deserve to be canonized for your liberality," said De Valette; "for
I doubt if there could be another such rare example found, in all the
New England colonies. We Hugonots," he continued, with affected gravity,
"account ourselves less rigid than your self-denying sect, and are
sometimes drawn into ceremonies, which our hearts abominate."
"No more of this, Eustace," said La Tour; "Mr. Stanhope must know that
all of us are, at times, governed by circumstances, which we cannot
control; and he has heard enough of my situation, to conceive the
address which is necessary to control a garrison, composed of different
nations and religions, who are often mutinous, and at all times
discordant. I should scarcely at any other time have been so engaged,
but Mad. de la Tour, who is really too sincere a protestant to attend a
Catholic service, prevailed on me to be present at the marriage of her
favorite maid,--I might almost say companion,--with a young soldier, who
has long been distinguished by his fidelity in my service."
Before Stanhope could reply to this plausible explanation, their
attention was attracted by the sound of approaching voices, and the
sonorous tones of Mr. Broadhead, the Presbyterian minister, were
instantly recognized.
"I tell thee, boy," he said, "thou art in the broad way which leadeth to
destruction."
"Do you think so, father?" asked his companion, who was one of the
torch-bearers, and still carried the blazing insignium of his
office--"and what shall I do, to find my way out of it?"
"Abjure the devil and his works, if thou art desirous of returning to
the right path," he replied.
"You mean the pope and the church, I suppose," said the boy, in a tone
of simplicity; "like my lady's chaplain, who often edifies his hearers
on this topic."
"It would be well for thee to hearken to him, boy; and perchance it
might prove a word in season to thy soul's refreshment."
"It has sometimes proved a refreshment to my body," said the boy; "his
exhortations are so ravishing, that they are apt to lull one to sound
repose."
"Thou art a flippant youth!" said the chaplain, stopping abruptly, and
speaking in an accent of displeasure. "But I pity thy delusion," he
added, after a brief pause, "and bid thee remember, that if thou hast
access to the word, and turnest from it, thou can'st not make the plea
of ignorance, in extenuation of thy crime."
"It is no fault in me to believe as I have been taught," said the boy,
sullenly; "and it would ill become me, to dispute the doctrines which I
have received from those who have a claim on my respect and obedience."
"They are evil doctrines, child; perverse heresies to lead men astray,
into the darkness of error and idolatry."
"I could not have believed it!" answered the other, gravely; "I thought
I was listening to the truth, from the lips of my lady's chaplain."
"And who says, that I do not teach the truth? I, who have made it my
study and delight from my youth upwards?"
"Not I, truly; but your reverence chides me for believing in error,
when, my belief is daily confirmed by your own instructions and
example."
"Who are you, that presumes to say so? and, with these vestments of
Satan on your back, to bear witness to your falsehood?" demanded the
chaplain.
"Now may the saints defend me from your anger! I did not mean to
offend," said the boy, shrinking from his extended hand, and bending his
head, as if to count the beads of a rosary which hung around his neck.
"Did _I_ teach you this mummery?" resumed the irritated Scot; "did _I_
teach you to put on those robes of the devil, and hold that lighted
torch to him, as you have but now done?"
"I crave your pardon," returned the boy; "I thought it was my lady's
chaplain, whom I was lighting across the yard, but your reverence knows
the truth better than I do."
As he spoke, he waved the torch on high, and the light fell full upon
the excited features of Mr. Broadhead. A laugh from De Valette, who had,
unobserved, drawn near enough to overhear them, startled both, and
checked the angry reply, which was bursting from the chaplain's lips. He
surveyed the intruder a moment in stubborn silence, then quietly
retreated; probably aware, from former experience, that the gay young
Catholic had not much veneration for his person or character. The boy
hastily extinguished his torch, murmuring, in a low voice,--
"His reverence may find his way back in the dark, as he best can; and it
will be well if he does not need the light of my torch, before he is
safe in his quarters: light the devil, indeed! he took good care not to
think of that, till he had served his own purpose with it!"
"What are you muttering about, boy?" asked De Valette.
"About my torch, and the devil, and other good Catholics, please your
honor," he answered, with a low bow.
"Have a care, sirrah!" said De Valette; "I allow no one, in my presence,
to speak disrespectfully of the religion of my country."
"It is a good cloak," returned the boy; "and I would not abuse a
garment, which has just been serviceable to me, however worthless it may
be, in reality."
"It may have been worn by scoundrels," said De Valette; "but its
intrinsic value is not diminished on that account. Would you intimate
that you have assumed it to answer some sinister design?"
"And, supposing I have," he asked; "what then?"
"Why, then you are a hypocrite."
"It is well for my lord's lieutenant to speak of hypocrisy," said the
boy, laughing; "it is like Satan preaching sanctity; tell the good
puritans of Boston, that the French Hugonot who worshipped in their
conventicle with so much decorum, is a papist, and what, think you,
would they say?"
"Who are you, that dares speak to me thus?" asked De Valette, angrily.
"That is a question, which I do not choose to answer; I care not to let
strangers into my secret counsels."
"You are impertinent, boy;" said De Valette, "yet your bearing shews
that you have discernment enough to distinguish between right and wrong,
and you must be aware that policy sometimes renders a disguise
expedient, and harmless too, if neither honour or principle are
compromised."
"I like a disguise, occasionally, of all things," said the boy, archly;
"are you quick at detecting one?"
"Sometimes I am," returned De Valette; "but--now, by my troth," he
exclaimed, starting, and gazing intently on him, "is it possible, that
you have again deceived me?"
"Nothing more likely," answered the other, carelessly; "but, hush! M. de
la Tour, and the stranger with him, are observing us. See! they come
this way: not a word more, if you have any wish to please me."
"Stay but one moment," said De Valette, grasping his arm; "I _must_ know
for what purpose you are thus attired."
"Well, release me, and I will tell you the whole truth, though you might
suppose it was merely some idle whim. I wished to see Annette married,
and as Mad. de la Tour thought it would be out of character for her page
to appear in a Catholic assembly, I prevailed on a boy, whom father
Gilbert had selected to officiate in the ceremony to transfer his dress
and office to me: this is all;--and now are you satisfied?"
"Better than I expected to be, I assure you; but, for the love of the
saints, be careful, or this whimsical fancy of your's may lead to some
unpleasant consequences."
"Never fear; I enjoy this Proteus sort of life extremely, and you may
expect to see me in some new shape, before long."
"Your own shape is far better than any you can assume," said De Valette;
"and by these silken locks, which, if I had looked at, I must have
known, you cannot impose on me again."
"Twice deceived, beware of the third time," said the page, laughing;
and, breaking from De Valette, he was in a moment on the threshold of
the door.
"Here is a newly made priest, as I live!" said La Tour, catching the
page by his arm, and drawing him back a few paces. "But methinks your
step is too quick and buoyant, my gentle youth, for your vocation."
The page made no reply, but drooping his head, suffered a profusion of
dark ringlets to fall over his face, as if purposely to conceal his
features.
"This would be a pretty veil for a girl," said La Tour, parting the hair
from his forehead; "but, by my troth, these curls are out of place, on
the head of a grave priest; the shaved crown would better become a
disciple of the austere father Gilbert.--What, mute still, my little
anchorite? Speak, if thou hast not a vow of silence on thee!"
"And if I have," said the page, pettishly, "I must break it, though it
should cost me a week's penance!"
"Ha! my lady's _soi-disant_ page!" exclaimed La Tour, struck by the
sound of his voice,--which, in the excitement of the moment, he had not
attempted to disguise,--and drawing him towards a lamp, he bent his
searching eye full upon the boy's face.
"I pray you let me begone, my lady waits for me," said the page,
impatiently.
"A pretty, antic trick!" continued La Tour, without regarding his
entreaty, "and played off, no doubt, for some sage purpose! Look,
Eustace!" he added, laughing, "but have a care, that you do not become
enamoured of the holy orders!"
"Look till you are weary!" said Hector, reddening with vexation; and
dashing his scarf and rosary to the ground, he hastily unfastened the
collar of his long, black vest, and throwing it from him, stood before
them, dressed as a page, in proud and indignant silence.
"Why, you blush like a girl, Hector," said La Tour, tauntingly; "though
I think, by the flashing of your eye, it is rather from anger, than
shame. Look, Mr. Stanhope, what think _you_ of our gentle page, and
_ci-devant_ priest?"
Mr. Stanhope _was_ regarding him, with an attention, which rendered him
heedless of the question; he met the eye of Hector, and instantly the
boy's cheeks were blanched with a deadly paleness, which was rapidly
followed by a glow of the deepest crimson. An exclamation trembled on
Stanhope's lips, but he forcibly repressed it, and his embarrassment was
unremarked. De Valette had noticed Hector's changing complexion, and,
naturally attributing it to the confusion occasioned by a stranger's
presence, he took his hand with an expression of kindness, though
greatly surprised to feel it tremble within his own.
"Why," asked De Valette, "are you so powerfully agitated?"
"I am not agitated," said Hector, starting as from a dream; "I was
vexed,--that is all; but it is over now," and resuming his usual gaiety
of manner, he turned to La Tour, and added,
"I have played my borrowed part long enough for this evening, and if
your own curiosity is satisfied, and you have amused your friends
sufficiently at my expense, I will again crave permission to retire."
"Go," said La Tour,--"go and doff your foolish disguises; it is, indeed,
time to end this whimsical farce."
"I shall obey you," returned the page; and gladly retreated from his
presence.
Fort St. John's, on that evening, presented a scene of unusual
festivity. La Tour permitted his soldiers to celebrate the marriage of
their comrade, and their mirth was the more exuberant, from the
privations they had of late endured. Even the joy, which the return of
their commander naturally inspired, had been prudently repressed, while
the New-England vessels were unlading their supplies, from respect to
the peculiar feelings of the people who had afforded them so much
friendly assistance. These vessels had left the fort, on the morning of
that day; and their departure relieved the garrison from a degree of
restraint, to which they were wholly unaccustomed.
La Tour remained conversing with Arthur Stanhope, where the page, who
was soon followed by De Valette, had left them, till a message from his
lady requested their presence in her apartment. The scene without, was
threatening to become one of noisy revel. Many of the soldiers had
gathered around a huge bonfire, amusing themselves with a variety of
games; and, at a little distance, a few females, their wives and
daughters, were collected on a plat of grass, and dancing with the young
men, to the sound of a violin. The shrill fife, the deep-toned drum, and
noisy bag-pipe, occasionally swelled the concert; though the monotonous
strains of the latter instrument, by which a few sturdy Scots performed
their national dance, were not always in perfect unison with the gay
strains of the light-hearted Frenchmen. Here and there, a gloomy
Presbyterian, or stern Hugonot, was observed, stealing along at a
cautious distance from these cheerful groups, on which he cast an eye of
aversion and distrust, apparently afraid to venture within the circle of
such unlawful pleasures.
"Keep a sharp eye on these mad fellows, Ronald," said La Tour to the
sentinel on duty; "and, if there is any disturbance, let me know it,
and, beshrew me, if they have another holiday to make merry with!"
"Your honor shall be obeyed," said the sentinel, in a surly tone.
"See you to it, then," continued La Tour; "and be sure that none of
those English pass the gates to-night. And have a care, that you do not
neglect my orders, when your own hour of merriment arrives."
"I have no lot nor portion in such things," said Ronald, gruffly; "for,
as the scripture saith"--
"Have done with your texts, Ronald," interrupted La Tour; "you Scots are
forever preaching, when you ought to practice; your duty is to hear and
obey, and I require nothing more of you."
So saying, he turned away, leaving the guard to the solitary indulgence
of his thoughts, which the amusements of that evening had disturbed, in
no ordinary degree.
Mad. de la Tour, had condescended to entertain the bride and bridegroom
at her own house; and permitted such of their companions as were
inclined, to join them on the festive occasion. These were sufficient to
form a cheerful group; apart from them, Mad. la Tour was conversing with
De Valette, and a lovely girl, who seemed an object of peculiar interest
to him, when La Tour entered the room with Mr. Stanhope.
"I bring you a friend, to whose services we are much indebted," said La
Tour to his lady; "and I must request your assistance, in endeavoring to
render this dreary place agreeable to him."
"I shall feel inclined to do all in my power, from selfish motives,"
returned the lady, "independently of our personal obligations to Mr.
Stanhope; and, I trust, it is unnecessary to assure him, that we shall
be most happy to retain him as our guest, so long as his inclination
will permit him to remain."
Stanhope returned a polite answer to these civilities; but his thoughts
were abstracted, and his eyes continually turned towards the young lady,
whose blushing face was animated by an arch smile of peculiar meaning.
La Tour observed the slight confusion of both, but, attributing it to
another cause, he said,
"Allow me, Mr. Stanhope, to present you to my fair ward, Mademoiselle de
Courcy, whom, I perceive, you have already identified with the priest,
and page, who acted so conspicuous a part this evening."
"My acquaintance with Mr. Stanhope is of a much longer date," she said,
quickly, and rising to offer him her hand, with an air of frankness,
which, however, could not disguise a certain consciousness, which sent
the tell-tale blood to her cheeks.
"It has been far too long," said Stanhope, his countenance glowing with
delight, "to suffer me to be deceived by a slight disguise, though
nothing could be more unexpected to me, than the happiness of meeting
with you here."
"My aunt looks very inquisitive," said the young lady, withdrawing her
hand; and, turning to Mad. de la Tour, she continued, "I have been so
fortunate as to recognize an old friend in Mr. Stanhope; one, with whose
family my aunt Rossville was on terms of the strictest intimacy, during
our short residence in England."
"My sister's friends are doubly welcome to me," said Mad. la Tour; "and
I shall esteem the arrival of Mr. Stanhope particularly fortunate to
us."
"It is singular, indeed, that you should meet so very unexpectedly, in
this obscure corner of the earth!" said De Valette, endeavouring to
speak with gaiety, though he had remarked their mutual embarrassment
with secret uneasiness;--"how can you account for it, Luciè?"
"I am not philosophic enough to resolve such difficult questions," she
answered, smiling; "but, yonder are the musicians, waiting to sooth us
with the melody of sweet sounds; we are all prepared for a dance, and
here is my hand, if you will look a little more in the dancing mood,--if
not, I can choose another."
"Do as you like," said De Valette, carelessly; "strangers are often
preferred before tried friends."
"Yes, when tried friends look coldly on us," said Luciè, "as you do
now,--so, fare thee well; there is a plump damsel, with an eye like
Juno's, I commend her to thee for a partner."
She turned quickly from him, and speaking a few words to Stanhope, they
joined the dancers together. De Valette remained standing a few moments
in moody silence; but the exhilarating strains of the violin proved as
irresistible as the blast of Oberon's horn, and, selecting a pretty
maiden, he mingled in the dance, and was soon again the gayest of the
gay.
CHAPTER VII.
I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all, save hope, the same
LORD 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; and this 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 of midnight 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 young and
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 his uneasiness, 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.
CHAPTER VIII.
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 expire
To 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 avoid being 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 high
Shines 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 hear
The night-bird's carol, wild and clear?
But not its sweetest notes detain
When Lucie breathes her sweeter strain.
Awake, my love! the fragrant gale
Steals odours from yon spicy vale;
But can the richly perfum'd air
With Lucie's balmy breath compare?
Awake, my love! for all around,
With beauty, pleasure, hope, is crown'd
But 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 screen
Behold 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 long reigned 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 so _well_ of 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 much _fragrance_, and _brightness_, 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, I doubt 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; I _was_ vexed 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?"
"I _was_ in 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 which may 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 what _you_ define 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?"
"He _makes_ me 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.
CHAPTER IX.
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 same
In 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?"
"I _was_ ill, 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 know _you_ of 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, which
time 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, "till _she_ crossed 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; "and _that_ name too! but no,--_she_ was 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,
and the 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 from thence 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 to
act 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 right to 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.
CHAPTER X.
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 extended to 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 constant
annoyance 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 a
cause, 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 with the 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 should sail 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 you _now_ yield 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?"
"From _you_, 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 la Tour, 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,
_this_ was 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 you _did_ meet," interrupted Mad. de la Tour, "and why all this
mystery and reserve?"
"I dreaded my uncle's anger," said Luciè: "and persuaded 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 you _intended_ to do right, Luciè, though I am
not yet convinced that you _have_ done 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.
CHAPTER XI.
Bedimm'd
The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war.
SHAKSPEARE.
At day-break, the vessels of La Tour and Stanhope spread their sails to
a light wind, which bore them slowly from the harbor of St. John's. The
fort long lingered in their view, and the richly wooded shores and
fertile fields gradually receded, as the rising sun began to shed its
radiance on the luxuriant landscape. But the morning, which had burst
forth in brightness, was soon overcast with clouds; and the light, which
had shone so cheeringly on hill and valley, like the last gleams of
departing hope, became shrouded in gloom and darkness. Still, however,
they kept on their course; and by degrees the wind grew stronger, and
the dead calm of the sea was agitated by its increasing violence.
The confines of Acadia, which were then undefined, stretched along the
borders of the bay, presenting a vast and uncultivated tract, varying
through every shade of sterility and verdure; from the bare and
beetling promontory, which defied the encroaching tide, the desert
plain, and dark morass, to the impervious forest, the sloping upland,
and the green valley, watered by its countless streams. A transient
sun-beam, at times, gilded this variegated prospect, and again the
flitting clouds chequered it with their dark shadows, till the dense
vapor, which hung over the water, at length arose, and formed an
impenetrable veil, excluding every object from the sight.
Night closed in prematurely; the ships parted company, and, in the
increasing darkness, there was little prospect of joining again; nor was
it possible for either to ascertain the situation of its partner. La
Tour's vessel had out-sailed the other, through the day; and he had so
often navigated the bay, and rivers of the coast, that every isle and
headland were perfectly familiar to him. But Stanhope had little
practical knowledge of its localities, and, not caring to trust
implicitly to his pilot, he proceeded with the utmost caution, sounding
at convenient distances, lest he should deviate from the usual course,
and run aground on rocks, or in shallow water. Though with little chance
of success, he caused lights to be hung out, hoping they might attract
the attention of La Tour; but their rays could not penetrate the heavy
mist, which concealed even the nearest objects from observation. Signal
guns were also fired at intervals, but their report mingled with the
sullen murmur of the wind and waves, and no answering sound was heard on
the solitary deep. Apprehensive that they approached too near the land,
in the gloom and uncertainty which surrounded them, Stanhope resolved to
anchor, and wait for returning day.
This resolution was generally approved; for, among the adventurers who
accompanied him, Stanhope could number few expert seamen, and the
natural fears of the inexperienced were heightened by superstitious
feelings, at that time prevalent among all classes of people. Many
seemed persuaded that they were suffered to fall into danger, as a
judgment for joining with papists, in a cause of doubtful equity; and
they expressed a determination to relinquish all further concern in it,
should they be permitted to reach the destined shore in safety.
Arguments, at such a moment, were useless; and Arthur, perplexed and
anxious, yet cautious to conceal his disquietude, passed the whole of
that tedious night in watch upon the deck.
Another dawn revived the hopes of all,--but they were only transient;
the tempest, which had been so long gathering, was ready to burst upon
their heads. Clouds piled on clouds darkened the heavens, the winds blew
with extreme violence, and the angry waves, crested with foamy wreaths,
now bore the vessel mountain high, then sunk with a tremendous roar,
threatening to engulph it in the fearful abyss. Still the ship steered
bravely on her course, in defiance of the raging elements; and Stanhope
hoped to guide her safely to a harbor, at no great distance, where she
might ride out the storm at anchor, for destruction appeared inevitable,
if they remained in the open sea. This harbor lay at an island, near the
entrance of the river Schoodic, or St. Croix; and was much frequented by
the trading and fishing vessels of New-England and Acadia. Already they
seemed to gain the promised haven, and every eye was eagerly directed to
it, with the almost certain prospect of release from danger and
suspense.
It was necessary to tack, to enter the channel of the river; and, at
that fatal moment, the wind struck the mainmast with a force which
instantly threw it over-board; and the ship, cast on her beam-ends by
the violence of the shock, lay exposed to a heavy sea, which broke over
her deck and stern. The crew, roused by their immediate hazard, used
every exertion to right the vessel; and Stanhope, who had not abandoned
the helm since the first moment of peril, managed, with admirable
dexterity, to bear her off from the dangerous shore, to which she was
continually impelled by the wind and tide. But another blast, more
fierce than the former, combined with the waves, to complete the work of
destruction. The vessel was left a mere hulk; and the rudder, their last
hope, torn away by the appalling concussion, she was driven among the
breakers, which burst furiously around her.
"The ship is gone!" said Stanhope, with unnatural calmness, as he felt
it reel, and on the verge of foundering; "save yourselves, if it is not
too late!"
A boat had been fortunately preserved amidst the general wreck; and with
the vehemence of despair, they precipitated themselves into it. It
seemed perilous, indeed, to trust so frail a bark, and heavy laden as it
was, amidst the boiling surge; but it was their only resource, and, with
trembling anxiety, they ventured upon the dangerous experiment. Stanhope
was the last to enter; and with silent, and almost breathless caution,
they again steered towards the island, from which they had been so
rudely driven. Some fishermen, who had found a refuge there from the
storm, and witnessed the distress, which they were unable, sooner, to
relieve, came to their assistance, and in a short time all were safely
landed, and comfortably sheltered in huts, which had been erected by the
frequenters of the island.
Stanhope's solicitude respecting La Tour was relieved by the fishermen,
several of whom had seen his vessel early on that morning, standing out
for Penobscot Bay; and though slightly damaged, they had no doubt she
would weather the storm, which was, probably, less violent there, than
in the more turbulent Bay of Fundy. Arthur was desirous of rejoining
him, as soon as possible; to report his own misfortune, and assist in
the execution of those plans, which had induced the voyage. But his men,
in general, were still reluctant to complete their late engagement; they
regarded the disaster which had so recently placed their lives in
jeopardy as a signal interposition of Providence, and they resolved to
obey the warning, and return to their respective homes. Stanhope, vexed
with their wavering conduct, and convinced that he could not place any
reliance on their services, made no attempt to detain them. The Scots,
and a few of his own people, still adhered to him: and he hired a small
vessel, which lay at the island, intending to proceed to Penobscot as
soon as the weather would permit.
The storm continued through that day;--the evening, also, proved dark
and tempestuous; but Stanhope, exhausted by fatigue, slept soundly on a
rude couch, and beneath a shelter that admitted both wind and rain. He
was awake, however, by the earliest dawn, and actively directing the
necessary arrangements for his departure. The storm had passed away; not
a cloud lingered in the azure sky, and the first tinge of orient light
was calmly reflected from the waves, which curled and murmured around
the beautiful island they embraced. The herbage had put on a deeper
verdure, and the wild flowers of summer sent forth a richer fragrance on
the fresh and balmy air. The moistened foliage of the trees displayed a
thousand varying hues; and, among their branches, innumerable birds
sported their brilliant plumage, and warbled their melodious notes, as
if rejoicing in the restored serenity of nature.
Arthur had wandered from the scene of busy preparation; he was alone
amidst this paradise of sweets, but his heart held intercourse with the
loved and distant object of his hopes, whose image was ever present to
his fancy. He stood against the ruins of a fort, which had been built
almost forty years before, by the Sieur de Monts, who, on that spot,
first planted the standard of the king of France, in Acadia.
Circumstances soon after induced him to remove the settlement he had
commenced there, across the bay to Port-Royal; the island was neglected
by succeeding adventurers, and his labors were suffered to fall into
ruin. Time had already laid his withering finger upon the walls, and
left his mouldering image amid the fair creations of the youthful world.
Fragments, overgrown with moss and lichen, strewed the ground; the
creeping ivy wreathed its garlands around the broken walls, and lofty
trees had struck their roots deep into the foundations, and threw the
shadow of their branches across the crumbling pile.
The lonely and picturesque beauty of the scene, and the associations
connected with it, at first diverted the current of Arthur's thoughts;
but Luciè soon resumed her influence over his imagination. Yet a
painful impression, that he had wasted some moments in this dream of
fancy, which should have been spent in action, shortly aroused him from
his musing; and, as he felt the airy vision dissolve, he almost
unconsciously pronounced the name most dear to him.
That name was instantly repeated,--but so low, that he might have
fancied it the tremulous echo of his own voice, but for the startling
sigh which accompanied it, and struck him with almost superstitious awe.
He turned to see if any one was near, and met the eyes of father
Gilbert, fixed on him with a gaze of earnest, yet melancholy, enquiry.
The cowl, which generally shaded his brow, was thrown back, and his
cheeks, furrowed by early and habitual grief, were blanched to even
unusual paleness. He grasped a crucifix in his folded hands, and his
cold, stern features, were softened by an expression of deep sorrow,
which touched the heart of Stanhope. He bent respectfully before the
holy man, but remained silent, and uncertain how to address him.
"You have been unfortunate, young man," said the priest, after a
moment's pause; "but, remember that the evils of life are not inflicted
without design; and happy are they, who early profit by the lessons of
adversity!"
"I have escaped unharmed, and with the lives of all my companions,"
returned Stanhope; "I should, therefore, be ungrateful to repine at the
slight evil which has befallen me; but you were more highly favored, to
reach a safe harbor, before the tempest began to rage!"
"Storms and sunshine are alike to me," he answered; "for twenty years I
have braved the wintry tempests, and endured the summer heats, often
unsheltered in the savage desert; and still I follow, wherever the
duties of my holy calling lead, imparting to others that consolation,
which can never again cheer my wearied spirit. Leave me, now, young
man," he added, after a brief silence; "your duty calls you hence; and
why linger you here, and dream away those fleeting moments, which can
never be recalled?"
"Perhaps I merit that reproof," said Stanhope, coloring highly; "but I
have not been inattentive to my duty, and I am, even now, in readiness
to depart."
"Pardon me, my son, if I have spoken harshly," returned the priest; "but
I would urge you to hasten your departure. La Tour, ere this, has
reached Penobscot; he is too rash and impetuous to delay his purpose,
and one hour may turn the scale to victory or defeat."
Stanhope answered only by a gesture of respect, as he turned away from
him; and he proceeded directly to the beach, where his vessel lay,
reflecting, as he went along, on the singularity of father Gilbert's
sudden appearance, and wondering why he should have repeated the name of
Luciè, and with such evident emotion. The agitation he had betrayed, on
meeting her in the garden at St. John's, was not forgotten; and Arthur
had longed, yet dared not, to ask some questions which might lead to an
elucidation of the seeming mystery.
The sun had scarcely risen, when Stanhope left the island of St. Croix;
the wind was fair and steady, and the sea retained no traces of its
recent turbulence, except some fragments of the wreck, which floated
around. Their vessel was but a poor substitute for the one which they
had lost, but it sailed well, and answered the purpose of their short
voyage; and the crew were stout in heart and spirits, notwithstanding
their late disasters. Stanhope particularly regretted the loss of their
fire-arms and ammunition, though he had fortunately obtained a small
supply from the people at the island. Early in the afternoon they
entered the bay of Penobscot, and Stanhope directed his course
immediately towards the fort; he ventured, at no great distance, to
reconnoitre, and was surprised that he had, as yet, seen nothing of La
Tour. The sun at length declined behind the western hills, leaving a
flood of golden light upon the waveless deep. The extensive line of
coast, indented by numerous bays, adorned with a thousand isles of every
form and size, presented a rich and boundless prospect; and, graced with
the charms of summer, and reposing in the calm of that glowing twilight,
it seemed almost like a region of enchantment.
The serenity and beauty of such a scene was more deeply enjoyed, from
the contrast which it presented to the turbulence of the preceding day;
and Stanhope lingered around the coast, till warned by the gathering
gloom that it was time to seek a harbor, where they might repose in
security through the night. Trusting to the experience of his pilot, he
entered what is called Frenchman's Bay, and anchored to the eastward of
Mount Desert island. Night seemed to approach reluctantly, and gemmed
with her starry train, she threw a softer veil around the lovely scenes,
which had shone so brightly beneath the light of day. The wild solitudes
of nature uttered no sound; the breeze had ceased its sighing, and the
waves broke gently on the grassy shore. The moon rode high in the
heavens, pouring her young light on sea and land; and the summit of the
Blue Hills was radiant with her silver beams.
CHAPTER XII.
_Mar._ I'll fight with none but thee; for I do hate thee
Worse than a promise-breaker.
_Auf._ We hate alike;
Not Afric owns a serpent, I abhor
More than thy fame and envy.
SHAKSPEARE.
La Tour, in the darkness of the night succeeding his departure from St.
John's, had found it impossible to communicate with Stanhope; and,
prudently consulting his own safety in view of the approaching storm, he
crowded sail, hoping to reach some haven, before the elements commenced
their fearful conflict. In his zeal for personal security, he persuaded
himself, that Arthur's nautical skill would extricate him from danger;
but he forgot the peculiar difficulties to which he was exposed by his
ignorance of the coast, and also, that he was embarked in a vessel far
less prepared than his own, to encounter the heavy gale which seemed
mustering from every quarter of the heavens. Perfectly familiar,
himself, with a course which he frequently traversed,--in an excellent
ship, and assisted by experienced seamen,--he was enabled to steer,
with comparative safety, through the almost tangible darkness; and,
early on the following morning, he entered the smoother waters of
Penobscot Bay, and anchored securely in one of the numerous harbors
which it embraces.
The day passed away, and brought no tidings from Stanhope; and De
Valette, though their friendship had of late been interrupted by
coldness and distrust, had too much generosity to feel insensible to his
probable danger. But La Tour expressed the utmost confidence that he had
found some sheltering port,--as the whole extent of coast abounds with
harbors, which may be entered with perfect security,--and the night
proving too tempestuous to venture abroad for intelligence, De Valette
was obliged to rest contented with hoping for the best.
La Tour wishing to obtain more minute information respecting the
situation of D'Aulney, intended to proceed, first, to Pemaquid; and,
should Stanhope, from any cause, fail of joining him, he might probably
receive assistance from the English at that place, who had always been
friendly to him, and were particularly interested in suppressing the
dreaded power of M. d'Aulney. But, while busied in preparation, on the
day succeeding the storm, and repairing the slight damage which his
vessel had sustained, the report of some fishermen entirely changed the
plan and destiny of the expedition. La Tour learned from them, that
D'Aulney was at that time absent from his fort, having left it, two or
three days before, with a small party, to go on a hunting excursion up
the river Penobscot. His garrison, they added, had been recently
reduced, by fitting out a vessel for France, to return with ammunition,
and other supplies, in which he was extremely deficient.
This information determined La Tour to attack the fort without delay.
Every thing seemed to favor his wishes, and hold out a prospect of
success. Though small in numbers, he placed perfect confidence in the
courage of his men, most of whom had long adhered to his service, and
followed him in the desultory skirmishes in which he frequently engaged.
Impetuous to a fault, and brave even to rashness, he had, as yet, been
generally successful in his undertakings, and, though often unimportant,
even to his own interests, they were marked by a reckless contempt of
danger, calculated to inspirit and attach the followers of such an
adventurer.
La Tour, piloted by a fisherman whom he took aboard, landed on a
peninsula, since called Bagaduce point, on which the fort was situated.
He intended to make his first attack on a farm-house of D'Aulney's,
where he was told some military stores were lodged; and, from thence,
bring up his men in rear of the fort. He sanguinely believed, that in
the absence of the commander, it would soon yield to his sudden and
impetuous assault; or, if he had been in any respect deceived, that it
would be easy to secure a safe retreat to the boats from which he had
landed. De Valette, in the mean time, was ordered to divert the
attention of the garrison, by sailing before the walls; and, if
necessary, to afford a more efficient succor.
In perfect silence, La Tour led on his little band through tangled
copse-wood and impervious shades; and, with measured tread, and thoughts
intent upon the coming strife, they crushed, unheeded, the wild flower
which spread its simple charms before them, and burst asunder the
beautiful garlands which summer had woven around their path. The melody
of nature was hushed at their approach; the birds nestled in their leafy
coverts; the timid hare bounded before their steps, and the squirrel
looked down in silence from his airy height, as they passed on, and
disturbed the solitude of the peaceful retreat.
They at length emerged from the sheltering woods, and entered an
extensive plain, which had been cleared and cultivated, and, in the
midst of which, stood the farm-house, already mentioned. It was several
miles from the fort; a few men were stationed there, but the place was
considered so secure, from its retired situation, that they were
generally employed in the labors of agriculture. La Tour's party
approached almost within musket shot, before the alarm was given, and
the defenders had scarcely time to throw themselves into the house, and
barricade the doors and windows. The besiegers commenced a violent
onset, and volley succeeded volley, with a rapidity which nothing could
withstand. The contest was too unequal to continue long; La Tour soon
entered the house a conqueror, secured all who were in it as prisoners,
and took possession of the few munitions which had been stored there. He
then ordered the building to be set on fire, and the soldiers, with
wanton cruelty, killed all the domestic animals which were grazing
around it. Neither party sustained any loss; two or three only were
wounded, and those, with the prisoners, were sent back, under a
sufficient guard, to the boats; the remainder turned from the scene of
destruction with utter indifference, and again proceeded towards the
fort.
The noontide sun was intensely hot, and they halted a few moments on the
verge of an extensive forest, to rest in its cooling shade, and allay
their thirst from a limpid stream which gurgled from its green recesses.
Scarcely had they resumed the line of march, when a confused sound burst
upon their ears; and instantly, the heavy roll of a drum reverberated
through the woods, and a party rushed on them, from its protecting
shades, with overpowering force. La Tour, with a courage and presence of
mind which never deserted him, presented an undaunted front to the foe,
and urged his followers by encouragement and commands, to stand firm,
and defend themselves to the last extremity. A few only emulated his
example; the rest, seized with an unaccountable panic, sought refuge in
flight, or surrendered passively to the victors.
La Tour, in vain, endeavoured to rally them; surrounded by superior
numbers, and their retreat entirely intercepted, submission or
destruction seemed inevitable. But his proud spirit could ill brook an
alternative which he considered so disgraceful; and, left to sustain the
conflict alone, he still wielded his sword with a boldness and
dexterity, that surprised and distanced every opponent. Yet skill and
valor united were unavailing against such fearful odds; and the weapon
which he would never have voluntarily relinquished, was at length
wrested from his grasp.
A smile of triumph brightened the gloomy features of M. d'Aulney, as he
met the eye of his proud and defeated enemy; but La Tour returned it by
a glance of haughty defiance, which fully expressed the bitterness of
his chafed and unsubdued feelings. He then turned to his humbled
followers, and surveyed them with a look of angry contempt, beneath
which, the boldest shrunk abashed.
"Cowards!" he exclaimed, yielding to his indignation; "fear ye to meet
my eye? would that its lightnings could blast ye, perjured and recreant
that ye are! ay, look upon the ground, which should have drank your
heart's blood before it witnessed your disgrace; look not on me, whom
you have betrayed--look not on the banner of your country, which you
have stained by this day's cowardice!"
A low murmur rose from the rebuked and sullen soldiers; and D'Aulney,
fearing some disturbance, commanded silence, and ordered his people to
prepare for instant march.
"For you, St. Etienne, lord of la Tour," he said, "it shall be my care
to provide a place of security, till the pleasure of our lawful
sovereign is made known concerning you."
"To that sovereign I willingly appeal," replied La Tour; "and, if a
shadow of justice lingers around his throne, the rights which you have
presumed to arrogate will be restored to me, and my authority
established on a basis, which you will not venture to dispute."
"Let the writ of proscription be first revoked," said D'Aulney, with a
sneer; "let the names of rebel, and traitor, be blotted from your
escutcheon, before you appeal to that justice, or reclaim an authority
which has been long since annulled."
"False, and mean-spirited!" exclaimed La Tour, scornfully; "you stoop to
insult a prisoner, who is powerless in your hands, but from whose
indignation you would cower, like the guilty thing you are, had I
liberty and my good sword to revenge your baseness! Go, use me as you
will, use me as you _dare_, M. d'Aulney, but remember the day of
vengeance may ere long arrive."
"_My_ day of vengeance _has_ arrived," returned D'Aulney, and his eye
flashed with rage; "and you will rue the hour in which you provoked my
slumbering wrath."
"Your wrath has _never_ slumbered," replied La Tour, "and my hatred to
you will mingle with the last throb of my existence. Like an evil demon,
you have followed me through life; you blighted the hopes of my
youth,--the interests and ambition of my manhood have been thwarted by
your machinations, and I have now no reason to look for mercy at your
hands; still I defy your malice, and I bid you triumph at your peril."
"We have strong holds in that fort which you have so long wished to
possess," said D'Aulney, with provoking coolness; "and traitors, who are
lodged there, have little chance of escape."
La Tour refrained from replying, even by a glance: the soldiers, at that
moment, commenced their march; and guarded, with ostentatious care, he
walked apart from the other prisoners towards the fort. The angry aspect
of his countenance yielded to an expression of calm contempt, and
through the remainder of the way he preserved an unbroken silence.
In the mean time, De Valette had strictly obeyed the instructions of La
Tour. His appearance before the fort evidently excited much sensation
there; and though he kept at a prudent distance, he could observe the
garrison in motion, and ascertain from their various evolutions, that
they were preparing for a vigorous defence. He ordered his vessel to be
put in a state for action, and waited impatiently to see the standard
of D'Aulney supplanted by that of De la Tour. But his illusions were
dispelled by the return of a boat with the prisoners, taken at the
farm-house, and a few soldiers who had escaped by flight from the fate
of their companions. Vexed and mortified by a result so unexpected, De
Valette hesitated what course to pursue. La Tour had not thought
necessary to provide for such an exigence, as he never admitted the
possibility of falling a prisoner into the hands of D'Aulney. His
lieutenant, therefore, determined to sail for Pemaquid, to seek
assistance, which would enable him, at least, to recover the liberty of
La Tour. He also hoped to gain some information respecting Stanhope,
whose services at that crisis were particularly desirable.
M. d'Aulney had returned to his fort unexpectedly on the morning of that
day; and the approach of La Tour was betrayed to him by a boy, who
escaped from the farm-house, at the beginning of the skirmish. Nothing
could have gratified his revenge more completely, than to obtain
possession of the person of his rival; and this long desired object was
thus easily attained, at a moment when least expected.
The prejudices of a superior are readily embraced by those under his
authority; and, as La Tour approached the fort, every eye glanced
triumphantly on him, and every countenance reflected, in some degree,
the vindictive feelings of the commander. But he endured their gaze
with stern indifference, and his step was as firm, and his bearing as
lofty, as if he entered the gates a conqueror. A small apartment,
attached to the habitable buildings of the fort, which had often served
on similar occasions, was prepared; for a temporary prison, until his
final destination was determined. D'Aulney, himself, examined this
apartment with the utmost caution, lest any aperture should be
unnoticed, through which the prisoner might effect his escape. La Tour,
during this research, remained guarded in an adjoining passage, and
through the open door, he perceived, with a smile of scorn, what indeed
seemed the superfluous care, which was taken to provide for his
security. The soldiers waited at a respectful distance, awed by the
courage he had displayed, and the anger which still flashed from his
full dark eye.
In this interval, La Tour's attention was attracted by the sound of
light footsteps advancing along the passage; and immediately a delicate
female figure passed hastily on towards a flight of stairs, not far from
the spot where he was standing. Her motions were evidently confused and
timid, plainly evincing that she had unconsciously entered among the
soldiers; and her features were concealed by a veil, which she drew
closely around them. She flitted rapidly by La Tour, but at a little
distance paused, in a situation which screened her from every eye but
his. Throwing back her veil, she looked earnestly at him; a deep blush
overspread her face, and pressing her finger on her lips, in token of
silence, she swiftly descended the stairs.
That momentary glance subdued every stormy passion of his soul; early
scenes of joy and sorrow rushed on his remembrance, and clasping his
hands across his brow, he stood, for a time, unmindful of all around
him, absorbed by his excited thoughts. But the voice of D'Aulney again
sounded in his ears, and renewed the strife of bitter feelings, which
had been so briefly calmed. His cheek glowed with deeper resentment, and
it required a powerful effort of self-command to repress the invective
that trembled on his lips, but which, he felt, it would be more than
useless to indulge. He entered his prison, therefore, in silence; and,
with gloomy immobility, listened to the heavy sound of the bolts, which
secured the door, and consigned him to the dreariness of profound
solitude.
CHAPTER XIII.
That of all things upon the earth, he hated
Your person most: that he would pawn his fortunes
To hopeless restitution, so he might
Be called your vanquisher.
SHAKSPEARE.
The first hours of misfortune are generally the most tedious; and the
night which succeeded the imprisonment of La Tour appeared to him almost
endless in duration. A small and closely grated window sparingly
admitted the light and air of heaven; and, through its narrow openings,
he watched the last beams of the moon, and saw the stars twinkle more
faintly in the advancing light of morning, before he sought that repose,
which entire exhaustion rendered indispensable.
He was aroused at a late hour on the following morning, from feverish
slumber, by the opening of his door; and, starting up, he, with equal
surprise and displeasure, recognized M. d'Aulney in the intruder. A
glance of angry defiance was the only salutation which he deigned to
give; but it was unnoticed by D'Aulney, who had apparently resolved to
restrain the violence, which they had mutually indulged on the preceding
day.
"I come to offer you freedom, M. de la Tour," he said, after a moment's
hesitation, "and on terms which the most prejudiced could not but
consider lenient."
"Freedom from life, then!" La Tour scornfully replied; "I can expect no
other liberty, while it is in your power to hold me in bondage."
"Beware how you defy my power!" replied D'Aulney; "or provoke the wrath
which may burst in vengeance on your head. You are my prisoner, De la
Tour; and, as the representative of royalty here, the command of life or
death is entrusted to my discretion."
"I deny that command," said La Tour, "and bid you exercise it at your
peril. Prove to me the authority which constitutes you my judge; which
gives you a right to scrutinize the actions of a compeer; to hold in
duresse the person of a free and loyal subject of our king;--prove this,
and I may submit to your judgment, I may crave the clemency, which I now
despise--nay, which I would not stoop to receive from your hands."
"You speak boldly, for a rebel and a traitor!" said D'Aulney,
contemptuously; "for one whose office is annulled, and whose name is
branded with infamy!"
"Come you hither to insult me, false-hearted villain?" exclaimed La
Tour, passionately; "prisoner and defenceless, though I now am, you may
yet have cause to repent the rashness which brings you to my presence!"
"Your threats are idle," returned D'Aulney; "I never feared you, even in
your greatest strength; and think you, that I can _now_ be intimidated
by your words?"
"What is the purport of this interview?" asked La Tour, impatiently;
"and why am I compelled to endure your presence? speak, and briefly, if
you have aught to ask of me; or go, and leave me to the solitude, which
you have so rudely disturbed."
"I spoke to you of freedom," replied D'Aulney; "but since you persist in
believing my intentions evil, it would be useless to name the terms on
which I offer it."
"You can offer no terms," said La Tour, "which comport with the honor of
a gentleman and a soldier to accept."
"Are you ignorant," asked D'Aulney, "that you are proscribed, that an
order is issued for your arrest, and that a traitor's doom awaits you,
in your native land?"
"It is a calumny, vile as your own base heart," exclaimed La Tour; "and
so help me, heaven, as I shall one day prove its falsehood."
"You have been denounced at a more impartial tribunal than mine," said
D'Aulney, deliberately unrolling a parchment which he carried, and
pointing to the seal of France; "these characters," he added, "are
traced by high authority; and need you any farther proof, that your
honors are wrested from you, and your name consigned to infamy?"
"Your malice has invented this," said La Tour, glancing his eye
indignantly over the contents of the scroll; "but even this shall not
avail you; and, cunningly as you have woven your treacherous web around
me, I shall yet escape the snare, and triumph over all your
machinations!"
"It is vain to boast of deeds, which you may never be at liberty to
perform," replied D'Aulney; "your escape from this prison is impossible,
and, of course, your fate is entirely at my disposal. But, grossly as
you have injured me, I am willing to reconcile past differences; not
from any hope of personal advantage, but to preserve the peace of the
colony, and sustain the honor of the government."
"That mask of disinterestedness and patriotism," said La Tour,
scornfully, "is well assumed; but, beshrew me! if it does not hide some
dark and selfish purpose. Reconcile!" he added, in a tone of bitterness;
"that word can never pass current with us; my hatred to you is so
strong, so deeply-rooted, that nothing could ever compel me to serve
you, even if, by so doing, I might advance my own fortunes to the height
of princely grandeur."
"Your choice is too limited to admit of dainty scruples," said D'Aulney,
tauntingly; "but, you may be induced to grant from necessity, what you
would refuse as a favor. You must be convinced, that your title and
authority in Acadia are now abolished, and you have every reason to
apprehend the severity of the law, if you are returned a prisoner to
France. I offer you immediate liberty, with sufficient privileges to
render you independent, on condition that you will make a legal transfer
of your late government to me, and thus amicably reunite the colony,
which was so unhappily divided on the death of Razilly. Put your
signature to this paper, and you are that moment free."
"Now, by the holy rood!" said La Tour, bursting into a laugh of scorn;
"but that I think you are jesting with me, I would trample you beneath
my feet, as I do this;" and snatching the offered paper from his hand,
he tore it in pieces, and stamped violently on the scattered fragments.
"You reject my proposals, then?" asked D'Aulney, pale with angry
emotions.
"Dare you ask me, again, to accept them?" returned La Tour; "think you,
I would sanction the slanders you have fabricated, by such a surrender
of my rights? that I would thus bring reproach upon my name, and
bequeath poverty and disgrace to my children?"
"It is well," replied D'Aulney; "and the consequences of your folly must
fall on your own head; but, when too late, you may repent the
perverseness which is driving you to destruction."
"Were the worst fate which your malevolence could devise, at this moment
before me," said La Tour, "my resolution would remain unalterable. I am
not so poor in spirit, as to shrink before the blast of adversity; nor
am I yet destitute of followers, who will fight for my rescue, or
bravely avenge my fall."
"We shall soon find other employment for them," D'Aulney coolly replied;
"this fortunate expedition of yours has scattered your vaunted force,
and left your fort exposed to assaults, which it is too defenceless to
repel."
"Make the experiment," said La Tour, proudly; "and again you may return,
vanquished by a woman's prowess. Try the valor of men, who burn to
redress their master's wrongs; and, if you dare, once more encounter the
dauntless courage of a wife, anxious for her husband's safety, and
tenacious of her husband's honor."
"You are fortunate," said D'Aulney, sarcastically, "to possess so brave
a representative; I trust, it has long since reconciled you to the
chance, which prevented your alliance with one less valiant,--one, too
gentle to share the fortunes of such a bold adventurer."
"Touch not upon that theme," said La Tour, starting with almost frenzied
violence; "time may wear away every other remembrance, but the treachery
of a friend must remain indelible and unforgiven."
"Solitude, perchance, may calm your moody feelings, and I will leave you
to its soothing influence;" said D'Aulney, in a tone of assumed
indifference, which was contradicted by the angry flash that darted from
his eye. He laid his hand on the door, while he spoke; La Tour returned
no answer, and the next moment he was left to his own reflections; and,
bitter as they were, he felt that to be again alone, was a state of
comparative happiness. But, whatever he endured, not a shadow of fear or
apprehension obtruded on his mind. The shame of defeat, perhaps, most
deeply goaded him; and his interview with D'Aulney had awakened every
dark and stormy passion in his breast. Confinement was, indeed, irksome
to his active spirit; but he would not admit the possibility of its long
continuance; and he had no doubt, that the exertions of De Valette would
soon restore him to freedom. He rightly believed, that both the pride
and affection of his nephew would stimulate him to attempt it, and he
hoped his efforts would be aided by Stanhope, if he had been so
fortunate as to escape the storm.
Stanhope, however, was, as yet, ignorant of these events; and the
morning light, which stole so heavily through the grated window of La
Tour's prison-room, shone brightly on the waters of the Bay, where his
vessel had anchored through the night. He was in motion at an early
hour, anxious to obtain information of La Tour, though totally at a loss
in what direction to seek for him. In the midst of this perplexity, he
observed a boat, at some distance, slowly approaching the eastern
extremity of Mount Desert island. Stanhope waited impatiently to hail
the person who occupied it, believing he might receive some intelligence
from him respecting La Tour. But, instead of making the nearest point of
land, he suddenly tacked his boat, and bore off from the shore,
apparently intending to double a narrow headland, which projected into
the bay.
The little skiff moved slowly on its course, as if guided by an idle or
unskilful hand, and the oars were dipped so lightly and leisurely, that
they scarce dimpled the waves, or moved the boat beyond the natural
motion of the tide. The earliest blush of morn was spreading along the
eastern sky, and faintly tinged the surface of the deep; and, as Arthur
watched the progress of the boat, his attention was arrested by the
peculiar appearance of the occupant, who, on drawing near the headland,
raised himself from a reclining posture, and stood erect, leaning, with
one hand, on an upright oar, while he employed the other in lightly
steering the boat. His tall figure, habited in the dark garments of a
Romish priest, which floated loosely on the air, gave him, as he moved
alone upon the solitary deep, a wild, and almost supernatural
appearance. His face was continually turned towards the shore, and at
times he bowed his head, and folded his hands across his breast, as if
absorbed by mental devotion, or engaged in some outward service of his
religion.
Arthur could not mistake the person of father Gilbert; nor was he
greatly surprised at seeing him there, as he had heard much of his
wandering course of life, and knew that he was in the habit of extending
his pastoral visits to the remotest cabins of his flock. Stanhope
thought it possible he might direct him to La Tour; and he ordered a
boat to be got ready immediately, in the hope of overtaking him. But by
that time, the priest had disappeared behind the projecting land, and
probably proceeded on his voyage with more expedition; for when Stanhope
doubled the point, he was no longer visible. Unwilling to give up the
pursuit, Arthur continued on, passing through the channel between
Craneberry Islands and Mount Desert, and entered a gulf which ran in on
the south side of the latter. Almost at the entrance, he discovered a
small boat, like the one in question, and from which he had no doubt
father Gilbert had just landed.
Leaving the boatmen to wait his return, Stanhope sprang on shore without
hesitation, and rapidly followed the windings of a narrow path, though
ignorant where it led, and doubtful if it were trodden by wild animals,
or by the foot of man. Shortly, the wood, which he traversed, terminated
in an open plain, slightly elevated above the waters of the bay, that
still murmured on his ear, and glanced brightly through the foliage of
some trees which fringed the shore. The spot was rich in verdure,
retaining marks of former cultivation, and the trees, which rose to a
noble height, were evidently a succession from the earlier monarchs of
the forest. Some Jesuit missionaries had taken possession of the place
at an early period, planted a cross there, and called it by the name of
St. Saviour. But their settlement was soon broken up by a party of
English from Virginia, who claimed it for their own king, on the plea of
first discovery. It was long after neglected by both nations, and the
improvements, which had been commenced, were entirely neglected.
Stanhope's attention was soon arrested by the object of his search. In
the midst of the plain still lay the cross, which the English had
overthrown; and, close beside it, father Gilbert was kneeling, as
motionless, as if life had ceased to animate him. His eyes were fastened
on a crucifix, and his pale and haggard countenance wore the traces of
that mental anguish, which seemed forever to pursue him. His lips were
firmly closed, and every limb and feature appeared so rigid, that Arthur
could scarcely repel the dreadful apprehension, that death had seized
his victim alone in that solitary spot. He approached him, and was
inexpressibly relieved to perceive him start at the sound of his steps,
and look round, though with a vacant air, like one suddenly roused from
deep and heavy sleep.
"Pardon me, if I intrude, father," said Stanhope; "but I feared you were
ill, and came to ask if I could serve you."
"Who are you?" demanded the priest, wildly, and springing from his
knees; "who are you, that seek me here,--here, in this spot, consecrated
to remorse and sorrow?"
"It is but a few hours since I parted from you," returned Stanhope; "and
had I known you purposed coming hither, I would not willingly have left
you to cross the waves alone, in that frail boat."
"I know you now, young man," replied the priest, the unnatural
excitement of his countenance yielding to its usual calm; "and I thank
you for your care; but solitude and gloom are most congenial to me, and
I endure the fellowship of men, only in compliance with the duties of my
holy office. Leave me," he added; "here, at least, I would be alone."
"This is a dreary place, father"--
"Dreary!" interrupted the priest; "and it is therefore that I seek it;
twenty years have passed away, since I first found refuge in its shades,
from the vanities of a world which I had too long trusted; and yearly on
this day, the solitary waste is witness to my remorse and penance. Be
warned by this, my son; and, in thy youth, avoid the crimes and follies
which lead to an old age of sorrow."
"True repentance may obliterate every sin," said Stanhope; "and why
should you despair of mercy, or even of earthly happiness?"
"Happiness!" repeated the priest; "name it not to one whose headstrong
passions blasted every cherished joy, and threw their withering
influence on all who loved and trusted in him; mock me not with that
delusive hope, which only lives in the imagination of youth and
inexperience. Again I bid you leave me; this day is consecrated to
active duty, and I would fortify my mind to meet its difficulties."
"Pardon me, that I trouble you with one inquiry," said Stanhope; "have
you heard aught of De la Tour?"
"He is a prisoner," returned the priest; "and if you would learn more
concerning him, repair, without delay, to Pemaquid, where his lieutenant
waits your arrival."
Father Gilbert turned away, as he finished speaking; and Stanhope
retraced his steps to the boat, musing with deep interest on the
intelligence he had received. He rowed rapidly back to his vessel; and,
weighing anchor, sailed for the bay of Pemaquid, impatient to rejoin De
Valette, and learn the particulars of La Tour's capture.
CHAPTER XIV.
The midnight pass'd--and to the massy door,
A light step came--it paused--it moved once more;
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key.
LORD BYRON.
La Tour endured the first days of confinement with more patience than
could have been expected from his irascible disposition; his mind was
continually excited by hopes of speedy release, and plans of future
vengeance. D'Aulney's visit to him was not repeated, and his solitude
remained unbroken, except by the person who brought him food, and who
generally performed his office in perfect silence. But the third day
passed more heavily away; he listened to every sound from without his
prison, and as none reached him, which announced approaching succor, he
could not repress an audible expression of anger and disappointment, at
his nephew's tardiness. A thousand plans of escape were formed, and
instantly rejected, as visionary and impracticable. He too well knew the
severe and cautious temper of D'Aulney, to suppose he would leave any
avenue unguarded; and, of course, an attempt of the kind could only end
in defeat, and perhaps a restriction of the few privileges he then
enjoyed. A sentinel watched continually at the outside of his door;
others were stationed near enough to lend assistance on a word of alarm;
and his window, even if the bars could be forced, was rendered secure by
the vigilance of a soldier placed beneath to protect it. His own
strength and address were therefore unavailing; the conviction vexed and
mortified him, and he paced his apartment with rapid steps, till his
harassed feelings were wrought up to the highest pitch of irritability.
Daylight disappeared, and the evening advanced in gloom and darkness;
not a star shone in the heavens, and the moon vainly struggled with the
clouds which overshadowed her. A hollow blast, at intervals, swept
across the grated window, then murmured into total silence; the waves
rolled sullenly below, and occasionally the measured dash of oars from
some passing boat was mingled with their melancholy cadence. La Tour's
meditations were broken by the sentinel entering with a light; and as he
placed it on a wooden stand, he lingered a moment, and regarded the
prisoner with peculiar attention. He, however, took no notice of it,
except to avert his face more entirely from, what he considered, a gaze
of impertinent curiosity. The soldier, as he re-opened the door, again
turned, and seemed on the point of speaking; but La Tour could endure
no intrusion, and a glance of angry reproof from his eye, induced a
precipitate retreat. He almost instantly repented this vehemence; for
that parting look was familiar to him, and possibly he might have
received some desirable information.
But it was too late to recall what he had done; and La Tour again sunk
into a train of reflections, though of a more tranquil nature than those
which before agitated him. Recent occurrences had revived the
recollections of earlier years; and he looked back, with softened
feelings, on those peaceful scenes, which he had left in youth to buffet
with the storms of life, and the still fiercer storms of passion. His
thoughts were, at length, exclusively occupied with the appearance of
the female whom he so unexpectedly encountered on the first evening of
his imprisonment, and whose features he had instantly identified with an
image once most dear to him; but which had, long since, been absorbed in
the pursuits of interest, and the struggles of ambition. The time had
indeed gone by, when associations, blended with that image, could deeply
agitate him; and, connected as they were, with his aversion to D'Aulney,
they tended to excite emotions of anger rather than of tenderness.
But, whatever was the nature of his feelings, they were shortly diverted
to another channel by a low sound from without the door, which announced
the cautious withdrawing of its bolts. The next instant it was opened by
the guard who had before entered; and La Tour, surprised at his
appearing so unseasonably,--for it was after midnight--was about to
question him, when he pointed significantly to the door, and again
hastily retired.
"Antoine!" exclaimed La Tour, suddenly recognizing in him a soldier of
his own, who, on some former occasion, had been taken prisoner by
D'Aulney, and voluntarily remained in his service. The call was
unanswered; but presently the door again opened, and a figure entered,
dressed in priestly guise, with a cowl drawn closely over his face. La
Tour, at first, thought only of father Gilbert; and, with undefined
expectation, rose to meet him; but another glance showed, that this
person was low in stature, and altogether different in appearance from
the monk. He retreated, with a sensation of keen disappointment; and
believing that he saw before him some emissary from D'Aulney, he asked,
impatiently,
"Who are you, that steal in upon my solitude at this untimely hour? that
garb is your protection, or you might have reason to repent this rash
and unwelcome intrusion!"
The object of this interrogation and menace seemed to shrink from the
searching gaze of La Tour; and, without returning a word in reply,
covered his face with both hands, as if still more effectually to
conceal his features.
"What trick of priestcraft is this?" demanded La Tour, angrily; "is it
not enough, that I am held in duresse by a villain's power, but must I
be denied, even the poor privilege of bearing my confinement unmolested?
What, silent yet!" he added, in a tone of sarcasm; "methinks, thou art a
novice in thy cunning trade, or thou wouldst not be so chary of thy
ghostly counsel, or so slow to shrive the conscience of a luckless
prisoner!"
"St. Etienne!" replied a voice, which thrilled his ear, in
well-remembered accents; and, at the same moment, a trembling hand
removed the cowl which covered a face glowing with confusion, and
confined the light ringlets, that again fell profusely around the neck
and brow.
"Adèle!" exclaimed La Tour, springing towards her; then suddenly
retreating to the utmost limits of the room, while every nerve shook
with powerful emotion. He closed his eyes, as if fearing to look upon a
face that he had last seen in the brightness of his hopes; and which
twelve years had left unchanged, except to mature the loveliness of
earliest youth into more womanly beauty and expression, and to deepen
the pensiveness, that always marked it, into a shade of habitual
melancholy.
"Adèle, are _you_ too leagued against me?" resumed La Tour, with
recovered firmness, and looking stedfastly on her; "have _you_ entered
into the secret counsels of my foe? and are you sent hither to torture
me with your presence? to remind me, by it, of past, but never to be
forgotten, injuries--of the worse than infernal malice, with which he
has ever pursued me, and for which, I exult in the hope of one day
calling him to a deadly reckoning!"
"Speak you thus of my husband?" she asked, in an accent of reproof; "and
think you such language is meet to be addressed to the ear of a wife?"
"Aye, of your husband, lady," said La Tour, yielding to his chafed and
bitter feelings; "he was once my friend, too; the friend who won my
confidence, only to abuse it, who basely calumniated me, in absence, who
treacherously stole from me the dearest treasure of my heart. Adèle," he
continued more calmly, "I do not love you _now_; that youthful passion,
which was once the sun of my existence, has lost its strength in other
ties, and sterner duties; but, can I meet your eye again, and not recall
the perfidy which drove me forth, from friends and country, an
adventurer in the pathless wilderness? can I look upon your face, and
not curse the wretch, who won from me its smiles, who burst our love
asunder, in all its purity and fervor, while yet unruffled by one shade
of doubt, one fear of disappointment?"
"La Tour," said Mad. d'Aulney, striving to conceal her emotion, "why all
this bitter invective? now, indeed, most vain and useless! why wound my
ear, by accusations which _I_ surely do not merit, and which is a most
ungrateful theme, when uttered against one whom I am bound, by every
tie of duty and interest, to respect! If you believe me innocent"--
"I do believe you are most innocent!" interrupted La Tour, impetuously;
"yours was a heart too guileless to deceive, too firm in virtuous
principle to be sullied, even by a union with the vicious and depraved.
No, Adèle, I have never cherished one feeling of resentment towards you;
you, like myself, was the victim of that baseness, which invented a tale
of falsehood to deceive you, of that meanness, which flattered your
father's ambitious hopes, by a boast of rank and wealth; while my only
offer was a sincere heart, my only wealth, an untarnished name, and a
sword, which I hoped would one day gather me renown, in the field of
honor."
"Enough of this," said the lady, exerting all her firmness; "it is
unwise to recall the past, nor is this a fitting time to indulge in
reminiscences of pain or pleasure; the night is fleeting fast, and every
moment of delay is attended with danger."
"What mean you?" asked La Tour, a sudden hope of release darting through
his mind; "_I_ fear no danger; but _you_ may well dread a tyrant's
wrath, should you be seen hovering around a prison, which he would be
loath to cheer with one ray of brightness."
"I must first see you depart," she replied; "and then, I trust, the good
saints will guide me safely back to the couch of my sick infant, from
which I stole, when every eye was closed in sleep, to attempt your
liberation."
"My liberation!" said La Tour, in surprise; "may heaven bless you for
the kind thought, Adèle; but you deceive yourself, if you admit the
possibility of effecting it."
"You know not my resources," she answered, with a smile; "but listen to
my plan, and you will no longer remain incredulous; I am persuaded the
chance of success is much greater than the danger of discovery, and
unless we _do_ succeed, I fear you will have much, and long to suffer."
"There is no chance which I would not hazard," said La Tour, "to free
myself from this hateful prison, which is more intolerable to me than
the most hopeless dungeon ever invented by despotic jealousy. Yet I
would endure any sufferings, rather than involve _you_ in difficulty, or
for an instant expose you to the suspicion of one, too unrelenting, I
well know, to extend forgiveness, even to those who have the strongest
claims on his tenderness."
"Passion and prejudice render you unjust," said Mad. d'Aulney; "but this
hour and place are too dangerous to authorize idle scruples, and what is
to be done can admit of no delay. Yet I will first remove your
apprehensions on my account, by assuring you, that my husband thinks me
ignorant of your situation, and, of course, my interference in your
escape cannot be suspected." She blushed deeply as she added, "from
whatever cause, he has carefully concealed your imprisonment from me,
and induced me to believe, that a lieutenant, only, led on your people
to the engagement with him, and that he was the present occupant of this
apartment. I need not add, that the transient glimpse I accidentally
obtained of you, undeceived me, and that I have confined this discovery
entirely to my own breast."
"Dastard!" exclaimed La Tour, indignantly; "this jealous care accords
well with the baseness of his heart; and I wonder not that he fears to
lose the affection which was so unjustly gained, if, indeed, it were
ever truly his."
"Must I again ask you, La Tour," she said, with a displeased air, "to
refrain from these invectives, which I may not, cannot listen to, and
which render my attempt to serve you, almost criminal?"
"Forgive me this once only, madam," said La Tour, "and I will endeavor
not to offend again. And now, will you have the goodness to impart your
plan to me; and, if you are excluded from blame and danger, how shall I
bless the generous courage which prompted you to appear in my behalf!"
"My confessor has been ill for several days," said Mad. d'Aulney; "and,
during his confinement, two missionary priests, attached to the
settlement, have frequently attended him, and been permitted to pass the
gates without questioning, whenever they chose. Early this morning, I
encountered a priest, of very peculiar appearance, whose person was
entirely unknown to me; he was going to the sick man's apartment, and, I
have since learned, supplied the place of one who usually attended, but
had unexpectedly been called away. There was something in his tall
figure, and the expression of his pale and melancholy features, which
arrested my attention; I closely remarked him, and perceived that he
looked round inquisitively, though he wore an air of calm abstraction,
which would scarcely have been suspected by an indifferent observer."
"It must have been father Gilbert," said La Tour; "and, if he is
concerned, I would place the utmost confidence in his prudence and
fidelity."
"That is his name," said Mad. d'Aulney, "as I was afterwards told by
Antoine, the guard, who now waits at the door"--
"Antoine! _he_ cannot be trusted," interrupted La Tour; "he has once
deserted my cause, and joined the standard of an enemy, and I cannot
again rely on his integrity."
"He was seduced from his duty," returned Mad. d'Aulney; "but, I believe,
has sincerely repented of his error, and is now anxious to atone for it.
You shall judge for yourself. A few weeks since, he was so dangerously
ill, that very faint hopes were entertained of his recovery; and,
hearing that he was a stranger, and in many respects destitute, I was
induced to visit him, and administer such comforts as his state
required. What he termed my kindness, excited his warmest gratitude, and
he unburthened his conscience to me, of the crime which seemed to lie
heavily on it. He considered his disorder a visitation of Providence,
inflicted as a punishment for his desertion; and he wished most
earnestly to return to your service. I was pleased with the good
feelings he displayed, but advised him to rest contented for the
present, promising to aid his wishes if any opportunity offered; and,
from that time I have seen little of him, till since your arrival."
"And you have now engaged his assistance?" asked La Tour; "well, be it
so; once more in the open air, I fear not even treachery; and, furnished
with a trusty weapon, I bid defiance to every obstacle that can oppose
my freedom."
"Caution you will find more useful than strength," said Mad. d'Aulney;
"and by its aid we have thus far succeeded, even beyond my expectations.
This afternoon, I observed father Gilbert in conversation with Antoine;
and, trusting to the sincerity of the latter, I soon after found a
pretext for speaking with him, and cautiously introduced the subject of
your escape. He was ready, at every risk, to assist in any measures
which could be adopted; and informed me that it had already been
discussed between himself and the priest, and that he was, this night,
to stand sentinel at your door. Nothing could be more propitious to our
views; and, in the course of the day, we have found means to arrange
every thing, I hope, with perfect safety."
"This is indeed a kindness, a condescending interest, of which I am
wholly unworthy," said La Tour, with energy; "how, Adèle, can I ever
show you the gratitude, the"--
"Speak not of that, La Tour," she hastily interrupted; "think now of
nothing but your safety; trust implicitly to the guidance of Antoine;
and, I trust, it will soon be insured."
"And you," said La Tour, "who have generously hazarded so much to aid
me--how can I be satisfied that you will escape unharmed? how can I
leave you, in uncertainty and peril?"
"Believe me," said Mad. d'Aulney, "I am perfectly secure; Antoine will
desert his post to go with you, and suspicion must rest entirely on him,
and father Gilbert. The priest waits for you without the fort; and, once
with him, pursuit will be unavailing, even if your flight is soon
discovered; delay no longer, the morning watch approaches, and you must
be far from hence, before another guard appears to relieve Antoine.
These garments will sufficiently disguise you," she added, divesting
herself of a loose robe and monkish cloak, which covered her own dress;
"the soldier on duty will take you for a priest returning from the
confessor's room, and you will probably pass unquestioned, as the
priests, of late, have free access here at all hours."
"And whither do you go, and how elude observation?" asked La Tour.
"I have only to cross the passage, and descend a narrow staircase," she
replied; "both of which were left to the vigilance of Antoine; and I
shall reach my own apartment, without encountering any one."
A low rap was at that moment heard without the door; Mad. d'Aulney, at
the sound, turned quickly to La Tour, and offering him her hand, with a
melancholy smile, she said,
"It is time for us to part; and may the blessed saints be with you, St.
Etienne, and guide you from hence in safety; we may never meet again,
but my prayers will always intercede for your happiness and prosperity."
"God bless you, Adèle," said La Tour, in a subdued voice, taking her
hand respectfully, "for this night's kindness; for all that you have
ever shewn me, words are too feeble to express my gratitude; may heaven
watch over you, and make you as happy as you deserve to be: farewell!"
Mad. d'Aulney turned from him in silence; and Antoine instantly opening
the door, in obedience to a signal from her, she addressed a parting
word of good will to him, and hastily descended the stairs. La Tour
stood with his eyes fixed on her retiring figure, till Antoine ventured
to urge his departure, by reminding him, that every moment's delay
increased the danger of discovery. He started at the suggestion; and,
wrapping the cloak around him, and drawing the cowl closely over his
face, they proceeded in perfect silence, leaving the door secured, as
before, by bolts and bars, in the hope that it might lull suspicion for
a short time, or, at least, retard the moment of certain discovery. They
passed out into the open air, through a door which Antoine had the means
of opening, and thus avoided the sentinels who guarded the usual
passage.
The continued darkness favored La Tour's disguise; they safely reached
the gate, and Antoine informed the guard that he was ordered to conduct
the holy father out, and that he had, himself, a commission from his
lord, which would detain him several hours. They were immediately
permitted to pass. Every obstacle was then surmounted, and, with
feelings of exultation, La Tour again stood upon the ocean's verge, and
listened to the rushing of the wind and waves, beneath the free and
ample canopy of heaven. He looked back towards the fort, visible by a
few glimmering lights, and the gratitude and tenderness which had so
recently subdued his stern and haughty spirit, were strangely blended
with revenge and hatred against the man, from whose power he was then
escaping.
Antoine uttered a shrill whistle, which was answered by the dash of
oars; and a skiff presently shot from a little bay, and drew near the
spot where they waited. Father Gilbert was in it; La Tour grasped his
hand, in silence; and Antoine, taking the oars, applied all his strength
and dexterity, to bear them swiftly over the dark and troubled waters.
CHAPTER XV.
Who is't can read a woman?
SHAKSPEARE.
Arthur Stanhope found M. de Valette at Pemaquid, according to the
information of father Gilbert; for the priest had, in fact, left him
there on the preceding evening, and it was from him that he learned the
tidings of La Tour's imprisonment.
Soon after his interview with Stanhope, at Mount Desert, father Gilbert
obtained permission to visit the confessor at Penobscot, during the
absence of a priest who usually attended him; nor did this voluntary act
of charity excite any suspicion against one who had gained so high a
reputation for zeal and sanctity. Antoine saw, and instantly recognized
him; and, suspecting that his visit to the fort was prompted by a wish
to learn the situation of La Tour, he, under the seal of confession,
imparted his yet immature plan of escape, and, almost beyond his hopes,
found in him a very able assistant and adviser.
Father Gilbert was aware that La Tour favored the Hugonot cause; but he,
with reason, doubted the sincerity of his motives; for he encouraged
the Catholic religion throughout his settlement, and supported the
authority of the priests. He knew that Mad. de la Tour was warmly
attached to the protestant cause, and that her influence was extensive;
the establishment of the true-faith, therefore, seemed to depend on La
Tour's support and assistance; and if some measures were not soon
adopted to procure his freedom, D'Aulney would probably detain him long
in confinement, or perhaps send him to France, to await the slow process
of a trial. If any feelings of personal regard towards La Tour
influenced the priest, they were unacknowledged even to his own heart;
for he carefully excluded every earthly object from his affections, and
seemed to endure life, only in the hope that a severe and constant
discharge of his sacred duties would, at length, insure him a happy
release from its painful bondage.
Towards the close of the day preceding La Tour's escape, De Valette
received a message from father Gilbert, requiring him to return, without
delay, to the neighbourhood of fort Penobscot. Though he assigned no
reason for his request, nor gave any intimation of his plans, the young
Frenchman reposed implicit confidence in his discretion; and, moreover,
as a good Catholic, he was so habituated to the control of a spiritual
guide, that he did not hesitate a moment to comply with this desire.
Stanhope was rather surprised at this ready submission on the part of
De Valette, which was, by no means, a prominent trait in his character;
but, as nothing could be gained by remaining at Pemaquid, he consented
to accompany him, on his nocturnal voyage.
The wind favored their passage, but the evening was dark and gloomy;
and, with no certain object in view, their progress was tedious in the
extreme. The vessels kept close in company, but it was after midnight
when they reached the place appointed by father Gilbert; and, presuming
that they should hear nothing from him till morning, they anchored near
each other, off the shore of Mount Desert. The morning twilight was just
breaking on the distant hills, when the watch from De Valette's vessel
descried an approaching boat. It was occupied by three persons, two of
them labored at the oars, and the third sat in the midst, with folded
arms, in a state of perfect immobility.
"That is father Gilbert, but who brings him hither?" exclaimed De
Valette, as they drew up to the ship's side, and pulled in their oars.
La Tour sprang upon the deck, flinging aside the disguise which he had
till then retained; and a shout of joyful recognition was echoed by
every voice in either vessel. Antoine was received on board with
enthusiasm; and, in answer to the eager inquiries which poured from
every lip, La Tour briefly related the circumstances of his escape,
though he carefully suppressed any allusion to the assistance of Mad.
d'Aulney. It was long before the tumult of gratulation subsided; but
father Gilbert, who alone remained cold and unconcerned, retired from it
as soon as possible, and resumed the guidance of his little bark, which
had safely borne him on many a solitary voyage. The chant of his matin
hymn rose, at intervals, on the fitful breeze; and Stanhope watched him
till he disappeared behind the point of land round which he had followed
him on the preceding day.
La Tour, convinced that all the force which he could at present command
was insufficient to contend with D'Aulney, whose strength had been
greatly, though perhaps without design, misrepresented to him, ordered
the sails to be set for a homeward voyage; and, before sunrise, the
shores of Penobscot were left far behind them.
The remainder of the night, which succeeded La Tour's release, was
passed by Madame d'Aulney, in a state of morbid excitement. She watched
alone by the side of her sleeping infant, and even maternal solicitude
was, for a time, suspended by the intense interest, which her own
perilous adventure, and the safety of La Tour awakened. She felt that
she had done a deed, for which, if by any chance discovered, she could
never hope to obtain forgiveness from her incensed husband. Still, her
conscience acquitted her of any motive criminal in its nature, or
traitorous to his real interest; and the reflection that it had been in
her power to confer an essential benefit on the man whom she had once
deeply, though most unintentionally, injured, was inexpressibly soothing
to her feelings. She counted the moments, which seemed to linger in
their flight, and started at the slightest sound, till sufficient time
had elapsed to convince her that he must have proceeded far on his way,
towards a place of safety.
The dreaded discovery was indeed deferred beyond her utmost
expectations. The guard, who was to relieve Antoine, repaired to his
post at the appointed time; and, though surprised to find it vacated,
yet as the door was perfectly secure, he contented himself with uttering
an oath at his comrade's negligence, and in a few moments it was almost
forgotten. An hour or more passed away, and no motion was heard within;
morning advanced--he thought it strange that his prisoner should enjoy
such sound repose, and a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon his
mind. He unbarred the door, and his suspicions were, of course,
instantly realized. Repenting the easy faith which had suffered him to
delay an examination, he hastened to impart the intelligence, which soon
spread dismay and confusion throughout the garrison.
Madame d'Aulney heard the loud voices, and hurried steps of the soldiers
without, and the quick note of alarum, whose fearful summons could not
be mistaken. These sounds, though long expected, struck heavily on her
heart; and she uttered a fervent petition to the Virgin, to speed the
wanderer on his doubtful way. She heard various reports of what had
taken place, from her attendants; but she prudently waited for the storm
of passion to subside, before she ventured into the presence of M.
d'Aulney, conscious that the utmost effort of self-command would be
necessary to meet his eye with her usual composure.
"Methinks you are tardy this morning, madame!" he said, stopping in his
hurried walk, and looking fixedly on her countenance, as she at length
entered the room where he was alone.
"Our sick child must plead my excuse," she replied; "he still requires a
watchful care, and I am unwilling to consign him to any one less
interested than myself."
"You are a fond mother," said D'Aulney, resuming his walk; "but, there
are few husbands who choose to be neglected for a puling infant."
"The duties of a wife and mother are closely blended," she returned;
"and I trust I have not been deficient in the performance of either."
"You well know," he said, peevishly, "that I have no fancy for the
nursery, with its appendages of children and nurses; and yet, for three
days, you have scarcely condescended to quit it for an instant. Yes, for
three days," he repeated, again stopping and looking earnestly at her,
"you have secluded yourself from me, and your cheek has grown pale, as
if some cherished care, or deep anxiety, had preyed upon your thoughts!"
"And what anxiety can exceed a mother's?" she asked, the tears springing
to her eyes; "what care so ceaseless and unwearied, as her's, who
watches over the helpless being to whom she has given existence; whose
sufferings no other eye can comprehend; whose infant wants demand the
constant soothings of her enduring tenderness, and exhaustless love! And
has this excited your displeasure?"
"My own affairs have chafed me, Adèle," he said, more gently; "a
favorite project has miscarried, and the vengeance I have so long
desired is foiled, in the very moment when I believed success undoubted;
all this, too, through my own easy credulity, and a lenity, which its
object ill deserved from me!"
"You have erred on the safer side," said Madame d'Aulney, timidly; "and
your own heart, I doubt not, will acknowledge, in some cooler moment,
that it is far better to forego the momentary pleasure of revenge, than
to commit one deed which could stain your name with the guilt of tyranny
and oppression."
"You know little of the wrongs," he answered, sternly, "which for years
have goaded me; and which, if unrevenged, would brand me with worse than
a coward's infamy. The artifice, which has so often baffled my plans;
the arrogance, which has usurped my claims; even you, gentle as you
are, would scorn me, if I could forgive them!"
"Mutual injuries require mutual forgiveness," she replied; "and, in the
strife of angry passions, it is not easy to discriminate the criminal
from the accuser. But," she added, seeing his brow darken, "you have led
me into a subject which can only betray my ignorance; you well know that
I am wholly incompetent to judge of your public affairs; and I have
never ventured to obtrude upon your private views, or personal
feelings."
"You have too much of a woman's heart, Adèle," he said, "to become the
sharer of important councils; a freak of fancy, or a kindly feeling,
might betray or destroy the wisest plan that could be formed."
"Nay," she answered, smiling, "I have no wish to play the counsellor;
and it is well, if my husband can be satisfied with the humble duties
which it is my sole ambition to fulfil."
"And there are enough of these within the limits of our own household,"
D'Aulney replied; "though you are but too ready to extend your
benevolent exertions beyond; you were, for instance, most zealous, the
saints only know why, to save the life of that scoundrel soldier of La
Tour's, when he lay sick here;--I would that he had died!--and, trusting
to your commendations, and his apparent honesty, I raised him to my
favor, and gave him a post, which he has but now most basely betrayed.
Fool, that I was, to think he could have served with such a master, and
not bring with him the taint of treachery!"
"Poor Antoine!" said Madame d'Aulney, equivocally; "he made fair
professions, and the most suspicious could not have doubted his
sincerity. _You_ did not _then_ object to my rendering him those slight
services, which, you thought, might attach him more strongly to your
cause; and I could not think he would repay me with ingratitude. But I
marvel that you, who are so habitually wary and discerning, should have
been deceived by his pretensions; the friend, or servant, who has once
proved perfidious, is unworthy any future confidence."
D'Aulney started, as if stung by the last remark, and looking keenly on
her, replied,
"He is not the only traitor whom I have fostered and protected; some
other hand has been busy in this work, and, though it were the dearest
that I have on earth, my wrath should not abate one tittle of its
justice."
"It was, indeed, a bold adventure!" said Mad. d'Aulney, with admirable
composure; "but if, as I am told, a priest gained access to the prisoner
through Antoine's intervention, they would scarcely deem it necessary to
run the hazard of employing any other agency; and let us not be guilty
of injustice, by indulging suspicions of the innocent."
"I have closely questioned the father confessor on this subject," he
replied, thoughtfully; "and I learn that a stranger, one of his own
crafty order, yesterday visited him; and that soon after leaving his
apartment, he was observed in close conference with the wretch Antoine;
but the guard denies admitting any one through the gate at a later hour;
though a priest, or, as is now supposed, the prisoner in his garb,
passed out after midnight, with the deserter, who gave some plausible
excuse for departing at that unseasonable hour."
"The men are terrified by your anger," said Mad. d'Aulney, "and probably
contradict each other in their natural eagerness to justify themselves;
you permitted the priests to enter freely, and no one can be blamed for
obeying your commands, which did not prohibit a stranger under the
sacred habit."
"The confessor's illness," resumed D'Aulney, with bitterness, "has
gathered all the priests in the land around him; and this goat, who
entered with the herd, is doubtless a creature of La Tour's; but,
beshrew me, were the holy father in the last extremity, I would not
admit another, without a scrutiny which no artifice could escape."
"You have many prisoners left," said Madame d'Aulney, carelessly; "and
this one, though the chief, was he so very important as to justify all
this severity?"
"It matters not, madame," he answered, sternly; "but I care not to have
my wishes thwarted by cunning; my plans defeated by fraud and artifice.
Yet your curiosity shall be gratified," he added; "or, tell me, do you
not already know who has so narrowly escaped the punishment his crimes
have well deserved?"
"You told me," she replied, "that it was a lieutenant of M. de la
Tour's, and I have, of course, sought no further information."
"It is well that you did not;" he said, hastily; "but suppose I should
now tell you that it was the miscreant, La Tour himself, would that
palliate the severity of which you are so ready to accuse me?"
"It would not extenuate the subterfuge which at first concealed the
truth from me," she answered, with an indignant blush, "nor atone for a
want of confidence, which I had not deserved from you."
"And of what importance was this mighty secret to _you_?" he asked,
sarcastically; "methinks you should rather thank me for the kindness
which saved you"--
"It was well," she interrupted, in an accent of decision, "and now let
it pass forever. Your kind precaution, fortunately, has prevented some
suspicions, which, I perceive, you were but too ready to indulge."
"I yet trust he has not quite escaped;" resumed D'Aulney, after a
moment's pause; "I have sent out parties in every direction through the
neighbouring country, and swift boats across the bay; and he must be
gifted with almost supernatural powers, to elude pursuit. His return
shall be loudly celebrated," he added, with a gloomy smile; "and you
shall not complain, Adèle, that we do not call you in to the
rejoicings!"
"I think he will avoid giving that triumph," she replied; "for he
doubtless anticipated your pursuit, and was prepared to elude it; some
of his own people were, most probably, in concert with the priest, to
secure him a safe retreat."
"I doubt not that you wish it," said D'Aulney, angrily; "that you
rejoice in his success, though it abolish my fairest schemes, and
prolong a conflict which has already proved pernicious to my fortune and
interests."
"I can wish for no event," she answered, mildly, "which would retard
your honorable designs, and defeat any rational prospect of happiness or
advantage; neither can I adopt prejudices which I do not comprehend, or
wish evil to one who has never injured me."
"It is well, madame," he replied; "and your benevolence, perchance, will
be rewarded. But, though he now escape, believe me, the hour of
vengeance will one day arrive; I will follow him till he surrenders the
possessions so unlawfully retained, and ceases to assume a power which
has no longer an existence, but in name."
"And is it for a name only, that you contend?" asked Mad. d'Aulney;
"must our domestic peace and safety remain in jeopardy, and the din of
strife forever ring around us, because a powerless enemy refuses to
yield imaginary rights?"
"You are wilfully ignorant on this subject," he replied; "and shew
little of that submission, which a dutiful wife should feel for her
husband's judgment; but it is enough that I know the justice of my own
cause, and that I bear a sword, which has ever been faithful to its
trust. Go you," he added, tauntingly, "and count your rosary, and mutter
to the saints a prayer with every bead; it may be they will protect the
traitor, whom your good wishes have already followed."
So saying, he abruptly left the room; and Madame d'Aulney, with tearful
eyes, and an oppressed heart, hastened to the retirement of her own
apartment.
CHAPTER XVI.
I cannot love him;
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble.
* * * * *
---- ---- but yet I cannot love him,
He might have took his answer long ago.
SHAKSPEARE.
Rumors of M. de la Tour's defeat and capture, attended with the usual
exaggerations, were not slow in reaching fort St. John's; and they could
not fail of producing a strong excitement in the garrison, and of
rendering those more closely connected with him, deeply anxious
respecting the result. Madame de la Tour had been attacked by a severe
illness, from which she was slowly recovering; and Luciè dreaded to
impart to her the tidings, which from her own feelings, she was assured
would excite the most painful solicitude. But her aunt's penetrating eye
soon detected the concealment, and she could no longer withhold a minute
detail of the reports which had reached her ears. They were, however,
received by Mad. la Tour with unexpected firmness. She could not,
indeed, suppress her uneasiness, but she felt that exertion was
necessary, and, from that moment, the languor of disease yielded to the
energy of her mental courage.
Madame de la Tour had experienced many vicissitudes, and, as the wife of
a soldier of fortune, she had learned to bear success with moderation,
and to meet reverses with fortitude. She loved her husband, and with a
spirit as high and undaunted as his own, and a mind far more noble and
generous, she cherished his honor, as the only treasure which violence
or injustice could never wrest from him. Affection is always credulous,
and fortunately for her happiness she gave no belief to the high charges
which were publicly alleged against him; but placed the most undoubting
trust in his assurance, that they were the baseless calumnies of an
enemy. Even the many dark shades in his character, which could not
escape her discernment, she was ever ready to palliate; and her bland
influence often restrained the violence of his stern and vindictive
temper.
La Tour, with all his faults, was never unjust to her merits; and,
though he had married her without affection, her exemplary conduct
gradually removed his indifference, and gained an ascendancy over him,
which his pride would never have brooked from a less superior mind. The
misfortune which had now befallen him, Mad. de la Tour had reason to
apprehend, would lead to still more serious consequences. His
imprisonment might prove long and perilous; and it was probable that
D'Aulney would take advantage of so good an opportunity to renew his
attempt upon the fort. La Tour had drawn his best men from the garrison,
in the sanguine hope that he was leading them to victory; and now that
defeat and capture had befallen them, those who remained behind were
dispirited by the apprehension of an attack, for which they were
entirely unprepared. Madame de la Tour again appeared amongst them; and,
though pale and debilitated by recent illness, her presence inspired
them with renewed hope and resolution. Her directions were obeyed with
an alacrity, which shewed their confidence and affection; and she had
soon the satisfaction of finding every duty promptly fulfilled, and
every precaution taken, which the most vigilant prudence could suggest.
These arrangements, and their attendant cares, necessarily engrossed
much of her time and thoughts; and diverted her mind from the
contemplation of her husband's dreary situation.
Several days passed away, and no intelligence was received, which could
tend to relieve her anxiety. A few of the men who escaped from the wreck
of Stanhope's vessel had returned to St. John's, and confirmed the
report of that disaster; but they were ignorant of any events which
afterwards took place, either with regard to him, or La Tour. Luciè
endeavoured to support the irksome suspense, with something of that
equanimity which her aunt invariably exhibited. But she was less
practised in this species of self-control; and the silence, which Madame
de la Tour preserved respecting Stanhope, increased her uneasiness and
depression. She had never alluded to him, except in some casual remark,
since the evening of his departure; and Luciè had no reason to believe
her sentiments respecting his attachment were at all changed. Pride and
delicacy restrained her from entering on a theme, which was so pointedly
shunned; but she felt wounded by a reserve that she had never before
experienced; and the silence imposed on her, only gave more activity to
her thoughts, which were perpetually engrossed by a subject, so closely
connected with her happiness. Mad. de la Tour's conduct towards her was
in every other respect unchanged; her affection and confidence
undiminished; and Luciè fancied she could discern, in this, the
influence of her guardian's prejudices, or, perhaps, a prohibition which
her aunt would not venture to disregard.
Two or three days of gloomy weather had confined Madame de la Tour
almost entirely to her own apartment; tidings long expected were still
delayed; and, in spite of every effort, the disappointment and anxiety
evidently depressed her spirits. On the first return of sunshine, she
proposed a walk with Luciè, to the cottage of Jacques and Annette, which
stood at a little distance without the fort, and had been presented to
them, on their marriage, by La Tour, as a reward of their fidelity. It
was at the close of a balmy day, in the early part of autumn; and, for a
time, they walked on in silence, each one engrossed by her own
reflections. Madame de la Tour at length abruptly said,
"This soft and fragrant air brings healing on its wings! my strength and
spirits are already renovated by its soothing influence, and even
inanimate nature seems rejoicing in this brilliant sunshine, so doubly
welcome, after the damp and heavy fogs, which have so long hung round
us!"
"It is almost like the mild, transparent evenings of our own bright
clime," said Luciè; "but _there_ we can enjoy, without the fear of
perpetual change, while in this land of vapors, the sun which sets with
most resplendency often rises shrouded in clouds."
"It is this contrast, which gives a piquancy to all our pleasures," said
Mad. de la Tour; "no sky is so serene, as that which succeeds a tempest;
and a slight alloy of sorrow or disappointment gives a zest to
subsequent enjoyment."
"No one can love variety better than I," said Luciè, smiling; "provided
its shades are all reflected from glowing colors; but I would prefer a
calm and settled enjoyment, however monotonous it may seem, to those
sudden bursts which borrow half their brightness from the contrasted
gloom of a reverse!"
"You will find nothing permanent in this changeful world, Luciè; and,
from your exuberant gaiety, wisely reserve a portion of cheerfulness,
at least, to support you, in the darker moments of misfortune, which the
most favored cannot always escape. I have had my share of them; and it
is not a trifling evil, that my husband is now a prisoner, in the hands
of his most deadly enemy; but it is weakness to indulge in useless
regrets and apprehensions, and I have only to perform my duty
faithfully, and cherish the hope, that his own courage, or the
assistance of his friends, will soon effect his rescue."
"We have but too much reason to believe, that they are all sharers of
his captivity," returned Luciè; "had De Valette, or any of them escaped,
they would surely have returned hither, before this time."
"They would scarcely be welcome here," said Mad. de la Tour, "if they
returned, before they had done all that brave men could do, to recover
the liberty of him, whom they have pledged themselves to serve!"
"Their own feelings, I doubt not," replied Luciè, "would prompt them to
use every exertion to effect that object, and Eustace's courage, we
know, is unquestioned. We have heard, too," she added, with slight
hesitation, "that Mr. Stanhope procured another vessel, after his
disaster, to go on and assist my uncle; and if, as is possible, he and
De Valette are still at liberty, it would be strange indeed, if their
united efforts proved unavailing."
"I have no reason to doubt the courage or sincerity of Mr. Stanhope,"
said Mad. de la Tour; "but it is most natural to place our chief
reliance on those whom we have long known and regarded; and Eustace is
certainly more deeply concerned in the honor and safety of his uncle,
than a stranger possibly can be."
"His personal feelings may be more strongly interested," replied Luciè;
"but where honor or duty is involved, I believe Stanhope would peril his
life against that of the bravest man in Christendom."
"Your good opinion of this English stranger," her aunt coolly replied,
"seems rather to increase; but absence is a deceitful medium,
particularly when the object viewed through it is invested with the
attractions of a foolish partiality."
"Absence has never influenced my feelings on this subject," said Luciè,
deeply coloring; "my opinion of Mr. Stanhope has been the same, from the
earliest period of our acquaintance."
"It is strange," said Madame de la Tour, "that, for so long a time, you
should have refrained from mentioning even the name of this valued
friend to me; that you should have permitted the affection of De Valette
to gain encouragement and strength, when you were resolved to disappoint
it; and that too, from a romantic attachment, which you had little hope
of realizing, and blushed to acknowledge!"
"I have no reason," replied Luciè, "to blush for an attachment which
was honorably sought, and bestowed on a worthy object; but involved, as
it long was, in uncertainty, maidenly pride forbade the confession, even
to _you_; and De Valette surely had no reason to expect it from me!
Without this motive, my regard for him never could have exceeded that of
a friend, or sister; my conscience acquits me of having shewn him any
ungenerous encouragement; and, if he suffers disappointment, he must
seek the cause in his own pertinacious vanity, which led him to believe
his pretensions irresistible."
"It may rather be found in your own caprice, Luciè; a caprice which
would lead few young women to reject an alliance in every respect so
advantageous."
"Had I no other objection to De Valette," said Luciè, "I should be most
unwilling to connect myself so closely with one, whose religious
principles are directly at variance with those which I have been taught
from childhood to reverence; my dear aunt Rossville often spoke to me on
this subject, and almost in her last moments, warned me never to form an
alliance which might endanger my faith, or expose me to the misery of
finding it scorned by him to whom I had entrusted my happiness, and
whose views and feelings would never unite with mine, on a subject of
the highest concern and importance."
"That objection might be rational in most instances," said Madame de la
Tour; "and no prospect of temporal advantage for you, I am sure, would
induce me to urge a step which could expose you to such trials, or
jeopardize those principles, which you well know I have always
inculcated, and most highly prized. But De Valette is no bigot, and I am
persuaded he would never counteract your inclinations, or restrain you
from worshipping according to the dictates of your conscience. Both your
parents, as you already know, Luciè, were Catholics; many of your
father's connexions are now high in favor with the ruling party, and
your marriage with a Catholic would doubtless be agreeable to them; and,
while it established your own fortune, might give you an opportunity to
serve the cause of our persecuted sect."
"I feel under no obligations to my father's relations," replied Luciè;
"they have never shewn any interest in me; even my existence has seemed
a matter of indifference to them, and there is scarcely one to whom I
have been personally known."
"There were some peculiar circumstances connected with your father's
history," said Mad. de la Tour, "which, for a long time, involved his
nearest friends in deep affliction. He did not long survive your mother,
and his family would gladly have received you into their protection, had
not your aunt Rossville claimed you as her sister's last bequest. She
soon after became a protestant, and persisted in educating you in that
faith, which naturally gave offence to your paternal relatives; and to
that cause alone I attribute the decline of their interest. But, if you
return to France, and as the wife of De Valette,"--
"That I can never do!" interrupted Luciè;--"dearest aunt," she added, "I
would sacrifice much to gratify your wishes; but the happiness of my
whole life,--surely you would not exact that from me!"
"I exact nothing from you, Luciè," she replied; "but I would have you
consider well, before you finally reject the tried affection of De
Valette, and with it affluence and an honorable station in your native
land, merely from the impulse of a girlish fancy, which would rashly
lead you from friends and country, to share the doubtful fortunes of a
puritan; to adopt the habits of strangers, and endure the privations of
a youthful colony!"
"I have reflected on all these things," said Luciè; "and I am persuaded
that wealth and distinction are, at best, but empty substitutes for
happiness; and that the humblest lot is rich in true enjoyment, when
shared with one whose love is the fountain of our hopes, whose smile can
brighten the darkest hour, and scatter roses over the thorniest path of
life. I had rather," she added, with a glowing cheek, "far rather trust
my little bark to the guidance of affection, upon the placid stream of
domestic joy, than to launch it on the troubled waters of ambition, with
pleasure at the helm, and freighted with hopes and desires, which can
bring back no returns but those of disappointment and vexation."
"This is a dream of idle romance, which can never bear the test of
reality," said Mad. de la Tour; "and I hope you will detect its fallacy
before you are taught it by the bitter lessons of experience."
"Our opinions on this subject," said Luciè, "I fear must remain entirely
at variance; but, as I have yet many months left for reflection, let us
at present suspend the discussion. Here is Annette's cottage; and, if
you please, I will extend my walk a little, and return when I think you
are sufficiently rested from your fatigue."
Madame de la Tour readily assented to her proposal; and Luciè, guided by
that delightful association of thought and feeling, which leads us to
retrace, with so much pleasure, the scenes where we have lingered with
those we love, directed her steps to a wooded bank, which overhung the
water, where she had last parted from Arthur Stanhope. The sun was
setting with unwonted splendor, and the bright reflection of his golden
beams tinged the cloudless sky with a thousand rich and varied hues,
from the deep purple which blended with his crimson rays, to the pale
amber, and cerulean tint, that melted into almost fleecy whiteness. The
earth glowed beneath its splendid canopy, and the trees, which skirted
the border of the bay, threw their lengthened shadows upon the quiet
waves, which lay unruffled and bathed in the glory of the gorgeous
heavens.
Luciè stood on the very spot where she had received the last adieu of
Stanhope, and the same objects which now met her eyes, were the mute
witnesses of that parting scene. Every leaf that trembled around her
revived some cherished remembrance; and the breeze, which sighed through
the foliage, was soft as the voice of whispered love. But painful
conjectures respecting his present situation, at length engrossed every
thought; and the recollections of happiness, and dreams of hope, were
alike absorbed in the suspense and anxiety which, for many days, had
gathered gloomily around her. She involuntarily glanced across the bay,
as if expecting that some messenger would approach with tidings; and she
started with joyful surprise, on observing a vessel just below, and, at
that moment, on the point of anchoring. She gazed earnestly for a short
time, and her heart throbbed audibly as she saw a small boat leave its
side and steer directly towards the fort; two persons were in it, and
the dark flowing garments of father Gilbert could not be mistaken.
Love, it is said, though notoriously blind in the main, is quick-sighted
on such occasions; and another glance assured Luciè, that the companion
of the holy father, who plied the oars with so much diligence, was no
other than Arthur Stanhope. The little boat glided swiftly on its
course; it soon neared the shore, and Luciè screened herself behind a
clump of trees, when she found it verging to a cove, hard by, which
formed a sheltered harbour for such light vessels.
CHAPTER XVII.
I cannot be
Mine own, nor any thing to any, if
I be not thine; to this I am most constant,
Though destiny say, no.
SHAKSPEARE.
Arthur Stanhope soon guided his boat into the cove, and leaped on shore,
followed more leisurely by father Gilbert, who proceeded alone to the
fort. Stanhope lingered behind, apparently enjoying a profound reverie,
while, step by step, he approached the grove where Luciè was still
concealed. Her habitual dread of father Gilbert induced her to remain
silent, till he was out of sight; when she bounded lightly from her
covert, and stood before her lover. An exclamation of delighted surprise
burst from his lips, as he sprang eagerly towards her; and it was
several moments before the joyful excitation of mutual and happy
emotions admitted of calm inquiry and explanation.
"You must now tell me, Arthur," Luciè at length said, "what miracle has
brought you here; how you have escaped from storms, and shipwreck, and
captivity, and all the evils which we heard, I fear too truly, had
befallen you!"
"Report, I perceive, has at least multiplied my misfortunes," he
answered, smiling; "I have been in no danger from the sword or prison,
and, though the tempest treated my poor vessel roughly, thanks to its
mercy! we all escaped with life, and, therefore, have no reason to
complain."
"That dreadful night and day!" said Luciè, with a shudder; "did I not
tell you, Stanhope, that a storm was gathering? and when we stood
together on this very spot, and I pointed to the heavy clouds, and
sullen waves, you only smiled at my fears, and paid no heed to my
predictions!"
"I knew not, then, that you were so skilled in reading the mystery of
the clouds," he answered; "and if I had, dear Luciè, I fear that
knowledge would have availed me little; my honor was pledged in the
undertaking, and I could not delay it, even to gratify the wishes, which
you urged with so sweet a grace, and an interest so flattering."
"Well, let it pass," she replied; "you are safe again, and we need not
the tempest's aid to enhance the sunshine of this moment. And now tell
me, where you have left my uncle, and De Valette, and all who went out
with you, in such a gallant show? and why you have returned alone, or
only with that dreaded priest, who seems to traverse earth and sea, like
a spirit, gifted with ubiquity?"
"But this dreaded priest, Luciè, whom you regard with so much fear,
appears inclined to use his mysterious influence for benevolent
purposes; and Mons. de la Tour is certainly much indebted to his
exertions for being so soon freed from imprisonment."
"My uncle _is_ free and safe, then?" asked Luciè, "though, indeed, your
looks before assured me of it; and I ought not to have delayed so long
imparting the intelligence to my aunt. Suffer me to go, Stanhope; you
know not her anxiety!"
"You will not leave me so soon, my dearest girl?" he asked, again
drawing her arm through his; "indeed, it is useless; father Gilbert has
by this time reached the fort, and imparted all that you could, and much
more, with which you are yet unacquainted."
"But my aunt is not there, Stanhope; I left her at Annette's cottage;
and, I doubt not, she already thinks it strange that I have not
returned: if she knew that I was loitering here with you"--
"She would not think it _very_ strange," interrupted Stanhope, smiling,
and still detaining her; "and, in the happy tidings of her husband's
safety, even you, Luciè, may be for a time forgotten. If the priest is
mortal, as I must believe he is, though you seem to doubt it, he will
probably feel some pleasure in communicating good news, and I owe him
this slight satisfaction, for the favor he conferred in bringing me
hither."
"I do not yet understand," said Luciè, "why you are here alone, or where
you have left the companions of your luckless expedition? I hope you
have not entered into a league with the priest, or acquired any of his
supernatural powers?"
"No, Luciè," he replied; "I shall long remain contented with the humbler
attributes of mortality, rather than acquire any powers which can make
you flee from me. The mystery is very easily solved, as I doubt not, all
which pertains to the holy father might be. Released from all our
difficulties, I left Penobscot Bay, in company with La Tour; we were
vexed with head winds, for a day or two, against which my vessel, being
small, was enabled to make greater progress, and leaving him behind, I
just now anchored yonder, waiting for the tide to proceed up to the
fort. But I was too impatient to see you, to remain at that short
distance another moment; and as father Gilbert chanced to make his
appearance just then, I availed myself of his boat to convey me here;
for he chose to land at this place instead of going on to the fort. I
could not pass this spot without pausing an instant, to recall the
moment when I last saw you. I knew this was your favorite hour for
walking; and, smile if you will, something whispered me, that I might
again meet you here."
"My solitary rambles are not always directed to this spot," she
answered, with a conscious blush; "and it was mere chance that brought
me here this evening. But, perhaps," she archly added, "absence has
seemed so brief to you, that you expected to find me lingering where you
left me!"
"Absence from _you_ seem brief!" he said; "I would that you could read
my heart, Luciè; you would there find how dark is every hope, how
cheerless every scene, how lengthened every moment, which is not shared
with you! Deem me not presumptuous," he added, "when I ask, why we
should part again? why delay the fulfilment of those hopes, which you
have permitted me to cherish, and doom me to the misery of another
separation!"
"Do not urge me on this subject, Arthur," she replied; "the reasons
which I once gave you, still exist; nor can any arguments diminish their
force, nor any motives induce me to reject their influence. Nay, your
brow is clouded now," she added, smiling; "as if you thought caprice or
coldness moved me to refuse your wishes; and yet your heart must tell
you, I am right, and that it is not kind in you to seek to draw me from
my duty."
"Convince me, first, that it _is_ your duty, Luciè, and I will not urge
you more; I will then yield, cheerfully, if I can, to those scruples
which, I confess, now appear to me fastidious."
"You are wilfully perverse, Arthur, but it will require more time than I
can at present command, to convert you to my opinion; you see, even this
bright twilight is fading from us, and my aunt will be uneasy at my long
absence; indeed you must not detain me another moment."
"You will at least suffer me to go with you Luciè,"--
"I cannot," she interrupted; "Annette's cottage is near, and I fear
nothing; besides, here is my shaggy page," she said, pointing to the
large dog which followed her; "and he is as trusty in his office, as any
that ever attended the steps of a roving damsel."
"And he enjoys the privilege of shewing his attachment," said Stanhope,
coloring; "while I am restrained, even from those slight attentions
which common civility demand! I am weary of this secrecy, Luciè, and
nothing but your urgent wish could have compelled me to endure it so
long!"
"My prohibition is now withdrawn," she replied; "not because you have
borne it with so much patience, but because my aunt detected the secret,
and drew from me a confession, which, in truth, I should have made
voluntarily, had I not feared it might involve her in my guardian's
displeasure."
"And that smile, dear Luciè, assures me, that the avowal was not
ill-received."
"My smile is deceptive then," she answered; "no, Arthur, unjust as it
may appear to you, as it most certainly does to me, my aunt is vexed and
disappointed at what she chooses to consider my perverse inclinations;
and though I am persuaded she would never interpose her authority to
prevent my wishes, her consent to them will not be very readily
obtained. You were, but just now, the subject of our conversation, and
I left her displeased with the opinions I had ventured to express; I
fear your unexpected appearance with me so immediately after, might not
be well received, and this is my sole objection to your returning with
me."
"I have certainly no wish to obtrude myself in any place," said
Stanhope; "and particularly where my presence could excite displeasure
against you: and, though I feel convinced that the sentiments imbibed
against me are most unjust, yet if your favor, your affection may I add,
dear Luciè, survive their influence, I will not repine at that injustice
which gives an added proof to its strength and constancy."
"I thought it was already proved beyond a doubt!" she answered; "surely
that regard which time, and almost hopeless absence, could only render
more devoted and enduring cannot be endangered by the assaults of idle
prejudice or the lures of mercenary ambition! My heart is more credulous
in its faith than your's, Arthur; and no jealous fear could ever lead me
to distrust the truth and fervor of that love which you have pledged to
me!"
"And, think you, dearest girl, that I repose less confidence in you?
that I can doubt the heart in which is treasured every hope and fond
affection of my soul? From you, pure and disinterested as you are, I
have nought to fear; but I cannot look upon the dreary blank of absence,
and not feel all the misery, the thousand nameless ills, which that one
word comprises!"
"Speak not of it, Arthur; it is not wise to fancy evils which may never
have existence, or which, if they are in store for us, Providence has
wisely hidden from our view. You see that I am strong in courage, and
too chary of my present happiness, to suffer one gloomy cloud to shade
its fleeting brightness!"
"Fleeting, indeed!" he answered, "another day, or two, at most, and if
you still decree it, we part for many long and tedious months!"
"So soon!" said Luciè, her cheek changing with emotion; "so very soon,
Arthur? why this unexpected haste, this quick departure?"
"You cannot ask me to remain here, Luciè, when to all but you, my
presence is a burthen; when every other eye meets me with a coldness and
distrust, which, even for your sake, I cannot longer endure! La Tour but
ill concealed his feelings while he thought my services might be useful
to him; but now, I can no longer aid his cause, and I will not tax him
even for the poor civility he has so grudgingly bestowed!"
"You are right," said Luciè; "and under such circumstances I cannot even
wish you to prolong your stay; but when we next meet, Arthur"--
"When we next meet, Luciè? would that we were not to part! that I could
now prevail on you to unite your fate with mine, and shun the
contingencies of another dreaded separation!"
"It is in vain to ask it, Arthur," she replied; "it would only hasten
the opposition and strife of angry feelings, which I would not provoke,
till I feel at liberty to obey the dictates of my own will. My guardian
has now a right to prevent my choice, and I have no doubt he would
exercise it to the utmost; but when I am freed by law from his
authority, he will cease to importune me on a subject so entirely
unavailing. My promise also is pledged to my aunt, that I will not even
enter into an engagement without her sanction, before that period."
"And what is her object in requiring this promise?" asked Stanhope; "is
it not in the hope that she shall prevail with you, in my absence, to
become the wife of De Valette?"
"Perhaps it is," said Luciè; "but do not suffer this idea to give you
one moment's uneasiness;--no, Arthur, believe me, neither threats nor
entreaties can change the purpose of my mind, or diminish that
affection, which will ever remain as fervent and unchanged, as if the
most sacred promise was given to pledge my fidelity, or the most holy
vows already united our destinies."
At that moment they reached a green pathway, leading to Annette's
cottage; and Luciè again reminding Stanhope that he must leave her, he
felt compelled, reluctantly, to turn into another direction, and pursue
his lonely way to the fort.
Madame de la Tour, in the mean time, had scarcely heeded Luciè's
protracted absence, as she sat at the cottage door, enjoying the
fragrance and beauty of the evening, which her late confinement rendered
peculiarly grateful. The last glow of twilight faded slowly away, and
the falling dews began to remind her, that she had already lingered
beyond the bounds of prudence. She was surprised that Luciè stayed so
inconsiderately, and at length became seriously uneasy at her delay. But
her anxiety was for a time diverted, by the appearance of Jacques, who
came in haste from the fort, with the intelligence which father Gilbert
had just communicated, that La Tour was at liberty, and then on his
homeward voyage.
Mad. de la Tour immediately left the cottage, persuaded that Luciè must
have returned without her. She had not proceeded far, when she
encountered father Gilbert, walking with his usual slow and measured
steps, and a countenance perfectly abstracted from every surrounding
object. She had never spoken with the priest, for her peculiar tenets
led her to regard his order with aversion; nor had she before
particularly noticed him. She now saw in him only the messenger of her
husband's freedom; and, eager to make more particular inquiries, she
hastily approached him, though with a degree of reverence which it was
impossible for any one to avoid feeling in his presence. The priest
stopped, on finding his progress thus impeded, and looked coldly on her;
but gradually his expression changed, the blood rushed to his face, and
a sudden brightness flashed from his piercing eyes. The lady, engrossed
by her own feelings, did not observe the change, but, in a tone of
anxious inquiry, said,
"Holy father, you are a messenger of good tidings, and I would crave the
favor of hearing them confirmed, from your own lips!"
With startling energy, the priest seized her hands, and fixing his eyes
wildly on her, exclaimed,
"Lady, who are you? speak, I conjure you, while I have reason left to
comprehend!"
"I am the wife of Mons. de la Tour," she answered, terrified by his
strange conduct, and vainly striving to free herself from his grasp.
"The wife of Mons. de la Tour!" he repeated; "no, no, you are not;--you
would deceive me," he added, vehemently; "but you cannot; those features
ever, ever haunt me!"
"For whom do you mistake me?" asked Madame de la Tour, with recovered
self-possession, but still deadly pale.
"Mistake you!" he answered, with a shudder; "no, I know you well--I
thought you would return to me! you are"--he lowered his voice, almost
to a whisper, and spoke with calm emphasis, "you are Luciè Villiers!"
"My God!" exclaimed Mad. de la Tour, "who are you? No," she quickly
added, "I am not Luciè Villiers, but I am the sister of that most
injured and unhappy lady."
"Her sister!" said the priest, striking his hand upon his forehead, with
a perplexed air; "I thought it was she herself;--yet, no, that could not
be. Her sister!" he repeated, wildly; "and do you not know me? not know
the wretched, miserable De Courcy?"
A piercing cry from Madame de la Tour followed these words, and
attracted the attention of Jacques, who was standing before his cottage
door. He flew to assist his lady, but, before he reached her, she had
sunk, senseless, on the ground, and father Gilbert was standing over
her, with clasped hands, and a countenance fixed and vacant, as if
deserted by reason. Jacques scarcely heeded him, in his concern for Mad.
de la Tour; he raised her gently in his arms, and hastened back to the
cottage, to place her under the care of Annette; when he returned, soon
after, to look for the priest, he had disappeared, and no traces of him
were found in the fort or neighborhood.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"How hast thou charm'd
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this?
That thus relenting they have giv'n thee back
To earth, to light and life."
Luciè, immediately after parting with Stanhope, chanced to meet father
Gilbert, as he was hurrying from the spot where he had just held his
singular interview with Madame de la Tour. She avoided him, with that
instinctive dread of which she could never divest herself on seeing him;
and he passed on, without appearing to notice her, but with a rapidity
too unusual to escape her observation. She found Annette's quiet cottage
in the utmost confusion, occasioned by the sudden illness of Madame de
la Tour, who had then scarcely recovered from her alarming
insensibility. Luciè hung over her with the most anxious tenderness, and
her heart bitterly accused her of selfishness, or, at best, of
inconsideration, in having been induced to prolong her absence. But her
aunt did not allude to it, even after her consciousness was entirely
restored; she spoke lightly of her indisposition, attributing it
entirely to fatigue, though her sad and abstracted countenance shewed
that her mind was engrossed by some painful subject. She made no mention
of father Gilbert; and Luciè, of course, did not feel at liberty to
allude to him, though Annette had told her of their conference, and her
curiosity and interest were naturally excited to learn the particulars.
It could not but surprise her, that Mad. de la Tour should have been in
earnest conversation with the priest; for she had always shunned him,
and ever treated Luciè's fears as some strange deception of the
imagination.
M. de la Tour returned late in the evening of that day; but the shock
which his lady had received, whether mental or physical, again confined
her several days to her apartment. Luciè was convinced that this renewed
indisposition was, in some manner, connected with the appearance of
father Gilbert. She, at length, ventured to speak of him to her aunt;
but the subject evidently distressed her, though she confessed his
peculiar manners had at first alarmed her; adding, with an attempt at
gaiety, that he was probably scandalized at being so abruptly addressed
by a female and a heretic. With apparent indifference, she also asked
several questions of Luciè, respecting her accidental interviews with
the priest; thus betraying a new and uncommon interest, which
strengthened the suspicions of her niece. These suspicions were soon
after confirmed, by casually learning that La Tour had himself made
strict inquiries concerning father Gilbert; but he had withdrawn
himself, no person knew whither; though it was supposed to some of the
solitary haunts he was in the habit of frequenting.
Day after day passed away, the subject was not renewed, and other
thoughts gradually resumed their ascendancy in Luciè's mind. Stanhope
had returned to Boston, and previous to his departure he sought an
interview with La Tour, and formally requested the hand of Luciè. His
suit was, of course, rejected, though with unexpected courtesy; her
guardian alleged, that he had other views for her, which he considered
more advantageous; but expressed the highest personal regard for him,
and the utmost gratitude for the services he had so freely rendered.
When La Tour, however, found that Luciè was really fixed in her
attachment to Stanhope, and resolved against a marriage with De Valette,
he could not suppress his angry disappointment; and his manner towards
her became habitually cold, and often severe. Luciè deeply felt this
ungenerous change, but without noticing it in the slightest degree; and,
indeed, it was partly compensated by the kind attentions, and even
increased affection, of her aunt, who, though not perfectly reconciled
to her choice, no longer sought to oppose it.
Madame de la Tour recovered but slowly from her unfortunate relapse; and
De Valette, endeavoring to hide his mortification and chagrin, under an
assumed reserve, was no longer the gay and constant companion of Luciè's
amusements and pursuits. She was thus left much alone; but, fortunately
for her, she possessed abundant springs of happiness in the resources of
her own mind, and the unclouded gaiety of her spirits; and every lonely
hour, and each solitary spot, glowed with the bright creations of hope,
or responded to the thrilling chords of memory. All her favorite walks
had been shared with Stanhope; there was scarcely a tree which had not
sheltered them; and every gushing stream, and forest dell, even the
simplest flower which spread its petals to the sun, breathed in mute
eloquence some tale of innocent enjoyment. These scenes, which his
presence had consecrated, where, in the freshness of dewy morn, at
noontide's sultry hour, and beneath the still and moonlight heavens, she
had admired, with him, the loveliness of nature, were now retraced, with
the enthusiasm of a fond and devoted heart.
Such feelings and reminiscences had, one day, drawn her into the green
recesses of a forest, which stretched along the river, at some distance
above the fort. The familiar and oft-frequented path, wound through its
deepest shades, beneath a canopy of lofty pines, whose thickly woven
branches created a perpetual twilight. She at length struck into a
diverging track, and crossing a sunny slope, bared by the laborious
settler for future improvement, reached a steep bank, which declined
gently to the water's edge. It was one of those cheering days in early
autumn, which sometimes burst upon us with the warmth and brilliancy of
summer, and seem, for a brief space, to reanimate the torpid energies of
nature. The sun glowed in mid-day fervor, and myriads of the insect
tribes, revived by his delusive smile, wheeled their giddy circles in
the light, and sent their busy hum upon the calm, clear air. The wild
bee, provident for future wants, had sallied from his wintry hive, and
sipped from every honied cup, to fill the treasures of his waxen cell;
and a thousand birds of passage folded their downy pinions, and delayed
their distant flight, till bleaker skies should chill their melody, and
warn them to depart.
Luciè threw herself on a grassy knoll, beneath a group of trees,
completely sheltered by the broad leaves of a native grape-vine which
climbed the tallest trunk, and leaping from tree to tree, hung its
beautiful garlands so thick around them, as to form a natural arbor,
almost impervious to the brightest sun-beam. The opposite shore of the
river was thickly wooded, chiefly with those gigantic pines for which
that province is still famed; but interspersed with other trees, whose
less enduring foliage was marked by the approach of early frosts, which
had already seared their verdure, and left those rich and varied tints
that charm the eye in an autumnal landscape, while yet too brilliant to
seem the presage of decay. The river flowed on its still smooth course,
receiving on its waves the reflection of nature, in her quiet but ever
glorious array, and mingling its faint murmurs with the busy sounds
which breathed from those countless living things, that sported their
brief existence on its banks.
Not far above the spot where Luciè reclined in the luxury of dreaming
indolence, the river was contracted by a ledge of rocks, through which
the stream had worn a rough and narrow channel. The full waters of the
noble river, arrested by this confined and shallow passage, rushed
violently over the steep and craggy rocks, and pouring their chafed and
foaming current into the calm stream, which again expanded to its usual
width, produced a fall of singular and romantic beauty. Every rising
tide forced back the waters from their natural course, precipitating
them into the stream above with equal rapidity, though from a less
appalling height. Twice, in each tide, also, the sea was on a level with
the river, which then flowed smoothly over the rocks, and at those times
only, the dangerous obstruction was removed, and the navigation
unimpeded.
Luciè had remarked the waters as unusually placid, on first approaching
the bank, and she did not advert to this perpetual change, till their
loud and increasing murmurs had long fallen unheeded on her ears. Her
attention was at length aroused; and though she had often witnessed it
before, she gazed long, with unwearied pleasure, upon the troubled
stream, as it bounded from rock to rock, dashing with impetuous fury,
and tossing high in air its flakes of snowy foam. The report of a
fowling piece, at no great distance, at length startled her; and a
well-known whistle, which instantly succeeded, assured her that the
sportsman was De Valette. She had wandered from the shade of the grape
vine to obtain a more distinct view of the falls; but not caring to be
seen by him, she hastily plunged among a thicket of trees, which grew
close to the water's edge. The place was low and damp; and in looking
round for a better situation, her eye fell on a bark canoe, which was
drawn in among some reeds; and, without hesitation, she sprang into it,
and quietly seated herself. It was probably left there by some Indian,
who had gone into the woods to hunt, or gather roots; a neat blanket lay
in it, such as the French often bartered for the rich furs of the
country, and several strings of a bright scarlet berry, with which the
squaws were fond of decorating their persons.
Luciè, in the idleness of the moment, threw the blanket around her, and
twined some of the berries amongst her own jet black hair. She had
scarcely finished this employment, when she heard quick approaching
footsteps, and, glancing round, saw De Valette pushing heedlessly
through brier and bush, and Hero trotting gravely at his side. A loud
bark from the dog next foreboded a discovery; but both he and his
master had halted on the summit of the bank, apparently to survey the
occupant of the boat. Luciè's curiosity was aroused to know if he would
pass on without recognizing her; and busying herself in plaiting some
reeds, which she plucked from beside her, she broke into a low chant,
successfully disguising her voice, and cautious that no words should be
distinguished, except one or two of the Indian dialect, which she had
learned from an old squaw who frequented the fort.
"How now, my little squaw," said De Valette, advancing a few steps;
"have you got cast away among the reeds?"
"I am waiting for the tide, to take me down to the fort," she answered,
in such unintelligible French, that he could scarcely comprehend her.
"And what are you so busy about?" he enquired, approaching near, to
satisfy his curiosity.
"Making a basket; and I will give it to you for some beads, when it is
done!" said Luciè, in the same imperfect jargon, stooping her head low,
and concealing her hands lest their delicacy should betray her.
But Hero, who had listened, and observed with his usual acuteness,
interrupted the farce at that moment by springing to the boat, and
placing his fore paws in it, he gently seized the blanket in his mouth,
and pulled it from her unresisting shoulders. A bark of pleasure
succeeded this exploit, as he laid his shaggy head in her lap, to
receive the expected caress.
"Now, by my faith, mademoiselle," said De Valette, coloring with mingled
feelings, "I can indeed, no longer discredit your pretensions to the art
of disguise."
"Indeed, you have no reason to do so," she said, smiling; "though I
scarcely thought, Eustace, that you had less penetration than your dog!
But do you remember what I once told you;--twice deceived, beware of the
third time!"
"I would not have believed _then_, Luciè, that you were so skilled in
deceit!" he said, in a tone of bitterness; but quickly added,
carelessly, "I willingly confess that I have not penetration enough to
detect the disguises of a woman's heart!"
"It would certainly be difficult to detect that which has no existence,"
said Luciè, gaily; "we are but too guileless, too single-hearted, in
truth, for our own happiness."
"And for the happiness of others, you may add," rejoined De Valette;
"the boasted simplicity of your sex is so closely allied to art, that,
by my troth, the most practised could scarce detect the difference!"
"I begin to have faith in miracles," said Luciè, with arch gravity;
"surely nothing less than one could transform the gallant De Valette,
the very pink of chivalrous courtesy, into a reviler of that sex,
who"--
"Who are not quite so faultless as my credulity once led me to believe
them," interrupted De Valette.
"Nay, if you have lost your faith in our infallibility," she answered,
"your case is hopeless, and I would counsel you to put on the cowl, at
once, and hie away to some dull monastery, where you can rail, at
leisure, against woman and her deceptive attributes. It might form a new
and fitting exercise for the holy brotherhood, and, methinks, would
sound less harshly from their lips, than from those of a young and
generous cavalier."
"I am not yet so weary of the world as to avail myself of your advice,"
he replied; "however grateful I may, feel for the kindness which prompts
you to give it."
"I hope you do feel more gratitude than your looks express," said Luciè;
"for, though I have labored most abundantly to please you, I cannot
obtain one smile for my reward."
"You have never found it difficult to give me pleasure, Luciè," returned
De Valette; "though unhappily I have been less fortunate in regard to
you."
"You are petulant to-day, Eustace," she said; "or you would not accuse
me so wrongfully; nay, you have been very, I must say it, very
disagreeable of late, and followed your own selfish amusements, leaving
me to wander about alone like a forsaken wood-nymph. Indeed, it is
neither kind nor gallant in you."
"And can you think I have consulted my own inclinations, in doing so?"
he asked, with vivacity. "Believe me, Luciè, my heart is ever with you,
and when I have been absent or neglectful, it was only from the fear of
obtruding those attentions, which I thought were no longer prized by
you."
"You have done me great injustice, by admitting such a thought,
Eustace," she replied; "and I appeal to your own conscience, if any
caprice or coldness on my part, has given you reason to imagine that my
feelings toward you have changed."
De Valette colored highly, and paused a moment, before he replied;
"I have no inclination to complain, Luciè, but you have long known my
sentiments too well to suppose I could view with indifference your
acknowledged preference for another, and it was natural to believe that
preference would diminish the interest which I once had the presumption
to hope you entertained for me."
"No circumstances can ever diminish that interest, Eustace," she
replied; "our long tried friendship, I trust, cannot be lightly severed,
nor the pleasant intercourse which has enlivened the solitude of this
wilderness be soon effaced from our remembrance: believe me," she added,
with emotion, "whatever fate awaits my future life, my heart will
always turn to you, with the grateful affection of a sister."
"A sister!" De Valette repeated, with a sigh; and the transient flush
faded from his cheek, while he stooped to caress the dog, which lay
sleeping at his feet.
A moment of embarrassing silence ensued, which Luciè broke, by asking De
Valette if he was returning to the fort, and proposing to accompany him.
"If the owner of this canoe was here to row us," she continued, "I
should like extremely to return in it, the water looks so cool and
inviting, and I am already weary."
"It would be madness to venture against the tide, in that frail vessel,"
replied De Valette; "and, indeed, Luciè, I think your present situation
is not perfectly safe."
The tide was, in fact, rising with that rapidity so peculiar to the Bay
of Fundy, and which, of course, extends, in some degree, to the rivers
that empty into it; and while Luciè occupied the canoe, it had,
unnoticed by her, been nearly freed from the reeds, which, a short time
before, had so effectually secured it. She observed that a wider space
of water separated her from the land; and, striking one end of a paddle
upon the sandy bottom, to support her as she rose in the rocking bark,
she reached the other hand to De Valette, who stood ready to assist her
in springing to the shore. A slight dizziness came over her, caused by
the constant but scarce perceptible motion of the canoe, and alarmed on
feeling it dip to the water's edge as she was on the point of leaping,
she pressed forcibly against the oar, while the corresponding motion of
her feet impelled the boat from the shore, with a velocity which
instantly precipitated her into the waves.
This scene passed with such rapidity, that De Valette fancied her hand
already within his grasp, when the giddy whirl and heavy plunge struck
upon his senses, and the flutter of her garments caught his eye, as the
waves parted and closed over her. Eustace was an indifferent swimmer;
but, in the agony of his terror, every thing was forgotten but Luciè's
danger; without hesitation he threw himself into the stream, and exerted
all his skill to reach her, when she soon again appeared, floating on
with a swiftness which seemed every instant to increase the distance
between them. He heard the din of waters rushing over the rocks, and
knew that he was hastening towards the fearful gulf, from the loud and
still increasing noise which they sent forth, as they dashed across the
narrow channel. The thought that Luciè's fate was inevitable, and most
appalling, if he could not save her before she reached that fatal spot,
redoubled his exertions, which, however, every effort only rendered more
faint and ineffectual.
Happily for Luciè, extreme terror had deprived her of consciousness, and
she was borne unresistingly on the rapid waves, ignorant of the peril
which surrounded her. She already seemed within the vortex of the
cataract; and its confused and deafening clamor for an instant recalled
her senses, and thrilled coldly through her heart. But she was suddenly
drawn back by a powerful grasp, and when she again opened her eyes, she
was lying on a grassy bank; the melody of the woods chimed sweetly
around her, and the distant tumult of the waves fell, softened to gentle
murmurs, on her ear. A confused recollection of danger and escape
crossed her mind; but the feelings it excited were too overwhelming, in
her exhausted state, and she again sunk into complete insensibility.
Luciè owed her recovered life to the generous exertions of an Indian,
who, returning to his canoe, the unlucky cause of her misfortune, was
attracted by her perilous situation. He swam to her rescue with a
dexterity acquired by long and constant practice, and reaching her at a
moment when death seemed inevitable, succeeded in bearing her safely to
the shore. With scarcely a moment's respite, he returned to the
assistance of De Valette, who was completely subdued by his efforts, and
must have sunk, but for the aid of his faithful dog. The animal, with
equal courage and attachment, persevered in holding him securely, and
was, in fact, dragging him towards the shore, when the Indian came to
his rescue, and conveyed him to a place of safety. His first anxious
inquiries were respecting Luciè; and his gratitude to his deliverer was
enhanced by the knowledge, that he had been the preserver of her life
also. The disinterested exertions of the poor Indian were most warmly
acknowledged, and liberally rewarded, both by De Valette and Luciè.
When Luciè recovered from her long insensibility, she found herself
supported in the arms of some one, who seemed watching over her with the
utmost solicitude. She at first gazed vacantly on his face; but, as her
recollections became more vivid, she started and uttered a faint cry,
recognizing the features of father Gilbert. The expression of his
countenance was gentle, even to softness, and his eyes were evidently
moistened with tears. He, however, released her, on finding her
consciousness fully restored, and removing to a little distance,
remained standing in perfect silence. Luciè in vain attempted to speak:
the priest, as he continued to look on her, became deeply agitated; he
again approached her, and pronounced her name in a voice of tenderness,
though trembling with emotion. Luciè's habitual dread of him was lost in
the powerful interest which his altered manner and appearance excited;
her imploring eyes demanded an explanation, and he seemed about to
speak, when the loud bark of Hero was heard, and he bounded towards
her, followed by De Valette and the Indian.
Father Gilbert hastily retired, and was soon hid in the deep shadows of
the forest.
CHAPTER XIX.
"Oh Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,
Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;
How does thy rancor poison all our softness,
And turn our gentle natures into bitterness."
A few hours of repose restored Luciè's exhausted strength; though the
appalling danger from which she had been so providentially rescued, left
a far more enduring impression on her mind. The evening of that day was
serene and cloudless, and the breeze which floated from the river had
nothing of the chilliness so usual at that season. Luciè sat at an open
window, her eyes fixed on the curling waves, which glanced brightly
beneath the moon, whose silver beams were blended with the lingering
rays of twilight. An expression of deep and quiet thought marked her
countenance, though the mental suffering she had so recently endured
might still be traced in her pale cheek, which was half shaded by the
ringlets of jetty hair, that fell profusely around it. Her forehead was
reclined on one hand, the other rested on the head of Hero, who sat
erect beside her, as if conscious that his late intrepid conduct
entitled him to peculiar privileges.
Madame de la Tour was seated at a little distance, removed from the
current of evening air which her delicate health would not permit her to
inhale, and evidently suffering that extreme lassitude, which usually
follows any strong excitement. Both remained silent: each apparently
engrossed by thoughts which she cared not to communicate to the other.
The silence was at length abruptly broken, by an exclamation from Luciè,
of "Father Gilbert!" uttered in an accent so quick and startling, that
Mad. de la Tour sprang involuntarily from her musing posture, and even
the dog leaped on his feet, and looked inquiringly in her face.
"Poor Hero! I did not mean to disturb you," said Luciè, patting her dumb
favorite, and rather embarrassed, that she had unwarily produced so much
excitement.
"Father Gilbert!" repeated Mad. de la Tour; "and is he coming hither
again?"
"No, I saw him but an instant," said Luciè; "and he has now disappeared
behind the wall."
She hesitated, and still kept her eyes fixed on her aunt's face, as if
wishing to ask some question, which she yet feared might not be well
received.
"What would you say, Luciè?" asked Mad. de la Tour, with a faint smile;
"I perceive there is something on your mind, which you would fain
unburthen; and why should you hesitate to speak it to me?"
"Perhaps it is an idle curiosity, dear aunt," she replied; "but you
asked if father Gilbert was coming hither _again_, as though he had
already been here; and, I confess, I am anxious to learn if I understood
you correctly?"
"You did, Luciè; and you will be more surprised when I assure you, that
I held a long conference with him this morning: one too, in which _you_
are particularly concerned."
"_I_ concerned! _you_ hold a conference with father Gilbert!" said
Luciè, in unfeigned astonishment; "dearest aunt, I entreat you to
explain yourself."
"The explanation must necessarily be long, Luciè," she replied; "and as
I know your feelings will be deeply excited, I fear the agitating events
of this day have scarcely left you strength and spirits, to bear the
recital. To-morrow"--
"Oh, now, dear aunt!" interrupted Luciè; "I am well, indeed, and can
bear any thing better than suspense. I too, have seen the priest to-day,
and his look,--his manner was so changed, yet still so unaccountable,
that he has not been since one instant from my mind."
"Where did you see him, Luciè?" asked Mad. de la Tour; "and why should
you conceal the interview from me?"
Luciè, who, till this incidental recurrence to father Gilbert, had
avoided mentioning even his name, since she found the subject so
embarrassing to her aunt, gladly relieved her mind, by relating the
particulars of her rencontre with him in the morning, and described the
deep interest with which he seemed to be watching her recovery. Madame
de la Tour listened attentively to her recital, but apparently without
surprise; and after a short pause, which was evidently employed in
painful reflection, she said,
"It is time that all this mystery should be explained to you, Luciè;
for, what I have so long attributed to the influence of your
imagination, is now more rationally accounted for, though until a few
hours since, I was, myself, ignorant of many facts, which I am about to
relate to you. But I must first beg you to close the window; the air
grows cool, and I should also be loath to have our discourse reach the
ears of any loiterer."
Luciè obeyed in silence; and drawing her chair closer to her aunt, she
prepared to listen, with almost breathless attention.
"I must revert to the period of your mother's marriage, Luciè," said
Madame de la Tour, "and, as briefly as possible, detail those unhappy
circumstances which so soon deprived you of her protecting love. You
will no longer be surprised that I have repressed your natural curiosity
on this subject; for it must excite many painful feelings, which I would
still spare you, had not a recent discovery rendered the disclosure
unavoidable."
"The subject agitates you, my dear aunt," said Luciè, observing her
changing complexion with anxiety; "you are indeed too ill, this evening,
to make so great an exertion, and I had far rather wait till another
day, when you will probably be better able to bear it."
"No, I am well now," she replied; "and will not keep you any longer in
suspense." She then resumed,
"Your mother, Luciè, had the innocence and purity of an angel; she was
gay, beautiful, and accomplished,--the idol of her friends, the
admiration of all who saw her. That picture, which you so often gaze on
with delight, is but a faint resemblance of what she was. The lineaments
are indeed true to nature, but no artist could catch the ever varying
expression, or imbody that unrivalled grace, which threw a charm around
her, more captivating even than her faultless beauty. She was just four
years older than myself, but this difference of age did not prevent the
closest union of sentiment and feeling between us; and, as she was
almost my only companion, I early renounced my childish amusements for
the more mature employments, which engaged her attention. We lived much
in retirement; my father was attached to literary pursuits, and devoted
himself to our education; a task which he shared with my eldest sister,
who was many years our senior, and affectionately supplied the place of
our mother, who died a few months after my birth.
"Your mother, Luciè, was scarcely sixteen when she first saw Mons. de
Courcy. Chance introduced him to our acquaintance, as he was travelling
through the province where we then resided; her loveliness attracted his
admiration, and he soon avowed a deeper and more impassioned sentiment.
Till then she had never dreamed of love; it was reserved for him to
awaken its first emotions in a heart susceptible of the most generous
and devoted constancy, the most fervent and confiding tenderness,
exalted by a delicacy and refinement, which could only emanate from a
mind as virtuous and noble as her own.
"De Courcy had already passed the season of early youth, and his
disposition and feelings were, in many respects, extremely opposite to
your mother's. His figure was commanding, his features regular and
expressive; though, on the whole, he was remarked rather for the
uncommon grace and elegance of his deportment, than for any of the
peculiar attributes of manly beauty. His manners were cold, and even
haughty, in his general intercourse with society; but, with those whom
he loved and wished to please, he was gentle and insinuating; and when
he chose to open the resources of his highly gifted mind, his
conversational talents were more versatile and fascinating, than those
of any individual whom I have ever known. There was a cast of deep
thought, almost of melancholy, in his countenance, which was ascribed, I
know not if correctly, to an early disappointment; but it was seldom
banished, even from his smiles, and often increased when all around him
seemed most gay and happy. His feelings, indeed, were never expended in
light and trifling emotions; they were strong, silent, and indelible;
and those who viewed the calmness of his exterior, little dreamed of the
impetuous passions which slumbered beneath, and which he was accustomed
to restrain by the most rigid and habitual self-command. Some of these
traits excited my father's solicitude for the future happiness of his
daughter; but they were overbalanced by so many noble qualities and
shining virtues, that no other eye detected their blemishes. Your mother
believed him faultless; she had given him her affections, with all the
enthusiasm of her guileless heart; and he regarded her with a devotion,
that almost bordered on idolatry."
Madame de la Tour paused, and Luciè, raising her head from the attitude
of profound attention with which she listened, asked, in an accent which
seemed to deprecate an affirmative answer,
"You are not weary, I hope, dearest aunt?"
"Not weary, Luciè," she replied; "but you must sometimes allow me a
moment's respite, to collect and arrange my thoughts. More than twenty
years have passed since these events, yet, child as I then was, they
made too deep an impression on my mind to be effaced by time; and I
cannot, even now, reflect on them without emotion.
"I have dwelt thus minutely on your father's character," she continued,
"that you may be prepared for"--
"For what?" interrupted Luciè; "surely all these happy prospects were
not soon darkened by clouds!"
"We will not anticipate," said Mad. de la Tour, in a voice slightly
tremulous. She again resumed,
"De Courcy was the younger son of an ancient and honorable family. My
sister's rank and fortune equalled his expectations, her beauty
gratified the pride of his connexions, and the endearing qualities of
her mind and heart won their entire approbation and regard. Their
marriage was solemnized; and never was there a day of greater happiness,
or one which opened more brilliant prospects for futurity. De Courcy
conveyed his bride immediately to a favorite estate, which he possessed
in Provence, whither I was permitted to accompany them; and six months
glided away, in the full enjoyment of that felicity which their romantic
hopes had anticipated. Winter approached, and your father was importuned
to visit the metropolis, and introduce his young and beautiful wife to
the gay and elevated station which she was expected to fill.
"Your mother, accustomed to retirement, and completely happy in the
participation of its rational pleasures, with one whose taste and
feelings harmonized entirely with her own, yielded, with secret
reluctance, to her husband's wishes, and exchanged that peaceful
retreat, for the brilliant, but heartless scenes of fashionable life.
The world was new to her, and no wonder if her unpractised eye was
dazzled by the splendor of its pageantry. She entered a magic circle,
and was borne round the ceaseless course with a rapidity which threw a
deceitful lustre on every object, and concealed the falseness of its
colors. She became the idol of a courtly throng; poets sung her praises,
and admirers sighed around her. Her heart remained uncorrupted by
flattery; but, young and inexperienced, buoyant with health and spirits,
no wonder that she yielded to the fascinations which surrounded her, or
that her thoughts reverted less frequently, and less fondly, to those
calm pleasures which had once constituted her only happiness. Her
affection for her husband was undiminished; but the world now claimed
that time and attention, which, in retirement, had been devoted to him;
and, engrossed by amusements, every intellectual pursuit was abandoned;
and domestic privacy, with its attendant sympathies and united
interests, was, at length, entirely banished.
"De Courcy, chagrined by a change, which his experience in life should
have enabled him to foresee, became melancholy and abstracted; he often
secluded himself from society, entrusting his wife to some other
protection, or, when induced to enter scenes which had become irksome to
him, he watched, with jealousy, even the most trifling attentions that
were offered her. He, who possessed such a heart, should never have
doubted its truth, or wounded her affection by distrusting its fervor
and sincerity. He had led her into the fatal vortex, and one word from
him could have dissolved the spell; the slightest expression of his
wishes, would, at any moment, have drawn her from pleasures of which she
already wearied; and, amid the sweet tranquillity of nature, they might
have regained that happiness, which had withered in the ungenial
atmosphere of artificial life. But he was too proud to acknowledge the
weakness he indulged; and when she besought him, even with tears, to
explain the cause of his altered conduct, he answered her evasively, or
repulsed her with a coldness, which she felt more keenly than the
bitterest reproaches. Confidence, the strongest link of affection, was
broken, and the golden chain trembled with the shock.
"Nothing is more galling to an ingenuous mind, than a consciousness,
that the actions and feelings are misconstrued by those to whom the
heart has been opened with that perfect trust and unreserve, which ought
to place them beyond the shadow of suspicion. Your mother deeply felt
the injustice of those doubts; and perhaps, a little natural resentment
mingled with and augmented the pain, which rankled in her inmost soul.
But, satisfied of her innate rectitude, and of that true and constant
love, which even unkindness could not weaken, she left her innocence to
vindicate itself, and made no farther attempt to penetrate the reserve
which her husband had assumed, and which opposed a fatal barrier to
returning harmony. Experience in the world, or a thorough knowledge of
your father's peculiar disposition, might have suggested a different,
and, perhaps, a more successful course. But she judged and acted from
the impulse of a sensitive and ardent mind, which had freely bestowed
the whole treasure of its warm and generous affections, and could ill
brook a return of such unmerited coldness and distrust. Her conduct
towards him was marked by the most unvarying sweetness, and a studious
deference to his wishes; they, however, seldom met, but in a crowd; for
she sought society with an eagerness, which seemed the result of choice,
while it was, in reality, a vain attempt to relieve the restlessness and
melancholy that oppressed her. In public, her spirits were supported by
an artificial excitement, and her gaiety seemed unimpaired; but, when
alone with me, the constant companion of her solitary hours, and the
sole confidant of her thoughts, she yielded to the most alarming
depression. Her health evidently suffered from this disordered state of
mind; but she uttered no complaint, and from her husband, particularly,
concealed every symptom of illness, and appeared with her accustomed
cheerfulness. Strange as it may seem, her gaiety chagrined him; he
fancied her trifling with, or indifferent to, his happiness, and
satisfied with the pleasures which courted her, without a wish for his
participation. He little knew,--for his better feelings were warped by a
morbid imagination,--how gladly she would have exchanged every other
blessing for one assurance of returning confidence and affection.
"Your mother's spirits faintly revived, on the approach of spring. She
was weary of dissipation: the glittering bubble, which at first charmed
her eye, had burst, and betrayed its emptiness. She had a mind which
panted for the noblest attainments, a heart formed for the enjoyment of
every pure and rational pursuit. Her thoughts continually reverted to
the first happy months of her union with De Courcy; and she impatiently
anticipated the moment, when they should return to those quiet scenes;
fondly believing that she might there recover her husband's love, and
that a new and most endearing tie would bind him more strongly to her.
These soothing hopes beguiled many an heavy hour; and, but for one fatal
error, one deadly passion, they might have been fully realized!"
Madame de la Tour abruptly stopped, overcome by the painful
recollections which crowded on her mind; Luciè looked at her with
tearful eyes, but offered no remark; and both remained silent for
several minutes.
CHAPTER XX.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it; and they who war
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear
Silence, but not submission.
LORD BYRON.
Madame de la Tour at length proceeded:--"I have already told you, Luciè,
that De Courcy viewed, with uneasiness, the homage which was paid your
mother, though it did not exceed the usual devotion which Parisian
gallantry is wont to offer at the shrine of female loveliness. He must
have expected it; for no one could have been more conscious of her
beauty, or more proud of possessing it. But he persuaded himself, that
this adulation was too grateful to her; his affection was selfish and
engrossing, and he wished her to receive pleasure from no praises or
attentions but his own. She was, perhaps, as free from vanity as any
woman could be, young, beautiful, and admired as herself; and if not
indifferent to the admiration which her charms excited, it was but the
natural and transient delight of a gay and innocent mind; her heart was
ever loyal to her husband, and his society, his fond and approving
smile, were far more prized by her, than the idle homage of a world.
"The young Count de ---- was an object of particular dislike and
unceasing suspicion to De Courcy. They were distantly related; but some
slight disagreement, which had taken place at an earlier period, created
a coolness between them, which was never overcome. Your mother was aware
of this, and, had she more closely consulted her prudence, would,
probably, have avoided the attentions of one so obnoxious to her
husband's prejudices. But the Count was gay and agreeable, the
versatility of his talents amused her, and he seemed to possess many
amiable and brilliant qualities. His manners were courteous; his
attentions never presuming; and there was a frankness in his address,
which formed an agreeable contrast to the studied flattery of others
around her. Yet even the most distant civilities excited your father's
distrust; the Count became, every day, an object of more decided and
marked aversion, and your mother could not but feel herself tacitly
implicated in his displeasure. Grieved that he could doubt her
affection, or the rectitude of her heart, and relying confidently on the
purity of both, she resolved not to wound the Count's feelings, by
yielding to an ungenerous prejudice, and her conduct and manners
therefore continued unchanged.
"As spring advanced, your mother withdrew, almost entirely, from
society; but the Count de ----, among a few others, was a privileged and
frequent visitor at her house. One morning, De Courcy, contrary to his
usual custom, had urged her to accompany him on some short excursion;
and, equally surprised and gratified by the unexpected request, it was
with extreme reluctance that she felt compelled, from indisposition, to
decline it. Soon after his departure, however, I persuaded her to leave
her apartment, for a few moments, to look at some choice exotics, which
had just been brought to the house. She was still lingering to admire
them, when the Count de ---- was announced, through the negligence of a
servant, who had been ordered not to admit any visitors. It was too late
to retire, unobserved; and the usual greetings of civility were scarcely
exchanged, when De Courcy abruptly entered the room. He started, on
seeing his wife, who had so recently refused his request, on the plea of
illness, apparently well, and taking advantage of his absence, to admit
his supposed rival to an interview. Pale with emotion, he stood a
moment, as if rooted to the spot; his eye, which flashed with scorn and
anger, fixed alternately on each; then deliberately turned, and left the
house. The Count had met his gaze unmoved, and with an expression of
calm contempt; your mother, terrified by the storm of passion which his
countenance betrayed, fled precipitately to her own apartment. Ill as
she was, however, and trembling with apprehension, she exerted herself
to appear at dinner, hoping that the true explanation would appease her
husband's irritation. But he met her with a gloomy reserve, which
destroyed all hope of confidence; he did not allude to what had passed;
every trace of passion was gone, and she felt re-assured by a deceitful
calm, that only concealed the inward struggle.
"De Courcy left the house by day-light on the following morning; no one
knew whither he was gone, but we had heard him traverse his apartment
through the night, and were confident he had taken no repose. A few
hours of anxious suspense passed away, and your mother had just risen
from her sleepless pillow, when he suddenly entered her dressing-room. I
was alone with her, and never shall I forget the impression his
appearance made on me. His dress was disordered, his countenance pale
and haggard, and every feature marked with the deepest anguish. Your
mother rose with a faint exclamation, but instantly sunk again upon her
seat. He approached her, and took her hands, even with gentleness,
between his own, though every limb trembled with agitation.
"Luciè," he said, with unnatural calmness, and fixing his troubled eye
on her face; "I come to bid you a long,--long farewell!"
"What mean you, de Courcy?" she asked, with extreme alarm; "speak, I
conjure you, and relieve this torturing suspense!"
"My honor has been avenged!" he replied, with a hoarse and rapid
utterance; "and from this moment we part--forever!"
"Part! de Courcy, my husband!" she exclaimed, in a voice of agony; "tell
me, what"--
"The concluding words died on her quivering lips; the sudden conflict of
strong emotions could not be endured, and she sunk insensible on my
bosom. Frantic with alarm, I folded my arms around her, and, unwilling
to summon any witnesses, attempted to recall her senses, by
administering such restoratives as were fortunately within my reach. De
Courcy looked at her an instant, like one bewildered; then fiercely
exclaimed,
"She loves him! see you not how she loves him?"
"Wretched man!" I said, indignantly, "you have murdered her; go, and
leave us to our misery."
"My words seemed to penetrate his heart; his features relaxed, and,
before I was aware of his design, he took your mother from me, and laid
her gently on a couch. The tide of tenderness had rushed back upon his
soul, and every soft and generous feeling transiently revived. He stood
over her inanimate form, gazing on her with melancholy fondness till the
tears gushed freely from his eyes, and fell on her pallid features. At
that moment, as if revived by his solicitude, she half unclosed her
eyelids, and a faint glow gave signs of returning life. De Courcy
kissed her cold lips, and, murmuring a few words, which did not reach my
ear, he gave one last and lingering look, and turned precipitately to
leave the room.
"I had retreated from the couch, inexpressibly affected by a scene,
which I fondly hoped was the dawn of returning happiness. He stopped, as
he was passing me, and, wringing my hand with emotion, pointed to your
mother, and, in a voice scarcely audible, said,
"You love her, Justine; comfort her,--cherish her, as I would have
done,--God knows how fervently,--had she permitted me. Farewell, my
sister, forever."
Madame de la Tour was too much agitated to proceed, and even Luciè
willingly suspended the painful interest to indulge the natural emotions
which her parents' history excited. After a brief interval, Madame de la
Tour thus continued:
"You must suffer me to pass rapidly over the remainder of this sad tale,
my dear Luciè. It was long before your mother revived to perfect
consciousness; and the shock which she had received was only a prelude
to still deeper misery. The conduct of de Courcy was too soon explained.
Yielding to the fatal error, that she had given her affections to the
Count de ----, in the excitement of his passion, he sent a challenge,
which was instantly accepted. They met; and the Count was carried, as
his attendants supposed, mortally wounded, from the field of contest. De
Courcy, however, was spared the commission of that crime; for, though
the Count's life was long despaired of, a good constitution prevailed,
and he at length recovered.
"De Courcy had made all his arrangements on the preceding night; and,
immediately after his interview with your mother, he quitted Paris
forever. A letter was left, addressed to her, which strikingly portrayed
the disordered state of his mind, and feelingly delineated the strength
of his affection, and the bitterness of his disappointment. Robbed, as
he believed, of her love, the world had no longer any thing to attach
him; and he resolved to bury himself in some retirement, which the vain
passions of life could never penetrate.
"I will pass over the agonizing scenes, the months of wretchedness which
succeeded this separation, this sudden dissolution of the most sacred
and endearing ties. All attempts to discover De Courcy's retreat were
unavailing, though it was long before your mother could relinquish the
delusive hope, that he would be again restored to her. We returned to my
father's house; but there every thing reminded her of happier days, and
served to increase her melancholy. Your birth was the only event which
reconciled her to life; but her health was then so precarious, we dared
not flatter ourselves, that she would be long continued to you. Her
physicians recommended change of air, and I accompanied her to a convent
on the borders of the Pyrenees, where she had passed a few years in
early childhood; and she earnestly desired to spend her remaining days
within its peaceful walls.
"The good nuns welcomed her to their humble retreat, in the midst of a
wild and romantic solitude; and, with unwearied kindness sought to
alleviate the sufferings of disease. For three months, I watched
unceasingly beside her; a heavenly resignation smoothed the bed of
sickness, and her wearied spirit was gently loosed from earth, and
prepared for its upward flight. You were the last cord that bound her to
a world which she had found so bankrupt in its promises, and this was
too strong to be severed, but by the iron grasp of death. As the moment
of her departure approached, she expressed a wish to receive the last
offices of religion; and a messenger was sent to a neighbouring
monastery of Jesuits to request the attendance of a priest. One of the
brotherhood soon after entered the little cell, and the nuns, who were
chanting around her bed, retired at his approach.
"I retreated unobserved, to a corner of the room, fearing she would not
live through the last confession of her blameless life. A dim lamp, from
which she was carefully screened, shed a sickly gleam around the
apartment; and, even in the deep silence of that awful hour, the low
and labored whispers of her voice scarcely reached my ear. Suddenly I
was startled by a suppressed, but fervent exclamation from the monk,
instantly followed by a faint cry from your mother's lips. I flew to the
bed; she had raised herself from the pillow, her arms were extended, as
in the act of supplication, and a celestial glow irradiated her dying
features. The priest stood in an attitude of eager attention: his cowl
was removed; and, judge of my sensations, when I recognized the
countenance of De Courcy!"
"My father!" exclaimed Luciè; "that priest"--
"Wait, and you shall know all;" interrupted Madame de la Tour. "That
priest was indeed your father; he had taken the vows of a rigid order,
and Providence guided him to the death-bed of your mother. I pass over
the scene which followed; it is too hallowed for description. Suffice it
to say, the solemn confession of that dreadful moment convinced him of
her innocence, and her last sufferings were soothed by mutual
reconciliation and forgiveness. Your father closed her eyes in their
last sleep, and pressing you for an instant to his heart, rushed almost
frantic from the convent.
"On the following day, my father sought De Courcy at the monastery,
hoping to draw him back to the world by the touching claims of parental
love. But he had already left it, never to return; and the superior had
sworn to conceal his new abode from every human being. Before leaving
the convent, on the night of your mother's death, he confirmed her
bequest, which had already given you to my eldest sister, then a rigid
Catholic. But my father soon after became a convert to the opinions of
the Hugonots, to which we also inclined; and my sister's marriage with
M. Rossville confirmed her in those sentiments. She thought proper to
educate you in a faith which she had adopted from deliberate conviction;
and, as your father had renounced his claims, she of course felt
responsible only to her own conscience. Every effort to find him,
indeed, continued unavailing; years passed away, and by all who had
known him he was numbered as with the dead.
"But your father still lived, Luciè, and the recollection of his injured
wife forever haunted him; her misery, her untimely death, all weighed
heavily on his conscience, and he sought to expiate his crime by a life
of austerity, and the most constant and painful acts of self-denial and
devotion. Yet the severest penance which he inflicted on himself was to
renounce his child, to burst the ties of natural affection, that no
earthly claims might interfere with those holy duties to which he had
consecrated his future life."
"Just heavens!" said Luciè, with emotion; "could such a sacrifice be
exacted? dearest aunt, tell me if he yet lives, if I am right"--
"He does live," interrupted Madame de la Tour; "he received permission
to quit his monastery only to fulfil a more rigid vow, which bound him
to a life of unremitting hardship; and, after a severe illness, that for
several weeks deprived him of reason, he at length reached this new
world, where for nearly twenty years"--
"Father Gilbert!" exclaimed Luciè, starting from her seat in powerful
agitation.
"Yes," said a deep, solemn voice; and the dark form of the priest, who
had entered unnoticed, stood beside her; "my child, behold your father!"
"My father!" repeated Luciè, as she rushed into his extended arms, and
sunk weeping upon his bosom.
CHAPTER XXI.
Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time.
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime:
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
CAMPBELL.
The tempered beams of a September sun glanced mildly on the quiet shores
of the Massachusetts, and tinged with mellowed hues the richness of its
autumnal scenery. It was on that holy day, which our puritan ancestors
were wont to regard emphatically as a "day of rest;" and nature seemed
hushed to a repose as deep and expressive as on that first earthly
sabbath when God finished his creative work, and "saw that it was very
good." The public worship of the morning was ended; and the citizens of
Boston were dispersing through the different streets and avenues of the
town, to their various places of abode. The mass which issued from the
portal of the sanctuary with grave and orderly demeanor, appeared to
melt away as one by one, or in household groups, they turned aside to
their respective dwellings, till all gradually disappeared, and the
streets were again left silent and deserted.
Arthur Stanhope had withdrawn from the crowd, and stood alone on the
margin of the bay, which curved its broad basin around the peninsula of
Boston. He had received no tidings from St. John's, since the day he
quitted it; and, with extreme impatience, he awaited the return of a
small trading vessel, which was hourly expected from thence. But his
eyes vainly traversed the wide expanse of water; all around it blended
with the bright blue sky, and no approaching bark darkened its unruffled
surface. Silence reigned over the scene as undisturbed as when the
adventurous pilgrims first leaped upon the inhospitable shore. But it
was the silence of that hallowed rest which man offered in homage to his
creator, not that primeval calm which then brooded over the savage
wilderness. Time, since the day on which they took possession, had
caused the waste places to "rejoice, and the desert to blossom as a
rose." The land to which they fled from the storms of persecution had
become a pleasant abode; and their interests and affections were
detached from the parent country, and fixed on the home of their
adoption.
The tide of emigration ceased with the triumph of the puritan cause in
England; but the early colonists had already laid deep the broad
foundations on which the fabric of civil and religious liberty was
reared. Prudence and persevering zeal had conquered the first and most
arduous labors of the settlement; and they looked forward with pious
confidence to its future prosperity, firmly persuaded that God had
reserved it for the resting place of his chosen people. The rugged soil
yielded to the hand of industry, and brought forth its treasures. The
shores of the bay no longer presented a scene of wild and solitary
magnificence. Forests, which had defied the blasts of ages, were swept
away; and, in their stead, fields of waving grain hung their golden ears
in the ripening sun, ready for the coming harvest. Flocks and herds
grazed in the green pastures which sloped to the water's edge, or
collected in meditative groups beneath the scattered trees that spread
their ample branches to shelter them. The noble range of hills which
rose beyond in beautiful inequalities, girdling the indented coast,
presented a rich and variegated prospect. Broad patches of cultivation
appeared in every sheltered nook, and tracts of smooth mown grass
relieved the eye from the midst of sterile wilds. Luxuriant corn-fields
fringed the borders of hanging woodlands, which clothed the steep
acclivities; and on the boldest summits wide regions were laid bare,
where the adventurous axe had broken the dark line of frowning forests,
and prepared the way for future culture. Here and there a thriving
village burst upon the view, its clustering houses interspersed with
gardens and orchards of young fruit trees.
The infant capital, from its central and commanding situation, rose
pre-eminent above the sister settlements. It had prospered beyond the
hopes of the most sanguine, and was already a mart for the superfluous
products of the colony. That regard to order and decorum, displayed by
the magistrates in their earliest regulations, and a uniformity in the
distribution of land for streets and dwelling lots, had prevented much
confusion, as the population increased. Its limits were then
comparatively narrow; man had not yet encroached on the dominions of the
sea to extend the boundaries of the peninsula. Where the first wharves
were erected, broad and busy streets now traverse almost the centre of
the city; and fuel was gathered, and wild animals hunted, from the woods
that grew in abundance on the neck, which is now a protracted and
populous avenue to the adjoining country. Extensive marshes skirted the
borders of the river Charles, and the three hills which formed its
prominent natural features were steep and rugged cliffs. One, indeed,
was surmounted by a wind-mill, which for many years labored unceasingly
for the public good, and ably supplied a deficiency of water-mills; and
another, which overlooked the harbor, was defended by a few pieces of
artillery; thus early betraying that jealous vigilance which has ever
distinguished the people of New-England. The last, and most lofty, was
still a barren waste, descending into the humid fens which are now
converted into a beautiful common, the only ornamental promenade which
our metropolis can boast.
Improvement was for a time necessarily gradual. Religion, the only
motive which could have induced such sacrifices as were made in its
cause, was first established; and civil order, and the means of
education, were deemed next important by the wise and virtuous founders
of our republic. The necessaries and comforts of life were secured
before they had leisure to think of its embellishments. Necessity
produced a frugal and industrious spirit, and the wealthiest encouraged
by their example the economy and self-denial of the lower orders.
Artisans and mechanics soon found ample employment, and various
manufactures were ingeniously contrived to supply the ordinary wants of
the colony. The natural products of the soil gradually yielded a
superfluity, which was exported to the West Indian and other
islands;--the commencement of that extensive traffic, which has since
raised Boston to a high rank among the commercial cities of the world.
It was also sent in exchange for the commodities of the mother country,
who, indulgent to her children while too feeble to dispute her
authority, then generously remitted those duties which afterwards proved
a "root of bitterness" between them. The fisheries, also, were even then
an object of consideration; and many found employment in that craft,
which has now become a source of national wealth. Vessels of
considerable burthen were launched from the shores of the wilderness,
and their light keels already parted the waters of distant seas. Nations
which then viewed our hardy navigators with contempt, have since seen
their white sails flutter in the winds of every climate, and their
adventurous ships braving the dangers of every rugged shore. The
proudest have acknowledged their rights in each commercial port, and the
bravest have struck unwillingly to their victorious flag.
The advancement which the colony had made within fourteen years from its
settlement, was indeed surprising. The germ of future prosperity seemed
bursting from its integuments. The principles of a free government were
established; the seed which was "sown in tears," though it appeared "the
least of all seeds," was preparing to shoot forth and spread its
branches into a mighty tree. As yet, however, the future was "hid under
a cloud;" and what had already been done, could only be justly
appreciated by those who acted and suffered from the commencement. But
the fruits of their labor were evident, even to the most indifferent
observer; and Stanhope's thoughts were forcibly drawn from the subject
of his own anxiety, and fixed on the scene before him.
The scene, glorious as it appeared in the simple garniture of nature,
and softened by the adornments of art, charmed the eye and awakened the
enthusiasm of a refined and imaginative mind. But the high moral
courage, the stern yet lofty impulse of duty, which had achieved so
great an enterprize; which had burst the strong links of kindred and
country, and exchanged honor and affluence for reproach and poverty, and
the countless trials of a wilderness, appealed directly to the best
feelings of the heart. Arthur was reminded by all around him, of this
noble triumph of mind and principle over the greatest physical
obstacles; and he strongly felt the contrast which it presented to the
habits and opinions of the Acadian settlers, with whom he had been
lately associated. The bitter enmity of La Tour and D'Aulney, the
struggle for pre-eminence, which kept them continually at strife, had
deadened every social affection and aroused the most fierce and selfish
passions. They had attempted to colonize a portion of the New World,
from interested and ambitious motives; their followers were in general
actuated by a hope of gain, or the mere spirit of adventure, which
characterized that age; and, if religion was at all considered, it was
only from motives of policy. The purity and disinterestedness of the
New-England fathers was more striking from the comparison; and, as
Stanhope mused on them, he wondered that the light sacrifices he had
himself been compelled to make, could ever have appeared so important.
His country, his profession, his hopes of honorable advancement, were
indeed abandoned; but dearer hopes had succeeded the dreams of
ambition; and what country would not become a paradise, when brightened
by the smiles of affection!
His reverie, by a very lover-like process, had thus revolved back to the
point where it commenced, when he was reminded of the lapse of time, by
the sound of a bell, which floated sweetly on the still air, and
announced the stated hour for the second services of the day. He was
slowly turning to obey its summons, when his attention was attracted by
the appearance of a vessel; and he again paused in curiosity and
suspense. It was a pinnace of large size, and sailed slowly over the
smooth waters, frequently tacking to catch the light breeze, which
scarcely swelled the canvass. The waves curled, as if in sport, around
the prow, leaving a sinuous track behind, as it came up through the
channel, north of Castle Island, like a solitary bird, skimming the
surface of the deep, and spreading its snowy wings towards some region
of rest. As it entered the spacious harbor, the gay streamer, which hung
idly from the mainmast, was raised by a passing breeze, displaying the
colors of France, united with the private arms of Mons. d'Aulney.
The vessel soon attracted general observation, but the sanctity of the
day prevented any open expression of curiosity or surprise. It was
permitted to anchor, unmolested by the formidable battery on the eastern
hill; the bell continued to ring for public worship, and the citizens
to assemble as usual. But, situated as the colonists then were, with
regard to Acadia, the arrival of a vessel from thence, was a matter of
some importance. Certain negociations had already taken place between
the magistrates of Boston and M. d'Aulney, and the latter had proposed
sending commissioners to arrange a treaty. The magistrates, rightly
conjecturing that they had at length arrived, sent two officers to
receive them at the water's side, and conduct them quietly to an inn.
Wishing, however, to treat them with suitable respect, when the services
of the day were over, a guard of musketeers was despatched to escort
them to the governor's house, where they were invited to remain, during
their stay in town.
A treaty was commenced on the following day; and, throughout its
progress, the utmost ceremony and attention was observed towards the
commissioners, which policy or politeness could suggest. Mutual
aggressions were complained of, and mutual concessions made; and though
D'Aulney had, in truth, been hitherto faithless to his promises, the
Bostonians evidently feared his growing power, and strongly inclined to
conciliatory measures. Under these circumstances, an amnesty was,
without much difficulty, concluded; and the commissioners soon after
returned, well satisfied, to Penobscot.
This treaty, for a time, seemed almost fatal to the prospects of La
Tour. It restrained the colonists from rendering him any further
assistance; and there was every probability that D'Aulney would at
length effect his long meditated designs against fort St. John's.
Stanhope felt much anxiety respecting Luciè's situation; but as winter
was now rapidly approaching, it was hardly possible that any hostile
operations would be commenced, before the return of spring. That period,
he trusted, would fulfil the hopes which she had sanctioned, and place
her under his own protection; and, through the autumn, he had the
satisfaction of hearing frequently from her, by means of the vessels
which continued to trade at the river, with La Tour. With extreme
surprise, he learned that she had discovered her father, in the
mysterious priest; and, strange as the connection seemed, he felt a
satisfaction, in knowing that she could claim a natural guardian, till
he was permitted to remove her from a situation, which was so constantly
exposed to danger.
CHAPTER XXII.
The wars are over,
The spring is come;
The bride and her lover
Have sought their home:
They are happy, we rejoice;
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice!
LORD BYRON.
Never did months revolve more slowly, than through that winter, to the
impatient Stanhope. During its inclemency, all communication with the
French settlements ceased, and he, of course, heard nothing of Luciè,--a
suspension of intercourse which was almost insupportable. By the
earliest approach of spring, however, the traders and fishermen again
adventured their barks on the stormy bay of Fundy, and the icy shores of
Newfoundland. Boston harbor, which had been sealed, for several months,
by the severe cold, then characteristic of the climate, was freed by the
bright sun and genial gales of that vernal season. Numerous vessels
floated on its dancing waves; and all around, the adjacent shores were
teeming with sights and sounds of rural industry.
It was shortly rumored, that M. d'Aulney was preparing to attack fort
St. John's; some even affirmed, that his vessels had already been seen,
hovering near the entrance of the river. Stanhope's extreme anxiety
could brook no farther delay; and, under such circumstances, he felt
acquitted of the obligation which Luciè's request had imposed on him,
and at liberty to anticipate a few weeks of the time appointed for his
return to her. Early in April, therefore, he embarked in a neat pinnace,
and after a short voyage, reached the rugged coast of Acadia. Daylight
was closing, as he approached St. John's; but fortunately the clear
twilight served to show him the changes which had taken place there.
Several armed vessels blockaded the river, and the standard of M.
d'Aulney waved triumphantly from the walls of the fort.
These signs of conquest could not be mistaken: the late haughty
possessor had evidently suffered defeat; but what fate had overtaken
him, and where had his family found a refuge? Luciè, the sharer of their
fortunes,--where should he seek her? was the most anxious thought of
Stanhope; and painful solicitude checked the tide of joyous expectation
which he had so sanguinely indulged. Hoping to obtain information from
some peasant in the neighborhood, he anchored a few miles below the
fort, and throwing himself into a small boat, proceeded alone to a
well-remembered landing-place. He steered his bark cautiously along the
shores of the bay, which were already darkened by the evening shadows;
and, rowing with all his strength, soon reached the destined spot, and
sprang eagerly upon the strand. Ascending an eminence, the country
opened widely around him; the smoke curled quietly from the scattered
cottages, and the scene was unchanged since he last saw it, except from
the variation of the seasons. The fields, which were then crowned with
the riches of autumn, had since been seared by wintry frosts, which now
slowly relaxed their rigid grasp. Faint streaks of verdure began to
tinge the sunny valleys, though patches of snow still lingered within
their cold recesses. A thousand silver rills burst from the moistened
earth, and leaped down the sloping banks, chiming, in soft concert, with
the evening breeze. Every swelling bud exhaled the perfumed breath of
spring; and all nature seemed awake to welcome her bland approach.
The peasantry of the country were evidently unmolested, and probably
cared little for the change of masters. Arthur had, as yet, seen no
living being; and he hastened to Annette's cottage, which stood at a
short distance, half hid by the matted foliage of some sheltering pines.
It no longer wore the air of open hospitality, which once distinguished
it; the gay voice of its mistress ever carolling at her labour, was
silent, and the closed door and casements seemed to portend some sad
reverse. Stanhope paused an instant; and as he leaned against a rude
fence which enclosed the garden plat, his eye rested on a slender mound
of earth, covered with fresh sods, and surrounded by saplings of willow,
newly planted. It was evidently a grave; and, with a chilled heart, and
excited feelings, he leaped the slight enclosure, fearing, he knew not,
dared not ask himself, what unknown evil.
At that moment, he heard light approaching footsteps; he turned and saw
a female advancing slowly, and too much engrossed by her own thoughts to
have yet observed him. He could not be deceived; he sprang to meet her,
repeating the name of "Luciè;" and an eager exclamation of "Stanhope, is
it possible!" expressed her joyful recognition.
"Why are you so pale and pensive, dear Luciè," asked Stanhope, regarding
her with solicitude, when the first rapturous emotions had subsided;
"and what brings you to this melancholy spot at such a lonely hour?"
"Oh, Arthur," she replied, "you know not half the changes which have
taken place since you were here, or you would not ask why I am pale and
pensive! this is the grave of my kindest relative; till you came, I
almost thought of my last friend!"
"Good heavens! of your aunt, Luciè; of Madame de la Tour?"
A burst of tears, which she could no longer restrain, was Luciè's
answer; her feelings had, of late, been severely tried, and it was many
moments before her own exertions, or the soothings of affection
succeeded in calming her emotions. A long conversation ensued; each had
much to say, and Luciè, in particular, many events to communicate. But
as the narrative was often interrupted by question and remark, and
delayed by the expression of those hopes and sentiments which lovers are
wont to intersperse in their discourse, we shall omit such
superfluities, and sum up, as briefly as possible, all that is necessary
to elucidate our story.
Madame de la Tour's constitution was too delicate to bear the rigor of a
northern climate, and from her first arrival in Acadia, her health began
almost imperceptibly to decline. She never entirely recovered from the
severe indisposition which attacked her in the autumn, though the vigor
and cheerfulness of her mind long resisted the depressing influence of
disease. But she was perfectly aware of her danger even before the bloom
faded from her cheek sufficiently to excite the alarm of those around
her. It was a malady which had proved fatal to many of her family; and
she had too often witnessed its insidious approaches in others, to be
deceived when she was herself the victim. Towards the close of winter,
she was confined entirely to her apartment, and Luciè, and the faithful
Annette, were her kind and unwearied attendants. Her decline was from
that time rapid, but it was endured with a fortitude which had
distinguished her in every situation of life. Still young, and with
much to render existence pleasant and desirable, she met its close with
cheerful resignation, surrounded by the weeping objects of her love. On
Luciè's affectionate heart her untimely death left a deep and lasting
impression. She felt desolate indeed, thus deprived of the only
relative, with whom she could claim connexion and sympathy.
The parental tie so lately discovered, and which had opened to Luciè a
new spring of tenderness, became a source of painful anxiety. Father
Gilbert,--so we shall still call him,--had yielded for a brief season to
the indulgence of those natural feelings, which were awakened by the
recognition of his daughter. But his ascetic habits, and the blind
bigotry of his creed, soon regained their influence over his mind, and
led him to distrust the most virtuous emotions of his heart. The
self-inflicted penance, which estranged him from her, in infancy, he
deemed still binding; and the vow which he had taken to lead a life of
devotion, he thought no circumstances could annul. As the priest of God,
he must conquer every earthly passion; the work to which he was
dedicated yet remained unaccomplished, and the sins of his early life
were still unatoned.
Thus he reasoned, blinded by the false dogmas of a superstitious creed;
and the arguments of Madame de la Tour, the tears and entreaties of
Luciè, had been alike disregarded. The return of the priest, who usually
officiated at the fort, was the signal for him to depart on a tour of
severe duty to the most distant settlements of Acadia. Nothing could
change his determination; he parted from Luciè with much emotion,
solemnly conjuring her to renounce her spiritual errors, and embrace the
faith of the only true church. As his child, he assured her, he should
pray for her happiness, as a heretic, for her conversion; but he
relinquished the authority of a father, which his profession forbade him
to exercise, and left her to the guidance of her own conscience. From
that time, Luciè had neither seen nor heard from him; but solicitude for
his fate pressed heavily on her heart, and she shed many secret and
bitter tears for her unfortunate parent.
Soon after the death of Madame de la Tour, Luciè removed her residence
to the cottage of Annette. The fort was no longer a suitable or pleasant
abode for her. Mons. de la Tour disregarded the wishes which his lady
had expressed in her last illness,--that Luciè might be allowed to
follow her own inclinations,--and renewed his endeavours to force her
into a marriage with De Valette. But his threats and persuasions were
both firmly resisted, and proved equally ineffectual to accomplish his
purpose. De Valette, indeed, had too much pride and generosity to urge
his suit after a decided rejection; and he was vexed by his uncle's
selfish pertinacity. In the early period of his attachment to Luciè, he
accidentally discovered that most of her fortune had become involved in
the private speculations of her guardian, and was probably lost to her.
But he often declared, that he asked no dowry with such a bride, and if
he could obtain her hand, he should never seek redress for the patrimony
she had lost. La Tour, conscious that he had wronged her, and fearing
that no other suitor would prove equally disinterested, was on that
account anxious to promote a union, which would so easily free him from
the penalty of his offence.
Early in the spring, La Tour left St. John's for Newfoundland, hoping to
obtain such assistance from Sir David Kirk, who was then commanding
there, as would enable him to retain possession of his fort. He was
accompanied by De Valette, who intended to sail from thence for his
native country. It was not till after their departure, that Luciè
learned the reduced state of her finances from Jacques, the husband of
Annette, who had long enjoyed the confidence of his lord, and been
conversant with his pecuniary affairs. She was naturally vexed and
indignant at the heartless and unprincipled conduct of her guardian;
though there was a romantic pleasure in the idea, that it would only
test, more fully, the strength and constancy of Stanhope's attachment.
Woman is seldom selfish or ambitious in her affection; Luciè loved, and
she felt still rich in the possession of a true and virtuous heart.
The absence of La Tour was eagerly embraced by D'Aulney, as a favorable
opportunity to accomplish his meditated designs. Scarcely had the former
doubled Cape Sable, when his enemy sailed up the bay with a powerful
force, and anchored before St. John's. The intimidated garrison made
barely a show of resistance, and the long contested fort was surrendered
without a struggle. D'Aulney treated the conquered with a lenity, which
won many to his cause; and he permitted the neighboring inhabitants to
remain undisturbed on a promise of submission, which was readily
accorded to him.
Mr. Broadhead, the chaplain of Madame de la Tour, found refuge in the
cottage of Annette, who charitably disregarded religious prejudices, and
treated him with the utmost kindness and attention, from respect to the
memory of her mistress. But, having lost the protection of his
patroness, he could no longer, as he said, "consent to sojourn in the
tents of the ungodly idolaters," and meditated a return to Scotland. To
facilitate this object, he gladly accepted a passage in Stanhope's
vessel to Boston; from whence, it was probable, he might soon find an
opportunity to recross the Atlantic. The same reasons induced Jacques
and Annette also to become their fellow-passengers; they were wearied of
the toil and uncertainty inseparable from a new settlement, and sighed
for the humble pleasures they had once enjoyed among the gay peasantry
of France.
Every thing thus satisfactorily explained and arranged, no obstacle
remained to delay the marriage of Stanhope and Luciè. The ceremony was
accordingly performed by Mr. Broadhead; and they immediately bade a last
farewell to the wild regions of Acadia. Clear skies and favorable gales,
present enjoyment, and the bright hopes of futurity, rendered their
short voyage delightful, and seemed the happy presage of a calm and
prosperous life. Stanhope, with the fond pride of gratified affection,
presented his bride to his expecting parents; and never was a daughter
received with more cordiality and tenderness. They had known and loved
her, in the pleasant abode of their native land; and their maturer
judgments sanctioned his youthful choice. Every succeeding year
strengthened their confidence and attachment; her sweetness and
vivacity, her exemplary goodness and devotion to her husband, created a
union of feeling and interest, which was the joy of their declining
years.
The happiness of Arthur and Luciè was permanent; and, if not wholly
exempted from the evils which ever cling to this state of trial, their
virtuous principles were an unfailing support, their mutual tenderness,
an exhaustless consolation. The wealth and distinction, which once
courted them, were unregretted; the green vales of England, and the
vine-covered hills of France, lingered in their remembrance, only as a
bright and fleeting vision. It was their ambition to fulfil the duties
of moral and intellectual beings; and the rugged climate of New-England
became the chosen home of their affections.
* * * * *
We feel pledged, by the rules of honorable authorship, to satisfy any
curiosity which may exist, respecting the remaining characters of our
narrative; and if the reader's interest is already wearied, he is at
liberty to omit this brief, concluding paragraph.
De Valette embarked at Newfoundland, in a vessel bound for some English
port, which was driven by stress of weather, on the Irish coast. The
crew barely escaped with their lives, and the young Frenchman, by a
freak of fortune, was thrown upon the hospitality of a gentleman, who
cultivated an hereditary estate in the vicinity. The kind urgency of his
host could not be resisted; and the attractions of an only child bade
fair to heal the wounds which Luciè's coldness had inflicted. His stay
was protracted from day to day; and in short with the usual constancy of
despairing lovers,--he soon learned to think the fair daughter of the
"emerald isle" even more charming than the dark-eyed maiden of his own
sunny clime. Her smiles were certainly more encouraging; and, at the end
of a few weeks, De Valette led her to the bridal altar.
La Tour was disappointed in his application to Sir David Kirk, and, for
a time, his tide of fortune seemed entirely to have ebbed. He again
visited Boston, but did not meet with a very cordial reception, though a
few merchants entrusted him with a considerable sum of money, on some
private speculation. This he disposed of, in his own way, and never took
the trouble to render any account, or make the least restitution to the
owners. The death of D'Aulney, however, which happened in the course of
a few years, reversed his prospects, and reinstated him in all his
possessions. He was firmly established in the sole government of Acadia;
and, soon after, he contracted a second marriage with the object of his
early affection,--the still beautiful widow of M. d'Aulney. With no
rival to dispute his authority, his remaining life was passed in
tranquillity; the colony, relieved from strife and contention, began to
flourish, and his descendants for many years enjoyed their inheritance
unmolested.
Arthur Stanhope, a few months after his union with Luciè, was appointed
the agent of some public business, which required a voyage to Pemaquid.
The recollection of father Gilbert forcibly recurred to him, when he
found himself so near the shores of Mount Desart,--a place which the
priest had frequented, probably for its very loneliness, or perhaps,
from some peculiar associations. It was possible he might again find him
there, or hear some tidings which would relieve Luciè's anxiety
respecting him; and, in this hope, he one day sought its sequestered
shades. The sun was declining, when he moored his little bark, and
proceeded alone through the same path, which he remembered, on a former
occasion, to have trodden. The open plain soon burst upon his view; and,
to his surprise, the prostrate wooden cross was again erected in the
midst of it. A figure knelt at its foot; Arthur approached,--the tall,
attenuated form, the dark, flowing garments could not be mistaken;--it
was indeed father Gilbert. Supposing him engaged in some act of
devotion, Stanhope waited several moments, silent, and unwilling to
disturb him. But he continued perfectly motionless;--Arthur advanced
still closer;--one hand grasped the cross, the other held a small
crucifix, which he always wore suspended from his neck. A glow of
[Transcriber's Note: Word illegible in original] rested on his pale
features; his eyes were closed, and a triumphant smile lingered on his
parted lips. Arthur started, and his blood chilled as he gazed at him;
he touched his hand,--it was cold and stiff;--he pressed his fingers on
his heart,--it had ceased to beat!--Father Gilbert was no more!
The spirit seemed to have just burst its weary bondage, and without a
struggle; the grassy turf was his dying couch, and the breeze of the
desert sighed a requiem for his departing soul!
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Rivals of Acadia, by Harriet Vaughan Cheney
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