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.