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.