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.