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.