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.