"How hast thou charm'd
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this?
That thus relenting they have giv'n thee back
To earth, to light and life."
Luciè, immediately after parting with Stanhope, chanced to meet father
Gilbert, as he was hurrying from the spot where he had just held his
singular interview with Madame de la Tour. She avoided him, with that
instinctive dread of which she could never divest herself on seeing him;
and he passed on, without appearing to notice her, but with a rapidity
too unusual to escape her observation. She found Annette's quiet cottage
in the utmost confusion, occasioned by the sudden illness of Madame de
la Tour, who had then scarcely recovered from her alarming
insensibility. Luciè hung over her with the most anxious tenderness, and
her heart bitterly accused her of selfishness, or, at best, of
inconsideration, in having been induced to prolong her absence. But her
aunt did not allude to it, even after her consciousness was entirely
restored; she spoke lightly of her indisposition, attributing it
entirely to fatigue, though her sad and abstracted countenance shewed
that her mind was engrossed by some painful subject. She made no mention
of father Gilbert; and Luciè, of course, did not feel at liberty to
allude to him, though Annette had told her of their conference, and her
curiosity and interest were naturally excited to learn the particulars.
It could not but surprise her, that Mad. de la Tour should have been in
earnest conversation with the priest; for she had always shunned him,
and ever treated Luciè's fears as some strange deception of the
imagination.
M. de la Tour returned late in the evening of that day; but the shock
which his lady had received, whether mental or physical, again confined
her several days to her apartment. Luciè was convinced that this renewed
indisposition was, in some manner, connected with the appearance of
father Gilbert. She, at length, ventured to speak of him to her aunt;
but the subject evidently distressed her, though she confessed his
peculiar manners had at first alarmed her; adding, with an attempt at
gaiety, that he was probably scandalized at being so abruptly addressed
by a female and a heretic. With apparent indifference, she also asked
several questions of Luciè, respecting her accidental interviews with
the priest; thus betraying a new and uncommon interest, which
strengthened the suspicions of her niece. These suspicions were soon
after confirmed, by casually learning that La Tour had himself made
strict inquiries concerning father Gilbert; but he had withdrawn
himself, no person knew whither; though it was supposed to some of the
solitary haunts he was in the habit of frequenting.
Day after day passed away, the subject was not renewed, and other
thoughts gradually resumed their ascendancy in Luciè's mind. Stanhope
had returned to Boston, and previous to his departure he sought an
interview with La Tour, and formally requested the hand of Luciè. His
suit was, of course, rejected, though with unexpected courtesy; her
guardian alleged, that he had other views for her, which he considered
more advantageous; but expressed the highest personal regard for him,
and the utmost gratitude for the services he had so freely rendered.
When La Tour, however, found that Luciè was really fixed in her
attachment to Stanhope, and resolved against a marriage with De Valette,
he could not suppress his angry disappointment; and his manner towards
her became habitually cold, and often severe. Luciè deeply felt this
ungenerous change, but without noticing it in the slightest degree; and,
indeed, it was partly compensated by the kind attentions, and even
increased affection, of her aunt, who, though not perfectly reconciled
to her choice, no longer sought to oppose it.
Madame de la Tour recovered but slowly from her unfortunate relapse; and
De Valette, endeavoring to hide his mortification and chagrin, under an
assumed reserve, was no longer the gay and constant companion of Luciè's
amusements and pursuits. She was thus left much alone; but, fortunately
for her, she possessed abundant springs of happiness in the resources of
her own mind, and the unclouded gaiety of her spirits; and every lonely
hour, and each solitary spot, glowed with the bright creations of hope,
or responded to the thrilling chords of memory. All her favorite walks
had been shared with Stanhope; there was scarcely a tree which had not
sheltered them; and every gushing stream, and forest dell, even the
simplest flower which spread its petals to the sun, breathed in mute
eloquence some tale of innocent enjoyment. These scenes, which his
presence had consecrated, where, in the freshness of dewy morn, at
noontide's sultry hour, and beneath the still and moonlight heavens, she
had admired, with him, the loveliness of nature, were now retraced, with
the enthusiasm of a fond and devoted heart.
Such feelings and reminiscences had, one day, drawn her into the green
recesses of a forest, which stretched along the river, at some distance
above the fort. The familiar and oft-frequented path, wound through its
deepest shades, beneath a canopy of lofty pines, whose thickly woven
branches created a perpetual twilight. She at length struck into a
diverging track, and crossing a sunny slope, bared by the laborious
settler for future improvement, reached a steep bank, which declined
gently to the water's edge. It was one of those cheering days in early
autumn, which sometimes burst upon us with the warmth and brilliancy of
summer, and seem, for a brief space, to reanimate the torpid energies of
nature. The sun glowed in mid-day fervor, and myriads of the insect
tribes, revived by his delusive smile, wheeled their giddy circles in
the light, and sent their busy hum upon the calm, clear air. The wild
bee, provident for future wants, had sallied from his wintry hive, and
sipped from every honied cup, to fill the treasures of his waxen cell;
and a thousand birds of passage folded their downy pinions, and delayed
their distant flight, till bleaker skies should chill their melody, and
warn them to depart.
Luciè threw herself on a grassy knoll, beneath a group of trees,
completely sheltered by the broad leaves of a native grape-vine which
climbed the tallest trunk, and leaping from tree to tree, hung its
beautiful garlands so thick around them, as to form a natural arbor,
almost impervious to the brightest sun-beam. The opposite shore of the
river was thickly wooded, chiefly with those gigantic pines for which
that province is still famed; but interspersed with other trees, whose
less enduring foliage was marked by the approach of early frosts, which
had already seared their verdure, and left those rich and varied tints
that charm the eye in an autumnal landscape, while yet too brilliant to
seem the presage of decay. The river flowed on its still smooth course,
receiving on its waves the reflection of nature, in her quiet but ever
glorious array, and mingling its faint murmurs with the busy sounds
which breathed from those countless living things, that sported their
brief existence on its banks.
Not far above the spot where Luciè reclined in the luxury of dreaming
indolence, the river was contracted by a ledge of rocks, through which
the stream had worn a rough and narrow channel. The full waters of the
noble river, arrested by this confined and shallow passage, rushed
violently over the steep and craggy rocks, and pouring their chafed and
foaming current into the calm stream, which again expanded to its usual
width, produced a fall of singular and romantic beauty. Every rising
tide forced back the waters from their natural course, precipitating
them into the stream above with equal rapidity, though from a less
appalling height. Twice, in each tide, also, the sea was on a level with
the river, which then flowed smoothly over the rocks, and at those times
only, the dangerous obstruction was removed, and the navigation
unimpeded.
Luciè had remarked the waters as unusually placid, on first approaching
the bank, and she did not advert to this perpetual change, till their
loud and increasing murmurs had long fallen unheeded on her ears. Her
attention was at length aroused; and though she had often witnessed it
before, she gazed long, with unwearied pleasure, upon the troubled
stream, as it bounded from rock to rock, dashing with impetuous fury,
and tossing high in air its flakes of snowy foam. The report of a
fowling piece, at no great distance, at length startled her; and a
well-known whistle, which instantly succeeded, assured her that the
sportsman was De Valette. She had wandered from the shade of the grape
vine to obtain a more distinct view of the falls; but not caring to be
seen by him, she hastily plunged among a thicket of trees, which grew
close to the water's edge. The place was low and damp; and in looking
round for a better situation, her eye fell on a bark canoe, which was
drawn in among some reeds; and, without hesitation, she sprang into it,
and quietly seated herself. It was probably left there by some Indian,
who had gone into the woods to hunt, or gather roots; a neat blanket lay
in it, such as the French often bartered for the rich furs of the
country, and several strings of a bright scarlet berry, with which the
squaws were fond of decorating their persons.
Luciè, in the idleness of the moment, threw the blanket around her, and
twined some of the berries amongst her own jet black hair. She had
scarcely finished this employment, when she heard quick approaching
footsteps, and, glancing round, saw De Valette pushing heedlessly
through brier and bush, and Hero trotting gravely at his side. A loud
bark from the dog next foreboded a discovery; but both he and his
master had halted on the summit of the bank, apparently to survey the
occupant of the boat. Luciè's curiosity was aroused to know if he would
pass on without recognizing her; and busying herself in plaiting some
reeds, which she plucked from beside her, she broke into a low chant,
successfully disguising her voice, and cautious that no words should be
distinguished, except one or two of the Indian dialect, which she had
learned from an old squaw who frequented the fort.
"How now, my little squaw," said De Valette, advancing a few steps;
"have you got cast away among the reeds?"
"I am waiting for the tide, to take me down to the fort," she answered,
in such unintelligible French, that he could scarcely comprehend her.
"And what are you so busy about?" he enquired, approaching near, to
satisfy his curiosity.
"Making a basket; and I will give it to you for some beads, when it is
done!" said Luciè, in the same imperfect jargon, stooping her head low,
and concealing her hands lest their delicacy should betray her.
But Hero, who had listened, and observed with his usual acuteness,
interrupted the farce at that moment by springing to the boat, and
placing his fore paws in it, he gently seized the blanket in his mouth,
and pulled it from her unresisting shoulders. A bark of pleasure
succeeded this exploit, as he laid his shaggy head in her lap, to
receive the expected caress.
"Now, by my faith, mademoiselle," said De Valette, coloring with mingled
feelings, "I can indeed, no longer discredit your pretensions to the art
of disguise."
"Indeed, you have no reason to do so," she said, smiling; "though I
scarcely thought, Eustace, that you had less penetration than your dog!
But do you remember what I once told you;--twice deceived, beware of the
third time!"
"I would not have believed _then_, Luciè, that you were so skilled in
deceit!" he said, in a tone of bitterness; but quickly added,
carelessly, "I willingly confess that I have not penetration enough to
detect the disguises of a woman's heart!"
"It would certainly be difficult to detect that which has no existence,"
said Luciè, gaily; "we are but too guileless, too single-hearted, in
truth, for our own happiness."
"And for the happiness of others, you may add," rejoined De Valette;
"the boasted simplicity of your sex is so closely allied to art, that,
by my troth, the most practised could scarce detect the difference!"
"I begin to have faith in miracles," said Luciè, with arch gravity;
"surely nothing less than one could transform the gallant De Valette,
the very pink of chivalrous courtesy, into a reviler of that sex,
who"--
"Who are not quite so faultless as my credulity once led me to believe
them," interrupted De Valette.
"Nay, if you have lost your faith in our infallibility," she answered,
"your case is hopeless, and I would counsel you to put on the cowl, at
once, and hie away to some dull monastery, where you can rail, at
leisure, against woman and her deceptive attributes. It might form a new
and fitting exercise for the holy brotherhood, and, methinks, would
sound less harshly from their lips, than from those of a young and
generous cavalier."
"I am not yet so weary of the world as to avail myself of your advice,"
he replied; "however grateful I may, feel for the kindness which prompts
you to give it."
"I hope you do feel more gratitude than your looks express," said Luciè;
"for, though I have labored most abundantly to please you, I cannot
obtain one smile for my reward."
"You have never found it difficult to give me pleasure, Luciè," returned
De Valette; "though unhappily I have been less fortunate in regard to
you."
"You are petulant to-day, Eustace," she said; "or you would not accuse
me so wrongfully; nay, you have been very, I must say it, very
disagreeable of late, and followed your own selfish amusements, leaving
me to wander about alone like a forsaken wood-nymph. Indeed, it is
neither kind nor gallant in you."
"And can you think I have consulted my own inclinations, in doing so?"
he asked, with vivacity. "Believe me, Luciè, my heart is ever with you,
and when I have been absent or neglectful, it was only from the fear of
obtruding those attentions, which I thought were no longer prized by
you."
"You have done me great injustice, by admitting such a thought,
Eustace," she replied; "and I appeal to your own conscience, if any
caprice or coldness on my part, has given you reason to imagine that my
feelings toward you have changed."
De Valette colored highly, and paused a moment, before he replied;
"I have no inclination to complain, Luciè, but you have long known my
sentiments too well to suppose I could view with indifference your
acknowledged preference for another, and it was natural to believe that
preference would diminish the interest which I once had the presumption
to hope you entertained for me."
"No circumstances can ever diminish that interest, Eustace," she
replied; "our long tried friendship, I trust, cannot be lightly severed,
nor the pleasant intercourse which has enlivened the solitude of this
wilderness be soon effaced from our remembrance: believe me," she added,
with emotion, "whatever fate awaits my future life, my heart will
always turn to you, with the grateful affection of a sister."
"A sister!" De Valette repeated, with a sigh; and the transient flush
faded from his cheek, while he stooped to caress the dog, which lay
sleeping at his feet.
A moment of embarrassing silence ensued, which Luciè broke, by asking De
Valette if he was returning to the fort, and proposing to accompany him.
"If the owner of this canoe was here to row us," she continued, "I
should like extremely to return in it, the water looks so cool and
inviting, and I am already weary."
"It would be madness to venture against the tide, in that frail vessel,"
replied De Valette; "and, indeed, Luciè, I think your present situation
is not perfectly safe."
The tide was, in fact, rising with that rapidity so peculiar to the Bay
of Fundy, and which, of course, extends, in some degree, to the rivers
that empty into it; and while Luciè occupied the canoe, it had,
unnoticed by her, been nearly freed from the reeds, which, a short time
before, had so effectually secured it. She observed that a wider space
of water separated her from the land; and, striking one end of a paddle
upon the sandy bottom, to support her as she rose in the rocking bark,
she reached the other hand to De Valette, who stood ready to assist her
in springing to the shore. A slight dizziness came over her, caused by
the constant but scarce perceptible motion of the canoe, and alarmed on
feeling it dip to the water's edge as she was on the point of leaping,
she pressed forcibly against the oar, while the corresponding motion of
her feet impelled the boat from the shore, with a velocity which
instantly precipitated her into the waves.
This scene passed with such rapidity, that De Valette fancied her hand
already within his grasp, when the giddy whirl and heavy plunge struck
upon his senses, and the flutter of her garments caught his eye, as the
waves parted and closed over her. Eustace was an indifferent swimmer;
but, in the agony of his terror, every thing was forgotten but Luciè's
danger; without hesitation he threw himself into the stream, and exerted
all his skill to reach her, when she soon again appeared, floating on
with a swiftness which seemed every instant to increase the distance
between them. He heard the din of waters rushing over the rocks, and
knew that he was hastening towards the fearful gulf, from the loud and
still increasing noise which they sent forth, as they dashed across the
narrow channel. The thought that Luciè's fate was inevitable, and most
appalling, if he could not save her before she reached that fatal spot,
redoubled his exertions, which, however, every effort only rendered more
faint and ineffectual.
Happily for Luciè, extreme terror had deprived her of consciousness, and
she was borne unresistingly on the rapid waves, ignorant of the peril
which surrounded her. She already seemed within the vortex of the
cataract; and its confused and deafening clamor for an instant recalled
her senses, and thrilled coldly through her heart. But she was suddenly
drawn back by a powerful grasp, and when she again opened her eyes, she
was lying on a grassy bank; the melody of the woods chimed sweetly
around her, and the distant tumult of the waves fell, softened to gentle
murmurs, on her ear. A confused recollection of danger and escape
crossed her mind; but the feelings it excited were too overwhelming, in
her exhausted state, and she again sunk into complete insensibility.
Luciè owed her recovered life to the generous exertions of an Indian,
who, returning to his canoe, the unlucky cause of her misfortune, was
attracted by her perilous situation. He swam to her rescue with a
dexterity acquired by long and constant practice, and reaching her at a
moment when death seemed inevitable, succeeded in bearing her safely to
the shore. With scarcely a moment's respite, he returned to the
assistance of De Valette, who was completely subdued by his efforts, and
must have sunk, but for the aid of his faithful dog. The animal, with
equal courage and attachment, persevered in holding him securely, and
was, in fact, dragging him towards the shore, when the Indian came to
his rescue, and conveyed him to a place of safety. His first anxious
inquiries were respecting Luciè; and his gratitude to his deliverer was
enhanced by the knowledge, that he had been the preserver of her life
also. The disinterested exertions of the poor Indian were most warmly
acknowledged, and liberally rewarded, both by De Valette and Luciè.
When Luciè recovered from her long insensibility, she found herself
supported in the arms of some one, who seemed watching over her with the
utmost solicitude. She at first gazed vacantly on his face; but, as her
recollections became more vivid, she started and uttered a faint cry,
recognizing the features of father Gilbert. The expression of his
countenance was gentle, even to softness, and his eyes were evidently
moistened with tears. He, however, released her, on finding her
consciousness fully restored, and removing to a little distance,
remained standing in perfect silence. Luciè in vain attempted to speak:
the priest, as he continued to look on her, became deeply agitated; he
again approached her, and pronounced her name in a voice of tenderness,
though trembling with emotion. Luciè's habitual dread of him was lost in
the powerful interest which his altered manner and appearance excited;
her imploring eyes demanded an explanation, and he seemed about to
speak, when the loud bark of Hero was heard, and he bounded towards
her, followed by De Valette and the Indian.
Father Gilbert hastily retired, and was soon hid in the deep shadows of
the forest.