The wars are over,
The spring is come;
The bride and her lover
Have sought their home:
They are happy, we rejoice;
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice!
LORD BYRON.
Never did months revolve more slowly, than through that winter, to the
impatient Stanhope. During its inclemency, all communication with the
French settlements ceased, and he, of course, heard nothing of Luciè,--a
suspension of intercourse which was almost insupportable. By the
earliest approach of spring, however, the traders and fishermen again
adventured their barks on the stormy bay of Fundy, and the icy shores of
Newfoundland. Boston harbor, which had been sealed, for several months,
by the severe cold, then characteristic of the climate, was freed by the
bright sun and genial gales of that vernal season. Numerous vessels
floated on its dancing waves; and all around, the adjacent shores were
teeming with sights and sounds of rural industry.
It was shortly rumored, that M. d'Aulney was preparing to attack fort
St. John's; some even affirmed, that his vessels had already been seen,
hovering near the entrance of the river. Stanhope's extreme anxiety
could brook no farther delay; and, under such circumstances, he felt
acquitted of the obligation which Luciè's request had imposed on him,
and at liberty to anticipate a few weeks of the time appointed for his
return to her. Early in April, therefore, he embarked in a neat pinnace,
and after a short voyage, reached the rugged coast of Acadia. Daylight
was closing, as he approached St. John's; but fortunately the clear
twilight served to show him the changes which had taken place there.
Several armed vessels blockaded the river, and the standard of M.
d'Aulney waved triumphantly from the walls of the fort.
These signs of conquest could not be mistaken: the late haughty
possessor had evidently suffered defeat; but what fate had overtaken
him, and where had his family found a refuge? Luciè, the sharer of their
fortunes,--where should he seek her? was the most anxious thought of
Stanhope; and painful solicitude checked the tide of joyous expectation
which he had so sanguinely indulged. Hoping to obtain information from
some peasant in the neighborhood, he anchored a few miles below the
fort, and throwing himself into a small boat, proceeded alone to a
well-remembered landing-place. He steered his bark cautiously along the
shores of the bay, which were already darkened by the evening shadows;
and, rowing with all his strength, soon reached the destined spot, and
sprang eagerly upon the strand. Ascending an eminence, the country
opened widely around him; the smoke curled quietly from the scattered
cottages, and the scene was unchanged since he last saw it, except from
the variation of the seasons. The fields, which were then crowned with
the riches of autumn, had since been seared by wintry frosts, which now
slowly relaxed their rigid grasp. Faint streaks of verdure began to
tinge the sunny valleys, though patches of snow still lingered within
their cold recesses. A thousand silver rills burst from the moistened
earth, and leaped down the sloping banks, chiming, in soft concert, with
the evening breeze. Every swelling bud exhaled the perfumed breath of
spring; and all nature seemed awake to welcome her bland approach.
The peasantry of the country were evidently unmolested, and probably
cared little for the change of masters. Arthur had, as yet, seen no
living being; and he hastened to Annette's cottage, which stood at a
short distance, half hid by the matted foliage of some sheltering pines.
It no longer wore the air of open hospitality, which once distinguished
it; the gay voice of its mistress ever carolling at her labour, was
silent, and the closed door and casements seemed to portend some sad
reverse. Stanhope paused an instant; and as he leaned against a rude
fence which enclosed the garden plat, his eye rested on a slender mound
of earth, covered with fresh sods, and surrounded by saplings of willow,
newly planted. It was evidently a grave; and, with a chilled heart, and
excited feelings, he leaped the slight enclosure, fearing, he knew not,
dared not ask himself, what unknown evil.
At that moment, he heard light approaching footsteps; he turned and saw
a female advancing slowly, and too much engrossed by her own thoughts to
have yet observed him. He could not be deceived; he sprang to meet her,
repeating the name of "Luciè;" and an eager exclamation of "Stanhope, is
it possible!" expressed her joyful recognition.
"Why are you so pale and pensive, dear Luciè," asked Stanhope, regarding
her with solicitude, when the first rapturous emotions had subsided;
"and what brings you to this melancholy spot at such a lonely hour?"
"Oh, Arthur," she replied, "you know not half the changes which have
taken place since you were here, or you would not ask why I am pale and
pensive! this is the grave of my kindest relative; till you came, I
almost thought of my last friend!"
"Good heavens! of your aunt, Luciè; of Madame de la Tour?"
A burst of tears, which she could no longer restrain, was Luciè's
answer; her feelings had, of late, been severely tried, and it was many
moments before her own exertions, or the soothings of affection
succeeded in calming her emotions. A long conversation ensued; each had
much to say, and Luciè, in particular, many events to communicate. But
as the narrative was often interrupted by question and remark, and
delayed by the expression of those hopes and sentiments which lovers are
wont to intersperse in their discourse, we shall omit such
superfluities, and sum up, as briefly as possible, all that is necessary
to elucidate our story.
Madame de la Tour's constitution was too delicate to bear the rigor of a
northern climate, and from her first arrival in Acadia, her health began
almost imperceptibly to decline. She never entirely recovered from the
severe indisposition which attacked her in the autumn, though the vigor
and cheerfulness of her mind long resisted the depressing influence of
disease. But she was perfectly aware of her danger even before the bloom
faded from her cheek sufficiently to excite the alarm of those around
her. It was a malady which had proved fatal to many of her family; and
she had too often witnessed its insidious approaches in others, to be
deceived when she was herself the victim. Towards the close of winter,
she was confined entirely to her apartment, and Luciè, and the faithful
Annette, were her kind and unwearied attendants. Her decline was from
that time rapid, but it was endured with a fortitude which had
distinguished her in every situation of life. Still young, and with
much to render existence pleasant and desirable, she met its close with
cheerful resignation, surrounded by the weeping objects of her love. On
Luciè's affectionate heart her untimely death left a deep and lasting
impression. She felt desolate indeed, thus deprived of the only
relative, with whom she could claim connexion and sympathy.
The parental tie so lately discovered, and which had opened to Luciè a
new spring of tenderness, became a source of painful anxiety. Father
Gilbert,--so we shall still call him,--had yielded for a brief season to
the indulgence of those natural feelings, which were awakened by the
recognition of his daughter. But his ascetic habits, and the blind
bigotry of his creed, soon regained their influence over his mind, and
led him to distrust the most virtuous emotions of his heart. The
self-inflicted penance, which estranged him from her, in infancy, he
deemed still binding; and the vow which he had taken to lead a life of
devotion, he thought no circumstances could annul. As the priest of God,
he must conquer every earthly passion; the work to which he was
dedicated yet remained unaccomplished, and the sins of his early life
were still unatoned.
Thus he reasoned, blinded by the false dogmas of a superstitious creed;
and the arguments of Madame de la Tour, the tears and entreaties of
Luciè, had been alike disregarded. The return of the priest, who usually
officiated at the fort, was the signal for him to depart on a tour of
severe duty to the most distant settlements of Acadia. Nothing could
change his determination; he parted from Luciè with much emotion,
solemnly conjuring her to renounce her spiritual errors, and embrace the
faith of the only true church. As his child, he assured her, he should
pray for her happiness, as a heretic, for her conversion; but he
relinquished the authority of a father, which his profession forbade him
to exercise, and left her to the guidance of her own conscience. From
that time, Luciè had neither seen nor heard from him; but solicitude for
his fate pressed heavily on her heart, and she shed many secret and
bitter tears for her unfortunate parent.
Soon after the death of Madame de la Tour, Luciè removed her residence
to the cottage of Annette. The fort was no longer a suitable or pleasant
abode for her. Mons. de la Tour disregarded the wishes which his lady
had expressed in her last illness,--that Luciè might be allowed to
follow her own inclinations,--and renewed his endeavours to force her
into a marriage with De Valette. But his threats and persuasions were
both firmly resisted, and proved equally ineffectual to accomplish his
purpose. De Valette, indeed, had too much pride and generosity to urge
his suit after a decided rejection; and he was vexed by his uncle's
selfish pertinacity. In the early period of his attachment to Luciè, he
accidentally discovered that most of her fortune had become involved in
the private speculations of her guardian, and was probably lost to her.
But he often declared, that he asked no dowry with such a bride, and if
he could obtain her hand, he should never seek redress for the patrimony
she had lost. La Tour, conscious that he had wronged her, and fearing
that no other suitor would prove equally disinterested, was on that
account anxious to promote a union, which would so easily free him from
the penalty of his offence.
Early in the spring, La Tour left St. John's for Newfoundland, hoping to
obtain such assistance from Sir David Kirk, who was then commanding
there, as would enable him to retain possession of his fort. He was
accompanied by De Valette, who intended to sail from thence for his
native country. It was not till after their departure, that Luciè
learned the reduced state of her finances from Jacques, the husband of
Annette, who had long enjoyed the confidence of his lord, and been
conversant with his pecuniary affairs. She was naturally vexed and
indignant at the heartless and unprincipled conduct of her guardian;
though there was a romantic pleasure in the idea, that it would only
test, more fully, the strength and constancy of Stanhope's attachment.
Woman is seldom selfish or ambitious in her affection; Luciè loved, and
she felt still rich in the possession of a true and virtuous heart.
The absence of La Tour was eagerly embraced by D'Aulney, as a favorable
opportunity to accomplish his meditated designs. Scarcely had the former
doubled Cape Sable, when his enemy sailed up the bay with a powerful
force, and anchored before St. John's. The intimidated garrison made
barely a show of resistance, and the long contested fort was surrendered
without a struggle. D'Aulney treated the conquered with a lenity, which
won many to his cause; and he permitted the neighboring inhabitants to
remain undisturbed on a promise of submission, which was readily
accorded to him.
Mr. Broadhead, the chaplain of Madame de la Tour, found refuge in the
cottage of Annette, who charitably disregarded religious prejudices, and
treated him with the utmost kindness and attention, from respect to the
memory of her mistress. But, having lost the protection of his
patroness, he could no longer, as he said, "consent to sojourn in the
tents of the ungodly idolaters," and meditated a return to Scotland. To
facilitate this object, he gladly accepted a passage in Stanhope's
vessel to Boston; from whence, it was probable, he might soon find an
opportunity to recross the Atlantic. The same reasons induced Jacques
and Annette also to become their fellow-passengers; they were wearied of
the toil and uncertainty inseparable from a new settlement, and sighed
for the humble pleasures they had once enjoyed among the gay peasantry
of France.
Every thing thus satisfactorily explained and arranged, no obstacle
remained to delay the marriage of Stanhope and Luciè. The ceremony was
accordingly performed by Mr. Broadhead; and they immediately bade a last
farewell to the wild regions of Acadia. Clear skies and favorable gales,
present enjoyment, and the bright hopes of futurity, rendered their
short voyage delightful, and seemed the happy presage of a calm and
prosperous life. Stanhope, with the fond pride of gratified affection,
presented his bride to his expecting parents; and never was a daughter
received with more cordiality and tenderness. They had known and loved
her, in the pleasant abode of their native land; and their maturer
judgments sanctioned his youthful choice. Every succeeding year
strengthened their confidence and attachment; her sweetness and
vivacity, her exemplary goodness and devotion to her husband, created a
union of feeling and interest, which was the joy of their declining
years.
The happiness of Arthur and Luciè was permanent; and, if not wholly
exempted from the evils which ever cling to this state of trial, their
virtuous principles were an unfailing support, their mutual tenderness,
an exhaustless consolation. The wealth and distinction, which once
courted them, were unregretted; the green vales of England, and the
vine-covered hills of France, lingered in their remembrance, only as a
bright and fleeting vision. It was their ambition to fulfil the duties
of moral and intellectual beings; and the rugged climate of New-England
became the chosen home of their affections.
* * * * *
We feel pledged, by the rules of honorable authorship, to satisfy any
curiosity which may exist, respecting the remaining characters of our
narrative; and if the reader's interest is already wearied, he is at
liberty to omit this brief, concluding paragraph.
De Valette embarked at Newfoundland, in a vessel bound for some English
port, which was driven by stress of weather, on the Irish coast. The
crew barely escaped with their lives, and the young Frenchman, by a
freak of fortune, was thrown upon the hospitality of a gentleman, who
cultivated an hereditary estate in the vicinity. The kind urgency of his
host could not be resisted; and the attractions of an only child bade
fair to heal the wounds which Luciè's coldness had inflicted. His stay
was protracted from day to day; and in short with the usual constancy of
despairing lovers,--he soon learned to think the fair daughter of the
"emerald isle" even more charming than the dark-eyed maiden of his own
sunny clime. Her smiles were certainly more encouraging; and, at the end
of a few weeks, De Valette led her to the bridal altar.
La Tour was disappointed in his application to Sir David Kirk, and, for
a time, his tide of fortune seemed entirely to have ebbed. He again
visited Boston, but did not meet with a very cordial reception, though a
few merchants entrusted him with a considerable sum of money, on some
private speculation. This he disposed of, in his own way, and never took
the trouble to render any account, or make the least restitution to the
owners. The death of D'Aulney, however, which happened in the course of
a few years, reversed his prospects, and reinstated him in all his
possessions. He was firmly established in the sole government of Acadia;
and, soon after, he contracted a second marriage with the object of his
early affection,--the still beautiful widow of M. d'Aulney. With no
rival to dispute his authority, his remaining life was passed in
tranquillity; the colony, relieved from strife and contention, began to
flourish, and his descendants for many years enjoyed their inheritance
unmolested.
Arthur Stanhope, a few months after his union with Luciè, was appointed
the agent of some public business, which required a voyage to Pemaquid.
The recollection of father Gilbert forcibly recurred to him, when he
found himself so near the shores of Mount Desart,--a place which the
priest had frequented, probably for its very loneliness, or perhaps,
from some peculiar associations. It was possible he might again find him
there, or hear some tidings which would relieve Luciè's anxiety
respecting him; and, in this hope, he one day sought its sequestered
shades. The sun was declining, when he moored his little bark, and
proceeded alone through the same path, which he remembered, on a former
occasion, to have trodden. The open plain soon burst upon his view; and,
to his surprise, the prostrate wooden cross was again erected in the
midst of it. A figure knelt at its foot; Arthur approached,--the tall,
attenuated form, the dark, flowing garments could not be mistaken;--it
was indeed father Gilbert. Supposing him engaged in some act of
devotion, Stanhope waited several moments, silent, and unwilling to
disturb him. But he continued perfectly motionless;--Arthur advanced
still closer;--one hand grasped the cross, the other held a small
crucifix, which he always wore suspended from his neck. A glow of
[Transcriber's Note: Word illegible in original] rested on his pale
features; his eyes were closed, and a triumphant smile lingered on his
parted lips. Arthur started, and his blood chilled as he gazed at him;
he touched his hand,--it was cold and stiff;--he pressed his fingers on
his heart,--it had ceased to beat!--Father Gilbert was no more!
The spirit seemed to have just burst its weary bondage, and without a
struggle; the grassy turf was his dying couch, and the breeze of the
desert sighed a requiem for his departing soul!
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Rivals of Acadia, by Harriet Vaughan Cheney