_Under the Initialed Tree._
Coming at last to the island, they saw the remains of a camp fire,
and fluttering by the side of the charred rocks Lucy discovered among
the ashes the remains of a half-burnt parchment, upon which had been
written an address, and still upon the fragment, but discolored, was
a name which to Lucy had been lost but never forgotten. To Caleb in
breathless haste she ran with the paper.
“Look,” she cried, “‘tis the name of LeClare, of my Edmond! My heart
tells me truly, he is here in the lakes of St. Francis. Among the
islands of the Archipelago we must go search for him. True love will
seek out the path of his wanderings, and before the passing of another
sun two thirsting spirits shall unite, to wander no more in darkness.”
Among the trees on the point of the island, curling upwards in
ringlets of blue, rose the smoke from the tepees of the Indians. Old
and decrepit, but ever a friend to the white man, their chieftain,
Caristitee, sat in the smoke of his camp fire.
“Two suns gone by, my daughter, he sat where you are now reclining,
a paleface wearied of rowing, another sad-hearted and restless. At
dawn very early they departed. Down past the islands and marshes their
boat glides on like a phantom, and only at night are they seen, by the
blazing camp fires, as they rest from their endless going.”
Lucy listened, her heart filled with sweetness, to the sayings of the
good Caristitee. Overhead the skies shed a lustrous light, and out
on the waters around them a stillness had come with the darkness.
Filled was her heart with sweet dreams of love, and till the dawn of
the coming day Lucy slept, her head upon the shoulder of Caleb, not
awakening till the sun in the east came up in the midst of Arcadia. At
this early hour in the hazy light of dawn they saw a column of smoke
away on a distant island. Thither they headed their course. Drawing
nearer among the cluster of islands, they watched for the camp of the
strangers. Quickly the day was passing; no sight had they caught of the
boatmen, and Caleb had tired of the rowing. Lucy scanned closely every
island in passing, piercing with a searching look the rush banks that
lined the channels through which the boat silently glided. Hopefully
she encouraged poor Caleb, saying love would reward his exertions
and lighten the way of their going. At last they turned their boat
homeward, through lakes where myriads of water lilies swayed and dipped
with the waves as they came, then reaching the shoals of the Salmon,
the sand bars across which they were passing shone white through the
clear, limpid waters. Soon Caleb, wearied of rowing, threw himself down
at last to rest himself upon the banks of the Point of old Tyno.
Restless, still following her heart’s longing, Lucy sought out again
the grove and the tree where before she had missed her lover by only
a minute too late. In a moment of passionate abandon she threw herself
at the foot of the tree, held by memories strong, so closely were they
linked with the past.
Into the same bay, coming nearer, ever nearer, darted the boat which
moved so swiftly, urged on its course by the sinewy arms of the
oarsman. Lightly from the seat in the stern sprang the athletic figure
of the stranger. Hurriedly he looked about the shore, then leisurely
sauntered toward the grove, where upon another day he had come and gone
so mysteriously. Not far had he been when before him he saw, extended
at the foot of a basswood tree, the figure of a girlish maiden. One arm
encircled the tree trunk, while the other lay limp at her side.
At a respectful distance stood the stranger. “She is asleep—it is
Lucy,” he stammered, “and under this tree! What can it mean? Lucy, I
love you! My darling! why can’t I tell it you now?” he exclaimed, and
unconsciously he outstretched his arms.
By the angel of love she had been awakened and told that her lover was
near. In an instant his manly form was before her. “It is I, Lucy. Be
not afraid, but first tell me, why are you here?”
“I am free, Edmond,” she cried, “and I love you, and I came here to
tell it alone, that I should wait for you now and forever.” With a
great flood of joy, Edmond clasped to the heart his Lucy. Then they
knelt as on that day of yore, and the stroke which then was omitted now
they cut in the frame on the tree.
[Illustration]