Chapter XVII

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.