Chapter XVIII

"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.