Chapter XXII

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