University of Virginia Library

1. CASTINE.
CHAPTER I.

“Saturday night and Lucy not yet returned,”
exclaimed the minister of H—, in a severe and
impatient tone, as he lingered at the open door
of his dwelling. The sun was down, but a few
clouds still glowed in the red and beautiful light,
and the little valley beneath, the sweet village of
H—with its fields and gardens, was still beautiful
in the last flush of brightness. Yet to the
dwellers in that quiet vale, the weekly season of
care and toil was already past, the sacredness of
the sabbath had come upon them, amid the gathering
shadows of the early twilight.

The minister still leaned in the door, looking
anxiously down the silent streets, while the dusk
of evening was advancing, and the lights began
to gleam through the village. “Methinks our
daughter is becoming wayward and careless of
late,” he continued as he closed the door, with a
displeased countenance, and turned again into
the parlor.

Mrs. Everett was at that moment placing a
lamp upon the stand, beside the bible and hymn

book that already adorned it. At this last remark
of her husband, she raised her mild blue eye to
his countenance, with an expression of some surprise.
“Our daughter went to tarry a few hours
with her friend Jane, so at least she told me, and
I have not been wont to doubt her word.”

“But why does she linger so long?” interrupted
Mr. Everett. “The sun went down an hour ago,
and what will the congregation say, when the
minister's daughter profanes holy time? And
Sarah,” he added, lowering his voice and bending
his eye with a mysterious expression on the countenance
of Mrs. Everett, “I bode no good for the
child herself at this hour.”

“True, true,” exclaimed the mother, rising up
hastily, while her countenance kindled with an
indescribable expression of maternal anxiety.
“I had for once forgotten the Indians”—

“No—no, Sarah, it is not the Indians I fear,
but a more deadly enemy. Have you not noticed
how, from the time the young stranger from the
north first came among us, our Lucy's heart hath
been going after other things than her parents on
earth, and her Father in heaven? It hath pressed
upon me long, that there is one whom she
loves better than these. Nay, Sarah,” he continued,
“why look at me thus, have you yourself
seen nothing of this?”

“Never,” replied the mother. “Lucy has
never breathed to me aught of the young Canadian,
and even when every one else is inquiring
into the cause of his mysterious appearance and
his protracted visit, I have noticed that she has
been silent. But if she has given you her confidence,
surely you ought not to have withheld it
from her mother.”

“Lucy has told me nothing,” replied the clergyman,
“but I have watched her closely; and
when day after day, as she sits with us, and her
eye is on her needle, I have read her countenance,
I have seen that her soul was full of visions—not
the calm visions of the better land, but warm, unhallowed
dreams of earth. I have seen her eye
kindle, and her lip tremble with smiles and even
unconscious whispers; and if I did but ask her of
her thoughts, such a deep and sudden blush would
come over her face, as a pious and free hearted
maiden need never wear. And I have seen it too,
Sarah, even in the house of God; her eye has a fixed
and vacant gaze, which shows that her heart
is not there, and when the Canadian comes up the
aisle her face grows flushed, even though she sees
him not.”

“Mr. Everett,” exclaimed the mother with unwonted
animation, “you do indeed wrong our beloved
Lucy. Little as I know of the schemes and
devices of the great world without, I can at least
read that one gentle spirit, whose every motive
and feeling I have so long studied. I know that
my Lucy's heart is a shrine of pure and elevated
affections”—

“Then so much the more carefully should we
guard them, Sarah; she has a wild and romantic
fancy, that may lead these affections astray.
There is something too, in the mien and look of
the elegant stranger, singularly attractive even to
me.”

“And is it strange, that one who has been reared
amid the simple retirement of this little village,
should not regard with feelings of perfect
indifference the accomplished stranger whom you
yourself admire?”

“No, Sarah—it is not strange—but wrong.
Would it not be wrong for the daughter of a Puritan
minister, to give away her heart's best affections
to a stranger, and a Papist? I know the
slightest breath will kindle the enthusiasm of a
young heart like hers; and do you trust to the
strength of her love for us, and for the pure religion
in which she has been educated? Sarah,
Sarah, you have too soon forgotten Lucy McGregor.”

Mrs. Everett started as though some sudden
light had flashed on her mind, and the clergyman
continued to pace the floor in evident agitation.
“I do not say,” he continued, after a
few moments silence, “that, even were she put
to the trial, our beloved child would ever forsake
us, to become the wife of a superstitious
and bigoted Catholic. I cannot believe she
would thus break our hearts; but, Sarah, years
of grief taught me that it was a bitter thing,
to throw away, on some hopeless object, the
strong ties of early love. I know you think
me suspicious; but I have had cruel lessons,
and he of whom we speak, doth strangely remind
me of one whom once we both too well
knew.”

At that moment the little latch of the gate
without was heard to fall. “Good evening,
sir,” said a low, subdued voice, and presently
after the door of the parlor opened, and the
minister's daughter stood before her parents.

There was something in her appearance well
fitted to strengthen those apprehensions, which
had just agitated the heart of the father; something,
aside from that extreme beauty, which
in a world like this, must ever excite anxiety

for its possessor. She had closed the door, and
stood for a moment leaning against it, like one
overcome with some painful exertion. A flush
appeared on her countenance, brighter than the
mere tint of health and beauty, and though her
eye was downcast, there was visible some deeply
excited feeling, seeking to conceal itself beneath
an air of indifference.

“Is this well, Lucy Everett?—Is it well?” said
the clergyman, seating himself at the table, and
assuming an expression of sternness, as he gazed
on the countenance of his beautiful child. There
was no reply.

“Come hither my child,” said Mrs. Everett,
“where have you been, and why have you tarried
so long?” Lucy approached the table, the flush
deepened on her countenance, and she raised her
hand before her large, dark eyes, apparently for
the purpose of shading them from the sudden
light. “You know, mother, I have been with
Jane this afternoon,” she said in a tone of affected
carelessness, “and I was not aware that it was
so late.” She still stood by the table.

“But, Lucy, you are surely not going out again,”
continued Mrs. Everett. “Take off your bonnet,
and come and sit down with us. We have waited
for you already.”

The young lady hastened to obey her mother;
and then drawing her chair to the table near her,
she leaned her head upon her hand, so that her
features were entirely concealed from Mr. Everett
by the dark ringlets that fell over them, and at
the same time taking up the little hymn book,
she opened it and began to read in silence.

“Lucy, my dear, you may close the book,”
said Mr. Everett, after a few moments silence.

“I have a few simple questions to be answered.”
The book was closed, but the countenance of
the young lady was still inclined towards the
table.

“Lucy, with whom have you spent your whole
time since you left our dwelling?”

“I have spent the afternoon with Jane Grant,
sir, as I have before assured you,”—replied the
maiden.

“And was it Jane Grant who accompanied you
to the gate?” said her father, bending his face
towards hers. There was no reply. “Lucy,”
he continued, raising his voice and speaking with
much earnestness, “they who walk with you at
this late hour, must be no strangers to me. I
must know why you have lingered so long abroad,
profaning the sacredness of holy time in unhallowed
ramblings.”

“The sun was far above the hill, sir, when I
left the village, but I came by the forest path;
and it was later than I had imagined it would be
when I left the valley.”

“Ah, Lucy, but you came not alone. Would
you deceive me?” The anguish evinced by the
father as he uttered these words, seemed only to
increase the agitation of the daughter; for a few
moments she covered her face with her hands,
while tear after tear moistened her cheek.

“My father,” she at length said, raising her eye,
and assuming an appearance of calmness, “he
who came with me through the forest path this
evening, was the young Catholic stranger.” Her
voice trembled, and she paused.

“And how long,” said Mr. Everett, with a forced
calmness, “since this Papist youth has been
the chosen companion of your walks?”

An expression of unwonted pride curled the lip
of Lucy Everett. “By accident, sir, I found
myself this evening intrusted with the life of
this stranger—and Papist though he is, I rejoice
that no pride, or foolish delicacy prevented
me from fulfilling my duty. My father, I have
not been wont to deceive you, but more I cannot
and must not tell you, for I promised, as I myself
hope for kindness, that I would not.”

Mr. Everett gazed on her countenance with unfeigned
astonishment. He could not for a moment
doubt her sincerity, and though every word
of her explanation had only deepened the mystery,
there was that in her countenance which
at once convinced him that further inquiries were
useless.

The next morning was the sabbath, and a more
beautiful one never dawned on the earth. The
dwelling of the minister was considerably remote
from the village, and just at the foot of a little
hill, covered with evergreen woods. In front,
the ground was gradually descending, and the
green slope was occasionally diversified with
neat houses and gardens. A distinct view could
also be had from the front window, of the church
spire in the valley below, and the small cluster of
houses surrounding it, which had received the
appellation of “the village.” It was May, the
air was exceedingly soft and fragrant, and Lucy
Everett had thrown open the window of the little
parlor, and stood leaning over the sash, gathering
a bunch of roses from the bush beneath. She
had just spread the damask treasure on the window
seat, and was endeavoring to arrange them
in a graceful bouquet, when the sound of the “first
bell” came swelling in clear and solemn notes,

from the valley below. At that moment, Mrs.
Everett entered the room. Lucy perceived at
once that there was something unusual in the
manner of her mother. A deep shade of sadness
hung over her usually placid brow, and her eye
was moist with tears; but the daughter dared not
ask the cause of her disquietude, lest it should
lead to a recurrence of embarrassing inquiries.

Lucy was sitting in the window, and Mrs. Everett,
after taking from a locker near the door a
small and closely wrapped case of ivory, approached
and seated herself beside her. Covering
after covering was removed, she slowly unclasped
the case, and at length Lucy perceived
that her mother was gazing with looks of intense
emotion, upon a small miniature picture. It was
set in gold and brilliants, and she felt her curiosity
strongly excited concerning the object which
had power to awaken such agitating interest, in so
placid a spirit.

“God forgive me,” murmured the mother, with
a strong effort, at last subduing her feelings.
“These idle tears do ill become the sacredness
of an hour like this. It was not to mourn for the
long perished flower of Glenville that I made this
effort but for the living—God be praised, my own
Lucy Everett is yet among the living. My
daughter, you are opening again in our hearts,
wounds which long years have scarce had power
to heal, and much I fear, beginning to cast away
from your confidence, the counsellors whom God
hath given you. Child, child, you are standing
strong in the might of your own frail spirit, but
look you here, if one like this should fall, why
should Lucy Everett, standing on the same brink,
be fearless of evil?”

As she spoke, she placed the miniature before
the eye of her daughter, and every other feeling
was at once forgotten in admiration of its beauty.
It was the picture of a young maiden, apparently
not more than sixteen; and such a look of sweetness
and innocence, Lucy felt she had never before
beheld. The beautiful lips were parted with
smiles; and she met and returned the speaking
glance of that soft blue eye, till a living spirit
seemed before her, one that had known no sorrow
and no sin, yet meek, and mild, and rich in
all the depths of human tenderness.

“And so young and beautiful,” exclaimed Lucy,
as with feelings of intense admiration she still continued
to gaze upon it. “Blessed spirit! Who
would dream that sorrow and death were your
destiny?” and the warm tears of pity fell unheeded
over the smiling features of the picture.

“And why mourn, daughter,” replied Mrs.
Everett, “for the vain and fleeting beauty that
hath long since perished from the earth? Think
of the gem within—the living imperishable spirit
that was dimmed and broken within”—Her
voice faultered. It was only for a moment and
then in her usual calm, impressive tones, she
commenced her narrative.

“Lucy Mc Gregor was the companion of my
early youth, and alas, the idol too, to which I offered
up those affections of the soul that belong
alone to the Almighty. She was your father's
cousin, and but a child when I first saw and loved
her. At that period she came to her uncle's house
in England, an unprotected orphan, from the
Scottish hills. He received and cherished her
as his own child, and to your father she was ever

as a sister, only and well-beloved—perhaps even
more. They were both bred together in the doctrines
of the Puritans. Lucy McGregor had
been taught all those pure and sacred precepts,
which we have sought to instil into your mind—
she was gentle and docile, and seemed to return
in full measure the love that was so freely lavished
upon her; but, Lucy, hear me—she whom we had
deemed so affectionate and pious, at last died an
alien from the church, and from those who had
loved her as their own souls.”

An involuntary exclamation burst from the lip
of her auditress, but Mrs. Everett continued her
narrative.

“Even from the period when she first came
among us, with the blue eye and golden hair of
her clime, Lucy was ever one that the world called
beautiful. God had endowed her too with a
mind of noble powers, and with a rich and rare
gift of winning to herself the hearts of her fellow
creatures. Ah! `How did the gold become dim,
and the most fine gold changed!' Ere Lucy had
attained her nineteenth year, the noble family of
C—first took up their residence in our vicinity.
And from this period did we date the beginning
of that misery which afterwards overwhelmed our
hearts; for, daughter, mark me—from this period
did our Lucy first delight in the company of the
unholy, the vain and proud ones of the world,
more than in the lowly and despised whom God
hath chosen out of the world; from this period
did she begin to contemn the restraints of her
pious home, the hedge with which God in mercy
had guarded the way of her youth. I cannot tell
you now how step by step this change was
wrought; indeed it had proceeded far, ere those

who of all others should have shared her confidence,
were at all aware of its existence. The
family of the castle had seen and admired her for
her beauty, and they were not long in learning,
that notwithstanding her present lowly lot, Lucy
McGregor was the daughter of an ancient Scottish
clan, and that the name of many a renowned
chieftain graced her lineage.

“Among the persons of distinction who visited
the castle, there came one—a youth from a foreign
land, whom Lucy regarded with deep interest;
mayhap such as Lucy Everett cherishes
for this unknown Catholic. To enter into any
particulars concerning him, would surely lead to
details and feelings unbefitting this holy day;
some hour less sacred I may tell you all. Suffice
it then, my daughter, that though of the blood
which men call noble, he of whom I speak was
of a light and profane spirit, and withal a proud
contemner of `the faith once delivered unto the
saints.'

“Meanwhile we all saw, and mourned in secret,
that the orphan's heart was becoming estranged
from her early home, and the friends of her childhood.
Solitude was preferred to the company
she once held so dear; her joyful laugh was no
more heard among us; she seemed looking forth
to some brighter destiny than our love could give
her. The stranger at length sought her hand of
her uncle and guardian, and was refused; for,
Lucy, how think you could a minister of the true
faith, thus give up the child of his affections and
prayers, to a stranger and a Papist, high-born
though he was, and gifted in all worldly graces?

“At length it was rumored through our dwellings,
that the castle was soon to be deserted of

its gay occupants, and we all rejoiced—all save
Lucy. The day after their departure, I set out
once more for my wonted visit to the inhabitants
of a few poor hamlets, that lay at no great distance
from our village. It was nearly sunset ere my
return, and my path lay through an unfrequented
and solitary lane, it was therefore with surprise
that when arrived within a mile of our dwelling,
I perceived a lady in a rich traveling dress, rapidly
approaching me. She was closely veiled, and
yet there was something in her form and movements
strangely familiar. `Lucy McGregor,' I
exclaimed, recognizing her with astonishment, as
trusting to her disguise she endeavored to pass
me unnoticed. I threw my arm around her and an
undefined foreboding of evil almost overpowered
me. My apprehensions indeed were not without
reason. Upon the plea of illness, Lucy had
for some days past excused herself from the
company of her friends, and the excessive paleness
of her face, as I drew the veil from it,
convinced me that her indisposition was not
feigned. But this only rendered the circumstance
of her present appearance yet more suspicious.
I intreated her to return with me.

`No—no, Sarah,' she replied, with a strange
smile, `I cannot go back—it is too late now.'
Unable to understand her, with a painful oppression
at my heart, I walked by her side in
silence. At length, in some measure suppressing
my feelings, I endeavored to speak of
the pleasure we should experience in resuming
our excursions to the hamlet I had just
visited, for the vicinity of the many gay youth
at the castle, had for some time past interrupted
them; but suddenly a long and agonizing

sigh, caused me to stop. She was leaning
against the stile, her face pale as the snow-wreath
of her native hills, and there beamed
from it such an expression of indescribable agony,
as I trust these eyes may never again witness.

`It is too late now—too late,' she repeated
in the same despairing tones. `I am no longer
Lucy McGregor.” There was a pause,
and then came the fearful truth. She whom I
saw before me was the wife, yes the true and
plighted wife of the Catholic stranger. `But
I have loved you and my cousin, and my more
than father,' she continued, without regarding
my amazement, `how fervently I may not now
tell you, but I have been dazzled—blinded and
deceived—there is no more happiness for me.”

“And now on looking up, we perceived a
stately equipage coming down the hill before
us. Then did I intreat, and pray—aye, on my
bended knees I besought her, by the love I had
borne her from our childhood, by her duty to the
friends that still lived, and by the tears and prayers
of those who were already in heaven, not for
the sake of a few fleeting honors, thus to cast
away the blessing of God—but it was in vain,”
continued Mrs. Everett, wiping away the dew
which even the remembrance of that long past
agony had gathered on her brow. “It was in
vain. One long, bitter farewell she wept upon
my neck, and I saw her no more. Three years
after this, Lucy Mc Gregor died among strangers
in a strange land, and the prayers of the corrupted
priests were murmured over the departed
spirit of one, who from her infancy had been

nursed in the purity of the true religion. Many
years we mourned for her in bitterness of spirit,
and he who had been to her as a second father
died, and for her his grey hairs went down in
sorrow to the grave.”

Mrs. Everett paused, and now the bell sounding
again from the distant valley, announced the
hour of morning service.