University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The duties of the sabbath were over, and the
shades of twilight were softening the beauty of
the landscape, when Mrs. Everett and her daughter
went forth, as they were wont to do of a sabbath
evening, to walk a few moments among the
large old elms that shaded the path to the village.
They were both silent. Mrs. Everett's usually
gentle spirit had been deeply agitated both by
the task she had that morning imposed upon herself,
and by the mysterious conduct of her daughter;
and it was evident she had not yet recovered
her composure. Lucy herself was apparently
the subject of some stronger excitement than the
tale of Lucy McGregor alone could have aroused;
she had several times essayed to speak, but the
words died on her lips.

“This is a lonely path at evening,” she at
length remarked, as if seeking to draw the conversation
to the subject of her late mysterious
conduct, but the observation failed of its effect.
The silence still continued. “Mother,” said
Lucy, with a sudden effort, “I fear I have appeared
to you an undutiful child. You would
not have told me the sorrowful story of Lucy
McGregor, had you not believed me in danger
of some strange offence. But you are mistaken.

I do not mean to say that I am more innocent
than was Lucy McGregor,” she hesitated and
blushed deeply, “but I have no temptation placed
before me, I mean none like those which led her
astray.”

“And yet,” said Mrs. Everett, gazing full upon
her countenance, “can you say that your feelings
are not at all interested in the stranger, who was
as you yourself acknowledge, the companion of
your walk last evening?”

There was a short silence. “No, mother, I
will not say it, I am deeply interested in this
youth, not merely because of the mystery that
hangs over his name and character.” She added
with much earnestness, “No, mother, it is because
his safety, nay, his life, has been placed by accident
in my own hand.”

Mrs. Everett paused in astonishment. “Do
you speak only to tantalize my curiosity, Lucy,
or am I to look for some explanation of your
words?”

“To you, my dear mother,” replied the young
lady, “I can confide this secret. To my father
I have promised that I would not, even as I
valued the life of the stranger. You will not
betray it, mother, even to him?”

“Not if you have promised, Lucy, but methinks
you were exceedingly imprudent to make such
engagements. Do not, however, delay any longer
the explanation of this mystery.”

“You know then, mother,” continued Lucy,
with a slight embarrassment in her manner,
“Jane's home is situated so far out of the village,
that the path through the woods is almost as direct
as this. I have always chosen it because it

is far more quiet and pleasant. I mean always
till—of late.”

“And why have you abandoned it of late?” said
her mother.

“Because I had reason to believe it was a favorite
place of resort to the gentleman we were
speaking of. I had twice met him there, as I
supposed by accident, but Jane Grant soon after
found in our little bower a copy of French verses
which I knew he must have dropped, and I cannot
think it was entirely accidental, for my own
name was upon them.”

“And what were they?” said Mrs. Everett hastily.
“Could you read them, Lucy?”

“I could, and I rejoiced for once that Jane
knew nothing of the language in which they were
written. The words were beautiful, but they
were not true, for they spoke of a being as sinless
and lovely as the angels of heaven, and gave to it
the name of a frail and erring mortal. Until last
evening, I have never since walked through the
woods.”

“And why did you then?”

“Jane was to accompany me part of the way,
and she insisted upon taking the forest path. I
dared not tell her my scruples, neither did I think
it at all probable that at this hour I should again
meet the stranger. Jane parted with me on the
chestnut knoll, and just as she was quite hidden
from sight among the trees, on turning my head
to the little arbor we had fitted up for our own
accommodation, I beheld the stranger himself—
he was standing just in the edge of it. It was
the third time we had met precisely in the same
place. I would have turned, but I saw that his
eye was upon me, and knew myself to be just in

the center of the woods, so I moved on with a
quickened pace, without once averting my eye
from the path, until I had nearly reached the edge
of the thicket. Being exceedingly fatigued, I now
began to move slower, and it was well that I did.
For some time I had perceived before me a singular
object lying a little on one side of the path.
As I drew near, my curiosity increased; and I
was turning aside a moment to satisfy it, when a
slight movement in the adjoining bushes arrested
my steps. Do you wonder, dear mother, that my
blood ran cold with horror, when I found myself
standing within a few feet of a sleeping Indian,
a warrior too, and armed with tomahawk and
arrows!”

Mrs. Everett threw her arm around her child,
as if seeking to protect her from the threatened
danger. “Why did you not tell me this before?
We must go home, Lucy,” she coutinued, “it is
no time to be walking now,” and she drew her
daughter's arm in her's, as they moved hastily towards
the gate of the cottage.

It was quite dark when they had reached the
porch, and it was not until Mrs. Everett had closely
locked and barred the outer door, that Lucy
found opportunity to renew her narrative.

“I was just hesitating what to do,” she continued,
in reply to her mother's inquiries, “when
the sound of distant voices met my ear. They
seemed rapidly approaching—retreat was impossible;
if they were foes, my only security lay in
concealment. Mother, have you ever noticed the
hollow oak that stands to the right of the path,
just as you enter the valley of wild flowers?”

“Yes—yes, go on,” said Mrs. Everett with impatience.

“It was only a few rods behind me,” continued
Lucy, “and I was soon concealed within it. The
voices had all the time been approaching, and
were now so near that I could distinctly distinguish
their words; I was surprised too to perceive
that they spoke in French.”

“And who were they, Lucy, and what did they
say?” inquired Mrs. Everett, whose interest in
the narrative had every moment increased.

“Who they were, mother, I do not know,” replied
Lucy, “but as to their words, I remember
them as distinctly as though I had but this moment
heard them.”

“Hertel de Rouville,” said the first voice, “he
is a noble and gallant youth; we should be well
convinced that he is a traitor, ere we come to
such desperate measures.”

“And what do you call noble and gallant?”
exclaimed the other and rougher tone. “If to
betray to the enemy the counsels of his party, is
noble, I grant you that he is so; if to fold up his
arms, and sit down in the camp of the foe, is gallant,
I grant you, he is a gallant youth.”

“But, De Rouville,” continued the first voice,
“what proof have you that he has betrayed our
counsels? I thought that Vandreuil himself despatched
him to the enemy.”

“As a spy, not as a traitor,” replied the other.
“His orders were to go from one end of New-England
to the other, to seek its weak and defenceless
points of attack, to reconnoitre its strong
places, and see where the ambushed foe might
best hide themselves; and Vandreuil is informed
that he lingers here to obtain an opportunity of
opening our plans to the governor. At all events,”
he continued in a lower tone, “Vandreuil assures

me that a little of this same gallant's blood will
contribute materially to the betterment of our
cause, that is, if secretly drawn; and Hertel de
Rouville is not the man who hesitates at his bidding.
But if you have any scruples, Beaumont,”
he added, with a tone of half suppressed laughter,
“we will call on the old Penobscot priests for
absolution.”

“The other voice now became so low that I
could scarcely distinguish the words, but I soon
perceived that they were speaking of the sleeping
Indian.”

“No, Beaumont, do not arouse him yet,” said
the rougher voice. “Wait till the victim is in
sight, he will only trouble us. I know that he is
in the forest; and, I believe, in this vicinity. Unless
he is previously alarmed, he will undoubtedly
pass this spot.”

“I heard no more for several moments, and
ventured carefully to peep from my concealment.
By the twilight, I saw two military figures reposing
on the ground, near the Indian. Happily their
faces were from me, and unless my tread aroused
them, I yet hoped to escape. At length I found
myself at such a distance, that the shadowing
branches hid me from their sight. I paused a
moment, and considered what to do. One single,
foolish moment, I remembered that the youth
was a Catholic and a stranger, and I a Puritan
maiden; but soon came better feelings, and I
shuddered when I thought of the blood of one so
young and unoffending, poured out by the merciless
Indian. I resolved to warn him of his danger.
Mother, was it wrong?”

“No, my child. It was such a deed as became

a christian woman. And where did you find the
youth?”

“Near the spot where I had left him. He was
stretched on the bank by the arbor, in a kind of
careless repose; and was gazing on the sky with
such intensity, that he took no notice of me until
I was near enough to speak to him in a low voice.
He started up, and looked extremely surprised.
At any other moment pride would have withheld
me, but the dreadful conviction of his danger
rested on my mind. I scarcely recollect my
words, but I remember I spoke of life and its
sweetness, for I felt that this strange intrusion
needed an apology. He heard me with respectful
silence, but I saw he could scarce conceal his
astonishment. Just then there was a slight rustling
in the leaves; but it was only the evening
wind.

“Stranger,” said I, “have you any deadly enemies,
any who seek your life?”

“Doubtless I have,” he replied with some agitation,
“for I have found that deadly enemies are
easily and quickly made. Fair lady,” he said, approaching
me, “I see you have come on an errand
of mercy. There is danger then!” He
paused, and without waiting for further inquires,
I hastened to relate to him every particular of the
scene I had just witnessed. Meanwhile we were
hastening rapidly towards that part of the forest,
from which I had first entered; and just as I had
finished my recital, we were opposite the dwelling
of my friend Jane. I would have hastened
in thither for security; but the stranger forbade
me, even as I valued the life I sought to save.
The light from the window gleamed upon his
face, and I saw that he was deeply agitated.

Here we paused a moment. “Lady,” said he
“my life is a weary one, and I have long deemed
it a light thing to die; but I would rather find
my death in fair and honorable fight, than fall
unknown and unwept into the secret grave that
Vandreuil has prepared for me. A temporary
concealment is now my only security. When
the enemy find their search here fruitless, they
will pursue me in some other place of my resort,
and were I to fly, I might probably fall into their
hands.”

“Then come to my father's house,” said I, “he
is kind and noble hearted, and would sooner die
than betray you.

“He looked at me a moment, then mournfully
shaking his head, “No—no. It will not be safe,”
he said. “Your father must never know of my
concealment,—promise me that he shall not.”
The safety of my mysterious companion was now
my only object, and solemnly and unhesitatingly
I promised it. “But you must not linger here,”
I added, “you need concealment until the pursuit
is over; and I will seek it for you, even at
the risk of my father's displeasure.” We were
now walking through the village, and I quickly
revolved in my mind the various places of concealment
with which I was familiar. I knew
there was one on the pine hill behind us, singularly
well calculated for our purpose, for in
our childish games it had often afforded me
a secure hiding place. I described it to the
stranger, so that he could not mistake it, and we
parted at the gate. Mother, have I not accounted
to you for all that seemed wrong in my conduct?”

“But, my child, think of the engagements you
have made, to conceal the whole from your father!

The conversation in the forest was full of strange
meaning, and ought not to be withheld from him.
And, Lucy, who can this stranger be, who seems
a person of so much importance to the Canadian
Governor, and why should he fear so benevolent
a man as your father? If he were innocent, sure
he need not fear him. Who knows but this very
stranger whom you are secreting without his
knowledge, may be plotting our ruin?”

“Oh, no,” exclaimed the young lady, repressing
a cold thrill of suspicion, “it cannot be—he is too
frank and generous for treachery. Mother, do not
betray him. I know I have involved myself in a
strange task, and yet if I had refused it, the tomahawk
of the Indian would even now have been
stained with his blood.”

“But did you make no engagements of further
assistance?” said Mrs. Everett.

“Only that I would obtain all possible intelligence
of his foe, and convey the first news to the
place of his retreat.” But at that moment Mr.
Everett's voice was heard in an adjoining room,
and presently after his entrance put a period to
their conversation.