Tales of the puritans The regicides, The fair pilgrim, Castine |
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| 7. | CHAPTER VII. |
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 | CHAPTER VII. Tales of the puritans |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
It was a sleepless night for more than one in
the palace of Castine; and ere the pale beam of
morning had looked through her curtains, Lucy
had arisen from her weary couch, to await with
renewed fearfulness the crisis of her doom. It
was not until the hour of noon, that Antoinette
again presented herself. Her finger was on her
lip as she entered; and for some minutes only a
few trivial remarks were uttered, evidently intended
for the ears of those without.
“I have confided our secret to Madame La
Framboise,” she at last whispered, drawing her
to a remote corner of the room,—“and she hath
promised her aid to the uttermost.”
“And is there any hope, dear Antoinette?”
exclaimed Lucy, breathing quick and gaspingly.
“Be calm—be calm, my friend,”—whispered
the other. “It is to your own composure and
presence of mind, that you must now trust for
deliverance. My brother hath this morning unexpectedly
returned from Quebec. Fear him
not, Lucy. I know he hath the name of a proud
and haughty youth. He hath been much in the
high palaces of the earth until his mien hath indeed
caught something of their loftiness, but
“And is it him that you would persuade to
assist us?”
“No, Lucy. For the world, I would not have
it said that he connived at this project. The
shame—the disgrace, must all be mine. But no
—to relieve a sister in distress, be she catholic
or heretic, friend or enemy, will never degrade
the high purity of a woman's honor;—and even if
it would, for you I could bear it joyfully. But,
Lucy, hear me. The Wassaic is of my mother's
kindred, and Louis and I love well a moonlight
sail along those waters. They are counted safe
at present, and when the dews begin to fall, I will
ask him to row me to the dwelling of the Wassaic,
the chief of my mother's tribe.”
“And how is it possible, dear Antoinette, even
could I escape from these guards, to accompany
you unseen by him?”
“You cannot, Lucy,” replied the other, in a still
lower tone, “you cannot accompany me, you must
go in my stead.”
Lucy felt at once that the project was not
hopeless. The French maiden was tall and
slender like herself; and though her complexion
and whole countenance, presented a striking
contrast to her own, now pale and delicate,
from recent illness, the plan was yet worth
attempting. A careful disguise would do much
towards concealing it; and the darkness of evening,
more.
“And if the discovery should take place too
soon,” exclaimed Lucy, as these thoughts passed
hastily through her mind.
“Tell him the whole, dear Lucy. He has a
my sake, he will not betray you. And as for the
idea of his assisting your escape, if he alarms the
palace on his return with the news of it, it will
be enough. Dear Lucy, do not tremble thus.
Keep your soul calm and quiet for this emergency.
No, I cannot stay,” she added, as the captive
would fain have detained her longer. “Madame
La Framboise is at this moment waiting for
me. Fear nothing, Lucy, only be cool and collected.”
Notwithstanding this latter injunction, the remainder
of the afternoon was passed by the captive
in a state of excitement, bordering on distraction.
One moment, home with its thousand soothing
endearments, friends, and kindred, all seemed her
own; the agony of fear was over and she lay
a free and happy being weeping on her mother's
bosom. The next, an imprisonment far more
gloomy and hopeless, arose to her fancy; she
remembered the ferocity of the Roman priesthood,
and cruelties untried and unknown, nay,
death itself, seemed the fearful alternative.
Overcome with these agitating reflections, she
had hardly noticed the flight of time, until the
broad disk of the sun just lingered above the forest,
throwing a last flood of radiance over the
objects of her apartment. The captive now
ceased her wearied step; and with flushed cheek
and throbbing heart she threw herself on her
couch, seeking with a strong effort to recover
something of that calmness which she knew her
exigencies so much required. Several minutes
more elapsed, ere any sound broke the stillness.
Gay voices were then heard in conversation without;—the
lock turned, and the next moment,
stood within.
“Hasten, Mademoiselle,” exclaimed Madame
La Framboise, as with rapid movements she now
unfastened the veil. “Fifteen minutes more,
and the vesper bell will toll;—we must lose no
moments.”
The exchange of dresses was quickly made;
but it was in vain that Antoinette strove to assume
an appearance of composure. Her hand
trembled violently, as she clasped the rosary
about the neck of her friend; and her efforts at
firmness only rendered her tones more faultering,
as she repeatedly murmured that there was no
cause for fear. Madame La Framboise alone
seemed calm and collected. With surprising
composure she arranged and re-arranged the
beautiful apparel, until each slight dissimilarity
of figure had vanished, and the metamorphosis
seemed complete.
“And now fear nothing, Lucy Everett,” exclaimed
Antionette, “the boat is ready and Louis
hath promised to go the moment that Vespers are
over. You must attend the Mass—nay, I would
have saved you the trial if I could, but you
will not be detected. A few moments since
I left the drawing room in that very dress;
and if you are silent no one will suspect the
change. Draw the veil closely around your face
in the chapel; Louis de Castine will meet you at
the door, for the rest, trust Heaven.”
The arrangements were now completed, but
Lucy Everett still lingered. Amid the confusion,
the hurry and agony of suspense, the idea of a
separation from her generous benefactress, had
scarcely occupied a moment's attention, and until
the feelings which that unwearied kindness had
kindled. The ties of human love are various as
the tints of autumn leaves; but there are none
more tender and beautiful, than those which
spring up between the lonely and the sorrowing,
and those who have lightened their sorrows or
gladdened their loneliness. The catholic and
puritan wept like sisters in the parting embrace.
“Hasten, hasten,” interrupted Madam la Framboise,
“the minutes are precious and—hark—
there is the vesper bell.”
“Fare thee well, sweet English maiden,” said
Antionette, at length withdrawing her embrace.
“We shall see each others' faces no more here,
but by the cross and rosary on your neck, remember
the catholic girl that loved you.”
“Come, come, Lady Antoinette,” said Madame
La Framboise, drawing Lucy's arm in hers as she
threw open the door. “If you linger longer here,
the mass will be over ere we reach the chapel,”
and so saying she sallied forth into the corridor,
with her trembling companion. The bell still
tolled as they hurried on.
“Ah me, Lady Antoinette,” exclaimed Madam
La Framboise as they drew near the soldiers who
guarded the entrance of the hall, “how I pity
these solitary prisoners. I am sure if I were yonder
English captive, I should have died long ago
of very loneliness.”
Lucy clasped her arm convulsively in hers, for
at that moment they were passing the door.
The soldiers bowed reverently, and they moved
on unquestioned and unsuspected. They still
pressed on through several lofty and dimly lighted
apartments.
“We are almost at the chapel,” said her companion
in a whisper, as they descended a narrow
staircase. “The saints be praised—we have encountered
no one as yet, and the danger is almost
over. Imitate me, my dear young lady, when we
enter and fear nothing. The Holy Virgin will
protect you.”
Lucy had now need of some higher encouragement
than aught which the benediction of the
catholic could impart, for at that moment the
bell ceased, the door opened, and amid a stream
of pure and beautiful light they moved slowly
through the aisles of the chapel. Oh the tumult
and agony of that moment! To the agitated heart
of the prisoner, every eye in this throng of worshippers,
seemed at once to have detected beneath
her light disguise, the form and features
of the English Heretic. But this was soon past.
In a moment after, she was bowing beside her
companion, silent and unnoticed.
A quick succession of overpowering ideas
crowded to the mind of the young puritan, as
those rites and ceremonies which from her earliest
recollection she had regarded only with unmingled
horror, now burst upon her in all their
imposing splendor. She raised her eye, loosening
for a moment the crowded folds that veiled her
features. The lights, the pictures, the wreathing
music, the low, rich mournful melody from the
chanting choir, all came over her bewildered fancy
like the dim shadows of that land where the
faint perceptions of faith vanish amid the light
of glorious realities.
Surprised and indignant at this powerful effect
on her feelings, she now strove altogether to divert
her attention, and in wandering over the
door, standing alone and erect amid the kneeling
throng. The rich military habit denoted an elevated
rank, and a look of calm and conscious superiority
lingered on every feature. There were
traces of deep thought and feeling on his countenance,
almost contradicting the extreme youth
otherwise indicated. His eye wandered carelessly
over the kneeling assembly, and now and then
a shade of contempt deepened the cold smile
with which he surveyed them. Lucy gazed for a
moment in suspense, but it was only for a moment;
and with a thrill of delight and astonishment
she now recognized the lonely and disguised
stranger who had once so deeply claimed her
sympathy.
“Are you mad young maiden?” said a low
whisper beside her, at once recalling the recollection
of her fearful situation. “Have the catholics
no eyes? For heaven's sake draw your veil,
or we are ruined.” Madam La Framboise might
well utter these astonished and terrified exclamations;
for in the joy of that unexpected recognition,
her young companion had for a moment
forgotten the perilous circumstances that
surrounded her. Quickly and tremblingly the
injunction was obeyed; the worshippers were
rising, and in the ceremonies which now ensued
every nerve was indeed in fearful requisition.
At length the last benediction was said, the assembly
began quickly to disperse; and Lucy
Everett, leaning on the arm of her companion,
moved slowly through the crowded aisle.
Notwithstanding the drapery which now so
thickly veiled her features, Lucy could still dimly
perceive the form of the young officer standing
the spot where he stood, and a single
word or look might make him aware of her
presence. But at that moment, a quick pressure
of her arm again warned her of the perils
around her.
“Look, Antoinette,” said her companion in her
usual careless tone, “see here is your brother
waiting to accompany you.”
“Where, where,” whispered Lucy, returning
the grasp convulsively, and in vain seeking to
discover among the crowd the person to whom
she alluded.
“Hush, dear child, there is no danger,” whispered
the other, and then aloud, “we will wait
here for him, Antoinette. It cannot be long ere
he joins us.”
But at that moment another glimpse at the
mysterious stranger, again absorbed her whole attention.
His eye was earnestly fixed upon her.
Had he then detected her earnest glances? Her
heart throbbed convulsively, for he was now advancing
to meet them.
“Come Antoinette, are you ready?” said the
stranger in that well remembered voice, which
had last rung on her ear amid the forest of H—.
“The boat is waiting for us. Are you ready for
the excursion?”
“Ready—aye that she is,” answered Madame
La Framboise, disregarding the sudden emotion
evinced by her companion. “You had better
take your brother's arm, Antoinette,” she continued
with a slight and meaning pressure, and at
the same time disengaging herself from her clinging
grasp. “You will hardly return before midnight,
and so I bid you good evening,” continued
row,” and smiling and bowing she disappeared.
Surprised, bewildered, and embarrassed beyond
measure, with her arm in that of her companion,
Lucy now moved rapidly through the palace.
He—the brother of Antoinette de Castine—and
she could scarce restrain the expressions of her
doubt and amazement, as with rapid and almost
unconscious steps she now trod the pavement
without. To reveal herself at once, and claim
his protection, was her first hasty resolution; but
the next moment the conversation of her benefactress
returned to her recollection. It was
Louis de Castine as well as the stranger whose
life her own exertions had once redeemed; and
though the idea of personal danger had now vanished,
every other reason for maintaining her disguise
as long as practicable, was still as urgent
as before. At length they stood on the shore,
just above the point where Lucy and her savage
companions had first landed. It was a clear
and beautiful night, the dewy breeze blew cool
and gently over her, as she landed in the shadow
of the rock while her companion slowly loosened
the boat from its moorings. The sweet waters of
the Penobscot lay before them, smooth and beautiful,
now and then softly leaving the pebbled
shore; and the sounds of life came in low and
mingled murmurs from the height above.
The soul of the young maiden grew calm amid
these soothing influences. And now as the light
oars rose and fell, slowly and gracefully, the boat
moved forth from the shadows of the shore, scarcely
leaving a trace of her light path amid the liquid
moonbeams. Lucy Everett gazed on the
now slowly receding in the distance, and for
the first time amid the agitating events of the
evening, the consciousness of her freedom rushed
upon her mind. Those fearful barriers were at
length past—the guarded hall, the court, the battlements,
all were safely past, she was no longer
a captive; and her whole soul rose, like a freed
bird rejoicing.
“Antoinette,” exclaimed her companion, now
for the first time interrupting the stillness, “you
have grown strangely silent since vespers.”
“Aye.”
“Aye, indeed, but it is not your usual fault, and
I acknowledge it requires some vanity to interrupt
this beautiful stillness. I can forgive you,
Antoinette, and the more especially as I am determined
for this evening to engross a due share
of the conversation myself.”
“Indeed,” replied his companion, hardly daring
to exceed the monosyllable.
“Yes, a new resolution you think. But a
truce to your railing now, Antoinette. It will do
well enough for yonder gay drawing room, but
even my sad words and feelings better become
an hour like this. Indeed, Antoinette,” he added
in a different tone, “I have more causes for sadness
than you dream of.”
Lucy felt painfully that her part was now indeed
but ill performed. She well knew what
rich tones of kindness such an annunciation
would have drawn from the affectionate Antoinette,
but she dared not to trust her voice and
she was silent.
“To commence then, with my important communication,”
continued the youth, “I am about
France.” He paused and seemed waiting for
her comments, but only a sudden start announced
the emotion of his auditress. “You are doubtless
surprised at a resolution like this, at such a
crisis. I know that the war which is but just
opening upon these colonies, seems to you only a
field of glory, where I might reap the laurels for
which I have so long panted. But, Antoinette,
it is that very crisis which occasions my departure.
In such a war there is—there can be, no
honorable part for me.”
“And why?” exclaimed Lucy, who felt that silence
now would not be overlooked.
“Do not mistake me, Antoinette. To the war
in general, my remark has no application. As a
war between France and England, I would yield
my last life-drop freely in its battles. But as
waged in these distant portions of the kingdom,
a mere tool of selfish and fiendish purposes—as a
war between the catholics and colonists—as a
war of bloody and unprovoked extermination between
a few ambitious and powerful individuals,
and a simple, high minded people, I cannot—I
will not engage in it. Antoinette, you are my father's
child and have ever been to me a true
and noble hearted sister. I will withhold nothing
from you.”
He paused a moment, and the impropriety, the
indelicacy of thus intruding upon his confidence,
became now so extremely embarrassing to his companion,
that only a constant recurrence to the instructions
of her benefactress, prevented her from
revealing her character. But surely it would ill
become her, to cast a blot upon the name of one
whom Antoinette called brother; and determining
of her promised guides, should relieve her companion
from all wilful share in her escape, she
still maintained a painful silence.
“Antoinette,” continued the youth, “among
the individuals of whom I speak, you know that
the Baron Castine is pre-eminent. He is your
father, and mine, and as such I would fain speak
of him with reverence; but as to this unnatural
and deadly policy which he is now adopting, I
must say of it, and will say it fearlessly—my
whole soul abhors it. Think for a moment, Antoinette,
if you can, of that fearful system of means
in operation around us. Think of the high and
holy influences of religion, so awfully perverted
as to arouse, and keep forever alive in the minds
of these savages, those deadly passions which are
to be satisfied only with the extermination of
these puritan colonies. And, Antoinette, you
know too the fearful circumstances of their warfare.
Think, if you can, without shuddering, of
these beautiful settlements laid waste, and hundreds
and hundreds of helpless beings captured
or murdered in cold blood, without the shadow of
a crime, and all for the aggrandizement of a
single ambitious individual. I say, Antoinette,
I will never soil my spirit with any agency, however
remote, in crimes like these. I have made
one effort, and it shall be my last. Our estate in
France requires my presence; and there I shall
await the termination of this struggle.”
“Antoinette,” continued the young officer after
a few moment's pause, interpreting the silence
of his companion into an expression of displeasure,
“I have spoken warmly, but I would that
you at least should know the secret springs of
whose authority you reverence, the religion you
love, with all its allurements, its splendid and imposing
forms of devotion, I have learned to look
upon as only a mighty fabric of human pride and
error. Nay more, the doctrines of those whom,
from your earliest recollection, you have been
taught to despise as heretics, are to me the pure
and sublime revelations of Heaven. Antoinette,
my mother was a protestant.”
“A protestant?” replied his companion involuntarily.
“Aye, I had thought you aware of this circumstance.
She died indeed in my early infancy
but not until she had stamped her own sweet picture
on my memory, the image of all things holy
and beautiful. My childhood too was past among
the cottages of the Waldenses, in the dwelling of
my nurse, a simple and pious woman, to whose
care my mother's dying lips had consigned my
earliest years. It was there, where “the bones of
slaughtered saints lay bleaching on the Alpine
mountains cold,” in those valleys where the blood
of the true and holy had in all ages been poured
forth like water, that I learned to love those persecuted
exiles, and surely it would ill become
such an one to stain his hand in their blood. But,
Antoinette, I will say no more on this subject,”
continued the youth, after again pausing in vain
for a reply. “It must ever be a painful one,
while we differ thus widely; but I have still another
secret to confide to you. Listen patiently.
It is a trust, a sacred obligation which I am about
to confer upon.”
There was now an evident embarrassment in
the tones of the speaker. “Antoinette,” he at
in foreign climes. I have seen many of the high
and the rich and the lovely, unfascinated; but
Antoinette, I have at last found a flower that I
could love. A rose has sprung up on my lonely
path, wild indeed, and uncultured, but one that
I could win and wear forever. My sister, I must
leave these shores, but I leave behind me one
whose love could make the lone wilderness bright
and beautiful as Eden.”
A cold dew gathered on Lucy's brow; she
breathed slow, and heavily.
“During my late secret expedition,” continued
her companion, “I met with a beautiful high-minded
and gentle creature, all unlearned in the
knowledge of a cold and heartless world, but just
such an one as the bright ideal around which my
affections have ever clustered. She was a puritan
girl, and her name, Lucy Everett.”
A half murmured exclamation burst from the
lips of his auditress.
“Nay, hear me through, my sister, I know your
prejudices are all arrayed, but hear me through.
To your energy and decision of character, I am
about to confide a sacred trust. Lucy Everett
is now a prisoner of the Indians, perhaps,”—and
his voice sunk, “perhaps already their victim.
The very night I left her native village, it was
burned and plundered, and many of its inhabitants
made captive. Among these were Lucy Everett
and her servant. The latter I found among
the prisoners at Quebec, but of the former I can
learn nothing, save that she was separated from
the rest on the first night of her captivity. Antoinette,
you have influence with our father, you
have powerful friends among these tribes. Let
her fate, and to spare no pains or toils for
her deliverance. You hesitate. Now my sister,
you have an opportunity of proving the truth of
your affection. As the preserver of my life,
Lucy Everett claims your kindness. During my
residence at H—, Vandreuil, fully aware of my
sentiments with regard to some of his proceedings,
dispatched messengers with instructions to
murder me in secret, and but for the exertions,
of this same Lucy Everett, I might now be
sleeping in a distant and unknown grave. Oh
had I time to tell you all, you would not wonder
that I had loved this puritan stranger. And, Antoinette,
she was like my mother—my beautiful
and sainted mother, just such an one as I have
heard her described, when she first came to our
castle from her lowly and sequestered dwelling.
Her character, her religion, her nation were the
same, and her name too, my fair mother's name
was Lucy—Lucy Mc Gregor.
“Lucy McGregor!” repeated his auditress, in
amazement, completely thrown off her guard by
this unexpected disclosure. “Can it be?—Lucy
McGregor the Baroness de Castine?” But she
suddenly ceased her hurried exclamations; her
companion was now gazing at her with looks of
fixed astonishment.
“Antoinette! Antoinette!” he exclaimed doubtingly.
“Prythee speak again—you have been
sparing of your words this evening; and sure the
light is not so dazzling, that you need sit with
that impenetrable veil around you. Antoinette,”
he exclaimed, with increased surprise, as his companion
still remained silent and immoveable
“surely this is no occasion for trifling.”
It was impossible longer to elude discovery.
The young maiden slowly drew aside her veil, a
shower of moonbeams fell upon her countenance,
revealing at once to the eye of her astonished
companion, the fair, rose-dyed features of Lucy
Everett.
The oar dropped from his hand. There was
something almost ludicrous, in the expression of
that sudden and bewildered astonishment, with
which he now silently surveyed her.
Briefly and simply, Lucy Everett told her tale.
Meanwhile, they were slowly veering towards the
appointed place of rendezvous, and the small white
rock was now clearly visible, breaking the green
outline of the shore.
“And do you think then,” exclaimed the youth
in reply to her last remark, “that I would thus
idly throw away my recovered treasure? What
proof have you of the good faith of the savage
Alaska? And how know we, that the whole may
not be some treacherous scheme of these Indians,
to recover again their victim?”
“But the token, sir. It was my own bracelet.
I cannot be mistaken, and look yonder is their
signal.” At that moment, a red and brilliant
stream of light burst from the shore near the
foot of the rock.
Louis de Castine looked earnestly thither.
He leaned for a moment silently upon his oar.
“Return! Did I hear you aright, Lucy Everett?
Return to the palace and spread the alarm! Are
these the lessons of gratitude you would teach
me. No, dear Lucy,” he added again plying the
oar, “I leave you no more until I see you safe
under your father's protection.”
They had now approached so near the shore,
and a single figure at that moment became visible,
standing in the shadow of the rock.
“It is Alaska,” whispered Lucy, as her companion
looked sternly and suspiciously towards
him. “Believe me, sir, you wrong him. There
is no room for treachery in his noble heart.”
“Well then, my sweet sister,” murmured the
youth suddenly assuming an air of playfulness,
which became his handsome features; “I have
one word more for your private ear. Do not
forget that I have this evening made you my confident,
that I have laid open to you my whole
heart, the very sanctum sanctorum of my affections.
But you have not as yet, by word or look,
intimated your approval. My sweet sister, may I
construe this silence in my favor? When I am far
away in a foreign clime, toiling wearily for the
vain distinctions and honors of this earth, may I
not have the assurance, that this consecration of
my affections is at least not regarded with displeasure?
Oh when my thoughts wander to those
distant shores, and that one being for whom alone
the laurels of earth are worth reaping, let me feel
that my devotion is not regarded as wholly unworthy
of its object.”
“My brother,” replied the maiden with a smile
brushing away the dew that had gathered on her
cheek, “she of whom you speak is a lowly being,
and all unworthy of the love of one so noble.
It is a destiny too exalted for such an one as Lucy
Everett.” As she spoke, the light gleamed full
upon her countenance; she drew the veil once
more around her, but not until Louis de Castine
had read upon her bright and blushing features,
the full approval of his love.
They were now landed in silence, among the
clustering foliage at a short distance below the
rock; and leaning upon the arm of her conductor,
Lucy Everett moved tremblingly along the
shore. Ere long, Alaska presented himself from
the thicket. A gleam of joy kindled his dark
features as he recognized the English captive,
but this was immediately exchanged for something
of sadness, of deep and melancholy curiosity,
as he glanced upon the form of her conductor.
After gazing a moment in silence, he pointed to
the thicket before them; and winding around a
narrow and hidden path, they now followed his
steps.
In a few moments, they found themselves standing
upon the edge of a wide area, in the center
of which rose the blaze which had served as their
signal. Several Indians were scattered on the
grass around it, and two or three figures like
those of armed soldiers, slowly pacing before it.
For a few moments, Lucy Everett and her companion
stood the silent and surprised spectators
of the scene; but the eye of the former soon
rested on a single figure, apart from the rest, and
reclining in the attitude of devotion. His face
was turned from them, but the light gleamed full
upon his venerable form, and on the gray hair as
it stirred with the evening breeze.
The next moment, with a wild and joyful cry,
Lucy Everett had sprung from her retreat. “My
father! Now heaven be praised, I have found my
father.”
Bewildered at that unexpected greeting, the
old man raised his eye to the fair creature that
was bending over him. She flung back the mantling
drapery, and there, in the light apparel of
wept, his own long lost and beautiful daughter.
* * * * * * *
Years rolled on, and the war-cloud still brooded
over the colonies of New-England, when the
young Baron de Castine once more set foot on its
shores. Oh the fearful traces that a few short
years can write on the cherished treasures of
earth! Castine was desolate—its frowning walls
were levelled, and he who had reared them was
buried amid the wilderness. Antoinette too was
gone, his noble and true hearted sister; and she
now moved in a distant circle of rank and fashion,
the wife of the accomplished Beaumont.
And the young beautiful puritan? She too was
changed. Four years had not passed so idly,
that the warm dreams of sixteen summers still
lingered on her brow. Four years of filial devotion,
of patient, unwearying, unmurmuring care
had not left their own fair traces in the heart, and
on the face of the gentle and lovely.
Lucy Everett was an orphan. They to whom
she had been as the green clustering ivy on the
ruins, had gone, one by one, to heaven, and had
left her on the earth a lonely orphan.
So she bade a last farewell to the green graves
of her parents, and her native land, and ere long
the ancient castle of Castine rung with shouts of
welcome to the youthful Baroness, no less kind
and beautiful, but more blessed of heaven than
her unfortunate predecessor.
| CHAPTER VII. Tales of the puritans | |