I pray you have the ditty o'er again!

Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing, The lover's one for me. I could expire To hear a man, with bristles on his chin, Sing soft, with upturn'd eyes, and arched brows, Which talk of trickling tears that never fall.

Let's have it o'er again.

J.S. KNOWLES.

The meditations of Stanhope were suddenly interrupted by the loud barking of a dog, which lay in his kennel below the window; and it was presently answered by a low, protracted whistle, that instantly quelled the vigilant animal's irritation. Arthur mechanically raised his head, to ascertain who was intruding on the silence of that lonely hour, and saw a figure approaching, with quick, light footsteps, which a glance a.s.sured him was M. de Valette. He was already near the building, and soon stopped beneath a window in a projecting angle, which he appeared to examine with great attention. Arthur felt a painful suspicion that this cas.e.m.e.nt belonged to Lucie's apartment, and, as it was nearly opposite his own, he drew back, to avoid being observed, though he watched, with intense interest, the motions of De Valette. The young Frenchman applied a flute to his lips, and played a few notes of a lively air,--then, suddenly breaking off, he changed the measure into one so soft and plaintive, that the sounds seemed to float, like aerial harmony, upon the stillness of the night. He paused, and looked earnestly toward the window: the moon shone brightly against it, but all was quiet within, and around, while he sang, in a clear and manly voice, the following serenade:

Awake, my love! the moon on high Shines in the deep blue, arched sky, And through the cl.u.s.t'ring woodbine peeps.

To seek the couch where Lucie sleeps.

Awake, my love! for see, afar, Shines, soft and bright, the evening star; But oh! its brightest beams must die, Beneath the light of Lucie's eye.

Awake, my love! dost thou not hear The night-bird's carol, wild and clear?

But not its sweetest notes detain When Lucie breathes her sweeter strain.

Awake, my love! the fragrant gale Steals odours from yon spicy vale; But can the richly perfum'd air With Lucie's balmy breath compare?

Awake, my love! for all around, With beauty, pleasure, hope, is crown'd But hope nor pleasure dawn on me, Till Lucie's graceful form I see.

Awake, my love! for in thy bower, Thy lover spends the lonely hour;-- She hears me!--from the lattice screen Behold my Lucie gently lean!

The window had, indeed, slowly opened, towards the conclusion of the song, and Arthur observed some one,--Lucie, he doubted not,--standing before it, partially concealed by the folds of a curtain.

"Sung like a troubadour!" exclaimed a voice, which he could not mistake; "but, prithee, my tuneful knight, were those concluding lines extempore, or had you really the vanity to antic.i.p.ate the effect of your musical incantation?"

"And who but yourself, Lucie, would doubt that charms like yours could give inspiration to even the dullest muse?"

"Very fine, truly; but I will wager my life, Eustace, that mine are not the only ears, which have been charmed with this melodious ditty,--that I am not the first damsel who has reigned, the G.o.ddess of an hour, in this same serenade! Confess the truth, my good friend, and I will give thee absolution!"

"And to whom but you, my sweet Lucie, could I address such language?

you, who have so long reigned sole mistress of every thought and hope of my heart!"

"Sole mistress in the wilderness, no doubt!" said the laughing girl; "where there is no other to be found, except a tawny damsel or two, who would scarcely understand your poetic flights! but you have just returned from a brighter clime, and the dark-eyed demoiselles of merry France, perchance, might thank you for such a tribute to their charms!"

"And do you think so meanly of me, Lucie," asked De Valette, reproachfully, "as to believe me capable of playing the flatterer, wherever I go, and paying court to every pretty face, that claims my admiration?"

"Nay, I think so _well_ of you, Eustace; I have such an exalted opinion of your gallantry, that I cannot believe you would remain three months in the very land of glorious chivalry, and prove disloyal to the cause!

Be candid, now, and tell me, if this nonpareil morceau has not served you for a pa.s.sport to the favor of the pretty villagers, as you journeyed through the country?"

"I protest, Lucie, you are"--

"No protestations," interrupted Lucie, "I have not the 'faith of a grain of mustard seed,' in them;--but, in honest truth, Eustace, your muse has been wandering among the orange groves of France; she could never have gathered so much _fragrance_, and _brightness_, and all that sort of thing, from the pines and firs of this poor spot of earth!"

"And if she has culled the sweets of a milder region," said De Valette, "it is only to form a garland for one, who is worthy of the fairest flowers that blossom in the gardens of paradise."

"Very well, and quite poetic, monsieur; your Pegasus is in an ambling mood to-night; but have a care that he do not throw you, as he did, of old, the audacious mortal who attempted to soar too high. And I pray you will have more regard to the truth, in future, and not scandalize the evening star, by bringing it into your performance so out of season; it may have shone upon the vineyards of Provence, but it is long since it glittered in our northern hemisphere."

"Have you done, my gentle mentor?" asked De Valette, in an accent of vexation.

"Not quite; I wish to know whether you, or the melodious screech-owl, represent the tuneful bird of night, alluded to in the aforesaid stanzas? I have heard no other who could pour forth such exquisite notes, since my destiny brought me hither."

"And it will be long ere you hear me again," said De Valette, angrily.

"I shall be careful not to excite your mirthful humor again, at my own expense!"

"Now you are not angry with me, I hope, Eustace," she said, with affected concern; "you well know, that I admire your music exceedingly; nay, I think it unrivalled, even by the choice psalmody of our worthy chaplain; and as to the poetry, I doubt if any has yet equalled it, in this our ancient settlement of St. John's."

"Farewell, Lucie," said De Valette; "when I waken you again"--

"Oh, you did not waken me," interrupted Lucie, I will spare your conscience that reproach; had I gone to rest, I should scarcely have risen, even had a band of fairies tuned their tiny instruments in the moonlight, beneath my window. But, go now, Eustace,--yet stay, and tell me first, if we part in charity?"

"Yes, it must be so, I suppose; I _was_ vexed with you, Lucie, but you well know that your smiles are always irresistible."

"Well, you will allow that I have been very lavish of my smiles to-night, Eustace; so leave me now, lest I begin to frown, by way of variety. Adieu!"

She immediately closed the window, and De Valette turned away, playing carelessly on his flute as he retired.

"Thank heaven! he is gone;" was the mental exclamation of Stanhope, whose impatience and curiosity were painfully exercised by this protracted conversation; for he had retreated from the window, at its commencement, to avoid the possibility of hearing, what was not probably intended to reach the ears of a third person. "Would any but a favored lover," he thought, "be admitted to such an interview?" The idea was insupportable; he traversed his apartment with perturbed and hasty steps, and it was not till long after De Valette retired, that he sought the repose of his pillow, and even then, in a state of mind which completely banished slumber from his eyes.

When Stanhope looked out, on the following morning, he saw Lucie, alone in a small garden, adjoining the house, busily employed in training some flowers; and the painful impression of the last night was almost forgotten, in the impulse which he felt to join her. He was chagrined to meet De Valette, as he crossed a pa.s.sage, but repressing a repugnance, which he felt might be unjustly excited, he addressed him with his usual cordiality, and they entered the garden together. Lucie's face was turned from them, and she did not seem aware of their approach, till startled by the voice of De Valette.

"You do not seem very industriously inclined," he said; "or are you resting, to indulge the luxury of a morning reverie?"

"I _was_ in a most profound reverie," she replied, turning quickly round; "and you have destroyed as fair a vision, as ever dawned on the waking fancy."

"Was your vision of the past or future?" asked De Valette.

"Only of the past; I care not for the future, which is too uncertain to be trusted, and which may have nothing but misfortunes in reserve for me."

"You are in a pensive mood, just now," said De Valette; "when I last saw you, I could scarce have believed a cloud would ever cross the sunshine of your face."

"Experience might have rendered you more discerning," she answered, with a smile; "but you, who love variety so well, should not complain of the changes of my mood."

"Change, as often as you will," said De Valette; "and, in every variation, you cannot fail to please."

"And you," said Lucie, "cannot fail of seeming very foolish, till you leave off this annoying habit of turning every word into a compliment:--nay, do not look displeased," she added, gaily; "you know that you deserve reproof, occasionally, and there is no one who will administer it to you, but myself."

"But what _you_ define a compliment," said Stanhope, "would probably appear, to any other person, the simple language of sincerity."

"I cannot contend against two opponents," returned Lucie; "so I may as well give up my argument, though I still maintain its validity."

"We will call it a drawn game, then," said De Valette, laughing; "so now, Lucie, candidly confess that you were disposed to find fault with me, without sufficient cause."

"There is certainly no flattery in this," replied Lucie; "but I will confess nothing,--except that I danced away my spirits last evening, and was most melodiously disturbed afterwards, by some strolling minstrel.

Were you not annoyed by unseasonable music, Mr. Stanhope?"

"I heard music, at a late hour," he replied; "but it did not disturb me, as I was still awake."

As he spoke, he was vexed to feel the color mount to his very temples; and Lucie, who instantly comprehended the cause of his confusion, bent her eyes to the ground, while her cheeks were suffused with blushes. An embarrasing pause ensued; and De Valette, displeased at the secret sympathy which their looks betrayed, stooped to pluck a rose, that grew on a small bush beside him.