 | CHAPTER V. Tales of the good woman |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
Mistress Arabella Fenton, to whom the gallant
O'Reilly alluded at the close of our last chapter,
was the wife of Master George Fenton, one of the
Governor's council, for the colony of James Town.
He was a gentleman of good family, and moderate
fortune, who from conscientious motives, had left
world. Courageous, pious, and well principled,
he was held in great estimation by Smith, Percie,
and others of the principal persons of the settlement;
and besides was much beloved by the common
people. Mistress Fenton was the younger
daughter of an English noble, who having become a
member of the puritan congregation, sacrificed his
aristocratic feelings to his religion, and permitted
the lady to marry Master Fenton. When the persecutions
came on in England, this excellent woman
made no scruple of sacrificing the privileges and
luxuries of wealth and high birth; and with her
little son, a boy, then about five years old, embarked
without a murmur or a tear, in the vessel destined
to bear them to the untrod wilderness of
the west. Arabella was a woman of rare endowments
of person, mind, and education. Gifted
with all the accomplishments of that age, she
possessed withal, a pious frame of mind, which,
instead of interfering with her worldly duties, and
domestic ties, only made her the more inflexible
in performing the one, and abiding by the other.
She was steadfast in faith; and next to her maker,
her heart cherished her husband and her boy.
Piety and love were so happily mingled in her
disposition, that the one might be said to borrow
of the other, and to partake in its essence. They
were the two moving principles of her existence,
and it would be difficult to say which most contributed
her love. The little homely cottage of Fenton, was
a favourite resort of the better sort of colonists;
it was there, and only there, at that period, that in
all this wide continent they could enjoy the society
that gives a charm to the desert, and more than
any other means contributes to humanize mankind.
It was here that Smith came to relax from
his labours and anxieties; that Percie resorted to
charm down for a while the fiend that haunted him
every where else; and that the gay and sprightly
Vere, and the quaint Master Lavender, were full often
to be found, the one playing antics with the little
boy, the other complimenting Anne Burras, the
humble, yet well bred friend and companion of Mistress
Fenton. Hardship, anxiety, and for some time
past, unwholesome food, had robbed Arabella of
the roses she brought with her to the new world.
Yet the expression, the eye, the voice, the manner,
all that constitutes the never-dying charm of
woman, still remained entire and perfect. In the
midst of famine, danger, and necessity, she never
complained, but ever had a smile for her husband,
when he came home from his daily toils, or his
excursions into the forest in search of game, tired,
unsuccessful, and almost despairing.
On this eventful morning, Fenton had been out
with his gun in search of game, but returned
without success, it having been for some time past
the policy of the savages, to destroy or frighten it
be the more reduced, and the more easily murdered.
Arabella was sitting at her work, with Anne
Burras, while the little boy was languidly endeavouring
to amuse himself about the room.
“Mother,” at length he said, “I'm very hungry;
give me some breakfast, wont you?”
“Anne,” said the mother, in a voice trembling
under the effort to be gay, “Anne, give him a nice
piece of your bread.” Anne accordingly brought
him a piece of dried sturgeon's meat, the only
substitute for bread the poor colonists had used
for some days past. The lad tasted it, then threw
it away, exclaiming—
“I dont like it mother, it's fishy. Give me some
better, and I'll be a good boy.”
“We have no better, child,” answered the mother,
her eyes dimming with tears.
“Then give me some milk, mother.”
“Nor milk, dear son. The cows have all been
carried away by the Indians.”
“Then I'll borrow father's gun, and shoot them,”
cried the little fellow; and pleased with the idea,
began strutting about the room with a broomstick
on his shoulder. “But I'm so hungry.”
“O gracious power, where art thou!” sighed the
poor mother. “Your father has no better bread
than this, nor your mother, nor poor Anne. Eat it
to please your mother.”
“Well, I'll try, but it's very bad,” replied the
his miserable pittance with determined appetite.
At this moment Fenton came in, almost exhausted
with fatigue, and placing his gun upon the customary
resting place of deer's horn, kissed his
wife's forehead, and asked for little Hal.
“There he is,” replied Arabella, pointing to the
boy. Fenton looked at him and his heart melted.
He sat down sadly by her side, while she, parting
his matted hair and putting her hand to his forehead,
said, with a voice thrilling with anxiety and
love—
“You seem quite wearied out. What sport
have you had?”
“None,” he replied. “The very woods and
waters conspire against us I believe. The birds
are alarmed at our scare-crow figures, and the fishes
would not come if St. Anthony preached to them.”
“Then we must fast to-day?”
“Yes, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, and tomorrow,
till the ships arrive, or we go hence forever.”
“Are you hungry,” father? exclaimed the little
boy, overhearing this. “Here, take my bread—I
don't want any more,” added he, sadly.
“My generous boy,” cried Fenton, taking him
in his arms and kissing him. “Even just like his
mother, ever unmindful of herself for others.”
“Am I good boy, father?” exclaimed the little
fellow.
“Take him out to play a little while, Anne; but
don't go far into the wood—the Indians may frighten
him.”
“Have you brought nothing with you?” asked
Arabella, after Anne had departed with the child.
“Nothing. Is there nothing left of yesterday?”
“But this poor crust. I'm sorry I have nothing
better to welcome you with, than this,” said the
wife, giving him a modest matron's kiss.
“O Arabella!” groaned Fenton, as he leant his
head upon her shoulder.
“Cheer up, dear husband; He that feeds the
sparrow, will I trust remember those who have
trusted in him. While I have you and our boy, I
want for nothing. Cheer up!”
“I do not think of myself, but you,” cried he,
“you who left a father's stately halls, a paradise
of plenty, a dear home filled with friends, to come
hither to this howling wilderness of wants, to meet
danger, famine and death. It makes my very
soul sweat drops of agony.”
“Did not I come with you?” replied she, tenderly.
“You,” continued Fenton, “whom delicacies
nurtured, rank allured, and beauty decked in all
the bright regalia of sparkling eyes, and lips that
lived and breathed in odours. You! O Arabella,
what could have tempted you to these terrible
deserts?”
“My faith in heaven—my love for you.”
“My noble Arabella!” cried Fenton, “but alas!
even thy virtues make me sad now. It breaks my
heart to think how worthy you are of a better fate,
and almost makes me curse the hour that made
me happy.”
“And makes me bless it,” rejoined Arabella,
fervently kissing him. “Ah! Fenton, you have
yet to learn, that the twin stars of a woman are her
faith and her love. If she is a true dame, such as
I hope will be the mothers of the generations of
this new world, for either of these will she willingly
sacrifice her home, and her customary
social comforts, so she can enjoy her own true
faith, her own true love. Here, in the midst of
want, surrounded by dangers, menaced with death;
here in this lonely wild, the love I cherish, I can
gratify; the faith I cling to, I can exercise. The
Being I serve, the husband I am proud of, are both
with me here. What do I want more?”
Fenton gazed on her with looks of love and
gratitude. And when he saw her pale face, her
cold, delicate hand, through which the blue veins
meandered, like streaks of sky, amid a waste of
light fleecy clouds, and marked the languor of
her eyes, once the colour of gladness, his heart
was almost ready to break. She understood his
look, and her cheeks lighted up for a moment with
a passing blush.
“See!” cried he, “the rose is coming back
again.”
“'Tis the colour of gladness,” answered she,
modestly.
At this moment, Anne Burras came running in,
almost breathless, with the child in her arms,
crying, “the Indians! the Indians!”
“What of them?” asked Fenton, hastily.
“The Indians are upon us! I was at the woodside,
and saw them skulking behind the trees.
One of them pointed his arrow at us, but—”
Fenton hastily took down his gun, and turning
with solemnity to his wife, said, “Then I am
called from you, Arabella. There's not a moment
to lose. Part like a heroine that trusts in God!”
“I do, I do,” cried she clinging to him, “but I
remember I am a wife and a mother.” The alarm
bell now rung violently.
“Hark! the signal!”
“Well, well, go and do your duty,” said Arabella,
almost choking.
“Farewell! said Fenton, embracing her. “In
love, and marriage; in prosperity and adversity; in
weal and woe; in sickness and in sorrow; first
and last, the best of daughters, wives and mothers,
bless thee, God bless thee!”
He was proceeding quickly towards the door,
when the little boy cried out—
“Father! father! take me with you; I can
fight the Indians bravely.”
Fenton looked at him with dim eyes, and shook
his head—
“Then give me a kiss, for good bye.” He took
him in his arms, kissed him, and delivering him to
the mother, ran out of the house. The almost
broken hearted mother pressed the child to her
bosom in agony, and retired to supplicate the
Being she worshipped, for the safe return of the
husband she loved.
| CHAPTER V. Tales of the good woman | |