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.
The course of our history requires us to pass
over the fifteen ensuing years, without any particular
notice. During that time important changes
had taken place as well in the scene of this
story, as in the persons who are its actors. The
village was gradually becoming a large and flourishing
town, and many of the families which had
before occupied its chief places were no longer
to be found. Their heads had gone down to the
land of forgetfulness, their various members were
widely scattered, while another household gathered
around the hearth which had once been sacred
to their joys.
Mrs. Mary Wilmot, however, still lived, and in
the same place as at the close of the last chapter.
Time had not much altered its appearance. The
house was as white, and the gravel walks as clean,
and the flowers as blooming, as when fifteen years
ago, the fair Margaret had left the place for her
husband's residence. Another hand, indeed, now
taught the woodbine to climb in its wonted place,
and propped and trimmed the sweet-briar and
roses that adorned the court;—but they had lost
nothing by the exchange, that hand was as fair
and gentle, and the taste which arranged them,
as exquisite, as any that ever culled a blossom,
the first garden with her beauty. Mrs. Wilmot
had not been deserted in her declining years. A
lovely and accomplished young lady, whom she
had reared from her early childhood, was now
her constant companion; and though there were
some who hesitated not to pronounce her a singular
and unaccountable being, the old lady found
in her all that was gentle, and patient, and lovely.
The charge, however, was not wholly groundless.
Alice Weldon had indeed exhibited on many
occasions, what had seemed wildness and eccentricity
of character, to those who had no clue to
the secret springs of her noble nature. A romantic
imagination, a set of ardent and enthusiastic
feelings, and a certain pure and fearless independence
of soul, together formed a character
which all might not love, and which only the few
with spirits like hers, could truly appreciate.
Alice Weldon had never exhibited to her companions,
or even cherished in her secret heart, any
selfish emotions of pride; on the contrary, a peculiar
sweetness of deportment on her part, had
ever marked their intercourse. But there was a
kind of unconscious superiority in the curl of her
rosy lip; she seemed to live in a world of fancy
and feeling, to them inaccessible; she was
more beautiful, more graceful, more intellectual
than her companions; and though not in
fact haughty or capricious, it was not strange
that as the character of the child became gradually
merged in that of the elegant, high spirited
and romantic young lady, these epithets began
freely to attach themselves to her name.
These evil dispositions were, in part, attributed
Wilmot had adopted with her niece. Alice Weldon
had ever been allowed the indulgence of all
her innocent tastes and feelings, without opposition
or restraint. Her love for the romantic had been
encouraged by frequent and lonely rambles
among the beautiful scenery in the outskirts of
the village. An exquisite taste for drawing, had
been improved by the lessons of a teacher who
had chanced to reside a few months in the colony.
Her thirst for poetry had been gratified by
a perusal of the best authors. The native melody
of her voice, untaught save by an occasional
attendance at the village singing school, was
warbled forth in a thousand plaintive airs; and
one could scarce ever pass the door of Mrs. Wilmot's
house at twilight, without listening to her
sweet and bird-like tones.
But by far the most important source of Alice
Weldon's singularities, was supposed by some to
lie in the rich golden chain that ever adorned her
person. The strange manner in which it had
been acquired, was not yet forgetten; and it was
still supposed to exert a mysterious influence
over all her thoughts and feelings. Indeed it
did appear as if some melancholy spell had been
secretly breathed over the heart of its possessor.
A brilliant gaiety of spirit was sometimes seen
bursting forth in every tone and look, like a rich
gleam of sunshine among clouds, and then again
retreating, as if at the bidding of that hidden influence.
It was pleasant June twilight, and Alice Weldon
was standing by the parlour window, her
head bowed down earnestly to catch the last
beams of daylight that lingered on the page.
the window, she perceived that she was the object
of an earnest and protracted gaze from a gentleman
who was at that moment slowly passing.
The stranger, for such he seemed, was tall, well
dressed, and prepossessing in his appearance. He
smiled, and as Alice imagined, bowed slightly
just as she averted his countenance. The circumstance
was surely a singular one, so much so,
that the young lady still continued by the window
absorbed in a profound reverie, until the voice
of Mrs. Wilmot summoned her to the table. Not
that the casual passing of a stranger, or even a
curious and protracted glance of the window,
were by any means unparalleled occurrences; nor
was the expression of admiration with which he
evidently surveyed her, altogether a thing unprecedented.
The stranger had indeed seemed peculiarly
gifted with those attractions of person,
which are usually counted upon as best suited to
win the heart of a young and romantic female;
but we will do our heroine the justice to say, that
for all this, the memory of the youth might have
passed away from her mind, as his manly form
faded from her vision. But that momentary
glance had aroused the sweet and thrilling
memories of childhood; there was something in
that smiling countenance, to remind her of one
whom she had once known and loved; and every
time that the image of the youthful stranger returned
to her fancy, there came with it, the dark
locks, the clear eye, and the sunny brow, of him
who had been the companion of her infancy.
The next day it became a well authenticated
piece of intelligence that Mr. Henry Davenport,
son of the former venerable pastor of the town
in New-Haven having become the possessor of
the property left by the deceased patriarch in the
colony which had first numbered him among its
pillars. The addition of an educated and accomplished
young man to the society of the place
was a much more unfrequent and important event
than at the present day, and while none received
the intelligence with indifference, it cannot be
denied that to the minds of some, at least among
the young and fair, the event thus announced
was one of special interest. Many were anxious
to renew their acquaintance with the rich and
honored young man, whom they remembered only
as the active, high-spirited and amiable boy. It
was not strange that thus for a few weeks he was
fast becoming an object of some interest to the
fair ones of the village. A sudden check was
however put to any indiscreet admiration that
might have been lavished upon him by the intelligence
that Alice Weldon, amid the unobtrusive
seclusion of her aunt's dwelling, in the loveliness
of her youth and beauty, had won, irretrievably
won, the heart of the accomplished young Davenport.
It was a bright, bland, summer evening when
Henry Davenport first openly declared the history
of a long and devoted attachment. But there
is something in the development of the first love
of a young heart, altogether too sacred for the
leaves of a printed volume; and we have ever felt
that there was a kind of sacrilege done, when the
recesses of such a soul have been broken open,
and those sweet and holy affections which would
fain shrink even from their own consciousness or
are at best revealed to one alone, have been poured
many—the cold hearted, perhaps, the rude and
the curious. The incidents of the tale however
and the development of its characters, require
the introduction of the present scene, and we
must plead the above mentioned scruples, together
with some slight inexperience of our own, as
an apology for the blank in its description.
* * * * * * * * *
The blush had faded from the neck and brow
of the fair girl, but her head leaned on her hand,
and its living damask still glowed through the
slender fingers and the bright hair that fell over
them. There had been a few low and broken
words, but these were past, and now her voice
was clear and calm.
“Henry, they have told you that I was a romantic
and singular being, that my actions were
all guided by the influence of a mysterious and
secret charm. I am about to prove that these
things are true. To all that I may have said in
an unguarded moment, there is one unyielding
condition. You may think me unjust and capricious—but”—
“Name it,” interrupted the youth hastily,
“Alice, if it is a deed for mortal arm, you have
but to name your condition.”
The young lady slowly unclasped the beautiful
ornament that adorned her neck, and placed it
in his hand. “Reveal to me the fate of the being
who gave me this.”
“Nay, Alice, you are trifling with my feelings,
he answered, gazing with surprise upon the costly
trinket, “this is unkind—you cannot be serious.”
“I am serious, Henry,” replied the lady. He
me, the mystery which involves the history of her
who gave this necklace,” and as she spoke she
pointed to a small and rudely inscribed motto
beneath the clasp.
“N' oubliez pas ta mere,” murmured the young
gentleman, holding it near the light. “What
means it Alice? I had thought that this was the
chain given you when a child by the strange lady
at your sister's wedding.”
“It is, Henry Davenport, it is the very same;
and I doubt not that lady was my mother. Nay
hear me, Henry. You call me Alice Weldon,
and you think me the sister of Margaret Russel,
and the niece of Mrs. Wilmot; but when I tell
you that in thus doing you are mistaking me for
another, perhaps you will credit my assertion:
The stranger who clasped this chain around my
neck, was, without doubt, my mother.”
“Explain yourself, Alice,” rejoined the other
in a tone of surprise and agitation. “You certainly
cannot expect me to comprehend your
meaning.”
“You doubtless remember,” continued the
young lady, the “circumstances of her mysterious
appearance.”
“They have often been related to me; but
until this moment, I had always believed it the
exaggeration of ungratified curiosity, which attached
such importance to the gift. Indeed I
had reason to imagine, that it was only presented
from motives of affection to your sister. Go
on Alice—your words are strange, and yet methinks
they tally well with some wild thoughts of
my own, many years ago.”
“I was but four years old,” continued Miss
place; but the impressions it produced, are still
vivid in my recollection. Ah, I can never forget
the thrilling ideas that rushed upon my mind, when
I first surveyed the stranger, as she sat in yonder
recess. But she was no stranger to me.”
“And you had seen her then before,” interrupted
her auditor.
“I am almost certain that I had, and yet I cannot
remember the occasion, but I well know it
was no new face to me. It seemed rather like
one of those beautiful countenances that had
often looked down and smiled upon me in my
dreams, and my heart sprang forth to meet her,
impelled by some unaccountable influence. And
when she bade me farewell—we stood in the
porch together, and she folded me to her bosom
with such a passionate embrace, and wept over me
with such an agony of tenderness, calling me her
own precious and cherished one, and charging
me to remember and love her so long as I should
live in the world, that, were I to live for ages, I
could never forget her. Henry, I have remembered
her, and, in all her beauty and sorrowful
tenderness, her image is at this moment as fresh
before me as when she stood among the ivy, weeping
over me that last farewell. And yet, perhaps,
this beautiful memorial, which never for a
moment suffered the bright picture to grow dim,
contributed much to strengthen these impressions.
Thenceforth she was the idol of my fancy,
the bright spirit of my waking and slumbering
visions. I do not mean that, at that time, I had
even for a moment conjectured the relation which
subsists between us. The being that I then loved
was the creature of my imagination and dear to
and secret yearnings, that had ever haunted my
solitude.”
“And did you never feel your curiosity excited
concerning her?”
“Often, and most painfully, but my inquiries
were all in vain. Aunt Wilmot has ever assured
me of her entire ignorance respecting her fate.
Two years ago as I was one morning arranging
the drawers of an old fashioned escrutoire, that
stood in my aunt's apartment, my hand accidentally
touched a secret spring which discovered
a department of the case I had never before
seen. I was delighted at the occurrence, because,
this ancient piece of furniture had remained
in the family for several generations, and I fancied
I was about to discover the secrets of some
past age. The first letter I seized upon, bore
the fragments of a black seal; and on opening
it I perceived that it was addressed to my aunt.
Delicacy would of course prevent my perusing
it, but, as I was closing it, my eye glanced unintentionally
upon the first lines, and I trembled
with amazement. You may read it, Henry, if
you will, for I copied it ere I left the apartment.”
The young man seized with avidity the folded
paper, which was now presented to him. It contained
the following sentences. “This will inform
you, madam, of the death of Alice Weldon,
youngest daughter of your deceased sister, Mrs.
Margaret Weldon. We were preparing, as our
last informed you, to send her to America according
to the provisions of the will, and indeed
had made arrangements to forward her in charge
of the gentlemen who hands you this letter,
when she was suddenly attacked with a violent
existence.” Mr. Davenport rose hastily from his
seat as he finished its perusal and began to walk
with a hurried and unconscious step. A flush
had meanwhile gathered on his cheek; and an
expression of mingled astonishment and delight
animated his countenance.
“And was there aught else, Alice—Alice Weldon,
for so I must and will call you, did this curious
letter contain any further information?”
“Only some tedious details which convinced
me that its writer was the executor of Mrs.
Weldon's estate; but I had no heart to examine
further. The date was precisely the time at
which I was supposed to have arrived in America,
and I was at once convinced that I had,
all my life, usurped a name and station to which
I had no claim. Hitherto orphan though I was,
I had deemed myself surrounded with endeared
and affectionate relatives; but now the delusion
was over, I was alone in the world—an isolated
being, and my hopes all clouded.”
“And why so Alice? What if this discovery
should reveal to you relations far nearer than
those it has annihilated, and teach you to claim
a parentage that princes might glory in. Ah, I
see it all now. There is, there cannot be the
shadow of a doubt—Alice Weldon, did you never
suspect yourself to be the daughter of”—
“Of whom?” repeated the young lady in low
and hushed tones, for she had waited in vain for
the conclusion of the sentence—he was still silent,
and her cheek became colorless as the white
rose that lay in her hair.
“I have done wrong. Forgive me, my gentle
Alice,” he at length replied, checking his hurried
as he spoke, “Mrs. Wilmot, as well as Governor
Leet must have been privy to this strange
secret, and you say that they never hinted any
thing to you concerning it.”
“Never!”
“And have you never revealed to them this
singular discovery?”
“No; the thought was agony—till this night
the secret has been buried in my own heart, and
but for you it might have died with me. It did
indeed double my inquiries concerning the mysterious
visit of the stranger, but they were always
evaded, and indeed, Mrs. Wilmot seemed pained
whenever it was mentioned. For as I had felt
my relations to the beings around me suddenly
severed, my thoughts had gradually fastened, with
a new and strange devotion, upon that beautiful
image of memory, which seemed to me to concentrate
all that was lovely in human tenderness.
I endeavored to reason calmly, to divest myself
of enthusiasm, I remembered every tone and
look, the gust of tears, the passionate embrace;
and I could not but feel that there was a link in
our destinies, something strong as the ties of natural
affection. The translation of the little motto
you see on the clasp was at length obtained,
“Forget not thy mother.” There was no longer
a doubt. Yes, Henry, it was my own mother
who fifteen years since went forth from this house
in such bitterness. Who knows but that she may
still live—alone—unprotected—in peril and sorrow,
while I whose duty it is to soothe and comfort
her, am wasting my hours in careless case,
unmindful of one who charged me to love and
remember her. No, Henry, I will enter into no
obligations, of which this gift is an enduring
token. I cannot be happy and I will not
mar with my own dark fortunes the destiny of
another.”
“But she may be dead,” replied the youth in
agitation. “Say nothing rashly, Alice. Remember,
fifteen years have past since you saw her.”
“I do. And now hear me, Henry—hear the
condition of my plighted troth. Unravel this
mystery—I know you have already a clue you
do not choose to confide to me—but I will not
urge you. Uuravel this mystery. Reveal to me
the fate of this mysterious being, and oh, if living,
restore her to me.”
“And then?”
“I will deem it my highest happiness to love
and honor you forever.”
“The curfew now slowly announced the hour
of nine, and Henry Davenport ere long departed
for his lodgings.
| CHAPTER VII. Tales of the puritans | |