Tales of the puritans The regicides, The fair pilgrim, Castine |
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| 8. | CHAPTER VIII. |
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 | CHAPTER VIII. Tales of the puritans |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
On a cold moonlight winter evening, some
eighteen months after the events recorded in
the last chapter, a small sleigh was seen
blithely jingling over the road which forms
the southern entrance to the village of H—
The back seat was occupied by two ladies completely
enveloped in the folds of a huge buffalo
skin, and that in front by a single gentleman in
the capacity of driver.
“Drive faster, Richard, for heaven's sake,” exclaimed
one of the ladies in an impatient tone,
as they slackened their pace at the slight ascent
before them. “I say, Richard, if you do not set
us down somewhere, and that speedily, I will take
the reins myself.” “If one of these drifts would
suit your ladyship,” replied the other, turning
with a threatening air to the roadside, “I can
easily accomplish your wishes. Will you alight?”
“Ah, Richard, you will not laugh when you
find me frozen to death under the buffalo skin.
I tell you my fingers are icicles already.”
“Then they must be strikingly improved in
complexion,” replied the other with an air of extreme
indifference, but at that moment a loud
and triumphant shaking of the bells announced
that the horse with his dignified and leisurely
tread had at length completed the ascent. “Ah!
and here we are,” shouted the driver, pointing at
which had just become visible.
On the plain beneath, at no great distance, a
comfortable cluster of brown, red and white
houses, now appeared interrupting the bold ext
panse of snow and moonlight, while the fires and
candles gleaming through the distant windows
seemed to diffuse a delicious glow through the
hearts of the half frozen travellers.
“But, Richard, we have been so often deceived
with these log houses, and jack-a-lanterns, I don't
believe it is the real village.”
“Not the village, Susan. Why then my precious
sister, open your eyes. Do you not see the
steeple as plain as daylight at the northern extremity,
and a little to the right, the sparks from
the blacksmith's forge, they told us of, and did
we not pass the “Three mile mill,” half an
hour ago?”
Meanwhile they were darting down the hill,
with sufficient rapidity to compensate for the tediousness
of the ascent.
“What a hill for a slide,” said the talkative
young lady, turning for a moment to survey it, just
as they reached the plain. “I declare, I would like
nothing better than to be a child for fifteen minutes,
if it were only to enjoy another frolic in the
snow—and, as it is, I would risk my dignity for
a single slide from yonder summit. Ah, Alice,
you need not smile so contemptuously,” she continued,
turning to the lady who sat silently by
her, “I have known graver and wiser ladies than
yourself guilty of similar indiscretions. Even
that revered matron we are about to visit, aye,
and the madam of a parish—I remember the
day when she sprung on the sled and rode down
not of some grave rebukes on the subject. Do
you remember it, Richard? It was the night the
English travellers came, and whom should we
meet at the foot of the hill, but the worthy Mr.
Russel himself. But I beg your pardon, Richard,
I remember you always chose to ride by yourself.
It was Henry Davenport that was guiding the
sled.”
“And do you know,” interrupted the young
man, without regarding her previous remark, that
young Davenport has returned from England?”
“Returned!” exclaimed the silent young lady,
in a tone of thrilling emphasis, and starting as if
electrified. Richard did I hear you aright?
Henry Davenport returned?”
“Aye; so they say,” replied her companion, I
found an old friend of ours at the last inn, who
says he met him three days ago in the streets of
Boston, and never saw him looking better.”
“And is he going to New-Haven?” continued
the young lady in the same tone of eager inquiry.
“What did he say, tell me I pray you, Richard.”
“Indeed, cousin Alice,” replied the other, “I
was always bad at guessing, and as I happened to
be driving you quietly over the Connecticut
hills, at the time of their interview, it is impossible
for me to decide what were his veritable
words.”
“Did you not know,” said Susan, leaning
across the seat and speaking in a loud whisper,
“that about a year and a half since, it was reported
that Henry Davenport was engaged to
Alice, and it was all broken off so suddenly? I
am sure, Dick, you might have spared her feelings.”
The conversation had gradually become interesting,
and, before they were aware of it, they
found themselves entering the principal street of
H—. It was only seven o'clock, and the village
presented an appearance of considerable
animation. Sleighs were moving merrily along,
and the pleasant sound of the bells, the lights
from the windows of the dwelling houses, and
above all the illumination which glared from the
little grocery, dry good, and hardware store, in
the midst, produced the idea of busy and cheerful
enjoyment. The snow had been thrown in
piles on either side of the way, and some of the
inhabitants were now enjoying the comfortable
foot-paths thus furnished, in sallying forth for the
social evening visit. Near the center of the village,
the principal street was intersected by another
from the east, and it was on one of the
angles thus formed that our party at length drew
up before the large square house which had been
pointed out to them as the dwelling of Mr. Russel.
It was one of the most ancient in the village,
and having never been painted, it had acquired
from long exposure, that tinge of sombre brown
so redolent with gloomy associations,—and there
was an air of loneliness and desertion about it,
with the large old barns in the rear, particularly
when seen, as now, with their long and quiet shadows
lying in the moonlight. Every object exhibited
an air of perfect stillness, there were no
lights in the windows, and not even a dog to bark
their welcome.
“There's no wonder they call it a haunted
house,” said Susan in a voice tremulous with
vexation, and turning to her companion in the
sleigh, while Richard knocked loudly at the door.
more like it.”
“They are not at home, sir,” said a tidy looking
woman, who had at length made her appearance.
“They are gone to the meeting—the minister's
meeting—and wont return till to-morrow. Will
you walk in?”
“Ah! that we will, good woman, if you have
such a thing as a fire,” replied the young man,
hastening at the same moment to assist the ladies
in alighting.
“If Mr. and Mrs. Russel are absent, I would
not stay in this house to-night for the world,”
whispered Susan to her companion, as they
mounted the steps, “and indeed I should not
wonder if we were carried off bodily before
morning,” she continued, in a still lower tone, as
they followed their conductress through a long
and extremely narrow hall. “Stranger things
have happened here, if all tales are true.”
The door which terminated the passage, was
at length thrown open, and the travelers were
ushered into a bright and pleasant little parlor,
the social aspect of which seemed to remove
all cause of discontent. There was a fresh blaze
on the hearth, and the light and glow of the apartment
contrasted strongly with the cold, pale moonlight
without. The guests had been expected.
A small table was already spread for their refreshment,
and the good Mrs. Ramsay now hastily
arranged chairs for them around the fire.
“Ah, this seems more like a christian dwelling,”
whispered Susan, in a low voice, as the
good dame left the apartment, “but, Richard, I
confess I do not exactly like the idea of staying
in the haunted house alone, or at least with
home.”
Richard's sarcastic reply was interrupted by
the re-appearance of Mrs. Ramsay, who seemed
indeed to act in a much higher capacity than
that of an ordinary domestic.
“Mrs. Russel bade me tell you to make
yourselves at home, if you came during her
absence; that is, if you are her sister and
cousins.”
“I believe we can prove the fact to a demonstration,
good Mrs. Ramsay,” answered Richard,
gaily disencumbering himself of his superfluous
apparel, “and I for one shall make use of its privileges,
ghosts and goblins to the contrary notwithstanding.”
After a few meaning glances on the part of
Susan, the young ladies rose to follow his example,
thus presenting Mrs. Ramsay an opportunity
of more unobservedly satisfying her curiosity.
They were both expensively dressed; but the
discriminating eye of their observer, soon detected
a peculiar tastefulness in the apparel of the
younger. The mantle she had worn on her entrance,
had fallen from her shoulders, the dark
pelisse beneath revealing her light and graceful
figure. As she laid aside her veiled bonnet, the
waving curls beneath fell on a brow like marble,
high and fair, and darkly penciled; a gleam of
spiritual beauty looked out from her blue eyes,
softened and shaded with its drooping lashes;
while the melancholy cast of expression touching
every feature would have given interest, nay,
fascination, to a countenance of ordinary outline.
Nor was her companion destitute of personal attractions;
her form was graceful, a sparkling
company, she might have been deemed beautiful.
But the light of genius and fancy, the bloom
of rich thoughts and feelings, will ever stamp on
the countenance of their possessor, a superior
and elevated loveliness.
Though the worthy Mrs. Ramsay had not arrived
at exactly the same conclusion, with that to
which we have conducted our readers, she was
evidently investigating the comparative merits of
the young ladies, with a spirit of determined
resolution. The result, however, appeared at first
satisfactory. “If I may make bold to say it,”
she at last said, turning to Susan with an air of
triumphant skill, “I expect you must be Madam
Russel's sister.”
“No; I have not that honor—only her cousin.”
“Then I will never trust a likeness again,”
muttered the other in a disappointed tone, turning
to the table to hide her vexation. “I am sure
the other young lady favors her no more than I
do. No body would dream of their being related.”
Guessing was certainly Mrs. Ramsay's
forte; and she now completed the arrangement
of the table, with an air which evinced her displeasure
at the failure.
Alice Weldon was the only one who seemed
not to relish the inviting repast. There was a
violent tremor in her whole frame, a strong and
visible excitement of feeling, and notwithstanding
her complaints of the effects of cold and weariness,
her gay companions ere long desired to know
its cause.
But at that moment, the wind moaned heavily
through a distant part of the building, and all
appearance of the little parlor had for a time dispelled,
seemed to return with increased energy.
“It is nothing but the whistling of the wind,”
replied Mrs. Ramsay, as Susan rose suddenly
from her seat by the table, and earnestly demanded
its cause. “The shutters too are loose, and a
breeze from the north will always move them.”
But neither this explanation, nor the raillery of
her brother, had power to allay the excited fears
of the young lady. When the keen apprehension
of evil is once aroused, it needs no frightful
occurrence to continue and strengthen its influence.
The slightest sound, the most trivial
incident, is greedily converted into cause of alarm,
until the mind is wrought up to an intense and
perhaps intolerable pitch of emotion.
“If you had seen what I have seen,” said Mrs.
Ramsay, as the trio seated themselves by the fire,
“and if you had heard what I have heard, you
might well be afraid.” She paused as if for encouragement
to proceed.
“And prythee what have you seen?” replied
Richard, with a contemptuous smile, “be a little
more definite, I intreat you.”
“Why, to tell you the truth—to be plain with
you,” continued Mrs. Ramsay, approaching the
fireside, with a solemn and mysterious expression,
“you must know that this house, a certain part
of it I mean, is haunted. Those who find it for
their interest may deny it as they will, but I will
stand to it, the longest day I live—the house is a
haunted one.”
“What part of it, good Mrs. Ramsay?” cried
Susan, looking earnestly around the room, and
“Do you see that door?” continued the other,
pointing to what seemed a small closet behind
Susan.
“What of it, Mrs. Ramsay?” exclaimed the
young lady, suddenly vacating her seat for one on
the opposite side of the fire.
“Nay, Susan,” interrupted Alice, now raising
her thoughtful and abstracted glance from the
embers. “You do wrong thus to agitate your
feelings. I cannot feel that there is cause for
your alarm.”
“Ah, you cannot,” replied the other with a
scornful smile. “Well, I will confess to you,
cousin Alice, my inferiority. I am not so much
wiser than the rest of this generation, as altogether
to defy supernatural beings. Perhaps if I were
as good as Richard and yourself, I might exhibit
more courage.”
“Perhaps you might, my dear,” replied the
youth calmly. “But as it is, we must intreat
Mrs. Ramsay to defer her frightful stories till
daylight.”
“Ah! and good reason,” retorted Susan, “you
dare not hear them.”
“Dare not?” repeated her brother contemptuously,
“You shall see. Good woman I will save
you the trouble of describing these apartments,”
and he moved with rapid steps towards the door
so mysteriously designated. But Richard was not
at heart ill-natured and the agonizing intreaties
of his siter at length prevailed. Perhaps too
some private misgivings of his own exerted their
due influence. Be this as it may, his character
fireside.
“And now, Mrs. Ramsay, do tell us all about
it,” continued Susan eagerly. “That mysterious
door. Where does it lead?”
“Heaven knows,” replied the old woman, devoutly
folding her eyelids. “Heaven knows—
not I. So long as I have lived in this house,
which is two years this coming Thanksgiving, I
have never lifted the latch, and heaven forbid I
ever should. But I have seen it opened. Aye,
with my own bodily eyes have I seen it—and that
too when the lock was turned and the key hanging
above the mantel-piece, as plain as it does
at this moment.” Mrs. Ramsay moved her chair
into the circle as she spoke, and Susan Leet drew
closer to her cousin.
“Did you see any one?” inquired the latter in a
faultering voice.
“Aye, as plainly as I see you at this moment.
I saw a face like the face of a human being,
but pale and ghastly, and the eyes were sunken”—
“Nay, Mrs. Ramsay,—tell me no more of these
things,” cried Susan, shuddering and turning to
Alice, who now indeed seemed herself to have
imbibed a portion of her own interest in the narration.
“Do, dear Alice, sing us a song, and let
us forget these horrible ideas.”
The request was immediately complied with,
and Miss Weldon rejoiced in an opportunity of
diverting her own attention from the fearfully
fascinating narrative. The song selected was
one calculated to arouse a far different train of
association, and Richard soon found means to introduce
subjects of conversation better suited to
away without further recurrence to the subject of
their apprehensions; though an occasional glance
at the mysterious door, testified that Susan had
not entirely forgotten it.
It was now ten o'clock. Richard had a few
minutes ago retired; and the young ladies
drew their chairs more closely around the fire,
to enjoy for a few moments its delicious glow,
ere they ventured to brave the cold of their sleeping
apartment. If there is one time when young
females are more prone to indulge in fanciful
reveries than another, it is certainly this, when
the ceaseless hum, the absorbing cares or pleasures,
of the day, are past, and they sit quietly
down to commune with their own wild and happy
thoughts, without fear or distraction. Ah, how
many lovely hopes have sprung up in the brightness
of the winter's hearth, how many airy castles
have arisen to the eyes of beauty, and crumbled
and faded away, in its glowing crimson. But we
cannot transcribe the thoughts which now kindled
the eye of our heroine. It is a time when the
loved and the absent are remembered; and Alice
Weldon would not have breathed, even to the
cousin whose arm was around her, the secret
hopes which her fancy then cherished.
But these reveries were now unexpectedly disturbed
by the re-appearance of Mrs. Ramsay.
She came into the room with a hurried movement,
and Alice could not but think that there was a
singular expression on her features; but as she
seated herself silently by the fire, she forbore to
notice it.
“Do you hear that noise?” exclaimed Susan,
after a few moment's silence, and directing as
the apartment. “For several minutes I have
heard that strange sound. Say, Mrs. Ramsay,
can you tell me where it is?”
“Not I,”—replied the old woman, while her
eye reflected back the whole quantum of terror
which Susan's had communicated,—“Do you hear
it, Miss Weldon?”
In the interval of profound silence which now
ensued, Alice could indeed faintly distinguish a
sound like that of a human groan, as if echoing
along some distant passage. All eyes were now
fixed intently upon the mysterious door, until the
cheek of Alice Weldon became as pale as that of
her more timid companions. The low repeated
groan, seemed gradually to grow more distinct,
as the increased effort of attention rendered the
effect more powerful.
“Does Mr. Russel never enter these strange
apartments?” murmured Alice faintly.
“Ah, that he does; and the more the sin, and
the shame say I, for him, a christian minister.”
“And do you believe,” continued Alice, “that
so true and holy a man as your minister, would
have dealings with the spirits of evil? Hark!—
Again!—Listen, Susan, that surely is the voice of
human suffering.”
Susan had arisen in the extremity of her terror
and was now leaning, pale and almost breathless,
against the corner of the mantel-piece. Mrs.
Ramsay sat trembling beside her. “Are you
sure,” continued Alice, glancing at the latter,
“that yonder key will indeed unlock this door?”
“Quite sure;—I know it. But what would
you do with it, Miss Alice?” she added in an altered
and took it from its resting place.
“Alice, Alice Weldon, what would you do?”
cried Susan, casting on her cousin a look of agonized
inquiry, as she stood for a moment gazing
thoughtfully towards the door.
“If it were not too bold a deed for a single girl,
Susan, I would open at once that mysterious
door. Oh, those fearful tones!” she added as
still another groan was borne on the air,—“They
pierce my heart, I cannot stay here, when there
is a chance of relieving the sufferer. Say, Mrs.
Ramsay, does Margaret, does Madam Russel herself
ever enter those apartments?”
“So they say,” replied Mrs. Ramsay, reluctantly.
“Susan, I will never believe that Margaret
hath done aught beneath the character of a christian
woman.”
“Oh do not depend on that,” replied her cousin
intreatingly, “dearest Alice, I assure you that
strange suspicions rested on her name, many
years ago, even before she left our village.”
“But you forget Susan, that you are speaking
to her sister. Margaret is no more connected
with unearthly beings than I am at this moment.”
Susan had, in the ardor of her emotion, laid her
hand upon her cousin's arm as if to prevent her
daring purpose, but at that moment she suddenly
withdrew it, as though those words had conveyed
to her some strange and fearful meaning; and
after gazing at her for a moment with an expression
which Alice could by no means comprehend,
she turned shuddering away from her.
“How can you, how dare you go?” said Mrs.
Ramsay, as the young lady slowly approached
tread was clearly perceptible. Alice paused
for a moment, and then placing the key in the
lock, the next, the dreaded door was open before
her.
She now found herself standing at the head of
a rude staircase; and the light she held in her
hand, streamed upon it, sufficiently to make visible
the darkness of a narrow subterranean passage
beneath. The damp air from below sent a
sudden chill through her frame; she paused a
moment, and throwing over her shoulders the
rich mantle which hung beside her, again set out
on her fearful errand. The staircase was steep
and difficult of descent, but her foot at length
rested on the flooring of earth below and she
moved quickly forward. The passage through
which she was now treading, was extremely narnow.
A stone wall on either side bounded her
vision, and the fearful glances she directed
down the dimly lighted vault, were equally confined
by an abrupt angle in the path before her.
But the undaunted girl still moved on; and, in a
few moments more, she had reached the corner and
was rapidly turning it. At that instant there was
a sudden darkness. A gust of chill air from beyond
had extinguished her lamp. It was in vain
that she sought to rekindle the lingering spark, it
only expired the more readily and she now found
herself involved in total darkness. To return
from whence she came, and that with all possible
speed, was the first terrified impulse; but, in the
confusion of the moment, she had lost the direction
of the parlor, and had now no possible guide to
her steps. At that instant, there appeared a faint
light shining high in the aperture of a wall at
the outline of a door; but whether this would
conduct her again to the parlor, or to the mysterious
object of her search, was only a matter of
fearful conjecture. After groping for some time
in perfect silence, for the groans had now
entirely ceased, she found herself ascending
the ladder which led to the lighted apartment
above. Now there came from within the sound
of a heavy tread, and the young adventurer
paused—but the life blood came back to her
heart again, and with it her dauntless purpose;
the next moment, and she stood on the thresh-hold
above. The lock rattled to her touch—
there was the sound of a turning key within, and
the door of the apartment opened wide before
her. Amid the sudden and painful rush of light,
a form of commanding grace stood before her,
and a dark and sorrowful eye rested sternly on
hers. She would have spoken, but the words
died on her lip; she leaned tremblingly upon
the wall, and at length there came a low and
brief apology; but the stranger still gazed as if
heedless of its import. If the idea of supernatural
agency had for a moment intruded while
groping through the darkness below, it all vanished
beneath that silent gaze. There was a
touch of earth and its sorrows, on every object of
that lonely room, and her very soul was hushed
and awed, at the recollection that she had dared
to intrude upon its sacredness.
It was only a momentary glimpse indeed which
Alice directed to the objects of the apartment.
It contained no windows, the faint light of the
mouldering fire flickered upon the walls, and the
lamp burned dimly in its socket. A case of
table in the center of the apartment, and scattered
around it a few cushioned chairs with covers
of faded green. A couch stood near the fire,
of like ancient and worn materials, and here
indeed the quick glance of Alice rested. A wide
cloak fell carelessly over it, and its folds were
heaving to the low and quickened breathings of
human agony. It was no fancy then; that deep
groan had borne its own true and fearful meaning,
and there lay the suffering and dying one.
And yet the pity which had prompted the effort,
almost vanished amid the deep emotions
that now thrilled her heart. It was the face of
an old man, and very pale, the eyes were closed
as in slumber, and every feature was thin and
worn as if with long and bitter suffering. Yet
there was around those features the peaceful
beauty of holiness, a smile was on the thin and
faded lip, and in every furrow of that noble brow
were the records of the battle fought, the victory
won, and the diadem laid up above, incorruptible
and unfading; it seemed as if the
brightness of heaven were near, and the agony
of earth almost ended. But Alice was still conscious
that the other inmate of the apartment
had not ceased to regard her with fixed and painful
earnestness. He was indeed silent, but a
strong flush, mantling high even among the
dark locks that shaded his temples, betrayed no
trivial emotion.
“Forgive my intrusion, sir,” said Alice in low
and trembling tones, “it was not for idle curiosity—indeed,
sir, I will prove that it was not; only
tell me how I can in any way serve you, or”—
The stranger was evidently about to speak,
burst from the couch of the invalid. Though
the sound of heavy steps and opening doors, had
not aroused him from that deathlike lethargy;
the faint tones of that sweet and murmured voice,
seemed to have recalled him to the consciousness
of suffering—his eye roamed wildly over the
apartment. In a moment his companion was beside
him gently bathing his temples, and evidently
stifling his own deep sighs with words of consolation.
But there was no reply—for the eye
of the invalid now rested on the spot where the
beautiful young stranger was leaning, her face
bright with emotion, and the drapery of her scarlet
mantle streaming from her shoulders. There
was something irresistibly attractive in that beseeching
glance, and she almost unconsciously
drew near the couch.
“Now the blessing of the God of heaven be on
thee, my Isabel, my own lost and beautiful one,”
said the old man in slow but unfaultering tones,
as Alice Weldon advanced towards him. I knew
thou wouldst not forsake us altogether. I told
thee, William, she would come again to us,
though it were only to soothe our dying moments
Give me thy hand, my sweet daughter Isabel,
let these eyes look once more on thee. Ah, once
more, for surely there is nothing else on earth
that I would not now close them on joyfully and
forever.”
Alice cast upon the other a glance of anxious
inquiry, as she placed her fair hand in that of the
aged invalid. But there was nothing there, to
check her amazement; all that had appeared
strange and mysterious in the exclamations of
the sufferer, seemed more than confirmed in his
gaze wistfully upon her.
“Methinks the long years that have rolled so
wearily over us, have fallen but lightly on thee,
my noble daughter. I am old, and worn with
grief, and even William's dark locks are sprinkled
with snow; but thou dost seem more young, and
far more blooming, than when we left thee in the
cave of the mountain. Say, Isabel, is it that
thou hast wandered free and happy among the
fresh breezes of the earth, that thine eye is so
bright, and thy cheek so blooming? But no—no,
he added mournfully—it cannot be. They told
me that my Isabel lay in the dark prisons beyond
the ocean.” And he closed his eyes as if to
shut out the bewildering image.
A tear trembled in the eye of Alice, as, with a
look of earnest inquiry, she once more raised it
to the countenance of the stranger. “Tell me
your name, young maiden,” exclaimed the latter
in a voice of uncontrollable emotion, “and haply
I may read you his meaning.”
“They call me Alice Weldon,” replied the
trembling girl, while a strong rush of associations
overpowered her spirit.
“Then wonder not that visions of that beloved
one are kindled. Thy mother was his own
and only daughter, and thou art mine.” There
was a moment of doubt—of deep incredulous
wonder, and Alice gazed in silence. But the
springs of natural affection are hidden and mysterious;
and it was not long ere she threw her
arm around the neck of him whom but now
she had deemed a stranger, calling him her father,
and weeping over him with wild and passionate
she had loved his name.
The old man seemed only in part to have comprehended
the recognition that had taken place;
and his thoughts still wandered with painful earnnestness,
to the memory of that heroic being
whose living image seemed before him. “Oh
I had prayed that I might see her again,” he
murmured in weak and sunken tones,” and I had
forgotten that the illusions of earth are not yet
over.”
Only half an hour had elapsed since Alice had
departed on her mysterious expedition, when she
again found herself traversing the subterranean
passage. There seemed a perfect silence within
the little parlor as she ascended the staircase, only
the ticking of the clock was plainly perceptible.
Mrs. Ramsay was sitting precisely in the same
place as when she had left her, and close beside
her was Susan whose countenance exhibited the
same emotion as before, save that there was an
expression of even deeper terror in her eye as it
glanced upon the opening door. Alice instantly
perceived, that during her absence, the party
had received a singular addition. On the opposite
side of the fire sat a stranger, a tall and elegantly
proportioned female. She wore a pelisse
and bonnet of rich black velvet, and a ribbon
of the same hue, fastened around her throat with
a small diamond clasp. The lady had evidently
passed the noon of life; and here and there a
solitary line of silver mingled among the dark
hair that was parted on her forehead. Her face
seemed throughout of the pure and colorless tint
of marble; and so perfectly regular was the contour
of her features, that it seemed rather like
like a form of life and motion. A faint smile
lingered on her lip; and there was a certain
wildness and indescribable sweetness of expression
in the brilliancy of her soft dark eye, as it
beamed upon the admiring Alice.
The young lady waited a moment, as if for
some introduction to this stranger, but there was
an uninterrupted silence; and a meaning glance
at that moment interchanged between Mrs. Ramsay
and her cousin, suddenly convinced her that
she was to them an object of aversion and fear.
There were no inquiries as to the success of her
errand; and she now sat down, without attempting
to interrupt the awkward silence.
Several minutes had elapsed, and Alice was
still vainly endeavoring to account for the appearance
of the stranger at this untimely hour,
when a sudden and startling knock on the outer
door diffused a general thrill throughout the
company. Susan started up hastily, and seizing
a mantle from the chair beside her, stood resolutely,
as if prepared for any emergency.
“Where are you going?” said her cousin in
surprise.
“To take up my abode with christian people,
for the night, if indeed there are any such in the
vicinity. No, Alice, you need not urge me,”
continued the young lady with a flush of indignant
spirit, “I would not stay in this house another
hour, even if you would tie around my neck
that golden charm which gives you so much
courage. Do you see,” she added in a whisper
to Mrs. Ramsay, “how that strange being's eye
flashes at the very name of a charm.”
“Are you not going to the door, Mrs. Ramsay?”
cousin, for at that moment another loud and rapid
knock intimated the impatience of those
without.
“Not I, ma'am,” replied the resolute dame,
gathering courage. “Gentle or simple, they
must e'en wait till morning—we've queer comers
enough for the night already.” And she
cast a timid and suspicious glance upon the
stranger. “At least,” she added in an under
tone, “if worse comes to worse, there's a kind
of people that can e'en come through the key
hole.”
The stranger was evidently embarrassed, she
looked earnestly for a moment upon the young
ladies, upon each alternately, and seemed about
to speak; but a third knock, more violent than
either of the preceding, now rang through the
building.
“It is a bitter night, Mrs. Ramsay,” said Alice,
rising hastily and seizing a light from the shelf.
It would sound ill too, that a traveler had perished
at the minister's door for want of a hand to
open it,” and casting as she passed, a single and
earnest glance upon the dark eyed stranger, she proceeded
through the narrow hall to the outer door
of the dwelling. After some little embarrassment,
the bar was at length removed, the key
turned, and the door thrown open.
“For the love of mercy,” exclaimed a tall and
closely muffled traveler, who stood knocking his
boots against the stones, in the extremity of his
impatience, but the words died quickly away;
and the next moment, the hand of Alice Weldon
was grasped in his, a tone of joyful greeting rung
in her ear, and he who had dared for her the deep,
and grandeur of a princely court, was standing
once more beside her.
“And now do I claim my reward,” cried Henry
Davenport, as they entered the parlor together,
for Mrs. Ramsay and Susan had made good their
retreat; but the stranger still sat by the fire.
“The condition,” replied the young lady in a
low and agitated voice, her eye glancing upon
the stranger with a look of trembling interest.
A bright flush was kindling on that pale cheek,
and the wild and joyful meaning of that beaming
eye was no longer a mystery. The next
moment, Alice Weldon lay folded in that lady's
arms, the warm tears of a mother's love were
on her cheek, the rich music of a mother's voice
fell on her ear; and dreams, and fears, and wishes,
were all faded in one bright reality. The
tale of mystery was soon unravelled; and though
the kindness which had sought to shield her
from the misfortunes of her family was not unappreciated,
a tide of deeper pleasure filled her
spirit, when she learned that he who had that
night folded her in a father's embrace, was
none other than the noble outcast, whose story
of high devotion had so often kindled her
fancy.
Isabel Goffe had not in vain, sixteen years
since, summoned up the strength of woman's
courage, for a hopeless and almost desperate
effort. Her errand across the deep had not
been in vain. Long years had indeed been
wasted in the silence of her prison walls, until
the beautiful and smiling infant whose memory
had gladened its loneliness, could scarcely be recognized,
even by a mother's eye, in the elegant
it was not in vain. The eloquence of the wife and
daughter at last prevailed even at the foot of the
English throne; and she now came with an assurance
of secret pardon to the sorrowing exiles.
Was it then too late? Oh no—it was a moment
worth ages of the heartless existence of many whom
the world call happy, when the heroic Isabel
kneeled that night in the lone chamber of
death. And a nobler and costlier legacy than
the gold of Peru, was in those words of blessing,
with which the tried spirit of her father, at last
burst away free and happy to its home in heaven.
Three months after these occurrences, the
beautiful house and grounds of the deceased Mrs.
Wilmot, were purchased by an English gentleman
of fortune, recently arrived in the colony of
New-Haven. Walter Goldsmith, (for such was
the name of the new comer,) was a man of commanding
person and manners, much esteemed
among the inhabitants for his benevolence, the
high and pure morality of his life, and more than
all for those strong principles of holiness, which
evidently formed the springs of his existence. He
was however reserved, and somewhat unsocial in
his habits, and seemed almost exclusively devoted
to the happiness of an extremely amiable and
beautiful wife, who had accompanied him to his
new residence.
Little was known, among the colonists, of the
former condition of the emigrants. They were
supposed, however, to have been in some way
connected with the deceased Mrs. Wilmot, as
her favorite niece resided wholly in their family.
Alice Weldon indeed addressed them by the endearing
appellations of parents, and certainly
which was here mutually exhibited. It was also
noticed by some, that there was a striking similarity
of person between Miss Weldon and her
beautiful adopted mother. The mystery however
was never duly investigated; the extreme reserve
of Mrs. Goldsmith's manners on this and many
other subjects, prevented those communications
which might have been desired.
Henry Davenport obtained, the ensuing autumn,
the hand of the lovely Miss Weldon; but
as her new guardians refused to be separated from
the object of their affection, he concluded, at
their earnest solicitation, to establish himself beneath
the same roof.
It was not until many years after, when at the
close of a long and happy life, Walter Goldsmith
was laid by the grave of the regicide, and only
the simple initials, W. G. appeared on the rude
tombstone which marked his resting place, that a
secret report prevailed through the village, that
he was other than he had seemed, and that the
name of Goldsmith had long concealed among
them the family of the devoted and high souled
Goffe.
| CHAPTER VIII. Tales of the puritans | |