 | Tales of the puritans |  |
THE FAIR PILGRIM
1. THE
FAIR PILGRIM.
CHAPTER I.
As lovely a morning as ever rose on the loveliness
of an English village, was tinging, with its
rosy light, the cottages and magnificent turrets
that adorned the valley of D—. Doubtless,
to some, the appellation of village suggests
only the picture of one of those smiling groups
of human dwellings, which adorn our American
landscapes,—nothing, however, could differ more
widely from the present scene. Not only the castle,
the chapel, and the shady park appeared in their
ancient grandeur, as the monuments of aristocratic
pride and power; but for miles around the
humble cottages of the villagers, nay, even their
inhabitants were nearly all only so many appendages
to the dignity of the one noble family,
whose residence graced the vale. Among the
few houses which appeared to maintain an
independent existence, there was one, which,
from the neatness of its structure, and the
beauty of the surrounding grounds, was well
fitted to excite attention. It was situated at
midst of a beautiful coppice. Behind it rose
a high, wooded bank, and the verdure which
enameled the turf in the shady walk, was every
where enriched and deepened by the meanderings
of a brook, whose blue wave, here and there,
gleamed up from among the trees. Every circumstance
which renders rural life beautiful,
seemed here to exist in delightful combination.
Nature's melody was not wanting. The voices
of birds were uttered low and sweet from the
boughs, the bleating of lambs on the hill, the
notes of a thousand bright insects, and the murmurs
of the little brook, all came on the ear in
rich and mingled music. The house was of wood,
large and neatly painted; but the ivy which had
crept over the porch, and the moss which had
here and there overgrown the sloping roof, gave
it a venerable air.
The windows of one of the front apartments
were thrown open, and amid the grateful coolness
which pervaded it, several elderly men of dignified
and respectable appearance sat eagerly conversing
together.
“Sir Richard, did you mention aught to the
king concerning the charter?” said one who leaned
upon the window seat.
“The subject,” replied the baronet, “was but
slightly touched upon. I deemed it impolitic to
urge the matter as yet, for I saw that the impious
Laud, that most cruel enemy of the Puritans,
watched my steps. But Strafford is on our
side. He cares not whether we die or prosper,
so he doth but gain gold and honor for himself.
He hath promised me that he will favor our petitition,
when a fitting opportunity presents. Meanwhile,
us render thanksgiving that this great and difficult
undertaking of ours, doth seem so nearly accomplished.
The proprietary grant hath been
easily and firmly secured. The ships are prepared
for departure, and as far as our resources
have allowed, fitted out with all things needful
for so perilous a journey. All that remaineth is
that you, my brethren, do gird on your spiritual
armor and go forth to your work.”
The silence which succeeded this declaration
remained for some time uninterrupted. The
emotions it had excited were too deep for words,
and each spirit seemed quietly searching its own
mysterious depths, for those treasures of strength,
and that holiness of purpose, which their noble
enterprise demanded.
“It is time, then, that the day of departure
should be appointed,” said one after some minutes
silence.
“Three days from this, if it seems fitting to
you all,” replied Sir Richard Saltonstall. “What
say you, Endicott?”
“It is well, Sir Richard. Our plans admit of
little delay; but, Wilson,” he added, turning to
the gentleman by the window, “can your scattered
flock so soon be gathered together?”
“They are all at this moment, apprised of a
speedy departure, and are, I doubt not, ready for
the summons. And yet not all,” he continued
hesitatingly, “One tender lamb of the fold is as
yet ignorant of our purpose.”
“And why?” exclaimed the baronet, in surprise.
“When the Father of mercies hath opened
so clear and glorious a path for his people,
why should man presume to veil its light?
will you leave it to the ravening wolves that are
now spoiling God's heritage?”
“Sir Richard,” replied the clergyman calmly,
“she of whom I speak, hath stronger ties than we
to bind her here. As for us, our wives and our
children are going with us; but she must leave
kindred as well as home. She must come forth
not from the shadows of the Presbyterian faith, but
from amid the clouds and darkness of this pompous
hierarchy. Sir Richard, I know that the
lady serves God in purity of spirit, and her heart
is with his people, but she hath been bred amid
the splendor and luxury of a magnificent home,
and the first spring flower is not more frail and
delicate. And you will better comprehend my
meaning, when I tell you that the lady Eveline,
the daughter of the noble Earl who dwells in yonder
castle, is the one of whom I speak.”
There was an expression of universal surprise
as the clergyman said these words. “But, Wilson,”
exclaimed Sir Richard, “the Earl, her father,
is the friend of our arch enemy, the bigoted and
persecuting primate. Doth he permit his daughter
the indulgence of her religious principles?”
“I fear not,” replied the clergyman, shaking
his head sorrowfully. “The lady is compelled to
join in rites and ceremonies which her soul abhors,
and I have often heard her long for the green
pastures, and still waters, where none might make
her afraid.”
“And yet,” said Endicott, reproachfully, “you
refused to lead her beside them. My brother,
you have done what to my feeble vision seems
wrong. You should have told the lady your
would have been her counselor.”
“I have perhaps been too much guided by
my own wisdom,” replied the pastor, “and God
may choose to prove it foolishness. Brethren,
do you counsel me, even now, to apprise the lady
of our departure?”
“We do, we do,” exclaimed several voices at
once. “Heaven will point to her the path in
which she should go?”
“Then,” continued Mr. Wilson, “I will this
moment forward a message which shall convey to
her the necessary intelligence. Sir Richard, you
know the lady well. Will you not yourself indite
the epistle?” and he arranged on the table before
him the materials for writing.
“But,” replied Saltonstall, “is there any one
beneath your roof, who would venture to place it
in the hand of the Lady Eveline? The task, methinks
would be an extremely difficult one.”
“It would, Sir Richard. Nevertheless I will
seek to provide you with a messenger. There is
but one to whom I could trust the embassy,”
and as he spoke the clergyman left the apartment.
Just as the baronet had completed his task, a
graceful girl with a sweet and modest countenance,
opened the door, and approached with a
sort of hesitating air the table by which he wrote.
A loose scarf was thrown over her neat and simple
dress, and a bonnet in part concealed her
features. She blushed, and paused a moment.
“My father told me, sir, you had a message to
one of the ladies of the castle. Shall I carry it
thither?”
“Sir Richard was folding the letter, and he
you are kind in offering to perform this duty.
But have you ever seen the noble sisters of the
castle? For remember, you must place the note
in the lady Eveline's own hand.”
“I once saw them both,” replied Ellen, “it is
two years since, but I can remember them at this
moment as though it were but yesterday. They
had lost themselves in a ramble on our hill, and
I led them through the coppice. But the lady
Eveline was much taller than her sister, and her
tone and look were both so different from the
other's, I am sure I could not mistake her even
now.”
“And do not return, my child,” said Sir Richard,
as he placed the letter in her hand, “until
the lady hath read the epistle, for she will doubtless
give you her reply.”
The heart of Ellen Wilson beat with an unwonted
violence, as after a long and pleasant
walk, she found herself standing within the enclosure
which surrounded the castle. Though
her whole life had been past within half an hour's
walk of the place, she had never but once before
ventured within these noble domains, and that
was in her early childhood. The mother of the
noble sisters, who had now long slept in the tomb,
was then a young and beautiful matron; and the
affectionate kiss which she had here imprinted on
the cheek of the little wanderer, was at this moment
distinctly remembered. But other and
more agitating reflections, soon presented themselves.
Aside from the appalling grandeur of the
place, and the high rank of those upon whom she
was about to intrude, the heart of the simple girl
its probable effects.
She had come to invite the daughter of that
proud Earl, openly to renounce the faith of her
father, her rank, her home, and all that she held
dear, and to become a pilgrim to a distant wilderness.
But it was no time for faultering purposes;
and the heart of Ellen Wilson had lately been
taught to lay aside, together with the indulgence
of earthly hope, that fear which bringeth a snare,
and after requesting of the porter who opened the
inner gate, permission to speak with the lady
Eveline, she soon found herself traversing with
haste, the immense halls of the castle. These
were furnished in a style of ancient and costly
magnificence, and she could scarce refrain from
pausing to return the gaze of the fine pictured
countenances, which now in rapid succession met
her eye. At last the servant paused, and throwing
open the door of a splendid apartment bade her
enter.
A hasty glance assured her that she was not yet
in the presence of the noble inhabitants of the
castle, and the servant, after informing her that
he would immediately communicate to the lady
Eveline her request, left the room through a door
which commucicated with a still larger apartment.
For the moment which it remained open, she had
caught a glimpse of several forms within, and
the sound of their voices at the same time met
her ear. In a few moments, the servant again
appeared.
“The lady is at this time engaged. Her brother
and the Marquis of B—have just returned
from London, and she is now in their presence.
In less than an hour,” he added, “she may be
apartment.”
The condition seemed so slight in comparison
with an entire denial, that Ellen concluded without
hesitation to accept of it. Just as the servant
had again left the room, a sound of near voices
caused her to raise her eye, and she perceived
with surprise, that the door from which he had
last entered, still remained partly open. A distinct
view of the persons within, at once presented
itself.
The lofty walls were adorned with the richest
tapestry which ancient art could produce. Immense
mirrors, superb sofas and tables, the rich
damask curtains, all burst with the imposing grace
of novelty upon her bewildered eye, and even the
pure light of heaven itself seemed to have caught
a strange voluptuousness, as it stole in rosy beams
through the richly colored glass.
An elderly man whom Ellen at once recognised
as the proprietor of this noble dwelling, was near
one of the windows. On the same sofa sat a
young cavalier gaily and fashionably dressed, and
another still whom she knew to be the young heir
of D—, was pacing the floor.
But objects of far higher interest than these,
soon met her eye. Seated on a low sofa in a
distant part of the room, the two beautiful ladies
of the castle appeared, engaged in that branch of
needle-work which was then deemed a meet occupation,
for females of high rank and fortune.
They were both apparently very young and from
any thing in their appearance, it would have
been difficult to have determined which was the
elder. One was taller and fairer than the other,
and as her head bent over the embroidery frame,
fell curling beautifully over the snowy arch of her
long and graceful neck. There was a fresh bloom
on the cheek of both the maidens, but that on the
countenance of the taller was not so vivid as the
other's, and her lip too had a pale and rosy hue
in comparison with the full bright coral of her
sister's, and in her eye, and on her brow, and
over her whole mien, there were the marks of an
unfettered and noble spirit, which Ellen knew to
be none other than the lady Eveline's.
The voice of the Earl now caught her attention.
“Any more news, at court, my son? The puriritans—how
prosper they? Hath our worthy prelate
given any new proofs of zeal against these
heretics?”
“No, but Charles has given new proofs of his
folly,” replied the youth hastily. “It is rumored
that to the most hypocritical and ranting set of
them all, he is about to convey a charter transferring
the powers of government from the Grand
Council of Plymouth to the colonists themselves.”
“What colonists, what mean you, George?”
rejoined the Earl with a look of impatient surprise.
“Do you speak of the Plymouth colony?”
“No, my Lord,” replied the young Marquis,
“he refers to a more extensive scheme of folly
which Sir Richard Saltonsall has lately projected.
It seems that the honest puritans are at
length wearied of the good offices of the Archbishop,
and intend making their escape to America,
to join their Plymouth brethren. Saltonstall
has lately purchased a large tract of the Grand
Council and is about to despatch thither a fresh
cargo of hypocrites.”
“And why,” rejoined the Earl angrily, “is the
hated religion in the very heart of his possessions?
One would think the colony already
there, enough to give a godly savor to the land.”
“Ah,” replied the young nobleman “I believe
the council are quite in despair concerning their
great territories, and willing to part with them
as they best can,” but continued he, “my Lord
you need not fear their increase. You could not
have placed them in a better place. If all tales
are true, the bears and Indians will soon cool their
enthusiasm. I fancy the Archbishop himself
could never have found a more effectual method.”
“You say truly,” replied the Earl with bitterness.
“A better place could not have been
found for them; and when you have dealt as
long with these stubborn rebels as myself, you
will not need to be told that the more they are
persecuted, the more they flourish.”
“And may not this, my father, indicate the
goodness of their cause?” said the lady Eveline,
as she raised her flushed countenance from her
work.
“A thousand pardons, my blessed little puritan,”
exclaimed her brother, hastily approaching
her. “I certainly forgot your presence. And
you, my Lord,” he continued turning to the
young nobleman, “come and kneel, as you value
the lady's favor.”
A frown of displeasure at the same time gathered
on the countenance of the Earl. “A young
female who is wiser than all her relatives, is surely
an object worthy of admiration; but, Eveline,
why not place the climax to your devotion by
joining this pious pilgrimage?”
“And if I should,” replied the lady calmly,
of devotedness, than did those holy females who
are already enduring the hardships of the wilderness.”
“But surely, Lady Eveline,” said the Marquis,
“you do not mean to say that you favor the
opinions of the Puritans?”
“Even more;” replied the lady while a pale
blush suffused her countenance, “I have made
their opinions my own.”
“And it is a part of your religion, I presume,”
exclaimed her father angrily, “to disgrace those
who have the misfortune to be connected with
you, by the avowal of your creed.”
The indignant glow of a proud spirit for a
moment colored the lady's cheek, but there
was evidently some controlling principle within,
which forbade the indulgence of earthly passions;
for ere she had essayed to reply to her
father's words, the flush was gone, and instead of
it a smile of heavenly sweetness, such as became
a follower of the “lowly in heart.” “I cannot,
my father, indeed, I cannot refuse a portion
of the obloquy which rests upon my religion.
Would it not be ungenerous, for me to deny my
principles, because I feared the disgrace attached
to them?”
“I admire the Lady Eveline's spirit,” exclaimed
the young Marquis with animation. “I deem
it unfair, my Lord, to quarrel with any religion
whose precepts distil upon us in such gentle
glances and from such lips as just now pleaded
for the puritans. I fear I shall become a puritan
myself, if I linger long in this fair presence. Say
George, is it not dangerous?”
“Disturb me not,” said the youth, in a tone of
upon the lady, “I am even now painting to myself
the form of the fair devotee wandering about
among the caves and mountains of the new world.
But, my beloved sister thou must lay aside the
needle from those small and lily hands of thine,
for to my best knowledge the heroines of America
do wield the hoe instead thereof, and thou
must doff that costly robe, simple and plain
though it be, did not the martyrs of old wander
forth in sheep skins, and goat skins? And that
coronal of pearls, that shines so brightly among
thy tresses, it is not good. Do we not hear of
the holy women of old, how they sought to adorn
themselves not with gold and pearls and costly
array”—
“Would to heaven, George,” exclaimed the
lady interrupting him, “that I had instead thereof
the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,” and
then again repressing the bright crimson which
mantled her cheek, she bent her head over the
frame to conceal the tear of wounded feeling.
But there appeared to Ellen something peculiarly
touching in the idea which the young nobleman
had expressed in such tones of irony.
There was a frailty, an exquisite delicacy in the
form and features of the noble girl and an air of
elegance in her simple and costly attire, which
seemed all unmeet for the trials which she doubted
not would soon be her portion.
The Lady Julia had, till now, borne no part
in this agitating conversation; but on catching
a sudden glimpse of her sister's moistened eye, a
look of tenderness lighted her countenance. “I
pray you forgive us, my noble brother,” she exclaimed,
looking coldly upon the young Lord,
My sister and myself have lived much in retirement
of late, and scarce know how to appreciate
the lofty polish which the court of Charles has
given you. I pray you forgive us.” The beautiful
lip of the young lady curled with an expression
of disdain and after speaking a moment to
her sister in a low voice, they rose together and
left the apartment.
There was silence for several moments, after
the door had closed upon them, and when at
length it was interrupted by the Earl; the voice
was so low that Ellen could scarcely distinguish
his words. She was just indulging in a feeling
of secret impatience, when the sound of a light
tread caught her ear, and turning, she beheld approaching
from a distant door, the tall, light figure
of the Lady Eveline. She came close to the
blushing girl and her tone was low and sweet.
“I was told that you waited to speak with me,
young maiden. Am I mistaken? But if it is
aught of a private nature,” she added, casting
a sudden glance at the open door, while Ellen
hastened to present the letter, “this is no fitting
place for it. Will you come with me?”
Ellen rose, and after following the footsteps of
the young lady through a long suite of apartments,
they stood at last in an elegant reading
room, the favorite resort of the young Eveline.
“And now you may speak freely,” she said, as
she placed her chair by the side of a small mahogany
table at the same time seating herself
near her, “I believe I know you already. Are
you not Ellen Wilson—the same who once gave
us such a fine ramble in the coppice?”
Ellen replied in the affirmative, and placed the
it, and glanced slowly over its contents.
But as she proceeded, a new and sudden light
seemed to kindle in her blue eye, the paleness of
her brow extended itself over the whole countenance.
And when, at length, she slowly folded
it again with an appearance of assumed composure
so colorless was her lip and cheek, that Ellen
feared each moment to see her fall fainting
from her chair. But still the paper remained in
her hand, and she seemed pressing its folds with
greater exactness. “Madam, the news which
this letter conveys are sudden and strange. It
has come upon me unawares. My faith is weak,
and I dreamed not that it would so soon be put
to the test. Three days from this, if I read aright,
the pilgrims set sail. The time is short—too
short for all I have to do. I fear, Ellen Wilson,
I cannot so soon give up all I love.”
“You need not, dear lady,” said Ellen, in a
timid voice, “He whom you have not long loved
better than all others, will still be with you.
Lady Eveline is not his grace sufficient for you?”
“Surely, Ellen, your father is of the puritans,”
replied the lady gazing with admiration
upon her fresh and smiling countenance. “And
you are going forth to danger and suffering with
a cheerful spirit. Oh that I also might have
grace to do the will of my heavenly Father joyfully.
There was an expression of agony on the pale
face of the noble maiden, and Ellen dared not
witness that fearful conflict of feeling. “Lady,”
she said, “God himself will make you know your
duty. Methinks it cannot be his will that you
should thus abandon your home and kindred.”
There was still another pause, and then the lady
rose. “Ellen Wilson, come to me again to-morrow
evening at sunset, and I will tell you my
decision.” Ellen felt the pressure of her hand
in parting, it was cold and moist, and trembled
violently; she could scarcely refrain from tears,
as she followed the servant through the long and
splendid apartments, and remembered the agony
of their beautiful mistress.
2. CHAPTER II.
In terror o'er the ocean,
From fortune and from fame they fled
To heaven and its devotion.”
The alarming paleness which the countenance
of the Lady Eveline exhibited during the remainder
of the day, was a subject of much remark in
the castle; and the bitterness with which the
young Marquis reproached her brother for his unkind
jesting, showed that his interest in the lady's
peace was of a peculiar nature. What rendered
her melancholy still more touching, was an apparent
and studied effort on her part to appear
with her usual cheerfulness.
On the afternoon of the second day, the lady
after having with much difficulty escaped from
the gay company below, appeared pacing with a
quick and agitated step the floor of that lofty gallery
which terminated in the sleeping apartment
of the sisters. The time which had been appointed
for making known her decision was almost
arrived, and as yet nothing but a succession
of dark and agonized feelings had crossed her
mind—an indistinct impression of stern duty
urging her to the renunciation of every earthly
hope. But she felt that it was wrong—it was
not what the mighty decision before her demanded;
closed the door with a firm resolution that she
would calmly and dispassionately listen to the
still small voice of truth, and come no more out,
until she had fully resolved whether the earth was
henceforth to be to her a wilderness, and the
voice of sister, kindred, and the home of her
childhood, with all the hopes of a gay and beautiful
imagination, were henceforth to be to her but
as remembered dreams. The lady felt that her soul
was weakened with the pressure of sorrow, and
she sought for a portion of the undying energy of
Him who “fainteth not, neither is weary.” And
was it for her to withold from God the influence
of her high name, was it for her, in the pride of
human greatness, to turn away from Him who now
spake as it were from heaven, demanding the example
of her faith, her exertions and her whole
life for the honor of his despised and afflicted
church, whose name was a reproach among her
people? And was it for her on whom the deep
vow was resting, to live not for herself nor for
the few fleeting days of time, but for the vast,
shadowless and immortal existence beyond,—was
it for her to cling with fond affection around the
elegances and endearments of her home?—that
home too where her religion was a by-word and
whose strong influences were hourly urging her
from heaven and holiness?
The prayer had not been vainly said, and amid
weeping and untold agony, the beautiful lady of
D— at last resolved to give up all for God.
And now a light burst in upon her spirit, calm and
peaceful as the light of heaven. She thought of
her sister, her beloved Julia, dearer to her than
her own soul, her motherless sister; she thought
with the thought of her last glorious rest in heaven.
The long vista of futurity seemed open before
her, and with a kindling eye she trod the
apartment, till the might and grandeur of earth
had passed away, and the lofty halls of her fathers
crumbled with years, and the ivy and the
moss had mantled their ruins, and she beheld a
free and glorious nation bright with the light of
heaven's own truth, planted by the exertions of
that pilgrim band, who now, amid weakness and
sorrow and fear, were about to traverse the deep.
Surely a low grave among them on that distant
shore, was far more noble than a resting
place in the tombs of her ancestors.
The light of the setting sun was already straying
through the crimson curtains, when the Lady
Eveline remembered her request to Ellen Wilson,
and determining to go forth and meet her
in the avenue, she hastened to prepare herself
for her walk. She had already crossed the gallery,
and was descending the superb staircase
which led to the outer hall, when a glimpse of
the young Marquis leaning thoughtfully against
the entrance arrested her steps. She wished to
avoid him, but it was too late. He had caught
a view of her, and now demanded the privilege
of accompanying her in her walk. The lady was
embarrassed, she could not refuse, and they descended
together through the winding avenue
which led from the castle.
“You are surely well again, my Lady,” said the
Marquis, glancing with surprise on her countenance
now lighted up with a glow and brightness
altogether unusual. There were still traces of
tears on her cheek, her eye beamed with the
peace which the world cannot give played on
her lip.
Here was an object which of all others, human
love clings to most tenderly, and the impassioned
words which the young nobleman uttered,
showed that his heart confessed its power.
The lady had desired earnestly that this bitter
trial might be spared her; for it was too true
that there had been moments, when she had
dreamed, even in this very avenue, of giving
her young heart with all its affections to him who
now so earnestly solicited it, and beautiful had
the long life before her seemed, when she had
thought of devoting it to his happiness. But this
was all over. She knew that he was in heart a
hater of the puritans and a despiser of their faith,
and that however his young affection for her
might now soften his feelings of contempt for her
religion, such affection was but a broken reed to
lean upon—all was over—and now some other love
must brighten the grandeur of his princely home.
She had told the Marquis of this, with a noble
firmness; and they were leaning silently upon
the gate, watching the brilliant and fading
hues of the western clouds, when the form of
Ellen Wilson approaching the remote extremity
of the avenue drew their attention. Her eye
was fixed upon them and she seemed in doubt
whether to approach.
“Yonder girl has a message for me, my Lord,”
exclaimed Eveline, opening the gate, “I must
leave you for a moment to receive her errand.”
“What message shall I bear to my father's
house?” said Ellen as the lady approached her,
decision.”
“Say that I will go with them,” replied the
lady, calmly. “Ellen, at what hour do we leave
the valley?”
“At eleven, my lady, and at two we sail. The
moon will be bright, and ere the morning dawns,
we shall have gone far on our long way. And
my father bade me tell you also, that if you had
aught to carry with you, it must this evening be
conveyed to the ship. If you will send it to the
cottage, Lady, it shall be safely done.”
“It is well—it is well,” repeated Eveline, with
quickness, endeavoring to subdue some painful
emotions. “At eleven, Ellen, I will be in your
father's cottage. Is there aught else?”
“Nothing,” replied Ellen, but she turned a
moment with a glistening eye, “only dear lady,
God will bless those who love him, better than
father, and sister, and houses, and lands, and I
know you will be blessed when you have forsaken
them all for his sake.”
The ties of christian love are strong; and the
high born lady bent to kiss the lip of one, who
was henceforth to be her sister, and the companion
of her pilgrimage.
The Marquis still waited for her at the gate;
and after pursuing their walk a little farther on
the lawn, they returned to the castle. Eveline
immediately retired to her dressing room for the
purpose of making the necessary preparation for
her voyage. This was quickly done. From the
mass of rich dresses which her wardrobe contained,
a box of her simplest clothing was soon selected;
and this, with another containing a few
choice books and letters, a small portrait of her
the gift of her father, and of themselves sufficient
to purchase the supply of her future wants,
was all that this noble heiress chose for her portion,
from the boundless wealth of her father. After
this painful duty was accomplished, she directed
a servant to convey them to the cottage at
the foot of the coppice, and in a few moments
after, she descended to the sitting-room below.
The Lady Julia was this evening splendidly
dressed, and to the eye of her sister she had
never looked more lovely, her voice too thrilled
with affection's music, and every tone seemed to
bury itself in her spirit. Her father and brother
were there, and unkind though they had often
been, the heart of the Lady Eveline was not one
in which such ties could be lightly severed, and
every time she met their glance, or heard their
voices addressing her, a tear would involuntarily
tremble in her eye, that she whom they looked
upon as daughter and sister, would soon be to
them as a forgotten exile.
The gay Marquis appeared this evening
strangely melancholy; and when at length the
young ladies arose to retire, he accompained
them to the door. A hasty summons from a distant
estate had just arrived, and as he was to leave
the castle early the ensuing morning, he availed
himself of this opportunity to bid them adieu.
The Lady Julia's compliments were uttered in
that easy and graceful manner which the slightness
of the occasion seemed to demand; but her
sister, for a moment, appeared singularly embarrassed.
Her cheek at once became deadly
pale and then the blood mounting suddenly, gave
it so rosy a tinge, that Julia gazed upon her in surprise.
drawing her away.
“Farewell, Lady Eveline,” exclaimed the Marquis.
Ah! that farewell, he dreamed not that
it was forever.
But the door was closed. Eveline felt they
were to meet no more on earth, and she was now
almost unconsciously traversing the hall with her
sister's arm in hers.
The following morning was spent by the Lady
Eveline in the solitude of her reading room. She
was principally engaged in writing an affectionate
letter to her father, in which she prayed for
the continuance of his affection, his forgiveness
and blessing, when she should be far away on her
lonely exile, and another of exquisite tenderness,
addressed to her sister, in which she laid open to
her all her sorrows, and told her of the stern conflict
of duty and feeling; and besought her by
all the tenderness of their early love to remember
her until death. The letters were both moistened
with many tears, ere they were consigned
to their temporary concealment.
The day stole rapidly away, like the other days
of earth; noontide, sunset, and the fading twilight
were all gone, and now amid the shadows
of the starry evening, the moon was just lifting her
unclouded light. As it first began to gleam
through the windows of the castle, the Lady
Eveline was slowly walking along the wide gallery,
while her sister still lingered a moment in the
dressing room, to complete the arrangement of
her toilet. Far different were their reflections.
When that light which now fell from the lofty
windows of the gallery upon the form of Eveline
should fade away in the grey beams of morning,
that overpowered her heart were too bitter for
endurance, and she hastily approached the door
of the dressing room.
“Dear Julia are you not ready yet? Methinks
you are long.”
“I cannot help it, Eveline,” replied the other
in a half vexed and half sportive tone, “I have
been lecturing this awkward curl these fifteen
minutes, and it will not mind me. See how ungracefully
it falls! And do you know there is a
great deal of company below this evening, and
the young French Count that George has told us
so much of? There, Eveline, does it look better?”
and as she spoke she held the lamp to her
face and turned full upon her sister.
“You look well, very well,” replied Eveline,
almost unconscious of what she said, while she
gazed upon the countenance of the lovely young
lady. “Yes, you look very, very beautiful,” continued
her sister, gazing wildly upon her.
“So then you are laughing at me,” replied
Julia, blushing and placing the lamp again on
the dressing table. “I shall never ask you again,
if I am becomingly dressed.”
“No, no,” thought Eveline, “never.”
“But, sister, upon my word no one can accuse you
of vanity,” continued the young lady. “I do not
believe you have looked in your mirror since
morning. A plain white dress, not a single ornament,
and your long curls all in your neck with
nothing to confine them. And yet, Eveline, that
Puritan dress is so becoming, I will not go one
step until you are remodeled, lest the Count should
say I had stolen your gems in very spite. Nay,
no resistance. Sit down upon this sofa, and let
Marquis call it, Eveline? Oh, `simplicity, sweet
simplicity.” '
“You speak foolishly, Julia,” replied the lady,
while her sister prepared to fulfil her threats—
“It matters little now what robes I wear”—
“Ah, Eveline, taste, and heart and all gone?
If I remember aright, they have been missing since
morning. It looks a little suspicious of that young
Marquis, sister.” She paused a moment, but Eveline
had no heart to reply.
“There, that blue sash is quite becoming, Lady
Eveline, I have tied it behind in a true lover's
knot, and these curls begin to look extremely
graceful beneath my magic touch. And not the
least symptom of a bracelet,” she continued with
increased vivacity. “One would suppose you
were dressed for a fine night's slumber, instead
of the drawing room. But do not look so sad
about it, you may wear these amethysts of mine.
Now, my lady, look in the glass,” she added
taking her hand, “and pay the compliments due
to my skill and taste.
“It is beautiful, very beautiful,” repeated Eveline,
her thoughts still dwelling on the bitterness
of her approaching destiny.
“You are in the complimentary mood this evening,
my grave sister, but come, we must hasten
down. We have waited too long already.” And
arm-in-arm they now moved quickly through the
gallery and were soon standing in the brilliantly
illuminated drawing room.
All seemed in fine spirits, save the Lady Eveline,
and if she was sad, it was not for want of attempts
at cheerfulness. Her gay brother, notwithstanding,
rallied her much upon her mournful
paleness every moment increased, he became
alarmed, and Eveline soon saw him directing her
father's eye to her, from a distant part of the
room. The Earl instantly approached.
“You look ill, daughter,” he said to her. “Do
not weary yourself by sitting here. Indeed, Eveline,”
he added, in a tone of unwonted feeling,
“I fear you are much indisposed.”
“Oh, no,” replied the lady, with a sudden effort,
“I am quite well. George will tell you I
have been laughing with him all the evening. But
my walk this afternoon, was long and I am unusually
fatigued.
“Then,” replied the Earl, “you must retire to
your own apartment and stay till you can come
forth with a fresh bloom. Do not wait for ceremony,”
he added, “I will excuse your absence.
Good night, daughter.”
The lady looked silently up, for a moment, on
her father's countenance, as if with that one glance
she was seeking to stamp it forever on her memory;—“Good
night, my father, good night,” she
repeated in a low and solemn voice, and she
seemed waiting for the parting kiss, as she had
been wont to do in her childhood. For a moment
her father's lip met her's, it was for the last
time, and a thrill of strange anguish rushed through
her frame.
George was standing by the door as she passed.
“There, Eveline, am I not a dear and precious
brother, to procure your banishment from the parlor
in such season?”
“Oh, yes, George,” said the lady interrupting
him, in a tone of thrilling emphasis, “you are
dear and precious.” She would have said more,
her lip; her brother's hand rested a moment in
hers, and there beamed from her countenance
such a look of sorrow and holy tenderness, as
long years had not power to efface from the memory
of the youth.
Just as the door was closing, Lady Evelin
caught a glimpse of her sister. She was sitting
in a distant recess, conversing gaily amid a group
of admirers. Her whole countenance was bright
with gladness, and a keener pang pierced the
heart of her sister, as the door closed upon this
last best object of her earthly affection.
It was nearly ten when the Lady reached her
apartment. One short hour was all that remained,—one
hour more and the places which knew
her now, would know her no more. She leaned
her head upon her pillow—the firm restraint which
had hitherto borne down her feelings, now gave
way, and the lady wept bitterly. Suddenly she
felt a light arm flung around her. “Dear sister,
why do you weep?” said the gentle tones of the
Lady Julia, as she gazed with surprise upon her
tearful countenance.
“Oh, Julia, my heart is broken, I cannot bear
it, indeed I cannot,”—and she leaned her pale,
wet cheek on her sister's shoulder.
“And why,” exclaimed the lovely girl, as she
pressed her lip affectionately to hers. “Why will
you not tell me your sorrows? Have I ever refused
you my sympathy?—Once, indeed, when I
thought you enthusiastic and bewildered with the
doctrines of the Puritans, I blamed you—but
surely that can have no connection with your
present sorrows.”
There was something in her last words which
calmly from her sister's arms, and throwing back
the curls from her pale forehead, endeavored, with
a smile beautifully serene, to conceal the agony
of her spirit. Oh, deeply was that image written
on the heart of the sister, when months and years
rolled on and she saw her no more.
“Julia, excuse my weakness—my spirits are
low to-night—my heart throbs painfully. I need
repose, dear sister.”
“But, Eveline, you look extremely pale. Let
me call my father.”
“No, sister, do not concern yourself,” replied
the lady,—“I thank you for your kindness, Julia,
for all your kindness,” and she turned to the dressing
table to conceal her emotion.
In less than half an hour, the younger sister lay
asleep on her pillow, but Eveline still slowly
paced the apartment. She was clad in a habit of
dark, rich velvet, and the fanciful dress and ornaments
she had that evening worn, together with
her sister's, and many other gay articles of apparel
were lying on the sofas around her.
The taper threw a feeble gleam on the various
objects of the room; the last echo of retiring steps
had ceased, and there was a stillness throughout
the castle. With a trembling step she approached,
to take one last farewell of the beloved sleeper.
The warm tear which dropped on the cheek of
the dreaming girl for a moment aroused her.
“Eveline, is it you?” she murmured, “why do
you wait so long?” Then again closing her eye,
she turned her face upon the pillow, and the lady
saw her no more.
Ellen Wilson was standing at the foot of the
avenue, when she beheld in the distance the form
time from the halls of her fathers. There was
something deeply affecting in the sight of such
devotedness in one so young; and Ellen could
not but weep. But there was no tear on the
lady's cheek. The bitterness of the sacrifice was
past; her step was firm, her eye bright, and her
brow calm with the fervency of devotion. Once
indeed, when they had reached the boundary of
her father's domain, the lady turned—she leaned
a moment on the wall and gazed for the last time
on the loved scenes of her early years. The
venerable castle, long avenue, and the shady park,
were lying in the solemn moonlight. For an instant,
her eye lingered on the high window where
the light was still burning in the Lady Julia's
apartment; and then again they walked swiftly
onward.
Ellen Wilson was also of the Pilgrims, and as
her feet pressed the soft grass of the beautiful
coppice, where she had played in childhood, her
heart knew its own bitterness.
Lights were moving swiftly through the cottage,
and the lady soon found herself seated in the midst
of that stern and sorrowful band whose kindness
was henceforth to be to her instead of the strong
ties of earthly love.
All was now ready. Carriages were waiting
at the door. But they lingered a moment longer.
The heads of the Pilgrims were bowed in prayer.
Little children with golden curls, and hoary age,
youth and manhood kneeled together; and their
mingled spirits, and “the warm blood of their slain
affections,” ascended to heaven in grateful oblation.
All that they asked was granted. Dauntless
courage, unwavering fortitude, love to God and
like the dew of heaven.
The lady was soon seated in a closed carriage
by the side of Ellen Wilson, and she gazed with a
tearless eye from the window, till her native valley,
and its lofty turrets had quite faded in the distance,
and ere the bell had tolled through the castle
the second hour of the morning, she was standing
far away on the deck of the vessel which was
soon to bear her to her destined home.
3. CHAPTER III.
Land of our rest! when a few more to-morrows
Pass o'er our heads, we will seek our cold pillow,
And rest in our graves, far away o'er the billow.”
When the joyful sound of “Land—land in
sight,” was echoed in the ear of the wearied voyagers,
the Lady Eveline was sitting in her cabin
engaged in those refined and elevating studies,
which during her voyage she had found means to
prosecute. Ellen was seated on a low stool, beside
her, busily occupied with her needle, and
from time to time her eye glanced on an open
book which lay in the chair before her. There
were many other females present, but as the cabin
was large, it allowed them to scatter themselves
in various groups, as best suited their tastes.
“Do you hear it, my Lady?” said Ellen, throwing
down her work, and gazing earnestly on her.
“Was it not land they cried?”
They listened again, there was no mistake.
The loud “huzza for land,” echoed in the hoarse
voices of the sailors above them, and Ellen, with
many of the females, immediately hastened upon
deck. The former, however, soon returned with
a look of much disappointment, assuring her
friend that the object of their curiosity was only
visible through a glass and on the top of the mast.
This was nothing more than the lady had expected;
some preparation of heart, she could not even
now look unmoved upon the land of her voluntary
exile.
It was midnight, when the ships conveying the
Pilgrims approached the shore of their destination.
Ellen Wilson and her noble friend were standing
together on the deck, gazing silently before them
as they slowly neared the rock-bound coast. The
deck was crowded with Pilgrims, all looking
eagerly forward to catch a glimpse of their future
home. The dim light of the stars only, illumined
the scene; and even this was in part obscured, by
a few cold and broken clouds, that swept cheerlessly
across the heavens. Nothing could be discerned
but a faint outline of forest, rock and vale;
and the awful gloom which seemed to rest upon
them, the noise of the sailors, shouting and running
to and fro, and the damp midnight breeze
which moaned over the wave, all sent an icy chill
through the hearts of that gazing band. How
often amid the silence of midnight had this
long expected vision arisen before their sight.
Was it still a dream? Oh, no, the warmth of fancy
was gone, and over it all, there was a touch of
cold reality which fancy never brings. If there
had been enthusiasm, it was over now; if the
coloring of an ardent imagination had ever been
thrown over their enterprise, it all faded as they
leaned forward, and gazed on that dim shore, and
remembered that this dismal forest was now their
only home, and the cold blue heaven their only
covering. If tears dropped on the wave, it was not
strange; for some were thinking of the quiet and
loveliness of the pleasant firesides, far away over
the ocean; and some were there, whose dearest
halls, and who had been wont to rest beside
them.
The destination of the present colony was at a
considerable distance above the rock upon which
the first Pilgrims had landed, and was on many
accounts a far more eligible situation. It was
styled by the natives Naumeak; and when the
Pilgrims again looked upon it, in the pleasant
light of morning, there were no murmurs, nay, the
voice of praise was heard, that “the lines had
fallen to them in such pleasant places.”
After much preliminary business had been arranged,
about noon on the second day after their
arrival, the whole body of the emigrants prepared
to go on shore. The Lady Eveline leaned on the
arm of Ellen, as this strange procession moved
away through the untrodden paths of the forest.
During the preceding day a party had been despatched
to reconnoitre the place, and having selected
as a spot for settlement a small clearing
near the shore, they now acted as guides to the
remainder. A large temporary shelter had been
hastily thrown up of broken boughs and trees
which had been cut down for the purpose, and a
party of the settlers were soon employed in conveying
thither the articles of furniture they had
brought with them from England. All was now
joyful bustle and confusion. Many of the females,
with the gentle assiduity of their sex, were busy
in the interior of their new dwelling, seeking, notwithstanding
their various disadvantages, to give
it a cheerful appearance. Meanwhile another
party had arrived from the ship, with tools and
materials for building; and in a few moments the
sides through the forest.
There was something strangely animating in
their toil. The Pilgrim females stood around for
a while, gazing upon it with anxious silence, while
the sportive voices of childhood rang through the
wood, and even the babes themselves lifted up
their meek brows from their mother's arms, gazing
on the strange scene with smiles.
Under such auspices, it was not long ere a rude
village had risen instead of the waving forest.
A sanctuary for Him whom they had come over
the waves to worship in freedom of spirit, was
reared in the midst of their dwellings. Pleasant
indeed to the souls of the wearied Pilgrims, was
the light of their first New-England sabbath.
They could now fearlessly worship the Father of
spirits, in spirit and in truth; and as the voice of
prayer rose to heaven, from the depths of that
solemn forest, with no voice to childe, and no ear
to hear but the ear of a forgiving God, as the
rocks and vales which till now had listened only
to the hymn of the morning stars, echoed with
the loud sweet song of praise, and their souls
drank freely of that well of living water, of which
if a man drink he is athirst no more,—they felt that
they had not vainly abandoned all. And could
the worshipers in the proud cathedrals of Old
England, have glanced on that band, they would
have read on many a meek and beautiful brow,
and in the warm flush that lighted even the cheek
of manhood, the records of a devotion no less
lofty than their own.
The rude huts, which on their landing had
been hastily erected, were only considered as
temporary habitations. Each family soon made
many of the colonists had possessed wealth in
England, some were able to do it in a style of
simple and becoming neatness; and the lovely
village of Salem with its pleasant church and cottages
and cultivated fields, ere long had risen in
the bosom of the forest,—so that, literally, in the
beautiful words of sacred promise, “The wilderness
had begun to blossom as the rose.”
A pleasant room in the dwelling of Mr. Wilson,
had been fitted up for the accommodation of the
Lady Eveline. Ellen had planted beneath the
window a rose bush from the forest, and a vine
of wild honeysuckle crept over the wall. Precious
indeed to Ellen was the happiness of that
noble lady who had come with her across the
deep, whom from her earliest childhood she had
regarded with that indefinite veneration inspired
by high birth, and who now, in the new and
endearing relations she sustained to her, was at
once the object of her love and admiration.
But as for the lady herself, she seemed well to
have learned that bitter lesson, which the sorrows
of her youth had inculcated;—her affections no
longer rested on the things of earth. Their
strong tendrils had been too cruelly torn, to fasten
on aught beneath the skies; and all that did
not still linger on the remembered and cherished
forms of her kindred far away over the ocean,
now bloomed in heaven.
Not that the lady regarded with indifference
the holy companions of her pilgrimage; she loved
them tenderly as the sharers of her toils and sorrows
on earth, and as those whom she hoped
would share her long reward, when these toils
and sorrows were over. But there was none of
had marked the days of her wealth and splendor.
There was no singling out of objects for deep attachment.
She was contented to love them all,
as children of the same heavenly Father. And
the lady was not unhappy. Long hours of calm
and pure enjoyment, were often her portion amid
the silence of her own apartment. Often as she
sat by her pleasant window, and gazed upon the
beautiful land around her, the near ocean, and
the bright skies above, such moments of holy
feeling, such exquisite conceptions of the purity
and tenderness of heavenly love were granted
her, that her soul seemed almost to participate
in the blessedness of that land, where the rivers
of pleasure flow unmingled. The events of her
life had been fitted to purify and elevate her affections;
and she felt that one moment of this
holy enjoyment was more than sufficient to reward
her for her painful sacrifice.
But the days of darkness were many. Famine,
disease, and death, came often to the cottages of
the Puritans, and sometimes their hearts failed
them and the path seemed too thorny for man to
tread. It was in such seasons that the tender exertions
of the Lady Eveline were peculiarly useful.
Her unwavering self-denial, her tenderness
and condescension, had won the hearts of the
colonists; and this influence, so nobly acquired,
was exerted only to relieve the afflicted, and comfort
those that mourned.
The second year after their landing, a large
accession of emigrants arrived from England.
They brought with them a charter, which after
much solicitation had been obtained from Charles,
transferring the powers of government into the
ships also conveyed their first officers who were
appointed by the crown. In consequence of this,
their numbers during the succeeding summer
were greatly increased, and the emigrants at length
became so numerous that it was deemed advisable
for a large portion of them to settle themselves
at a place, called by the natives Shawmut, but
now well known as the site of a flourishing city.
And now approached the season of their severest
trial.
During the ensuing winter a dreadful mortality
prevailed among the colonists. Hunger, weariness,
and sickness they had borne unmurmuring;
but here was death in all its bitterness. Fathers
and mothers died; babes and children were laid
in the grave, while the bloom of life was scarce
cold on their young faces; the warm dreams of
youth were quenched in the stillness of the long
sleep; and many a voice, like the voice in Rama,
arose from among the Puritan cottages. Few
escaped the power of the raging sickness, and
every day the fresh turf of the burial ground rose
on some new made grave.
It was now that the religion which had softened
the heart of the Lady Eveline, was revealed in its
most touching light. The natural delicacy of her
frame, seemed all to have vanished. While the
strong lay prostrate with disease and death, fresh
energies seemed given to her; with a light unwearied
step, she moved by the couches of the
dying and the dead; and days of anxiety and
nights of sleepless watching, wasted not the bloom
of her countenance. The pillow of many a dying
child was softened by her attentions, and when
the mother had turned away in the depths of her
in hers; and her kind and gentle assiduities were
continued till the calm smile of death had settled
on its features. Her pure and elevated piety
gave her also unwonted access to the souls of the
bereaved, for her words were low and soothing,
and all of heaven, and of the blessedness of a land,
where sickness and death might not come, and
sorrow and sighing should flee away.
The long winter at length rolled by, and with it
the heavy calamities which had visited the colony.
Ships from England gladdened the hearts of the
wearied exiles; and as the pure spring air danced
freshly over the earth, it seemed to endue them
with health and vigor.
But there was one, to whom the spring in all its
freshness, bore no promise of future years. Slowly
and surely the frost of death was descending on
the brow of the young and beautiful. She who
had watched so tenderly by the couches of the
dying, was now herself to die; she who had so
often directed others to heaven, was now herself
to enjoy its blessedness. But the disease was
deep, and its secret work impaired not, at all, the
loveliness of the frail flower it was destroying.
To one who might have gazed, for a moment only,
on the lady, thoughts of decay and death would
have seemed strangely inappropriate. None of
her usual avocations were neglected. At morning
and evening she was still seen taking her accustomed
walk along the shady paths of the village,
or through her favorite forest walks, her
visits of kindness and sisterly love were still continued,
and those who passed the pleasant dwelling
of the pastor, might still observe her light
with Ellen in the little green enclosure.
But they who watched her daily, with that intense
anxiety which the love of earthly objects so
surely brings with it, felt too truly that though
death was coming on forms of strange loveliness,
he had none the less surely marked his victim.
They saw that every day her step became slower,
her form more light and airy, and her low, thrilling
voice, yet more low and thrilling. They saw too
that whenever she spoke, her eye wore an unwonted
brilliancy; and instead of the pale damask,
a color all too deep and bright for earth, mantled
her cheek.
The lady herself felt that she must die; and
though at some moments, the sudden recollection
of this firm conviction, would bring the rich crimson
to her lip, in general the thought was peace.
She knew that she had not lived in vain. The
principles of holiness implanted in her soul, had
long been developed in high and holy action; and
though the love of heaven was her only hope,
these recollections were now inexpressibly sweet,
as evidences that this love had sanctified her affections.
Upon the first conviction that death
was approaching, the Lady Eveline had addressed
letters to her friends in England, informing them
of her illness, and repeating her solemn farewell,
till she should meet them again in the world of
spirits.
It was June—and a beautiful sabbath afternoon.
For some days past, the lady had been
confined entirely to her own apartment; and
now, supported by Ellen Wilson, she walked
from her bed to a seat by the open window, to
catch the fresh breeze that was springing up from
she leaned her head a moment on Ellen's
shoulder. The only contrast to the marble whiteness
of her countenance was in the hue of the
long eyelash that now lay in such deep repose on
her cheek. The rich coloring of life seemed
gone forever. Her cap had fallen carelessly back,
and the breeze played lightly among the long
and beautiful hair it released. Ellen had supported
her head with pillows; and now stood beside
her, gently fanning her brow, and gazing
with intense grief on the altered hue of her features.
“You are too ill, dear Lady, to sit up thus, do
not attempt it to-day,” she exclaimed, as the invalid
at length slowly opened her eye.
“I am better now, my kind Ellen,” replied the
lady. “I will sit here awhile, for I long to look
out once more on the green and freshness of
earth. Oh, how fervently have I loved it. I cannot
go away from this world forever without one
last look;” and as she spoke, she leaned gently
forward to gaze on the beautiful prospect.
A more quiet and lovely scene has seldom met
the eye. Perfect, sabbath stillness hung over
the cottages around; and far beyond stretched
the rocky shore, and the wave of the Atlantic.
It was the hour of afternoon service and the inhabitants
were now all assembled in the house of
God. This was near them, and as they leaned
upon the window, the loud hymn of praise rose in
rich swells on the air.
“Oh, Ellen, hear that holy music!” murmured
the lady faintly. “I could almost dream that the
airs of heaven already played on my ear. Surely
there was never so lovely a sabbath before; or,
it fades from my sight?”
She paused a moment, and some pleasant recollection
seemed to flit across her mind. “The
grass in the coppice, Ellen, must be green ere
this,” she suddenly exclaimed,—“and the shady
avenue. Oh, for a walk in that avenue to-day.”
Ellen was surprised. The lady had hardly
ever spoken of her former enjoyments, since the
period of their landing; but now all restraint
seemed over.
“Ellen, look over that blue wave, and far beyond,”
she continued. “You can see nothing—
and yet I have looked there, hour after hour, till
my eye has pierced the dreadful distance, and the
lovely valley, the castle, and the park, were all
before it; nay, I roamed through the halls of my
ancestors, and I heard the voices of those who
were dearer to me than life. But, Ellen, it is
over now, my eye is dim, and the pleasant land,
far away over the ocean, will rise no more to it,”
—and the lady wept.
“But you have long had grace from heaven, to
strengthen you in suffering. Oh, my Lady, will
it fail you in your need?'
“But to die, Ellen, far away from my kindred,
unremembered and unblest—my soul cannot endure
it. There is music and dancing in my father's
hall, my own Julia smiles gaily, my brother's
laugh rings through the castle as joyfully
as ever, and even”—she paused a moment and
a rich color tinged her cheek,—“and I, whom
they all once loved, am dying, alone, on this distant
shore.”
Ellen perceived that the unusual emotion which
the lady now exhibited, was fast exhausting her
again to her couch, when the appearance of a
ship entering the harbor, arrested her attention.
Though this had of late become a less rare occurrence
than formerly, still the sight of these
messengers from the land of their nativity possessed
strong fascinations for the eyes of the pilgrims,
and Ellen now parted away the clustering
vine, and leaned forward to watch the landing.
The eye of the lady was also directed to the same
point, and now and then a few brief remarks indicated
her interest in the scene. The deck was
apparently well crowded with passengers, and so
near was the harbor, that they could even distinguish
their figures as they walked separately across
the plank which had been thrown over, to facilitate
their landing.
“Ah, Lady Eveline, those are not all pilgrims,
believe me,” exclaimed Ellen, as a richly dressed
group, one by one, passed over. “That lady's
robe is all too gay, and her step too proud, and
those young cavaliers that are over now, and
walking with her, they are no pilgrims, my
Lady.”
At that moment a slight noise caused her to
turn her head, and she perceived with alarm that
the lady had fallen, fainting, on her pillow.
“Oh, help me to my couch, Ellen, for I am sick
and weary,” she murmured, as her eye slowly
reopened; and when her pale face at length rested
quietly on its pillow, Ellen saw that she was to
rise no more a living being. A deathlike slumber
soon sealed her eye again, and they who were
hovering around her couch, almost feared it was
death itself. Long and sorrowfully did Ellen
watch by her noble friend, until at last a deep
burned with a living glow, and when her eye
again opened, it shone with an unnatural and
dazzling brilliancy.
“Oh, where is Julia?” she said, gazing unconsciously
around her. “I have long been sick and
sorrowful, and she has not come to me, my sister,
my own beloved sister, where are you?” and she
looked wildly upon Ellen. “Nay, Ellen Wilson,
do not tell me that I am dying far over the ocean,
among the pilgrims. It was all a dream, a long
strange dream. Is not this my own apartment,
and is not this the pillow that the Lady Julia
sleeps on?—and these lofty walls, and those rich
curtains and hangings, do these belong to the
puritan cottage?” She smiled and shook her
head. “No—no—I saw none such in my dream.
“Ah, Julia, you have come at last,” she continued
after a few moment's pause, regarding Ellen.
“Now lay your soft hand on my aching brow, it
seems ages since I felt it last.”
Ellen gently laid her hand on her forehead.
“Ellen Wilson, do not mock me,” she exclaimed
after a moment's pause. “Your touch is light
and gentle, but it is not like the touch of a sister's
hand. Once more, Julia,” she added in a
tone of indescribable tenderness, “once more,
only for one moment, I pray you come to me.
Oh, she will not come, I have intreated and prayed,
and she will not come,” and again the dying
lady wept.
It was sunset, and the yellow light reflected
from without, had given a rich and mellow tinge
to the objects of the apartment. The lady's eye
had long been closed, but she had not slumbered.
Strange visions flitted across her mind. She had
tones repeated her name low in her ear, warm
tears dropped on her cheek, soft lips met hers,
and faint thoughts of the bliss of other years
came over her like traces of faded dreams.
At last her eye opened. The small fair hand
that lay on the quilt was loaded with gems.
Slowly she raised her glance to the bedside. Ah,
whose was that beautiful and glistening eye that
now met hers? Was it still a deceitful vision?
She gazed slowly around. All illusion vanished.
She was lying in her own humble apartment, in
the cottage of the minister. The window by
which she had leaned a few hours since, was still
open. There was her little book case, her writing
table, and the cup of roses on it, just as Ellen
had gathered them in the morning. Ellen
too was standing at the foot of her couch
Her glance again turned to the pillow. It was
no vision. That eye was still on hers. There
was a quick and searching glance, one wild burst
of ecstasy, and the long parted sisters were
folded in each other's embrace. They who had
separated amid the splendor of the far distant
castle, were again united in a lowly cottage beyond
the ocean.
“Eveline, my blessed sister! say that you will
part no more from me. I have come over the
wide waters to see you. Eveline, do not call for
me again so mournfully. You are not indeed forgotten;
all that have ever loved you, love you as
tenderly now. Dear sister, this is no place for
one like you to languish and die; you shall go
back with us to our father's house, and we will all
love and cherish you.”
The lady calmly gazed upon the fresh and
blooming countenance of her sister. “No—no,
Julia,” she replied, “I shall go no more hence,
till I go to my long home, my bright home in
heaven. Do not weep, dear sister, that I am dying,
for my heavenly Father hath at last made
death lovely, even to me.”
“Do not think of dying, Eveline,” replied the
lady, with a shudder. “Now that fearful slumber
is off, your eye is bright, and your cheek far
more rosy than when I saw you last. Oh, Eveline,
you must not die.”
At that moment Ellen approached from the
door.
“They have desired to know if they may see
the Lady Eveline,” she whispered in the ear of
the sister. “I have told them that we thought
her dying.”
Julia regarded her with a look of agony. “Look
at that beautiful color on her cheek,” she whispered,
“you are surely dreaming.”
Ellen shook her head mournfully. “I have
known it long, my Lady, it is only the hectic
flush. Does she sleep?” and she bent her head
a moment to the pillow.
“No, dear Ellen,” murmured the lady faintly.
“Of whom were you speaking?”
“Eveline,” said her sister, in a voice almost
choked with emotion, “I came not alone to see
you, some whom you once loved, are now
in the next apartment; but you are wearied;
shall they wait till morning?” For a moment
strange energy seemed given to her frame,
her voice was strong, and she almost raised herself
from her pillow.
“Speak not of to-morrow, Julia, those whom
There was one over the wave whom my unweaned
affections have strangely clung to, and”—
At this moment the door gently opened, and
the forms of her dearly remembered brother,
and of him who had long ago loved her, arrested
her eye.
The soul of the dying Eveline, was now at
peace. Earth's visions were indeed over; but
the tones of human love were still sweet to her
ear. In one short hour from the time when she
had deemed herself a forgotten exile, the forms
of brother, and sister, and friend, surrounded
her couch, and her dying moments were cheered
and sweetened, with the kindest endearments of
earthly affection.
For a few moments, she spoke with earnestness,
and told them of the strong depths of her affection
for them, and prayed them to bear her dying
blessing to her father. Of heaven, too, she spoke,
and of the beauty and holiness of that religion
she had so honored, and besought them by the
strength of the love which had led them over the
deep, to meet her in that world. And just as her
beloved Ellen had bent to kiss her brow, while
she breathed the assurances of her grateful affection,
and her eye was yet bright with feeling, the
eye closed, the voice ceased, and something like
a beautiful and placid sleep, settled on her features.
The spirit was in heaven, and they who
had come so far to bear the lady to her princely
home, soon bore her in sorrow to her long resting
place, among the tombs of the Pilgrims.
| Tales of the puritans | |