Tales of the puritans The regicides, The fair pilgrim, Castine |
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| 1. | THE
FAIR PILGRIM.
CHAPTER I. |
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 | THE
FAIR PILGRIM.
CHAPTER I. Tales of the puritans |  |
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.
| THE
FAIR PILGRIM.
CHAPTER I. Tales of the puritans | |