 | CHAPTER II. Tales of the puritans |  |
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.
| CHAPTER II. Tales of the puritans | |