 | THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. Water-drops |  |
25. THE EMIGRANT BRIDE.
To joy and to hope it sounds as a knell;—
Cruel tale it were to tell
How the emigrant sighs farewell!”—
Tupper.
Two, rather antique-looking people were conversing
cozily, towards the close of a vernal day. The bowwindow
where they sate looked out upon lawn and
garden, and was partially shaded by the twining convolvulus,
which at dewy morn was redolent of its deepblue
and crimson bells.
“Brother, did you ever think our Susan had some
thoughts she did not reveal?”
“What kind of thoughts?”
“Why, has it never crossed your mind, that she might
be in love?”
“In love? The child! What can you be dreaming
about, sister Sibyl?”
“Child indeed! Eighteen next candlemas, Mr Mortimer.
If I am not mistaken, her mother was younger,
when she stood at the altar with our brother. Perhaps
I might say, when she led him there, for he was utterly
bewildered, and blinded by the love of her.”
“She was truly lovely. But tell me, whose image
your imaginings have coupled with our pretty niece?”
“Whose image? why, the young spark, Henry Elton,
of course. A fine match, upon my word; he having
nothing, or next to nothing, and of no family, as you
may say. I always thought Susan ought to marry some
nobleman. And so she might, with a proper ambition.
Such sights of money as you have lavished on her education
too, playing on the spinet and working tent-stich.
Of what great use will such fine things be, when she is
the wife of so very undistinguished a personage? I
think she is ungrateful to you,—indeed, to us both.”
“It is most probable that your fancy outruns all fact.
Still, if your suspicions prove true, I should regret it, not
so much for the reason you have given, as that the young
man has some spice of wildness, and want of consideration,
which might affect the happiness of the poor girl.
Shall I speak to her?”
“Oh mercy, my dear brother! not for the world. You
men are always so hasty. Such matters need the utmost
tact and delicacy. The young heart is an exquisite harp,
which few can play upon, without disordering its strings.
Trust that to me. There she is, coming from her walk,
and that very Henry Elton with her, to be sure! Have
the goodness, brother, to leave the room. No time like
present time, as the proverb says.”
A fair girl was seen approaching the house, the rich curls
of auburn hair escaping from under her hat, and shading
man, who bore upon his arm her basket of wild flowers.
A ramble in the green lanes of merry England had given
them new spirits, and their voices, mingled with occasional
laughter, rang out joyously. Her companion took
leave, and she entered with a light step,—
“See, aunt, these fresh violets, and this,”—
“Bless me! Miss Mortimer. I suppose it is highly
decorous to walk with your hat untied, and to chatter so
long at the gate with a gentleman.”
Amazement seized the young creature, a moment since
so gay. Miss Mortimer! This was always an epithet
of great displeasure. What could have happened? The
full, blue eyes, which just before had sparkled like
saphires, dilated, and with lips slightly parted, and foot
advanced, she stood, checked and silent,—a song-bird
startled by the thunder.
“Do you know that everybody is talking of your
familiarity with that Henry Elton, and of his awful dissipation
too? Your uncle, and all,”—
“My dear aunt!”
“Yes! dear aunt, indeed! Your uncle is not quite
blind, nor deaf either. Poor man! he might have had
higher hopes for his favorite brother's daughter. So
liberal too, as he has always been,—no expense spared.
It is a burning shame, to show no more regard to his
feelings.”
“I assure you, aunt!”—
“You need not assure me at all,—I'm able to assure
myself. But if you do not see fit to give up Henry
Elton, and mate yourself with some titled person, or one
more fitting for our family, it will not be so well for you,
I can assure you of that. It will not be difficult to find
one who will show more gratitude to us, for lesser favors.
You need not take the trouble to answer me.”
The surprise of the listener gave way to a rush of
other feelings. The color deepened in her pure Saxon
complexion, but she replied not; though the compression
of her bright lip, proved that it cost some effort to be
silent. Henceforth a new subject occupied her meditation,
and the floating filament and shadow of a preference, became a fixed thought.
Miss Sibyl lost no time in reporting to her brother,
that Susan was deeply in love, and desperately bent on
having her own way.
“I could see it in every movement. She is her
mother over again,—whom I never could bear. Her
father, too, had a right obstinate temper. Considering
he was only a half-brother, I have sometimes wondered
at your partiality for his daughter. I am sure our own
dear sister would be glad to give us her Euphemia, who
would not make us half the trouble that Susan has.”
This matter had been hinted before by the adroit lady,
but her brother's heart still continued to turn to his
orphan protégé. Yet having always maintained towards
her a reserved and dignified manner, she was not aware
him with freedom. Mutually misunderstanding
each other, constraint deepened into apparent coldness,
and diffidence was mistaken for pride. The blight
of a joyless home fell on the spirit of the young girl, and
she grew careworn, before her time.
Days passed away on leaden feet, and the early flowers
for whose birth she had waited, withered unnoticed in
their turfy beds. At the foot of the pleasant garden of
the Mortimers, was a summer-house. The full moon,
looking through its vines and lattice-work, saw it not
untenanted. Two persons were discoverable, with heads
declined, as if in conversation more profound than the
gayety of youth would prompt. Suddenly, one starts
into action, genuflection, gesture, such as excited feeling,
or eloquence inspire. It might be seen that he has an
auditor absorbed, and not unmoved.
The pantomime, though protracted, has a close. Of
its scope and result, somewhat may be gathered by the
bearing of the parties, as they issue from the bower.
Moving slowly through the long lines of shrubbery, the
manner of one is earnest, tender, and tinctured with the
power of prevalence. The other leans heavily on his
arm, her fair brow inclining towards his; and as they
reach the porch where they are to separate, her clear,
lustrous eye gazes steadfastly into his, as if to gather one
more assurance, that the image of her own love is fully
reflected there.
A ship rides at anchor on an English coast. The night
is rayless, and winds moan with a hollow sound. The
midnight watch is called; but the captain still lingers on
deck, as if engaged in some preparation for his expected
departure at early morn.
The tramp of flying steeds is heard on the shore. Then
the dash of an oar,—a boat has put forth into the thick
darkness. Soon a group, muffled in cloaks, ascend the
deck of the vessel. One seems exhausted, and is supported
by a stronger arm. Then, by the dull red light
of the binnacle, a cavalier stands forth with uncovered
head, and by his side a vision of beauty. The melody of the
marriage service trembles strangely upon that bleak, midnight
air. Hands are joined,—“Till death us do part.”
What a place,—timid and tender creature! for vows
like these,—the rough ship, and the tossing sea. None
of thy kindred blood near to bless thee, or soothe the
pulsations of thy fluttering heart!
“Safe from all persecution!—Mine own forever!”
Well-timed words, young bridegroom. They bring a
faint rose-leaf tinge over cheek and brow, so deadly pale.
The benediction of the priest fell, like oil upon the
troubled waters; and throwing himself, with his attendants,
into the waiting boat, he rapidly regained the
shore.
The next morning beheld the ship, and her companions,
with unfurled sails leave the harbor of Plymouth.
Cloud and blast had passed away with night, but were
half-wakened sea-birds, lazily along the coast.
At midday, a barge was seen approaching. With a
buoyant movement it skimmed the waves, now rising
half upright upon some crested billow, and anon, sinking
gracefully into the intermediate vale of waters.
Among the many who watched its progress, none
testified such overwhelming anxiety as Henry Elton, and
his bride. Apprehension that they might be the objects
of pursuit, raised a tide of tumultuous emotion. The
young man walked apart with the captain, vehemently
demanding that the ship should hold on her course.
And when he again seated himself by her side, whose
azure eye followed his every movement,—an unsheathed
weapon was observed to glitter beneath his mantle.
A cavalier closely muffled, with a single servant, leaped
on board. Requesting a private interview with the
captain, they descended together to the cabin. Henry
Elton, passing one arm firmly around his bride, whispered
in her ear, “Till death us do part!” while a sword
gleamed in his right hand. How endless seemed that
interval of suspense.
At length ascending footsteps were heard, with a
suppressed murmur of “Sir Walter Raleigh!” The eye
of every gazer testified pleasure, as it rested on the noble
form of the most accomplished knight of his times. His
Spanish cloak, thrown over one arm, discovered that
magnificence of costume in which he delighted, and
who surrounded him, he addressed some kind or courtly
phrase, with his habitual tact and fluency. Fixing his
eagle eye on the bride, he drew her towards him, and
said,—
“And thou too, here, pretty Dove? I knew thy
father well, in the Low Countries. A brave man was
he and a noble. Heaven help thee to build thy nest in
you far flowery groves, where I would fain myself be.”
Pressing a paternal kiss on her pure forehead, and
once more heartily shaking the hand of the commander,
he said,—
“My good people, that you will show all due respect
and obedience to so excellent a seaman as Captain White,
I make no doubt. But more than this,—I present him
to you as the future Governor of the colony which, God
willing, you are to plant in the new Western World.”
Then placing in his hand a sealed paper, containing
instructions for the new government, and the names
of the twelve assistants by whose aid it was to be administered,—he
bade all a courteous farewell, with “good
wishes, and a golden lot.”
Loud and long was the voice of cheer and gratulation,
as he departed. Bowing his thanks, and then standing
erect in the tossing boat, he waved his hat with its fair
white plumes. Far in the distance they saw it dancing
amid the sea-foam, and conversed enthusiastically of the
man, who yet scarcely thirty-five, had already become
statesman, liberal as a patron of literature, and the very
soul of all enterprise for the settlement of the new-found
continent of America. As they watched him, until his
barge was a speck on the far waters, no prescience revealed
the darkening of his fortunes:—the conspiracy of
his foes, a tyrant king, the prison, and the scaffold.
Three small ships, long beaten by the Atlantic surge,
approached the shores of that region which, less than a
century before, the world-finder had unveiled. The conflict
of months with blast and billow had not left them
unscathed, and they moved heavily, like the flagging seagull,
towards the desired haven.
It was the summer of 1587, when Virginia, in her
gorgeous robes, gleamed out to the worn voyagers like
the isles of the blessed. Her flowering trees and shrubs,
sent a welcome on the wings of odors, ere the embroidered
turf kissed their feet.
Vines, loaded with clusters, enriched field and grove;
here forming dense canopies and bowers of shade, and
there springing loftily from tree-top to tree-top, with
bold festoons and flowing drapery. Deer glanced through
the forest, and birds of gay plumage filled the balmy air
with music.
The strangers sought out the spot, near the bright waters
of the Roanoake, where, two years before, Sir Richard
had been borne back by Sir Francis Drake, to its
native soil.
These guests of the hospitality of the broad, green
West, were full of exultation, and zealous to construct
places of shelter and repose. None more ardently rejoiced,
when a little dwelling was ready, which they
might call their own, than Henry Elton and his bride.
Its rudeness, its narrow limits were nought to them, so
entirely happy were they to possess a home amid the
charms of nature and the solitude of love. Here was
their most romantic wish fulfilled,—a lodge in the green
wood, and a beautiful world to themselves.
Alas for Susan, when a change stole over her dream!
Enthusiastic, and turning, like the flower of the sun, to
one alone, she had not taken into view that the cloud
and the frost must have their season. At first, she wondered
that Henry could so often leave her, and so long
be gone; or that, at his return, he omitted the tender
words she had been accustomed to her. But the smile
was ever radiant on her brow when he appeared; and
during his absence, she found solace in household toils,
putting her slender, snowy hands, with strange facility,
to the humblest deeds that might render a poor abode
comfortable, or vary his repast who was ever first in her
thoughts. While thus employed, her voice rang out
sweetly from the catalpas that embowered her dwelling,
so that it would seem that the birds and herself were at a
song rose sad and seldom,—and then was heard no more.
A deeper shadow had fallen upon her lot. Captiousness
was added to indifference, by him for whom she had
literally given up all beside. A fearful conviction, which
she strongly resisted, forced itself upon her, of his frequent
intemperance. Careless of the duties of a protector,
he would sometimes be away whole nights; while
at his return, she was doomed to witness the disgusting
gradations from stupidity to brutality.
Compunction, indeed, occasionally seized him; and at
his reviving kindness, her young hope comforted her that
all would yet be well, and her woman's love forgot that
it had ever wept. The adversities of the colony proved
also a temporary remedy. Poverty, and a scarcity of the
means of subsistence, checked the power of revelry, and
drove the inebriate to abstinence. Some fear of savage
warfare drew the little band more firmly together, for
consultation and safety. The fierce Wingina, with his
followers, were observed prowling around the settlement.
There was then no Powhatan to succor the strangers,—
no Pocahontas to save the victim, at the jeopardy of her
own life.
In the meantime, she who had staked her all on love,
and lost, was tenacious of its fragments. Every pleasant
look or gentle word, though few and far between, was
treasured as an equivalent for many sorrows. She was
learning, day by day, the lesson that human love may
touching to see so young and fair a creature, so mournful,
and yet so calm.
One evening, she had waited long for her husband,
but he came not. This was but too common, since he
had become the slave of intemperance. A step was
heard. Can that be his?—so stealthy? The slight
fastening of the door was burst in. Dark faces peered—
wild forms glimmered. The stroke of a hatchet, and the
red flame bursting from the low roof-tree, were the work
of a moment;—and from the girdle of the tallest warrior,
when he strode from the spoil, hung a scalp, with a
dripping, auburn tress.
That night, the wail of a wretched man was heard
over the ashes—and the dead. Daybreak beheld him,
with others, armed, and going forth in quest of vengeance.
The fires of wrath fell on many a quiet wigwam, and innocent
women and babes perished for the crime of their
chieftain. Such is the justice of the war-spirit; blind,
bloody, and ferocious.
Three years notched their seasons on the trees, and
threw their shadows over the earth, ere England stretched
forth her hand to that far, forsaken colony. Then, three
storm-driven vessels, as the dog-star commenced his
reign, were seen contending with the terrible breakers of
Cape Hatteras. Outriding both surge and tempest, at
length, with strained cordage and riven sails, they neared
the shore.
They fired signal-guns, and anxiously listened,—but
there was no sound. They pressed on towards Roanoke,
Governor White, who had been absent on an agency to
England, taking the lead. Where was his sweet daughter
Ellinor, whom he had left in her green-wood home, singing
the lullaby to her young babe, Virginia, the first born
of English parents in the new Western World? As he
drew near the spot, he kept his eye fixed, with agonizing
earnestness, on a copse of lofty pines that had encircled
her habitation. Smoke reared its curling volume
among them, and his heart leaped up.—It was the
smouldering council-fire of the Indians.
Not a home of civilized man was there,—not a form
or face of kindred or of friend. They call. There is no
answer but echo, murmuring from rock and ravine.
Names and initials are still cut deeply on the trees.
But where are the hands that traced them? All is
silence,—save the steps of those who search, and the sighs
of those who mourn.
By the shore there was no boat,—over some broken
oars, grass and weeds had crept. Ruins of former abodes
were here and there visible:—portions of household
utensils, and implements of agriculture, scattered along
the sands and corroded with moisture. Mingled with
them were fragments of chests, torn charts, and mutilated
books.
Among the latter was a thrilling relic. A Bible, with
the name of “Susan Mortimer Elton,” covered with
that blessed book, when the destroyer came? Was she
there gathering strength for her thorn-clad journey, when
that journey was about to close? Sacred pages! did
she learn from you, that earthly love without divine, is
unsafe for the heirs of immortality? When her heart's
idol was broken, did she hearken to your whisper, “Come,
weary, heavy-laden, and I will give thee rest?”
Blood-stained Bible, from Virginian sands! we thank
thee for thine enduring friendship,—for thy last holy
offices to the Emigrant Bride.
| THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. Water-drops | |