 | THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. Myrtis |  |
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, toward the close of a vernal day.
The bay window where they sat, looked out upon
lawn and gaden, and was partially shaded by the
convolvulus, so redolent at dewy morn, of its deep
blue 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
of, 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;
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 spinnet, and working tent-stitch. Of what great
use will these 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 reasons 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?”
“O 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 wal, and that very Henry
Elton with her, to be sure! Have the goodness,
brother, to leave the room. No time like the 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 upon neck and shoulder. By her side was a
graceful young 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,
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 sapphires, 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 every body 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
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 lips proved that it cost
some effort to be silent. Henceforth a new subject
occupied her meditations, and the floating filament
and shadow of a preference became a fixed thought.
Miss Sibyl lost no time in reporting to her brother
than 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
toward Susan a reserved and dignified manner,
she was not aware of his attachment, and too timid
to approach 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
before her time.
Days passed away on leaden feet, and the early
flowers, for whose birth she had waited, withered,
scarcely noticed, in their turfy beds. At the foot of
the pleasant garden of the Mortimers was a summer-house.
The full moon, looking through
vines and lattice-work, saw that it was 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 had 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
toward 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 the English coast. The
night is rayless, and winds moan with a hollow
sound. The midnight watch is called; but the captain
preparation for his expected departure at early
morn.
The tramp of flying steeds on the shores is heard,
then the dash of an oar. A boat has put out 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 barnacle, 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 two
companions, with unfurled sails, leave the harbor of
Plymouth. Cloud and blast had passed away with
night, but were replaced by a dense fog. So they
along the coast.
At mid-day 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 her 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, weapons were 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, partially drawn from its scabbard,
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,
he delighted, and which his elegance of person so
well became. To all 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 toward him, and said,
“And thou, too, here pretty dove? I knew thy
father well, in the wars of the Low Countries. A
brave man was he, and a noble. Heaven help thee
to build thy nest in yon 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. He bowed his thanks, and
then standing erect in the tossing boat, waved his
hat, with its fair, white plumes. Far in the distance
they saw it dancing amid the sea-foam, and conversed
thirty-five, had already become illustrious in arts
and arms, a scholar, courtier, poet, and 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,
like the flagging sea-gull, toward 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 fair
Richard Greenville had planted a colony of frail
root, whose remnant 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
naught 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 first 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 hear. 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,
were at a loving strife. But the tuneful emulation
soon ceased, and her 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 besides. 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 whispered
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 taught inebriety 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 mean time, she who had staked her all on
love, and lost, was fondly tenacious of its fragments.
Every pleasant look or gentle word, though few and
many sorrows. She was learning, day by day, the
lesson that human love may never lay aside the element
of forbearance. It was touching to see so
young and fair a creature so sad, and yet so calm.
One evening she had waited long for her husband,
but he came not. 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 fresh 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.
Roanoke, Governor White, who had been absent on
an agency to England, taking the lead. Where was
his sweet daughter Ellinor Dare, 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 silent 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 these 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 sanguine spots. Ah! were those fair eyes resting
came? Was that pensive pilgrim 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 and heavy-laden, and I will
give you 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. Myrtis | |