door of excuse for his intrusion, he was unwilling to deny that he was
moved by a laudable desire to behold their peculiar form of worship.
Pleased by the sunny openness of his countenance, the elder led the
way to the house set apart for the service of the Most High, exhorting
him at the same time to renounce the pomps and vanities of the world,
and unite with them in that _oneness_ of spirit, which distinguished
their society from the children of mankind. No lofty spire marked out
the temple of the Lord, nor did its form differ from that of a common
dwelling-place. They entered a spacious hall, the floor of which
presented such a dazzling expanse of white, the foot of the traveller
hesitated before pressing its polished surface. The walls were of the
same shining whiteness, chilling the eye by their cold uniformity--and
benches arranged with the most exact precision on each side of the
building, marked the boundaries of either sex Roland seated himself at
some distance from the prescribed limits, and waited with proper
solemnity the entrance of the worshippers. He observed that the men
invariably entered at one door, the women at another, and that they
had as little intercourse as if they belonged to different worlds. The
men were all clothed in the ancient costume we have just described,
and the women were dressed in garments as peculiar and unbecoming. A
shirt of the purest white, short gown of the same texture, a 'kerchief
folded in stiff unbending plaits, a mob cap of linen fastened close
around the face, from which every tress of hair was combed carefully
back, constituted their chill and ghost-like attire. As one by one
these pallid figures glided in, and took their appointed seat, Roland
felt as if he were gazing on the phantasmagoria of a dream, so pale
and unearthly did they seem. The countenances of the males were
generally suffused with a ruddy glow, but cold and colourless as
marble were the cheeks of that sex he had been wont to see adorned
with the roses of beauty and health. They arose and arranged
themselves in a triangular form, while several of the aged stood in
the centre, commencing the worship by a hymn of praise. Their voices
were harsh and broken, but the devotion of their manner sanctified the
strains, and Roland felt not, as he feared he should, a disposition
for mirth. But when they gradually formed into a procession, marching
two and two in a regular line, all joining in the wild and dissonant
notes, then warming as they continued, changing the solemn march into
the liveliest dance, clapping their hands simultaneously and shouting
till the cold white walls resounded with the strange hosannas; all the
while, those hueless, passionless faces gleaming by him, so still and
ghastly mid their shroud-like garments, his brain began to reel, and
he almost imagined himself attending the orgies of the dead, of
resuscitated bodies, with the motions of life, but without the living
soul. Still, over the whole group there was a pervading solemnity and
devotion, an apparent abandonment of the whole world--an anticipation
of the loneliness and lifelessness of the tomb, that redeemed it from
ridicule, and inspired emotions kindred to awe. This awe, however,
soon melted away in pity at such delusion, and this sensation became
at length converted into admiration for an object, at first unnoticed
in the general uniformity of the scene, but which grew upon his eye,
like the outline of the landscape through the morning mist. There was
one young girl moving in this throng of worshippers, whose superior
bearing could not long elude the stranger's scrutiny. Her age might
be fourteen or fifteen, perhaps younger; it was difficult to decide
through the muffling folds of a dress which levelled every distinction
of form and comeliness. As she passed and repassed him, in the
evolutions of their dance, he caught occasional glimpses of a face,
which, though pale, betrayed the flitting colour through the
transparent skin; and once or twice the soft, thoughtful gray eyes
were turned towards him, with a wistful and earnest expression, as if
claiming sympathy and kindness from some congenial being. Fixing his
gaze upon the spot where he first beheld her, he watched her returning
figure with an intensity that at last became visible to the object of
it, for the pale rose of her cheek grew deeper and deeper, and her
beautiful gray eyes were bent upon the floor. Roland leaned from the
window near which he was seated, to see if it was actually the same
world he had inhabited that morning, so strangely were his senses
affected by the shrill music, growing louder and louder, the
shuffling, gliding motions, increasing in velocity, and this sweet
apparition so unexpectedly mingling in such an incongruous scene. The
breath of summer redolent with a thousand perfumes stole over his
brow--the blue sky was arching over his head; never had creation
seemed more lovely or glowing; yet the worshippers within deemed they
were offering an acceptable sacrifice on the altar of God, the
sacrifice of those social affections, which find such beautiful
emblems in the works of nature. Roland became so lost in these
reflections, he hardly noticed the closing of the exercise, or heard
the monotonous tones of one of the elders, who was exhorting in the
peculiar dialect of his sect. When the services were concluded, he
left the hall, still watching the motions of the gray-eyed damsel, in
the bold resolution of accosting her, and discovering if she were a
willing devotee. As she walked along with a light step, in spite of
her clumsy high-heeled shoes, by the side of an ancient dame, Roland,
unconscious of the extreme audacity of the act, and hardly knowing
himself in what manner to address her, crossed her path, and was in
the very act of apologizing for the intrusion, when his arm was seized
with a sturdy grasp, and he saw the old Shaker who had introduced him
into the assembly, standing by his side. "Young man," said he, in a
stern voice--"do you come here, a wolf in sheep's clothing, in the
very midst of the flock? what is your business with this child, whom
our rules forbid you to address?" Roland felt at first very indignant,
but a moment's reflection convinced him he had erred, and
transgressed their rigid rules. He felt too that he had placed himself
in rather a ridiculous situation, and he stood before the rebuking
elder with a blush of ingenuous shame, that completely disarmed his
wrath. "You are young, very young," said the old man--"and I forgive
you--you have been brought up in the midst of the vanities of the
world, and I pity you; yet my heart cleaves to you, young man, and
when you become weary of those vanities, as you shortly will, come to
us, and you will find that peace which the world can neither give nor
take away."
He shook hands with Roland after he had spoken, who acknowledged his
offence, thanked him for his counsel and kindness, and, mounting his
horse, left him with a sentiment of unfeigned respect; so true it is,
that sincerity of faith gives dignity to the professor of many a creed
revolting to human reason. Roland looked back upon the beautiful
village, and wondered at what he had just witnessed. He felt a strong
disposition to linger, that he might discover something more of the
peculiarities of this singular and isolated people. Had he known their
incorruptible honesty, their unwearied industry, their trusting
hospitality, their kindness and charity--had he seen the pale
sisterhood extending their cherishing cares to the children of
orphanage and want, he would have been convinced that warm streams of
living tenderness were flowing beneath the cold forms of their austere
religion.
Roland Gray was very young, and had seen but little of the world. He
had led the secluded life of a student, and, but lately freed from
collegiate restraints, he had been trying his wings, preparatory to a
bolder flight across the Atlantic. He was now on the way to his
sister, who, with himself, was placed under the guardianship of the
excellent Mr. Worthington, for they were orphans, left with an
independent fortune, but singularly destitute of kindred, being the
last of their race. An invalid gentleman, one of his father's early
friends, was about to travel in foreign climes to try the benefit of a
milder atmosphere, and he urged Roland to be his companion. Such a
proposal was accepted with gratitude, and Roland, with buoyant
spirits, returned to his sister, to bid her farewell, before launching
on the "deep blue sea." Lucy Gray was older than her brother, and from
childhood had exercised over him the influence with which a few
additional years, joined to a strength of mind far beyond her years,
invested her. He was the object no less of her love than her pride.
She looked upon him as the last representative of a family, honoured
among the most honourable, and destined to transmit to posterity his
ancestral name, with unblemished and still more exalted lustre. She
resolved he should ennoble himself by marriage, and would have
scorned, as degrading, the thought that love might make the youth a
rebel to her will. She believed the affections entirely under the
control of the reason, and looked upon the passions as vassals to be
dragged at its chariot wheels. Lucy was not loved by her friends, but
she was respected and esteemed for the firmness of her principles, and
the strength of her mind. But Roland loved as much as he revered her.
His heart was a fountain of warm and generous affections, and it
flowed out towards her, his only sister, in the fulness of a current,
that found no other legitimate channel. Accustomed to yield his rash
and ardent impulses to the direction of her cooler judgment, he looked
up to her as the mentor of his follies, rather than as the companion
of his youthful amusements, and now, after an absence of several
months, partly from pleasure and partly from business, he looked
forward to meeting her with something of the feelings of a son,
blended with the affection of a brother. His arrival at Mr.
Worthington's was hailed with a burst of joy, for Roland had a face of
sunshine and a voice of melody, that shed light and music wherever he
went. In relating his adventures, he failed not to give due interest
to his interview with the Shakers, and laughed over the Quixotism that
exposed him to so stern a rebuke. The pretty little Shakeress did not
lose any of her attractions in his romantic description, and he dwelt
upon her dovelike eyes, melting beneath the snows of her antiquated
cap, her sweet, appealing countenance and spiritual air, till Mr.
Worthington's childless heart warmed within him, and Lucy listened
with apprehensive pride lest her brother's excited imagination should
convert this obscure unknown into a heroine of romance. It was but a
transient alarm, for she knew that the waves of the Atlantic would
soon roll between them, and Roland, surrounded by all the glorious
associations of an elder world, would cast aside every light and
ignoble fancy, and fit himself for the high station in society she
felt he was born to fill.
* * * * *
After an absence of four years Roland Gray appeared once more in the
family circle of Mr. Worthington. His hair had assumed a darker shade,
and his cheek a darker glow, but the same sunshiny spirit lighted up
his brow and animated his lips; it was Roland Gray still, only the
bloom of boyhood was lost in the sunniness of manhood. Lucy's
handsome, but severe countenance was so irradiated with joy, it was
almost dazzling from the effect of contrast: and as she sat by his
side, and gazed in his face, she felt that all her affections and her
hopes were so completely centered in him, they could be separated only
with the breaking of her heart. Happy as Roland was in being reunited
to his sister, his attention was not so engrossed as to forget the
kindly greetings due to the other members of Mr. Worthington's
household.
"I have an adopted daughter to introduce you to," said Mr.
Worthington, drawing forward a young girl who, on the entrance of
Roland, had retreated behind a stand of geraniums, and busied herself
in picking off the faded leaves. Roland had become too familiar with
beauty in foreign climes, to be surprised into admiration of a face
however fair, but there was a sweetness, a modesty and simplicity
diffused over the young face before him, that interested his feelings
and disarmed his judgment. He could scarcely tell the colour of her
eyes, for they were downcast, but there was something in the play of
her features, that implied she sympathized in the pleasure his coming
had excited. "Roland," continued Mr. Worthington, evidently delighted
with the reception he had given his favourite, "this is my daughter
Grace, whom Providence has kindly given to cheer a widowed and
childless heart. You know I look upon you almost as my son, so you
will find in her, I trust, another sister to love." Roland held out
his hand with great alacrity to seal this new compact, but the pretty
Grace drew back with an embarrassment he was unwilling to increase,
seeing it was entirely unaffected; and there was something in Lucy's
glance that told him she resented the idea of such a partnership in
his affections. He could not but marvel where good old Mr. Worthington
had found such a fairy gift, but believing the mystery would be
explained in due time, he promised himself no slight gratification in
studying a character, concealed under such a veil of bashfulness and
reserve. The twilight hour found the brother and sister walking
together towards their accustomed seat under the sycamore boughs, the
scene of many of Lucy's former counsels, and Roland's high resolves.
She wanted to be alone with him--to guard him against a thousand
dangers and snares, visible only to her proud and jealous eye. "Oh!
Roland," said she, taking his hand and looking earnestly in his
face--"do you return unchanged?--may I still, as wont, presume to
counsel, to direct, and to sustain?" "Unchanged in everything as
regards my affection for you, my dear sister," replied he--"be still
my mentor and my guide, for I fear, with all the worldly wisdom I have
acquired, I am often the same impulsive being you have so long tried
in vain to bring under the square and compass of reason and right.
Now, I feel at this moment an irresistible impulse to know who is this
pretty God-send of Mr. Worthington's; did she drop down from the
skies, or did she come on the wings of the wind?"
"I am glad you have opened the subject, Roland, for I brought you here
to warn you of that girl's influence. Do not laugh, for, knowing you
so well, I feel bound to prevent any imposition on your open, generous
nature. I do not know who she is, probably some poor child of shame
and desertion, whom Mr. Worthington discovered and educated, for it is
but a year since he brought her from school, and introduced her as his
adopted daughter. He made a long visit to his relatives, since you
left us, and found her, I believe, in the family of his brother, in a
dependent and perhaps menial situation. Charmed by her beauty and
beguiled by her arts, the good man conceived the romantic design of
educating her as his own, and now he is felicitating himself with
another project, that of securing for this nameless foundling the
heart and the fortune of Roland Gray." Roland had heard too much about
gentle blood and honourable parentage, and been too much under the
influence of his aristocratic sister, not to shrink from the
supposition of such an union, but he protested against the word
_arts_, which Lucy had used in reference to Grace, for she looked the
most artless of human beings; and he accused her of injustice towards
Mr. Worthington, who in his singleness of heart was incapable of
making a project of any kind. "You must not think it strange," said
Lucy, "that I, a woman should not be blinded by the beauty of one of
my own sex, and I know I am superior to the weakness of envy. With an
insight into character which has never deceived me, I know that girl
to be vain, selfish, and calculating. Mr. Worthington may claim her as
_his daughter_, but he shall never impose her on me, by the name of
_sister_." Those who have witnessed the empire an elder sister of
commanding mind and manners is capable of obtaining over a younger
brother's judgment, will not be surprised that Roland learned to look
upon Grace with distrustful eyes, though he could not believe in the
duplicity Lucy ascribed to her character, and he invariably treated
her with that consideration due to the situation she held in Mr.
Worthington's family. It was impossible, however, to be domesticated
with her, to be seated at the same table, parties in the same
amusements, near each other in the evening circle, and the moonlight
walks, notwithstanding the unsleeping vigilance of Lucy, not to feel
the reality of her loveliness, her simplicity and truth. There was
something about her that haunted him like a dream, and whenever she
turned her eyes towards him, he experienced a sudden thrill of
recollection, as if he had seen that fair face before. In the evening
Mr. Worthington often challenged Lucy to a game of chess, for though
not a skilful performer, he was extravagantly fond of the game, and
Lucy had no rival in the art. She now regretted this accomplishment,
as it threw her brother more immediately into companionship with
Grace, whose conversation, when unrestrained, was perfectly
bewitching, from a mixture of bright intelligence, quick sensibility,
and profound ignorance of the vices and customs of the world. It was
evident she felt oppressed by Lucy's scrutinizing gaze, for when she
was conscious of its withdrawal, her spirits rebounded with an
unobtrusive gayety, that harmonized admirably with the life and
vivacity of Roland's disposition.
One evening, as Lucy was absorbed in the crisis of the game, Grace was
busily plying her needle, making some garments for a poor woman, whose
house and wardrobe were completely consumed by fire, the previous
night; all the ladies in the neighbourhood were contributing their
part towards relieving her wants, and a very pretty little girl, with
a basket half-filled with her mother's offerings, was waiting till
Grace had put the last stitches into a cap, whose fashion seemed to
fix the particular attention of Roland. The child, who was a petted
favourite in the family, caught up the cap the moment it was
completed, and drawing it over the soft brown locks of Grace,
laughingly fastened the linen bands. Roland uttered so sudden an
exclamation, it made Lucy start from her seat, upsetting bishop,
knight, and royalty itself. The mystery was revealed, the pretty
little Shakeress stood before him. The close linen border, under which
every lock of hair was concealed, transformed at once the fashionable
and elegant young lady into the simple and humble Shaker girl. A
scene, which the lapse of years and the crowding events of a
transatlantic tour had effaced from his memory, returned vividly to
his recollection. He wondered he had not recognised her earlier, but
the hue of the soft gray eye was darkened, and its light more warm and
shifting, her complexion had a richer colouring, and shadows of bright
hair relieved the fairness of a brow where intelligence and
sensibility now sat enthroned. Then her figure--now revealed in all
the graces of womanhood, was it the same he had seen muffled in the
stiff starched shirt and 'kerchief, moving on high-heeled shoes with
large shining buckles? Grace blushed deeply beneath his riveted gaze,
and hastily snatching the cap from her head, folded it with the other
garments she had made into the basket, and bade the little girl hasten
to her mother. "What is the meaning of all this bustle?" said Lucy,
looking at Grace with so much asperity it made her involuntarily draw
closer to Mr. Worthington. "It means," said Roland, delighted and
excited by the discovery he had made, and forgetting his sister's
daily cautions--"it means that I have found my pretty Shakeress at
last. Ah! Mr. Worthington, why did not you tell me that your adopted
daughter and my fair unknown were one?" Mr. Worthington laughed, and
taking the hand of Grace drew her upon his knee. "Because the world is
full of prejudice, and I did not like to expose my girl to its
influence. I always wanted to tell _you_, but Grace insisted I should
allow you to find it out yourself, for she told me about the bold
youth, who almost stared her out of her devotion and her wits. Nay,
Grace, I owe him a thousand thanks, for had he not warmed my old heart
by a description of your loveliness, I never should have gone so far
out of my journey to visit your village, begged you of the good people
for my own, nor would I now have such a sweet blossom to shed
fragrance over my declining years."
"And how," exclaimed Roland with irresistible curiosity, "how came she
amongst them?" Before Mr. Worthington could reply, Grace clasped her
hands earnestly together, and cried, "I was a stranger, and they took
me in; I was an orphan and they clothed me, sheltered and--"
Previously much agitated, Grace here entirely lost her self-command,
and leaning her head on the shoulder of Mr. Worthington, she wept
audibly. Lucy actually trembled and turned pale. She saw that her
empire was tottering from its foundation. Accustomed to interpret
every change of her brother's countenance, she read with terror the
intense expression with which his eyes were fixed on Grace. She was
willing he should marry from ambition, but not for love. She had never
for a moment admitted the idea that another should supplant her in his
affections--a jealousy far more dark and vindictive than that excited
by love, the jealousy of power, took possession of her soul, mingled
with a bitter hatred towards the innocent cause of these emotions.
Through life she had bowed the will of others to her own, and as long
as no opposition roused the strength of her passions, she maintained a
character of integrity and virtue, that bid defiance to scandal and
reproach. She did not know herself the evil of which she was capable,
but now the lion was unchained in her bosom, and chafed and wrestled
for its prey. Too politic to attempt checking too suddenly the tide of
feeling, yet too angry to hide her own chagrin, she left the room, and
meditated in what manner she could best arrest the evil she dreaded.
She failed not, however, to breathe a warning whisper into her
brother's ear as she passed out. Here Mr. Worthington entreated Grace
to tell Roland all she knew of herself, assuring her, in his
simplicity, that no one, next to himself, felt so deep an interest in
her, as he did. Roland felt no disposition to contradict this
assertion, and joined his own entreaties so earnestly to Mr.
Worthington's, Grace hesitated not to relate her simple history. It
could be comprised in a few words. She told of her sad and almost
desolate childhood, of her dwelling in a little cottage deep in the
woods, remote from neighbours or friends; of a dark and cruel man she
called father--here Grace's voice grew low and husky--of a pale, sick,
and dying mother, who was found by a good Shaker, on the bed of death,
and who committed her orphan child to the care of the kind Samaritan.
The man who had deserted her mother, in the extremity of her wants,
never appeared to claim his child. She was cherished in the bosom of
that benevolent society, where Roland first beheld her, grateful for
their kindness, though yearning after freedom and the fellowship of
youth, till Mr. Worthington came, and offered her the love and
guardianship of a father, if she would occupy a daughter's place in
his heart and home. Her father's name was Goldman, which she had
willingly resigned for that of Worthington, for the memory she had of
him, was like a dark and terrible dream--fearful to remember. The
dread that he might appear some day to claim her, often made her
shudder in the midst of her happiness; but as so many years had passed
away, it was more natural to suppose he had expiated his cruelty with
his life.
Had Mr. Worthington conceived the project that Lucy had suggested, and
been aware at the same time of Roland's family pride, it is not
probable he would have induced her to reveal to him the sad events of
her childhood; and had Grace been the artful being described, she
would never have told with such straightforward simplicity and deep
sensibility of her father's brutality and vices, nor expressed the
startling fear, that he might still assert the forfeited rights of
nature, and tear her from the arms of her benefactor. Such thoughts as
these filled the breast of Roland, as Grace continued her affecting
recital, where truth was attested by her blushes and her tears. She
unclasped from her neck a golden chain, from which a miniature was
suspended, the sole relic of her mother. The chain was beautifully
wrought, and indicated that however abject was the condition to which
the owner had been reduced, she had once been accustomed to the
decorations of wealth. The miniature was that of a gentleman in the
prime of life, with a dark, but interesting countenance, and dignified
bearing. Grace knew not whether it was her father's picture, for she
had but a faint recollection of his features, and the Shaker who
discovered it around her mother's neck, after she was speechless in
death, could give her no information.
Here was mystery and romance, innocence, beauty, and youth; and Roland
felt as if he would gladly twine them together, and bind them around
his heart, as all "he guessed of heaven." But while his imagination
was weaving the garland and revelling in its fragrance, the vision of
"A sister's jealous care,
A cruel sister she,"