Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?
Let in through all the trees,
Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright:
Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze,
Twinkles like beams of light.
BRYANT.
A few days after the evening before mentioned, Edith and her father
prepared for their little journey, to visit the young student.
It was a brilliant morning in the very last of October. All journeys, at
this time, were made on horseback: they were mounted, therefore, Mr.
Grafton on a sedate old beast, that had served him many years, and Edith
on the _petite fille_ of this venerable "ancestress,"--gentle, but
scarcely out of its state of coltship.
The Indians, at this time, were much feared, and the shortest excursions
were never undertaken without fire-arms. Paul, as well as Mr. Grafton,
was well armed, and served them as a guard.
As soon as they had left their own village, their course was only a
bridle-path through the forest; and the path was now so hidden with the
fallen leaves, that it was sometimes indicated only by marks on the
trees. The trees were almost stripped of their foliage, and the bright
autumn sun, shining through the bare trunks, sparkled on the dew of the
fallen leaves. It was the last smile of autumn. The cold had already
commenced. No sound broke the intense stillness of the forest but the
trampling of their horses' feet as they crushed the dry, withered
foliage.
The sky was intensely blue, and without a cloud. The elasticity of the
air excited the young spirits of Edith. She was gay, and, like a young
fawn, she fluttered around her father, sometimes galloping her rough
little pony in front, and then returning, she would give a gentle cut
with her whip to her father's horse, who, with head down, and plodding
indifference, regarded it no more than he did a fly.
Mr. Grafton, delighted with his daughter's playfulness, looked at her
with a quiet, tender smile: her gayety, to him, was like the play of her
infancy, and he delighted to think that she was yet young and happy.
Edith had ridden forward, and they had lost sight of her, when she came
galloping back, pale as death, and hardly able to retain her seat from
terror.
"Edith, my child," said her father, "what has happened?"
She could only point with her finger to a thin column of blue smoke that
curled above the trees. Mr. Grafton knew that it indicated the presence
of Indians, at this time the terror of all the inhabitants.
"No doubt they are friendly, my dear child," said Mr. Grafton; and he
sent Paul, who was armed, forward to reconnoitre.
Paul soon returned, showing his white teeth from ear to ear.
"The piccaninnies," he said.
Mr. Grafton and Edith rode forward, and in a little hollow at the foot
of a rock, from which bubbled a clear spring, a young Indian woman, with
a pappoose at her feet, was half reclining; another child, attached in
its birch cradle to the pendent branch of an elm tree, was gently rocked
by the wind. A fire was built against the rock, and venison suspended
before it to roast.
It was a beautiful little domestic scene, and Mr. Grafton and Edith
stopped to contemplate it. They soon learned that the husband of the
Indian was in the forest; but he was friendly, and, after exchanging
smiles, Edith dismounted.
She sat on the grass, caressing the young pappoose, and talked with the
mother in that untaught, mute language that young and kind hearts so
easily understand.
This little adventure delayed them so long that it was past noon when
they reached the secluded farmhouse we have described in the first
chapter of our little tale.
The old man was sitting at the door, enjoying the kindly warmth of the
declining sun. Seymore was not far off, at work in his laborer's frock.
A vivid blush of surprise, and pleasure, and shame, covered his temples
and noble brow, as he came forward to meet them.
Edith, quick in her perceptions, understood his feelings, and turned
aside her head while he drew off his laborer's frock. This gave an
appearance of embarrassment to her first greeting, and the vivid delight
faded in a moment from his brilliant countenance, and a melancholy shade
passed over it.
They entered the house, and Edith endeavored to remove the pain she had
given, by more marked attention to Seymore; but simple and sincere,
ignorant as she was of all arts of coquetry, it only increased the
bashfulness of her manner.
The family had already dined; but, after some delay, a repast was
prepared for the travellers; and, before they were ready to depart, the
long shadows of the opposite hills brought an early twilight over the
little valley.
Mr. Grafton looked at his daughter; he could not expose her to a dark
ride through the forest; and the pressing invitation of the good old
people, that they should stay the night, was accepted.
After much pleasant talk with the enthusiastic young student, to which
Edith listened with deep interest, Mr. Grafton was tasked to his utmost
polemical and theological knowledge by the searching questions of the
old Puritan. Like douce Davie Deans, he was stiff in his doctrines, and
would not allow a suspicion of wavering from the orthodox standard of
faith. But Edith soon gave undeniable evidence that sleep was a much
better solacer of fatigue than theological discussions; and, after the
evening worship had been scrupulously performed, a bed was prepared for
Mr. Grafton on the floor of the room where they sat, for he would not
allow the old people to give up theirs to him.
Seymore gayly resigned his poor garret to Edith, and slept, as he had
often done before, in the hayloft. Slept? no; he lay awake all night
thinking how lovely Edith looked in her riding _Joseph_,[1] which fitted
closely to her beautiful shape, and a beaver hat tied under the chin, to
confine her hair in riding. She was the angel of his dreams. But why did
she turn aside when they met? and the poor student sighed.
[Footnote 1: We have in vain endeavored to find the etymology of this
name. It might first have been of many colors, and named from the coat
of the patriarch's favorite son.]
Edith looked around the little garret with much interest, and some
little awe. There were the favorite books, heaps of manuscripts, and
every familiar object that was so closely associated with Seymore.
Nothing reveals so much of another's mind and habits, as to go into the
apartment where they habitually live.
The bed had been neatly made with snowy sheets, and some little order
given to the room. Edith opened the books, and read the marked passages;
the manuscripts were all open, and with the curiosity of our mother
Eve, she read a few lines. She colored to the very temples as she
committed this fault; but she found herself irresistibly led on by
sympathy with a mind kindred to her own; and when she laid her head on
the pillow, tears of admiration and pity filled her eyes. She lay awake,
forming plans for the student's advancement; and, before sleep weighed
down her eyelids, she had woven a fair romance, of which he was the
hero.
Ah, that youth could be mistress of the ring and the lamp! then would
all the world be prosperous and happy. But wisdom and experience, the
true genii, appear in the form of an _aged_ magician, who has forgotten
the beatings of that precious thing, the human heart.
The next morning, when they were assembled at their frugal breakfast,
Seymore said, "I fear you thought, from the frequent ink-spots on my
little garret, that, like Luther, I had thrown my ink-bottle at the
devil whenever he appeared."
"I hope," said Edith, "you have not thrown away all its contents; for I
had some charming fancies last night, inspired, I believe, by that very
ink-bottle."
Seymore blushed; but he did not look displeased, and Edith was
satisfied.
The next morning was clear and balmy, and, soon after breakfast, they
mounted their horses for their return.
There are few things more exhilarating than riding through woods on a
clear autumnal morning; but Edith felt no longer the wild gayety of the
previous morning. With a thoughtful countenance, she rode silently by
her father's side when the path would permit, or followed quietly when
it was too narrow.
"You seem to have found food for thought in the student's garret, my
dear," said her father.
Edith blushed slightly, but did not answer.
They had accomplished about half their journey, when Mr. Grafton
proposed turning off from the direct path to visit an old lady,--a
friend of Edith's mother, an emigrant of a noble family from the mother
country.
Edith followed silently, wondering she had never heard her father
mention this friend of her mother before.
They soon after emerged from the forest upon open fields, cleared and
cultivated with unusual care. A beautiful brook ran winding in the
midst, and the whole domain was enclosed in strong fences of stone.
About midway was built a low, irregular, but very large farmhouse. It
consisted of smaller buildings, connected by very strong palisades; and
the whole was enclosed, at some distance, by a fence built of strong
timbers. It was evidently a dwelling designed for defence against
Indians. They entered the enclosure by an iron gate, so highly wrought
and finished that it must have been imported from the mother country.
Edith found herself in a large garden, that had once been cultivated
with much care and expense. It had been filled with rose-bushes,
honeysuckles, and choice English flowers; but all was now in a state of
neglect and decay. The walks were overrun with weeds, the arbors in
ruins, and the tendrils of the vines wandering at their own wanton will.
It seemed as if neglect had aided the autumn frost to cover this
favorite spot with the garb of mourning.
There was no front entrance to this singular building; and the visitors
rode round to a low door at the back, partly concealed by a pent roof.
After knocking several minutes, it was opened by a very old negro,
dressed in a tarnished livery, with his woolly hair drawn out into a
queue, and powdered. He smiled a welcome, and, with much show of
respect, led them through many dark passages to a low but very
comfortable room. The walls were hung with faded tapestry; and the low
ceiling, crossed with heavy beams, would have made the apartment gloomy,
but for two large windows that looked into the sunny garden. The sashes
were of small, lozenge panes of glass set in lead; while the bright
autumn sun streamed through, and shone with cheerful light on the black
oak furniture, and showed every mote dancing in its beams.
Edith looked around with surprise and delight. A lady not much past the
meridian of life came forward to greet them. She was dressed in an
olive-colored brocade, with a snowy lawn apron and neckerchief folded
across her breast. The sleeve reached just below the elbow, and was
finished with a ruffle, and black silk mitts met the ruffle at the
elbow. A rich lace shaded her face, and a small black velvet hood was
tied closely under the chin.
The lady's manner was rather stately and formal, as she greeted Mr.
Grafton with all the ceremony of the old school of politeness, and
looked at his daughter.
"She is the image of her mother," said Lady C----.
"She is a precious flower," answered Mr. Grafton, looking at Edith with
pride and affection, as she stood, half respectful, half bashful, before
the lady.
"You have called her Mary, I hope,--her mother's name."
"No," answered Mr. Grafton; "I have but _one_ Mary,"--and he looked
upwards.
Edith pressed closer to her father. "Call me Edith, madam," she said,
with a timid smile.
Lady C---- smiled also, and was soon in earnest conversation with Mr.
Grafton.
Edith was engaged in examining a room so much more elegant than any she
had seen before. Her eyes were soon attracted by a full-length portrait
on the opposite side of the apartment. It was a lady in the bloom of
youth, dressed in the costume of the second Charles. It was evidently an
exquisite work of art. To Edith, the somewhat startling exposure of the
bust, which the fashion of the period demanded, was redeemed by the
chaste and nunlike expression of the face. Tender blue eyes were cast
down on a wounded dove that she cherished in her bosom; and the long,
dark eyelash shaded a pale and pensive cheek.
Edith was fascinated by this beautiful picture. Who was she? where did
she live? what was her fate? were questions hovering on her lips, which
she dared not ask of the stately lady on the couch; but, as she stood
riveted before it, "O that I had such a friend!" passed through her
mind; and, like inexperienced and enthusiastic youth, she thought how
fondly she could have loved her, and, if it were necessary, have
sacrificed her own life for hers.
Lady C---- observed her fixed attention.
"That is a portrait of the Lady Ursula," she said, "who built this
house, and brought over from England the fruits and flowers of the
garden. Alas! they are now much wasted and destroyed."
At this moment, the old negro appeared, to say that the dinner was
served.
They passed into another low room, in the centre of which was a long
oaken dining-table, the upper end raised two steps higher than the
lower, and the whole was fixed to the floor. At this time, the upper end
only was covered with a rich damask cloth, where the lady and her guests
took their seats; the other half of the table extending bare beneath
them.
"In this chair, and at this table, the Lady Ursula was wont to dine with
her maidens and serving-men," said Lady C----, as she took her seat in a
high-backed, richly-carved chair of oak; "and I have retained the
custom, though my serving-men are much reduced;" and she glanced her eye
on the trembling old negro.
Edith thought how dreary it must be to dine there in solitary state,
with no one to speak to except the old negro, and she cast a pitying
look around the apartment.
A beauffet was in one corner, well filled with massive plate, and the
walls were adorned with pictures in needle-work, framed in dark ebony.
The picture opposite Edith was much faded and defaced, but it was meant
to represent Abraham offering his son Isaac in sacrifice.
"It was the work of the Lady Ursula's fingers," said Lady C----, "as
every thing else you see here was created by her."
"Is she now living?" asked Edith, very innocently.
"Alas! no, my dear; hers was a sad fate; but her story is too long for
the dining hour;" and as dinner was soon over, they returned to the
other apartment.
Edith longed for a ramble in the garden. When she returned, the horses
were at the door, and she took a reluctant leave, for she had not heard
the story of the Lady Ursula.
As soon as they had turned their horses' heads outside the iron gate,
Edith began her eager questions:
"Who was that beautiful woman, the original of the portrait? Where did
she live? How did she die? What was her fate?" Her father smiled, and
related the following particulars, which deserve another chapter.