Ada’s Lone Home.—The Summer.—An Adventure.
“Blessed,” says the simple squire of Don Quixote, “is the man who first
invented sleep.” What would the spirit-worn—the persecuted—the
heart-stricken—and the desolate do without sleep? Oh, if there be one
heavenly seal set upon the pure and innocent heart, it is that dear
impressive slumber—deep and dreamless as infants, which, like a soft
south wind in dreariest winter, lays for a time the wearied senses, in
a blessed repose. Then is the imagination freed from earthly dross, and
clinging cares, carried far, far away to happier times. The poor
prisoner then escapes from his dungeon—his fetters drop from his
benumbed limbs, and he lives again in the glorious sunshine, with the
blue heavens alone looking down upon him, and the green earth in all
its wondrous beauty stretching far before him. The wave-tossed mariner,
“Absent so long from his heart’s home,”
will, in the dreamy watches of the night, revisit the loved ones that
are far away. The freezing winds of the “blustrous north” will lack
their power to chill his blood—the lashing surges will, by
“Some strange magic,”
be converted into sweet gentle sounds, such as perchance surround his
young home; a home to which his affections still cling, the more
distant he may happen to be from it. It was a beautiful idea of the
Italian poet, who likened the yearning for home of the Swiss exiles to
the tightening of the invisible strings that bound their hearts to
their native lands as they increased in distance from it.
The tired soldier too,
“When the night cloud has lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;”
on his pallet of straw, he dreams of his home and all his dear
associations. He dreams of his native vale far away and in imagination
he looks for the familiar objects of childhood, each associated with
some dear reminiscence that makes perchance a wild flower to his heart
a dearer object than the richest gem! What is cold, hunger, wounds, and
pains then to him? He returns “weary and wan,” yet, oh so happy to
those he loves.
“He hears his own mountain goats bleating aloft,
He knows the sweet strain which the corn-reapers sing.”
He sees his home—the cottage embowered amongst crawling honey-suckles.
Every sight and sound is to his ears delightful. The wild flowers
breathe delicious perfume. Then he reaches the well-known door. There
is a cry of welcome!
“His little ones kiss him a thousand times o’er
And his wife sobs aloud in her fulness of heart.”
Oh, what a magic is in that scene conjured up by the fairy power of
imagination! The visions may fly at the first faint blush of the coming
morn. The sleeper may awaken with a sigh and a tear; but he has been
home again; he has kissed his children; oh, he has been happy, although
’twas but a dream. Soldier, may such dear visions ever haunt thy pillow!
May sleep—gentle sleep—
“Nature’s soft nurse,”
ever haunt the couch of innocence! If the persecuted and the unhappy
had nothing but that oblivion from care to thank Heaven for, it should
be sufficient to fill the heart with holy thoughts and deep
thanksgiving.
What would our poor Ada have done, but for sleep? And she could sleep,
although Jacob Gray could not. The weary months were reduced more than
one-half, and Heaven sent visions of joy and gushing tenderness to
uphold and comfort that young and beautiful girl in her solitude. The
day might be gloomy, and the old lone house dispiriting and cheerless,
but the fancy, when the body slept, took its airy flight, and,
Heaven-directed, laid in stores of beauty and food for waking thoughts.
Ada had kept her word with Gray. She had never once passed the
threshold of that lonely abode, and she had renewed her promise from
time to time, although with many tears; but she would not throw away
the life that God had given, so she lived on, illumined in her heart by
the hope that the day would come when her dreams would become reality,
and her present reality seem to her but as the fevered imaginings of a
dream!
From some hidden place in her prison-house, she would sometimes look
out for hours together upon the blue sky, and envy the wild birds as
they winged their free and happy flight far, far away in the liquid
depths of the blue arch that spanned the world. She would listen, too,
to the song of the aspiring lark as it flew up—up towards heaven, until
it became but a small speck in the sky. This was a delight to Ada; and
to her imaginative mind nothing could be sweeter music than the slowly
decreasing cadences of that wild, happy song of the lark as in its very
recklessness of joy it leaves the earth so far behind.
Far away sometimes in the open fields she would see some one picking
his or her way along the swampy ground, and she blessed the sight off
any other human face than Gray’s.
Then in the old house there were insects—crawling things, which in the
great world are despised and put to death because we cannot see their
beauties, nor appreciate their pains; but Ada, with a simple and
beautiful theology, taught her by her own heart, and culled from the
few books she had read, feared not these creatures, for she looked upon
them all with a kindly spirit, as being the creations of the same Great
Being who had made the mountains, the wondrous ocean, and all the
living, breathing things of earthy, sea and air.
So in course of time the very mice would come forth at the sound of her
voice and eat from her hand, peering at her from their bright twinkling
eyes, without fear.
Ada shrunk from no living thing but Jacob Gray, and him she avoided as
much as possible. He always brought home with him food enough for their
wants, and Ada took her portion in silence. There was one small room
which she had appropriated to her own use, and into that room she
forbade Jacob Gray to enter. Wicked and ruthless as he was, that young
girl had acquired a kind of moral control over him which he could not
shake off. They never conversed. They had no discussions. Their whole
intercourse resolved itself to this:—That he would murder her if she
did not promise to abide where she was without making an effort to
escape, and she, having promised so much, was otherwise a free agent,
and under no sort of control from him.
Thus the seasons had rolled on, and Ada had marked the subsidence of
winter and the budding beauty
“Of the sweet spring-time,”
from her lonely home.
Sometimes Jacob Gray would be absent for a whole day, and Ada was glad
he stayed away, for she would then sing to herself old ballads which
were dear to her, because the book from which she had learnt them had
been lent to her by Albert Seyton. But when she heard his well-known
signal of return, she went to her own room, and sung no more. Thus, to
a certain extent, Ada enjoyed the glorious summer, although she could
not wander in the green fields, or lose herself among shady trees. The
soft genial air, however, visited the ill-omened house at Battersea, as
freely as it blew its sweets in at the windows of a palace, and these
were moments when Ada felt most happy.
Gray, when he remained out the whole day, never mentioned to Ada his
intention of so doing; but she knew that if the day fully dawned and he
came not, that he would wait until the shades of evening rendered it
safe for him to cross the fields without the risk of observation.
On these occasions it seemed to Ada as if she was half liberated from
her prison, so grateful to her was the absence of Jacob Gray; and after
seeing the day fairly commenced, and rambling through the old house
without encountering the object of her dread and dislike, she would
feel comparatively happy.
It was on one of these occasions that we propose conducting our readers
to the Lone House at Battersea.
Gray had gone out the preceding evening at sunset, and the morning came
without bringing him back again. A glorious morning it was—full of
life, beauty, and sunshine. The summer air blew sweetly into the
chamber of the lovely girl; but the very murmuring of the soft breeze
was company to her, and the twitter of the happy birds as they flew
past the old house fell like Nature’s own music, as indeed it was, upon
her innocent heart.
Hastily dressing herself she rose, and with a slow, cautious step,
descended to Gray’s sitting-room. He was not there. Here she stood for
a few minutes upon the principal staircase, and listened attentively.
No sound disturbed the repose that dwelt in that house. Ada smiled.
“He has not returned,” she cried; “I shall have a whole day to myself.
A whole day, in which to sing over my old songs, to converse with the
birds, to feed the mice and insects that abound here; and I think they
have learnt to know me now, and love me in their way, and according to
their several natures.”
The day wore on, but it was scarcely wearisome to Ada. ’Tis true she
sometimes wept when she thought how cruelly she was situated; but then
she would soon smile again, and sitting opposite to an open window, she
would gaze for a long time upon the clear blue sky, and speculate upon
the various forms of the light fleecy vapours that imparted an
additional charm to the sky, by partially concealing some of its
beauties. Then she thought of those who were dear to her—of Albert
Seyton—of his father—of the poor woman who had spoken a few kind words
to her at the little milk-shop at Westminster. To those who have been
accustomed to harshness, with what a freshening joy the recollection of
a few words kindly spoken comes upon the mind! Oh, if the rich and
powerful—those who are living in high places, and revelling in
luxury—did but know how delightful to the bruised heart but a few
simple words of common courtesy are, they would themselves feel a
pleasure in speaking them, such as all the adulation of their
flatterers—all the glitter of their homes—all the gaudy insignia of
their rank can never bestow upon them. Ada wept with grateful joy
because that poor woman spoke but a few short sentences of kindness to
her!