_Viola._ And dost thou love me?
_Lysander._ . . . Love thee, Viola?
Do I not fly thee when my being drinks
Light from thine eyes?--that flight is all my answer!
The Bride, Act 2.
It was one of the loveliest evenings in the loveliest month of a New
England autumn. One of those delicious _pet days_, as they are fondly
called, which, perhaps, from the uncertainty of their continuance,
sometimes elevate the spirits more than the “long, sunny lapse of a
summer day’s light.” Birds had been clamorous in melody, rare flowers
had confidingly expanded their delicate petals to the genial glow that
was abroad, and there seemed to be more light in the world than we are
accustomed to enjoy. Yet that day had passed away--the warmer beams were
gone, but their delightful influence still was felt in the soft, balmy
temperature that remained. The birds had all vanished; yet even of them
one would have said some soft charm still lingered in the dreamy hum
which, though gradually becoming fainter, was still afloat; and if some
delicate flowers had closed their bosoms from the breath of evening,
others there were which gave out their fragrance.
On this delightful and balmy evening we introduce our readers to the
cottage of Pastor Bartlett, adjoining the village church. It was remote
from the main village, and shut out from its bustle and occupation--in
this suiting the character and taste of its occupants. From its porch,
where they were sitting, the pious man and his wife feasted their eyes
with the refreshing green of the woods, whose boughs bent gracefully
down to kiss the beautiful verdure that grew beneath, while the whole
was softly bathed in a rich, warm flood of purple light.
The sunset hung lingering over the village, as if to contrast its own
chamelion-like and gorgeous beauty with the fixed and placid scenery
below. Many of the settlers might have been seen seated at the vine-clad
doors of their simple dwellings, watching its fading splendor as it sunk
behind the tall trees which almost hid from view the pastor’s cottage at
the considerable distance we have described.
The excellent clergyman and his partner were sitting on a bench on the
left of the porch, screened from observation by the cool boughs of a
sycamore, the shadows of which half covered the little lawn that
separated the precincts of the cottage from those of silent death. Above
the white-washed pailings rose the village church. The old man and his
wife were, as we have said before, calmly enjoying the beauty of the
evening, the freshness of the air, and not least, perhaps, their own
peaceful thoughts--the spontaneous children of a contemplative spirit,
and a quiet conscience. Theirs was the age in which we most sensitively
enjoy the mere sense of existence, when the face of nature, and a
passive conviction of the benevolence of our Great Father, suffice to
create a serene and ineffable happiness which rarely visits us till we
have done with the passions; till memories, if more alive than
heretofore, are yet mellowed in the hues of time, and Faith softens into
harmony all their asperity and harshness; till nothing within us remains
to cast a shadow over the things without; and on the verge of life, the
angels are nearer to us than of yore. There is an old age which has more
youth of heart than youth itself!
At length the pair simultaneously arose, and withdrew into the cottage,
for sunset was their appointed season for evening devotion. The old man
seated himself in his large arm-chair, but his wife lingered standing
near the open lattice, until the gloom of twilight was gathering over
the sky, and continued to gaze down the path leading to the village with
intentness and eagerness. At last, as though weary of her employment,
she turned away with a smothered sigh, saying, “Husband, what can detain
Grace?”
“I know not,” was the disturbed reply of the venerable man at this
suggestion. “There is no fear that bodily harm can have come to her, for
it is now a long time since we have had any incursions from the Indians.
But I am inclined to fear for her soul’s happiness. Has it not occurred
to you, wife,” he continued, “that Grace’s relaxed interest in the
duties of religion, together with her repeated absences from home,
originate in some cause not purely accidental. For myself, my suspicions
have been attracted toward the stranger who in the last few weeks has
appeared among us. She has already informed us of their having had more
than one interview at the dwellings of some of my people in the village.
We must see to it that they meet no more. He must have no further
opportunity of awakening an interest in the unsuspecting bosom of our
daughter.”
There was a tone of deep despondency in the voice which spoke these
words--for recently the change in their child had become marked. Unusual
absences from her home--a sadness foreign to her natural cheerfulness of
manner--a sudden and frequent outbreaking of tenderness toward her
mother and himself--tears often springing overflowingly to her eyes--all
these circumstances could do no more than excite uneasiness and anxiety
in the minds of her parents.
A low murmuring sound was presently heard at the little wicket-gate
outside, and immediately after the door was softly unlatched, and Grace
Bartlett glided into the room.
The anxious glances of the pastor and his wife at once discovered by the
light of the fire, which blazed brightly upon the hearth-stone, that the
young girl’s eyes were dimmed with a slight expression of sorrow, and
that her lovely cheek was a shade paler than its wont. She moved gently
forward, knelt down at her father’s side, and kissed his brow.
“Grace,” said the old man, sadly, as he laid his hand among her
beautiful tresses, “we have awaited your return, my child; it is past
our customary hour for prayer. Do you tire of the happiness of home,
that you seek for enjoyment elsewhere?” he added, as he gazed down on
the face of the lovely being so emphatically the light of his home.
The girl’s countenance betrayed a confused consciousness as her
beautiful “forget-me-not” eyes encountered those of her parent; but she
made no reply, and a moment after arose from her knees. Untying her
bonnet and hanging it against the wall, while her golden hair,
disobedient to previous arrangement in modest bands by its owner, fell
luxuriantly around her neck, she took a seat to signify that she was now
prepared to join her parents in the devotions of the evening.
At that moment the little low-roofed apartment, so unostentatious in its
old-fashioned furniture, so exact in its modest neatness--its bare walls
unornamented with ought save a piece of faded tapestry, or an occasional
nail whereon was hung sundry bunches of dried herbs and bags of
rose-leaves--this, with the girl in her youthful simplicity and grace,
kneeling by the side of her venerable parents, the eyes of all closed,
and their hands clasped in devotion, while the old man’s lips were
parted in the act of prayer, formed altogether as complete a picture as
possible of colonial economy and piety.
The aspect of the room was homely but pleasant, with its low casement,
beneath which stood the dark shining table that supported the large
Bible in its green-baize cover, the Concordance, and the last Sunday’s
sermon in its ebon case. By the fire-place stood the elbow-chair, before
which the minister was kneeling, with its needle-work cushion at the
back. Fifty or sixty volumes ranged in neat shelves on one end of the
wall, and a half-a-dozen chairs, and a table, completed the furniture of
the apartment. But it was the occupants who made the effect of the
scene, in their pious act of evening devotion.
When the prayer was ended, Grace hastily withdrew, as if to avoid all
further questions. But her anxious mother was not long in following her.
She entered the little chamber of the young girl softly. Her daughter
heard her, and started from the chair she had taken.
The gentle matron drew her affectionately to her side as she seated
herself on the low bedstead, saying, “Grace, thou wast not educated to
have any secrets from thy fond parents. Tell me, then, my child, who
accompanied thee to the gate this evening?”
The girl hesitated for some moments, during which a momentary blush
suffused her face and neck. Then, hiding her face in her mother’s bosom,
she timidly replied, “It was the young stranger; he met me on the path
leading from the village, and attended me home.”
The mother’s face evinced a troubled expression. “Oh, Grace, my
daughter,” she said, “thou shouldst not have permitted him to do so. Thy
father hath ever said since that young man’s arrival in the village,
that it did not become any of our sect to hold ungodly converse with the
sons of Baal.”
“But, mother,” urged the fair transgressor, “the stranger belongs not to
that impious race. Every Sabbath, since his sojourn in the settlement,
his attendance at the place of weekly worship has been regular and
respectful.”
“My child!” ejaculated her mother, in a voice tremulous with sorrow,
“thou hast yet to learn to beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Satan
sometimes transformeth himself into an angel of light to steal away the
affections of the innocent. But,” added the pious matron, “I will chide
thee no more for the present. Thy father and I will henceforth be more
watchful of thee. Commend thyself to God, and seek thy pillow for the
night.” So saying, she kissed her daughter and withdrew.
On the present evening, Grace had agreed to meet her lover, after the
family worship in her father’s cottage, for the young man was about to
depart from the village on the following day. The moment she was alone
in the room, the struggle in her mind, increased by the words of her
mother, depicted itself on her sweet face in an expression of doubtful
agony, such as never had sat upon her countenance before--for its
ordinary expression was that of the most seraphic serenity. She took up
her little Bible to find some word of excuse for her contemplated act of
disobedience, but it was only to turn over the leaves with a throbbing
heart and wandering brain, that would not permit her attention to be
arrested by the words before her. Laying the holy book down again, she
sunk upon her knees to pray. The ordinary words of her devotions were
not urged, but she asked God to forgive her for the sin she was about to
commit, and rose confirmed and strengthened in her purpose.
Sitting down by her lattice, she listened for every sound within the
cottage to die away. At length, when all was still and dark, she lifted
the latch of her door and stole to the threshold of her father’s room.
Finding all quiet, she retraced her steps, and raised the sash of her
low window with the caution of one who fears danger in the beating of
her own heart. Jumping through this, she alighted on the garden plot
below. She proceeded to steal along under the shadow until she reached a
rustic arbor, which she hurried into, and was welcomed in the arms of
her lover.
“So you have come at last!” he said, joyfully. But as he spoke, he saw
her eyes were filled with tears.
She buried her face in his bosom, and her sobs became audible. Raising
her head gently and kissing her through her tears, he smoothed the
golden hair back from her forehead. “What aileth thee, my beloved?” he
asked, after he had soothed the first outburst of her emotion.
“Charles,” she sighed, as she looked up at him eagerly and endearingly,
“I fear I do wrong to meet you here against my parents’ wishes.”
“Your conscience is too tender, sweet innocence,” was his reply. “God is
more lenient in his judgment than thou deemest him. He hath implanted in
thy bosom the very love for me and inclination to meet me here which
thou art now afraid he will condemn; and thine own immaculate virtue and
purity are thy sure safeguards from greater harm than he who now speaks
could ever bring upon thee. Dearest, I would not hurt a hair of your
beloved head, still less bring upon thee the judgments of Heaven. Dost
thou not believe it, Grace?”
“Nay, but your religion?” she urged timidly--
“Is easily changed,” replied the lover. “Why, Grace, I will turn Puritan
in garb, habits, worship, every thing, to win thee. At present I am on
an embassy of diplomacy; but, in a few weeks, when I return, I shall
have nothing to do but to court you in the guise that shall most please
your scrupulous parents. You know how from the first moment I saw
you”--and he lowered his voice to the soft, musical key of impassioned
devotion--“you became dearer to me than aught in this world besides. I
love you, Grace, better than all words can tell, and shall live until we
meet but in the hope of coming to reclaim you, with arguments fitted to
disarm all the objections of your father and mother. You will not forget
me, will you?” he asked.
She laid her hand trustingly in his, and in a look of unalterable love
gave him her reply.
The stolen interview did not last much longer, and in another half hour
Grace Bartlett slept sweetly on her pillow, and the stranger was at his
quarters in the village.