"His heart has not half uttered itself yet,
And much remains to do as well as they.
The heart is sometime ere it finds its focus,
And when it does with the whole light of nature
Strained through it to a hair's breadth, it but burns
The things beneath it which it lights to death."
_Festus._
And now the ball is over. Mothers wait impatiently for their fair
daughters, who are having those many last words so delightful to them,
and so provoking to those who await their departure. Carriages again
drive to the door, and receive their laughing, bright-eyed burdens, and
then roll away through the green lawn, while the lamps throw their
broad, dark shadows on the grass. Gay young cavaliers, who have come
from a distance to the ball, exchange their slippers for their heavy
riding-boots and spurs, and mount their pawing and impatient steeds.
Sober-sided old statesmen walk away arm-in-arm, and discuss earnestly
the business of the morrow. The gamesters and dicers depart, some with
cheerful smiles, chuckling over their gains, and others with empty
pockets, complaining how early the party had broken up, and proposing a
renewal of the game the next night at the Blue Chamber at the Garter
Inn. Old Presley has evidently, to use his own phrase, "got his load,"
and waddling away to his quarters, he winks his eye mischievously at the
lamps, which, under the multiplying power of his optics, have become
more in number than the stars. Thus the guests all pass away, and the
lights which flit for a few moments from casement to casement in the
palace, are one by one extinguished, and all is dark, save where one
faint candle gleams through an upper window and betrays the watchfulness
of the old chaplain.
And who is he, with his dark, melancholy eyes, which tell so plainly of
the chastened heart--he who seeming so gentle and kind to all, reserves
his sternness for himself alone--and who, living in love with all God's
creatures, seems to hate with bitterness his own nature? It was not then
as it is sometimes now, that every man's antecedents were inquired into
and known, and that the young coxcomb, who disgraces the name that he
bears and the lineage of which he boasts, is awarded a higher station in
society than the self-sustaining and worthy son of toil, who builds his
reputation on the firmer foundation of substantial worth. Every ship
brought new emigrants from England, who had come to share the fate and
to develope the destiny of the new colony, and who immediately assumed
the position in society to which their own merit entitled them. And thus
it was, that when Arthur Hutchinson came to Virginia, no one asked,
though many wondered, what had blighted his heart, and cast so dark a
shadow on his path. There was one man in the colony, and one alone, who
had known him before--and yet Alfred Bernard, with whom he had come to
Virginia, seemed to know little more of his history and his character
than those to whom he was an entire stranger.
Arthur Hutchinson was in appearance about fifty years of age. His long
hair, which had once been black as the raven's wing, but was now thickly
sprinkled with grey, fell profusely over his stooping shoulders. There
was that, too, in the deep furrows on his broad brow, and in the
expression of his pale thin lips which told that time and sorrow had
laid their heavy hands upon him. As has been before remarked, by the
recommendation of Lord Berkeley, which had great weight with his
brother, Hutchinson had been installed as Chaplain to Sir William, and
through his influence with the vestry, presented to the church in
Jamestown. Although, with his own private resources, the scanty
provision of sixteen thousand pounds of tobacco per annum, (rated at
about eighty pounds sterling,) was ample for his comfortable support,
yet good Master Hutchinson had found it very convenient to accept Sir
William Berkeley's invitation to make his home at the palace. Here,
surrounded by his books, which he regarded more as cheerful companions,
than as grim instructors, he passed his life rather in inoffensive
meditation than in active usefulness. The sad and quiet reserve of his
manners, which seemed to spring from the memory of some past sorrow,
that while it had ceased to give pain, was still having its silent
effect upon its victim, made him the object of pity to all around him.
The fervid eloquence and earnestness of his sermons carried conviction
to the minds of the doubting, arrested the attention of the thoughtless
and the wayward, and administered the balm of consolation to the
afflicted child of sorrow. The mysterious influence which he exerted
over the proud spirit of Alfred Bernard, even by one reproving glance
from those big, black, melancholy eyes, struck all who knew them with
astonishment. He took but little interest in the political condition of
the colony, or in the state of society around him, and while, by this
estrangement, and his secluded life, he made but few warm friends, he
made no enemies. The good people of the parish were content to let the
parson pursue his own quiet life undisturbed, and he lost none of their
respect, while he gained much of their regard by his refusal to make the
influence of the church the weapon of political warfare.
Hutchinson, who had retired to his room some time before the guests had
separated, was quietly reading from one of the old fathers, when his
attention was arrested by a low tap at the door, which he at once
recognized as Bernard's. At the intimation to come in, the young man
entered, and throwing himself into a chair, he rested his face upon his
hand, and sighed deeply.
"Alfred," said the preacher, after watching him for a moment in silence,
"I am glad you have come. I have somewhat to say to you."
"Well, sir, I will hear you patiently. What would you say?"
"I would warn you against letting a young girl divert you from the
pursuit of higher objects than are to be attained by love."
"How, sir?" exclaimed Bernard, with surprise.
"Alfred Bernard, look at me. Read in this pale withered visage, these
sunken cheeks, this bent form, and this broken heart, the brief summary
of a history which cannot yet be fully known. You have seen and known
that I am not as other men--that I walk through the world a stranger
here, and that my home is in the dark dungeon of my own bitter thoughts.
Would you know what has thus severed the chain which bound me to the
world? Would you know what it is that has blighted a heart which might
have borne rich fruit, and turned it to ashes? Would you know what is
the vulture, too cruel to destroy, which feeds upon this doomed form?"
"In God's name, Mr. Hutchinson, why do you speak thus wildly?" said
Bernard, for he had never before heard such language fall from the lips
of the reserved and quiet preacher. "I know that you have had your
sorrows, for the foot-prints of sorrow are indeed on you, but I have
often admired the stoical philosophy with which you have borne the
burden of care."
"Stoical philosophy!" exclaimed the preacher, pressing his hand to his
heart. "The name that the world has given to the fire which burns here,
and whose flame is never seen. Think you the pain is less, because all
the heat is concentrated in the heart, not fanned into a flame by the
breath of words?"
"Well, call it what you will," said Bernard, "and suffer as you will,
but why reserve until to-night a revelation which you have so long
refused to make?"
"Simply because to-night I have seen and heard that which induces me to
warn you from the course that you are pursuing. Young man, beware how
you seek your happiness in a woman's smile."
"You must excuse me, my old friend," said Bernard, smiling, "if I remind
you of an old adage which teaches us that a burnt child dreads the fire.
If trees were sentient, would you have them to fly from the generous
rain of heaven, by which they grow, and live, and bloom, because,
forsooth, one had been blasted by the lightning of the storm?"
Hutchinson only replied with a melancholy shake of the head, and the two
men gazed at each other in silence. Bernard, with all his sagacity and
knowledge of human nature, in vain attempted to read the secret thoughts
of his old guardian, whose dark eyes, lit up for a moment with
excitement, had now subsided into the pensive melancholy which we have
more than once remarked. The affectionate solicitude with which he had
ever treated him, prevented Bernard from being offended at his freedom,
and yet, with a vexed heart, he vainly strove to solve a mystery which
thus seemed to surround Virginia and himself, who, until a few days
before, had been entire strangers to each other.
"Alfred Bernard," said the old man at length, with his sweet gentle
voice, "do you remember your father? You are very like him."
"How can you ask me such a question, when you yourself have told me so
often that I never saw him."
"True, I had forgotten," returned Hutchinson, with a sigh, "but your
mother you remember?"
"Oh yes," said the young man, with a tear starting in his eye, "I can
never forget her sad, pensive countenance. I have been a wild, bad man,
Mr. Hutchinson, but often in my darkest hours, the memory of my mother
would come over me, as though her spirit, like a dove, was descending
from her place in heaven to watch over her boy. Alas! I feel that if I
had followed the precepts which she taught me, I would now be a better
and a happier man."
No heart is formed entirely hard; there are moments and memories which
melt the most obdurate heart, as the wand of the prophet smote water
from the rock. And Alfred Bernard, with all his cold scepticism and
selfish nature, was for a moment sincerely repentant.
"I have often thought, Mr. Hutchinson," he continued, "that if it had
pleased heaven to give me some near relative on earth, around whom my
heart could delight to cling, I would have been a better man. Some kind
brother who could aid and sympathize with me in my struggle with the
world, or some gentle sister, in whose love I could confide, and to
whose sweet society I might repair from the bitter trials of this rugged
life; if these had been vouchsafed me, my heart would have expanded into
more sympathy with my race than it can ever now feel."
Hutchinson smiled sadly, and replied--
"It has been my object in life, Alfred Bernard, to supply the place of
those nearer and dearer objects of affection which have been denied you.
I hope in this I have not been unsuccessful."
"I am aware, Mr. Hutchinson," said Bernard, bitterly, "that to you I am
indebted for my education and support. I hope I have ever manifested a
becoming sense of gratitude, and I only regret that in this alone am I
able to repay you."
"And do you think that I wished to remind you of your dependence,
Alfred? Oh, no--you owe me nothing. I have discharged towards you a
solemn, a sacred duty, which you had a right to claim. I took you, a
little homeless orphan, and sought to cultivate your mind and train your
heart. In the first you have done more than justice to my tuition and my
care. I am proud of the plant that I have reared. But how have you
repaid me? You have imbibed sentiments and opinions abhorrent to all
just and moral men. You have slighted my advice, and at times have even
threatened the adviser."
"If you refer to the difference in our faith," said Bernard, "you must
remember that it was from your teachings that I derived the warrant to
follow the dictates of my conscience and my reason. If they have led me
into error, you must charge it upon these monitors which God has given
me. You cannot censure me."
"I confess I am to blame," said the good old man, with a sigh. "But who
could have thought, that when, with my hard earnings, I had saved enough
to send you to France, in order to give you a more extensive
acquaintance with the world you were about to enter--who would have
thought that it would result in your imbibing such errors as these! Oh,
my son, what freedom of conscience is there in a faith like papacy,
which binds your reason to the will of another? And what purity can
there be in a religion which you dare not avow?"
"Naaman bowed in the house of Rimmon," returned Bernard, carelessly,
"and if the prophet forgave him for thus following the customs of his
nation, that he might retain a profitable and dignified position, I
surely may be forgiven, under a milder dispensation, for suppressing my
real sentiments in order to secure office and preferment."
"Alas!" murmured Hutchinson, bitterly. "Well, it is a sentiment worthy
of Edward's son. But go, my poor boy, proud in your reason, which but
leads you astray--wresting scripture in order to justify hypocrisy, and
profaning religion with vice. You shall not yet want my prayers that you
may be redeemed from error."
"Well, good night," said Bernard, as he opened the door. "But do me the
justice to say, that though I may be deceitful, I can never be
ungrateful, nor can I forget your kindness to a desolate orphan." And so
saying, he closed the door, and left the old chaplain to the solitude of
his own stricken heart.