And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne’er might be repeated, who could guess
If ever more should meet these mutual eyes?
Childe Harold.
Walter Lee was the youngest son of a baronet, who, during the late
struggle, had lost both life and property in defense of his sovereign.
The oldest son died soon after his father, having been severely wounded
at the battle of Edgehill. Walter had been intended for the church, and
his education carried on with that end in view; the sad fate of his
father and only brother had contributed to strengthen his youthful
inclination to the ministry; and after collecting what remained of his
father’s property he completed his studies, and having heard that the
curacy at Riverdale, near which town his father had at one time resided,
was vacant, he applied immediately to the rector for it, and had the
good fortune to be successful.
The worthy man was at once prepossessed in favor of the young scholar,
whose acquirements were much above the usual standard, and whose clear,
open brow and brilliant eyes seemed to indicate a man of no ordinary
character. And in truth his was a nature such as we seldom meet with in
this every-day world; full of devotion to his cause, and zealous for his
Master’s glory, his efforts to do good were untiring. His was a truly
noble heart—so strong and loyal, so open and sincere; full of all
generous thoughts and high aspirations, and withal, as tender and loving
as a woman’s: with a soul that shrank in abhorrence from meanness,
deceit, or the licentiousness so common to the times, he yet felt and
ever showed the kindest pity and compassion for the sinner.
Six years had passed since he came to Riverdale, and Mr. Dacre loved him
as a son, for such he had long seemed to him, while Walter felt for his
venerable pastor the deepest love and reverence.
And Mabel—how shall we describe her, the fair and gentle being, who
from the winning simplicity and grace of childhood, had passed almost
unconsciously into that loveliest period of womanhood, when as yet the
heart has lost none of its early freshness, the sweet dew of life’s
morning, and its pure affections have only expanded into fuller beauty;
its opening mind only exhales a richer perfume; beautiful without
vanity, intelligent yet simple and childlike; loving, gentle and timid,
yet at the same time high-souled, generous and full of enthusiasm—such
was Mabel Dacre at seventeen. Could it be otherwise than that those two,
so fitted for each other, such twin-souls as it were, should love?
Silently, at first, a pure affection sprang up in their youthful hearts;
it grew with their growth and strengthened with their strength; each
felt, long before any promise had passed between them, that they were no
longer free, and when in low and trembling tones Walter drew from his
beloved her plighted troth, they both felt that no time could alter, no
circumstances change their fervent, undying love. And it was this love,
the growth of years, that Mabel was now so suddenly called upon to
resign; she had not at first, in her artless simplicity, even imagined
this as the result of her father’s letter; it was the thought of parting
for a time with him she so passionately loved, that had caused the first
bitter sorrow. Into her pure and simple mind it did not enter that her
father would forbid her union with Walter, that he _could_ break ties,
so solemnly contracted, or sever hearts so closely united; but as her
ear took in the last fearful sentences of the rector, light and almost
life forsook her, her brain reeled, and her heart became like ice. It
was well that consciousness failed, and that a temporary oblivion
deadened the first keen pang; but oh, that sad, dreary awakening to
sorrow; that half-shrinking, trembling dread with which we strive to
recall the terrible event that has changed life into a gloomy solitude
and hushed up within us the very sound of joy. Long did Mabel strive to
keep back the return of reason, to dream on in blissful ignorance, but
it would come, “_You must give up Walter_—you must strive to _forget_
him.” These words rang for ever in the dark chambers of her now desolate
heart; she knew it must be so, she felt that even Walter would bid her
go, and as her opening eyes caught a view of her dear old father (for
such he ever seemed to her) gazing so sadly upon her, she sprang from
the bed and feebly sunk at his feet; then hiding her face in his lap,
she wept such tears as she could never shed again; the bitterness of
death was past, her duty was before her, and in that sad hour the old
man’s prayers were answered; strength from above inspired her drooping
heart, and though in those soft eyes the light of joy had faded, and no
gleam of brightness played around the mouth that once dimpled with the
innocent mirth of an unclouded girlhood, yet Mr. Dacre felt, as he
kissed her pure, calm brow, and gazed almost reverently into the clear
depths of those spiritual eyes, that a power mightier than the spell of
earthly love dwelt in that frail form; and his voice was almost exultant
as with trembling hand he implored the blessing of God the Father, the
Son and the Spirit upon her youthful head.
That evening, long after the sun had set behind the hills, in the same
lovely spot where Mabel was wont to watch his parting glories, two
youthful forms sat with clasped hands, and pale, tearful faces. The moon
rose in all her unclouded beauty, pouring a flood of silvery radiance
over the scene; for a moment, the exquisite beauty of Nature sent its
wonted light to Mabel’s face: then, with a faint cry of agony, she
exclaimed—
“It is the last time, Walter—dear, dear Walter! I shall never again
gaze upon this beauty with thee. O, God, who makest the world so lovely,
can it be that Thou requirest of me this sacrifice!”
There was no sound for many minutes; but Walter’s head was bowed as if
in prayer, and his strong frame shook like a reed.
“God knoweth best, my own beloved,” at length he murmured. “It may be
that for me this trial was sent, to teach me the hard lesson—‘Little
children, keep yourselves from idols.’ I knew it not, but now I feel
that your image reigned in the heart I had offered to my God, and that
earth had more share in my thoughts than Heaven.
“But, oh! to part from you, my Mabel—to give you up to others, my
treasure, my love, my life! Oh! I cannot submit—my heart is crushed
under this bitter trial! Alas! at times I have no trust, no hope, no
faith!”
“Say not so, my own, my noble Walter; give up all else, but cling to
your faith; forsake not our only strength; think, in this terrible
parting, how tenfold would be our anguish, did we not both look forward
to that world where there is no more parting, and where ‘God shall wipe
all tears from all eyes.’”
“But, O, my beautiful Mabel, sometimes a strange shuddering fear comes
over me, that in that gay and gorgeous world where your future steps
will wander, you will be so admired, courted, and caressed, that you
will cease to yearn for the simple home of your girlhood, cease to
love—”
“Nay, Walter, speak not those dreadful words? Say not you doubt the
faith, the love, the constancy of years: oh! do not let us add this drop
to the bitter cup we are called upon to drink. Ah! if I thought you
could _doubt_ me, I should have lost the only happiness that yet remains
for me—the thought of your full and perfect trust in my love. Do not
let us doubt each other for one moment, Walter dearest; it would be to
break the only tie yet left between us, our mutual trust.”
“Forgive me, sweet Mabel, my beloved, once my plighted wife—nay, let me
not speak that word! Ah! _Mabel, Mabel_, what have I left to live for?”
“God, and thine own soul, beloved: let me support and strengthen thee in
this our greatest trial; for, from thy example, how often have I
gathered fortitude and patience. And remember, Walter dearest, that just
as full, as perfect, as entire and devoted as your _love_, so may be
your _faith_ in me. I ask you, as my last request, to feel this always,
though it may sometimes seem _hard_, though years of silence may pass,
for I know you can never, never forget me!”
“I do—I will trust you always, my beloved. I ask from _you_ no promise,
but, before Heaven! I solemnly pronounce myself yours; and should God in
his wisdom see fit to forbid our ever again meeting, my heart shall
still cherish your image only, and go widowed to its grave.”
Night had already filled the firmament with its countless stars, ere the
young lovers, for the last time, slowly and sadly wended their way to
the happy home of Mabel’s childhood and youth.
Ah! who can tell the bitterness of that parting; the choking thoughts
that could not be uttered, the throbbing hearts whose chords had been so
rudely severed; earth had for them no sterner lesson, the light of life
is faded—well will it be if “in the darkness stars arise, and the night
is holy.”