What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith’s pure shrine.
Hemans.
It was early in June, 1660, that in one of the oldest settlements of the
New England colony, quite a large number of persons were assembled in
the best room the town afforded, to worship God according to the rites
of the English church. It was the first time since the settlement of the
place that the liturgy of the church had been heard there; and the
congregation, many of them wept with delight to hear again those
well-remembered strains; and their voices swelled in one unanimous
response, as the lips of the aged man of God repeated, “Glory be to the
Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.”
Then, when in his sermon he touchingly alluded to the storm of
persecution that had driven him out of the quiet harbor, in which he had
hoped to lie moored, for his few remaining years, and forced him, a mere
wreck, across the wide ocean, many were the tears that fell from the
eyes of those who had left parents and homes, and wandered away to this
new country. But on the ears of one in particular the sweet and soothing
tones of the church-service seemed to fall like magic.
This was a pale, sad, drooping girl, the village schoolmistress; none
knew much about her history, save that some three years before, a vessel
landed from England, having met with terrible disasters, and brought a
company of pilgrims, who, though they could not endure the mummeries
which the church was continually borrowing from Rome, yet loved and
revered its services, and desired to retain its ritual. Among their
number was an old man, accompanied by two young girls, one of them of
rare beauty and grace, though her face was worn with weeping and care.
The old man was simple-hearted, pious, and benevolent, and soon became
much beloved by all the colonists. He was quite poor, having been only a
schoolmaster in his native country so that on their arrival he opened a
school, in which the fair young girl above mentioned assisted, while the
other, Alice, managed the household affairs. Thus things went on until
nearly two years had passed, then Alice married, and moved away, leaving
Mr. Acton and Mabel alone together. He had become too feeble to attend
much to the school, so that Mabel now took charge of that and the house
also, beside ministering in every way to the old man’s comfort, who
seemed to look upon her as a being from another world, so entirely was
his love mingled with veneration; he guarded her with the most jealous
care, and watched that none should dare to treat her with disrespect or
even familiarity. Such was the reverence with which his example inspired
others that she was almost universally called the Lady Mabel. And yet
she was neither proud nor haughty; no, never was there a sad heart to
which Mabel’s soft voice and lovely face were not soothing as the tones
of music; and by the bed of sickness, or in the hour of death, she was
always ready to minister help to the afflicted, and to breathe into the
sufferer’s ear the blessed promises of the gospel.
But, ah! in all these long dreary years, how had Mabel pined for some
voice to breathe comfort into her sad heart, and to awaken once more the
chords of affection within its silent chambers. Since a poor persecuted
girl, she fled, in the dark and gloomy night, from the princely mansion
of her cruel father, “choosing rather to suffer affliction with the
people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season,” how
much of suffering, toil, and privation, had she endured.
It was by the help of Alice, her waiting-maid, that her plan of flying
to America was formed and carried out. Alice’s uncle, Mr. Acton, had
written to her, to announce his intended departure to the colonies, with
a company about to sail; and Mabel determined to join him, and accompany
them to America. Alice was easily persuaded to escape with her young
mistress, and their arrangements had been made some days previous to the
wedding-day; but Mabel had hoped till the last that her stern father
would relent. Disguised in a suit of Alice’s apparel, she easily
effected her escape from the castle, and from thence to the little
seaport town, where Mr. Acton resided. To him, Mabel made known all that
was necessary of her sad story, and the old man, touched with pity for
the poor dove flying from the tormentors, promised his aid and
protection as long as she required it. A day or two after they all
embarked; and Mabel, as she saw the distant shore sink below the
horizon, felt that she was leaving all she loved on earth, and that
henceforth her life must be one of toil, hardship, and privation,
without a single ray of gladness to cheer and brighten it; but her pure
spirit did not waver for a moment; dearer to her the faith in which she
had been educated, and which she had so early learned to prize, than
luxury or splendor, or even earthly love. Then, too, she was comforted
by the thought that her father would not carry out his threat, now that
threats were useless, and Mr. Dacre would close his life in peace among
his beloved parishioners; and Walter, ah! could he know the sufferings
to which she was exposed, how would his loving heart ache—and she
thanked Heaven for sparing him this trial; never for a moment did she
doubt his constancy, or cease to dwell upon his love as still fully
hers. Beautiful faith of a warm, trusting heart! how seldom on earth do
we find it.
We have wandered far away from the little band of worshipers, but our
readers will at once recognize in the pale sad girl, who listened with
such trembling eagerness to the solemn words of the liturgy, Mabel
Dacre, (as she once more called herself,) and can readily understand the
emotion with which she heard for the first time in so many years, the
same pure ritual, which in childhood she had learned to love. Often had
a deep manly voice, whose lightest tones were music to her ears,
repeated those well known words, and Mabel’s heart was too full for
utterance, she could only weep.
And now for a time let us return to Riverdale, and see the changes that
have taken place there.
For months after Mabel’s departure, the little cottage was filled with
gloom, yet still her sweet loving letters, like gleams of sunshine,
often illumined its darkness, and Walter, who now shared the loneliness
of Mr. Dacre’s abode, would often sit for hours with one of those
precious missives clasped in his hand, and his eyes wandering from one
to another of the dear objects which her touch had rendered sacred.
There were her flowers, still blooming as freshly as ever, while she
whose slender fingers had so often trained their graceful foliage, was
gone forever. Alas! how sad, how inexpressibly harassing to his loving
heart, was this living death of her whom he so idolized; separated as
fully as though the dark portals of the grave had arisen between them,
yet with the agonizing thought ever in his mind that far away, in a gay
and brilliant throng, her beauty gladdened other eyes, her silvery voice
made music to other ears, while her poor lonely heart was yearning to
flee away and be at rest.
For a time not a doubt of her constant, faithful devotion to him ever
crossed his mind; and even when a long interval passed and no letters
came in answer to his repeated and affectionate ones, not a line to
cheer his poor desolate heart, he still tried not to give way to
despondency or doubt; “do not let us distrust each other, Walter,” these
sweet words would come like an angel message, when his hope, and his
faith in woman’s love were well nigh gone.
And then a new trial came in the increasing feebleness of his beloved
rector. The old man’s worn-out frame could not long have endured even
with the gentle cares and sweet cherishing of his adopted daughter.
Anxiety for her fate, and the long cessation of all intercourse between
them, brought on a melancholy that seemed to deprive him of all energy
or strength; and day by day Walter saw the bowed and aged form grow
weaker, and the gentle voice more tremulous.
One evening in autumn, as Walter sat by his bedside, reading from that
priceless volume, which was now the rector’s only comfort, the post-boy
entered with a letter from London.
“It is for you, dear father,” said the young man, at the same time
handing him the letter. Mr. Dacre’s eyes glowed with unusual lustre, and
he said reverently, “Thank God! I shall once more hear the sweet words
of affection from my darling child! read it to me, Walter, I am too
blind to read it myself.”
Walter opened the letter; but at the first glance a chill like ice crept
over his frame. “It is not from Mabel, father,” he said, in a voice of
such ill-suppressed agony, that Mr. Dacre started, then almost gasping
for breath, he read as follows:
“Mr. Dacre,—At the request of Lady Mabel Arlington, I desire to
inform you of her approaching marriage with the Duke D’Alençon,
a zealous supporter of her father’s faith, and a nobleman of the
highest rank. Under such circumstances she deems it proper that
_all_ intercourse between herself and her childhood’s associates
should cease entirely.
“Robert, Earl of Arlington.”
“Oh God! must I drink this cup of bitterness! My Mabel false to her
faith; my child, my child, it must not be,” murmured the old man—and
his cheek grew paler and paler. The shock was too great for his weak
frame, and with one long sigh his ransomed spirit fled to its eternal
rest.
What language can paint the bitterness, the deep intensity of Walter’s
anguish. That Mabel, his beloved, his plighted wife, could be another’s,
was a thought too fearful for his soul’s strength; he could not believe
that there was on earth a misery so great. No, it should not be; and he
cried aloud in the terrible struggle with his agony,
“I will tear her away from them all; I will fly to her, and lay at her
feet my wealth of despised affection. Yes, I will snatch my treasure
from those gilded nobles, and bring her to some lonely wilderness where
none shall dare molest us.
“Oh Mabel, my love, my precious one; can your heart so soon have grown
cold; have you forgotten already in your gorgeous home the happy cottage
where you grew in innocence and beauty, and each day, each hour, I loved
you with an intense and yet tenderer passion? Is the gay world, then, so
alluring, so fascinating. Alas! I could not give my darling wealth, or
luxury, or splendor, and in her new home, she has found them all. Poor,
presumptuous fool that I was, to think that amid the gifted, the
learned, the flattering crowd who throng around the peerless Lady Mabel,
she could remember through long years of absence, the humble, unknown
curate.
“And yet she bade me not doubt her even in the darkest hours, she was so
true, so loving, so constant; is there not some ray of hope; some little
ground for faith”—and in very despair he read again the fatal
letter—“by Lady Mabel’s request,” met his eye, and once more he flung
it from him.
“Ah, Mabel, could you not have spared me this pang. You feared lest I
should intrude upon your happiness, lest I should scare away the golden
visions that are lulling your conscience to sleep; fear not, I shall
never come to reproach you; life shall henceforth be a vain yet constant
struggle to forget thee.
“And can it be, oh God, my king, that thou requirest of me a broken
heart—is this, indeed, thy chosen sacrifice? Then be it so—‘thy will
be done.’
“But ah, not here let me live, not amid these scenes let my future years
be spent. Here every thing speaks of her; each sound in nature seems to
thrill my heart with that dear name; the little birds call Mabel in the
joyous tones she used to warble, and the river sighs forth her name as
it flows along to the ocean.
“I shall never conquer myself here, never be a useful, calm, devoted
servant of Him to whose cause I am pledged. Far from all these happy
memories, let me seek a new and wider sphere of action. I will go forth
into the life and freshness, the hardy vigor and stern independence of
the pilgrim settlements; and may God grant me strength and power to
carry forward his work, though it lead me even among the wild savages of
a western wilderness.”
Such were the thoughts that daily passed through his tortured mind; and
ere many months passed Walter Lee stood on the deck of a vessel that was
bearing him to his new home. He had joined a brother clergyman who, with
his young sister, a fair and lovely girl, were, like him, seeking new
scenes and associations. They were the last of their family; and on
them, too, the insidious hand of disease had impressed its symptoms,
though to the girl it only added a richer glow to the transparent cheek,
and a more sparkling lustre to the radiant eye; but Charles Wentworth,
for that was the name of the young clergyman, was already, to all eyes
but his own and his idolized sister’s, the marked victim of that fatal
disease, by which nearly all his family had suffered.
Consumption had given that pale cheek its wan, haggard look, and to
those large eloquent eyes their peculiar and unnatural fire. His voice,
though full of melody, was feeble and low as a woman’s; and, unable to
preach, he had resolved to try change of air, in hopes that his own and
his sister’s health would be benefited.
Walter had formed a strong friendship for the pure-minded and talented
young man, whose gentle and affectionate nature needed a strong heart to
lean upon; and the lovely Evelyn, too, he regarded with a deep and
painful interest; so frail and fair a tiding you seldom saw, with a hold
on life so insecure, and yet so gay and unconscious; her thoughts, her
hopes, and her whole loving heart were with her brother, for whom she
fondly pictured a future of happiness and success in the new world where
they were going. And for herself, she had no thought beyond the pleasure
of the moment, in adding to his comfort, in contributing to his
enjoyment. Such were the feelings of all when they commenced their new
life; but Walter Lee was not one toward whom a young and susceptible
heart like Evelyn’s could long remain unmoved; his devotion and
tenderness to her brother, his earnest, affectionate, and serious
pleadings with _her_, upon those subjects in which he was himself most
deeply interested, and his brilliancy and eloquence in conversation,
charmed her completely, and ere she was herself aware of it, she loved
him with all the depth of her nature. Charles knew by the varying color
of her cheek, and the ardor with which she hung upon every word and look
of their beloved friend, that her heart was wholly his, and he trembled
lest her love should not be returned; for he knew the slender chord of
her life would soon be broken under the burden of an unrequited passion.
With nervous and painful anxiety, therefore, he watched each motion and
glance of William’s, for so our hero had told them to call him, his
heart, so sensitive when they first met, could not bear to hear from
woman’s lips the name of Walter. Evelyn’s voice, too, was singularly
like Mabel’s, so much so that at times a tone or word of hers would send
the blood in a warm glow to his cheek, and cause him to reply with a
tenderness of look and accent that though it was but momentary, always
sent a thrill of joy to the young girl’s heart.
“William,” said Charles Wentworth, one evening, as they sat together in
their new home, admiring the rich hues of the autumnal leaves, and
listening to the sweet music of Evelyn’s voice, as it came to them from
the little garden where she loved to wander, “how is it, William,” he
asked earnestly, “that, with a heart so sensitive and warm, you have
never loved?”
With a sudden start, and turning away his head while his voice sunk to
an accent of touching pathos, William replied, “I do love;” then hastily
recollecting himself, he hesitated, and said in a hurried and agitated
voice, “Yes—that is—I mean I love an ideal of my own.”
But Charles heard not the confused explanation, he dwelt with secret
rapture on the thought that Evelyn was loved; she would be so happy, his
sweet, his lovely sister; he knew that no one could help loving her.
A few months had passed away, and Walter (or William, as I suppose we
must now call him) gradually becoming more dependent upon Evelyn’s
society for his happiness, so sad and bitter were the memories that
haunted him when alone, that he would fly to her presence to dispel
them; it was a relief to his slighted heart to be so fondly welcomed;
and almost unconsciously he was led on, till Charles had no longer any
doubt that his affections were fondly Evelyn’s, and she so happy, so
blessed in his presence, asked nothing more. The cold bleak winds of
autumn, with their first breath, seemed to chill the little life in
Wentworth’s feeble frame; every day he failed, and yet Evelyn could not,
would not believe that he was passing away.
One evening, after a wretched day, he insisted upon being lifted into a
chair, that he might behold the sun-set. Alas! it was only to hasten a
few days the approach of the fatal messenger.
The exertion was too great for him, a large blood-vessel ruptured, and
in a few moments all saw that his life was fast ebbing away.
Evelyn and William stood by in mute despair, the former, her cheek
deadly pale, her whole frame convulsed, bent over him in that silent,
tearless anguish, so terrible to behold.
“William,” whispered the dying man, “come near, I have a solemn charge
for you—my darling sister! oh guard her, cherish and protect her, as
you value my peace in death. I give her to you; oh promise me that you
will be to her, father, brother, husband—all; promise me this, my
friend, my only friend—and he took the cold passive hand of Evelyn and
laid it gently in William’s, then clasping them in his own, he said, you
promise me never to leave her, to value her happiness more than your
own; do you not, oh will you not promise this for the sake of a dying
man?”
“I will—I do promise,” faltered the young man, in earnest, solemn
accents; “and may ‘God do so to me and more also,’ if I ever willingly
cause her pain.”
“I know you love her,” Charles continued; “I have seen it in your every
act; and oh, William, you have yet to learn the wealth of love and
tenderness in that young heart—it is thine, all thine.
“God bless you, dear ones; do not mourn for me, I am so happy thus to
die;” and here the low tones, grew fainter and fainter, the large
eloquent eyes gave one last lingering look of ardent love, and then were
closed forever.
William’s words and presence alone had power to soothe or even moderate
the intensity of Evelyn’s grief; and he would not leave her until he saw
her restored to something of her accustomed cheerfulness. He talked to
her kindly and tenderly of their future home, when he should have a
settled parish; he tried to persuade his own heart that he was happy;
but at times memories of the past would come before him, and a longing
so irresistible to behold once more the face that even now haunted his
dreams, would take possession of him, that even to Evelyn, so blinded by
love, he appeared constrained and unhappy; and tears would fill her
loving eyes as she gazed upon him, and felt she could not drive away his
gloom; then William would call to mind his promise, to care for her
happiness before his own, and would hasten to chase away the tears, and
recall her wonted brightness. But with all his cherishing, he could not
but perceive that her health was declining, and he earnestly besought
her to be more careful and prudent, and to guard more watchfully against
the first indications of disease. “Oh, you are too fearful, my William,”
she would say, in a cheerful tone, yet in her own secret heart she often
mourned in bitterness of spirit over her doom, for such it seemed to
her.
“I have good news for you, dearest,” said William Lee, as he entered the
lowly home of the widow lady, with whom, since her brother’s death,
Evelyn had lived. “I have heard from Mr. Clare, the kind old minister
whom you remember as having crossed the sea with us. He writes most
urgently for you to come to them at once; and his daughter, Mrs. Ives,
adds a most affectionate postscript, to say that our wedding, my Evelyn,
shall take place at her house. I have already found you an escort, as I
am obliged to set out on my western expedition to-morrow. Can you be all
ready for a start to-morrow?”
“Oh yes, I am quite ready; and since you must leave so soon, I shall be
very glad to go. I shall be so much happier there among those who knew
our dear Charles.”
Accordingly, a few days found Evelyn settled as an inmate in the house
of Mr. Clare, the aged man of God whom we mentioned as having been the
first to establish an Episcopal church in the little town of M——.
While William, who longed to escape for a while from all society, and
nerve his mind for the performance of that promise, which yet weighed
heavily on his heart, was going as a missionary among the Indians. Often
would he reproach himself that he could turn from the fond, tender,
passionate love of Evelyn, and sigh for a heart that had cast him off
forever.
“I will go away,” he said to his poor struggling heart. “I will go among
the Red Men of the woods, and there, in solitude, and amid the vastness
of nature, I will learn to school my heart; I will bury her image in the
pathless woods, and return a new man.” Alas! how vain the effort to flee
from that which we carry within us; to seek ’mid change of scene for
that which we can never find—forgetfulness.