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.
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.
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 hadMabel 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; andMabel 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, touchedwith 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 thatallintercourse between herself and her childhood’s associates should cease entirely.“Robert, Earl of Arlington.”
“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 thatallintercourse 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.
“OhMabel, 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, presumptuousfool 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 withher, 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 werefondly 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.
——
“The deepest sorrow that stern fate can bringIn all her catalogue of suffering,To love, adore, and be beloved again;To know between you lies a gulf that everYour forms, your hopes, your destinies must sever.”
“The deepest sorrow that stern fate can bringIn all her catalogue of suffering,To love, adore, and be beloved again;To know between you lies a gulf that everYour forms, your hopes, your destinies must sever.”
“The deepest sorrow that stern fate can bring
In all her catalogue of suffering,
To love, adore, and be beloved again;
To know between you lies a gulf that ever
Your forms, your hopes, your destinies must sever.”
“Oh, Mabel dear, I am so tired; I have come so fast,” said Evelyn Wentworth, as she ran into the little parlor whereMabel Dacre sat with her workbasket beside her, busily employed as usual. Her brilliant eyes sparkled with excitement, and her cheek glowed with a feverish flush as she took Mabel’s small hands in her own, and exclaimed—“Do come, Mabel, darling, I have so much to tell you, and I want you to help me to gather some flowers to deck our little cottage, for William is to be here to-night—just think, dear sister, this very evening—oh, I can hardly believe it. Six whole months since I have seen him, and now, Mabel, he writes solovingly, and says he will never leave me any more; oh, I am so happy.”
“But, sister mine,” said the silvery voice of Mabel, as she lifted her large, serene eyes to the excited face of Evelyn, whom she loved with all a sister’s fondness; “my darling, why have you run so fast and exhausted yourself now, when you wish and need most to be bright and well; will you never learn prudence, thoughtless Evelyn. I shall not let you stir now until you are quite, quite rested; for, see here are flowers enough to make a perfect bower of your little room.”
Mabel was right in chiding the imprudent girl, for in a few moments the glow had faded from her cheek, and was succeeded by a deadly paleness; Mabel ran for water, and just arrived in time to catch her sinking form as she fell faint and breathless upon a couch.
“I am a poor, weak child,” she said, softly; “but I shall soon be better, Mabel, darling.” A sweet, grateful smile played over her delicate features as Mabel tenderly kissed her and smoothed back the soft auburn ringlets.
A few hours passed, and they were all seated in the little flower-decked parlor awaiting William’s return, save Mabel—she had escaped into the garden, and seating herself in the shadiest corner, her thoughts flew back to the time when she, too, was happy in the blessedness of love; unconsciously her lips moved and breathed in low, impassioned accents the name that was ever in her heart.
“I am here, dear Evelyn,” said a voice close beside her, whose tones made her heart leap and her pulses thrill; she turned quickly—and Walter Lee stood before her.
One moment, and they were clasped in each other’s arms; the long hoarded love of years seemed all to flow out in that close, silent, passionate embrace, the next—and Mabel’s heart recalled with a pang as keen as death, his first words. A cold shudder crept over her.
“Walter, speak!” she almost gasped forth; “tell me, tell metruly, what have you to do with Evelyn?”
“I am her affianced husband,” he said, in those low, despairing tones that tell of a crushed and broken spirit; “but you, Mabel, why are you here; you, the proud and titled wife of a noble; say, beautiful vision, why have you come to mock me in this trying hour—to take from me all my firm resolves, and to light again the fire that for so long has smouldered in my poor, desolate heart. Oh, Mabel, Mabel, why were you false?”
At first, a bitter, piercing cry was her only answer. “Walter,” at length she said, with tearful accents, “for six long, weary years I have thought and wept and dreamed of only thee; my sleep was filled with visions so blissful of thy dear presence, that I dreaded the awakening, and yet, you could doubt me—ah, how little can man’s heart know of the depth, the devotedness, the unchanging constancy of woman’s love.”
“Mabel, you wrong me; indeed you wrong me. I did not doubt you, even through long months of utter silence, until there came that cruel letter signed by your father, and sent by your request, to tell of yourmarriage; yes, the words burnt into my heart like letters of fire, and can never, never be erased. How could I but think it true, in spite of all my faith, since it bore your father’s seal?”
With mute anguish Mabel heard this new revelation of her father’s sinful tyranny; she could hardly believe that he was capable of such meanness and guilt; she could not comprehend the absorbing nature of that eager grasping for power that has led men to wade through the blood even of near relatives to reach the object of their desires.
Then Walter spoke of their beloved friend, Mr. Dacre, of his death, so sudden at the last, though long expected; and Mabel knew, though no such words were spoken, that it was her father’s letter which had hastened the final blow.
She wept as she thought that never more on earth should she behold the face whose smile had been the sunshine of her youth, but even while she wept, a smile of triumph lit up her tear-bathed eyes, as she remembered he was now in a world where there is no doubting or darkness, “for the Lamb is the light thereof;” he knew now that his prayers, his lessons, and his example had not been all in vain, and that the trial of her faith, though a fiery one, had but strengthened and confirmed it.
Long and earnestly they conversed, and Mabel drew from her lover all his varied history. Into her ear he poured forth the long hidden, but still fervent love that even his belief in her estrangement could never subdue. Then he told of his promise to Charles Wentworth, of Evelyn’s tender love, and his almost involuntary engagement.
Mabel heard his words with a beating heart, each moment her cheek grew paler, but in her eye and on her lip there rested a look of calm, almost sublime self-sacrifice, a firm resolve to obey the dictates of that still, small voice within.
“Walter,” she said, in a tone so low and solemn that he was awed—“Walter, you must never breathe to human ear the secret of our mutual love; it would kill Evelyn, she is your plighted wife; would you snap the frail thread of her young life; your promise to that dying man forbids it, your own conscience forbids it.
“Walter, my beloved, my cherished friend, my brother, remember herlifedepends on the fidelity with which you keep this secret, and I charge you, as you will answer to her brother, that you be not guilty of her life!”
“Oh, Mabel, my angel Mabel, must it indeed be so; is there no hope—think how hard it will be to press back once again the rushing tide of love that has for long years been gathering silently yet strongly in my heart.”
“Is it easier, think you, for me,” said the noble girl, lifting her clear eyes, lit with the purity of an angelic spirit, to his; “shall I have no struggle, now that hopes long since crushed have sprung up only to be once more blasted; it is hard, but we can doit, my Walter; yes, and we must do it, faithfully and truly, as we hope for peace in our lives and joy in heaven.”
She took once more his hand in hers, and kissed it with a sister’s tenderness—“Be strong, dearbrother; trust in God, we shall meet again where there is neither sorrow nor sighing—farewell.”
The next morning Mabel left M——; she wrote a line to Evelyn, saying that she was summoned to attend the sick-bed of a friend, her old companion, Alice, and wishing her, at the same time, the purest happiness earth can bestow.
In a few weeks Walter and Evelyn were married.
——
Mighty ones, Love and Death,Ye are strong in this world of ours;Ye meet at the banquet, ye dwell amidst the flowers—Which hath the conqueror’s wreath.Hemans.
Mighty ones, Love and Death,Ye are strong in this world of ours;Ye meet at the banquet, ye dwell amidst the flowers—Which hath the conqueror’s wreath.Hemans.
Mighty ones, Love and Death,
Ye are strong in this world of ours;
Ye meet at the banquet, ye dwell amidst the flowers
—Which hath the conqueror’s wreath.
Hemans.
Let us now transport ourselves to a large and luxurious apartment in one of England’s stateliest mansions. It was dusk, but there was no light in the room save the flickering and uncertain glare of a cheerful wood-fire, in front of which was seated a man in the prime of life, yet with deep lines of care engraven on his high brow, and traces of some bitter sorrow round his thin, compressed lips; but those lips were parted now with a smile of deep and fond affection, and his eyes were fixed earnestly upon a sweet, loving face upturned to his; it was the face of an exquisitely beautiful girl, who sat on a low stool beside him—she had apparently been reading, for a large volume lay in her lap, but now they were silent for a long time—his hand rested on her silken hair, and he seemed absorbed in thought; at last she whispered, “Dear father.” A tear started to those eyes so unused to weep—
“And do you, indeed, love me, my sweet, forgiving Mabel. Can you so easily forget, in a few months of kindness, the cruelty, sternness and injustice of years? But, in truth, my child, I have been bitterly punished; in all those long, long years I have never known happiness. In the dark night a pale, sad, weeping form would come and stand beside my bed, and stretch out its thin, shadowy arms so imploringly. I fled from society—I shut myself up in my own apartments; I called to mind my past life, and I shuddered at the review; I could not bear the presence even of my gay and haughty wife, and for months I never spoke one word to her. I was wicked—proud—angry with the world. At last I partly overcame my hatred and bitterness. I hoped on in spite of every thing that I should yet see my Mabel and ask her forgiveness. When Lady Arlington died I shut myself up once more, and I humbly hope meditation and sorrow had made me a better man, even before I had your sweet example and precious words to be my daily support.
“Oh, my child, my only comfort, you can never know half the blessedness, the peace your presence brings me; truly I can say, ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’”
There was no reply save Mabel’s silent tears and the fond pressure of her hand.
It was the announcement of Lady Arlington’s death; which Mabel had seen in the English papers, accompanied by rumors of her father’s entire seclusion, that first induced her to return to her forsaken home. Then, too, she thought it would be better for her to avoid Walter and Evelyn, which she could not do, while any where within their reach, without awakening some suspicion in the latter’s mind. A thousand times since her return had she thanked God who had guided her through so many trials to the very place where she was most needed; yes, in her devoted heart there was no murmuring, though all that life could give she had renounced in resigning Walter’s love; even for that she thanked God, since it had been the means of leading her to be the comfort and the solace of her father’s lonely home; and Mabel saw, with a joy too deep for utterance, that her example, her words, and her constant influence were bringing her father back to the pure faith she had so nobly illustrated in her life. This was reward enough—quietly and peacefully their life glided along. Her father’s wealth was in Mabel’s hands an instrument of good to hundreds—she established schools, visited the poor and the sick, and was idolised by all the tenantry. She had told her father her whole history, and they often now talked together about Walter and Mr. Dacre. Lord Arlington confessed, with burning shame and sorrow, his having written that letter to prevent Mr. Dacre’s coming to London, and to destroy all friendship between them; and then he would look at Mabel so humbly, and ask her if she could forgive him, could love him after all the misery he had caused her.
“Do not think of those things now, dearest father; you know I love you, and you make me so happy now, that I can almost forget the past.”
Two years have passed since Mabel’s return. It is a bright June day, and in a little cottage, covered almost by the clustering vines that peeped in at every window, a young, fair creature, with a heart as guileless as a child’s, was lying on a bed of death.
In that sweet, infantine expression, in those soft, blue eyes and the cherub mouth, we recognize at once Evelyn Wentworth; but ah! how changed; those eyes were now sunken and dimmed; the cheeks, once so roseate, were deadly pale, and the blue veins could be distinctly traced through the transparent skin. Beside her sat Walter Lee, still young and handsome, though the struggle of life had cast a shade over his brow, and taken something from the calm, serene expression naturally his.
A little girl lay in a cradle by the bedside, whose golden curls fell over shoulders white and round as a classic model; her face, though glowing with health, was strangely like her mother’s; the fairy’s name was Mabel.
“My own beloved,” murmured those pale lips, and Walter bent to catch the lightest sound. “You have been faithful and true to me, and since first we met, never have you caused me a pang. I bless youfor all the wealth of love with which you have filled my heart; I bless you for the smiles of fond affection with which you ever greeted me, and oh! for countless words and tones that my soul has cherished in its deepest shrines; but ah! my William, I know full well I have never been to you, I never could be to you, all that your soul required; I am too weak and childish and ignorant, to be your comfort and strength and help; do not chide me for these words, dearest, there is no bitterness in the thought; you are too noble, exalted and talented for such a companion, and I can only thank and bless you for making my short life so happy, and pray that God would reward you with a bliss greater than your longing heart has ever known.
“And now, my precious husband, hear my last request; our child, our little darling will need a mother’s care; and there is only one in all the world, to whom, without anxiety or fear, I can resign her; it is Mabel Dacre. Go to her at once, after my death, and tell her with my last breath I begged her to be a mother to my child; you will love her, William, she is far more worthy of you than I am; she is the only being I have ever seen who could, I think, fully appreciate the depths of your noble nature; she will love our little daughter if only for her mother’s sake; and oh! William, she will teach her better than I can her duty to God.
“Promise me you will do as I ask of you, my precious husband, and I shall have no fears in my last hours that my child will pine as I did for a mother’s love.”
With tearful earnestness the self-reproached man gave the required promise, and bending over her kissed the pale face, over which a smile of such angelic peace and love was hovering.
In a few more days the sods were laid over that loving heart, and Walter Lee was once more desolate; but in the darkness glimmered a ray of hope, that Mabel might still be free; could it be that her warm affections had been hoarded up for him, that she whom to see was to love, had in all this time found no one to displace his image in her soul; was there on earth such happiness. He knew that Mabel was with her father, for she had written to Evelyn after her arrival; so, two years after his wife’s death, with his little daughter, whose childish beauty attracted all beholders, Walter sailed for England, his early home.
Let us glance over the events of a few months, and take a peep into that large, old-fashioned room, where we left Lord Arlington and his daughter. It is evening now, and seated before the same glowing fire two figures are revealed by the flickering light; their hands are clasped, and a look of unutterable happiness dwells in their quiet faces; the eyes of one are gazing with a tenderness, a depth of love almost holy, upon the sweet countenance of the other.
At a little distance, in a large arm-chair, sits Lord Arlington, his face beaming with happiness as he looks upon them; while nestling in his lap, her little white arms around him, lies a lovely child, his own adopted daughter—hissecond Mabel.
———
BY MRS. S. C. HALL.
———
(Continued from page 315.)
The next morning saw Richard at the bookseller’s door, full ten minutes before the appointed time. Around his slender throat was the promised handkerchief; and there was an air of gentility about the lad, though under evident restraint, in his threadbare best clothes. He was neither tall nor large of his age, yet he had outgrown his dress: to look at him when his cloth cap (from which depended a worn tassel, brown with age,) was on, you would have thought that his eyes were too large for his small, delicate features; but when that was removed, and the pale, full, well-developed brow, shaded by an abundance of light-brown hair, was displayed, then the schoolmaster’s son had an air, despite his ill-fitting clothes, his patched shoes, his sunken cheeks, and the cold, mercilessly blue “handkerchief” round his throat, of the highest and most earnest intelligence. What most rendered him different from other boys, however, was his frequent habit of uplooking: there was nothing weak or silly in this manner, nor did his eyes wander away from the things around him, as if he heard them not; his large, quick eyes, bright and gray, were rapid and observant; but it was as if he carried what he sawbelowto be judgedabove; his leisure looks were “uplooking,” his slight figure was erect, and he never slouched in his gait, or dragged his feet after him, as many lads are apt to do. As he stood at his new master’s door, in the gray fog of a London morning, he longed for the door to open; he longed to begin work; he thought the clocks were all wrong; and, though there was hardly a creature moving in the streets, except a stray cat or a slip-shod charwoman, he would have it that the entire London population were a set of slug-a-beds, unworthy of the name of Britons; for he had great veneration for Britons, and when he used to write impromptu copies on the broken slate, his favorite sentence was “Rule Britannia.”
At last he heard doors opening beneath the area gratings, and in due time the shop-door was unbarred by a not very clean-faced woman, who inquired—
“Are you the new boy?” Richard said he was. “Well,” added the woman, looking him over carefully, “when master had a mind to get a new boy, he might have got something with flesh on its bones, and stout arms. Sorra a much joy I’ll have wid a shrimpeen of a child like you in the house. Sorra a helping hand at the knives, or shoes, or messages, I’ll go bail!”
“Indeed I can do every thing you want, and bring you all you wish,” said Richard, cheerfully.
“Bring me all I wish!” repeated the Irish servant, in a low, desponding tone. “Oh, then, hear to the presumption of youth! May be, you think I’m like yer mother, and that all my wishes end in a half-pint of beer, or a glass of gin?”
Richard felt his susceptible blood rush over his face. “My mother,” he said, “never took a glass of gin in her life!”
She looked fixedly at him, and gradually her huge mouth expanded into a smile. “Yer a better boy than I thought ye, though you can’t bring me all I wish; you can’t bring me my two fine boys back from the withered church-yard; you can’t bring me back my strength, my heart, my youth, my gay, bright youth! All I wish! Och, wirrasthue! if I had all I wish, it’s not in slavery I’d be in an airee all day, with a poor lone man for a master, that thinks the world and its sunshine is made out of musty books—and newspapers—that I can’t get the reading of. Can you read?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you’ll read me a bit of the news—the reale newspaper, political news—not your po-leece thrash, but the States of Europe—I’ll stand yer friend.”
Richard followed her down stairs, wondering what interest such a deplorable looking woman could possibly take in the “States of Europe.” She told him what to do, concerning knives and shoes and coat-brushing, and left him to do it; but the “all” was so very little, that, in addition to her directions, he made up the fire and swept the hearth; and his habits of order and quickness gave the small, dismal kitchen an air of neatness approaching to comfort, which perhaps it had never before exhibited during the dynasty of “Matty Hayes.” It was this good woman’s habit always to speak in a tone of injured innocence. She anticipated that every thing must go wrong, and she met the evil half-way, with a sort of grim exultation. She delighted in contradiction; and would contradict herself, rather than not contradict at all. There was, however, as is usual with her “people,” an under-current of good-nature coursing round her heart, which rendered her speech and action two different and opposite things.
“Master’s shoes nor coat aint ready, of course?” she called from the landing. In a moment Richard’s light feet flew up the stairs, and he laid them on her bony arms.
“Then I’m sure he’s let the fire out, if these are done,” she muttered to herself. “There never was a boy that did not undo ten things while he did one!”
When she descended, she looked round, silenced by the change Richard had wrought in the den of a kitchen, and hardly knowing whether she ought to blame or praise.
“I don’t mean to pay you for all this fine work,” she said; “and there’s no breakfast for you—no, nor bit nor sup—it’s as much as I can do to manage for us three—master, and I, and Peter.”
“I have had my breakfast, thank you; and as I can do nothing here, I will go up stairs, if you will be so good as to tell me what I can do there.”
“Tell you what to do,” she repeated. “Are you an apprentice, that you want teaching? A pretty boy, indeed, you are for a place, if you can’t take down shutters, and sweep and dust a shop, and clean windows—I dare say you’ll break ’em when you do—and mop the pavement (always dothatin frosty weather, like the doctor’s boy next door, to break people’s legs, and make a job of their precious limbs)—and sweep the snow over the slides, that the old people maysliderabout for your amusement.”
Richard felt a choking sensation at his throat, and as usual he flushed, but tried not to look angry.
“There!” she exclaimed, “don’t give me any impudence: quick lads are always impudent. I thought how it would be when you wereso mighty neat.”
During this unsavory dialogue, and in direct opposition to her declared intention, she was cutting a remarkably thick piece of bread and butter; and having done so, she pushed it to the boy, saying—“There, go to your work now, and don’t say you are starved by Matthew Whitelock’s housekeeper.”
Richard was a peace-loving lad: he saw the storm gathering in Matty’s face, and, notwithstanding his boasted breakfast (he had slipped back one of the pieces of bread his mother had given him) he could from any other hands have eaten the bread with greatgoût; but the hands that fed him from infancy were delicately clean and white, and—it might be the darkness and murkiness of a January morning, but every thing, and above all things Matty, looked fearfully dirty—a favorite proverb of his mother’s took possession of his mind—