Viola.And dost thou love me?Lysander.. . . Love thee, Viola?Do I not fly thee when my being drinksLight from thine eyes?—that flight is all my answer!The Bride, Act 2.
Viola.And dost thou love me?Lysander.. . . Love thee, Viola?Do I not fly thee when my being drinksLight from thine eyes?—that flight is all my answer!The Bride, Act 2.
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 deliciouspet 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 thevoice 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’sroom. 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.
——
They linger yet.Avengers of their native land.Gray.
They linger yet.Avengers of their native land.Gray.
They linger yet.
Avengers of their native land.
Gray.
A month passed away, the stranger had departed, and whatever had been the original object of his visit, it never was made known to the villagers. Grace had as yet received no letter or token from her lover. The suspense had paled her cheek, and dimmed the soft light of her eyes. It gave also a sad plaintiveness to her voice, and a languor and debility to her movements, which awoke the anxiety of her parents to a painful degree.
They also, in common with the rest of the villagers, were, however, suffering during this time apprehensions from another cause.
At this period in the progress of the American colonies, Britain had one or two powerful emissaries on the borders, whom she had sent to crush the settlements. To disguise their purpose, or perhaps to embrace another equally important, these emissaries were officers of the army, sent with a military force to establish forts on the borders, for defense against the encroachments of the Indian tribes. As the reader has received some intimation in the course of our tale, it became the policy of these men to direct their chief efforts against the settlers, and for this end, when it was practicable, they won by bribery the co-exertion of the savages.
Very recently, the little settlement in which a portion of our tale is laid, had received intimations of an intended attack from the Indians. Considerable alarm had been felt, and the fire-arms long in disuse, were burnished and prepared for operation in every family.
Things were in this state when, one calm and cloudless night, when the moon shone with her brightest effulgence, quenching the stars in their radiance, and bringing out into clear and softened perspective the scenery below. Within the peaceful village of our story reigned the most profound repose. Its inhabitants, unconscious of impending danger, had long since offered up the nightly incense of their pious hearts, and resigned themselves to sleep—sleep in the old, deep, undisturbed and dreamless; in the young, light, peaceful and visionary—in all, the unfeverish, refreshing rest which was the natural reward of their simple habits, and the rectitude of their lives.
The silence was suddenly broken by sounds that curdled the blood of those who heard them, and made them spring to their feet as if a lightning flash had stricken them. Before any one could find words, the appalling war-cry of the savages burst from every quarter, startling the very air through which it passed, and falling like a blight upon the spirit. The devoted villagers beheld throughout the settlement lines of streaming torches moved by dusky forms. These torch-lights carried high above their heads showed not only the grim faces of those who bore them, but also those of others who were partly concealed by the foliage of the forest in which they stood. With that forethought and cunning so remarkable in their race, they had conveyed firebrands and straw to the doors of each dwelling in the early part of the evening. The yell already noticed was the signal for firing their previous preparations, and, ere many moments had elapsed, a number of the cottages were in flames. Glancing instinctively toward their pastor’s home, the terrified settlers found that it shared in the general fate. To hold a short conclave, and then dispatch a few ofthe more fearless and active of their number to the assistance of its helpless inmates was the work of a moment.
Hurrying along the little path, the heroic men reached the spot as the high and agonizing scream of a woman arose far above the discordant yell even of the savages. It came from Grace Bartlett. Scarcely conscious of what she did, the unhappy girl, leaving her chamber, gained the top of the stair-case, and loudly as she could, called upon the name of her parents.
Her piteous accents were responded to only by a shout from the crowd. Bounding footsteps mingled with shouts reached her, approaching momently nearer, and ascending the stair-case.
With all the instinct of self-preservation, the affrighted Grace rushed back again into her own apartment. There, sinking on her knees, she reposed her forehead against the side of the windowsill, and nearly suffocated with smoke, and in a state of indescribable agony, awaited the consummation of her fate.
The ascending feet had now reached the passage without, and in another instant a man rushed fearlessly into the room. The blood of the young girl curdled in her veins. She mechanically caught the ledge of the casement on which her aching head rested, and closing her eyes awaited in trembling the blow which should put an end at once to her misery and her life. But in another moment she felt herself firmly secured in the grasp of an encircling arm, and speedily carried through the chamber. Instinctively, a sense of something more dreadful even than death now flashed across her mind, as the unhappy girl opened her eyes wildly upon her captor.
A heart-rending shriek escaped her as she did so. She was in the arms of a gigantic savage. His long, raven hair was matted with blood, and hung loosely and disfiguringly over his eyes, while his face and brow were marked with crimson spots—doubtless spatterings from the wounds of others—and a slight stream that trickled from his cheek gave evidence that he himself had been hurt in the affray.
“Oh, my God, save me!” exclaimed the shuddering girl, raising her eyes imploringly to heaven. From that moment she was insensible to all that was passing.
——
And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreamsOf home, and happiness, and quiet years?Miss Landon.
And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreamsOf home, and happiness, and quiet years?Miss Landon.
And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreams
Of home, and happiness, and quiet years?
Miss Landon.
Darkness was about to throw her veil over the earth, when a lofty tent might have been seen pitched on the extreme summit of a ridge beyond which lay the horizon in golden beauty. Buffalo skins formed a floor to the inclosure, and upon these reposed the forms of three human beings. One was an Indian, evidently of the rank of a chief. He lay on one of the skins at his lazy length, his feet reaching beyond the opening of the tent, and his head reposing on a rude pillow, formed of the furry hides of other wild animals. He smoked a pipe, while his roving eye often rested upon the farthest of his companions.
At a little distance from the savage we have described sat a female, whose hair, complexion, and whole looks bespoke her Indian birth. Her dress, likewise, was that of her tribe, and was of the quality and texture to mark her as the probable wife of the chief whose company she bore. A wooden bowl was at her side, and from this she was now in the act of feeding herself with a spoon of the same material, but with a slovenly negligence indicative of her origin.
The farthest extremity of the tent revealed another woman, whose appearance denoted her to be of European extraction. She was blue-eyed, and of surpassing fairness of skin. Her attitude indicated a mind too powerfully absorbed in grief to be heedful of appearances, for she sat with her limbs contracted, and rocking her body to and fro with a motion that seemed to have its origin in no efforts of her own. Her long, golden hair hung negligently over a neck of dazzling whiteness; and a blanket drawn over the top of her head like a veil, and extending partly around her person, disclosed here and there portions of an apparel which was strictly American, though much torn. A bowl similar to that of the Indian female, and filled with the same food, was at her side, but this was untasted.
“Why does the pale-face refuse to eat?” asked the warrior of her next to him, as he rolled a volume of smoke from his lips. “Make her eat, for I would speak to her afterward.”
“Why does she refuse to eat?” echoed the woman, dropping her spoon as she spoke, and turning to the object of remark, “It is good,” she continued, as she touched the arm of the heedless sufferer. “Daughter of the pale-faces, eat.”
A cry of distress burst from the lips of the unhappy girl, as apparently roused from her abstraction, she suffered the blanket to fall from her head, and stared wildly at her questioner.
“Is the air of the tent not pleasant to the blossom of the clearings?” asked the warrior, evidently touched by her seeming misery.
Seeing that she made no answer, he continued, “What is written is written. The Red-man cannot lie. We must bear thee to the great white father at a distance. But perchance the door may one day be left open, and the bird can escape from its nest.”
“Ah! whither can I fly?” exclaimed Grace Bartlett, at length bursting into tears. “My native village is destroyed, my home is burned, and my parents and neighbors have fallen victims to the general ruin.” She wept for some moments bitter tears, which seemed to relieve her overcharged heart—the chief and his squaw looking on her with more of pity than is usual in their race.
The next morning their march commenced again through the interminable forest. The Indian traveled on foot, while the two females were mounted on mules. The wretchedness of the unfortunate prisoner seemed to increase throughout the whole route, her companions wearing the stolid indifferenceof the North American tribes, except when momently touched by her situation: For the most part, during the slow ride, Grace Bartlett was left to her own miserable reflections, receiving only at rare intervals some rude attentions from the female, who accompanied her.
The slow pace of the travelers, with various other causes of delay which it is needless to mention, detained them three nights upon their road. As soon as darkness approached the tent was again spread, and a halt was made until the morning. On the fourth evening, instead of encamping as before, they continued their journey until a late hour, when the eyes of the captive maiden, wearied with a succession of wild wood scenery, gazed with something like pleasure upon the scene that now opened before her.
The object that thus met the gaze of Grace Bartlett as they emerged from the forest, was one of those stern fortresses of which so many, in our early history, seemed to accuse England of designs against the Indians. It had external pretensions to the name by which we call it, for it looked strong enough to bid defiance to any attempts against it by siege or storm. A deep moat surrounded the lofty stone turrets on all sides, and a drawbridge was the only means of crossing to the entrance of the fort. To Grace, the sight of the fortification, though she gazed on it at first with pleasure, immediately after brought feelings of pain and apprehension; and however confident she might be in the good providence and protection of God, it cannot be denied that she felt deeply and with an anxious and sickening heart her entrance in a place which might prove to her a final prison.
After assisting his companions to dismount, the Indian blew a loud, shrill whistle. He was answered by a sentinel, who carried on a brief conversation with him, and withdrew to an inner lodge for the key of the great gate. He soon returned, it creaked upon its hinges, and the heavy drawbridge swung slowly up with a jarring sound of chains and huge iron-work—sadly harmonious with the uses of the building which they shut out. The bell, communicating with the mansion connected with the fortress, rung, and the chief, with his prisoner, passed slowly in to an inner court, leaving the squaw standing without.
The glare of light, the sound of music, mingled with the tones of the human voice in merry laughter and light conversation reached her ear, and startled the wretched girl with wonder. The Indian, with the utmost tranquillity and with slow and important steps, led the way toward this portion of the large and heavy mass of gloomy masonry, which, with its tall chimneys, loomed up before them. An immense doorway opened upon a broad staircase that seemed formed to make the head dizzy with its many windings. Up this the savage proceeded with his prisoner, whom he held by the arm, half-supporting her weight as she moved passively and like a piece of mechanism in his fingers. On the first landing they passed a drawing-room, splendidly illuminated and filled with revelers, from whence the noise that had reached the court-yard proceeded. Continuing up the various turnings until they had accomplished another flight, the savage paused, and opened a door communicating with a single chamber handsomely furnished.
Its solitary occupant was a man past the prime of life. He seemed immersed in business, examining documents and reading letters which were strewn on a table before him. He arose as our party entered, held out his hand to the Indian, and asked, “Any prisoners?”
“We have taken a daughter of the pale-faces, a blossom of the clearings,” was the reply of the savage as he pointed to his captive. “But the air of the woods is not pleasant to her: she pines after the wigwam of her fathers.”
Grace Bartlett had no sooner entered the apartment than her whole frame trembled violently, and the color leaving her cheeks, she sank down on the floor, resting her elbows on her knees and pressing her hands to her forehead.
The appearance and attitude, indicative at once of extreme fatigue and the abandonment of despair, did not fail to move the compassionate feelings of General Lincoln, who raised her gently and seated her in a large arm-chair.
“Alas!” said he to the warrior, when he had performed this act, “why did you bring so frail a creature? It were a pity to have made her a sacrifice to my courtly intrigues and ambitious plans: she is only fit to be the darling of her parents.”
“My parents!” exclaimed the unhappy girl at this mention of them, “would to God that I knew their fate!”
“You shall be treated kindly,” said the general to her with much considerateness of manner, and in a gentle tone. “Every thing shall be done to make your residence here pleasant. You are fatigued,” he continued, “sweet maiden,” as he turned to a bell that was suspended near.
A servant in livery appeared, and after a few brief words from his master again vanished. He returned presently, followed by a neat maid-servant.
“Go now,” said Lincoln to Grace, in tones of encouragement, as he gently assisted her from the chair whereon he had placed her, “to the chamber provided for you. Susette will perform the offices of your toilet for you, and furnish you with nourishment suited to your weak condition.”
When left alone with the Indian he paced the room with a disturbed air and gigantic strides. Suddenly he paused short, and glanced his eye toward his dusky companion. He beheld the savage regarding him with the calm but sullen attention which marks the expression of this subtle people. Instantly recollecting himself, he asked in a friendly tone—
“Tuscalameetah, is the settlement wholly exterminated?”
“It is,” replied the chief. “The pale-faced daughter of her people is left to mourn over the ashes of her wigwam. In the morning the sun rose upon the white men as they trod the grass happy and strong, and when the night came, only their bones wereleft among the ashes. Tuscalameetah has done thy bidding.”
“And the youth, called Charles Lincoln, what of him?” inquired the other. “It is some months since he went to scour the settlements as a spy. Have any of the tribes met with him?”
“Before the moon go her course,” answered Tuscalameetah, “the stolen bird will tread the halls of the great white man who is to him as a father. He is now left with no kindred and no people. The man that drove back the tribe of Tuscalameetah’s brethren,” continued the Indian, and his eyes flashed with successful revenge, “is brought to have his tent destroyed, and his own dust scattered by the whirlwinds.”
Again General Lincoln paced the room, and there was a silence. “You can depart,” he said at length to the savage.
“It is hard,” muttered he, as he was left alone, “to be stretched on the rack of a responsibility such as this. But things prosper, and my royal master is gliding through life enjoying the fruits of my joyless days, and sleepless nights, and periled salvation, while I am wearing myself down to the grave. He has none of the remorse which haunts me, making the dying looks of these massacred people pursue me to my fireside, and molest the joys of my home.”
“And the poor boy’s parents are dead,” he continued, after a pause. “Since blood had to be shed, better theirs than that of others, for there is now naught to come between him and his heirship to my titles and estates. God be thanked for this, for I love him as if he were the son whose place I have given him and whose name he bears.”
——
Tear follows tear where long no tear hath been;I see the present on a distant goal,The past, revived, is present to my soul.Blackie’s Faust.
Tear follows tear where long no tear hath been;I see the present on a distant goal,The past, revived, is present to my soul.Blackie’s Faust.
Tear follows tear where long no tear hath been;
I see the present on a distant goal,
The past, revived, is present to my soul.
Blackie’s Faust.
Supported by the very power of sorrow,And faith, that comes a solemn comforter.Wilson.
Supported by the very power of sorrow,And faith, that comes a solemn comforter.Wilson.
Supported by the very power of sorrow,
And faith, that comes a solemn comforter.
Wilson.
Our poor heroine made the necessary effort, and languidly followed her conductor into a long passage which led to a lofty chamber, carefully furnished with a luxurious bed and every appliance of elegance and comfort. Throwing herself on a sofa, Grace heeded nothing around her, different as every minute article was in its adaptation to the refinements of life from the simple arrangements of her former home.
Her attendant was assiduous in her cares. She wiped her face and hands with a damp towel, bathed her feet, and held a bottle of perfume to her nostrils to revive her failing strength. Then, bringing a salver containing wine and light nutriment, she put the glass and spoon alternately to the lips of the sufferer, who mechanically tasted again and again of their contents, seemingly having at length lost all power of resistance. Then, assisting her to the bed, Susette departed, at a faint request from her lips to be left alone.
Passive and immovable she lay for some moments after the departure of the hand-maiden. With revived strength, she at length arose and locked the door of her apartment. There are cases in which the necessity for calm contemplation forces itself upon us, and she now nerved herself to a view of her situation. Her prospects were gloomy and sad. She was cut off from her family and friends at a moment when their lives were endangered, and doubtless they lived no more. The sentiment of love, too, had touched her bosom for the young stranger who had appeared for a time in their little village, and who might return thither only to find it an ashy ruin, and supposing her to have perished with the rest of the inhabitants, forget her memory and devote himself to another. Oh! had she had one only friend to whom she could have appealed for sympathy in this moment of agony! Alone—alone—the unutterable anguish of that word!
But at this moment the child-like faith and trust of her girlhood stole over her, leading her to the one unfailing friend who could aid and guide her. The power of prayer had heretofore since her affliction seemed denied to her, but now an inward voice called her to her Father’s throne.
She knelt, and pushing her hair from her throbbing temples, as if its weight were insupportable, she prayed for resignation to her situation. The anguish she suffered was deep and terrible, known only to the Reader of all hearts: but at length the heavy weight on her spirit gave way, and though her tears fell fast and unrestrainedly, her gentle heart was comforted. There was a holy hush in that lone chamber, as if the late anguish she had felt was soothed by the soft fluttering of an angel’s wing, as it wafted her petitions above on its heavenward flight. That help which to all who seek it is given was granted, and her yearning heart was lifted to Heaven. In after years, she looked back upon the speedy answer which had been vouchsafed to her prayer in that hour, almost with awe.
Inexpressibly comforted, she rose from her knees, extinguished the light, and lay down to seek repose. Weariness soon overcame her, and she fell asleep to dream of one whose image was impressed on her young heart. Again in her visions she was pressed to his breast, and words and protestations poured like a strain of rich and soothing music on her ear. Oh, gladly would she have died in that blissful dream.
But through the window of her apartment the sun streamed, announcing that the morning was far advanced, and she opened her eyes to behold the appearance of a young female, of high rank, attired in a rich morning-dress. She made an effort to rise, but her strength had been overtasked by the intense emotions of her mind. In the exertion, she fell forward fainting and powerless at the intruder’s feet.
When Grace Bartlett recovered, she found herself on the bed partially undressed, the young lady holding a bottle of smelling-salts, which had evidently been used, and the attendant, Susette, bathing her temples and hands with cold water. For nearly an hour she hovered between sense and consciousness.Her head felt as if bound to the pillow by weights of lead, and she had an incessant burning and throbbing of all her pulses, accompanied by sharp pain. Her eyes closed upon the light, and she was in dreamland again. Still her consciousness was not lost, but there were, for a few passing moments, sounds in her ear like those of which she had dreamed.
It seemed almost as if an angel’s voice now roused her, for the strange lady, bending over her, said in accents of almost unearthly tenderness, “You are ill, sweet maiden, speak to me.”
She paused, and her tones fell musically on the senses of the unhappy guest, for those notes of sympathy had reached even to her apathetic ear. Grace attempted to reply, but utter exhaustion followed, and tears alone attested all she felt. These proved no relief, however, and before night Georgiana Lincoln watched over her in the strong paroxysms of a brain fever.
——
A cloud of darkest gloom has wraptThe remnant of my brief career.Margaret Davidson.
A cloud of darkest gloom has wraptThe remnant of my brief career.Margaret Davidson.
A cloud of darkest gloom has wrapt
The remnant of my brief career.
Margaret Davidson.
It would be equally needless and painful to linger over the sufferings of the sick maiden. The fever, which the terrible and agitating scenes she had passed through had excited, was so long in being subdued that those who watched her trembledlest the loss of either life or reason should ensue. When this was overcome it seemed as if she must sink under the exhaustion which followed. Her constitution, however, though delicate was good, and after weeks of unconscious agony, she did indeed appear sensible of the fond cares of the young, high-bred lady who was continually by her side.
Georgiana Lincoln was exactly opposite in appearance to the Puritan girl. A high polish and elegance of tone and manner marked her at once as the English lady of rank. Her style of beauty was one uncommon in America. A bright, sunny brunette, the soft brown of her skin was warmed with a rich crimson—the dewy coral has its freshness but not its brightness. Her tall figure was almost concealed by a white robe which still revealed the most exquisite proportions of her figure.
Grace Bartlett gazed on her with admiration, and endeavored to prove her gratitude by some expressions of thankfulness; but the touching mournfulness of her sweet face too painfully revealed that the causes she had for sorrow were not forgotten with her returning consciousness.
A settled melancholy followed her recovery. Every thing was done to arouse her from this. Among other resources that were adopted, she was taken to the boudoir of her hostess and companion, where birds and flowers formed the ornaments. But not the singing of the one, nor the odor of the other brought delight to her heart. What were music and perfume to her but agony?
To all Georgiana Lincoln’s attempts at consolation she listened with a calm look of hopeless misery which plainly told how incapable she was of receiving condolence. But despite all her causes for grief, and the deep melancholy that consumed her, Grace could not but be touched with the kindness lavished on her by the wealthy lady. Insensibly the poor girl wound her feelings around her, and bestowed on her all that she had of affection that was left from the grave of her parents, and the memory of her lover.
One evening, when the unhappy maiden was unusually depressed, she was seated in the boudoir of her new acquaintance.
“Thou art sadder than thy wont, sweet one,” said the latter, kissing the brow of the young Puritan. “But if naught in thy own situation can add to thy happiness, gladly as any change should be made in it at thy slightest bidding, I feel sure at least that one shadow will pass from thy sympathetic nature at hearing of thy friend’s prospect of happiness. Rejoice with me, Grace, my brother is expected home.”
“It doth, indeed, please me that thou art about to have any contribution to thy fullness of joy,” replied the poor girl, with a faint smile, and a pressure of her companion’s hand.
“We will have a series of festivities in honor of his arrival,” resumed the other; “and if you will not participate, dear Grace, in the dancing and merriment, you can at any rate be present to observe the company, and listen to the music. No wonder that thou weariest without other society than that of thy tedious friend.”
Our heroine smiled again, but more faintly than before, as if the tidings of the expected fêtes had little or no interest for her.
At that moment Gen. Lincoln appeared on the balcony upon which the window opened, exclaiming, “Georgiana, my love, I have brought you a visitor—a truant; yet one you will be glad to see. Come in, my son—what do you remain there for?” he added, turning to his companion.
But the latter hesitated. His glance rested on the figure of Grace, so graceful and almost spiritual, as it was brought forward in the shadowy moonlight.
“My brother, my own dear brother! What joy!” cried Georgiana, springing out eagerly to meet him; while Grace, startled and terrified at the idea of a stranger, hastily withdrew. General Lincoln at the same instant received a summons from below.
“Dearest Georgiana,” said the young man, “I am glad to see you again; looking, too, as lovely as ever, or else this evening hour deceives me. I fear me, though, you will deem yourself but little fortunate in my return, for I come back in no agreeable mood, I assure you.” So saying he entered, and threw himself listlessly on a lounge in the room.
“But I do rejoice to see you, dear Charles,” replied his sister, seating herself by his side, and gently stroking back the dark hair from his brow. “You will remain with us for a time, and we will be so happy.”
“Happy!” he exclaimed, with bitterness, “I see little prospect of my ever being happy in this life; or at least whilst our father continues this unjust persecution of the unpretending and religious settlers on the borders.”
He then proceeded to pour out to Georgiana the miserable intrigues in which Gen. Lincoln was engaged, and the embassy on which he had himself been absent. “But, my sister,” he continued, “I have resolved to take no further part in this accursed policy toward a defenseless and religious people. I have long enough worked out the will of others—a mere machine in the hands of my ambitious parent, who is striving by the course of heartless persecution I have described, to please a jealous monarch and a scheming court. The instigating of the Indians to massacre the Puritans, and exterminate their settlements, will cry aloud for vengeance.”
“Yes,” continued Charles, in an excited tone, “their death-shrieks are ever in my ears—in the dark night their massacre is ever before my eyes, in the day, heavy and dark upon my spirits—never away from me can it be in the future, but will haunt me throughout my desolate life, and seem to be calling on me to take vengeance against my father.”
“You talk wildly, dearest brother,” said Georgiana, looking at him in some alarm. “How canst thou be desolate with thy sister to love thee. And speak not of taking vengeance against our father, for that is God’s, even toward the humblest adversary, and not to be named by a son against his father.”
“Nay,” he answered, “hear me. I have just come from one of their exterminated villages, where, in the character of a spy, I resided among them some months ago, unsuspected by their guileless simplicity, and receiving their humble hospitalities. On my return thither recently, to visit one to whom I had become dearly attached, I found the place in ruins, and the hapless villagers destroyed by the firebrands of Gen. Lincoln’s emissaries.” He seemed overcome with his emotions, and rested his head on his hand for some moments in deep reflection.
His sister appeared not less affected with sadness, and held his hand silently.
By an effort, at length, arousing himself, he asked suddenly, “Who was that graceful figure that I saw sitting at your side, when papa would have hurried me so unceremoniously through the window. She could not have thrown herself into a more becoming attitude for effect as the moonlight streamed upon her.”
“Effect! poor maiden!” was the reply. “It was the last thing in her mind at that moment. She is a prisoner, brought hither by the Indians, for what purpose, originally, I know not. But whatever were his first intentions with regard to her, our father has abandoned them, and permitted me to treat her with the consideration due to her loveliness and her unhappy situation.” The announcement of company in the drawing-room here interrupted the conversation between the brother and sister.
——