Delusion, or The Witch of New England Part 7

Since then, he had had much to struggle with; but poverty had not been his greatest temptation. He could not indeed hope to be exempt from the bitter experience of almost all who at that time were scholars.

To this very day, the sons of clergymen, and many of the most distinguished men in New England, have held the plough in the intervals of their preparation for the university. How many poor mothers have striven, and labored, and denied themselves all but the bare necessaries of life, that their sons might gain that sole distinction in New England,--an education at one of the colleges.

Poverty was not his greatest trial. When he first saw Edith, her timid and innocent beauty had made an impression on his fancy, that all his subsequent dreams in solitude, and his lonely reveries, had only served to deepen. She seemed to embody all his imaginations of female loveliness. He had, indeed, never before seen a beautiful girl, and he had no acquaintance with women, except his grandmother.

The remembrance of his mother came softened to him, like something unconnected with earth; and when he thought of the darkened chamber, the pale, faint smile, her hand on his head, and her solemn consecration of him to the church, on her death-bed, he felt a sensation of awe that chilled and appalled him.

After his acquaintance with Edith and her father, life wore a brighter hue. His efforts to gain an education to distinguish himself were redoubled. Mr. Grafton aided in every way; and with the sympathy of his kind friend came the image of his beautiful daughter. His labors were lightened, his heart cheered, by the thought that she would smile and approve.

Thus days of bodily labor were succeeded by nights of study; and, for some time, with his youth and vigorous health, this was hardly felt as an evil. But we have seen, in our first chapter, that he had moments of despondency, and of late they had been of more frequent occurrence.

At such times, the remembrance of his mother, and her solemn dedication of him to the church, came back with redoubled power, and the time he had spent in lighter literature, in poetry, and even his dreams of Edith, seemed to him like sins. A darker and less joyous spirit was gradually overshadowing him. A morbid sensitiveness to moral evil, an exaggerated sense of his own sins, and of the strict requisitions of the spirit of the times, clouded his natural gayety.

His visits to the parsonage, indeed, always dissipated his fears for a little time. Edith received him as a valued friend, and he returned to his studies, cheered by her smiles, and sustained by new hopes.

He never a.n.a.lyzed the cause of this change, or the nature of his feelings: but, when he thought of his degree at the college, it was her sympathy and her approbation that came first to his mind; and, when he sent his thoughts forward to a settlement and a parsonage like that of his venerable friend's, it would have been empty, and desolate, and uninhabitable, if Edith had not been there.

It was in Edith's beloved father that a year had made the saddest change. The winter had been unusually severe, and the snow deep. His parish was much scattered, and it was his custom to visit them on horseback; and, in the deepest snows, and most severe storms, he had never refused to appear at their bedsides, or to visit and comfort the afflicted. He had lived, and labored, and loved among his simple flock, but he now felt that his ministry was drawing towards a close.

In March, he had returned from one of his visits late at night, and much wet and fatigued. The next morning he found himself ill with a lung fever. It left him debilitated, and much impaired in const.i.tution; and a rapid decline seemed the almost inevitable consequence at his advanced age.

CHAPTER X.

Pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; and he who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used.

O, be wiser, then!

Instructed that true knowledge leads to love: True dignity abides with him alone, Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.

WORDSWORTH.

It has been the fas.h.i.+on, of late, to depreciate the clergymen among our Puritan fathers. It is true they erred, but their errors belonged to the time and the circ.u.mstance that placed in their hands unusual power.

There were among them men that would have done honor to any age; perfect gentlemen, who would have adorned a drawing-room, as well as consecrated a church.

The traits that const.i.tute _gentlesse_ do not belong to any age or any school: they are not formed by the conventions of society, nor the forms that are adopted to facilitate and give grace to the intercourse of equals. The precept that says, "In honor preferring one another," if acted on in perfect sincerity of heart, and carried out in all the intercourse of society, would form perfect gentlemen and ladies. We have heard Jesus called the most finished gentleman that ever lived.

Undisguised benevolence, humility, and sincerity, would form such gentlemen, and the intercourse of society, founded on such principles, would be true, n.o.ble, graceful, and most attractive.

Such a gentleman was Edith's father; and while he was an honored and cherished guest at the tables of the fathers and princes of the colony, he seldom left his humble parish. His influence there was unbounded, and his peculiarities, if he had them, belonged to the age. In an age of persecutors, he was so averse to persecution, that he did not escape the charge of heresy and insincerity.

The clergy of that time loved to preach from the Old Testament, and to ill.u.s.trate the lives of the patriarchs. An unlimited and implicit faith, that made each believe he was the especial care and favorite of G.o.d, was the foundation of the religion of the Old Testament. Our fathers had much of the same persuasion. To an audience of fishermen, and scattered cultivators of the sterile fields of New England, such a faith came home to their hearts; the one committing their frail boats to the treacherous ocean, the other depending on the early and the latter rains, and genial skies, for their support.

June had come, the genial month of June, and Mr. Grafton was not revived by its soft air. He declined daily, and Edith, his tender nurse, could not conceal from herself that there was little hope of his ever reviving.

Dinah had watched with him almost every night, but, worn out with fatigue, Edith had persuaded her to take some moments for repose. After a night of much restlessness, towards morning, her father fell into a tranquil slumber. Edith was alone in the darkened room, and as she sat in the deep silence by his bedside, an old-fas.h.i.+oned clock, that stood in the corner, seemed, to her excited nerves, to strike its monotonous tick directly on her temples. A small taper was burning in the chimney, and the long shadows it cast served only to darken the room. From time to time, as Edith leaned over her father, she touched his forehead with her hand: in the solitude and stillness, it seemed a medium of communication with the mind of her father, and held the place of language.

At length he opened his eyes, and seeing her bending over him, he drew her towards him, and kissed her tenderly. In a whisper, he said, "I feel, my child, that I am dying."

"Do not weep," said he, observing how much Edith was shocked; "you can trust in G.o.d. You can be near me in death, as you have been in life. Now is the time, my Edith, to feel the value of all those principles we have learned together through life. I feel that G.o.d is near us, and that when I am gone, he will be near to you."

Edith threw herself into his arms. Her father laid his hand on her head, and prayed audibly. She arose more calm, and asked him if she should not call the faithful slaves.

"No, my child," he said; "let the poor children"--he always named them thus--"let the poor children sleep. G.o.d is here. I hold your hands in mine. What more do we want? Let the quiet night pa.s.s. The morning will be glorious! it will open for me in another world."

It was a beautiful sight, that young and timid woman sustaining her aged father, and he trusting so entirely in G.o.d, and feeling no anxiety, no grief, but that of leaving her alone.

As she sat thus holding his hand in hers, his breath became less frequent; he fixed his eyes on hers with a tender smile. His breathing stopped--his spirit was gone!

Edith did not shriek, or faint. It was the first time she had been in the chamber of death, and a holy calmness, a persuasion that her father's spirit was still there, came over her. She closed his eyes, and sat long with his hand strained in hers.

The first note of the early birds made her start. She arose, and opened the window. The morning had dawned, and every leaf, every blade of gra.s.s, was glittering in the early dew. Her father's horse, that had borne him so many years, was feeding in the enclosure. At the sound of the window, he came forward: then a sense of her loss came over Edith, and she burst into tears.

CHAPTER XI.

"----Whene'er the good and just Close the dim eye on life and pain, Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust, Till the pure spirit comes again.

Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, His servant's humble ashes lie, Yet G.o.d has marked and sealed the spot, To call its inmate to the sky."

It was one of those brilliant and transparent days of June, never surpa.s.sed in any climate. The little church stood clearly defined against the deep blue sky. The ocean, as the sun shone on it, was gemmed with a thousand glancing diamonds, and here and there a light sail rose and fell upon it, like the wings of a bird. It was so still that the hum of the noontide insects was distinctly heard. At intervals, the slow tolling of the little bell sent its echoes back from the surrounding forest.

It was the day of the funeral of the beloved pastor, and small groups of the paris.h.i.+oners began to collect about the church and the house.

Heartfelt grief seemed to shadow every countenance, but the severe and reserved character of the New England Puritans allowed them to make no demonstration of sorrow: they shut up within themselves every trace of emotion, and spoke only in whispers, with a stern, determined air.

The garb and appearance of the people was rough and homely. There were farmers with their wives, on pillions; fishermen with their rough sea-coats; aged women, bent and wrinkled, who had come to lay in the grave one whom they had hoped would have prayed at and blessed their own burial.

The house at length was filled with those who had the nearest claim, and the ministers of the surrounding villages darkened, with their black dress, the little apartment.

The two slaves stood near the bier, and the excitable temperament and violent grief of the poor Africans contrasted with the stern, and solemn, and composed countenances around them.

Edith at last came in. She was calm, but very pale; and, as she entered the room, she gave her hand to those who stood nearest. She tried to speak, but the words died on her lips. Dinah was in a moment at her side. Her delicate and youthful beauty contrasted by her sable friend, and her lonely, unprotected state touched the hearts of these stern, but also tenderly affectionate Puritans, and there were tears in many eyes, as they looked at her with respect and interest.

The windows were all open; the concert of joyous birds, in their season of love and happiness, showed no sympathy with man in his grief. It was so still that the silvery sound of the waves, as they touched the beach, was distinctly heard; and the voice of prayer, as it broke the silence, was the only human sound.

The voice of prayer ceased, and the quick hoof of a horse was heard. In a few moments Seymore entered. He had heard of the death of his friend, and, impelled by an irresistible impulse, he could not remain at his studies. As he entered he was violently agitated, for death and sorrow were new to him.

The color rushed to Edith's pale cheek, as she silently gave him her hand; but she felt a calmness which she could not herself understand. A change had been wrought in her character by that nightly death-bed, and by four days of lonely sorrow. She felt that she must rely on herself.

The changes that are wrought by sorrow and reflection in a timid woman are not less apparent than those wrought by love. They seem, at first, to take from the exquisite feminineness of the character, but they bring out the latent beauty and strength of her spiritual nature. It is said "that every wave of the ocean adds to the beauty of the pearl, by removing the sc.u.m that reveals its interior and mysterious light." It is thus with time and sorrow: they reveal to ones self the inward pearl beyond all price, on which we must forever rely to guide us.

The oldest of the paris.h.i.+oners now approached, to bear their beloved pastor on their shoulders to the silent grave-yard. The ceremonial of a country burial is extremely simple, but they had then an affecting custom which has since been discontinued. As they bore the body to the grave, they sang an anthem, and, as it entered the little enclosure, the groups on each side receded, and uncovered their heads. The boys were hushed to awe, as the anthem rose on the evening air; the sun sank behind the forest, and its last rays were reflected from the grave of this servant of G.o.d.

The exquisite beauty of the scene oppressed and wearied Edith as she returned to her solitary home. She felt that though nature may sympathize with our joy, there is nothing in her bosom that responds to our sorrow.

But she did not return alone: Seymore had followed her; and, as they entered the deserted room, her father's arm-chair was in its accustomed place: even his slippers had been accidentally placed ready for him. The curtain had been removed from her mother's picture, and as she approached it, she met its pitying eyes fixed upon her. The unnatural tension of the nerves, which had denied her, for the last four days, the relief of tears, gave way, and the very fountains of her soul seemed opened. She sank down on a chair, and yielded to the overwhelming emotion.