Dread spirits wait in stern espial:—
But name thou still the Name belov’d.”
Keble.
There stood Master Bradford in gown and bands, his kindly face upturned as he led the prayers and psalms. He had finished reading the lesson from St. John’s Gospel, when a little company entered the chapel and came straight up the aisle; first Governor White’s tall figure, then Mistress Wilkins, carrying the baby, closely followed by its father, who looked proud and happy.
Indian and white man alike arose as Master Bradford began the familiar and beautiful words of our baptismal service; and when he put the holy water on the wee brow and said, “Virginia, I baptize thee,” a murmur of satisfaction ran through the little congregation. Never was queen baptized with more ceremony, or in the presence of a more loving or devoted congregation, than this little grandchild of Governor White, who had received the name of the new country in which she was the first Christian baby born. It was because of her baptism that on this tenth Sunday after Trinity every one in the little Roanoke colony but the child’s own mother crowded into and around the roughly made log building that served for a church or chapel.
That first house of God in our land, which now, three hundred years later, abounds in splendid churches and cathedrals, was, I fancy, as precious to him who values our gifts by our love, and counts worth by sacrifice, as the gorgeous temples of our day. He did not despise the roughly made house in which the Holy Presence was first celebrated; that log room where there was moss for a carpet, a great bowlder for the altar, lichen and cup-moss for hangings, the font, a spring trickling through the stones; where for decorations the sweetbrier and wild creeper had forced their way between the logs, and clung to the barky walls, and where the little birds often flew in for their morning hymn of praise, and the forest trees raised their arms protectingly over the holy spot, forming, as it were, a lofty cathedral arch. To those loving Eyes watching from above, that humble square building, made by the loving hands of those first settlers as a token of their love and gratitude for bringing them safely through the mighty waters to so pleasant a port, that first chapel, I am sure, was as beautiful as are many of our richly carved and polished temples of stone.
As the service ended, the little congregation gathered outside the governor’s hut; inside, some of the principal men were talking to him, also Manteo, the Indian chief. Governor White was standing in the inner room by the bed; he was holding the baby in his arms, and speaking very earnestly. A voice from the bed cried, “O father, father dear, you will not leave me! do not, do not.”
“Yes, Eleanor,” was the reply; “God calls me back to England. I only waited to see your baby; with her you will find it less lonely, dear, and you are always brave.” And, as Ananias Dare came in and bent over the bed, Governor White walked out to the group of men waiting in the outer room. He closed the door behind him as he said, “Well, my men, I think this is a good time and place for me to tell you the plans we are to carry out.”
And then, stepping to the door, that those standing outside might hear what he said, he continued, “This is our plan: I shall sail for England as soon as we can make everything ready. Some of the men will go with me, the others remain here till our return. I do not mean in this particular place, but in this wonderful new country. I do not think it would be wise to remain on this island; any of the tribes which wish to drive you away have the advantage, being able to approach you on every side in their canoes. You are to leave Roanoke and go to the mainland, and settle in a spot not held by any particular tribe. Wanchese is no longer friendly; partly, I believe, because he thinks that at one time this island belonged to his tribe. However this may be, I am assured that it would be better for you to be on the mainland for many reasons, and that it would be wise for you to have nothing to do with Wanchese. When you leave Roanoke, carve on a tree that overhangs the little bay the name of the place you have removed to; if in danger or distress, carve over the name a cross. I have drawn up the laws that are to govern you, and which will be in my room ready for you to sign to-morrow. I will leave behind me ninety-one men, the seventeen women, and eight children, and these laws are to govern them.”
As the governor saw the dissatisfied faces, he continued, “I shall return as soon as it is possible: I am sure you cannot doubt that. Am I not leaving you good security, my daughter and her child, this dear little one?”