“I was thinking more of the long journey, the parting from friends, and living among strangers, than I was of snakes and guns,” replied Alice. “Then everybody says there are so many discomforts and hardships in a new country. And the Indians, William! Only think of going within sound of the Indian war-whoop!”
“The Indians are in a very different state now,” he replied, “from what they were when the Puritan women followed their husbands into the wilderness of this new world. They are few in numbers now. Their spirit has been tamed by accumulated wrongs, and they are too well aware of the power of the United States’ government, to make any aggressions upon those who are under its protection. Besides, you know it is my opinion that the Indians never would have made unprovoked aggressions. Who can read Catlin’s account, without being struck with the nobility of character often manifested by their much-injured race? I am fully persuaded that it is easy to make firm friends of the Indians, by treating them with justice and kindness, and with that personal respect, which they so well know how to appreciate.” He pressed her arm to his side, and took her hand within his, as he added, “You seemed greatly to admire that young Puritan bride, who cheerfully left home and friends behind her, and crossed the tempestuous ocean, to brave cold and hunger by her husband’s side, in a wilderness where wolves and savages were howling.”
Her hand trembled within his; for something in the earnestness of his look, and the tender modulation of his tones, suddenly revealed to her what was passing in his mind. She knew he was not thinking of cousin John’s wife, while he spoke thus of the pilgrim’s bride. It was the first time that such a possibility had been suggested to her mind; and it made the blood run cold in her veins. After a painful pause, she said, with a forced calmness of voice, “We often admire virtues we are not strong enough to imitate.”
He pressed her hand, and remained silent, till an outburst of tears made him stop suddenly, and fold her to his heart. “Don’t weep, my beloved,” he said, “I will never require, or even ask, such a sacrifice of you. Such a delicate flower as you are needs to be sheltered from the blast and the storm. But you have conjectured rightly, dearest, that my heart is set upon accompanying these emigrants. I feel that all there is of manhood within me, will be developed by the exigencies of such a career. My character and my destiny will grow more grand with the responsibilities that will devolve upon me. If I remain here, I never shall do half I am capable of doing for myself and for posterity. To speak the plain truth, dear Alice, I have something of the old Puritan feeling, that God calls me to this work. You have promised to be my wife within a few weeks; but I absolve you from that promise. If you prefer it, I will go and prepare a comfortable home for you in that new region, and endeavour to draw a circle of our mutual friends around me, before I ask you to leave your New England home.”
She looked up at him, through her tears, with a half-reproachful glance, which seemed to say, “Do you then suppose there can be any hardship so great, as separation from the one I love best in the world?”
He understood the mute appeal, and answered it by saying, “Don’t be rash, clear Alice. Reflect upon it till next Sunday evening, and then tell me what is your decision. I shall not love you one particle the less if you tell me that years must pass before you can be the partner of my life. No duties, no excitements, no lapse of time, can remove your image from my heart.”
Few more words were spoken, as they returned homeward, lighted by the crescent moon. It was not until long after midnight that Alice fell asleep, to dream of standing by a wide chasm, vainly stretching her hand toward William, on the other side.
During the following days, she asked no counsel, save of God and her mother. Her mother laid her hand tenderly on her head, and said, “I dare not advise you. Follow your own heart, my child;” and when she prayed to God, she seemed to hear an echo of those words. She saw William often, but she spoke no word to dissuade him from his purpose. Had he been going to California to dig gold, she would have had much to say in favour of the humblest home under the protection of the old order-loving Commonwealth; but he had spoken so seriously of his sense of duty, that her womanly nature reverenced the manliness of his convictions; and she prayed that his courage to dare might be equalled by her fortitude to endure. It rained heavily on Sunday evening, so that the lovers could not take their accustomed walk; and the presence of others prevented a confidential interview. But when they parted at the door, Alice slipped a small package into William’s hand. When he arrived at home, he opened it with nervous haste, and found a small Bible, with a mark within it. An anchor was embroidered on the mark, with the word Faith beneath it; and his eye was caught by pencil lines on the page, encircling the words: “Where thou goest, I will go; where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” “God bless her!” he exclaimed. “Now I can go forward with an undivided heart.” He kissed the anchor again and again, and, bowing his head on his hands, he wept as he had not wept since boyhood. To his deep and earnest nature, love and duty were sacred realities.
Great was the joy of cousin Kate and her husband, when it was known that William Bruce had determined to join the band of emigrants, and that Alice had acquiesced. William was a young man of such good judgment and stedfast principles, that they all felt he would be a balance-wheel in the machinery of any society where he moved. John Bradford was equally good and true, but his temperament induced more volubility of speech, and more eagerness of action. When the band of emigrants heard of William’s decision, they said laughingly to each other, “Now we shall have both Moses and Aaron to guide us into Canaan.” Kate’s widowed mother, and a younger brother and sister, resolved to join the enterprising band. A little nephew of five years old was of the same mind; and when told that he was too small to be of any use, he declared himself fully able to catch a bear. Alice’s father and mother had prospective plans of following their daughter, accompanied by their oldest son, in case those who went before them should send up a good report of the land. Her adhesive affections suffered terribly in this rupture of old ties. But in such natures love takes possession of the whole being. She would have sacrificed life itself for William. All her friends knew it was harder for her than for others, to go into a strange land and enter into entirely new modes of existence. Therefore, they all spoke hopefully to her, and no one but William ever presented the clouded side of the picture to her view. He did it from a conscientious scruple, lest she should go forward in the enterprise with eyes blinded to its difficulties. But the hardships he described in such tender tones, never seemed like hardships. His warnings were always met with the affectionate response, “What a proud and happy woman I shall be, dear William, if I can do any thing to sustain you through the trials you will have to encounter.” She never spoke despondingly, never told the fears that sometimes swarmed in her imagination. If she could not strengthen him, she at least would not unnerve him, she said to herself; and as for cousin Kate, she would have been ashamed to acknowledge to her what a faint heart was beating within her bosom. Kate, who had earned her own living ever since she was sixteen, and assisted her widowed mother, and educated her younger brother and sister, in a manner well adapted to make them useful and active members of society, was just the woman to emigrate to the West. Sometimes Alice sighed, and wished she was more like Kate. She did not know how many anxious thoughts were concealed under her cousin’s cheerful tones, her bright frank smile, and her energetic preparations for departure.
Thick and fast came in the parting memorials from relatives and schoolmates; and what showers of tears fell upon them as they were stowed away in the closely packed chests! That last night at the old homesteads, oh, how the memories crowded upon those suffocated hearts! When Alice stole out in the moonlight, and wept, while she kissed the old elm, from whose boughs she had swung in childhood, she did not know that the roots were already moistened with Katie’s tears.