To him who in the love of Nature holds communion with her visible forms
she speaks a various language.
Bryant’s Thanatopsis.
Rarely does the sun shine upon a lovelier spot than the small, secluded town of Riverdale. Shut in between high hills, that served to screen it also from the bleak north winds, it seemed to embrace within its narrow limits every element of beauty; and though from its retired situation it afforded no business facilities, and therefore contained little wealth and no style, yet to those who sought the beautiful in Nature, or for whom solitude had charms, it was a little paradise.
And so thought Mabel Dacre, as she sat with her hands clasped over a book that lay half-open in her lap, and her eyes gazing earnestly and with rapt attention on the distant landscape. It was sunset, and far off in the clear horizon floated the golden clouds curtaining the day-god’s couch. A crimson light, softened by that exquisite misty veil in which Nature is so fond of adorning herself, rested like a glory upon the tops of the hills, and threw into deep shadow the quiet valley at their feet; while upon the river which wound slowly along, reluctant as it would seem to leave a place so lovely, a few bright gleams yet lingered. “How beautiful,” murmured Mabel to herself, as her delighted gaze took in at once the scene that we have vainly attempted to describe; “how can any one think the world so dark and dreary?”
“I will tell you, my Mabel,” said a low voice at her side, as blushing, yet smiling, Mabel turned and met the fond gaze of Walter Lee, who had advanced unperceived, so absorbed had she previously been. Now, however, she willingly lent an ear to her lover’s voice. “I will tell you; it is because so few are in unison with the loveliness, the repose, the purity of Nature, that they find in her no beauty; the vain toils of ambition, the grasping pursuit of wealth, the wearying chase for pleasure, unfit men for loving that which is simple, pure and universal. You, dearest, are a true child of Nature, and you feel almost a child’s love for a mother, toward the beauty around you.
“My sweet one,” he continued, as with delighted eyes he gazed upon the lovely face uplifted to him in all the unconsciousness and confiding love of childhood, “my beautiful Mabel, will you laugh at my fancies if I say that I find in Nature the original of even all your charms: from the violet you stole the deep-blue of those dear eyes, and from whence learned your hair its graceful waving, save from the tendrils of the vine; so confess now, fair pilferer, ere I bring forward other charges.” And with these words he took the book from her hands; it was a volume of Spenser’s Faery Queen. Mabel laughingly reproached him for stealing so quietly upon her.
“But where have you been, Walter, this long, long day; I was so lonely, I had no one to read to me, so I soon tired of my needle-work, and in very weariness I wandered off to see the sun set.”
“Have you, indeed, missed me, Mabel, darling; bless you for those words; to me, too, it was a weary day, in the close, dark city, but duty called me there, and I have brought letters to the rector from London.”
“Letters to my father! and from London,” exclaimed the surprised girl; “who can he have in the great city to write to him; I have often heard him say he knew no one in London. But hark! I hear the sunset-bell, and my father will be waiting for me for our evening service.” And so saying, with one last look at the distant landscape, Mabel put her arm fondly in Walter’s, and with step as light and graceful as the mountain deer’s, turned toward the little, low-roofed cottage of the Rector of Riverdale. “Will you not come in, Walter,” said Mabel, in soft, persuasive accents.