For months after Mabel’s departure, the little cottage was filled with gloom, yet still her sweet loving letters, like gleams of sunshine, often illumined its darkness, and Walter, who now shared the loneliness of Mr. Dacre’s abode, would often sit for hours with one of those precious missives clasped in his hand, and his eyes wandering from one to another of the dear objects which her touch had rendered sacred. There were her flowers, still blooming as freshly as ever, while she whose slender fingers had so often trained their graceful foliage, was gone forever. Alas! how sad, how inexpressibly harassing to his loving heart, was this living death of her whom he so idolized; separated as fully as though the dark portals of the grave had arisen between them, yet with the agonizing thought ever in his mind that far away, in a gay and brilliant throng, her beauty gladdened other eyes, her silvery voice made music to other ears, while her poor lonely heart was yearning to flee away and be at rest.
For a time not a doubt of her constant, faithful devotion to him ever crossed his mind; and even when a long interval passed and no letters came in answer to his repeated and affectionate ones, not a line to cheer his poor desolate heart, he still tried not to give way to despondency or doubt; “do not let us distrust each other, Walter,” these sweet words would come like an angel message, when his hope, and his faith in woman’s love were well nigh gone.
And then a new trial came in the increasing feebleness of his beloved rector. The old man’s worn-out frame could not long have endured even with the gentle cares and sweet cherishing of his adopted daughter. Anxiety for her fate, and the long cessation of all intercourse between them, brought on a melancholy that seemed to deprive him of all energy or strength; and day by day Walter saw the bowed and aged form grow weaker, and the gentle voice more tremulous.
One evening in autumn, as Walter sat by his bedside, reading from that priceless volume, which was now the rector’s only comfort, the post-boy entered with a letter from London.
“It is for you, dear father,” said the young man, at the same time handing him the letter. Mr. Dacre’s eyes glowed with unusual lustre, and he said reverently, “Thank God! I shall once more hear the sweet words of affection from my darling child! read it to me, Walter, I am too blind to read it myself.”
Walter opened the letter; but at the first glance a chill like ice crept over his frame. “It is not from Mabel, father,” he said, in a voice of such ill-suppressed agony, that Mr. Dacre started, then almost gasping for breath, he read as follows:
“Mr. Dacre,—At the request of Lady Mabel Arlington, I desire to inform you of her approaching marriage with the Duke D’Alençon, a zealous supporter of her father’s faith, and a nobleman of the highest rank. Under such circumstances she deems it proper that all intercourse between herself and her childhood’s associates should cease entirely.
“Robert, Earl of Arlington.”
“Oh God! must I drink this cup of bitterness! My Mabel false to her faith; my child, my child, it must not be,” murmured the old man—and his cheek grew paler and paler. The shock was too great for his weak frame, and with one long sigh his ransomed spirit fled to its eternal rest.
What language can paint the bitterness, the deep intensity of Walter’s anguish. That Mabel, his beloved, his plighted wife, could be another’s, was a thought too fearful for his soul’s strength; he could not believe that there was on earth a misery so great. No, it should not be; and he cried aloud in the terrible struggle with his agony,