“I know you love her,” Charles continued; “I have seen it in your every act; and oh, William, you have yet to learn the wealth of love and tenderness in that young heart—it is thine, all thine.
“God bless you, dear ones; do not mourn for me, I am so happy thus to die;” and here the low tones, grew fainter and fainter, the large eloquent eyes gave one last lingering look of ardent love, and then were closed forever.
William’s words and presence alone had power to soothe or even moderate the intensity of Evelyn’s grief; and he would not leave her until he saw her restored to something of her accustomed cheerfulness. He talked to her kindly and tenderly of their future home, when he should have a settled parish; he tried to persuade his own heart that he was happy; but at times memories of the past would come before him, and a longing so irresistible to behold once more the face that even now haunted his dreams, would take possession of him, that even to Evelyn, so blinded by love, he appeared constrained and unhappy; and tears would fill her loving eyes as she gazed upon him, and felt she could not drive away his gloom; then William would call to mind his promise, to care for her happiness before his own, and would hasten to chase away the tears, and recall her wonted brightness. But with all his cherishing, he could not but perceive that her health was declining, and he earnestly besought her to be more careful and prudent, and to guard more watchfully against the first indications of disease. “Oh, you are too fearful, my William,” she would say, in a cheerful tone, yet in her own secret heart she often mourned in bitterness of spirit over her doom, for such it seemed to her.
“I have good news for you, dearest,” said William Lee, as he entered the lowly home of the widow lady, with whom, since her brother’s death, Evelyn had lived. “I have heard from Mr. Clare, the kind old minister whom you remember as having crossed the sea with us. He writes most urgently for you to come to them at once; and his daughter, Mrs. Ives, adds a most affectionate postscript, to say that our wedding, my Evelyn, shall take place at her house. I have already found you an escort, as I am obliged to set out on my western expedition to-morrow. Can you be all ready for a start to-morrow?”
“Oh yes, I am quite ready; and since you must leave so soon, I shall be very glad to go. I shall be so much happier there among those who knew our dear Charles.”
Accordingly, a few days found Evelyn settled as an inmate in the house of Mr. Clare, the aged man of God whom we mentioned as having been the first to establish an Episcopal church in the little town of M——. While William, who longed to escape for a while from all society, and nerve his mind for the performance of that promise, which yet weighed heavily on his heart, was going as a missionary among the Indians. Often would he reproach himself that he could turn from the fond, tender, passionate love of Evelyn, and sigh for a heart that had cast him off forever.
“I will go away,” he said to his poor struggling heart. “I will go among the Red Men of the woods, and there, in solitude, and amid the vastness of nature, I will learn to school my heart; I will bury her image in the pathless woods, and return a new man.” Alas! how vain the effort to flee from that which we carry within us; to seek ’mid change of scene for that which we can never find—forgetfulness.
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CHAPTER VI.
“The deepest sorrow that stern fate can bring