Do I not fly thee when my being drinks
Light from thine eyes?—that flight is all my answer!
The Bride, Act 2.
It was one of the loveliest evenings in the loveliest month of a New England autumn. One of those delicious pet days, as they are fondly called, which, perhaps, from the uncertainty of their continuance, sometimes elevate the spirits more than the “long, sunny lapse of a summer day’s light.” Birds had been clamorous in melody, rare flowers had confidingly expanded their delicate petals to the genial glow that was abroad, and there seemed to be more light in the world than we are accustomed to enjoy. Yet that day had passed away—the warmer beams were gone, but their delightful influence still was felt in the soft, balmy temperature that remained. The birds had all vanished; yet even of them one would have said some soft charm still lingered in the dreamy hum which, though gradually becoming fainter, was still afloat; and if some delicate flowers had closed their bosoms from the breath of evening, others there were which gave out their fragrance.
On this delightful and balmy evening we introduce our readers to the cottage of Pastor Bartlett, adjoining the village church. It was remote from the main village, and shut out from its bustle and occupation—in this suiting the character and taste of its occupants. From its porch, where they were sitting, the pious man and his wife feasted their eyes with the refreshing green of the woods, whose boughs bent gracefully down to kiss the beautiful verdure that grew beneath, while the whole was softly bathed in a rich, warm flood of purple light.
The sunset hung lingering over the village, as if to contrast its own chamelion-like and gorgeous beauty with the fixed and placid scenery below. Many of the settlers might have been seen seated at the vine-clad doors of their simple dwellings, watching its fading splendor as it sunk behind the tall trees which almost hid from view the pastor’s cottage at the considerable distance we have described.
The excellent clergyman and his partner were sitting on a bench on the left of the porch, screened from observation by the cool boughs of a sycamore, the shadows of which half covered the little lawn that separated the precincts of the cottage from those of silent death. Above the white-washed pailings rose the village church. The old man and his wife were, as we have said before, calmly enjoying the beauty of the evening, the freshness of the air, and not least, perhaps, their own peaceful thoughts—the spontaneous children of a contemplative spirit, and a quiet conscience. Theirs was the age in which we most sensitively enjoy the mere sense of existence, when the face of nature, and a passive conviction of the benevolence of our Great Father, suffice to create a serene and ineffable happiness which rarely visits us till we have done with the passions; till memories, if more alive than heretofore, are yet mellowed in the hues of time, and Faith softens into harmony all their asperity and harshness; till nothing within us remains to cast a shadow over the things without; and on the verge of life, the angels are nearer to us than of yore. There is an old age which has more youth of heart than youth itself!
At length the pair simultaneously arose, and withdrew into the cottage, for sunset was their appointed season for evening devotion. The old man seated himself in his large arm-chair, but his wife lingered standing near the open lattice, until the gloom of twilight was gathering over the sky, and continued to gaze down the path leading to the village with intentness and eagerness. At last, as though weary of her employment, she turned away with a smothered sigh, saying, “Husband, what can detain Grace?”
“I know not,” was the disturbed reply of the venerable man at this suggestion. “There is no fear that bodily harm can have come to her, for it is now a long time since we have had any incursions from the Indians. But I am inclined to fear for her soul’s happiness. Has it not occurred to you, wife,” he continued, “that Grace’s relaxed interest in the duties of religion, together with her repeated absences from home, originate in some cause not purely accidental. For myself, my suspicions have been attracted toward the stranger who in the last few weeks has appeared among us. She has already informed us of their having had more than one interview at the dwellings of some of my people in the village. We must see to it that they meet no more. He must have no further opportunity of awakening an interest in the unsuspecting bosom of our daughter.”
There was a tone of deep despondency in the voice which spoke these words—for recently the change in their child had become marked. Unusual absences from her home—a sadness foreign to her natural cheerfulness of manner—a sudden and frequent outbreaking of tenderness toward her mother and himself—tears often springing overflowingly to her eyes—all these circumstances could do no more than excite uneasiness and anxiety in the minds of her parents.