Delusion, or The Witch of New England Part 5

"She purchased a large farm on this beautiful part of the coast, and as she was much beloved by her dependents, she persuaded a large number to unite their fortunes with hers. She brought out twenty serving-men, and several young maidens, and created a little paradise around her. The garden was filled with every variety of fruit and flower then cultivated in England, and the strong fence around the whole was to protect her from the Indians.

"At the time the Lady Ursula came to this country, she very much resembled the beautiful portrait that has charmed you so much. It was painted after she parted from her lover, and was intended as a present for him, had she not soon after heard of his death."

"You have seen her, then, my dear father," said Edith. "You knew the beautiful original of that lovely portrait."

"I scarcely knew her," said Mr. Grafton. "Soon after I came to this country, I was riding, one day, near a part of her estate. The day was warm and sultry: under some large spreading oaks a cloth was laid for a repast. I stopped to refresh my horse, and soon after I saw the lady approach, drawn in a low carriage.

"She had brought her workmen their dinner, and after it was spread on the gra.s.s, she turned her beautiful eyes towards heaven, and asked a blessing. She then left her men to enjoy their food, and returned as she came, driving herself in a small poney chaise.

"Among the maidens who came over with her from England was one who had received a superior education, and was much in her lady's confidence.

This young girl was often the companion of her lady's solitary walks about her estate. One evening they were walking, and the Lady Ursula was relating the circ.u.mstances of her early life, and said that till this time she had never parted with all hope; she had cherished unconsciously a feeling that her betrothed lover might have been a captive, and that he would at length return. The young girl said, 'Why do you despair now, my lady? that is a long lane that has no turning.' The lady smiled more cheerfully. 'My bird,' she said, 'you have given me a name for my estate. In memory of this conversation, it shall be called _Long Lane_;'

and it has always retained that name.

"The dews were falling, and they returned to the house. Her men and maidens were soon a.s.sembled, and the Lady Ursula herself led the evening devotions. They were scarcely ended, when a loud knocking was heard at the gate. It could not be Indians! No; it was a packet from England; and, O joy unspeakable! there was a letter from her long-lost friend and lover. He had been taken prisoner when half dead on the field of battle, had been removed from one place of confinement to another, debarred the privilege of writing, and had heard nothing from her. But the war was ended, there had been an exchange of prisoners, and he hastened to England, trembling with undefined fears and joyful antic.i.p.ations. He would embark immediately, and follow his mistress to the new world, where he hoped to receive the reward of all his constancy.

"The lady could not finish the letter: surprise, joy, ecstasy,--all were too much for her, and the Lady Ursula fainted. As soon as she recovered, all was bustle and excitement through the house. The lady could not sleep that night, and she began immediately to prepare for the arrival of her lover. He said he should embark in a few days; she might therefore expect him every hour.

"Every room in the house was ornamented with fresh flowers. A room was prepared for her beloved guest, filled with every luxury the house could furnish; and her own portrait was placed there.

"She was not selfish in her joy: she told her men to get in the harvest: for when _he_ arrived, no work should be performed; there should be a jubilee. A fatted calf was selected, to be roasted whole: and every one of her large household was presented with a new suit of clothes. 'For this my _friend_,' she said, 'was lost, and is now found; was dead, and is alive again.'

"When all was ready, the Lady Ursula could not disguise her impatience.

She wandered restlessly from place to place, her eye brilliant, and her cheek glowing. At every sound she started, trembled, and turned pale.

"Her men were at work in a distant field; and she determined again, as usual when they were far from home, to carry them their dinner. When she took her seat in the little carriage, she said, 'It is the last time, I hope, that I shall go alone.'

"The repast was spread, and they all stood around for the blessing from the lips of the lady. It was remarked by her men that she had never looked so beautiful: happiness beamed from her eyes, and her usually pale cheek was flushed with joy. She folded her hands, and her meek eyes were raised. At that moment, a savage yell was heard; an Indian sprung from the thicket. With one blow of his tomahawk the Lady Ursula was leveled to the ground, and, in less than a moment, her long, fair hair was hanging at his girdle. The Indian was followed by others; and all but one of her faithful servants shared the fate of their mistress."

Mr. Grafton paused; Edith's tears were falling fast. "What became of her lover?" she said, as soon as she could speak.

"He arrived a few days after, to behold the wreck of all his hopes, and returned again, heart-broken, to England."

"And the picture," said Edith; "why did he not claim it, and take it with him, to console him, as far as it could, for the loss of his beautiful bride?"

"As she had made no will," said Mr. Grafton, "all the Lady Ursula's estate belonged to her own family. The lady we have visited to-day is a daughter of her brother."

Edith continued silent, and heeded not that the shades of evening gathered around them. She was pondering the fate of the Lady Ursula.

That one so young, so beautiful, so good, should lead a life of sorrow and disappointment, and meet with so sudden and dreadful a death, weighed on her spirits; for Edith had not yet solved the mystery of life.

The sun had long set, when they reached their own door. Dinah had prepared the evening meal, and the cheerful evening fire; and Edith smiled her thanks.

As she helped her young mistress to undress, she said, "How pale you are, and how tired! You need a sweet, refreshing sleep to rest you again."

When Edith laid her head on the pillow, she called her humble friend to her: "Ah, Dinah," she said, "I have heard a story that makes me think there is no happiness on this earth."

Dinah had heard the story of the Lady Ursula.

"Was it not too sad, that she should meet that dreadful fate just as her lover returned, and she was going to be so happy?"

Dinah thought it was very sad. "But the lady was pure and good: the words of prayer were on her lips, and she went straight to heaven without much pain. Had she married and gone to England, she might have become vain and worldly; she might have lost the heavenly purity of her character."

"Yes," said Edith; "and Col. Fowler, having lived so long in the army, might not have loved her as well as she thought he did. Ah, who could live without love?"

Dinah thought many could and did. "Women depended too much," she said, "on their affections for happiness. Strong and deep affections were almost always disappointed; and, if not, death must come and sever the dearest ties;" and she stooped down and kissed Edith's hand, which she held in hers.

Poor Dinah! she little knew how entirely her own heart was bound up in Edith.

"But what can we live for, if not for love?" said Edith.

"For many things," answered Dinah, in her simple and quiet manner; "to grow better ourselves, and to do good to others; to make sacrifices, and to love _all_ good works."

"I should not wish to live, were I to lose my father, and you, and"--Edith paused, and closed her eyes.

Dinah drew the curtain, and bid her, softly, "good night."

Edith could not sleep. She was reflecting on the fate of the Lady Ursula. With Dinah's a.s.sistance, she had begun to solve the mysteries of Providence;[2]

"Without, forsaking a too earnest world, To calm the affections, elevate the soul, And consecrate her life to truth and love."

[Footnote 2: The story of the Lady Ursula is founded on fact. In the author's youth, the farm of "Long Lane" retained its name, and belonged to the C---- family.]

CHAPTER VIII.

"A little cottage built of sticks and weeds, In homely wise, and walled with sods around, In which a witch did dwell, in loathly weedes And wilful want, all careless of her needes; So choosing solitairie to abide. Far from all neighbours."

SPENSER.

I wish I were a painter, or a poet, to describe a little sheltered nook on the sea-sh.o.r.e, where devotion would retire to worship, love to dwell in thought on the beloved, or sorrow to be soothed to rest. It was a small cove, sheltered on the north by high, overhanging cliffs, that ran out into the ocean in a bold headland. Opposite these rocks the land sloped gently down, and the ocean, lulled to rest, came in like a spent and wearied child, and rippled on a smooth, white sand.

The top of the cliff was covered with many-colored shrubbery. The drooping branches of the birch, the sumac, and the aspen, tinted with the rich coloring of autumn, hung half way down the cliff, and were reflected, like a double landscape, in the water. At sunset, the entire gla.s.sy surface was burnished with the red and yellow rays of the setting sun; and when the young moon, like a fairy boat, just rested on the surface, it was a scene of beauty that could not be surpa.s.sed in any country.

Immediately under the cliff, and sheltered like a swallow's nest, was the smallest of human habitations; so dark, and old, and moss-grown, that it seemed a part of the rock against which it rested. It consisted of one room: a door and single pane of gla.s.s admitted the light, and the nets hanging around, and an old boat drawn up on the beach, indicated that it was the shelter of a fisherman.

The Indian summer still continued, and a few mornings after the little journey, Edith was induced, by the soft beauty of the weather, to visit the cove. It was a walk of two miles, but the inhabitants of the cottage were among the poor of her father's parish, and she was never a stranger in their cottages.

The brilliant sun gave to the ever-changing ocean the tints of emerald green, royal purple, crimson, and sapphire, and made a path of light, fit for angels' footsteps. The tide was out, and the smooth beach glittered in the morning sun. The ocean, as far as the eye could reach, was smooth as gla.s.s. It was not then, as now, white with the frequent sail: a solitary vessel was then a rare occurrence, and hailed with rapture, as bringing news from _home_. The white-winged curlew was wheeling around in perfect security, and the little bay was dotted, in a few spots, with fishermen's boats. The absence of the old boat from the beach showed that the owner of the cottage was among them.

Edith was sorry her friend the fisherman was absent, for the old woman who kept his house was a virago; and, indeed, was sometimes thought insane. Although Edith's moral courage was great, she possessed that physical timidity and sensitiveness to outward impressions that belongs to the poetic temperament.

She lingered in her walk, watching the curlews, and listening to the measured booming of the waves as they touched the sh.o.r.e and then receded. The obvious reflection that comes to every mind perhaps came to hers, that thus succeed and are scattered the successive generations of men. No; she was thinking that thus arrive and depart the days of her solitary existence; thus uniformly, and thus leaving no trace behind.

Will it be always thus? she sighed; and her eyes filled with tears. Her revery was interrupted by a rough voice behind her.

"What have you done, that G.o.d should grant you the happiness to weep?"

said the old woman, who now stood at her side.