The Knight of the Golden Melice: A Historical Romance

Moore.

Fair rose the morn of the day which was to unite the destinies of Miles Arundel and of Eveline Dunning, as if to make some amends for the clouds which had attended the progress of their affection.

With a tear in her eye, and smiles in the dimples of her plump cheeks, Dame Spikeman looked on the adorning of the lady for the marriage ceremony, by the cunning fingers of Prudence Rix. She thought, as she gazed on the fair, young face, of her own maiden beauty, of the timid happiness that palpitated in her bosom on her wedding-day, of the dress that heightened her charms, and (shall I so soon acknowledge it?) of what would be becoming for herself on a like occasion, wherein she was to bear a principal part, and the too-fascinating Master Prout another. Let not the solemn pretender to decorum, who, in proportion to his demureness, is apt to be worse than others, with owlish visage quote, "frailty, thy name is woman," or, "e'er those shoes were old," or whatever musty apothegms besides, as stale and senseless. The name of Frailty is no more woman than man, and old shoes have no business at weddings. Stand aside O censorious reader, (I desire not thy acquaintance,) while I whisper to both maid and widow, what, probably, they have often pondered—that life is short, and that in Heaven they neither marry nor are given in marriage.

"Bless thy sweet face!" said the dame. ("Pull down the stomacher a little, Prudence; an' it had been a thought longer it were better.) Ne'er saw I so lovely a bride."

"It is the latest London fashion," muttered Prudence, "that hath come to these outlandish parts, where, thank the Lord, our stay will not be much longer than the stomacher."

"What is the girl chattering about?" said the dame. "Why, Prudence Pert, thou wilt tear the beautiful satin with thine impatience."

"You have already made me prick my fingers three times, dame," answered the waiting-maid, pettishly. "I never could dress my young lady aright, when I was talked to. There! O dear! you have made me cut a ribbon in the wrong place!"

"Did ever one see the like!" exclaimed the widow, as, with a jerk of the petulant Prudence, a few stitches now gave way. "Why, minx, thou art as much flustrated as if thou wert to be married thyself."

"I know somebody, I guess," said the girl, in so low a tone as to be heard only by her mistress, close to whose ear was her mouth, "who would like to be flustrated in that manner."

Eveline could not restrain her smiles at the impertinence of her maid, and her gaiety seemed to please the good dame.

"Thou art a sensible child, Eveline," she said. "Now have I known many a wedding, and generally there are quite as many tears as smiles at them. I like not that, exactly, though I believe I was as great a simpleton as most, when I mar—(here the dame decorously put her handkerchief to her eyes to receive the tears which she did not shed)—when I—; but I must not think of my sorrow, when thy happiness is just commencing." (Dame Spikeman wiped her eyes, and went on more composedly.) "There is nothing thou hast cause to fear, and thou wilt soon get used to it. But, who is to be thy bridesmaid?"

"It was my intent to have had little Neebin," replied the young lady. "It would have sounded so prettily in England to say that an Indian Princess stood up with me, for Miles says that she is the sister of a great king—of Waqua—; thou dost recollect him, Prudence?"

"The funny salvage," said the girl, "who mistook a painting for a live man. But to think of the like of the sister of an Indian, though he be a handsome fellow, going to the 'menial halter with my mistress!" she added, tossing her head.

"The danger is past, Prudence," said Eveline, "for Miles tells me she has run away from the Governor's, and was last seen in the woods with one of her brother's Paniese, as the savages call their greatest warriors, Town—, Town—, I forget his name, but they were going in the direction of their own country."

"Toweringantic was the salvage's name," said Prudence. "I remember it very well, because it sounds so like English."

"That is it not precisely," said the young lady, with a smile; "but it matters not about the name. Our little Princess has fled to her home, and I am left without a bridesmaid."

"The ungrateful heathen!" exclaimed the dame. "Only to think of her deserting the comfortable house of our right worshipful Governor, and instruction in the Christian graces by godly Master Phillips, for the smoky wigwams and powawing of the Indians. The girl, I am sure, will come to no good, and I will never trust one of these Canaanites again."

"Nay; but dame," said Eveline, "I rejoice that she escaped. I did much pity her in her captivity, for she seemed to me like a wild bird, that hath all its life been accustomed to fly in the air, which had been caught and put into a cage, where it sits constantly with moping head and drooping wings, forgetful of the songs which made its woodland home so sweet."

"I did never like to disagree in opinion with thee, Eveline," said the dame, "and leastwise would I do so, of all days in the year, on thy wedding-day; so have it as thou wilt. For thy sweet sake, whom I am so soon to lose, I could find it in my heart to be pleased at anything the little savage might do, were she twenty times a heathen Amalakite or Jebusite."

"Dame," said Eveline, kissing her comely cheek, "how shall I ever be able to repay thy motherly kindness? O, wherever I may be, and whatever my lot, I will ever think of thee as my second mother."

"Dear child," replied the dame, moved to tears, which flowed with womanly facility, "never had mother a sweeter and more loving daughter than thou hast been to me. Hast thou not done more than most daughters, in giving me all the property that remains to thee here?"

"Speak not of it, dame," answered Eveline, "though it is Miles' gift, for he desired me to give it thee."

"Oh! dame, do not disturb my young lady more, for if you get her crying, think how her eyes would look," here interposed Prudence, very sensibly.

"It is time that I were attending to my own apparelling, which, in looking at thee, I quite forgot," said the widow, rising, and leaving the apartment.

The marriage, which took place at the house of the Governor, was private, and attended only by some of the principal personages of the colony and their families. Besides the Knight of the Golden Melice, Sir Richard Saltonstall, who was to sail in the same ship with the young people, came with his two daughters, as did also Master Increase Nowell, and Master Bradstreet. No minister was present, the order resenting, it may be, in a quiet way, an invasion of their prerogative, which excluded them from business of this sort; but in the solemn and graceful manner in which the accomplished Winthrop performed the ceremony, no one noticed any deficiency, not even Eveline herself, who, indeed, was thinking of other matters. Winthrop concluded his part with a little speech, in which he reminded the young couple of the new duties they had assumed, and of the loving mystery whereby two souls were united into one, like two brooks, which, pouring each into the other their bright waters, flow on, inseparably joined, to the ocean of eternity. Something he said, too, of the blessedness of a true faith, as a crowning glory, without which the world was but an unprofitable desert.

Scarcely had the congratulations which followed the sweet voice of the Governor ceased, when a stranger, an honored friend of Master Bradstreet, and who had come with him, stepped forward, and saluting Arundel by the title of the Earl of Cliffmere, informed him that he had matters of importance to communicate.

"I had waited upon you, my lord, before," he said, "even upon the instant of my arrival, had I known where to find you; but I suspected you not under your assumed name."

"I welcome you," said the Earl, advancing and taking the stranger's hand, "I welcome you, Master Hatherly, to the new world, which I this day leave, probably forever. As for thy news, I think thou art anticipated: I am informed by letters brought by the vessel wherein you came, that my father and eldest brother are no more, and that the coronet which I would willingly place upon their living brows, alas, is mine. Wonderful is the drama of life. I abandoned rank and fortune," he added, looking with eyes swimming in love upon his wife, "to seek that without which they possessed no value. They have pursued me across the sea, and, besides, I have obtained my dearest treasure."

The astonished Eveline hid her face in the bosom of her husband, while tears of happiness fell fast. Bewildered, amazed at the discovery of the rank of her lover, she knew not what to say; but amid all her confusion, prevailed triumphantly a sense of sparkling joy, of full contentment, and of radiant hope.

"Why should I conceal from you, noble Winthrop, from you, my valued friend, Sir Christopher, or from any of you, my other friends, with whom I would leave no unsatisfactory remembrance of myself, the little romance that brought me among you," continued the Earl. "Know, that a second son of the deceased Earl of Cliffmere, I wooed, in the character of an humble painter, the sweet daughter of Edmund Dunning. He aspired higher than to unite the destinies of his only child with those of an unknown artist, and looked coldly on my suit. He left England with her, and I, unable to endure the pangs of separation, desired to follow. My mother knew of my attachment from the beginning, and to my entreaties yielded her acquiescence to my desires, for she loved me greatly, and had informed herself of the worth of her to whom I had given my heart, but required me to wait for the permission of my father (absent at the time on the continent) before I followed Eveline to this new world. That permission I received, and straightway departed. Still I continued to conceal my true name and station from even Eveline herself, for a reason, perhaps, more romantic than rational; for, with selfish jealousy, I chose to be loved for my own sake, nor did I mean my secret should be revealed until I had presented my wife to my parents,—but the curtain has been unexpectedly lifted, and ye know all."

"I congratulate you, my lord," said Winthrop, "and will venture to do so also in the name of all present, upon the auspicious termination of your fortunes among us, and only lament that so little time is left us to express our respect. When returned to our dear mother England, from whose bosom we are self-banished, yet whom, with filial reverence, we love, we trust that you will not forget your brethren in the wilderness. It is upon the far-seeing judgment of those in high places, as well as upon the zeal of the people, [all under God,] that we rely to assist us in extending the material and earthly power of our country, as well as in spreading the doctrines of true religion."

"Be sure, sir," answered the Earl, "that I will endeavor to do my duty toward you according to my honest convictions. And now, Eveline, bid farewell. The favoring breeze is bellying in the half unfurled sails, gallant Captain Sparhawk is impatient, and we must away."

Lady Eveline fell upon the neck of the weeping Dame Spikeman, and after kissing her repeatedly, exchanged farewells with those around her, [as did all about to depart,] and then, accompanied by a numerous train, the passengers proceeded to the ship, whither the Lady Geraldine had preceded them, and where, also, they found Philip Joy. The sails were cast off from the yards and hoisted home; the fair wind gracefully curved the canvas, and the good ship, with silver waves breaking at her prow, and a stream of light following in her wake, gallantly stood down the bay.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

William E. Hurlout.

Here might this tale be permitted to end, were it not that a doubt has arisen in my mind whether some particulars do not need explanation. Doubtless the nimble wits of the sagacious have fathomed to their satisfaction all that seemed mysterious; but there may be others who, either less imaginative or more indolent, would like an elaborate elucidation. These latter I invite to accompany me across the blue Atlantic to the pleasant town of Exeter, in the lovely county of Devon, in England.

In the nave of the splendid old cathedral of that town, two men, engaged in conversation, are walking backwards and forwards, one of whom we recognize as the Knight of the Golden Melice; the other is a stranger. Through the stained glass, the dim light of a winter's afternoon falls indistinctly on the stone floor, while from behind the screen which separates the open area where they are pacing from the portion devoted to religious worship, the solemn tones of an organ (for it is the time of evening service) are floating around the massy pillars and among the sculptured arches, as if imploring saintly rest for the high born nobles and reverend bishops who, for hundreds of years, have lain in their marble tombs around. None are present save the two, and, as with reverent feet they tread, they seem dwarfed into children by the huge proportions of the building.

"Two beings more blessed with mutual affection than the young Earl of Cliffmere and his lovely countess I know not," said the Knight, continuing the conversation. "Three weeks remained I with them in their magnificent palace at London, the attractions whereof were tenfold heightened by his courteous bearing and her graciousness. Nor could I without difficulty tear myself away, so lovingly they delighted to dwell upon the time when, as Miles Arundel, he wooed Eveline Dunning, or hunted with me, in the wilds of America, and so sweet were their attentions to my chafed spirit. With them is my trusty Philip, whose trials are now over, while he basks in the favor of the Earl and the smiles of the pretty Prudence, his wife, undisturbed save by her occasional coquetry, which only serves, I suppose, to make his love more piquant."

"A pleasing episode in your romantic life," said the stranger; but know you perfectly how you came to leave America so suddenly?"

"There is a mystery connected therewith which hath ever puzzled me," replied the Knight.

"How felt you in reference to the plan of converting an English into a French colony?"

"I did never either feel therefor inclination, or give it the approbation of my judgment. I cannot forget that I am an Englishman."

"And did Sister Celestina know your sentiments?" inquired the stranger.

"Surely. Wherefore should I have hesitated to bestow on one so devoted my absolute confidence?"

"Ne crede principibus," said the stranger, "is no more worthy of acceptance than ne crede feminis."

"Chosen friend of my soul, sworn brother of my heart," exclaimed the Knight, "I conjure thee to tell me what thou knowest or dost suspect of these mysterious circumstances."

"Thou hast borne, beloved friend, a cross, whereof thou knewest not. You were betrayed, like him whose name you bear even in the house of your friends."

"A light begins to dawn upon my mind. And Sister Celestina—"

"Aye, Sister Celestina, or, as she must now be called, the Abbess of St. Idlewhim, was the traitress. Yet, why call I her so? She did but obey her vow."

"May it please thee, Albert, to be more explicit?"

"Know, then," said the stranger, "that it was in consequence of representations from Sister Celestina thou wast recalled."

"How knowest thou this to be true?"

"Ask me not, for that I dare not reveal; but I swear, by the bones of Loyola, and by our mutual friendship, that it is the sincere truth. Father —— (I will not breathe his name, he added, looking cautiously around,) loves thee not. Thou wert in his way, and he had thee removed from England. He is strong now and fears thee no longer, and has had thee sent ignominiously home, seizing hold of the idle suspicions of a woman as a pretext."

"I see now," said the Knight, "reasons for her conduct, which at the time seemed inexplicable. But what reported Celestina to him?"

"Recollect you your offer to join the congregation?"

"It was but a stratagem."

"But so could she not understand it. Besides, she mistrusted thine intimacy with Winthrop, and his influence over thee."

"I loved the man for his gracious qualities, heretic though he be; but he never influenced me."

"The intense zeal of Celestina, guided only by her womanly instincts, was unable to comprehend thy feeling. She communicated her suspicions to the Father, and it was his pleasure to receive them as truths and act accordingly. It was the father who wrote the letters, signing thereto feigned names, and charging thee with crimes as feigned. It was he who, to avert suspicion from our order (for news had come that the jealousy of the prick-ear'd heretics was aroused, and that they were on sharp look-out for Catholics,) hesitated not to slander the Sister, his own confidential agent, trusting, by the magnitude and foulness of the charges, so to fill the minds of your judges, that other surmises would be thrust out, and thus the ground be preserved for further operations."

"I understand," said the Knight, "that my successor has departed."

"He has gone. Sister Celestina, in her elevation, forgets her temporary humiliation, and Sir Christopher Gardiner—"

"Is the victim of a woman's suspicions and of a monk's policy. Albert, I thank thee; my mind is now at ease, and I shall no longer beat the air in vain attempts to discover my accusers; unsubstantial figments of the Father's imagination. But why told you me not on my arrival in London, when I did so eagerly search for the infamous varlets who had attempted to attaint my honor, and when vain, of course, were my exertions?"

"I was not then permitted. And now, I rely upon thy discretion to bury the secret in thy breast. Any other course might be fatal to us both."

"Fear me not," said Sir Christopher. "I have been examining my heart, and find I bear no malice against the holy Father. It was time we should be removed, and the means, though harsh, were politic; for suspicions of our being Catholics were rife, and what may sound strangely, our friendship, Albert, served to confirm them."

"Explain thy meaning."

"Out of my love to thee, and as a remembrancer for myself, I had made a note in my pocket-book of the time and place of thy admission into the holy Catholic Church, of the taking of thy scapula, and of thy degrees, whereunto I had appended no name. This book escaping from my pocket, was found and delivered to my judges, and considered pregnant proof against me."

"The writing was a great imprudence," said the stranger.

"Confiteor, and whatever shame I may have endured I accept as the fitting punishment of my sins. Alas! my individual sorrows are swallowed up in grief at the thought of the condition of the Church. How doth she sit like a widow in affliction! The flood-gates of error are opened, and the world is deluged with impure streams. When I look on the marble images of the crusaders, lying with crossed legs upon their tombs around us, and on the cold faces of the abbots and mitred bishops, standing in solemn dignity in their niches, they seem saddened and indignant at a reverse that hath changed the very temple erected by Catholic piety over their ashes, and wherein the incense of acceptable worship was offered unto the Lord, into a place of resort for impious and deluded heretics with their tasteless rites. Here, with these mournful monitors around me, I cannot indulge in private resentment while my heart is breaking for the sufferings of my people."

"It is a holy and a commendable frame of mind, my brother," said the stranger. "O, if the spirit that animates thee were universal in our order, how might the wilderness of the world be made to blossom as the Rose of Sharon, and the lamentations of Sion be converted into songs of deliverance!"

THE LOST HUNTER:

A TALE OF EARLY TIMES.

By the Author of "The Knight of the Golden Melice."

12mo. $1.25.

"The style is fluent and unforced; the description of character well limned; and the pictures of scenery forcible and felicitous. There is a natural conveyance of incidents to the dénouement; and the reader closes the volume with an increased regard for the talents and spirit of the author.—Knickerbocker Magazine.

"The style is direct and effective, particularly fitting the impression which such a story should make. It is a very spirited and instructive tale, leaving a good impression both upon the reader's sensibilities and morals."—Eclectic Magazine.

"An interesting plot, dramatic incidents, characters well conceived and executed, picturesque sketches of American scenery, and a satisfactory dénouement, are the elements of success which this new novel invites."—Ballou's Pictorial.

"The locale of the story is at Norwich, Ct., the time, a generation ago, and it embraces a wide range of characters, and brings into discussion a variety of subjects. There is no feature of the book more worthy of commendation than the Indian; this is worked up with great fidelity to the character, passions and legendary history of the aborigines, and exhibits a rare acquaintance with their characteristics. The surprises of the story to the reader are most felicitously arranged, and the conversations introduced are keenly bright."—Springfield Republican.

"The author of this work has not favored the public with his name—and why, we are at a loss to know, for it is one whose authorship no one need be ashamed to acknowledge. A train of incidents, now pathetic, now humorous, and now marvelous, is woven together with an ingenuity not less happy than remarkable. Any reader, so intense will become his interest, who shall peruse the first chapter, will find it difficult to lay the book aside before all its contents shall have been devoured. And more, and better, no one can read it without becoming wiser and better—it abounds with wholesome lessons."—Examiner.

"No clue is given to the author of this story, but it is marked on every page by evidence of a practised pen, of great dramatic power, of experienced judgment of character, and of rare powers of description."—St. Louis Republican.

"Something as bright and cheery as the blue skies and sparkling waters of the New-England land selected for the scene of narrative; as quaint and hearty as the early settlers of the northeastern States, whence it draws its sketches of character, and as wild and picturesque in places as the Indian legends of that 'long time ago' it so cheerfully describes.

"Savage life and scenes of the forest are interwoven like threads of purple and crimson with the pleasant homespun of colonial story; and, ere the reader has ceased to smile over the antics, adventures and sports of the odd specimens of early Yankee character that fill the foreground, he is charmed into silence by the poetic pomp of Indian tradition and the fiery display of Indian loves and hatreds.

"The Lost Hunter is a fine specimen of that class of American literature we have sought to encourage, and we will not mar the enjoyment of those whom we hope this notice may attract, by any brief, imperfect shadowing of the story. Buy it, read it, and you will find it amply worth the time."—National Democrat.

"We were prepared, by the original and facetious style of the preface of this book, for something out of the beaten track; nor have we been disappointed. The plot is ingeniously concealed, and well carried out. The delineations of character are admirable. The Indian legends, and specimens of Indian eloquence, are some of them surpassingly beautiful; while the history of the hero is so exciting, and withal so shrouded in mystery, that there is no sagging of the interest till the last page is reached."—Vermont Republican.