Literary Cadet, And Saturday Evening Bulletin

MISCELLANY.

THE FOUNTAIN—CHAP. 2.

Oh Love! thou art a pure and holy thing.
Percival.

Nay Ellen—for it must be you, do not drop your song for me. It is only I, Edward Vinal, and I would give much to hear one of your sweet songs here on this romantic spot.

She cast her eye around the retired scene and thought anxiously of being alone with him in the solitary glen all shut in by the thick woods and seldom visited by any but herself, but stealing a timid glance at his face she saw it flushed only with ardent and respectful admiration and kindled delight. There could be no evil cherished a bosom whose pure feelings were so eloquently expressed upon such clear sunny features, and in a moment Ellen felt as safe with the honorable boy here in the lonely forest, as with her mother by their own fire-side. Sweet was the song which she warbled to the delighted youth, and he thanked her, not with studied compliments and empty praise, but with mute attention and the tear of sensibility. Another and another song succeeded, and the youthful pair began to feel as if they had been long acquainted, and as though it were nothing unusual to be seated together under the old oak among the freshness, fragrance, and wildness of nature's lonely haunts.

In the midst of a long tale which Ellen related of an Indian warrior who fell fighting for his forest heritage nearly half a century ago, and whose bones were said to be at rest in the heart of the mound beneath their feet, she observed it was growing late. The shadows of the tall trees that skirted the western brink of the glen, had lengthened in the setting sun, and now cast a shade upon the clear fountain; the dew had begun to gather upon the grass, and a breathless silence reigned through the woodland solitude, all unbroken save by the robin's vesper strain. Ellen regretted that she could not finish the interesting tale, but she folded up her work and was preparing to depart. Her auditor could scarcely believe that evening was so near; the hours passed under the hazels had glided away like so many delicious moments in which we take no heed of time. Again and again he thanked her for the pleasure afforded by the wild story and her sweet songs, till his ardor called the glowing blushes to her cheeks. She began to retire on her homeward path, wishing him a pleasant walk with a tone that forbade his accompanying her. He answered not, but stood entranced like one who witnesses the vanishing of a heavenly vision which he is never more to behold; then calling after her, she turned. 'Ellen—fair Ellen, promise that I shall hear the rest of your romantic story. See—the sun is going down in red and golden clouds, the morrow will be a bright and delightful day—surely you will take your work to the spring and relate the remainder of the story?' In his earnest entreaty he had taken her soft hand into his; there was a beseeching eloquence in his dark eye, and his tone was supplicating as if life and happiness depended on hearing a simple tale. She could not resist such pleading, and smiling assent, she withdrew her hand and bade him good night. And thus they parted—the generous and romantic Edward to the proud mansion of his father, the humble, innocent, and amiable Ellen, to the lowly roof of her mother's cottage.

There was an elasticity in Ellen's step, and a flush of delight on her usually calm features as she came up to the cottage door, so that her mother was sure she had been happy at work on her woodland seat. She told her mother all that happened, not mentioning, however, the partial promise to meet on the ensuing day. Mrs. Barclay was both gratified and alarmed—gratified to perceive the pleasure of Ellen, and with the thought that even in her poverty her daughter could excite the admiration and respect once readily conferred before they were poor; she was fearful, however, of slanderous tongues, but she trusted implicitly in Ellen's rectitude, and the general esteem in which Edward was held could never have been yielded so suddenly to one who had evil in his disposition. She was ignorant that they were to meet again, and therefore did not chide Ellen for the past. Her daughter was all simplicity and open-heartedness, and she spoke often of the graceful boy that evening; even while kneeling in prayer by her bedside, his youthful image stole upon her, distracting her mind between earth and heaven; the hymn she sang that night was one which he had admired, and with her dreams he was blended as a pure vision of light and loveliness. The cottage stood on the skirts of the village, and you had only to walk a quarter of a mile along a narrow foot-path through green fields, to escape from the view and din of active life to the silent and wild glen of the fountain. Several times a day Ellen came there with a small bucket for water, and never had the place seemed so sweet and beautiful as on the morning after she had sat on the same rural seat with Edward Vinal. She felt that the retreat was dearer than ever, and the remembrance of the happy hours which she had passed there would remain forever, like a fair flower blossoming on the cold waste of after life.

That was a long and tedious night for Edward. His father had required his attendance till late in the evening, and his capricious, fretful expressions had never sounded so harsh before. Mr. Vinal was proud of his son, and was able to appreciate the loftiness and purity of his character, but strange to say, he felt none of a father's love. Perhaps he was conscious that his past neglect and present bearing did not merit love in return. There was a painful sensation of inferiority as he contrasted his own sensual disposition with the exalted and religious principle of Edward, and something like envy clung about his heart as he contemplated his open and contented features. His own disposition was soured by actual suffering, but more by being deprived by ill-health of those pleasures which had been his sole pursuit through life. While he sat alone in his arm-chair, possibly some inward whispering spake of wasted time and wealth, of injustice and suffering occasioned by inattention to his affairs, and gave a dim hint that a day of account was at hand. At any rate his mind was in an unhappy state; his son and other attendants were obliged to bear many causeless, ill-natured rebukes; and after doing their best to gratify his ever varying whims, perhaps were sent from the room with a curse. Edward received the same treatment as a hired menial; his presence or absence seemed equally unnoticed and undesired: if he smiled with the hope of cheering his father's mind, his forced gaiety was accused as an unnatural indifference; if a tear fell at the sight of mental or bodily suffering, he was sent away for a foolish sniffling boy. Gladly would he have devoted his whole time to attending upon his father, could he have imagined it available or acceptable, but sometimes his presence appeared to increase the peevish irritability of the sick man; then he retired, perhaps to weep alone and unseen far off among the dim woods, or to banish by exercise his useless regret. The night after meeting Ellen he went weeping to bed at the harsh treatment he had received from a parent, whom if permitted he could ardently love, because he was a parent. Then the thought of that beautiful girl came to him and dispelled his grief. Her glowing picture was ever before him and prevented sleep till long after midnight, and then his visions were still of her, but there was a shade of melancholy and distress mixed with them. As he stood with her by the clear fountain, soothed by its gentle murmur and the lively songs of birds, a thick cloud came over, shutting out the sunshine and darkening the boiling waters, and when he turned to Ellen her face was pallid with the hue of death, and her white robe wrapped her like a winding sheet. His father's face appeared scowling from among the green forest leaves pronouncing a curse upon them both, and immediately there was thunder; and the fair girl was caught away he knew not how, but she threw such a sorrowing glance upon him as she vanished that he awoke in an agony of affright, scarcely believing it was the morning sun that shone so cheeringly into his chamber.

The long, long forenoon was over at last, and before the shadows began to extend eastward, Edward stood on the mound with his eyes directed to the path along which Ellen had disappeared the previous evening. She came after a time in all her beautiful modest blushes, and took a seat with him under the oak. The Indian story was rehearsed and many a song filled the little valley with music. Edward had a book which contained a similar tale, and it was settled that he should read it to her early the next day; and so on that day they met, and it was the same on the next and the next, and indeed on every sunny day of that long happy summer, Edward saw his Ellen under the old oak beside the fountain. His fishing rod was neglected and, his fowling piece awoke the long echoes from the hills nowhere, except in the woodland near the spring, for he kept watch for Ellen, and often when she came only for a moment with her water bucket, the loving boy issued from the trees with features flushed with exercise and animated with the sight of that fair creature. The few words and smiles which they could exchange while he dipped up the water from the spring, were sufficient to reward him for many hours of expectation, giving food for musing till they should again be together under the shady oak. Nothing could be more innocent, tender, and respectful, than the love they bore each other, not yet knowing that it was love which made their young existence so full of bliss and thrilling delight.

AE.