 | CHAPTER X. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
Sober, stedfast, and demure.”
Il Penseroso.
When the two ladies were alone, there were a
few moments of embarrassed and uninterrupted
silence, a rare occurrence between two confidential
young friends. Hope Leslie was the first to
speak. “Come, my dear Esther,” she said, “it
is in vain for you to think of hiding your heart
from me; if you do not fairly conduct me through
its mazes, I shall make use of the clue you have
dropped, and find my own way through the labyrinth.”
“Hope Leslie—what clue do you mean? You
should not trifle thus.”
“Well then, I will be as serious as you please,
and most solemnly demand why thou hast never
hinted to the friend of thy bosom, that thou hadst
seen, in thine own country, this youth, Everell
Fletcher, of whom I have, at divers times and sun-dry
places, most freely spoken to thee?”
“I never told you I had not seen him.”
“Oh no! but methinks, for a godly, gracious
maiden, as thou art, Esther; approved by our elders,
actions, as well as your language, should be the
gospel `yea, yea, and nay, nay;' this `paltering
with a double sense,' as the poet has it, would
better become a profane damsel, like myself.”
“If I have lacked sincerity, I merit your reproach;
but I meant to have told you. Mr.
Fletcher's arrival now was unexpected”—
“And you were indisposed? your nerves deranged?
your circulations disordered? I thought
so, when I saw that burning blush, that looked,
even through the folds of your veil, as if it would
set it on fire; but now your surprise is over, why
look so like the tragic muse? Raise up your eyes
and look at me, dear Esther, and do not let those
long eye-lashes droop over your pale cheek, like a
weeping willow over the monumental marble.”
“Oh, Hope Leslie! if it were not sinful, I could
wish that monumental marble might press the
clods on my cold bosom.”
Hope was startled at the unaffected solemnity,
and deep distress, of her friend: every pulsation
of her heart was audible, and her lips, which before
were as pale as death, became absolutely
blue. She threw her arms around her, and kissed
her tenderly. “Dear, dear Esther,” she said,
“forgive me for offending thee. I never will ask
thee any thing again—never, so long as I live.
You may look glad, or sorry—blush, or faint—do
any thing you please, and I never will ask you for
a reason.”
“You are very kind, very generous, Hope; but
have you not, already, guessed the secret I have
striven to hide?—you hesitate—answer me
truly.”
“Why, then, if I must answer truly—perhaps,
I have,” replied Hope, looking, in spite of
herself, as archly as the mischievous little god,
when he sees one of his own arrows trembling
in the heart; “ `set a thief to catch a thief,'
dear Esther, is an old maxim; and though I have
never felt this nervous malady, yet, you know, I
am skilled in the books that describe the symptoms,
thanks to aunt Grafton's plentiful stock of
romances and plays.”
“Oh most unprofitable skill! but I have no
right to reproach thee, since what hath been but
the sport of thy imagination, is my experience
—degrading experience. Whatever it may cost
me, you shall know all, Hope Leslie. You have
justly reproached me with insincerity—I will, at
least, lighten my conscience of the burden of that
sin.”
Hope's curiosity was on tiptoe; and notwithstanding
her generous resolution, not voluntarily
to penetrate her friend's mystery, she was
delighted with the dawn of a disclosure, which,
she believed, would amount to a simple confession
of a tender sentiment. She sincerely pitied Miss
Downing's sufferings; but it is, perhaps, impossible
for a third person to sympathise fully with
feelings of this nature. “Now, Esther,” she said,
the penitent. Confess freely, daughter—our
holy church, through me, her most unworthy servant,
doth offer thee full absolution.”
“Stop, stop, Hope Leslie—do not trifle with
holy words, and most unholy rites; but listen, seriously,
and compassionate a weakness that can
never be forgotten.”
Miss Downing then proceeded to relate some
of the following particulars; but as her narrative
was confused by her emotions, and as it is necessary
our readers should, for the sake of its illustration,
be possessed of some circumstances which
were omitted by her, we here give it, more distinctly,
in our own language.
Esther was the daughter of Emanuel Downing,
the husband of Governor Winthrop's sister, so
often mentioned by that gentleman in his journal,
as the faithful and useful friend of the pilgrims,
whom he finally joined in New-England.
Esther Downing was of a reserved, tender, and
timid cast of character, and being bred in the strictest
school of the puritans, their doctrines and principles
easily commingled with the natural qualities
of her mind. She could not have disputed the
nice points of faith, sanctification and justification,
with certain celebrated contemporary female
theologians, but no one excelled her in the
practical part of her religion. In the language
of the times, justification was witnessed, both by
word, and work.
That young ladies were then indulged in a moderate
degree of personal embellishment, we learn
from one of the severest pilgrim satirists, who
avers, that he was `no cynic to the due bravery
of the true gentry,' and allows that `a good text
always deserves a fair margent.' Miss Downing
was certainly a pure and beautiful `text,' but her
attire never varied from the severest gospel simplicity.
It is possible that she was fortified in this
self-denying virtue, by that lively little spirit, (that
ever hovers about a woman's toilette) whispering
in her ear, that all the arts of the tyring-woman
could not improve the becomingness of her Madonna
style. She wore her hair, which was of a
sober brown hue, parted on her forehead, and
confined behind in a braid that was so adjusted,
it may be accidentally, as to perfectly define the
graceful contour of her head. Her complexion
was rather pale, but so exquisitely fair and transparent,
that it showed the faintest tinge of colour,
and set off, to the greatest advantage, features,
which, if not striking, had the admitted beauty
of perfect symmetry. She was, at least, half
a head taller than our heroine, or the Venus de
Medicis; but as neither of these were standards
with the pilgrims, no one who ventured to
speak of the personal graces of Esther Downing,
ever impeached their perfection. Spiritual graces
were then, (as they should always be) in far higher
estimation, than external charms, and Miss Downing,
who would have been a reigning belle in our
religious epithet—she was the `godly,' or the
`gracious maiden.' She attained the age of nineteen,
without one truant wish straying beyond the
narrow bound of domestic duty and religious exercises;
but the course of youth and beauty `never
doth run smooth,' and the perils that commonly
beset it, now assailed the tender Esther.
Everell Fletcher came to her father's, to pass
two months. He had then, for some years, resided
in the family of his uncle Stretton, a moderate
churchman; who, though he had not seen
fit to eradicate the religious and political principles
that had been planted in the mind of the boy,
had so tempered them, that, to confess the truth,
the man fell far below the standard of puritanism.
At first Esther was rather shocked, by the unsubdued
gaiety, the unconstrained freedom, and the
air of a man of society, that distinguished Everell
from the few demure solemn young men of
her acquaintance; but there is an irresistible charm
in ease, simplicity, and frankness, when chastened
by the refinements of education, and there is a
natural affinity in youth, even when there is no
resemblance in the character; and Esther Downing,
who, at first, remained in Everell's presence
but just as long as the duties of hospitality required,
soon found herself lingering in the parlor,
and strolling in the walks, that were his favourite
resort. It seemed as if the sun had risen
on her after a polar winter, and cheerfulness and
been chilled and paralyzed by the absence of
whatever cherishes the gay temper of youth; but
it was, after all, but the stinted growth of a polar
summer.
She felt a change stealing over her—new
thoughs were in her heart—
“And love and happiness their theme.”
but suffered the current of her feelings to flow
unchecked, till she was roused to reflection by her
serving maid, who said to her mistress, one evening
when she came in from a long moon-light walk with
Everell, “our worthy minister has been here to-day,
and he asked me, what kept you from the
lecture-room, so oft, of late? I minded him it
rained last night. He said, that in months past
no tempest detained you from the place of worship.
I made no answer to that—beside, that it
was not for me to gainsay the minister He stood,
as if meditating a minute, and then he took up
your psalm-book, and, as he did so, a paper
dropped with some verses written on it, and
he said, with almost a smile, `ah, Judy, then
your young lady tries her hand, sometimes, at
versifying the words of the royal psalmist?' ”
“Did he look at the lines, Judy?” asked Esther,
blushing deeply with the consciousness that
they were but a profane sentimental effusion.
“Yes, my lady—but he looked solemnized and
said nothing more about them; but turning to me
said, `Judy, it was your mistress' wont to keep
the wheel of prayer in perpetual motion. I doubt
not her private duty is still faithfully done?' I
answered to him, that your honoured parents had
been absent the last week, and you had company
to entertain, and you were not quite as long at
closet-exercise as usual.”
“Judy, you were very ready with your excuses
for me,” said her mistress, after a moment's
thoughtfulness.
“It must be a dumb dog, indeed,” replied the
girl, “that cannot bark for such a kind mistress
as thou art.”
How often does an accident—a casual word
even—serve as a key to unlock feelings of which
the possessor has been unconscious. The conscientious
girl was suddenly awakened from what
appeared to her a sinful dream. Had she perceived,
on investigation, a reciprocal sentiment
in Everell Fletcher, she would probably have permitted
her feelings to flow in their natural channel;
but not mingling with his, they were, like a
stream, that being dammed-up, flows back, and
spreads desolation, where it should have produced
life and beauty.
The severest religionists of the times did not require
the extinction of the tenderest human affections.
On the contrary, there was, perhaps, never
a period when they were more frequently and
perfectly illustrated. How many delicate women,
roughly, subscribed with their lives to that beatiful
declaration of affection from a tender and
devoted wife—“Whithersoever your fatall destinie,”
she said to her husband, “shall dryve you,
eyther by the furious waves of the great ocean,
or by the manifolde and horrible dangers of the
lande, I will surely beare you company. There
can be no peryll chaunce to me so terrible, nor
any kynde of deathe so cruell, that shall not be
much easier for me to abyde than to live so farre
separate from you.”
But though human affections were permitted,
they were to be in manifest subservience to religious
devotion—their encroachments were watched
with a vigilance resembling the jealousy with
which the Israelites defended, from every profane
footstep, the holy circle around the ark of the living
God. It was this jealousy that now alarmed
the fearful superstitious girl; and after some days
of the most unsparing self-condemnation, embittered
by an indefinite feeling of disappointment,
she fell into a dangerous illness; and in the paroxysms
of her fever, she prayed fervently that
her Creator would resume the spirit, which had
been too weak, to maintain its fidelity. It
seemed as if her prayer were soon to be granted—she
felt herself, and was pronounced by her
physician, to be on the verge of the grave. She
then was inspired with a strong desire, proceeding,
as she believed, from a divine intimation,
natural feeling, to open her heart to Everell.
This disclosure, followed by her dying admonition,
would, she hoped, rescue him from the vanities
of youth. She accordingly requested her
mother to conduct him to her bedside, and to
leave them alone for a few moments; and when
her request was complied with, she made, to the
astonished youth, in the simplicity and sincerity
of her heart, a confession, that in other circumstances
the rack would not have extorted.
At first, Fletcher fancied her reason was touched.
He soothed her, and attempted to withdraw,
to call her attendants. She interpreted his
thoughts, assured him he was mistaken, and begged
that he would not waste one moment of her ebbing
life. He then knelt at her bedside, took her
burning hand in his, and bathed it with tears of
deep commiseration, and tender regret. He promised
to lay up her exhortations in his heart, and
cherish them as the law of his life; but he did
not intimate that he had ever felt a sentiment responding
to hers. There was that in the solemnity
of the death-bed, in her purity and truth, that
would have rebuked the slightest insincerity,
however benevolent the feeling that dictated it.
This strange interview lasted but a few moments.
Miss Downing, in the energy of her feeling,
raised herself on her elbow—the effort exhausted
her, and she sunk back in a stupor which
Her friends flocked around her, and Fletcher retired
to his own room, filled with sorrowful concern
at the involuntary influence he had exercised
on this sensitive being, who seemed to him far
better fitted for heaven, than for earth.
But Miss Downing was not destined yet to be
translated to a more congenial sphere. Her unburthened
heart reposed, after its long struggles—the
original cause of her disease was lightened, if not
removed, and the e!asticity of a youthful constitution
rose victorious over her malady. She never
mentioned Everell Fletcher; but she heard, incidentally,
that he had remained at her father's, till
she was pronounced out of danger, and had then
gone to his uncle Stretton's, in Suffolk.
The following autumn, her father, in compliance
with a request of Madam Winthrop, and in the
hope that a voyage would benefit her health, which
was still delicate, sent her to Boston. There she
met Hope Leslie—a bright gay spirit—an allegro
to her penseroso. They were unlike in every thing
that distinguished each; and it was therefore
more probable, judging from experience, that
they would become mutually attached. Whatever
the theory of the affections may be, the fact
was, that they soon became inseparable and confidential
friends. Hope sometimes ventured to
rally Esther on her over-scrupulousness, and Miss
Downing often rebuked the laughing girl's gaiety;
but, however variant their dispositions, they
enhancing the beauty and effect of the other.
Hope often spoke of Everell, for he was associated
with all the most interesting recollections of
her childhood, and probably with her visions of the
future; for what girl of seventeen has not a lord
for her air-built castles?
Miss Downing listened calmly to her description
of the hero of her imagination, but never, by word
or sign, gave token that she knew aught of him,
other than was told her; and the secret might
have died with her, had not her emotion, at Everell's
unexpected appearance, half revealed the
state of her heart to her quick-sighted friend.
This revelation she finished by a full confession,
interrupted by tears of bitter mortification.
“Oh!” she concluded, “had I but known
how to watch and rule my own spirit, I should
have been saved these pangs of remorse and
shame.”
“My dear Esther,” said Hope, brushing away
the tears of sympathy that suffused her eyes,
“I assure you I am not crying because I consider
it a crying case; you people that dwell
in the clouds have always a mist before you;
now I can see that your path is plain, and sure
the end thereof; just give yourself up to my
guidance, who, though not half so good and wise
as you are, am far more sure-footed. I do not
doubt in the least, Everell feels all he ought
to feel. I defy any body to know you and not
had made any declaration at the time, it might
have seemed as if he were moved by pity, or
gratitude. He knew you was coming to New-England,
and that he was to follow you; and
now he has anticipated his return by some weeks,
and why, nobody knows, and it must be because
you are here—don't you think so? You will not
speak, but I know by your smile what you think,
as well as if you did.”
Arguments appear very sound that are fortified
by our wishes, and Miss Downing's face was assuming
a more cheerful expression, when Jennet
(our old friend Jennet) came into the room to
give the young ladies notice to prepare for dinner,
and to inform them that Sir Philip Gardiner was
to dine with them—“and a godly appearing man
he is,” said Jennet, “as ever I laid my eyes on; and
it is a wonder to me, that our Mr. Everell should
have fallen into such profitable company, for, I am
sorry to see it, and loath to say it, he looks as gay
as when he used to play his mad pranks at Bethel—
when it was next to an impossibility to keep you
and him, Miss Hope, from talking and laughing
even on a Sabbath day. I think,” she continued,
glancing her eye at Miss Downing, “sober companions
do neither of you any good; and it is so
strange Mr. Everell should come home with his
hair looking like one of those heathen pictures of
your aunt's.”
“Oh! hush Jennet! It would be a sin to crop
those dark locks of Mr. Everell.”
“A sin indeed, Miss Leslie! That is the way
you always turn things wrong side out; a sin to
to have his hair cropped like his father's—or the
honourable Governor's—or this Sir Philip Gardiner's—or
any other christian man's.”
“Well, Jennet, I wish it would come into your
wise head, that christian tongues were not made
for railing. As to my being serious to-day, that is
entirely out of the question; therefore, you may
spare yourself hint and exhortation, and go to
my aunt, and ask her for my blue boddice and
necklace. But no—”she said, stopping Jennet,
for she recollected that she had directed the
blue boddice because it matched her blue fillet,
Everell's gift, and a secret voice told her she had
best, under existing circumstances, lay that favourite
badge aside. “No, Jennet, bring me my
pink boddice, and my ruby locket.” Jennet
obeyed, but not without muttering as she left the
room, a remonstrance against the vanities of
dress.
Jennet was one of those persons, abounding in
every class of life, whose virtues are most conspicuous
in “damning sins they are not inclined
to.” We ought, perhaps, to apologise for obtruding
so humble and disagreeable a personage upon
our readers. But the truth is, she figured too
much on the family record of the Fletchers, to
be suppressed by their faithful historian. Those
of modern times, seem to be a necessary
ingredient in life, and like pinching shoes, and
smoky rooms, constitute a portion of its trials.
Jennet had first found favour with Mrs. Fletcher
from her religious exterior. To employ none
but godly servants was a rule of the pilgrims;
and there were certain set phrases and modes
of dress, which produced no slight impression
upon the minds of the credulous. To do
Jennet justice, she had many temporal virtues;
and though her religion was of the ritual order,
and, therefore, particularly disagreeable to her
spiritual Mistress, yet her household faculties
were invaluable, for then, as now, in the interior
of New-England, a faithful servant was like the
genius of a fairy tale—no family could hope for
more than one.
Long possession legalized Jennet's rights, and
increased her tyrannical humours, which were
naturally most freely exercised on those members
of the family, who had grown from youth to maturity
under her eye. In nothing was the sweetness
of Hope Leslie's temper more conspicuous,
than in the perfect good nature with which she
bore the teasing impertinencies of this menial,
who, like a cross cur, was ready to bark at every
passer by.
Youth and beauty abridge the labours of the
toilet, and our young friends, though on this occasion
unusually solicitous about the impression
themselves; and when Mrs. Grafton presented
herself to attend them to dinner, they were awaiting
her. “Upon my word,” she said, “young
ladies, you have done honour to the occasion; it
is not every day we have two gentlemen fresh from
Old England to dine with us; I am glad you have
shown yourselves sensible of the importance of
the becomings. It is every woman's duty, upon
all occasions, to look as well as she can.”
“And a duty so faithfully performed, my dear
aunt,” said Hope, “that I fancy, like other duties,
it becomes easy from habit.”
“Easy,” replied Mrs. Grafton, with perfect
naiveté; “second nature, my dear—second nature.
I was taught from a child, to determine
the first thing in the morning, what I should wear
that day; and now it is as natural to me as to
open my eyes when I wake.”
“I should think, madam,” said Esther, “that
other and higher thoughts were more fitting a
rational creature, preserved through the night-watches.”
Hope was exquisitely susceptible to her aunt's
frailties, but she would fain have sheltered them
from the observation of others. “Now, my gentle
Esther,” she whispered to Miss Downing,
“lecturing is not your vocation, and this is not
lecture day. On jubilee days slaves were set free,
you know, and why should not follies be?
Miss Downing could not have failed to have
made some sage reply to her friend's casuistry,
but the ringing of a bell announced the dinner,
and the young ladies, arm in arm, followed Mrs.
Grafton to the dining-room. Just as they entered,
Hope whispered, “remember, Esther, the festal
day is sacred, and may not be violated by a
sad countenance.” This was a well-timed caution;
it called a slight tinge to Miss Downing's
cheeks, and relieved her too expressive paleness.
Everell Fletcher met them at the door. The
light of his happiness seemed to gild every object.
He complimented Mrs. Grafton on her appearance;
told her she had not, in the least, changed
since he saw her—an implied compliment, always,
after a woman has passed a certain age. He congratulated
Miss Downing upon the very apparent
effect of the climate on her health, and then,
breaking through the embarrassment that slightly
constrained him in addressing her, he turned to
Hope Leslie, and they talked of the past, the present,
and the future, with spontaneous animation;
their feelings according and harmonising, as naturally
as the music of the stars when they sang
together.
| CHAPTER X. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts | |