Tales of the puritans The regicides, The fair pilgrim, Castine |
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| 3. | CHAPTER III. |
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 | CHAPTER III. Tales of the puritans |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
The ensuing day was spent by Lucy Everett
in efforts to obtain further intelligence of the
Canadian officer and his associates. For this
purpose, she had extended her walk to the village,
calling upon those persons of her acquaintance
whose situation or character rendered them most
familiar with the floating news of the day. She
could not believe that the conspirators would
abandon their object, without first instituting a
search among the inhabitants, and thus afford her
an opportunity of ascertaining something concerning
their future plans.
It was about noon, and Lucy was returning perplexed
and disappointed, when her eye was arrested
by the appearance of a genteel looking stranger,
sitting in the half opened door of a small
dwelling, which she was that moment passing.
The circumstance was enough to awaken her
curiosity, and she determined not to pass until
she had learned whether the appearance of Mrs.
Marsden's guest, did not in some way affect the
object of her solicitude. The face of the stranger
was turned from the door, and she heard the
voice of the good woman loud within. Unwilling
to intrude without some precaution, she paused a
moment before the bars, at the same time calling
within the enclosure. He had thrown down his
kite and with a delighted air was approaching the
young lady when Mrs. Marsden herself appeared
in the door.
“Come in, come in, Miss Everett,” she repeated
in a tone of good natured intreaty. And the
little boy threw down the bars which guarded the
entrance.
Lucy needed no further invitation. Upon her
entrance the stranger had risen and seated himself
in a remote corner of the apartment and
seemed studiously to avoid notice. But Mrs.
Marsden allowed no time for conjectures, and
notwithstanding the variety of her cares and employments
continued to pour forth such a strain
of inquiries that the only alternative was silence.
At length she paused a moment, and Lucy was
proceeding as concisely as possible to satisfy her
curiosity.
“But do you know, Miss Lucy,” exclaimed
Mrs. Marsden quickly interrupting her, “that the
stranger gentleman across the way has left his
lodgings and gone nobody knows where, just as
his friend here, has come in search of him.”
“Indeed!” said Lucy in a low voice, while the
color mounted high in her cheek, and she directed
a sidelong glance to the gentlemen in the corner.
He was leaning his chair against the wall, his
arms folded and his eye fixed intensely on the
floor; but notwithstanding the smile which played
on his features, Lucy discovered at once such
an expression of covert ferocity, that she turned
away shuddering, and prepared to doubt the authenticity
of any thing she might have heard in
his favor.
“Since Saturday evening,” continued Mrs.
Marsden, “the young gentleman has been absent,
and his friend here is sadly concerned for him.”
“He left no word then, where he was going,”
said Lucy with a painful effort.
“None at all, ma'am. He did not even mention
that he was going, and his trunk and papers
are all there. I am sure he will return soon,”
she continued turning to the stranger, “for he
has several times gone off suddenly, before this,
and never stayed but a few days.”
“And do you know whither he went?” said the
stranger lifting up his large, grey eyes with an
expression of eager curiosity.
Lucy Everett could scarcely conceal the sudden
shock that at that moment agitated her frame
—the voice was that of Hertel de Rouville.
“Ah to be sure I do,” replied Mrs. Marsden,
“when my husband was the very one that met
him in Boston with the big hat slouched over his
face. And now I think of it,” she continued, “if
you are in such a hurry to see him, you had better
go to Boston. You will undoubtedly find
him there. Would not you advise him too, Miss
Lucy?”
“Good woman,” continued the officer in the
same harsh tone and foreign accent, “you say he
had no friends no acquaintance among you.”
“It was his own fault that he had not,” replied
Mrs. Marsden, “but he had a very reserved sort of
a way with him, and never spoke a word to any
one, not even to answer a civil question. But you
had better not go to-day, sir,” she added as the
stranger rose and approached the door. “It is a
long way to Boston.”
“Then the sooner I am off, the better,” replied
French coin, and bidding a hasty good morning,
he quitted the dwelling. Lucy saw that he directed
his steps to the forest. That the search
in this vicinity was now over she could no longer
doubt, and ere she left the house of Mrs. Marsden
the officer and his companion, mounted on horseback,
were seen swiftly pursuing their way to the
south.
It was four in the afternoon, when Lucy Everett,
overcome with agitating emotions, prepared
for her excursion to the hiding place of the stranger.
She had rested herself awhile in her mother's
parlor, and related to her the particulars of
her interview with De Rouville; and she had not
departed without giving her promise that she
would ascertain if possible the import of the mysterious
conversation in the forest. Many embarrassing
thoughts passed through her mind, as she
slowly parted away the thick brushwood from the
winding path that led to the summit of the hill.
The beautiful stillness of the lone wood, interrupted
only by the voice of singing birds, and the cool
murmur of a distant waterfall, came over her feelings
with a soothing influence until her reflections
had gradually assumed a softer character.
That the youth whose life had recently been
redeemed from destruction by her own exertions,
could ever have acted in that plan of deliberate
treachery which the words of De Rouville had revealed,
was an idea too painful to be indulged.
Neither were her emotions unmingled with fearful
apprehensions. The conversation in the
woods had referred to a systematic plan of offensive
operations, in contemplation against the New-England
colonies, at a time when perfect peace
Canadian neighbors. Were then the horrid atrocities
to which the “Treaty of Ryswick” had at
length put a period, again to be renewed; and if
so, was not her silence with regard to it culpable?
Surely the welfare of a single stranger was
not dearer to her than that of her father and
country. Her cheek was yet warm with the embarrassment
which this inquiry excited, when she
found herself suddenly in his presence. He had
wandered from the place of his concealment, and
stood leaning in the shadow of an old hemlock,
just on the summit of the hill.
His brow was uncovered, and the hunting cap
he had worn lay at his feet, his eye was fixed on
the ground, and such a shade of sadness darkened
his youthful features, as the fear of death alone
could never have imparted. The rustling of
the tangled evergreens which lay in the path,
at length aroused him from his reverie; and with
a flush of unfeigned delight he hastened to meet
his beautiful deliverer.
The courtesies of the puritan life were few and
simple; those fine, benevolent feelings which are
the essence of all true politeness, indeed were not
wanting, but the devotion of the pilgrims had
stamped upon the manners of the growing nation
its own rigid character; and though in every
movement of the minister's daughter there shone
a simple and chastened elegance which no art
can purchase, it formed a striking contrast to the
polished bearing of her mysterious companion.
“I have seen Hertel de Rouville,” said the
maiden interrupting his graceful compliments.
“He seeks you at Boston, and if the Indian does
escape in safety.”
Again the eye of the stranger sunk, with that
look of melancholy, which the appearance of Lucy
had for a few moments interrupted. “I have
then a short reprieve. Heaven bless you, gentle
maiden, for your kindness to a stranger. We
shall perhaps meet no more. And yet,” he continued,
“I cannot leave my name loaded with
crime, to one whose approbation would be dearer
to me than that of the world beside.” Lucy felt
that this was no light compliment; for the words
were uttered in the deep tones of feeling, and the
stranger's brow was flushed as he spoke. “Sweet
Lucy Everett, do not remember me as a spy and
a traitor; think of me as one whose early education
has taught me to love the puritans, but whom
the ties of kindred and the love of life itself are
urging to join against them in schemes of treachery
and cruelty. I cannot yet throw off the restraint.
The time has not come, for were I
convicted of the offence of which Vaudruil
suspects me, it would only hasten on the scene
of bloodshed.”
“But why does he seek to murder you in secret?”
said the young lady with surprise.
“He has no proof of my guilt; and he dare
not do it openly. He would as soon draw upon
himself the vengeance of the king himself as my
father's wrath. “Here,” he continued without
regarding the astonishment expressed in the countenance
of his auditor, “here is the bitterness
of my lot. It is hard to throw aside the ties of
parental duty.”
“But I must not linger here,” he added, after
a little pause, “it is necessary that I should hasten
by refuting his suspicions, defer his plans a little
longer, until some slight preparation for resistance
can be made; for the moment that Dudley
is supposed to be in possession of our secret, the
French forces would rush instantly upon the defenceless
frontier.”
“But your words are parables to me,” said Lucy,
“you speak of bloodshed and plans of attack;
are we not at peace with our enemies?”
“Pardon me,” replied the youth, “I should have
told you that war is in anticipation, and probably
already declared in England, against France and
Spain. The Canadian governor has long been in
preparation for this event; and his forces are prepared
for an immediate attack. The moment
that the declaration of war arrives, the whole
country from Casco to Wells, will be devastated.
All that I have told you of the war, communicate
without delay to your father, all that I have told
you of myself, I pray you conceal.”
The cheek of the young maiden had gradually
grown pale during this recital; and at its conclusion,
she had no power to speak. The line of
attack comprehended her own beloved village.
Horrid pictures of blood and conflagration floated
through her mind; and the awful certainty of the
impending evil, left no avenue for hope.
“Heaven be praised,” she at length exclaimed,
as if her mind had at length fastened on some
slight alleviation. “The Indians are now our
friends, we have none but gallant soldiers for
our foes. Heaven be praised we have not again
to fear the tomahawk and scalping knife.”
Something like a groan of agony burst from
the youth. “Fear every thing here, dear Miss
for utter destruction. The savages will not regard
their treaty. Every effort has been made
to induce them to slight it; and the machinations
of those cruel and fiendish priests have at
last prevailed.”
“Talk not of the priests,” said Lucy, her eye
kindling with sudden indignation. “Cruel and
fiendish as they may be, they are but tools to that
one master spirit of iniquity who excites and governs
them all. The Baron Castine hath surely
learned wickedness from no mortal teacher, and if
the spirit of darkness doth indeed come to our world
in human form”—she paused—“It is plain, I see
it, sir, Castine hath again lighted up their wrath,
and there is no more peace for us.” Her voice
was choked with agony and the cold perspiration
stood on her brow. “It is time that we part,
sir,” she added, after a few moment's silence,
“you must fly from danger, and I must go home
and prepare to meet it.”
The stranger had become meanwhile deeply agitated.”
Now that you are warned of the coming
evil, surely you will not remain to meet it. Dear
Miss Everett I pray you hasten from the scene of
danger.”
“My father is a pastor, replied Lucy looking
sorrowfully up, “he will not forsake his flock and
I cannot forsake him. Farewell.” She turned
hastily and drawing the veil over her tearful
countenance, returned by the path which led directly
to the garden behind her father's dwelling.
Jane Grant waited at the gate to welcome her
approach, and they entered the parlor together.
The clergyman and his wife were at their evening
repast, and a single glance was sufficient
painful reflections already occupied her father's
mind.
“Jane,” said Mrs. Everett, “hath your father
returned from the south?”
The reply was in the affirmative.
“Brought he then the tidings from England?”
“I heard none, sir. He was talking principally
of two singular looking strangers who overtook
him a little before he reached the village, and
who seemed to be coming on a matter of life and
death.”
“Which way were they travelling?” inquired
Lucy.
“They tarried a moment at the inn, and then
went off again at full speed on the northern road.
They seemed to be foreigners and persons of
distinction.”
“And what news from England dear father?”
continued Lucy with breathless interest, while
the warnings of the stranger flashed painfully
over her mind.
“You may as well know it now,” exclaimed
the clergyman with a hasty effort. “Great Britain
has declared war against France and Spain;
and it is more than probable that the French
colonies will commence hostilities immediately.
We must prepare for war again in all its
horrors.” The persons who listened to this communication,
seemed variously affected by it. Jane
Grant manifested only unmingled surprise and
apprehension; but when Mrs. Everett had uttered
her first exclamation of distress, she cast on
Lucy a glance which seemed to say, “the mysterious
conversation is explained. The main
enemy.”
Mr. Everett continued. “It cannot be expected
that the fury of the war will fall upon
this portion of the country; for the eastern Indians
who have recently become our friends will
furnish us with the best safeguard. Yet ought
we not the less to mourn for our brethren, whom
God hath so grievously afflicted. The ways of
heaven are dark,” he added, rising and pacing
the floor. “Our wretched country hath not yet
recovered from the wounds and bruises of the
late war,” and he groaned bitterly. “But our
Heavenly Father knoweth what we need, and he
will not surely blot out his people's name from
among the nations.”
“Father,” said Lucy “are you sure that the savages
will remain true to us? The French are a
subtle people, and—remember the Baron Castine.”
Mr. Everett looked upon his daughter with
some surprise. “You speak reasonably, my
child, strange that I myself had not remembered
these things, but my mind was overcome with the
greatness of our calamity. True, true,” he continued,
“were our Indian friends to become traitors,
we must expect incursions from the foe, and
that immediately.”
“My father” said Lucy “I have received sure
intelligence, that the treacherous Castine and his
priests have indeed won over the Indians, notwithstanding
their treaty, and they are at this
moment prepared to assist in laying waste our
villages. We lie upon the very frontier. Within
a short distance is an armed force who wait only
for the news you have just communicated as the signal
of destruction. Without doubt they will be
to believe that the strangers who were hastening
with such rapidity to the north, are the
bearers of this intelligence.” Every eye was
fixed upon Lucy in amazement.
“And how know you this, Lucy?” said Mr.
Everett, endeavoring by the sternness of his look
to conceal his emotion.
“How, I cannot tell you, pardon me father,
my intelligence is true, there is no time for
words. Dear father is it indeed too late for resistance?”
Mr. Everett gazed a moment on his
daughter in silence, and a sudden light seemed to
flash upon his mind.
“The young Canadian—Ah! I see it now.
Jane Grant,” he continued turning to the young
lady who pale and trembling was leaning in the
window seat. “Go home as quickly as possible
and tell your father, I desire he would hasten
forthwith to Boston and inform the court of the
ruin that is prepared for us. An armed force
must be raised without delay. Ah! I comprehend
it all now, this comes not suddenly upon
Vaudreuil. Hasten my child,” he continued addressing
Jane, “give the message to your father,
and pray him not to sleep until he sees that help
is prepared for us, and Lucy, my daughter,” he
continued as Jane departed swiftly on her errand,
“you must run with all speed to the village and
give the alarm. Let the bell be rung to assemble
the people, and when they ask wherefore, tell
them that the Indians are coming we know not
how soon, perhaps this night, to murder us on
our hearth stones. I have letters to write to the
frontier towns and will be with them presently.”
Lucy waited not for a second bidding, and
from the time of her departure, the sound of
the bell rose from the village; and Mrs. Everett
who was gazing from the window, perceived by
the dim twilight the appearance of hastily gathering
crowds.
When the clergyman at length entered the
church which had been appointed as the place of
assembling, he found it occupied by such an assembly
as such an alarm always gathers together.
Young maidens and matrons, and wailing infants,
youth and grey headed magistrates, were mingled
in one crowd; and the partial illumination of
the candles which some in their haste had
brought with them, served to increase the singular
effect, revealing here and there the pale
countenances of the assembly. There was a
confused noise of questions without answer, and
the bell was still pealing through the valley.
That there was some dreadful cause of alarm,
every one comprehended; but beyond this, all
was horrid uncertainty.
In the midst of this scene of confusion, Mr.
Everett caught a view of his daughter. She was
reclining pale and motionless against one of the
pillars that supported the pulpit, amid a group
of eager listeners, her bonnet was off; and the
comb had fallen from her dark and waving curls.
At the sight of the clergyman, the confusion
which prevailed throughout the assembly in some
degree subsided; at the same moment the bell
ceased, and having ascended the pulpit the better
to command attention, he began calmly and concisely
to state to them their real danger and the
cause of their assembling. They listened with
eager and deathlike stillness. The clergyman
to Boston for immediate aid. “But even this,”
he continued, “may arrive too late. We are not
ignorant of savage warfare. We know they
sound no trumpet before them. Perhaps this
night the war whoop may echo through our dwellings.”
A simultaneous groan burst from the
crowd. “At all events, let them not find us unprepared.
We can all fight, and fight willingly
that cruel and treacherous race, the enemy of
God and man. Brethren we have arms, and we
will not be scalped unresistingly. As for the
women and children,” he continued glancing
around on their pale faces, “they have nothing to
do, but go home and pray the Almighty for his
strong defence. We can all rest “beneath the
shadow of his wing.”
One by one, the females and children now retired.
Of those who remained, a guard was formed
for the defence of the town. The better to
accomplish their scheme, it was agreed that the
houses without the valley should be abandoned,
and that one third of the guard should be constantly
upon duty. These resolutions having
been entered into, they departed with all speed
to carry them into effect.
Lucy had left the church just at the time
when nothing had been resolved upon; and an
hour of more agitating suspense she had never
passed than that which intervened between her
own return and her father's. During this period
she related to her mother the particulars of the
stranger's conversation; and she was still standing
at the window, watching with eagerness the
hastily moving lights in the village, when the
sound of near voices met her ear. A group of
seen approaching the cottage; and a moment
after, Lucy met her father at the gate.
“We must abandon our home my child,” he
said, “it is too far from the center to lie within
the line of defence.” Mrs. Everett approached
the door. “Hasten Sarah,” said the clergyman,
“and seek for yourself all that is most dear to
you. There are some without, waiting to convey
our most valuable goods.”
There was no time for remonstrance or reply,
and the mother and daughter silently prepared to
obey the injunction. All was now confusion in
the cottage. Where every object was so endeared
by ancient ties of association, it was hard to
resolve which should be abandoned to the vengeance
of the savage. The domestic who had
been speedily summoned from her now useless
department in the kitchen, was soon engaged in
tearing up and packing the various articles which
accident first threw in her way. The clergyman
had gone to his study to select from thence the
most valuable papers; and Mrs. Everett was
laying away in a basket, the contents of an old
fashioned cupboard, consisting of a few precious
relies of family plate, together with a more modern
and less costly set of China. The little
yard before the door was soon filled with promiscuous
heaps of boxes, chairs, and tables. At
length the arrangements were hastily completed,
and the men departed with their burthen. Lucy
and her mother, followed by Amy, were slowly
descending the hill, and Mr. Everett, after turning
the key upon his solitary dwelling hastened to
accompany them.
We need not stop to describe the sensations of
the path to the village; those who have ever felt
the sudden dissolution of the strong attachments
which bind to a beloved home, may easily imagine
them. They had nearly half completed
their walk, and Mr. Everett perceived with pleasure
that the houses which composed the village
were already under the protection of an armed
and efficient guard, when Mrs. Everett suddenly
paused and turned to her husband.
“The picture, Mr. Everett! The picture, I have
surely forgotten it.” There was a momentary embarrassment.
“Mother, I will return for you,” exclaimed
Lucy, “and Amy will go with me; where shall
we find the picture?” Mr. Everett hesitated.
“It is a dangerous time to walk alone, Lucy.”
“But, my father, you are fatigued, and you look
ill. You cannot walk to the cottage again to
night. Do not fear for us. Amy and myself are
young and active, and we will join you by the
time you reach the guard,”—and after obtaining
her mother's directions, without further delay
they turned to retrace their steps to the cottage.
The moon was rising, and there was something
mournful in the appearance of the deserted cottage,
with its dark back grounds of evergreens.
The windows which had been wont, at this hour,
to send forth a pleasant light, now looked dark
and cheerless. Lucy lifted the latch of the little
gate. There was no sound of glad, kind voices
within; the stillness of the grave hung over the
dwelling. The heroism of poor Amy was so entirely
overcome by the air of gloom which pervaded
the whole scene, that when Lucy had at
to enter; and sat down trembling upon the
bench of the little honey-suckled porch. With a
painful effort, Lucy hastened through the dark
and lonely apartments. The faint light of the
moon was just struggling through the windows,
and tears involuntarily rushed to her eyes, as it
revealed to her the dismantled appearance of the
little parlor. Familiar as she was with the objects
of this apartment, it was impossible for her
to discover the key of the locker, without first obtaining
a light. Her hand had already fastened
upon a little lamp, that stood on the mantel-piece,
and she now made her way into the kitchen. A
few embers still remained on the hearth, and by
means of these, she soon succeeded in relighting
the lamp, and in a few moments more found herself
in possession of the object of her search.
A sudden and violent scream from Amy, at
that moment arrested her attention. In an instant
she was at the door, just in time to witness
the broad illumination which for a moment lit up
the valley, ere a sound like the peal of distant
thunder at once revealed its cause. A more
fearful and wretched situation than that in which
they now found themselves, can scarcely be conceived.
The foe had indeed come, for blaze after
blaze, and fresh vollies of musquetry, now rapidly
succeeded each other, nay, in the distant and
momentary glare, she saw, or fancied she saw, the
well known uniform of the French soldiery, interspersed
with the tall figures of the Indian warriors.
Her exertions had not then been in vain. A
guard had indeed been raised, one strong in
heavenly faith, and in the might of human affections.
harm could come to those within the enclosure;
but here was she, far from them all, in this dreadful
moment, alone and unprotected. Horrid and
sickening emotions filled her mind. Death was
already in the valley, for even at this distance,
the voice of strong agony was distinctly heard;
and such cries and groans as those that now
mingled faintly in the din of battle, she felt that
death alone could inspire. The exclamations of
Amy wild with terror, served only to increase her
distress.
She still stood in the porch, gazing in passive
silence upon the valley. Horror had frozen every
faculty, and she now waited in calm expectation
for the moment when the conflagration of the village
should complete the horrors of the scene.
But a new idea of her situation suddenly filled
her mind, and bringing with it the hope of safety
at once aroused her from this torpor. The house
was at some distance from any other, and quite
out of the path of the enemy; the moon was obscured
with clouds, and the possibility, nay, the
probability, that it might escape their notice,
was sufficient to banish despair.
She now regretted extremely that she had allowed
the lamp to remain burning in the parlor,
as she had thus considerably increased the chances
of discovery; and followed by Amy, to whom
a portion of her hopes were already communicated,
she hastened to extinguish it. The door was
quickly locked and barred; and with a sudden
animation, they began to devise all possible
means for their security. Even in case of an attack,
Lucy trusted that the lonely and deserted
air ofthe house, together with the appearance of
them to believe it uninhabited, might still
secure its safety. Amy had just succeeded in
closing the shutters of the kitchen, and was engaged
in heaping upon the embers a few light
splinters when the sound of a measured tread
broke upon the stillness. “They are coming,”
she shrieked, in an agony of fear.
“Hush—hush”—whispered Lucy, “as you love
life be quiet.” Meanwhile the heavy, monotonous
sound which had excited their dread, drew
each moment nearer; and Lucy motioning Amy
again to be quiet, ventured carefully to enter the
opened door of the parlor. She dared not approach
the window, but she could distinctly perceive
that a small party of soldiers had that moment
reached the summit of the acclivity, and
were now within a stone's throw of the house.
There was a short and dreadful silence, interrupted
only by the voice of the officer. Though his
orders were given in Freneh, Lucy understood
them sufficiently to comprehend that they were
to remain in their present situation, while a few
of them moved forward for a careful reconnoitre
of the house and grounds. They were soon hastily
scrambling over the pickets, and Lucy retired
again to the kitchen.
“What did he mean,” said a low voice under
the window,” to send us puffing up the hill for the
sake of burning this old deserted house. Not a
cat stirring! Upon my word, I do not believe it
has been inhabited since the flood.”
“But you know,” replied the other, “we must
make a division of that saucy guard. We may
fire upon them all night, at this rate, without
effecting any thing.”
“And is De Rouville so witless as to think that
they will come running forth to save these rotten
shingles? See,” continued the same voice, “they
have left us nothing for booty, but that old fashioned
locker. I will burn the house in very spite to
these cunning puritans.”
“Ah! They are more cunning than you dream
of,” exclaimed the second voice. “When we
left the village a bright light shone through these
windows, and if I am not mistaken, it still contains
human beings notwithstanding its deserted
look. Some too, whose lives are of importance.
I believe De Rouville learned as much before he
sent us.”
“At any rate we can soon settle the matter,”
said the first voice, in a tone which made Lucy
shudder, though she could not understand the
meaning of his threat.
There was another silence of considerable duration,
and then light streamed up from under the
windows with so sudden a blaze, that an involuntary
scream of horror burst from her lips. “They
have fired the house, Amy,” she exclaimed in the
anguish of despair, and was hastening to unfasten
the door. But Amy caught her arm.
“Do not go out, dear Miss Lucy, the Indians
are waiting there for us; and it is better to die
here than fall into their hands.” At that moment
a column of smoke and flame burst from the
door of the parlor; and almost suffocated and
dead with horror, Amy herself threw open the
door which led to the garden. To escape to the
forest on the hill, was now the only alternative.
They had already crossed the garden and Lucy
leaned a moment over the gate to undo the fastening,
when the loud and fearful war-whoop
from the moon, and she saw that they were surrounded
with a fierce circle of waving tomahawks.
All that they could do for life was done, and Lucy
leaned against the pickets, to watch the coming
up of her foe. At that moment a fainting, like
death, came over her, the forms of the savage
warriors faded from her eye, and insensibility succeeded
to the long excitement of agonized feeling.
| CHAPTER III. Tales of the puritans | |