University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

The early superstitions of New-England were
of a peculiar nature. Not only the public institutions
of its settlers, bore the impress of the stern
faith they had adopted as their ruling principle,
but individual character, private affections, and
popular prejudices, were all shaped to the same
unyielding model; and thus in the development
of those mysterious emotions of supernatural
dread so common to our nature, we find traces of
the same principle. The genii of oriental fancy,
the malignant spirits of German forests, the wild
fabric of Scottish credulity have all figured on the
pages of romance; but it was on the broad shadows
of eternal truth that the weakness of human
fear had here fastened its illusions, and a superstition
more vast, and more awful hung over the
glens and forests of New-England. When the
maiden trod quickly, on the lonely path at twilight,
it was not that a being of her own creative
fancy haunted it. Something more fearful than
the vision of the sportive fancy paled her cheek.
The object of her dread was one real and mighty
being, whose power extended from the abodes of
unholy spirits, to the dwelling places of earth,
throwing his mysterious and sinful influence even
around the inmost recesses of her own heart.
He had once stood first in the ranks of seraphs,

and learned wisdom from the lips of the Eternal;
mighty too he was, for he had even waged war in
heaven; and all this wisdom, and all this might,
the voice of inspiration assured her, was enlisted
against her peace. It was not strange, therefore,
that those whom the puritans, in their credulity,
imagined in league with this Prince of darkness,
were regarded with sensations of unmingled horror.
And though this superstition had not, at the
date of this narrative, assumed that fearful aspect
which in after years spread such dismay
through the colonies, it was still openly encouraged
by the sanction of good and enlightened
men.

It was about six months after the incidents recorded
in the last chapter, that a strong excitement
of this description, began to make its appearance
in the colony of New-Haven. Tales of
fearful import were circulated through the village,
strange sights and unearthly voices had
been seen and heard at midnight, and a secret
and indefinable dread thrilled through the hearts
of those whom necessity compelled to a solitary
walk at evening. When the subtle spirit of popular
superstition is once aroused, it floats not long
in unsubstantial rumor; the airy nothing soon
finds a “local habitation and a name.” So it was
in the present instance. The mountain which rears
its head about two miles west of the village, was
at length declared a favorite haunt of the unearthly
visitant. The various fearful reports began
now to concentrate on one fair and wandering
spirit, who for some unknown cause, had taken up
her abode amid the habitations of the material
world; and many a fresh lip grew pale, as the
descriptions of that strange and beautiful being

were repeated every day, with a more intense interest.
It became, at last, generally reported and
believed, that just as the white mist began to
break away from the rock, a female form of exquisite,
but faded beauty might be seen standing
amid the wreathing vapor, and gradually vanishing
as it slowly curled from the mountain. Who
this fearful stranger might be, and what the cause
of her appearance, few dared to question; though
each heart cherished its own secret and terrible
suggestions. Meanwhile, witnesses to the truth
of the tale, gradually increased; and it began
ere long to be secretly whispered, that the lady
of the mist came not unsummoned to disturb
their peace, that there were those among them
who had dared to make a league with death, and
a covenant with the power of darkness. We
grieve to add, that among the objects on whom
these horrid suspicions at last rested, were the
orphan nieces of Governor Leet, Margaret Weldon,
and her fair young sister.

Mrs. Mary Wilmot a widowed lady of high
respectability, who had about three years since
emigrated from England, under the impulse of
religious motives, was now the only remaining
sister of their deceased father. Margaret Weldon
had accompanied her across the Atlantic,
and with her, had passed a large proportion of
her time since her arrival in America; but the
younger sister had now recently for the first time
come to reside beneath the roof of this affectionate
relative. Alice had only a few months
since arrived from England; and as it was generally
believed, the occasion of her mother's death,
though the strange and obstinate reserve with
which Mrs. Wilmot and Governor Leet had repulsed

every inquiry upon the subject, had naturally
given rise to many curious conjectures.
There was much too in the appearance of the
child herself to deepen their interest. Margaret
was pretty, but Alice Weldon was beautiful—
singularly beautiful. It was not the mere grace
of form and feature, nor the expression of infantile
sweetness, that constituted her chief charm.
It was a kind of gentle melancholy that lingered
always amid the beauty of her countenance,
stealing out in the light of her deep blue eyes,
when their snowy and drooping lids suddenly
lifted, softening the dimples of her gayest smile,
mellowing the tones of her rich voice even when
it trembled with laughter, and breathing over
the whole appearance a charm as indescribable
as facinating. And when the report once began
to circulate, that Margaret Weldon had been
seen in actual conference with the lady of the
mist, the suspicions that attached to her name,
were quickly and easily communicated to that of
her mysterious little sister.

It was just in this state of affairs that Henry
Davenport, who now resided beneath his father's
roof, one calm night in June, found himself suddenly
aroused from a profound slumber, at midnight.
The chamber in which he slept, was at
some distance from the sleeping apartments of
the family; and notwithstanding his usually daring
disposition, he found it impossible to suppress
a strong sensation of fear, as he found himself
thus singularly awakened without any visible
cause, and gazing earnestly around the apartment.
It was no human visitant that excited his apprehensions.

The mind of the youth had become tinctured

with the prevailing superstition, and though he
gave not actual credence to all the fearful rumors
to which he listened, there was something
in the very character of the ideas they produced,
well suited to the peculiarities of his disposition;
there was enjoyment even in the awe and horror
they excited. It was, therefore, with a feeling
of trembling expectation, that he now surveyed
the objects of the room. It was small, and a
bright moonlight streamed through the thin curtain,
as every object passed in quick review before
him, until his eye rested on a shadowy figure,
half concealed in the darkness. A low exclamation
of terror burst from his lips. Visions of the
Lady of the Mist, flitted rapidly across his mind;
and he buried his face in the bedclothes.

“Henry Davenport, is it you?” said a low voice,
which he instantly recognized to be that of Margaret
Weldon. “I pray your pardon for disturbing
your repose. I had thought that this was
your sister's apartment.”

“And what would you of Mary at this late
hour?” replied Henry, who was now hastily revolving
in his mind the reports concerning her,
and his voice gathered energy; “Margaret Weldon,
what would you?”

“Speak lower, Henry, and I will tell you,”
continued the same voice, and the boy felt a chill
at his heart, for her light footstep was now heard
approaching the bed. Unwilling, however, to
manifest any emotion, he slowly uncovered his
face and perceived the object of his terror, gently
parting away the curtains.

“Do not be alarmed, Henry, at this singular
visit; it was indeed intended for your sister, but
now I reflect upon it, I am sure you can keep the

secret as well, and do my errand far better.
Henry will you promise not to betray the trust I
am about to repose in you?”

“I will not betray you, Margaret, but,”—and
he paused, as if unwilling to express his meaning.

“I understand you, Henry,” continued Margaret,
“you do not desire my confidence; but surely
you are not the foolish and timid boy to fear one
like me. I know indeed all that you have heard,
and was about to show my confidence in your
courage, by imposing upon you the very task
which alone has procured for me this fearful suspicion.”
There was something in this declaration
which kindled at once the proud spirit of the
youth.

“What is it, Margaret? If there is nothing
but danger in the errand, I will not hesitate.”

“Then take this, Henry,” resumed the young
lady, after a moment's silence, in slow impressive
tones, and pointing as she spoke to a small wicker
basket which she held in her hand, “and when
the first ray of morning appears, carry it for me
to the haunted rock. Nay, Henry, do not be thus
daunted with a name. I believe you a daring
and fearless boy, or I had never trusted you with
the embassy. There is a large and moss grown
stone which lies half way up the acclivity—you
know it—these foolish stories have made it but
too famous. Well, it is there, Henry, that you
must deposit your burthen; and whatever you
find on that stone bring back to me. And yet, it
would not be well,” she added, after a moment's
pause, “that we should seem to communicate.
No, Henry, you may place it on the bench in the
garden, and every morning, that is, so long as you

will perform this embarrassing task, the basket
shall wait for you there.”

“And why?” exclaimed the youth, who could
not yet banish from his mind the suspicion of supernatural
agency. “Margaret, for whom shall
I do all this?”

“For me—for my sake, Henry,—I intreat you,
do not refuse me. I have pledged myself to perform
this task, and in spite of danger and suspicion
have long done it—but a circumstance has
now occurred which will render it for a few days,
at least, improper, nay, impossible.”

“And whom shall I see,” continued Henry, not
at all reassured by the mysterious language of the
young lady.

“No one that will harm you, Henry—the only
danger is in discovery. Curious eyes may watch
your steps. But you must leave the village by a
circuitous path, and do all that you can to elude
suspicion. Henry, I must go. Will you do this
errand?”

“I will,” replied the youth, in a voice which
seemed as though his whole soul had been summoned
for the effort. “Margaret Weldon, I will
do your bidding—but remember—if you are
wiling me away to some dark and unholy deed,
let the sin and the scathe rest on you.”

A smile flitted over the features of the fair visitant,
as, with all the energy of a desperate purpose,
he pronounced the reply; and then turning
with a light and noiseless step, she left the apartment.

But it is not to be supposed that Henry, at once
relapsed into that comfortable slumber which her
entrance had disturbed. A succession of fearful
reflections crowded rapidly upon his mind. The

light trains of association were all kindled. Every
faint dream, or half remembered apprehension of
evil, every supernatural legend, or wild tale of
witch or apparition, from the long forgotten song
of the nursery, to the recent reports concerning
the Lady of the Mist,—all seemed embodied, and
in living array, before him. He feared, and fancied,
and reasoned, until his brain grew sick with
thought, and every moment the cold and dewy
hand of the pale lady seemed ready to press his
brow. “I will go to my father,” he at length exclaimed,
rising hastily from his pillow, and unable
longer to endure his emotion. “It may not be
too late to retract this dreadful promise,”—but
the fear of ridicule at once arrested his purpose.
The moon was shining clear and bright through
his chamber, every object wore its wonted appearance,
and though his eye passed carefully
over every crevice and corner, no sights of horror
presented themselves. His head sunk again on
his pillow, and, wearied and exhausted, he soon
fell into a disturbed slumber.

The fearful visit of Margaret Weldon was now
repeated, with all the aggravated horrors an excited
imagination could furnish; but instead
of Margaret, the pale lady stood beside him,
her cold, ghastly countenance peering in
through the folds of his curtains, and commanding
him to follow. A resistless influence seemed
to compel his obedience, and while yet struggling
with its power, he awoke.

A faint streak in the east convinced him that it
was the break of day, and he hastily recalled to
his mind the events of the past night. But the
dominion of darkness was now over, and though
there mingled some slight apprehensions of evil

with the proud consciousness of the trust reposed
in him, he prepared, without a moment's hesitation,
to fulfil his promise.

Perfect stillness reigned throughout the village,
as he threw open the door of his father's dwelling.
His eye glanced instinctively across the way, upon
the quiet and beautiful little dwelling of Mrs.
Wilmot. For a moment he fancied he saw at one
of the upper windows the outline of a female
figure, but the fog which was rolling over the village
prevented any minute observations. He was
anxious also to avoid the scrutiny of any curious
spectators; and springing over a low hedge that
obstructed his way, he moved slowly across a
smooth meadow. The grass was loaded with a
thick vapor, and the sweet breath of the young
clover perfumed the air, as with a light and hasty
tread, the boy moved onward, brushing for
himself a path amid the wilderness of gems, and
crushing at every step the beauty of some bright
blossom. Now and then his eye turned anxiously
upon the little village he was leaving.

The prospect was not the same which the same
situation might at the present day command—
nay you might now look in vain for the flowery
meadow itself—the squares of the city have long
since spoiled its loveliness. The jail, the church,
and the school-house, now constituted the ornaments
of the public green; and these, with a few
scattered clusters of houses were all that then
appeared as the germ of that beautiful city which
now yields its shade to thousands. Nevertheless
there was in the uniformly neat appearance of
these dwellings, a slight development of the same
principle which at the present day renders New-Haven
an object of admiration. The small green

enclosures in front of each, surrounded with white
palings and filled with clustering roses, the luxuriant
woodbine and honeysuckle, that here and
there shadowed the windows with their rich curtaining,
together with the shaded gravel walks
running in various directions through the village,
all sufficiently evidenced that the power of appreciating
the beautiful, had not been banished
from the homes of the Puritans.

But the mind of Henry Davenport was occupied
with far more interesting reflections than
these, as, after a circuitous route, he at length
found himself beyond sight of the village, and
rapidly pursuing his way to the haunted rock.
He was about to prove the truth or falsity of that
strange tale, which had so long agitated the village,
and his young heart throbbed rapidly as he
descried the object of his destination, towering
bold and high through the dense atmosphere that
surrounded it. The pale moonlight, meanwhile,
had quite faded in the beams of morning; and as
he drew near the foot of the rock, the broad rays of
the level sun darted full upon it, struggling through
the floating masses of vapor, and kindling the
whole mountain with a living radiance.

Here our young hero paused, not merely for the
sake of the momentary rest, which the protracted
walk might certainly have excused, but for the
purpose of rallying his mental forces for the expected
encounter. He was now at a distance from the
habitations of men, and a few dim specks around
the distant spire was all that indicated the location
of the village. The chirping note of here
and there a solitary bird, came swelling from the
woods, and seemed only to increase the sense of
his loneliness, while the recollection of the spirit

whose precincts he was about to invade, rushed
painfully to his mind. His eye glanced at the
same moment upon his mysterious burthen—what
fearful spells might it not contain, what magic influence
might it not exert upon its bearer; and
he gazed and fancied, until Pandora's box itself
would scarce have seemed a more dreadful load;
and withal, as he recalled the conversation of the
preceding night, he distinctly remembered that
Margaret had failed to assure him that he should
not behold the object of his terror.

But at last with an impulse of the same high
spirit which had first induced him to accept the
embassy, he clasped his ill-omened burthen, and
began manfully to scramble up the rock. We
must confess, however, that his glances towards
the summit were “few and far between,” it was
enough for him that he descried in the distance
the projecting table like stone on which he was
to deposit his load, and he cared not to penetrate
too curiously into the secrets of the dense fog
which still wrapped the height above. He was
now within a short distance of the stones, when
directing his eye for a moment upwards it became
suddenly fixed by a fascination as strong
and dreadful as that which the serpent throws
over its victim. Was it the vision of a distempered
fancy, or a reality? Be this as it might,
he now surely discovered, descending from the
cliff above, what seemed the faint outline of a
human figure. Slowly and gradually, it became
more distinct and Henry ere long recognized the
white robe, the pale and beautiful features of the
lady of the mist. He would have turned and fled
for life, but no human help was nigh—he was alone
on the great rock, and he felt that it would be

vain to seek with mortal steps to escape the
grasp of the spirit. So he moved on with a kind
of desperate energy, his eye still fixed on the advancing
form of the lady. They were now within
a few yards of each other, and seemed about
to meet just at the haunted stone.

At that instant the mysterious stranger paused,
her bright and beautiful eyes rested on him for a
moment, and, had all the charms and spells he
had dreaded, been concentrated in that one
glance, the change produced on his feelings
could not have been more instantaneous. Fears
and doubts were all forgotten in an emotion of
unmingled surprise. There was something in his
innermost heart, which told him at once that
that soft glance, that look of inexpressible sweetness,
he had often met ere now, where or how
he knew not, whether in dreams or visions, but
the expression was as familiar as his own name.

After regarding him for a moment, the lady
turned slowly about, and by the path she had
descended, began to mount the acclivity. Henry
darted forward to the stone. A basket like the
one he bore, already occupied it. The exchange
was quickly made; and turning his way downward
he soon found himself standing safe at the
foot of the haunted rock.

When Henry Davenport, after depositing the
basket in the appointed place, arrived again at
his father's dwelling, he learned that the whole
village had been thrown into a state of strong
excitement, by the reappearance of the identical
travellers whose adventures have hitherto claimed
so large a share of our attention. It was rumored
that they had arrived the evening previous,
having pushed their journey only as far south as

the Dutch colony at Manhattan, and were now
prepared to institute a more thorough search,
being convinced that the objects of their pursuit
were yet concealed in the colony of New-Haven.

Early that day, the Rev. Mr. Davenport found
himself favored with a second visit from his Majesty's
commissioners, Messrs Kirk and Kellond.
During their interview, the amiable family of the
clergymen, were grieved to perceive that intercourse
with their southern neighbors, had by no
means improved the manners of their guests;
and though the good minister himself manifested
all possible forbearance, the conversation at last
ended with bitter and taunting words on the part
of the strangers. They were however assured
that the answer given them on the occasion of
their former visit, must be considered decisive
—no assistance could be furnished them by the
magistrates of the colony, though all authorized
commissioners were of course allowed full liberty
of searching their dwellings. They were informed,
however, that if the judges had, as they asserted,
secreted themselves in the colony, they
were bound to exercise their own wits according
to the tenor of their directions, in ascertaining the
place of concealment.

The ensuing day it was ascertained that the
commissioners had taken lodgings for a fortnight
at the village inn. And from that place daily irruptions
were made, into various parts of the
town and its vicinity, much to the annoyance of
the worthy inhabitants.

Meanwhile Henry Davenport continued his
visits to the seat of the mountain spirit; and every
morning with increasing fortitude encountered
the fearful vision of the white robed lady. After

the first morning, however, she had never approached
so near as before, standing at such a
distance, while he deposited his burthen, that
the dim outline of her figure alone was discernible.
But as he became familiar with the sight,
and every morning found himself returning from
his ramble alive and unharmed, curiosity began
to obtain the ascendancy over his fears, and he
cherished an irresistible desire to learn something
more concerning the lady of the mist. A circumstance
soon occurred which gave a keener edge
to this feeling, removing, at the same time, all
his most painful conjectures.

It was the fourth evening after his singular interview
with Miss Weldon, that Henry Davenport
was dispatched to Mrs. Wilmot, as the bearer
of a letter which had that day been received
from Boston, inclosed in a pacquet to his father.
He paused a moment at the gate. A rich flow
of music came swelling from the open window
of the little parlor; there was a mingling of sweet
voices within, and Henry lingered awhile at the
door, unnoticed, and unwilling to disturb the sacred
melody of their evening hymn.

Mrs. Wilmot was seated opposite the door, and
Miss Weldon beside her, while the lovely little
Alice reclined at her feet, leaning her fair young
head with all its beautiful and clustering curls,
upon her sister and a vivid beam of moonlight
from the window played full upon her countenance.
There was a pallid cast to her usually
blooming features, and with an emotion too
powerful for description, Henry at that moment
discovered a close and striking resemblance to
the strange face that gazed on him so fearfully,
through the mist of the haunted rock. The forehead,

the lip, the soft melancholy expression
which had seemed so strangely familiar in the
Lady of the Mist, were all in a moment recognized.
The agitation of this discovery, had absorbed
every faculty of the astonished youth, and when
at length amid a pause of the deep melody, the
eyes of the interesting group were directed towards
him, his confusion and embarrassment
were but too evident.

“I have a letter for Margaret,” he at length articulated,
suddenly recollecting his errand as he
advanced to the sofa.

“And whence comes it,” said Mrs. Wilmot,
as the young lady seized it with avidity, and,
breaking the seal, glanced her eye hastily over its
contents.

“From Boston,” replied Miss Weldon in a low
voice, her eye falling again instantly on the unread
page; and, notwithstanding his emotion,
Henry could not but perceive, that the tidings of
which he had been the unconcious bearer were
of a peculiarly interesting nature. The cheek of
the young lady became flushed, as she perused
the letter, and her countenance exhibited marks
of strong emotion, whether of joy or sorrow he
knew not. Indeed he was now completely occupied
with a plan he had formed since his entrance,
and as soon as the affability of Mrs. Wilmot
would permit, he hastened home to mature
his projects.