 | CHAPTER III. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
“This is most strange: your father's in some passion
That works him strongly.”
Tempest.
A FEW hours made a great change in the occupations
of the different members of our simple and
secluded family. The kine had yielded their nightly
tribute; the oxen had been released from the yoke,
and were now secure beneath their sheds; the sheep
were in their folds, safe from the assaults of the
prowling wolf; and care had been taken to see that
every thing possessing life was gathered within the
particular defences that were provided for its security
and comfort. But while all this caution was
used in behalf of living things, the utmost indifference
prevailed on the subject of that species of
movable property, which, elsewhere, would have
been guarded with, at least, an equal jealousy.
The homely fabrics of the looms of Ruth lay on
their bleaching-ground, to drink in the night-dew;
and plows, harrows, carts, saddles, and other similar
articles, were left in situations so exposed, as to
prove that the hand of man had occupations so
numerous and so urgent, as to render it inconvenient
to bestow labor where it was not considered absolutely
necessary.
Content himself was the last to quit the fields and
the out-buildings. When he reached the postern in
the palisadoes, he stopped to call to those above
him, in order to learn if any yet lingered without
the wooden barriers. The answer being in the
negative, he entered, and drawing-to the small but
heavy gate, he secured it with bar, bolt, and lock,
carefully and jealously, with his own hand. As this
was no more than a nightly and necessary precaution,
The meal of the hour was soon ended; and
conversation, with those light toils which are peculiar
to the long evenings of the fall and winter
in families on the frontier, succeeded as fitting employments
to close the business of a laborious and
well-spent day.
Notwithstanding the entire simplicity which
marked the opinions and usages of the colonists at
that period, and the great equality of condition
which even to this hour distinguishes the particular
community of which we write, choice and inclination
drew some natural distinctions in the ordinary
intercourse of the inmates of the Heathcote family.
A fire so bright and cheerful blazed on an enormous
hearth in a sort of upper kitchen, as to render
candles or torches unnecessary. Around it were
seated six or seven hardy and athletic young men,
some drawing coarse tools carefully through the
curvatures of ox-bows, others scraping down the
helves of axes, or perhaps fashioning sticks of birch
into homely but convenient brooms. A demure,
side-looking young woman kept her great wheel
in motion; while one or two others were passing
from room to room, with the notable and stirring
industry of handmaidens, busied in the more familiar
cares of the household. A door communicated with
an inner and superior apartment. Here was a
smaller but an equally cheerful fire, a floor which
had recently been swept, while that without had
been freshly sprinkled with river sand; candles
of tallow, on a table of cherry-wood from the
neighboring forest; walls that were wainscoted in
the black oak of the country, and a few other
articles, of a fashion so antique, and of ornaments
so ingenious and rich, as to announce that they had
been transported from beyond sea. Above the
mantel were suspended the armorial bearings of
in tent-stitch.
The principal personages of the family were seated
around the latter hearth, while a straggler from
the other room, of more than usual curiosity, had
placed himself among them, marking the distinction
in ranks, or rather in situation, merely by the extraordinary
care which he took that none of the
scrapings should litter the spotless oaken floor.
Until this period of the evening, the duties of
hospitality and the observances of religion had prevented
familiar discourse. But the offices of the
housewife were now ended for the night, the hand-maidens
had all retired to their wheels, and, as the
bustle of a busy and more stirring domestic industry
ceased, the cold and self-restrained silence
which had hitherto only been broken by distant
and brief observations of courtesy, or by some
wholesome allusion to the lost and probationary
condition of man, seemed to invite an intercourse
of a more general character.
“You entered my clearing by the southern path,”
commenced Mark Heathcote, addressing himself to
his guest with sufficient courtesy, “and needs must
bring tidings from the towns on the river side. Has
aught been done by our councillors, at home, in the
matter that pertaineth so closely to the well-being
of this colony?”
“You would have me say whether he that now
sitteth on the throne of England, hath listened to
the petitions of his people in this province, and hath
granted them protection against the abuses which
might so readily flow out of his own ill-advised will,
or out of the violence and injustice of his successors?”
“We will render unto Cæsar the things that are
Cæsar's; and speak reverently of men having authority.
I would fain know whether the agent sent
by our people hath gained the ears of those who
sought?”
“He hath done more,” returned the stranger,
with singular asperity; “he hath even gained the
ear of the Lord's Anointed.”
“Then is Charles of better mind, and of stronger
justice, than report hath spoken. We were told that
light manners and unprofitable companions had led
him to think more of the vanities of the world, and
less of the wants of those over whom he hath been
called by Providence to rule, than is meet for one
that sitteth on a high place. I rejoice that the arguments
of the man we sent have prevailed over
more evil promptings, and that peace and freedom
of conscience are likely to be the fruits of the
undertaking. In what manner hath he seen fit to
order the future government of this people?”
“Much as it hath ever stood; by their own ordinances.
Winthrop hath returned, and is the bearer
of a Royal Charter, which granteth all the rights
long claimed and practised. None now dwell under
the Crown of Britain with fewer offensive demands
on their consciences, or with lighter calls on their
political duties, than the men of Connecticut.”
“It is fitting that thanks should be rendered
therefor, where thanks are most due,” said the
Puritan, folding his hands on his bosom, and sitting
for a moment with closed eyes, like one who communed
with an unseen being. “Is it known by what
manner of argument the Lord moved the heart of
the Prince to hearken to our wants; or was it an
open and manifest token of his power?”
“I think it must needs have been the latter,”
rejoined the visiter, with a manner that grew still
more caustic and emphatic. “The bauble, that was
the visible agent, could not have weighed greatly
with one so proudly seated before the eyes of men.”
Until this point in the discourse, Content and
individuals who composed the audience, had listened
with the demure gravity which characterized the
manners of the country. The language, united with
the ill-concealed sarcasm conveyed by the countenance,
no less than the emphasis, of the speaker,
caused them now to raise their eyes, as by a common
impulse. The word “bauble” was audibly and
curiously repeated. But the look of cold irony had
already passed from the features of the stranger,
and it had given place to a stern and fixed austerity,
that imparted a character of grimness to his hard
and sun-burnt visage. Still he betrayed no disposition
to shrink from the subject, but, after regarding
his auditors with a glance in which pride and suspicion
were strongly blended, he resumed the discourse.
“It is known,” he added, “that the grandfather
of him the good people of these settlements have
commissioned to bear their wants over sea, lived in
the favor of the man who last sat upon the throne
of England; and a rumor goeth forth, that the Stuart,
in a moment of princely condescension, once decked
the finger of his subject, with a ring wrought in a
curious fashion. It was a token of the love which a
monarch may bear a man.”
“Such gifts are beacons of friendship, but may
not be used as gay and sinful ornaments,” observed
Mark, while the other paused like one who wished
none of the bitterness of his allusions to be lost.
“It matters not whether the bauble lay in the
coffers of the Winthrops, or has long been glittering
before the eyes of the faithful, in the Bay, since it
hath finally proved to be a jewel of price,” continued
the stranger. “It is said, in secret, that this
ring hath returned to the finger of a Stuart, and it is
openly proclaimed that Connecticut hath a Charter!”
Content and his wife regarded each other in melancholy
amazement. Such an evidence of wanton
was intrusted with the gift of earthly government,
pained their simple and upright minds; while old
Mark, of still more decided and exaggerated ideas
of spiritual perfection, distinctly groaned aloud.
The stranger took a sensible pleasure in this testimony
of their abhorrence of so gross and so unworthy
a venality, though he saw no occasion to heighten
its effect by further speech. When his host stood
erect, and, in a voice that was accustomed to obedience,
he called on his family to join, in behalf of
the reckless ruler of the land of their fathers, in a
petition to him who alone could soften the hearts
of Princes, he also arose from his seat. But even
in this act of devotion, the stranger bore the air
of one who wished to do pleasure to his entertainers,
rather than to obtain that which was asked.
The prayer, though short, was pointed, fervent,
and sufficiently personal. The wheels in the outer
room ceased their hum, and a general movement
denoted that all there had arisen to join in the office;
while one or two of their number, impelled by deeper
piety or stronger interest, drew near to the open
door between the rooms, in order to listen. With
this singular but characteristic interruption, that
particular branch of the discourse, which had given
rise to it, altogether ceased.
“And have we reason to dread a rising of the
savages on the borders?” asked Content, when he
found that the moved spirit of his father was not
yet sufficiently calmed, to return to the examination
of temporal things; “one who brought wares from
the towns below, a few months since, recited reasons
to fear a movement among the red men.”
The subject had not sufficient interest to open
the ears of the stranger. He was deaf, or he chose
to affect deafness, to the interrogatory. Laying his
two large and weather-worn, though still muscular
he appeared to shut out the objects of the
world, while he communed deeply, and, as would
seem by a slight tremor, that shook even his powerful
frame, terribly, with his own thoughts.
“We have many to whom our hearts strongly
cling, to heighten the smallest symptom of alarm
from that quarter,” added the tender and anxious
mother, her eye glancing at the uplifted countenances
of two little girls, who, busied with their light
needle-work, sate on stools at her feet. “But I rejoice
to see, that one who hath journeyed from parts
where the minds of the savages must be better understood,
hath not feared to do it unarmed.”
The traveller slowly uncovered his features, and
the glance that his eye shot over the face of the
last speaker, was not without a gentle and interested
expression. Instantly recovering his composure, he
arose, and, turning to the double leathern sack,
which had been borne on the crupper of his nag,
and which now lay at no great distance from his
seat, he drew a pair of horseman's pistols from two
well-contrived pockets in its sides, and laid them deliberately
on the table.
“Though little disposed to seek an encounter
with any bearing the image of man,” he said, “I
have not neglected the usual precautions of those
who enter the wilderness. Here are weapons that,
in steady hands, might easily take life, or, at need,
preserve it.”
The young Mark drew near with boyish curiosity,
and while one finger ventured to touch a lock, as
he stole a conscious glance of wrong-doing towards
his mother, he said, with as much of contempt in
his air, as the schooling of his manners would allow—
“An Indian arrow would make a surer aim, than
a bore as short as this! When the trainer from the
he sent the bullet from a five-foot barrel; besides,
this short-sighted gun would be a dull weapon
in a hug against the keen-edged knife, that the
wicked Wampanoag is known to carry.”—
“Boy, thy years are few, and thy boldness of
speech marvellous,” sternly interrupted his parent
in the second degree.
The stranger manifested no displeasure at the
confident language of the lad. Encouraging him
with a look, which plainly proclaimed that martial
qualities in no degree lessened the stripling in his
favor, he observed that—
“The youth who is not afraid to think of the
fight, or to reason on its chances, will lead to a man-hood
of spirit and independence. A hundred thousand
striplings like this, might have spared Winthrop
his jewel, and the Stuart the shame of yielding to
so vain and so trivial a bribe. But thou mayst also
see, child, that had we come to the death-hug, the
wicked Wampanoag might have found a blade as
keen as his own.”
The stranger, while speaking, loosened a few
strings of his doublet, and thrust a hand into his
bosom. The action enabled more than one eye to
catch a momentary glimpse of a weapon of the
same description, but of a size much smaller than
those he had already so freely exhibited. As he
immediately withdrew the member, and again
closed the garment with studied care, no one presumed
to advert to the circumstance, but all turned
their attention to the long sharp hunting-knife that
he deposited by the side of the pistols, as he concluded.
Mark ventured to open its blade, but he
turned away with sudden consciousness, when he
found that a few fibres of coarse, shaggy wool, that
were drawn from the loosened joint, adhered to his
fingers.
“Straight-Horns has been against a bush sharper
than the thorn!” exclaimed Whittal Ring, who had
been at hand, and who watched with childish admiration
the smallest proceedings of the different
individuals. “A steel for the back of the blade, a
few dried leaves and broken sticks, with such a
carver, would soon make roast and broiled of the
old bell-wether himself. I know that the hair of all
my colts is sorrel, and I counted five at sum-down,
which is just as many as went loping through the
underbrush when I loosened them from the hopples
in the morning; but six-and-thirty backs can never
carry seven-and-thirty growing fleeces of unsheared
wool. Master knows that, for he is a scholar and
can count a hundred!”
The allusion to the fate of the lost sheep was so
plain, as to admit of no misinterpretation of the
meaning of the witless speaker. Animals of that
class were of the last importance to the comfort of
the settlers, and there was not probably one within
hearing of Whittal Ring, that was at all ignorant
of the import of his words. Indeed, the loud chuckle
and the open and deriding manner with which the
lad himself held above his head the hairy fibres
that he had snatched from young Mark, allowed of
no concealment, had it been desirable.
“This feeble-gifted youth would hint, that thy
knife hath proved its edge on a wether that is missing
from our flock, since the animals went on their
mountain range, in the morning,” said the host,
calmly; though even he bent his eye to the floor,
as he waited for an answer to a remark, direct as
the one his sense of justice, and his indomitable love
of right, had prompted.
The stranger demanded, in a voice that lost none
of its depth or firmness, “Is hunger a crime, that
they who dwell so far from the haunts of selfishness,
visit it with their anger?”
“The foot of Christian man never approached the
gates of Wish-Ton-Wish to be turned away in uncharitableness,
but that which is freely given should
not be taken in licentiousness. From off the hill
where my flock is wont to graze, it is easy, through
many an opening of the forest, to see these roofs;
and it would have been better that the body should
languish, than that a grievous sin should be placed
on that immortal spirit which is already too deeply
laden, unless thou art far more happy than others
of the fallen race of Adam.”
“Mark Heathcote,” said the accused, and ever
with an unwavering tone, “look further at those
weapons, which, if a guilty man, I have weakly
placed within thy power. Thou wilt find more
there to wonder at, than a few straggling hairs,
that the spinner would cast from her as too coarse
for service.”
“It is long since I found pleasure in handling the
weapons of strife; may it be longer to the time
when they shall be needed in this abode of peace.
These are instruments of death, resembling those
used in my youth, by cavaliers that rode in the levies
of the first Charles, and of his pusillanimous father.
There were worldly pride and great vanity, with
much and damning ungodliness, in the wars that I
have seen, my children; and yet the carnal man found
pleasure in the stirrings of those graceless days! Come
hither, younker; thou hast often sought to know the
manner in which the horsemen are wont to lead into
the combat, when the broad-mouthed artillery and
pattering leaden hail have cleared a passage for the
struggle of horse to horse, and man to man. Much
of the justification of these combats must depend on
the inward spirit, and on the temper of him that
striketh at the life of fellow-sinner; but righteous
Joshua, it is known, contended with the heathen
throughout a supernatural day; and therefore, always
open to thy young mind the uses of a weapon that
hath never before been seen in these forests.”
“I have hefted many a heavier piece than this,”
said young Mark, frowning equally with the exertion
and with the instigations of his aspiring spirit,
as he held out the ponderous weapon in a single
hand; “we have guns that might tame a wolf with
greater certainty than any barrel of a bore less
than my own height. Tell, me grand'ther; at what
distance do the mounted warriors, you so often name,
take their sight?”
But the power of speech appeared suddenly to
have deserted the aged veteran. He had interrupted
his own discourse, and now, instead of answering
the interrogatory of the boy, his eye wandered
slowly and with a look of painful doubt from the
weapon, that he still held before him, to the countenance
of the stranger. The latter continued erect,
like one courting a strict and meaning examination
of his person. This dumb-show could not fail to attract
the observation of Content. Rising from his
seat, with that quiet but authoritative manner
which is still seen in the domestic government of
the people of the region where he dwelt, he beckoned
to all present to quit the apartment. Ruth
and her daughters, the hirelings, the ill-gifted Whittal,
and even the reluctant Mark, preceded him to
the door, which he closed with respectful care; and
then the whole of the wondering party mingled
with those of the outer room, leaving the one they
had quitted to the sole possession of the aged chief
of the settlement, and to his still unknown and mysterious
guest.
Many anxious, and to those who were excluded,
seemingly interminable minutes passed, and the
secret interview appeared to draw no nearer its
close. That deep reverence, which the years, paternity,
prevented all from approaching the quarter
of the apartment nearest to the room they had
left; but a silence, still as the grave, did all that
silence could do, to enlighten their minds in a matter
of so much general interest. The deep, smothered
sentences of the speakers were often heard, each
dwelling with steadiness and propriety on his particular
theme, but no sound that conveyed meaning
to the minds of those without passed the envious
walls. At length, the voice of old Mark became
more than usually audible; and then Content arose,
with a gesture to those around him to imitate his
example. The young men threw aside the subjects
of their light employments, the maidens left the
wheels which had not been turned for many minutes,
and the whole party disposed themselves in the decent
and simple attitude of prayer. For the third
time that evening was the voice of the Puritan
heard, pouring out his spirit in a communion with
that being on whom it was his practice to repose
all his worldly cares. But, though long accustomed
to all the peculiar forms of utterance by which
their father ordinarily expressed his pious emotions,
neither Content nor his attentive partner was enabled
to decide on the nature of the feeling that
was now uppermost. At times, it appeared to be
the language of thanksgiving, and at others it assumed
more of the imploring sounds of deprecation
and petition; in short, it was so varied, and, though
tranquil, so equivocal, if such a term may be applied
to so serious a subject, as completely to baffle every
conjecture.
Long and weary minutes passed after the voice
had entirely ceased, and yet no summons was given
to the expecting family, nor did any sound proceed
from the inner room, which the respectful son was
emboldened to construe into an evidence that he
began to mingle with conjectures, and then the husband
and wife communed apart, in whispers. The
misgivings and doubt of the former soon manifested
themselves in still more apparent forms. He
arose, and was seen pacing the wide apartment,
gradualy approaching nearer to the partition which
separated the two rooms, evidently prepared to retire
beyond the limits of hearing, the moment he
should detect any proofs that his uneasiness was
without a sufficient cause. Still no sound proceeded
from the inner room. The breathless silence
which had so shortly before reigned where he was,
appeared to be suddenly transferred to the spot in
which he was vainly endeavoring to detect the
smallest proof of human existence. Again he returned
to Ruth, and again they consulted, in low
voices, as to the step that filial duty seemed to require
at their hands.
“We were not bidden to withdraw,” said his gentle
companion; “why not rejoin our parent, now
that time has been given to understand the subject
which so evidently disturbed his mind?”
Content, at length, yielded to this opinion. With
that cautions discretion which distinguishes his people,
he motioned to the family to follow, in order
that no unnecessary exclusion should give rise to
conjectures, or excite suspicions, for which, after all,
the circumstances might prove no justification. Notwithstanding
the subdued manners of the age and
country, curiosity, and perhaps a better feeling, had
become so intense, as to cause all present to obey
this silent mandate, by moving as swiftly towards
the open door as a never-yielding decency of demeanor
would permit.
Old Mark Heathcote occupied the chair in which
he had been left, with that calm and unbending
gravity of eye and features which were then
But the stranger had disappeared. There were two
or three outlets by which the room, and even the
house, might be quitted, without the knowledge of
those who had so long waited for admission; and
the first impression led the family to expect the reappearance
of the absent man through one of these
exterior passages. Content, however, read in the
expression of his father's eye, that the moment of
confidence, if it were ever to arrive, had not yet
come; and, so admirable and perfect was the domestic
discipline of this family, that the questions
which the son did not see fit to propound, no one of
inferior condition, or lesser age, might presume to
agitate. With the person of the stranger, every
evidence of his recent visit had also vanished.
Mark missed the weapon that had excited his admiration;
Whittal looked in vain for the hunting-knife,
which had betrayed the fate of the wether;
Mrs. Heathcote saw, by a hasty glance of the eye,
that the leathern sacks, which she had borne in mind
ought to be transferred to the sleeping apartment of
their guest, were gone; and a mild and playful image
of herself, who bore her name no less than most
of those features which had rendered her own youth
more than usually attractive, sought, without success,
a massive silver spur, of curious and antique
workmanship, which she had been permitted to
handle until the moment when the family had been
commanded to withdraw.
The night had now worn later than the hour at
which it was usual for people of habits so simple
to be out of their beds. The grandfather lighted a
taper, and, after bestowing the usual blessing on
those around him, with an air as calm as if nothing
had occurred, he prepared to retire into his own
room. And yet, matter of interest seemed to linger
on his mind. Even on the threshold of the door, he
of a circumstance which began to wear no
little of the aspect of an exciting and painful
mystery. But their hopes were raised only to be
disappointed.
“My thoughts have not kept the passage of the
time,” he said. “In what hour of the night are we,
my son?”
He was told that it was already past the usual
moment of sleep.
“No matter; that which Providence hath bestowed
for our comfort and support, should not be
lightly and unthankfully disregarded. Take thou
the beast I am wont to ride, thyself, Content, and
follow the path which leadeth to the mountain
clearing; bring away that which shall meet thine
eye, near the first turning of the route toward the
river towns. We have got into the last quarter of
the year, and in order that our industry may not
flag, and that all may be stirring with the sun, let
the remainder of the household seek their rest.”
Content saw, by the manner of his father, that no
departure from the strict letter of these instructions
was admissible. He closed the door after his retiring
form, and then, by a quiet gesture of authority,
indicated to his dependants that they were expected
to withdraw. The maidens of Ruth led the children
to their chambers, and in a few more minutes, none
remained in the outer apartment, already so often
named, but the obedient son, with his anxious and
affectionate consort.
“I will be thy companion, husband,” Ruth half-whisperingly
commenced, so soon as the little
domestic preparations for leaving the fires and
securing the doors were ended. “I like not that
thou shouldst go into the forest alone, at so late an
hour of the night.”
“One will be with me, there, who never deserteth
what is there to apprehend in a wilderness like this?
The beasts have been lately hunted from the hills,
and, excepting those who dwell under our own roof,
there is not one within a long day's ride.”
“We know not! Where is the stranger that
came within our doors as the sun was setting?”
“As thou sayest, we know not. My father is not
minded to open his lips on the subject of this
traveller, and surely we are not now to learn the
lessors of obedience and self-denial.”
“It would, notwithstanding, be a great easing to
the spirit to hear at least the name of him who
hath eaten of our bread, and joined in our family
worship, though he were immediately to pass away
for ever from before the sight.”
“That may he have done, already!” returned
the less curious and more self-restrained husband.
“My father will not that we inquire.”
“And yet there can be little sin in knowing the
condition of one whose fortunes and movements
can excite neither our envy nor our strife. I would
that we had tarried for a closer mingling in the
prayers; it was not seemly to desert a guest who,
it would appear, had need of an especial up-offering
in his behalf.”
“Our spirits joined in the asking, though our
ears were shut to the matter of his wants. But it
will be needful that I should be afoot with the
young men, in the morning, and a mile of measurement
would not reach to the turning, in the path
to the river towns. Go with me to the postern, and
look to the fastenings; I will not keep thee long on
thy watch.”
Content and his wife now quitted the dwelling,
by the only door that was left unbarred. Lighted
by a moon that was full, though clouded, they
passed a gateway between two of the outer buildings,
and bolts of the little postern were removed, and
in a few minutes, the former, mounted on the back
of his father's own horse, was galloping briskly
along the path which led into the part of the forest
he was directed to seek.
While the husband was thus proceeding, in
obedience to orders that he never hesitated to obey,
his faithful wife withdrew within the shelter of the
wooden defences. More in compliance with a precaution
that was become habitual, than from any
present causes of suspicion, she drew a single bolt
and remained at the postern, anxiously awaiting
the result of a movement that was as unaccountable
as it was extraordinary.
| CHAPTER III. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish | |