 | CHAPTER XV. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloved till life could charm no more;
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.”
Collins.
An hour later, and the principal actors in the
foregoing scene had disappeared. There remained
only the widowed Narra-mattah, with Dudley, the
divine, and Whittal Ring.
The body of Conanchet still continued, where he
had died, seated like a chief in council. The daughter
of Content and Ruth had stolen to its side, and
she had taken her seat, in that species of dull woe,
which so frequently attends the first moments of
any unexpected and overwhelming affliction. She
neither spoke, sobbed, nor sorrowed in any way that
grief is wont to affect the human system. The mind
seemed palsied, though a withering sense of the blow
was fearfully engraven on every lineament of her
eloquent face. The color had deserted her cheeks,
the lips were bloodless, while, at moments, they
quivered convulsively, like the tremulous movement
of the sleeping infant; and, at long intervals, her
bosom heaved, as if the spirit within struggled heavily
to escape from its earthly prison. The child lay
unheeded at her side, and Whittal Ring had placed
himself on the opposite side of the corpse.
The two agents, appointed by the Colony to witness
the death of Conanchet, stood near, gazing
mournfully on the piteous spectacle. The instant
the spirit of the condemned man had fled, the prayers
then the soul had gone to judgment. But there was
more of human charity, and less of that exaggerated
severity in his aspect, than was ordinarily seated in
the deep lines of his austere countenance. Now that
the deed was done, and the excitement of his exalted
theories had given way to the more positive
appearance of the result, he might even have moments
of harassing doubts concerning the lawfulness
of an act that he had hitherto veiled under the
forms of a legal and necessary execution of justice.
The mind of Eben Dudley vacillated with none of
the subtleties of doctrine or of law. As there had
been less exaggeration in his original views of the
necessity of the proceeding, so was there more steadiness
in his contemplation of its fulfilment. Feelings,
they might be termed emotions, of a different nature
troubled the breast of this resolute but justly-disposed
borderer.
“This hath been a melancholy visitation of necessity,
and a severe manifestation of the foreordering
will,” said the Ensign, as he gazed at the
sad spectacle before him. “Father and son have
both died, as it were, in my presence, and both have
departed for the world of spirits, in a manner to
prove the inscrutableness of Providence. But dost
not see, here, in the face of her who looketh like a
form of stone, traces of a countenance that is familiar?”
“Thou hast allusion to the consort of Captain
Content Heathcote?”
“Truly, to her only. Thou art not, reverend sir,
of sufficient residence at the Wish-Ton-Wish, to remember
that lady in her youthfulness. But to me, the
hour when the Captain led his followers into the wilderness,
seemeth but as a morning of the past season.
I was then active in limb, and something idle in reflection
the woman who is now the mother of my children
and I first made acquaintance. I have seen many
comely females in my time, but never did I look on
one so pleasant to the eye, as was the consort of the
Captain until the night of the burning. Thou hast
often heard the loss she then met, and, from that
hour, her beauty hath been that of the October leaf,
rather than its loveliness in the season of fertility.
Now look on the face of this mourner, and say if
there be not here such an image as the water reflects
from the overhanging bush. In verity, I could
believe it was the sorrowing eye and bereaved look
of the mother herself!”
“Grief hath struck its blow heavily on this unoffending
victim,” uttered Meek, with great and subdued
softness in his manner. “The voice of petition
must be raised in her behalf, or—”
“Hist!—there are some in the forest; I hear the
rustling of leaves!”
“The voice of him, who made the earth, whispereth
in the winds; his breath is the movement of
nature!”
“Here are living men!—But, happily, the meeting
is friendly, and there will be no further occasion
for strife. The heart of a father is sure as ready
eye and swift foot.”
Dudley suffered his musket to fall at his side, and
both he and his companion stood in attitudes of decent
composure, to await the arrival of those who
approached. The party that drew near, arrived
on the side of the tree opposite to that on which the
death of Conanchet had occurred. The enormous
trunk and swelling roots of the pine concealed the
group at its feet, but the persons of Meek and the
Ensign were soon observed. The instant they were
discovered, he who led the new-comers bent his
footsteps in that direction.
“If, as thou hast supposed, the Narragansett hath
again led her thou hast so long mourned into the
forest,” said Submission, who acted as guide to those
who followed, “here are we, at no great distance
from the place of his resort. It was near yon rock
that he gave the meeting with the bloody-minded
Philip, and the place where I received the boon of
an useless and much-afflicted life from his care, is
within the bosom of that thicket which borders the
brook. This minister of the Lord, and our stout
friend the Ensign, may have further matter to tell
us of his movements.”
The speaker had stopped within a short distance
of the two he named, but still on the side of the
tree opposite to that where the body lay. He had
addressed his words to Content, who also halted to
await the arrival of Ruth, who came in the rear,
supported by her son, and attended by Faith and
the physician, all equipped like persons engaged in
a search through the forest. A mother's heart had
sustained the feeble woman for many a weary mile,
but her steps had begun to drag, shortly before they
so happily fell upon the signs of human beings, near
the spot where they now met the two agents of the
Colony.
Notwithstanding the deep interest which belonged
to the respective pursuits of the individuals who
composed these two parties, the interview was opened
with no lively signs of feeling on either side.
To them a journey in the forest possessed no novelties,
and after traversing its mazes for a day, the
newly-arrived encountered their friends, as men
meet on more beaten tracks, in countries where
roads unavoidably lead them to cross each other's
paths. Even the appearance of Submission in front
of the travellers, elicited no marks of surprise in
the unmoved features of those who witnessed his
who had so long concealed his person, and of those
who had more than once seen him in striking and
mysterious situations, might well justify a belief
that the secret of his presence near the valley had
not been confined to the family of the Heathcotes.
This fact is rendered still more probable, by the recollection
of the honesty of Dudley, and of the professional
characters of the two others.
“We are on the trail of one fled, as the truant
fawn seeketh again the covers of the woods,” said
Content. “Our hunt was uncertain, and it might
have been vain, so many feet have lately crossed
the forest, were it not that Providence hath cast
our route on that of our friend, here, who hath had
reason to know the probable situation of the Indian
camp. Hast seen aught of the Sachem of the Narragansetts,
Dudley? and where are those thou led'st
against the subtle Philip? That thou fell upon his
party, we have heard; though further than thy
general success, we have yet to learn. The Wampanoag
escaped thee?”
“The wicked agencies that back him in his designs,
profited the savage in his extremity. Else
would his fate have been that which I fear a far
worthier spirit hath been doomed to suffer.”
“Of whom dost speak?—but it mattereth not.
We seek our child; she, whom thou hast known,
and whom thou hast so lately seen, hath again left
us. We seek her in the camp of him who hath
been to her—Dudley, hast seen aught of the Narragansett
Sachem?”
The Ensign looked at Ruth, as he had once before
been seen to gaze on the sorrowing features
of the woman; but he spoke not. Meek folded his
arms on his breast, and seemed to pray inwardly.
There was, however, one who broke the silence,
though his tones were low and menacing.
“It was a bloody deed!” muttered the innocent.
“The lying Mohican hath struck a Great Chief,
from behind. Let him dig the prints of his moccason
from the earth, with his nails, like a burrowing
fox; for there'll be one on his trail, before he can
hide his head. Nipset will be a warrior the next
snow!”
“There speaks my witless brother!” exclaimed
Faith, rushing ahead—she recoiled, covered her
face with her hands, and sunk upon the ground,
under the violence of the surprise that followed.
Though time moved with his ordinary pace, it
appeared to those who witnessed the scene which
succeeded, as if the emotions of many days were
collected within the brief compass of a few minutes.
We shall not dwell on the first harrowing and exciting
moments of the appalling discovery.
A short half-hour served to make each person
acquainted with all that it was necessary to know.
We shall therefore transfer the narrative to the
end of that period.
The body of Conanchet still rested against the
tree. The eyes were open, and though glazed in
death, there still remained about the brow, the
compressed lips, and the expansive nostrils, much
of that lofty firmness which had sustained him in
the last trial of life. The arms were passive at its
sides, but one hand was clenched in the manner
with which it had so often grasped the tomahawk,
while the other had lost its power in a vain effort
to seek the place in the girdle where the keen knife
should have been. These two movements had
probably been involuntary, for, in all other respects,
the form was expressive of dignity and repose. At
its side, the imaginary Nipset still held his place,
menacing discontent betraying itself through the
ordinary dull fatuity of his countenance.
The others present were collected around the
mother and her stricken child. It would seem that
all other feelings were, for the moment, absorbed
in apprehensions for the latter. There was much
reason to dread, that the recent shock had suddenly
deranged some of that fearful machinery which
links the soul to the body. This dreaded effect,
however, was more to be apprehended by a general
apathy and failing of the system, than by any violent
and intelligible symptom.
The pulses still vibrated, but it was heavily, and
like the irregular and faltering evolutions of the
mill, which the dying breeze is ceasing to fan. The
pallid countenance was fixed in its expression of
anguish. Color there was none, even the lips resembling
the unnatural character which is given
by images of wax. Her limbs, like her features,
were immovable; and yet there was, at moments,
a working of the latter, which would seem to imply
not only consciousness, but vivid and painful recollections
of the realities of her situation.
“This surpasseth my art,” said Doctor Ergot,
raising himself from a long and silent examination
of the pulse; “there is a mystery in the construction
of the body, which human knowledge hath not
yet unveiled. The currents of existence are sometimes
frozen in an incomprehensible manner, and
this I conceive to be a case that would confound
the most learned of our art, even in the oldest countries
of the earth. It hath been my fortune to see
many arrive and but few depart from this busy
world, and yet do I presume to foretell that here is
one destined to quit its limits ere the natural number
of her days has been filled!”
“Let us address ourselves, in behalf of that which
shall never die, to Him who hath ordered the event
from the commencement of time,” said Meek, motioning
to those around him to join in prayer.
The divine then lifted up his voice, under the
arches of the forest, in an ardent, pious, and eloquent
petition. When this solemn duty was performed,
attention was again bestowed on the sufferer.
To the surprise of all, it was found that the blood
had revisited her face, and that her radiant eyes
were lighted with an expression of brightness and
peace. She even motioned to be raised, in order
that those near her person might be better seen.
“Dost know us?” asked the trembling Ruth.
“Look on thy friends, long-mourned and much-suffering
daughter! 'Tis she who sorrowed over thy
infant afflictions, who rejoiced in thy childish happiness,
and who hath so bitterly wept thy loss, that
craveth the boon. In this awful moment, recall the
lessons of youth. Surely, surely, the God that bestowed
thee in mercy, though he hath led thee on a
wonderful and inscrutable path, will not desert thee
at the end! Think of thy early instruction, child
of my love; feeble of spirit as thou art, the seed
may yet quicken, though it hath been cast where
the glory of the promise hath so long been hid.”
“Mother!” said a low, struggling voice, in reply.
The word reached every ear, and it caused a general
and breathless attention. The sound was soft and
low, perhaps infantile, but it was uttered without
accent, and clearly.
“Mother—why are we in the forest?” continued
the speaker. “Have any robbed us of our home,
that we dwell beneath the trees?”
Ruth raised a hand, imploringly, for none to interrupt
the illusion.
“Nature hath revived the recollections of her
youth,” she whispered. “Let the spirit depart, if
such be his holy will, in the blessedness of infant
innocence!”
“Why do Mark and Martha stay?” continued
wander far in the woods; the heathen may be out
of their towns, and one cannot say what evil chance
might happen to the indiscreet.”
A groan struggled from the chest of Content, and
the muscular hand of Dudley compressed itself on
the shoulder of his wife, until the breathlessly attentive
woman withdrew, unconsciously, with pain.
“I've said as much to Mark, for he doth not always
remember thy warnings, mother; and those
children do so love to wander together!—but Mark
is, in common, good; do not chide, if he stray too
far—mother, thou wilt not chide!”
The youth turned his head, for even at that moment,
the pride of young manhood prompted him
to conceal his weakness.
“Hast prayed to-day, my daughter?” said Ruth,
struggling to be composed. “Thou shouldst not
forget thy duty to His blessed name, even though
we are houseless in the woods.”
“I will pray now, mother,” said the creature of
this mysterious hallucination, struggling to bow her
face into the lap of Ruth. Her wish was indulged,
and for a minute, the same low childish voice was
heard distinctly repeating the words of a prayer
adapted to the earliest period of life. Feeble as
were the sounds, none of their intonations escaped
the listeners, until near the close, when a species of
holy calm seemed to absorb the utterance. Ruth
raised the form of her child, and saw that the features
bone the placid look of a sleeping infant. Life
played upon them, as the flickering light lingers on
the dying torch. Her dove-like eyes looked up into
the face of Ruth, and the anguish of the mother
was alleviated by a smile of intelligence and love.
The full and sweet organs next rolled from face to
face, recognition and pleasure accompanying each
doubtful, but when they met the fixed, frowning,
and still commanding eye of the dead chief, their
wandering ceased for ever. There was a minute,
during which, fear, doubt, wildness, and early recollections,
struggled for the mastery. The hands of
Narra-mattah trembled, and she clung convulsively
to the robe of Ruth.
“Mother!—mother!—” whispered the agitated
victim of so many conflicting emotions, “I will pray
again—an evil Spirit besets me.”
Ruth felt the force of her grasp, and heard the
breathing of a few words of petition; after which
the voice was mute, and the hands relaxed their
hold. When the face of the nearly insensible parent
was withdrawn, to the others the dead appeared to
gaze at each other with a mysterious and unearthly
intelligence. The look of the Narragansett was still,
as in his hour of pride, haughty, unyielding, and
filled with defiance; while that of the creature who
had so long lived in his kindness was perplexed,
timid, but not without a character of hope. A solemn
calm succeeded, and when Meek raised his voice
again in the forest, it was to ask the Omnipotent
Ruler of Heaven and Earth to sanctify his dispensation
to those who survived.
The changes which have been wrought, on this
continent, within a century and a half, are very
wonderful. Cities have appeared where the wilderness
then covered the ground, and there is good reason
to believe that a flourishing town now stands on,
or near, the spot where Conanchet met his death.
But, notwithstanding so much activity has prevailed
in the country, the valley of this legend remains but
little altered. The hamlet has increased to a village;
the farms possess more of the air of cultivation;
the dwellings are enlarged, and are somewhat
three; the garrisoned houses, and all other signs of
apprehension from violence, have long since disappeared;
but still the place is secluded, little
known, and strongly impressed with the marks of
its original sylvan character.
A descendant of Mark and Martha is, at this
hour, the proprietor of the estate on which so many
of the moving incidents of our simple tale were
enacted. Even the building which was the second
habitation of his ancestor, is in part standing, though
additions and improvements have greatly changed
its form. The orchards, which in 1675 were young
and thrifty, are now old and decaying. The trees
have yielded their character for excellence, to those
varieties of the fruit which the soil and the climate
have since made known to the inhabitants. Still
they stand, for it is known that fearful scenes occurred
beneath their shades, and there is a deep
moral interest attached to their existence.
The ruins of the block-house, though much dilapidated
and crumbling, are also visible. At their
foot is the last abode of all the Heathcotes who
have lived and died in that vicinity, for near two
centuries. The graves of those of later times are
known by tablets of marble: but nearer to the ruin
are many, whose monuments, half-concealed in the
grass, are cut in the common coarse free-stone of
the country.
One, who took an interest in the recollection of
days long gone, had occasion a few years since to
visit the spot. It was easy to trace the births and
deaths of generations, by the visible records on the
more pretending monuments of those interred within
a hundred years. Beyond that period, research
became difficult and painful. But his zeal was not
to be easily defeated.
To every little mound, one only excepted, there
was a stone, and on each stone, illegible as it might
be, there was an inscription. The undistinguished
grave, it was presumed, by its size and its position,
was that which contained the bones of those who fell
in the night of the burning. There was another,
which bore, in deep letters, the name of the Puritan.
His death occurred in 1680. At its side there was
an humble stone, on which, with great difficulty, was
traced the single word `Submission.' It was impossible
to ascertain whether the date was 1680, or
1690. The same mystery remained about the death
of this man, as had clouded so much of his life. His
real name, parentage, or character, further than
they have been revealed in these pages, was never
traced. There still remains, however, in the family
of the Heathcotes, an orderly-book of a troop of
horse, which tradition says had some connexion with
his fortunes. Affixed to this defaced and imperfect
document, is a fragment of some diary or journal,
which has reference to the condemnation of Charles
I. to the scaffold.
The body of Content lay near his infant children,
and it would seem that he still lived in the first
quarter of the last century. There was an aged man,
lately in existence, who remembers to have seen him,
a white-headed patriarch, reverend by his years,
and respected for his meekness and justice. He had
passed nearly, or quite, half-a-century unmarried.
This melancholy fact was sufficiently shown by the
date on the stone of the nearest mound. The inscription
denoted it to be the grave of “Ruth,
daughter of George Harding of the Colony of Massachusetts
Bay, and wife of Capt. Content Heathcote.”
She died in the autumn of 1675, with, as the
stone reveals, “a spirit broken for the purposes of
earth, by much family affliction, though with hopes
Lord.”
The divine, who lately officiated, if he do not
now officiate, in the principal church of the village,
is called the Reverend Meek Lamb. Though claiming
a descent from him who ministered in the temple
at the period of our tale, time and intermarriages
have produced this change in the name, and happily
some others in doctrinal interpretations of duty.
When this worthy servant of the church found the
object which had led one, born in another state,
and claiming descent from a line of religionists who
had left the common country of their ancestors to
worship in still another manner, to take an interest
in the fortunes of those who first inhabited the
valley, he found a pleasure in aiding the inquiries.
The abodes of the Dudleys and Rings were numerous
in the village and its environs. He showed a stone,
surrounded by many others that bore these names,
on which was rudely carved, “I am Nipset, a Narragansett;
the next snow, I shall be a warrior!” There
is a rumor, that though the hapless brother of Faith
gradually returned to the ways of civilized life, he
had frequent glimpses of those seducing pleasures
which he had once enjoyed in the freedom of the
woods.
Whilst wandering through these melancholy remains
of former scenes, a question was put to the
divine concerning the place where Conanchet was
interred. He readily offered to show it. The grave
was on the hill, and distinguished only by a head-stone
that the grass had concealed from former
search. It merely bore the words—“the Narragansett.”
“And this at its side?” asked the inquirer. “Here
is one also, before unnoted.”
The divine bent in the grass, and scraped the
moss from the humble monument. He then pointed
to a line, carved with more than usual care. The
inscription simply said—
“The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish.”
| CHAPTER XV. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish | |