 | CHAPTER VII. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
“He that questions whether God made the world, the Indian
will teach him. I must acknowledge I have received in
my converse with them, many confirmations of those two great
points; first, that `God is;' second, `that he is a rewarder of
all them that diligently seek him.' ”
Roger Williams.
Our readers' sagacity has probably enabled
them to penetrate the slight mystery, in which
the circumstances that led to the apprehension of
Magawisca have been shrouded. Sir Philip Gardiner,
after attending Mrs. Grafton home on the
Saturday night, memorable in the history of our
heroine, saw her enter the burial-place. Partly
moved by his desire to ascertain whether there
was any cause for her running away from him
that might soothe his vanity, and partly, no doubt,
by an irresistible attraction towards her; he followed
at a prudent distance, till he saw her
meeting with Magawisca; he then secreted himself
in the thicket of evergreens, where he was
near enough to hear and observe all that passed;
and where, as may be remembered, he narrowly
escaped being exposed by his dog.
Sir Philip had heard the rumour of a conspiracy
among the natives; and when he saw Magawisca's
interview with Miss Leslie, the probable reason
for her secresy at once occurred to him. If he
conjectured rightly, he was in possession of a
secret that might be of value to the state, and of
course, be made the means of advancing him in
the favour of the Governor. But might he not risk
incurring Miss Leslie's displeasure by this inter-position
in her affairs, and thus forfeit the object
of all his present thoughts and actions? He believed
not. He saw that she yielded reluctantly,
and because she had no alternative, to Magawisca's
imposition of secresy. With her romantic
notions, it was most probable that she would hold
her promise inviolate; but would she not be
bound in everlasting gratitude to him, who by an
ingenious manœuvre should, without in the least
involving her honour, secure the recovery of her
sister? Thus he flattered himself he should, in
any event, obtain some advantage. To Miss
Leslie he would appear solely actuated by zeal
for her happiness; to the Governor, by devotion
to the safety and welfare of the commonwealth.
Accordingly, on the following Monday morning,
he solicited a private interview with the magistrates,
and deposed before them, “that on returning
to his lodgings on Saturday night, he had
seen Miss Leslie enter the burying-ground alone;
that believing she had gone to visit some spot
consecrated by the interment of a friend, and
knowing the ardent temper of the young lady, he
feelings, the lateness of the hour. He had, therefore,
with the intention of guarding her from all
harm, without intruding on her meditations,(which
though manifestly unseasonable, might, he
thought, tend to edifying by withdrawing her
thoughts from worldly objects,) followed her, and
secluded himself in the copse of evergreens,
where, to his astonishment, he had witnessed her
interview with the Indian woman.” The particulars
of their conversation he gave at length.
Unfortunately for Magawisca, Sir Philip's testimony
coincided with the story of a renegado
Indian, formerly one of the counsellors and favourites
of Maintunnomoh. This savage, stung by
some real or fancied wrongs, deserted his tribe,
and vowing revenge, he repaired to Boston, and
divulged to the Governor the secret hostility of
his chief towards the English; which, he said,
had been stimulated to activity by the old Pequod
chief, and the renowned maiden Magawisca.
He stated also, that the chiefs of the different
tribes, moved by the eloquence and arguments of
Mononotto, were forming a powerful combination.
Thus far the treacherous savage told the truth;
but he proceeded to state plots and underplots,
and artfully to exaggerate the number and power
of the tribes. The magistrates lent a believing
ear to the whole story. They were aware that
the Narragansetts, ever since they had witnessed
the defeat and extinction of their ancient enemies
of the power and encroachments of the English,
and that they only waited for an opportunity to
manifest their hostility. Letters had been recently
received from the magistrates of Connecticut,
expressing their belief that a general rising
of the Indians was meditated. All these circumstances
combined to give importance to Sir
Philip's and the Indian's communications. But
the Governor felt the necessity of proceeding
warily.
Miantunnomoh had been the faithful friend
and ally of the English. He is described by Winthrop,
as a “sagacious and subtle man, who showed
good understanding in the principles of justtice
and equity, and ingenuity withal.” Such a
man it was obviously the policy of the English
not unnecessarily to provoke; and the Governor
hoped, by getting possession of the Pequod family,
to obtain the key to Miantunnomoh's real designs,
and to crush the conspiracy before it was
matured.
We have been compelled to this digression,
in order to explain the harsh reception and
treatment of Magawisca; to account for the
zeal with which the Governor promoted the party
to the garden; and for the signal which guided
the boat directly to the Pequod family, and which
Sir Philip remained on the island to give. The
knight had now gotten very deep into the councils
and favour of the magistrates, who saw in him
to them.
He took good care,
In feigned religion, smooth hypocrisy;”
tastes and principles of the honest men whom he
deluded, he well sustained his accidental advantage.
It would be vain to attempt to describe the various
emotions of Governor Winthrop's family
at the return of Hope Leslie. Madam Winthrop,
over excited by the previous events of
the evening, had fortunately escaped any further
agitation by retiring to bed, after composing her
nerves with a draught of valerian tea. Mrs.
Grafton, who had been transported with joy at
the unlooked for recovery of Faith Leslie, was
carried to the extreme of despair, when she saw
the lifeless body of her beloved niece borne to
her apartment. Poor old Cradock went like the
bird of poetic fame, “up stairs and down stairs,”
wringing his hands, and sobbing like a whipt boy.
The elder Fletcher stood bending in mute agony
over the child of his affections, whom he loved
with even more than the tenderness of a parent.
His tears, like those of old and true Menenius,
seemed “salter than a younger man's, and venemous
to his eyes;” and his good friend Governor
Winthrop, when he saw his distress, secretly repented
had brought such misery upon this much enduring
man. Jennet bustled about, appearing to
do every thing, and doing nothing; and hoping
`to goodness' sake, the young lady would come
to herself, long enough, at least, to tell what had
befallen her'—`she always thought, she did, what
her harem-scarem ways would bring her to at
last.' Miss Downing, without regarding, or even
hearing, these and many other similar mutterings,
proceeded with admirable presence of mind to
direct and administer all the remedies that were
at hand; while Everell, almost distracted, went
in quest of medical aid.
A delirious fever succeeded to unconsciousness;
and for three days Hope Leslie's friends
hung over her in the fear that every hour would
be her last. For three days and nights, Esther
Downing never quitted her bedside, except to go
to the door of the apartment to answer Everell's
inquiries. Her sweet feminine qualities were now
called into action: she watched and prayed over
her friend; and, though her cheek was pale, and
her eye dim, she had never appeared half so
lovely to Everell, as when in her simple linen
dressing gown, she for an instant left the invalid
to announce some favourable symptom. On the
fourth morning, Hope's fever abated; her incoherent
ravings ceased, and she sunk, for the first
time, into a tranquil sleep. Esther sat perfectly
still by her bedside, fearing to move, lest the
walking in the entry, as he had done incessantly,
and stopping, at every turn, to listen at the
door. Till now, all her faculties had been in requisition—her
mind and body devoted to her
friend—she had not thought of herself; and if
sometimes the thought of Everell intruded, she
blushed at what she deemed the unsubdued selfishness
of her heart. “Alas!” she said, “I am
far from that temper which leads us to `weep with
those that weep,' if I suffer thoughts of my own
happy destiny to steal in when my friend is in this
extremity.” But these were but transient emotions:
her devotion to Hope was too sincere and
unremitting to afford occasion of reproach even to
her watchful and accusing conscience. But now,
as she listened to Everell's perturbed footsteps,
a new train of thoughts passed through her mind.
“Everell has scarcely quitted that station. With
what eagerness he has hung on my words when I
spoke of Hope! What a mortal paleness has
overspread his face at every new alarm! It would
not, perhaps, have been right—but, methinks, it
would have been natural—that he should have
expressed some concern for me—I cannot remember
that he has. How often has he said to
me, `dear Esther, you will not leave her?' and,
`for the love of heaven, trust her not a moment
to the discretion of her aunt'—`do not confide
in Jennet'—`Madam Winthrop has too many
cares for so delicate a charge—all depends on
but how many times he has repeated it, as if his
life were suspended by the same thread as hers.
If I were in Hope's condition, would he feel thus?
I could suffer death itself for such proofs of tenderness.
Sinful worm that I am, thus to doat on
any creature.” The serenity of her mind was
disturbed—she rose involuntarily—as she rose,
her gown caught in her chair, and overthrew it.
The chair fell against a little stand by the bedside,
covered with phials, cups, and spoons, and all
were overthrown, with one of those horrible clatters,
that are as startling in a sick-room as the
explosion of a magazine at midnight.
Everell, alarmed by the unwonted noise, instinctively
opened the door—Hope awoke from
her profound sleep, and drew aside the curtain—
she looked bewildered; but it was no longer the
wildness of fever: thronging and indistinct recollections
oppressed her; but after an instant, a
perfect consciousness of the past and the present
returned; she covered her eyes, and sunk back
on the pillow, murmuring, “thank God!” and
tears of gratitude and joy stole over her cheeks.
Esther lost every other emotion in unmixed
joy. She went to the door to Everell, who was
still standing there, as if he were transfixed. “It
is as you see,” she said, “the danger is past—she
has slept sweetly for three hours, and was now
only disturbed by my carelessness; go to your father
even if your lips refuse, as they do now, to move.”
They did now move, and the joy of his heart
broke forth in the exclamation, “You are an angel,
Esther! my father owes to you the preservation
of his dearest treasure; and I—I—my life,
Esther, shall prove to you my sense of what
I owe you.”
There was an enthusiasm in his manner, that
for the first time satisfied Esther's feelings; but
her religious sentiments habitually predominating
over every other, “I have been a poor but honoured
instrument,” she said; “let us all carry
our thansgivings to that altar where they are
due.” Then, after allowing Everell to press her
hand to his lips, she closed the door, and returned
to Hope's bedside. Hope again put aside the
bed-curtain—“Is not my sister here?” she asked;
“she must be here, and yet I can scarcely
separate my dreams from the strange accidents of
that night.”
“She is here, safe and well, my dear Hope;
but for the present, you must be content not to
see her; you have been very ill, and need perfect
rest.”
“I feel that I need it, Esther, but I must first
know how it has fared with Magawisca; she
came on my solemn promise—I trust she has been
justly dealt by—she has been received as she deserved,
Esther?”
Esther hesitated—but seeing Hope's lip quivering
her weak state, of any new agitation, she, for the
first time in her life, condescended to an equivocation,
solacing herself with thinking that she
ought to believe that perfectly right which her
uncle Winthrop appointed: she said, “Magawisca
has had a merited reception—now ask no
more questions, Hope, but compose yourself
again to sleep.” If Hope had had the will, she
had not the power to disobey, for nature will not
be rifled of her dues. But we must leave her to
the restoring influence of the kindest of all nature's
provisions, to visit one from whom care and
sorrow banished sleep.
At an advanced hour of the following evening,
Sir Philip Gardiner repaired to the town jail, and
was admitted by its keeper, Barnaby Tuttle.
The knight produced a passport to the cell of
Thomas Morton, and pointing to the Governor's
signature and seal, “you know that, friend,” he
said.
“As well as my own face; but I am loath to
lead a gentleman of your bearing to such an unsavory
place.”
“Scruple not, honest master Tuttle, duty takes
no note of time and place.”
“You shall be served, sir; and with the better
will, since you seem to be, as it were, of a God-serving
turn,—but walk in, your worship, and sit
down in my bit of a place; which, though a
homely one, and within the four walls of a jail, is,
Silas were thrust, a place where prayers and
praises are often heard.”
Barnaby now lighted a candle, and while Sir
Philip was awaiting his dilatory preparations, he
could not but wonder that a man of his appearance
should have been selected for an office that
is usually supposed to require a muscular frame,
strong nerves, and a hardy spirit. Barnaby Tuttle
had none of these; but, on the contrary, was
a man of small stature, meagre person, and a
pale and meek countenance, that bespoke the
disposition that lets “I dare not, wait upon I
would.”
“Have you been long in this service of jailer?”
asked Sir Philip.
“Six years, an please your worship, come the
10th day of next October, at 8 o'clock of the
morning. I had been long a servant in the Governor's
own household; and he gave me the office,
as he was pleased to say, because he knew
me trust worthy, and a merciful man.”
“But mercy, master Barnaby, is not held to be
a special qualification for those of your calling.”
“It is not sir? Well, I can tell your honour,
there's no place it's more wanted; and here, in
our new English colony, we have come, as it
were, under a new dispensation. Our prisoners
are seldom put in for those crimes that fill the
jails in Old England. Since I have been keeper
—six years next October, as I told you it is—I
and that was a disputed case, there being
no clear testimony; but as he was proved to have
lived an atheist life, he was condemned to die,
and at the last confessed many sore offences,
which, as Mr. Cotton observed in his sermon,
preached the next Lord's day, were each and all
held worthy of death by the laws of Moses. No
sir, our prisoners are chiefly those who are led
astray of the devil into divers errors of opinions,
or those who commit such sins as are named at
length in the Levitical law.”
“Ah,” said Sir Philip, with a well pitched
groan, “the depravity of man will find a channel:
stop it at one place and it will out at another.
But come, friend Barnaby—time is going on—
I'll follow you.” The jailer now led the way
through a long narrow passage, with doors on
each side, which opened into small apartments.
“Hark!” said Barnaby, laying his hand on Sir
Philip's arm—“hear you that? It's Gorton praying;
he and his company are all along in these
wards; and betimes I hear them calling on the
Lord, like Daniel in the lion's den, for hours together.
I hope it's not a sin to feel for such woful
heretics, for I have dropped salt tears for them.
Does not your honour think our magistrates may
have some way opened up for their pardon?”
“I see not how they can, master Barnaby, unless
these sore revilers should renounce their heresies,
or—”he added, with an involuntary sneer,
“or, their title to the Indian lands.”
They had now arrived at one extremity of the
passage, and Barnaby selected a key from his
bunch; but before putting it in the lock, he said,
“Morton is in a little room within the Indian woman's,
taken the other day.”
“So I understand; and by your leave, master
Tuttle, I would address a private admonition to
this Indian woman, who, as report saith, is an obstinate
heathen.”
“I suppose she is, your honour; they that
should know, say so. But she hath truly a discreet
and quiet way with her, that I would was
more common among Christian women. But as
you say you wish to speak in private, I must beg
your honour's pardon for turning my bolt on you.
I will give you the light, and the key to the inner
room; and when you desire my attendance, you
have but to pull a cord that hangs by the frame
of the door inside, and rings a bell in the passage
—one word more, your honour—be on your guard
when you go into Morton's cell. He raves, betimes,
as if all the fiends possessed him; and then
again, he sings and dances, as if he were at his
revels on the merry mount; and betimes he cries
—the poor old man—like a baby, for the twentyfour
hours round; so that I cannot but think a
place in the London hospital would be fitter for
him than this.”
“Your feelings seem not to suit with the humour
of your profession, Master Tuttle.”
“May be not, sir; but there is a pleasure in a
pitiful feeling, let your outward work be ever so
hard, as, doubtless, your worship well knows.”
Sir Philip felt that conscience sent a burning
blush to his hardened cheek; and he said, with
an impatient tone, “I have my instructions—let
me pass in, master Tuttle.” Barnaby unlocked
the door, gave him the candle, and then turned
the bolt upon him.
Magawisca was slowly pacing the room, to and
fro; she stopped, and uttered a faint exclamation
at the sight of her visitor, then turned away, as if
disappointed, and resumed her melancholy step.
Sir Philip held up his candle to survey the apartment.
It was a room of ordinary size, with one
small grated window; and containing a flock-bed,
and a three-legged stool, on which stood a plate
of untasted provisions.
“Truly,” said he, advancing into the room,
“generous entertainment this, for a hapless maiden.”
Magawisca made no reply, and gave no
heed to him, and he proceeded, “a godly and gallant
youth, that Everell Fletcher, to suffer one
who risked her life, and cast away a precious limb
for him, to lie forgotten here. Methinks if he
had a spark of thy noble nature, maiden, he
would burn the town, or batter down this prison
wall, for you.” An irrepressible groan escaped
from Magawisca, but she spoke not.
“He leaves you here alone and helpless to await
death,” continued the knight; thus venting his
every word was a torturing knife to the innocent
maiden. “Death, the only boon you can expect
from these most christian magistrates, while he,
with a light heart and smirking face, is dancing
attendance on his lady love.”—
“On whom?” interrupted Magawisca, in a
tone of fearful impatience.
“On her who played so faithfully the part of
decoy-pigeon to thee.”
“Hope Leslie!—my father then is taken,” she
screamed.
“Nay, nay, not so; thy father and brother,
both, by some wondrous chance escaped.”
“Dost thou speak truth?” demanded Magawisca
in a thrilling voice, and looking in Sir
Philip's face as if she would penetrate his soul—
“I doubt thee.”
The knight opportunely bethought himself of
having heard Magawisca during her interview
with Hope Leslie, allude to the Romish religion; he
took a crucifix from his bosom and pressed it to
his lips. “Then by this holy sign,” he said, “of
which if you know aught, you know that to use it
falsely would bring death to my soul, I swear I
speak truly.”
Magawisca again turned away, and drawing
her mantle, which, in her emotion, had fallen back,
close over her shoulders, she continued to pace
the apartment, without bestowing even a look on
Sir Philip, who felt himself in an awkward predicament,
to prosecute the object of his visit. But habitually
confident, and like all bad men, distrusting
the existence of incorruptible virtue, he soon
shook off his embarrassment, and said, “I doubt,
maiden, you would breathe more freely in the
wild wood than in this stifling prison; and sleep
more quietly on the piled leaves of your forests,
than on that bed that christian love has spread for
you.” Magawisca neither manifested by word or
sign that she heard him, and he proceeded more
explicitly,—“Do you sigh for the freedom of nature?—would
you be restored to it?”
“Would I! would the imprisoned bird return
to its nestlings?” she now stopped, and looked
with eager inquiry on Sir Philip.
“Then listen to me, and you shall learn by
what means, and on what terms you may escape
from this prison, and beyond the reach of your
enemies. Here,” he continued, producing from
beneath his cloak, a rope-ladder, and a file and
wrench, “here are instruments by which you can
remove those bars, and by which you may safely
descend to the ground.”
“Tell me,” cried Magawisca, a ray of joy lighting
her eyes, “tell me how I shall use them.”
Sir Philip explained the mode, enjoined great
caution, and then proceeded to say,—“By tomorrow
night at twelve you can remove the
bars; the town will then be still; proceed directly
to the point where you last landed, and a boat
you beyond danger.”
“Well—well,” she replied, with breathless
eagerness, “now tell me what I am to do; what
a poor Indian prisoner can do to requite such a
favour as this?”
Sir Philip began a reply—stammered, and
paused. He seemed to turn and turn his purpose,
and endeavoured to shelter it in some drapery
that should hide its ugliness; but this was
beyond his art, and summoning impudence to his
aid, he said, “I have a young damsel with me,
who for silly love followed me out of England. Now
you foresters, maiden, who live according to the
honesty of nature, you could not understand me, if
I were to tell you of the cruel laws of the world,
which oblige this poor girl to disguise herself in
man's apparel, and counterfeit the duties of a page,
that she may conceal her love. She hath become
somewhat troublesome to me: all that I ask as
the price of your liberty is, that she may be the
companion of your flight.”
“Doth she go willingly?”
“Nay, not willingly; but she is young, and like
a tender twig, you can bend her at will; all I ask
is, your promise that she return not.”
“But if she resist?”
“Act your pleasure with her; yet I would not
that she were harmed. You may give her to your
brother in the place of this fair-haired damsel
they have stolen from him; or,” he added, for
if that suits not you, nor him, you may take her to
your western forests, and give her to a Romish
priest, who will guide her to the Hotel Dieu,
which our good lady of Bouillon has established
in Canada.” Magawisca dropped at his feet
the instruments which she had grasped with
such delight. “Nay, nay, bethink you, maiden,
it is a small boon to return for liberty and life; for,
trust me, if you remain here, they will not spare
your life.”
“And dost thou think,” she replied, “that I
would make my heart as black as thine, to save
my life?—life! Dost thou not know, that life can
only be abated by those evil deeds forbidden by
the Great Master of life?—The writing of the
Great Spirit has surely vanished from thy degraded
soul, or thou wouldst know, that man cannot
touch life! Life is nought but the image of the
Great Spirit—and he hath most of it, who sends
it back most true and unbroken, like the perfect
image of the clear heavens, in the still lake.”
Sir Philip's eye fell, and his heart quailed before
the lofty glance, and unsullied spirit of the
Indian maiden. Once he looked askance at her,
but it was with such a look as Satan eyed the sun
in his “high meridian tower.” With a feeling
of almost insupportable meanness he collected,
and again concealed beneath his cloak the ladder
and other instruments, which he had been at no
small pains to procure, and was turning to summon
recollected, that Thomas Morton had been the
ostensible motive of his visit, and that it was but
a prudent precaution to look in upon him for an
instant; and feeling too, perhaps, a slight curiosity
to see the companion of his former excesses, he
changed his purpose, turned to Morton's door,
unlocked and opened it.
The old man seemed to have shrunk away as
if frightened, and was gathered up almost into a
ball in one corner of his miserable little squalid
den. A few remnants of his garments hung like
shreds about him. Every particle of his hair had
dropped out; his grisly beard was matted together;
his eyes gleamed like sparks of fire in utter
darkness. Sir Philip was transfixed. `Is this,'
he thought, `Morton! the gentleman—the gallant
cavalier—the man of pleasure—Good God!
the girl hath truly spoken of life!' While he
stood thus, the old man sprang on him like a cat,
pulled him within the door, and then, with the
action of madness, swift as thought, he seized the
key, locked the door on the inside, and threw the
key through the bars of the window without the
prison. The candle had fallen and was extinguished,
and Sir Philip found himself immured
with his scarcely human companion in total darkness,
without any means of rescue, excepting
through Magawisca. His first impulse was to
entreat her to ring the bell, but he delayed for a
paroxysm of madness.
In this interval of silence, Magawisca fancied
she heard a sound against her window, and on
going to it, perceived, though the night was extremely
dark, a ladder resting against the bars;
she listened and heard a footstep ascending; then
there was a wrestling in Morton's room; and
screams—“He'll kill me—ring the bell.” Again
all was still, and she heard from the ground below,
“Come down, Mr. Everell, for the love of
heaven come down.” The words were uttered
in a tone hardly above a whisper.
“Hush, Digby, I will not come down.”
“Then you are lost; those cries will certainly
alarm the guard.”
“Hush! the cries have ceased.” Everell mounted
quite to the window, quick as if he had risen
on wings.
`He is true!' thought Magawisca, and it
seemed to her that her heart would burst with joy,
but she could not speak. He applied an instrument
to one of the iron bars, and wrenched it off.
Repeated and louder cries of “murder!—help—
ring the bell!” now proceeded from Gardiner, and
the old maniac seemed determined to outroar
him. Again the noise ceased, and again Digby
spoke in a more agitated voice than before. “Oh,
they are stirring in the yard—come away, Mr.
Everell.”
“I will not—I had rather die—stand fast, Digby—one
bar more, and she is free;” and again
he applied the instrument.
“Are you mad?” exclaimed Digby, in a more
raised and eager voice; “I tell you the lights are
coming; if you do not escape now, nothing can
ever be done for her.”
This last argument had the intended effect:
Everell felt that all hope of extricating Magawisca
depended on his now eluding discovery; and
with an exclamation of bitter disappointment, he
relinquished the enterprise for the present, and,
descending a few rounds of the ladder, leaped to
the ground, and, with Digby, disappeared before
the guard reached the spot of operations. Magawisca
saw two of the men go off in pursuit,
while the other remained picking up the implements
that Everell had dropped, and muttering
something of old Barnaby sleeping as if he slept
his last sleep.
Relieved from the sad conviction of Everell's
desertion and ingratitude, Magawisca seemed for
a moment to float on happiness, and in her exultation
to forget the rocks and quicksands that encompassed
her. Another outcry from Sir Philip recalled
her thoughts, and obeying the first impulse
of humanity, she rang the bell violently. Barnaby
soon appeared with a lamp and keys, and
learning the durance of Sir Philip, he hastened to
his relief. A key was found to unlock the door,
and on opening it, the knight's terror and distress
on his back, and pinned him to the floor, by planting
his knee on Sir Philip's breast, and had interrupted
his cries, and almost suffocated him, by
stuffing his cloak into his mouth. At the sight of
his keeper, the maniac sprang off, and with a sort
of inarticulate chattering and laughing, resumed
his old station in the corner, apparently quite unconscious
that he had moved from it.
Sir Philip darted out and shut the door, as if
he were closing a tiger's cage; and then, in wrath
that overswelled all limits, he turned upon poor
Barnaby, and, shaking him till his old bones seemed
to rattle in their thin casement, he poured out
on him curses deep and loud, for leading him into
that `devil's den.' Magawisca interposed, but
instead of calming his wrath, she only drew it on
herself. He swore `he would be revenged on her,
d—d Indian that she was, to stand by and not lift
her hand, when she knew he was dying by torture.'
Magawisca did not vouchsafe any other
reply to this attack, than a look of calm disdain;
and Barnaby, now recovering from the fright and
amazement into which Sir Philip's violence had
thrown him, held up his lamp, and reconnoitring
the knight's face and person, “It is the same,” he
said, resolving his honest doubts, “the same I let
in—circumstances alter cases—and men too, I
think; why, I took him for as godly a seeming
man as ever I laid my eyes on; a yea and nay
pilgrim; but such profane swearing exceedeth
they serve.”
“Prate not, you canting villain; why did not
you come when you heard my cries? or where
was you that you heard them not?”
“Just taking a little nap in my rocking chair;
and I said to myself, as I set myself down, `now
Barnaby, if you should happen to fall out of your
meditation into sleep, remember to wake at the
ringing of the bell;' and, accordingly, at the very
first touch of it I was on my feet, and coming hitherward.”
Sir Philip's panic and wrath had now so far
subsided, that he perceived there was an alarming
discordance between his extempore conduct,
and his elaborate pretensions; and re-assuming
his mask, with an awkward suddenness, he said,
“Well, well, friend Barnaby, we will both forgive
and forget. I will say nothing of your sleeping
soundly at your post, when you have such dangerous
prisoners in ward, that the Governor has
thought it necessary to give you a guard; and
you, good Barnaby, you will say nothing of my
having for a moment lost the command of my reason;
though being so sorely bestead, and having
but a poor human nature, I think I should not be
hardly judged by merciful men.”
“As to forgiving and forgetting, your worship,”
replied the good-natured fellow, “that I can do
as easily as another man, but not from any dread
of your tale-bearing; for I think the Governor
of my age and feebleness; and I fear not undue
blame. Therefore, not for my own by-ends will I
keep close, but that I hold it not neighbourly to
speak to another's hurt; and I well know it is but
the topmost saints that are always in the exercise
of grace. But I marvel, your worship, that ye
spoke those evil words so glibly: it seemed like
one casting away stilts, and going on his own natural
feet again.”
“All the fault of an ungodly youth, worthy
master Tuttle,” replied Sir Philip, rolling up his
eyes sanctimoniously, “and he who ensnared my
soul, thy miserable prisoner there, is now reaping
the Lord's judgments therefor.”
“I think it is not profitable,” said the simple
man, as he led the way out of the prison, “to cast
up judgments at any one; we are all—as your
worship has just suddenly and wofully experienced
—we are all liable to falls in this slippery world;
and I have always thought it a more prudent and
Christian part, to lend a helping hand to a fallen
brother, than to stand by, and laugh at him, or
flout him.”
Sir Philip hurried away; every virtuous sentiment
fell on his ear like a rebuke. Even in an
involuntary comparison of himself with the simple
jailer, he felt that genuine goodness, dimmed
and sullied though it may be by ignorance and
fanaticism, like a good dull guinea, rings true at
every trial; while hypocrisy, though it show a
at every scratch the base metal.
Perhaps no culprit ever turned his back on a
jail with a more thorough conviction that he deserved
there to be incarcerated, than did Sir Philip.
Detection in guilt is said marvellously to enlighten
men's consciences: there may be a kindred
virtue in disappointment in guilty projects.
The knight had become impatient of his tedious
masquerade. He was at first diverted with a
new, and, as it seemed to him, a fantastical state
of society; and amused at the success with which
he played his assumed character. He soon became
passionately enamoured of Hope Leslie,
and pursued her with a determined, unwavering
resolution, that, vacillating as he had always been,
astonished himself. In the eagerness of the chase,
he underrated the obstacles that opposed him,
and above all, the insuperable obstacle, the manifest
indifference of the young lady; which his
vanity (must we add, his experience) led him to
believe was affectation, whim, or accident—any or
all of these might be successfully opposed and
overcome. He had tried to probe her feelings in
relation to Everell, and though he was puzzled
by the result, and knew not what it meant, he
trusted it did not mean love. But if it did, what
girl of Hope Leslie's spirit, he asked himself,
would remain attached to a drivelling fellow,
who, from complaisance to the wishes of prosing
old men, had preferred to her such a statue of formality
Everell removed, Sir Philip feared no other competitor;
for he counted for nothing those gentlemen
who might aspire to Miss Leslie's hand, but
whose strict obedience to the canons of puritanism
left them, as he thought, few of the qualities
that were likely to interest a romantic imagination.
For himself, determined not to jeopard his
success by wearing his sanctimonious mask to
Hope, he played the magician with two faces, and
to her he was the gay and gallant chevalier; his
formality, his preciseness, and every badge and insignia
of the puritan school, were dropped, and he
talked of love and poetry like any carpet knight
of those days, or drawing-room lover of our own.
But this was a dangerous game to play, and must
not be protracted. Some untoward accident
might awaken the guardians of the colony from
their credulous confidence; and to this danger his
wayward page continually exposed him.
As our readers are already acquainted with the
real character of this unhappy victim of Sir Philip's
profligacy, it only remains to give the few untold
circumstances of her brief history. She was the
natural child of an English nobleman. Her
mother was a distinguished French actress, who,
dying soon after her birth, committed the child to
some charitable sisters of the order of St. Joseph.
Her father on his death bed, seized with
pangs of remorse, exacted a promise from his
sister, the Lady Lunford, that she would receive
performed the promise à la lettre, and no more.
She withdrew the unfortunate Rosa from her safe
asylum, but she kept from her, and from all the
world, the secret of their relationship, and made
the dependence and desolateness of the poor orphan,
a broad foundation for her own tyranny.
Lady Lunford was a woman of the world—a waning;
Rosa, a ripening beauty. Her house was
the resort of men of fashion. Sir Philip paid his
devotions there ostensibly to the noble mistress,
but really to the young creature, whose melting
eyes, naiveté, and strong and irrepressible feelings,
enchanted him. Probably Lady Lunford
found the presence of the young beauty inconvenient.
She certainly never threw any obstacle in
Sir Philip's way; indeed, he afterwards cruelly
boasted to Rosa, that her patroness had persuaded
him to receive her; but this was long after;
for many months he treated her with the fondest
devotion; and she, poor credulous child, was first
awakened from dreams of love and happiness by
pangs of jealousy.
From her own confessions, Sir Philip learned
how far she had divulged her sorrows to Hope
Leslie; and from that moment, he meditated some
mode of secretly and suddenly ridding himself of
her; and finally, determined on the project which,
as we have seen, was wofully defeated; and he
was compelled to retreat from Magawisca's prison,
with the tormenting apprehension that he
might himself fall into the pit he had digged.
Let those who have yet to learn in what happiness
consists, and its actual independence of external
circumstances, turn from the gifted and accomplished
man of the world, to the Indian prisoner;
from the baffled tempter, to the victorious
tempted. Magawisca could scarcely have been
made happier if Everell had achieved her freedom,
than she was by the certain knowledge of
his interposition for her. The sting of his supposed
ingratitude had been her sharpest sorrow.
Her affection for Everell Fletcher had the tenderness,
the confidence, the sensitiveness of woman's
love; but it had nothing of the selfishness, the
expectation, or the earthliness of that passion.
She had done and suffered much for him, and she
felt that his worth must be the sole requital for
her sufferings. She felt too, that she had received
much from him. He had opened the book of
knowledge to her—had given subjects to her contemplative
mind, beyond the mere perceptions
of her senses; had in some measure dissipated
the clouds of ignorance that hung over the forest-child,
and given her glimpses of the past and the
distant; but above all, he had gratified her strong
national pride, by admitting the natural equality
of all the children of the Great Spirit; and by allowing
that it was the knowledge of the Englishman—an
accidental superiority that forced from
the uninstructed Indian the exclamation, “Manittoo!—Manittoo!”—he
is a God.
| CHAPTER VII. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts | |