University of Virginia Library

14. CHAP. XIV.

Pierpont.

The winter passed away without any domestic occurrences
worthy of repetition; though trifles, seen through
the illusive medium of young affection, were abundantly
magnified by the individuals concerned.

In public, there were angry messages from Governor
Bernard, and high-toned answers from the intrepid legislature.
Offices were closed, public business suspended,
and the creditor left at the mercy of his debtor,
because the untamed spirit of our fathers would not
cower to take the yoke that an impolitic government had
prepared. Nor did Massachusetts tread her proud and
daring course alone. All the neighbouring colonies
joined her ranks, with union as voluntary as it was energetic.
The lakes gave back the signal of resistance,
and the thundering sound reverberated along the Atlantic
coast, until it was lost among the uninhabited prairies
of the south. The first loud burst of indignation was
indeed hushed for a time, and some superficial politicians
mistook the calmness of fixed resolution for the tameness
of submission; it was, however, but suppressed
resentment, “still as the hours that watch the earthquake's
birth.”

The very first men who dared attempt to enforce the
odious law, found that the giant had but paused to place
his lance in rest, and to rein in his steed for the combat.
Britain discovered the strength of her antagonist, and
though too proud to quit the lists hastily, she slowly and
cautiously retreated before her youthful foe.

In March, 1766, a repeal of the stamp act arrived in
Boston;—and notwithstanding it purported to be a mere
act of condescension, and haughtily maintained the right
of England to tax her colonies, it was received with
every demonstration of joy.

Muffled drums, and flags half-mast high had announced
the unpopular duty,—and scarcely had the news of
its revocation spread through the town, before standards
were seen fluttering high in the air, and “God save the
king,” rung from the bells in many a loud and merry
peal. “Liberty” was blazoned on hat-bands and shoulder-belts,
and the drum rolled its deep response to “the
spirit-stirring fife,” until the going down of the sun. In
the evening, the streets were brilliantly illuminated.
“Liberty,” “No Stamps,” “The Repeal,” were every
where traced in characters of light.

Somerville and the young ladies, the two Osbornes,
and Doctor Willard, walked out together, to enjoy the
animation and excitement of the scene. Opposite the
Province House, they all paused to examine the fanciful
devices that had been hastily prepared in the eagerness
of gratitude and joy. A full length picture of Liberty,
hurling a broken chain to the winds, particularly attracted
their attention,—and while they were wondering how

the appropriate emblem had been so suddenly made
ready, John Dudley, with his group of boys, bustled up
to them. Grasping Doctor Willard's hand, he exclaimed,
“Indeed, I am almost for going to England to thank
the king myself; but then I'm thinking it is not wise to
thank folks for what they would help if they could.”

“Strong hands and fearless hearts will not be wanted
so soon as we feared,” replied Henry Osborne. “Little
Hancock need not hasten to grow large enough for
a soldier now.”

The honest farmer gazed on his children as they
clustered round him, and passed the sleeve of his coat
across his eyes, as he said, “I have looked on them
hearty boys by the hour together, and thought I could
see them all fall in the cause of liberty, and not shed
one tear over their graves. But I am glad the trial was
spared me; I had rather they would be left to help me
plough the fields.”

The distant roar of cannon from Castle William, mingled
with a deafening clang from the Old South steeple,
here interrupted their conversation, and Dudley joined
a crowd that was then passing, rending the air with
stunning hurras.

No one refused to unite in this national jubilee; but
there were many who thought the gratitude of the people
excessive and premature. Mr. Osborne was among
the number. He heartily rejoiced at any overtures towards
reconciliation; but his penetrating eye could not
but observe that the repeal so reluctantly given, still
claimed the right against which America had so strenuously

contended. “We have no security against oppression,”
said he, “until this tyrannic principle is renounced.”

“I coincide with you in doubting the permanence of
all this,” rejoined Henry. “Our joy may be suddenly
turned into mourning.”

“Oh, never be peeping into the shade, when the sunny
side is next you,” observed Doctor Willard. “Franklin's
energetic answers in the House of Commons have
taught them to respect us. The young and animated
Burke, and Chatham, with all the assistance that age
and decaying health can give his powerful eloquence,
will work wonders in our favour.”

“If Americans are satisfied, I strongly suspect the
English will not be,” said Somerville; “for the principles
of neither party are recognised in this repeal.
The friends of Mr. Pitt will be angry that the bill is
accompanied by any declarations of parliamentary power;
and Mr. Grenville will be indignant that the factious
spirit of the colonies is conciliated, rather than
conquered.”

“To keep the medium between dangerous extremes
has been the wise policy of Lord Rockingham's administration,”
answered Mr. Osborne. “In the present
state of political division, it is perhaps the best system
that can be pursued for the general interests of that
great country. However, this plan of tacking and veering
will not always last. We must have liberty on a
foundation as broad, sure, and permanent, as any other
British subjects, before we shall be satisfied.”

“England will never relinquish a right she has once
asserted,” replied Somerville, somewhat proudly. “The
effect of this unaccountable obstinacy must eventually
be a desperate struggle, in which America will surely
be overcome.”

“Our spirit may never be put to the proof,” rejoined
Doctor Willard, “if government are contented with keeping
the power without ever daring to exert it. But if
on any pretence, or under any modifications, it is again
resumed, we must indeed either conquer, or fall in the
contest; and the eloquent Chatham has said, `If America
falls, she will fall like a strong man. She will
embrace the pillars of the state, and pull down the constitution
along with her.' ”

“Much wild matter has been poured forth by that
lover of ultra freedom,” answered Somerville.

Lucretia smiled as she looked back and said to Grace,
“Captain Somerville's English prejudices and tory predilections
seem to have returned with full power.”

As she spoke, Somerville pointed down a court they
were just passing, at the extremity of which was a beautiful
collection of shrubbery, very tastefully illuminated.
“This is an unusual sight in Boston,” said he; “do let
us examine it more closely.” The rest of the party
went on without noticing what had attracted their attention,
and were nearly out of hearing, when they entered
the alcove, where the flowers were smiling in their
sheltered beauty.

“Are any of these for sale?” inquired Somerville.

“I should not like to disturb them to-night,” replied

the owner; “but to-morrow they will be at the service
of any who wish to purchase.”

“Will you, dear Grace, select the one you think most
beautiful?” said Somerville.

The tender monosyllable had unguardedly escaped
his lips, and the emphatic accent with which it was
spoken, thrilled her to the heart. Without suspecting
his purpose, she timidly pointed to a full blown rose, as
delicate and shadowy in its tint as the maiden suffusion
from which it takes its name.

“Send it to Governor Hutchinson's at ten to-morrow,”
said Somerville,—and drawing the arm of Grace
closer within his own, he left the court.

“You would forgive the political bitterness with which
I have spoken to-night, Miss Osborne, if you knew how
much reason I have to hate this repeal. When the vessel
which brought the tidings returns to England, I must
depart with important despatches to the Court of St.
James.”

The painful, suffocating sensation of impeded utterance
for a moment prevented any reply. “Shall you
never return to America?” she at length said, in a voice
low and tremulous.

“If your life and mine are spared two years, I shall
most certainly see America again before I die,” he replied.
“My heart will never leave it.”

This was the first time that Somerville had given utterance
to his feelings, even by the most distant allusion;
yet they had long perfectly understood each other. The
powerful artillery of the eye, and the thousand nameless

signs in love's freemasonry, express more than language
can possibly speak with her utmost unassisted power;
and if Grace with intuitive readiness had construed their
meaning, Somerville on his part had argued much from
the transient gleams of tenderness that now and then
shone through her habitual reserve.

However, that the declaration had been long expected,
did not prevent it from being anticipated with the most
tumultuous agitation, and the most embarrassed silence.

To the great vexation of Somerville, this was disturbed
by the elder Mr. Osborne and Lucretia, who had returned
to meet them.

The purchase of the rose was briefly explained in
excuse for their absence, and the conversation took a
general turn, until they parted at the threshold of Mr.
Osborne's dwelling.

The next day the flourishing rose-bush, removed into
an elegant vase of transparent china, was left at the door
by one of the Lieutenant Governor's servants, who at
the same time delivered a note for Miss Osborne.

Grace hastily withdrew to her chamber, and read as
follows:

Had Grace been entirely uninterested in the writer,
she would have thought the flattery and inflated language
of this epistle absolutely disgusting; but we are
all apt to excuse the folly which we imagine proceeds
from excessive affection for ourselves. The billet-doux
was locked in a secret drawer, with feelings that certainly
widely differed from disapprobation; and the ring, ornamented
by a single sapphire, surrounded with pearl,
was placed upon her finger.

I shall not repeat the wise speeches and expressive
looks to which this circumstance gave rise. Those who
cannot imagine them, must forever remain in their ignorance.

During the winter, letters had again been received
from Mr. Edmund Fitzherbert, expressing great anxiety
to see Lucretia, and urging her to come to him as soon
as the season would possibly admit.

The whole of these epistles had been written by an
amanuensis; for a severe stroke of the palsy had rendered
the old gentleman unable to add his trembling
signature.

All these circumstances considered, Governor Hutchinson
thought it expedient that Lucretia should accompany
his nephew to England.

Perhaps the money-loving magistrate had a more
powerful motive than that of securing a pleasant companion
and protector for Miss Fitzherbert's voyage. He
was well aware that daily intercourse is a powerful aid
to matrimonial schemes; and he thought the immense
wealth of the young heiress a prize well worth his nephew's
attention. Had he been injudicious enough to
hint such an idea, Somerville would have spurned at it
with indignation, and would have been strongly tempted
to refuse his attendance. Governor Hutchinson, however,
was sufficiently wise to leave all to the effect of
time and chance.

Whatever might be the workings of Lucretia's mind,
they were concealed by pride; and she herself firmly
believed that she thought of Somerville only as an agreeable
companion, whose gayety and eloquence would
serve to enliven a wearisome voyage.

The event had been too long expected, to bring with
it any hurried preparations. True, Miss Sandford had
been in a continual bustle from the moment she heard
of the arrangement.

Jewels, lace, gauze, and ribbons were purchased; and
blue, white, and rose-coloured damask packed and repacked,
from morning till night.

“Do you be sure and wear your pink silk, with the
set of rubies, when you are introduced to your uncle,”
said she. “That colour becomes your complexion
best, and I would wear it a good deal, if I were you.
Besides Captain Somerville admires it very much.
You need not blush so. You are going to take a long
voyage together; and, let me tell you, my dear, propinquity
is a great thing.”

Lucretia was about to speak of the certainty of his
attachment for Grace Osborne, but she knew it was a
topic on which the good lady was peculiarly irascible.
Besides, from complicated causes, both the young ladies
carefully avoided any allusion to the state of his affections;
and though, in every other respect, they treated
each other with the most girlish unreserve, Lucretia was
left in a state of painful uncertainty with regard to this
delicate subject.

During the brief space that intervened before her departure,
the young friends seemed to feel a feverish
anxiety to meet,—yet when they met, they were disconsolate
and silent.

When absent from each other, a thousand kind things
to be said would rush into the mind; but when present,
every thing gave way to a painful sense of approaching
separation.

At length the dreaded day arrived; and Governor
Hutchinson and his sister, Mr. Osborne and his children,
Doctor Byles and Doctor Willard, assembled to bid
farewell to the travellers.

Doctor Byles grasped Lucretia's hand with affectionate
fervour, as he said, “God bless you, Miss Fitzherbert,
and make you as happy as you deserve to be.”
It was a moment of unfeigned regret, yet he could not
entirely dispossess himself of the spirit of raillery.
With a laughing glance, he added, “And that is not
saying much for you, my young friend.”

Doctor Willard expressed his good wishes with his
usual warmth and frankness. Governor Hutchinson,
always courtier-like in his manners, gave his parting
kiss with saddened and affectionate politeness.

Miss Sandford again and again strained her beloved
protegée to her heart. “You have been a good child to
me,” she said, “and if I have not always guided you
as I should, you must take the will for the deed.” She
tried to say something more, but unable to keep back the
crowding tears, the kind-hearted lady left the apartment.

Mr. Osborne's benignant countenance seemed to express
anxiety as well as love; and Henry's voice lost a
little of its firmness as he pronounced, “God bless you,
Lucretia.”

As for Grace, her heart was too full for utterance.
Her breathing was quick and agitated; and she grasped
Lucretia's hand with a strength of which her tiny palm
seemed totally incapable. Her friend returned the
pressure in a manner equally earnest and protracted;
and as their hands parted, Somerville's ring burst asunder,
and fell at Miss Fitzherbert's feet. As he returned
it to Grace, she gave him a most eager and expressive

look. Its meaning he could not then inquire into, for
the carriage was at the door, and their farewell must
be brief and hasty.

The accident was unquestionably owing to defective
workmanship; nevertheless superstition painfully mingled
with Miss Osborne's grief, as she laid the broken
relic in her casket;—and as the carriage rolled the
young Englishman toward the wharf, he could think of
nothing but that trifling circumstance, and the look that
accompanied it.