University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The winter during which these events occurred was long
and severe—so severe as to give rise, among all the settlements
on the Connecticut, to serious apprehensions of scarcity
of food. As a consequence, the opening of spring was
hailed with unusual joy. To augment this joy the people
of Agawam had received advices from the Bay that a few
more families had decided to adventure their fortunes
among them.

The principal communication with the Eastern settlements
was by a path marked by trees a portion of the distance,
and by slight clearings of brush and thicket for the
remainder. No stream was bridged, no hill graded, and
no marsh drained. The path led through woods which
bore the marks of the centuries, over barren hills that had
been licked by the Indians' hounds of fire, and along the
banks of streams that the seine had never dragged. This
path was known as “the Bay Path,” or the path to the
Bay, and received its name in the same manner as the multitudinous
“old Bay roads” that lead to Boston from every
quarter of Massachusetts.

It was wonderful what a powerful interest was attached
to the Bay Path. It was the channel through which laws
were communicated, through which flowed news from distant
friends, and through which came long, loving letters
and messages. It was the vaulted passage along which
echoed the voices that called from across the ocean, and
through which, like low-toned thunder, rolled the din of
the great world. That rough thread of soil, chopped by

the blades of a hundred streams, was a bond that radiated
at each terminus into a thousand fibres of love and interest,
and hope and memory. It was the one way left open
through which the sweet tide of sympathy might flow.
Every rod had been prayed over, by friends on the journey
and friends at home. If every traveller had raised his
Ebenezer, as the morning dawned upon his trusting sleep,
the monuments would have risen and stood like milestones.

But it was also associated with fears, and the imagination
often clothed it with terrors of which experience and observation
had furnished only sparsely-scattered hints. The
boy, as he heard the stories of the Path, went slowly to
bed, and dreamed of lithe wildcats, squatted stealthily on
overhanging limbs, of the long leap through the air upon
the doomed horseman, and the terrible death in the woods.
Or, in the midnight camp, he heard through the low forest
arches—crushed down by the weight of the darkness—the
long drawn howl of the hungry wolf. Or, sleeping in his
tent or by his fire, he was awakened by the crackling
sticks, and, lying breathless, heard a lonely bear, as he
snuffed and grunted about his ears. Or, riding along
blithely, and thinking of no danger, a band of straying
Pequots arose, with swift arrows, to avenge the massacre
of their kindred.

The Bay Path was charmed ground—a precious passage
—and during the spring, the summer, and the early autumn,
hardly a settler at Agawam went out of doors, or changed
his position in the fields, or looked up from his labor, or
rested on his oars upon the bosom of the river, without
turning his eyes to the point at which that Path opened
from the brow of the wooded hill upon the east, where now
the bell of the huge arsenal tells hourly of the coming of a
stranger along the path of time. And when some worn
and weary man came in sight, upon his half starved horse,
or two or three pedestrians, bending beneath their packs,

and swinging their sturdy staves, were seen approaching, the
village was astir from one end to the other. Whoever the
comer might be, he was welcomed with a cordiality and
universality that was not so much an evidence of hospitality,
perhaps, as of the wish to hear of the welfare of those
who were loved, or to feel the kiss of one more wave from
the great ocean of the world. And when one of the settlers
started forth upon the journey to the Bay, with his
burden of letters and messages, and his numberless commissions
for petty purchases, the event was one well known
to every individual, and the adventurer received the benefit
of public prayers for the prosperity of his passage and the
safety of his return.

It was upon one of the sweetest mornings of May that
Mary Pynchon and her brother John walked forth to enjoy
the air, and refresh themselves with the beauty of the
spring-touched scenery. Tom, the pet, was their companion,
and as Mary heard the stroke of axes in the woods
upon the Hill, she deemed it safe to walk in that direction.
Her steps naturally sought the Bay Path,—not, perhaps,
because it led to the most charming view, or was the
easiest of access. She could not tell why she chose it. Her
feet almost by force took the path which her thoughts had
travelled so long, and led her towards hopes that might,
for aught she knew, be on the wings of realization to meet
her, and lead her back to her home, crowned with peace
and garlanded with gladness.

Arriving at the summit of the hill, Mary and her brother
selected a favorable spot, and sat down. Far to the North,
Mount Holyoke and Mount Tom stood with slightly lifted
brows, waiting for their names. Before them, on the West,
the Connecticut, like a silver scarf, floated upon the bosom
of the valley. Beyond it, the dark green hills climbed
slowly and by soft gradations heavenward, until the sky
joined their upturned lips in a kiss from which it has forgotten

to awake. And all was green—fresh with new life,
and bright with the dawn of the year's golden season.

There, too, were the dwellings of the settlers, some of
them surrounded by palisades, for protection against a possible
foe, and all of them humble and homely. Near where
they were sitting still swung the axes of the woodmen, and
off, upon the meadow, on the western side of the river, the
planters were cultivating their corn. The scene was one of
loneliness, but it was one of deep beauty and perfect peace.

Mary Pynchon would have been no unattractive feature
in the scene, to one who could have observed her, as she
sat with her sun-bonnet in her hand, and her features inspired
by the beauty around her. A form of medium size
and faultless mould was but indifferently draped and ungracefully
defined by the economical fashions of the place
and period; but her face was one whose beauty nothing
but an impenetrable veil could hide. The spirited lip, full
blue eye, well arched and finely pencilled eyebrow, and
intellectual forehead, gave to her face a queenliness of expression
that, to one who did not know her, might have
conveyed the idea of haughtiness; but the depth of the
blue eye, and the soft oval outline of the face, as it shaded
off into masses of rich brown hair above, and stood relieved
from a snowy neck below, produced a combination of the
more delicate with the stronger constituents of beauty, as
rare as it was attractive.

She had arrived at that stage in the development of her
nature, when, unconsciously to herself, and unobserved by
those around her, she was waiting for a mate. A true
womanly nature grows to a certain point of development,
and then makes a pause, and looks around for its companion.
If that companion is prepared already, or appears
at the convenient moment, it goes on, passes through maternity
to maturity, and if then its work is done, it sits
down, and waits for the angels.

There is a period in the early life of every true woman
when moral and intellectual growth seems, for the time, to
cease. The vacant heart seeks for an occupant. The intellect,
having appropriated such aliment as was requisite to
the growth of the uncrowned feminine nature, feels the
necessity of more intimate companionship with the masculine
mind, to start it upon its second period of development.
Here, at this point, some stand for years, without
making a step in advance. Others marry, and astonish, in
a few brief years, by their sweet temper, their new beauty,
their high accomplishments, and their noble womanhood,
those whose blindness led them to suppose they were among
the incurably heartless and frivolous.

It was among the vague shadows of this epoch in her life
that Mary Pynchon had many of her meditations. She
loved her father, and knew that her father loved her with
entire devotion. She loved her brother, and felt that the
noble boy returned to her his whole heart. She exercised
love and sympathy for all around her, and rejoiced in the
consciousness that she was a favorite with all. But that
was not enough; and as she sat there, on that sweet May
morning, gazing out upon the landscape, or watching Tom
as he browsed among the shrubs, or playfully chiding her
brother as he insisted on decking her hair with the sweet
arbutus and the early shad blossoms, her heart went off
again over the Bay Path, through the thick, dark woods,
and over the streams, and across the hills—the weary path
over which she had travelled just two years before, and
there came up to her mind the form of one who had moved
with grace and majesty in her dreams; and whose bright,
bold face, and mild, resolute eye, had been to her, through
all the months of her lonely dwelling at Agawam, a charming
presence and a kindly power.

An hour or two, charmed by the influences of the sweet
scene below, and the kindly sun above, had passed over the

brother and sister, when they began to talk of returning.
At length, they heard a long drawn call. They listened for
its repetition, and the call shaped itself to the name of
“Peter,” and came from the quarter from which the sound
of the axes had proceeded.

“Peter Trimble has run away from his chopping,” said
John to his sister.

At this instant, a sharp, peculiar bark, not unlike that of
a fox, was heard proceeding from an evergreen thicket near
by. Neither Mary nor John suspected the nature of the
animal that gave it utterance; and, as it continued, the
deer, whose ears it had arrested at first, and whose attention
it held, started off with a bound into the Bay Path, and
ran away.

The bark then ceased, and Mary and John listened to
the retreating footsteps of their pet, until, at last, the trampling
seemed to mingle with similar sounds, which were soon
broken in upon by the crack of a gun that rang through the
forest, and came at last faintly echoing back from the
Western hills. Both seemed to be conscious of what had
been done, and as they sat in breathless silence awaiting
further developments, they heard the short, nervous leaps
of the deer approaching. As Tom came in sight, and turned
from the path to reach the spot from which fear had driven
him, the hot blood spurted from his side at every bound.
Almost sinking, he had just strength to reach the spot
where Mary was sitting, and laying his pale nose in her lap,
and looking in her face with his glazing eyes, settled prone
upon the ground, as if his slender limbs had changed at once
from springing steel to lifeless flesh.

“My poor, poor pet!” exclaimed Mary, in deep distress.
“Who could have been so cruel?” Then instantaneously
flashed upon her the singular combination of circumstances
attending the slaughter of her favorite, and her sudden grief
was merged in an apprehension for her own personal safety.

Just as she was disengaging herself from the head of
Tom, so that she could rise, she heard the gallop of
approaching horses. Soon the foremost rider arrived at
the point opposite to where she was sitting, and, examining
the bushes, exclaimed to those behind him—“Here are his
marks—in here”—and, spurring his horse excitedly, he
started directly towards the little group, but failed to see
them until within a few feet of them. The first tone of his
voice arrested Mary's attention, and, as he caught sight of
her, she had half risen, and still held the head of the deer
in her hands, while John had grasped her arm, as if fearful
that some harm were about to fall upon her.

“Mary Pynchon! by the immortal gods!” exclaimed the
stranger, and, dropping his rein, he leaped from his horse,
and, as she let fall the lifeless head of Tom, grasped both
her hands, and stood for a long minute gazing mutely and
with passionate affection and admiration in her face. When
at last he released his grasp, she pointed to the dead pet in
silence, with a finger that trembled with varied emotions.

“Ah! well,” said he, with a gentle, playful voice, “is it
not fitting that we should offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving
on the occasion of meeting thus happily? Was not the
deer provided for this very purpose? Tell me that, Mary
Pynchon?”

“I think it would have been gallant in you, at least, to
provide the sacrifice, particularly as you do not appear to
suffer much pain on account of it,” replied Mary.

“Well, I am not in a state of extreme suffering, that is
true,” said the stranger, laughing, “and between you and
me, and that suspicious-looking brother of yours, I doubt
whether you are.”

The allusion to her brother made her aware that the
scene must be a strange one to him, and, taking John by
the hand, she said, “This is Mr. Holyoke, John, of whom
you have heard your father speak so frequently.” Then,

addressing that gentleman, she added, “I suppose John
thinks that your sacrifice of Tom was a very unwarrantable
affair, and regards it rather as an omen than an offering.”

“Omens, my boy,” said Holyoke, looking at him with a
half-sportive, half-earnest expression, “are never omens unless
you kiss them. A kick will kill an omen as certainly
as it will a hare.”

“Poor Tom!” said Mary, looking down sorrowfully upon
the lifeless pet, “I have a strong disposition to make an
omen of you.”

“Dear lady,” exclaimed Holyoke with a hearty laugh,
“if we should all follow the bent of our dispositions, omens
would multiply to a fearful extent.”

“I should hesitate to become one so long as you are near,
at least,” replied Mary, with perfect self-possession, “particularly
as you dislike them so much, and understand so
well the manner of slaying them.”

While this interview was in progress, the two companions
of Holyoke sat upon their horses at a distance, curious spectators
of the scene.

“By the way,” said one, looking at Holyoke and his
companions, “does it not strike you forcibly that boy's nose
is pretty essentially broken? I never saw a more jealous-looking
little scoundrel in my life. By all the nymphs of
Agawam, if I were in Elizur's place I'd give him a penny,
and tell him to take my horse home.”

“And if the boy is the one I think he is,” responded the
other, “he would toss your penny in your face, and bid
you do your own grooming.”

The companions jested until tired of the sport, and then,
as Holyoke did not seem disposed to close his interview
with Mary, they looked off upon the country, and remarked
upon its features. When they had grown quite impatient
with the delay, and were about proposing to leave Holyoke
to follow at his leisure, they discovered a commotion far

down the path before them, which soon took the form of a
small company of armed men. In order to account for their
appearance, it will be necessary to bring upon the stage an
actor with whom the reader has already formed an acquaintance.