University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Woodcock's disappearance was a nine days' wonder among
the settlers of Agawam. The first impression was that
he had fled to Hartford, or, perhaps, to either Wethersfield
or Windsor, the other southern settlements; but a
traveller who arrived at the plantation from Wethersfield
reported that he had neither seen nor heard of him.

A fortnight passed away, and at its close a portion of the
members of the expedition to the Bay came wearily in, their
beasts laden with merchandise, and their heads and hearts
full of news, but they brought no news of Woodcock.
There was no little complaint, now that Woodcock had
really disappeared, concerning the rigorous manner in
which he had been treated. Some even went so far as to
intimate that he had met with foul play, and privately exchanged
the suspicion that he would turn up some day very
much blackened and swollen on the river's bank.

The visits of Commuk to the house of the Pynchons during
the absence of the expedition were much more frequent
than usual, and as he left quantities of game for which he
would receive no payment, his actions were remarked upon
by the members of the family. He looked always for Mary
Woodcock, and always asked her, in a manner which she had
learned to understand, whether she had heard from her father.
Her reply in the negative was received with a grunt and a
shake of the head, and his singular interest in the child was
set down to the credit of his well known good-nature.

Mary Woodcock's life had begun anew. She never tired
of watching her benefactress, and when near her became

inconveniently forgetful of her duties, for a woman was to
her a new revelation. If Mary Pynchon were dressing her
hair, the child would be obliged to stop and wonder at its
glossy length, and watch the progress of the miracle by
which it was at last separated, and disposed in puffs and
plaits upon her head. It was a wonder with her for many
hours how the lady came to have little holes in her ears, so
as to receive and hold the modest rings that hung there.
She could find no such holes in her own, having felt for them
often, and evermore with disappointment.

Then she wondered whether the holes would come there
of themselves when she had grown up to be a woman, or
whether real ladies were born with them, while poor girls
were denied such a distinction. To see her new mistress
eat was a great privilege, and the source of long rivulets of
thought. She measured the dimensions of every mouthful
as it disappeared, marked the peculiar turn which the lady
gave to her knife (for forks were not), and thought she discovered
two modes of swallowing—one upwards and the
other downwards. This was the theme of infinite speculation,
and the basis of patient and varied experiment.
Perhaps, thought the little girl, she swallows some of her
food into her head, and that is what makes her hair grow
so long, and opens the holes in her ears. And then, practising
on the suggestion, she swallowed all the food given
her with a pressure upwards that, so far as the illusion was
concerned, displaced a skull full of brains with bread and
milk every day.

Then she noticed that Mary Pynchon turned out her toes
and moved her feet with a peculiar grace, and in her almost
unconscious efforts at imitation, behaved so unaccountably as
to puzzle that lady very much. But there was one exercise
that had a greater effect upon her mind than any other.
It became Mary Pynchon's custom to take the little
girl to the most secret part of the house, and pray with

her daily, holding her by the hand meanwhile. At
these times, and after them each day, the child's mind
was occupied with the strangest fancies. The lady spoke
so sweetly, and asked God for everything that she wanted
for herself or her protegé in such a tone of love and confidence,
that the child did not doubt that she saw God all the
time.

And then she wondered whether, when her own hair
should grow long and glossy, and the little holes come in
her ears, she should also obtain a vision of God's face, and be
able to talk to him so pleasantly. She even went so far
as to try the experiment with her arm around a little girl,
composed of an ingeniously folded blanket, whose mouth
commenced at the forehead and divided the face downwards.

The returning fur-carriers brought to Mary Pynchon
much to interest her. First and foremost was a letter from
Holyoke, whose spirit and vivacity had returned, and whose
language had become restored to its old hearty and healthful
tone. This was a very precious missive, enjoyed much
in out-of-the-way places—an ever-abounding spring of tender
suggestions and dear associations. It came as the spice
of a huge dish of duties, and the sweetener of an overflowing
cup of labors. A large number of plump packages
were consigned to her on the arrival of the carriers—linens
whose destiny lay in long lines of sheets and pillow-biers;
shining specimens of latten and pewter ware, for the adornment
of a hypothetical dresser, and the service of a table
that lived only in an order; a string of gold beads for the
neck of a bride unwed, and stuffs for drapery which in the
age of honest manufacture and economical use might inclose
the form of the virgin, the wife, and the mother, and
perhaps even enter the grave with her, or, living still, be
shown to little girls by brisk young matrons, with the
words, “these were your grandmother's.” All these had

to be remarked upon, and overhauled and shown to neighbors,
who knew of the arrival of the goods before they were
fairly unloaded.

Mary answered all questions patiently, exhibited her
treasures freely, and, when the task was finished, sat down
with her mother and her sister Ann, and had one of those
long, discursive, and unsatisfactory talks that invariably
precede the laying out of that great work described in the
words “getting ready to be married.” And when the
work was laid out, she, of course, did not know where to
begin, and so began, as all with similar purposes, plans, and
prospects invariably do, to grow thin, a process which she
persistently continued throughout the summer.

During Mr. Pynchon's absence from home, Mr. Moxon
was in the habit of calling at the house almost daily, to
inquire for the health of the family, and to pass a few
minutes in chat with Mrs. Pynchon and Mary.

On these occasions Mary Woodcock was nearly always
present, or came in to ask some question, or was within
hearing near the window, and (whether from this cause, or
some other less apparent) several interviews had been
passed without the name of Woodcock being mentioned.
On one occasion, the little girl was absent, when the minister
addressed Mrs. Pynchon with, “I see you have
Woodcock's unfortunate little daughter with you.” This
was uttered with a kind of interrogative inflection which
was equivalent to asking how it came about.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pynchon, replying to his words, and
looking at Mary anxiously for a reply to his wishes.

“The sense of duty must have been very strong to induce
you to add another member to your family,” pursued
the minister.

“Very strong,” echoed Mrs. Pynchon, again looking at
Mary, whose eyes were still on her work.

“I suppose,” continued the minister, “that you had no

idea when you brought her here that her father would leave
the plantation.”

Mrs. Pynchon knew that it was Mary's business to answer
these questions, if it was anybody's, so this time she looked
at Mary and said nothing. Mary, who knew that it was
none of Mr. Moxon's business what was done in the family,
had not said anything, hoping that the embarrassment of her
mother and her own silence would show that any conversation
on the subject would be unpleasant. But she would
not be rude, and so replied, “I did not stop to ask whether
he was to be absent from his cabin a longer or a shorter
time. I knew the child was unprovided for, and so took
care of her.”

“As I remarked,” persisted the minister, “the sense of
duty must have been very strong.”

“I cannot take the credit of acting under even the slightest
sense of duty,” replied Mary.

“You surprise me,” said the minister.

“By not being as good as you supposed I was?” inquired
Mary, the old kind smile lighting up her face, despite her
vexation.

“No, but really, what else could have induced you to
undertake such a charge?”

“Self-gratification, if you please, or impulse, or sympathy,
or all together,” replied Mary.

“Those,” and the minister assumed a bland tone, “those
may be the highest motives of a carnal heart, and doubtless
are, but Christ's disciples should have a higher one.”

It is not a matter of surprise that Mary wondered what
his motives were in pursuing Woodcock with such rigor,
but her reflections upon this point could, of course, have no
expression, so she simply replied that she regarded a sense
of duty as being quite as far removed from being the highest
Christian motive as those which she had assumed as the
basis of her action in regard to Mary Woodcock.

“What can be higher as a motive of action than a sense
of duty to God?” inquired the minister, with a kind of dogmatic
earnestness.

“Love to God, and love to man,” replied Mary, quietly.

“Our sense of duty, you will remember, grows out of
this love,” said Mr. Moxon.

“To make a practical matter of it,” said Mary, “my
sense of duty does not, so far as I know, grow out of my
love, at all.”

“What do you understand by the word duty?” inquired
Mr. Moxon, with an apprehension that she might differ with
him upon its definition.

“Duty involves obligation—indebtedness. What I
understand by a sense of duty is a sense of indebtedness or
obligation. What I do from a sense of duty is done in discharge
of an obligation or a debt; and it seems to me that
when a kind act is performed only from a sense of duty, it
may be—I will not say must be—essentially a mean act.
Further than this, I believe that many acts are done from a
sense of duty which a pure love to God and man forbids.”

“These are new notions, Mary,” said the minister, shaking
his head sternly.

“None the worse for that, if they are true, I suppose?”
said Mary, and then added, “but perhaps I am not understood.
I regard duty, and a sense of duty, as entirely different
things. I believe that all good and just and praiseworthy
deeds are performed in the realm, and under the
sanctions, though not necessarily by the commands of duty.
Thus, I may, from my love to God and love to man, do a
good deed which I perfectly understand to be in the line of
duty, without being moved to that act in the slightest
measure by a sense of duty. My motive is a higher and
better one.”

No sooner had Mary concluded her explanation than she
perceived that she had produced a marked effect upon the

minister, and recognised on his face a look of mingled
anxiety and distress, like that which she had produced on
the occasion which introduced him to the reader. He sat
in entire silence, absorbed in his thoughts, until the silence
became painful to both his companions. Mary did not dare
to add more, for fear of further embarrassing him, and Mrs.
Pynchon, who was afraid Mary had been too bold, prepared
herself for a speech of reconciliation.

“Of course,” remarked the old lady, “Mary does not
mean to say that she is right, and you are wrong, Mr.
Moxon; I presume she never thought of such a thing as
that. She only says what she thinks; it's you who ought
to know.”

“It never occurs to me to say more or less than what I
believe,” said Mary, “though it is always with diffidence
that I differ with my superiors, and always, I trust, with
becoming deference to their opinions.”

Now, during all this discussion, there had been a practical
question that stood like a standard in the heart of every
individual of the group, and around this every argument,
suggestion, and word rallied as naturally as if it had no
meaning or power detached from it.

The relations between Mr. Moxon and Woodcock were
somehow intermingled with the thoughts of all, and Mrs.
Pynchon had become so painfully self-conscious as not to
have the slightest doubt that her minister could see the
burden of her mind with as much distinctness as he could
her eyes.

Thus it happened that the only method of extrication
from the embarrassment of the moment which presented
itself to her was connected with this affair, and so, to set
the minister on his feet, in esteem, as well as argument, she
undertook to lift him out, and said, “Now, for instance,
Mary,—you don't suppose that anything in the world but a
sense of duty would have made Mr. Moxon deal as he has

with Goodman Woodcock, do you? Don't you see that,
when you come to apply it, it's a very different thing.”

Mary said nothing, but her face became flushed and hot.
Mr. Moxon rose hurriedly, walked to the door, and had
nearly reached the street, when he turned, came back,
and bade the ladies a good morning, after which, alternately
looking up and down, he moved homewards. Up to
this moment, he had not suffered himself to have a doubt
in regard to his course with Woodcock. Mary Pynchon's
words had led him to ask himself the question whether love
to God and love to man, considered as the basis of action,
would have resulted in the same treatment of Woodcock
that had flowed from his notions of duty. His uncertainty
upon this point, and his uncertainty in regard to the fate of
Woodcock, fairly unsettled him, and a wish that he had
been more lenient towards his victim dawned upon his
mind, rose there, and burned like a star.