University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

It was not till among the last days of June that Mr.
Pynchon returned from the Bay. The more important
news had already reached him, in letters which he had
received by occasional travellers, from Mr. Moxon and
Mary.

He was entirely informed of the events that had occurred
in connexion with the capture and disappearance of Woodcock,
and despite that individual's contempt of his authority,
regretted the whole affair very thoroughly. He had arrived
somewhat late in the evening, and, after sending out the
letters he had brought from the Bay to different individuals
in the plantation, and distributing trifling purchases
among the members of his family, he partook of a hasty
supper, and prepared to retire. At this moment, he heard
a light rap upon the window-pane, which was repeated upon
his turning his eyes in that direction.

“Who's there?” demanded Mr. Pynchon.

“Well, 'tain't a saint, but it's nobody 'at'll damage you
any,” replied the unmistakable voice of Woodcock.

“Woodcock, is that you?”

“Yes, it's me, Square, and, if you're not too tired, I sh'd
like about five minutes' parley with you, out here on the
door-stone.”

Woodcock's disappearance had been a cloud upon the
magistrate, overshadowing the joy of his return, and, singular
as it may seem, the rough words that met his ear
were the sweetest music he had heard for many days. He
immediately obeyed the summons, and shook the hand of

the fugitive from justice with a heartiness entirely unbecoming
a magistrate.

“Well, Square,” exclaimed Woodcock, standing off, and
looking at him through the dusky twilight, “I shouldn't
know but what you was glad to see me, by the way you
take on.”

“I am very glad to know that you are safe and well,
however much I may regret your conduct and its results to
yourself.”

“Well, Square, that's neither here nor there. What I
come here to-night for is to find out whether there's anything
agin my coming back to the plantation, and bein'
peaceable.”

“I know of no way by which you can escape the operation
of the law,” replied Mr. Pynchon, “and yet I do not
know how Mr. Moxon might feel. I can see him and
ascertain.”

“There was a time, and 'twant a great while ago nuther,
when I wouldn't 'a took a favor from that man; and I
wouldn't now, for myself, but I don't want that gal of mine
to be a tax on anybody—leastways on you, Square; and if
there's any way for me to 'arn her living, without kickin'
up a dust in the plantation and being a pull-back to her, I
want to get my foot into it and foller it.”

“Suppose there is no way?”

“Then you'll never see me agin. I ain't comin' back
here to be snaked round like a beef critter.”

“Will you promise to give no further trouble, provided
the past is forgiven?” inquired the magistrate.

“No, I can't promise that, 'cause I don't know what 'll
turn up, but 'twont be natur for me to be jest what I have
been, for a man that's been in the mud don't get clean easy,
and I can't forget that my back's dirty.”

“You speak as if you were beyond the power of the plantation,
as well as the colony,—responsible to no one.”

“Do I? Well, it's so, Square, and it always 'll be so. If
I can't have the right kind o' dealin's here, I sh'll go where
I can get 'em.”

Mr. Pynchon was silent in thought for several minutes,
and then, approaching Woodcock, he laid his hand upon
his shoulder, and said with much feeling and vehemence—
“Woodcock, what is there to hinder your being one of
the best, happiest, and most useful men in this settlement?
You have strength to labor, a good natural disposition,
and power to win a good name. You have a daughter
to live for—one who will make you happy in the proportion
that you make her respectable. The strongest desire
that I now have upon my mind is that you may come
back here, and become one of us, peaceably and respectably.”

“Don't make a chicken of me,” said Woodcock, brushing
his nose, “for it gives me an onhandy bill for nothin',
considerin' there couldn't anybody eat me.”

“Do not jest, Woodcock, but tell me frankly what the
trouble is,” earnestly continued Mr. Pynchon.

“There's two men in this plantation,” said Woodcock,
pulling off his shoe, and shaking out a pebble, “by the
name of Pynchon. One of 'em is Mr. Pynchon, and t'other
is Square Pynchon. I know both on 'em middlin' well,
and they never'd be took for twins. It's Mr. Pynchon
that's talkin' with me now, and 'twas Square Pynchon who
got me fined for tellin' the truth about the minister, and
then, 'cause I wouldn't stan' it, give him a warrant to
keelhaul me, and treat me like a beast. The Square thinks
it's law, and the minister think's it's gospel, but, if it is,
it's shabby law and worse gospel; and it's a thing that'll
come round byme-bye, for a man that straightens hoops
can't work ten years at the business without flippin' his own
nose.”

“You have certainly been very frank, Woodcock,” responded

Mr. Pynchon, “but you have made your usual
mistake of attributing all your troubles to the circumstances
under which you live, without assuming any blame yourself.”

“I never shirked anything that belonged to me to shoulder,”
said Woodcock, “and it may be a slim thing for me
to say, but I've got a notion that if my betters had been
as much men as they had been somethin' smaller and less
becomin', they never'd had any trouble with me, nor I with
them. Magistrates forget they're men, and ministers take
a consait that they're angels, and so they think it's for them
to boss everything, and kick round the rest on us. I don't
want to be hard on anybody, Square, but if the woman we
read about that was catched makin' herself shameful, and
was told by the Master on us all to go and do better, had
undertook to cut up here in Agawam, you'd 'a said twenty
lashes, and she'd got 'em, and Mr. Moxon would 'a said
twenty Amens on the end on 'em for a snapper.”

Why is it that Mr. Pynchon does not venture a direct reply
to this? Does dignity or self-respect forbid? Does
he feel that Woodcock is so immeasurably beneath him that
it is a matter of indifference whether a reply be made or
not? There he stands, face to face with a criminal,—one
upon whom he had endeavored to execute the sentence of
the law. Why does he not call for help, and re-arrest the
caitiff? Why does he take Woodcock's hand, and say, “I'm
very much fatigued, John, take care of yourself, and come
again to-morrow night?” The answer to all these queries
may be found in his own words, as he closes the door and
enters his cabin: “The man is right, in the main—right in
the main.” As he hangs his coat upon a chair, he repeats
the words, “right in the main;” and he stops while winding
his watch, and nods very firmly, but with a mere jar
of the muscles, as if it were a nod of the soul and not of the
head, and reiterates “right in the main.”

Woodcock left the house, and had gone but a short distance

when half-a-dozen dark forms issued from the cover
of a tree, and joined him, as he took his way southward
out of the village.

On the following morning, Mr. Moxon was the first to
call on Mr. Pynchon. The minister looked haggard and
worn, as if he had passed a sleepless night; and appeared
more nervous and unsettled than ever before.

“You are not so feeble as your appearance indicates, I
trust,” said Mr. Pynchon, grasping his hand warmly.

“The Lord is dealing very strangely with me,” said the
minister. “Within the past few days, thick clouds have
been upon me. I only pray that I may have grace sufficient
for all my trials, and that in His own good time God will
deliver me out of all my distresses.”

“Have you any new tribulations?” inquired Mr. Pynchon.

“None that I feel at liberty to reveal,” replied the minister,
“but I beg of you, my Christian father and brother,
that you will remember me in your prayers, and beseech
God that, if it be possible, the cup may pass from me.”

Mr. Pynchon was seriously pained as well as puzzled by
this language, and particularly by the deep solemnity with
which it was uttered. Still retaining his hold of the minister's
hand, he said, “You know, Mr. Moxon, how entirely
you have my sympathy, and how gladly I would do anything
in my power to relieve you.”

The minister shook his head, and, releasing his hand,
paced up and down the room, giving utterance to deep
sighs that lacked none of the wretchedness even if wanting
the resonance of groans. At length, pausing before Mr.
Pynchon, he said, “The time may come when the load will
be too heavy for me to bear—when my poor nature will
cry out in its pain, and then I shall come to you; but pray
for me, oh! pray! pray! that I may be delivered from the
power of the adversary, and that the divine wrath may be
stayed.”

This was all enigmatical to Mr. Pynchon, and his curiosity
was somewhat aroused, but the case was too painful to
tamper with, and so, with the design of changing the subject,
he spoke of Woodcock. The name had no sooner
been pronounced, than Mr. Moxon paused, looked earnestly
at the speaker, and waited with sharp attention, as if ready
to snap at, and devour every word.

Mr. Pynchon saw that in some manner the subject was a
key to the minister's secret, and kept quietly on. He alluded
to the peculiar temperament of the man, his natural
impatience of restraint, his strong native powers of mind
and good qualities of heart, and the possibility that he
had not received exactly that treatment from all that a
thorough Christian charity and a sound policy would dictate.
He was ready to assume so much for himself, and
doubted not that others would, upon reflection, do the same.
Furthermore, he was inclined to think that if Woodcock
might be allowed to come back, and to go unmolested
about his business, he would do better, and eventually
become a good and useful citizen.

“Do you know where he is?” inquired Mr. Moxon, with
an eye that almost burned with its earnestness.

“No! But I think I know where he will be.”

“Then he's alive?” said the minister interrogatively, and
added, as if in reply to his own question, “Oh! yes! he's
alive; I knew he was alive.”

“I have seen him,” said Mr. Pynchon.

“When and where?” inquired the minister, eagerly.

“Last night, and here.”

“Was there any one with him?”

“No one that I saw.”

“Did you—that is—do you remember anything peculiar
—that struck you—was there anything unusual connected
with his appearance?” inquired the minister, brokenly and
with great embarrassment.

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Pynchon. “He acted entirely
like himself, and looked like himself.”

“Does he wish to return to the plantation?” inquired the
minister.

“I think he would do so at once provided you should see
fit to release him from all obligations in the slander case.
He appears anxious to support his child, and he confessed
to having been humbled by the treatment he has been subjected
to.”

“I will release him,” said the minister, “on these conditions;”
but without stating the conditions, he commenced
pacing up and down the room again.

“On what conditions?” inquired Mr. Pynchon, after
watching him for some minutes.

“I—I cannot state them,” said the minister, “and it is
not necessary. Tell him that I know all, and that he cannot
deceive me. Tell him that I forgive everything, if he
has not concluded the contract. If he has concluded it,
and will break it, he may always count on me as a friend.
Tell him I love my children better than I love my own life,
and to kill me rather than—than—persevere in his present
course. He'll know what I mean. Tell him that hell is
deep and eternity long, and that no temporary advantages
can compensate for the loss of the soul. Tell him that the
devil was a liar from the beginning, and that brick houses
will not stand in the day of judgment.”

“I beg you to pause,” exclaimed Mr. Pynchon, hurriedly
rising from his chair. “You are surely unwell, Mr.
Moxon. You have overtasked your mind, or body, or
both, and cannot be aware of the strangeness of your language.
Were I to tell Woodcock just what you have
directed me to tell him, he would call you mad. You are
certainly very unwell, sir; I beg you to be seated;” and
Mr. Pynchon fairly pressed the minister into the seat he
had vacated, where he sat for some minutes in silence, with

his hands over his eyes, and his nerves in an agitation that
was half hysterical.

At length, without uncovering his eyes, he exclaimed, as
if deciding a question he had been revolving, “I must bear
it alone for the present.” Then rising, he said, “I leave
this matter with you, and will be guided by your judgment.
If you think it best for Woodcock to return, I shall
interpose neither obstacle nor objection.” Then, seeing
other neighbors approaching the house, he bade the magistrate
a good morning, and passed homewards.

On the following evening, Woodcock appeared at the
appointed hour, and received the decision that had been
made in his behalf. He listened with patience and respectfulness
to Mr. Pynchon's counsel, and was preparing to
depart, the interview having been held, as on the previous
evening, outside the house, when the slender form of his
child, in her white night dress, leaped from an adjoining
window, and rushed into his arms. She had been disturbed
by the conversation, and the voice of her father had become
so real in her dreams as to awaken her to the reality of his
presence; and her leap from the window was the offspring
of her first impulse.

Woodcock sat down upon the doorstep, and strained the
child to his heart, while she clung to his neck with the
nervous vehemence of her nature. The embrace was silent,
but full of love's eloquence.

“Square,” said Woodcock, at last, with difficulty breaking
the spell, “why can't I die now? I never shall feel so
good as this ag'in. It can't be brung round ag'in any
way.”

“I see nothing to hinder your having many happy days,
if you are well disposed,” said Mr. Pynchon.

“I hain't any faith,” said Woodcock, shaking his head;
“I never did have good luck long 't a time nor a great
while in a place, and I don't expect to.” Then turning to

his child he said, in a mild, kind voice, “I'm comin' back to
the plantation to-morrow, gal.”

The child sprang from his arms, as if he had struck her.

“What did I tell you, Square?” said Woodcock, whimpering
and smiling together, at the sudden fulfilment of his
prophecy.

“I don't want to go back to the cabin to live,” said
Mary.

“I hope you don't want to live here, and be a little beggar,”
said her father.

Here Mr. Pynchon interposed, and told him of Mary's
singular usefulness in the house, and related a conversation
he had had with her mistress during the day, in which the
latter interposed the most decided objections against parting
with the child, unless Woodcock should insist upon it.

“And I'll come down and fix up the cabin every day,”
said Mary, eagerly, taking courage from having an advocate
at her side.

“I couldn't 'a fixed it to suit myself any better,” said
Woodcock, “but I didn't want to be beholden; and if the
gal can make herself of any account, she's better off with
Mary Pynchon than she could be anywhere else in the
world.”

Thus saying, he took the girl in his arms, walked to the
window from which she had leaped, and, with a whispered
word of kindness, lifted her in.

Upon the following morning, the people of the plantation
were surprised to see Woodcock walk forth from his cabin,
take his canoe, and go quietly to work upon his fields on
the other side of the river, without attracting the notice of
the magistrate, or meeting with any objections from the
minister or the constable.

Arriving at his fields, he found that they had been well
taken care of, through the faithfulness of the constable,
whose gratitude to Peter Trimble had not hindered him

from tasking that individual to the extent of his strength,
in working out the magistrate's sentence. An explanation
of the whole matter was publicly made on the succeeding
lecture day, and the affair blew quietly over.