University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

Hitherto the office of the Bay Path had been one of
peace. It had been worn by weary but hopeful feet in the
service of commerce and friendship, and by the migrations
incident to a new territory; but the hour was approaching
when new and more stirring influences should pass over its
track, fraught with great changes to the plantation which it
connected with the Bay.

While Mr. Pynchon was in attendance at the October
term of the General Court, in 1649, the book with which
the reader has become imperfectly acquainted, through
Deacon Chapin's interview with Mr. Moxon, arrived in a
vessel from London, and the author, with many misgivings
concerning the result, but with a determination conscientiously
to risk it, and bravely to abide by it, committed it
to the public.

Saying nothing to any one of his proceeding, and leaving
his book to its fate, and to its influence upon his own, he
preserved, day by day, his quiet dignity in his seat among
the magistrates, and performed his duties. A few days
passed away before he was made aware in any manner
that his book had arrested the public eye, but the cool
greetings and the altered manners of those about him, and
those whom he met in the streets, soon betrayed the depth
of the unfavorable impression which it had made. At the
meeting-house, upon the Sabbath, he was reminded of the
errors which he had promulgated, in the minister's prayer;
and half unconsciously looking around, he saw several worshipful
and worshipping gentlemen gazing over their noses

at him. At length, the state of public feeling became so
intense that the bounds of politeness were fairly broken
over, and one or two of his old friends visited him personally
with severe reproaches. As no direct action had been
instituted against him by church or state, and as he found
his position comfortless, he thought that the best policy for
him would be to relieve the town of his presence, and
return home—thus giving to all time to consider his work
more calmly, and allowing opportunity for the subsiding of
the storm. Accordingly, he asked for leave of absence
from the Court—a request which was readily granted—
and, with two or three friends, commenced his journey
homewards.

In the meantime, half-a-dozen members of the plantation
had been in Boston, and thus became acquainted with the
position of affairs relative to their magistrate. They had
seen him, and had returned home with his assurance that he
should soon follow them. Wherever they had made their
appearance among the Bay settlements, the subject of the
heretical book was brought up, and they found the man
whom they had for years loved and revered notorious to
an offensive degree. They returned to the plantation much
excited, and full of indignation towards those who were
thus insulting the person and maligning the reputation of
their friend and counsellor, and but a few hours were necessary
to diffuse their news and their excitement throughout
the plantation.

In Mr. Pynchon's family, there was much distress; for
what the men had related on their return, was fully confirmed
in a letter from Mr. Pynchon himself. John felt
every indignity offered to his father as a personal offence,
and could hardly be dissuaded from starting immediately
for the Bay, to take his place by his side, and resent all the
insults offered him. Mary Holyoke was very deeply affected.
The love which she had always borne her father, her

confidence in his thorough Christian principle, her knowledge
of his deep conscientiousness, and her insight into his
delicate pride and sensitiveness of character, all tended to
swell the sympathy with which she regarded him, and which
not only filled all her waking thoughts, but destroyed her
sleep through many feverish nights.

Poor Mrs. Pynchon, in her plodding old age, and in the
profundity of respect which she entertained for her husband,
would not at first believe a word of what was told
her. She could not imagine it possible for William Pynchon
to be treated anywhere or by anybody with disrespect.
His letter was read to her, but she “could not see into it,”
and shook her head so long and so determinedly that all
attempts to impress upon her the nature and extent of the
difficulty were abandoned.

At the close of the lecture on Wednesday succeeding the
announcement of Mr. Pynchon's difficulties to the settlement,
all the men remained within the meeting-house, while
their wives and families mostly followed their example.
These difficulties were, of course, the topic of discussion,
and each of the news-bringers was surrounded by his little
knot of auditors, replying to a multitude of questions, and
retailing the particulars he had gathered to very attentive
ears.

Conversation had progressed but a few minutes, when
three or four horsemen cantered up to the door of the
meeting-house, and, dropping their bridles, leaped from
their saddles, and entered. Twenty individuals caught
sight of the first intruder, who was no other than Mr.
Pynchon himself, in his rusty travelling gear. A cordial
smile illuminated his face as he contemplated the assembly,
which remained silent and motionless for a moment, and
then, by a common impulse, turned to greet him. “Three
cheers for Mr. Pynchon!” shouted one, leaping to a seat;
and they were given with a will. “Three more!” shouted

Peter Trimble from another part of the house, swinging his
hat high in the air; but as he became immediately convinced
that he had gone too far, he settled into a profound
snicker that carried him nearly to the floor, and excluded
all attempt on his part to answer to the call.

Mr. Pynchon was at first greatly surprised to meet with
such a demonstration in the house of worship, but he was
surrounded immediately by his family and more intimate
friends, who explained the cause of the convocation, and of
the explosion of enthusiasm which he had witnessed. The
old man's lip trembled, and his eye moistened with emotion
as he asked for silence, and thanked the assembly for their
confidence and sympathy. As they passed out of the house,
on that mild autumn afternoon, and took their way homewards,
in a glow of happy excitement, Mr. Pynchon regarded
them all with an affection he had never before
experienced, and his heart swelled with gratitude that he
was once more among hearts that loved him.

As the people divided into little parties on their way
homewards, there was one group besides that immediately
around Mr. Pynchon, which excited considerable attention
and comment. It was composed of Hugh Parsons, Mary
Woodcock, and no less an individual than Peter Trimble.
The face of the latter had taken on the aspect of an aggravated
case of the small-pox, while his legs, judging from
the manner in which they managed themselves, labored
each under intense personal embarrassment. He had happened
to be near to Hugh and Mary as they left the meeting-house,
and, being hailed by the former, joined them in
their walk.

“You are jest the man I wanted to see,” said Peter.
“When you get ready” (and Peter looked at Mary), “I
should like to see you alone about three minutes.”

“What secret have you got for Hugh, now?” inquired
Mary good-humoredly.

“We've had considerable between us, first and last, hav'n't
we, Hugh?” said Peter.

Hugh replied that he rather thought they had.

“I guess,” continued Peter, “some folks don't know how
some folks happened to get hold of some folks;” and then
he burst into a snicker that he found it impossible to terminate
without reaching across the walk, behind Mary, and
giving Hugh a sly kick.

Mary understood the allusion, for she had long previously
heard the whole story, and she joined Hugh in a laugh so
merry as to attract attention from a considerable distance.

“Peter,” said Mary, “why didn't you make a speech to-day?”

“By George!” exclaimed Peter, excitedly, “that's jest
what I wanted to do; and, between you and I, that's what
I want to see Hugh about. Mr. Pynchon wouldn't hear
anything to me, but perhaps he would to Hugh; and I
want to put him on the track of something that'll stick
them Bay fellows where they wont hear from their friends
over and above often. Land ahead! If I was in his place,
I could fix 'em all in less than twenty-four hours. It's so,
now; you needn't laugh.”

“But can you not inform both of us?” inquired Mary,
assuming a sober face.

Peter shook his head. That was not the way in which he
was accustomed to deal. It was too public—there was
nothing sly about it.

At last, the singularly composed trio arrived at the house
of Holyoke, and Mary released her lover to Peter, who led
him behind a huge tree, a short distance off, and there
unveiled his plan for the relief of Mr. Pynchon.

“You see,” said Peter, “I've got a plan. I didn't want
to tell it to the other fellers, for they're always laughing at
me; but you can tell Mr. Pynchon, or somebody else that
will tell him. Did you ever hear of a wind-gun?”

Hugh thought he had heard such an article of warfare
mentioned.

“It goes by wind, you see,” continued Peter; “and it'll
plug a bullet right into a man, and never make a bit of
noise. A feller's alive one second and dead the next, and
nobody knows what hurts him. Well, if I was in Mr. Pynchon's
place, I'd get a short wind-gun, and have it fastened
under my arm, and just cover up the whole concern with
a cloak; and then I'd have a string run down my coat
sleeve from the thing that pulls it off, and when one of these
fellers comes up and says, `Mr. Pynchon—that's a miserable
book of your'n—you ought to be taken in hand for
writing it,' I should jest look him in the eye, and pull the
string, and slap goes the man right down in the middle of
the road, all curled up as if he was full of choke cherries.
When the next feller comes along with his sass, pull the
string again, down he goes, and so on. By the time I'd
laid out about half-a-dozen that way, they'd begin to think
that apoplexy was catching, and that it wasn't exactly safe
to be minding other people's business. Land ahead! I
should jest like to be William Pynchon for about three days.
I'd be dangerous now—you'd better believe I would, if I
was to be strung up for it.”

Hugh was not at all certain of the soundness of this
scheme, as a matter of policy, to say nothing of its morality;
while his faith in wind-guns was not such as to make
the enterprise look practicable; but he nodded as Peter
said, “You think of this”—and parted with that modest
and ingenious young man, to forget his injunction and think
about Mary.

The return of Mr. Pynchon was an event which had, for
several weeks, been associated in his mind, and in that of
Mary Woodcock, with their marriage; and that was the
subject of their first thought as the magistrate made his
appearance at the meeting-house door. Hugh, therefore,

only went home to return to the house of Holyoke in the
evening, where the intentions and prospects of the lovers
were made the subject of family conversation during his
call. Mr. Holyoke and his wife kindly lent their counsel to
the lovers, and promised to lend them their interest and aid.

It was concluded that the marraige should be celebrated
so soon as the cabin could be put in complete order for the
winter, and sufficient stores of wood and corn procured, or
rendered certain of procurement. Mary Holyoke promised
to speak of the matter to her father, and obtain his approval
of the match and the arrangements for the consummation
of the marriage.

The feeling towards the lovers among the young men of
the plantation had become softened by the passage of a
few weeks, and, through Mary Holyoke, John Pynchon had
become much interested in them. After a consultation with
Holyoke, he proposed to the young men of his own age to
do something in the way of assisting Hugh and Mary in the
commencement of their housekeeping.

Accordingly, upon a morning appointed, Woodcock's old
cabin was invaded by a busy host, who in the course of the
day changed the humble structure from a mere shell to a
tenantable dwelling. They were on the roof and under
the roof—at the door and at the windows—topping out the
chimney and closing up the walls—and a very merry and
noisy set they were. At last, they built a huge fire within,
and collected for consultation. John proposed that they
should appoint a day to draw to the door a winter's stock
of fuel. Peter Trimble insisted that it should be done some
moonlight night, so as to take Hugh and Mary by surprise.
He even went further, and expressed his opinion that if
they could so dispose of the wood as to fence in the cabin,
it would be one of the finest jokes ever perpetrated. But
Peter was overruled by the majority, and the wood made
its appearance at the time and in the mode appointed.

Mary found the stores of money and wampum which she
had received from her father greatly convenient in her
arrangements, and, between those and the generous presents
of Holyoke and his wife, she was able to supply
herself with very respectable housekeeping articles and
furniture, and a trousseau quite up to, if not a little beyond,
the Puritan standard. She managed everything,
attended to everything, did everything. Night after night
Hugh went to see her, and ask her about her progress. It
did not seem to him that it was an affair with which he
had, actively, anything to do. The house had been put in
order for him, his wood lay at the door ready for his axe,
and, living within the charmed and charming circle of his
all-absorbing passion, he seemed to feel as if miracles were
to be wrought for his benefit, and that there was absolutely
nothing for him to do but to receive them.

All this—strangely as it may seem—pleased Mary well.
She loved him for his helplessness—his amiable placidity,
and above all for his implicit faith in, and entire reliance
upon, her. She had never been so happy in her life as
when, all day long and half the night, she labored ceaselessly
and tirelessly to prepare for an event which seemed
to her to be so fraught with bliss that whole years of misery
would purchase it cheaply. The vision of the retired cabin
with its blazing fire, its inviolable secresy, its independence,
and the amiable treasure which she was soon to make her
own and to instal there, was constantly before her.

The day appointed for the wedding at last arrived, and
in the morning Hugh and Mary walked down to the cabin,
to see to some of the closing preparations. The stock of
provisions which Hugh had been able to procure had already
been deposited there, and everything was nearly
ready for immediate occupation. They kindled a fire in
the huge fireplace, and sat down, Mary talking all the time,
and telling what changes she should make, so soon as she

should become settled in housekeeping, and giving expression
to her delight with the arrangements around her, and
the prospect before her.

The pair were sitting thus when the door was opened,
and a tall Indian walked in, unbidden, carrying upon his
back a basket filled with corn. He was followed by another
and another, until the room was filled with Indians, each
of whom relieved himself of a burden, and stood in silence,
as if awaiting the orders of a chief.

When all had arrived and deposited their freight, a
somewhat clumsy and singularly painted old man waved
his hand, and the company turned and retired in silence as
they came. Mary and Hugh were dumb with surprise and
astonishment. The former looked at the superior of the
squad with an eye burning with strange curiosity and apprehension,
and an impulse moved her to seize him by the
arm. She did so, almost with fierceness, but relinquished
her hold as he turned mildly upon her, and regarded her
with an eye so full of tenderness that she bowed her head
in sudden emotion, and burst into a paroxysm of tears.

The man turned to leave the room, but, perceiving his
intention, she stepped between him and the door, and,
planting herself against it, still continued weeping. The
visitor was overcome, and, making no attempt to pass her,
stepped back towards the fire.

“Do you know who I be?” inquired he at last, with a
trembling voice.

Mary compressed her lips firmly, raised her eyes to his,
and bowed her affirmation.

“Does he?” with a nod and look at Hugh. Mary shook
her head.

“I never expected to speak to you agi'n, and I shouldn't
now, if you hadn't made me, but I'm glad you did, 'cause
I may do you a good turn, though I haven't anything good
to say to you.”

During all this scene Hugh had stood as if in a dream—
his mind filled with strange fears and fancies. The abundant
stores that had been deposited in the cabin did not
surprise him, until he saw that Mary was surprised, and
that she was exercised by very strong emotions. Then, as
he saw a mutual recognition of acquaintance between the
two, all the stories he had ever heard of Mary filled his
mind, and he trembled with excitement. The man did not
look or talk like an Indian. He was disguised. Perhaps
those who had retired were disguised. Perhaps they were
but servants, after all, of one whom many firmly believed
to be Mary's master. The gifts they had left, immediately
upon these considerations assumed a new and alarming
significance, and he began to feel that, in very truth, he
might be within the toils of the adversary. If so, he knew
that he was hopelessly there, for his heart told him that his
destiny was linked with Mary irrevocably.

“Mary,” continued the stranger, “I know all what you're
goin' to do. You're goin' to marry this boy, and it's a bad
bargain for both on you. It won't be your fault nor his'n,
but your enemies ain't dead yet, any more'n mine. You're
leavin' a good place, and it's been a safe one so fur, and
you're comin' here, away from Mary Holyoke and her husband,
and I'm afraid it'll get you into trouble; and this
little body that you've got here can't do anything to help
you.”

Mary's eyes flashed with an angry gleam as she exclaimed,
“I can help myself. I should like to see the man
who would dare to lay his hand on him, or on me. Hugh
and I shall mind our own business, and if other people do
not mind theirs I shall tell them to.” And Mary walked
forth and back across the cabin, her face flushed with excitement.

“Well, I hope it'll come out right,” said the man, “but I
haven't got any faith. I like your spunk, but it don't count

in a fight with crazy folks and fools. It'll only tell ag'in you
when the thing comes to a pinch, and be laid to the devil
that's in you. But, Mary, I didn't come here to trouble you
this morning. I come here to do you good, and I didn't
expect to find you here. There's lots of corn and dried venison
and salmon on the floor, and you're welcome to it all.
God knows I want to see you happy, and all I can do to
make you happy I shall keep a-doin'. You won't tell anybody
who you've seen, and you won't let anybody else—
you know too much for that—and now I reckon I'd better
go back to where I come from.”

He went towards the door, but hesitated and hung his
head. Raising it at length, he approached Mary, and took
her hand. “Mary,” said he, “I've been leadin' a rough
life, but I don't forget anything. I know how good it is to
be like folks, and be with 'em, and I miss a thousand things
that there wouldn't anybody give me credit for. I look
rough, and I be rough, but there's one thing I want to do
before I die, and that I know'll warm my heart till it stops
beatin', and give me somethin' to think of that'll keep me
human, and kind o' jine me on, if it is a good ways off, to
somethin' that's good. Mary, the last woman's face that I
ever kissed was a cold one, and none but the worms kissed
it after me; and now, if you'll let me kiss your'n before I go,
I'll never kiss another in this world, and I'll remember it
always.”

Mary, thoroughly melted, and thoroughly charmed by
the same strange eloquence that had haunted her memory
for many years, threw her arms impulsively about the old
man's neck, and kissed him again and again. It was enough.
Drawing a purse from his belt filled with coins and wampum,
he pressed it into her hand, and hurried from her
sight.

Mary stood looking through the vacant doorway long
after he had vanished, but at last turned, with a cloud of

deep disturbance upon her face, and regarding her astonished
lover with a strange expression in her wonderful eyes, she
said, pointing to the articles upon the floor, “These are to be
packed away out of sight, and you are to say nothing of
what you have seen this morning. Some time I will tell you
all about it; and remember, till then, that I have done
nothing wrong in kissing that old man. You will love me
better for it when you know why I did it.”

Hugh was contented with the explanation, and putting
his arm fondly around her, begged her to be pleasant and
happy, as her looks chilled him, and made him miserable.

“Hugh,” said Mary, looking him in the face with an expression
of the deepest tenderness, “we don't know what's
before us. There are people in the plantation who think
I'm bad, and you see what this man thinks, and he knows
better than anybody else. He thinks that as soon as I get
out of Mr. Holyoke's house these people will be after me, and
give me trouble.”

“Let's not get married then,” said Hugh, deprecatingly.
“We can live as we have lived, until things change. I
should die if they were to take you away from me, or if my
marrying you should get you into difficulty.”

“Not get married?” said Mary, with fierce determination
mantling her face. “Do you suppose that I would put
it off an hour for fear? I would see Mr. Moxon (and her
voice sank to a low whisper) and the miserable fools who
believe in him and his crazy children, sunk to the bottom
of the river before I would change a plan of my life the
breadth of a hair. They are more cruel than bears. What
have I done to them? How have I hurt them? Why
can't they let me alone?—always talking about me—always
worrying me, and trying to make me miserable.”

“Don't look so—don't talk so!” exclaimed Hugh, with
tender importunity.

Mary kissed him passionately, and resumed: “Ah, Hugh!

They've tried to get you away from me, but they shall
never do it. We shall be married to-night. They cannot
cheat me, and I shall give them no chance. No, Hugh,
we'll be married—we'll be married—if we never see another
happy day. Let them do their worst.”

Hugh had nothing to say, and in his silence yielded
assent to her determination, as one from which there was
no appeal. After disposing of the provisions which the
Indians had brought in accordance with her previous decision,
the two replenished the fire, and took their way back
to Mary's home.

The wedding was solemnized in the meeting-house just
at night-fall, Mr. Pynchon performing the ceremony, as
was his office on all such occasions in the settlement. It is
not necessary to speak of the whispers that echoed around
the chilly house as the strangely matched pair made their
appearance; of the shrugs of shoulders in the audience; of
the poorly disguised spite of nearly every woman in the
congregation; of the cold greetings that were bestowed
upon the pair as they passed out of the house; of the evil
prophecies, the poor jokes, the sly calumnies that were
uttered on every hand.

Only the family of Mr. Pynchon and the young friends
of the bridegroom treated the married pair with cordiality.
For them, Mary had a tear of love and gratitude, but, for
the remainder, only cool defiance. She looked at them,
from side to side, until each eye that met her own quailed
as if under an irresistible influence.

A social gathering in honor of the occasion was held at
the house of Holyoke, but it was not a happy one, and was
broken up at an early hour. Mary wore an air of deep
abstraction during the evening, and responded but feebly
and incoherently to such good-natured raillery as was
addressed to her; and was evidently rejoiced when the
party separated, and when, with a choice company of

friends, she took her departure for her own home. There
she was left, at last, with many kind expressions of interest
and sympathy—her schemes all accomplished, and the
prize she had so fiercely coveted, and boldly striven for,
secured.