University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

It was well for Mara that so much of her life had been
passed in wild forest rambles. She looked frail as the rays
of moonbeam which slid down the old white-bearded hemlocks,
but her limbs were agile and supple as steel; and
while the party went crashing on before, she followed with
such lightness that the slight sound of her movements was
entirely lost in the heavy crackling plunges of the party.
Her little heart was beating fast and hard; but could any
one have seen her face, as it now and then came into a spot
of moonshine, they might have seen it fixed in a deadly expression
of resolve and determination. She was going after
him — no matter where; she was resolved to know who and
what it was that was leading him away, as her heart told
her, to no good. Deeper and deeper into the shadows of
the forest they went, and the child easily kept up with them.

Mara had often rambled for whole solitary days in this
lonely wood, and knew all its rocks and dells the whole
three miles to the long bridge at the other end of the island.
But she had never before seen it under the solemn stillness
of midnight moonlight, which gives to the most familiar objects
such a strange, ghostly charm. After they had gone a
mile into the forest, she could see through the black spruces
silver gleams of the sea, and hear, amid the whirr and sway
of the pine-tops, the dash of the ever restless tide which
pushed up the long cove. It was at the full, as she could

discern with a rapid glance of her practised eye, expertly
versed in the knowledge of every change of the solitary
nature around.

And now the party began to plunge straight down the
rocky ledge of the Devil's Back, on which they had been
walking hitherto, into the deep ravine where lay the cove.
It was a scrambling, precipitous way, over perpendicular
walls of rock, whose crevices furnished anchoring-places for
grand old hemlocks or silver-birches, and whose rough sides,
leathery with black flaps of lichen, were all tangled and interlaced
with thick netted bushes.

The men plunged down laughing, shouting, and swearing
at their occasional missteps, and silently as moon-beam or
thistle-down the light-footed shadow went down after them.

She suddenly paused behind a pile of rock, as, through an
opening between two great spruces, the sea gleamed out like
a sheet of looking-glass set in a black frame. And here the
child saw a small vessel swinging at anchor, with the moonlight
full on its slack sails, and she could hear the gentle
gurgle and lick of the green-tongued waves as they dashed
under it toward the rocky shore.

Mara stopped with a beating heart as she saw the company
making for the schooner. The tide is high; will they
go on board and sail away with him where she cannot follow?
What could she do? In an ecstasy of fear she
kneeled down and asked God not to let him go, — to give
her at least one more chance to save him.

For the pure and pious child had heard enough of the
words of these men, as she walked behind them, to fill her
with horror. She had never before heard an oath, but
there came back from these men coarse, brutal tones and
words of blasphemy that froze her blood with horror. And

Moses was going with them! She felt somehow as if they
must be a company of fiends bearing him to his ruin.

For some time she kneeled there watching behind the
rock, while Moses and his companions went on board the little
schooner. She had no feeling of horror at the loneliness
of her own situation, for her solitary life had made every
woodland thing dear and familiar to her. She was cowering
down on a loose, spongy bed of moss, which was all threaded
through and through with the green vines and pale pink
blossoms of the mayflower, and she felt its fragrant breath
steaming up in the moist moonlight. As she leaned forward
to look through a rocky crevice, her arms rested on a bed of
that brittle white moss she had often gathered with so much
admiration, and a scarlet rock-columbine, such as she loved
to paint, brushed her cheek, — and all these mute fair things
seemed to strive to keep her company in her chill suspense
of watchfulness. Two whippoorwills, from a clump of silvery
birches, kept calling to each other in melancholy iteration,
while she staid there still listening, and knowing by
an occasional sound of laughing, or the explosion of some
oath, that the men were not yet gone. At last they all appeared
again, and came to a cleared place among the dry
leaves, quite near to the rock where she was concealed, and
kindled a fire, which they kept snapping and crackling by a
constant supply of green resinous hemlock branches.

The red flame danced and leaped through the green fuel,
and leaping upward in tongues of flame, cast ruddy bronze
reflections on the old pine-trees with their long branches waving
with beards of white moss, — and by the firelight Mara
could see two men in sailor's dress with pistols in their belts,
and the man Atkinson, whom she had recollected as having
seen once or twice at her grandfather's. She remembered

how she had always shrunk from him with a strange instinctive
dislike, half fear, half disgust, when he had addressed
her with that kind of free admiration, which men of his class
often feel themselves at liberty to express to a pretty girl of
her early age. He was a man that might have been handsome,
had it not been for a certain strange expression of
covert wickedness. It was as if some vile evil spirit, walking,
as the Scriptures say, through dry places, had lighted
on a comely man's body, in which he had set up house-keeping,
making it look like a fair house abused by an unclean
owner.

As Mara watched his demeanor with Moses, she could
think only of a loathsome black snake that she had once
seen in those solitary rocks; — she felt as if his handsome
but evil eye were charming him with an evil charm to his
destruction.

“Well, Mo, my boy,” she heard him say, — slapping
Moses on the shoulder, — “this is something like. We 'll
have a `tempus,' as the college fellows say, — put down the
clams to roast, and I 'll mix the punch,” he said, setting over
the fire a tea-kettle which they brought from the ship.

After their preparations were finished, all sat down to eat
and drink. Mara listened with anxiety and horror to a conversation
such as she never heard or conceived before. It
is not often that women hear men talk in the undisguised
manner which they use among themselves; but the conversation
of men of unprincipled lives, and low, brutal habits,
unchecked by the presence of respectable female society,
might well convey to the horror-struck child a feeling as if
she were listening at the mouth of hell. Almost every word
was preceded or emphasized by an oath; and what struck
with a death chill to her heart was, that Moses swore too,

and seemed to show that desperate anxiety to seem au fait
in the language of wickedness, which boys often do at that
age, when they fancy that to be ignorant of vice is a
mark of disgraceful greenness. Moses evidently was bent
on showing that he was not green, — ignorant of the pure
ear to which every such word came like the blast of death.

He drank a great deal, too, and the mirth among them
grew furious and terrific. Mara, horrified and shocked as
she was, did not, however, lose that intense and alert presence
of mind, natural to persons in whom there is moral
strength, however delicate be their physical frame. She
felt at once that these men were playing upon Moses; that
they had an object in view; that they were flattering and
cajoling him, and leading him to drink, that they might work
out some fiendish purpose of their own. The man called
Atkinson related story after story of wild adventure, in
which sudden fortunes had been made by men who, he said,
were not afraid to take “the short cut across lots.” He told
of piratical adventures in the West Indies, — of the fun of
chasing and overhauling ships, — and gave dazzling accounts
of the treasures found on board. It was observable
that all these stories were told on the line between joke and
earnest, — as frolics, as specimens of good fun, and seeing
life, etc.

At last came a suggestion, — What if they should start off
together some fine day “just for a spree,” and try a cruise
in the West Indies, to see what they could pick up? They
had arms, and a gang of fine, whole-souled fellows. Moses
had been tied to Ma'am Pennel's apron-string long enough.
And “hark ye,” said one of them, “Moses, they say old
Pennel has lots of dollars in that old sea-chest of his'n. It
would be a kindness to him to invest them for him in an
adventure.”

Moses answered with a streak of the boy innocence which
often remains under the tramping of evil men, like ribbons
of green turf in the middle of roads: —

“You don't know Father Pennel, — why, he 'd no more
come into it than” —

A perfect roar of laughter cut short this declaration, and
Atkinson, slapping Moses on the back, said, —

“By —, Mo! you are the jolliest green dog! I shall
die a-laughing of your innocence some day. Why, my boy,
can't you see? Pennel's money can be invested without
asking him.”

“Why, he keeps it locked,” said Moses.

“And supposing you pick the lock?”

“Not I, indeed,” said Moses, making a sudden movement
to rise.

Mara almost screamed in her ecstasy, but she had sense
enough to hold her breath.

“Ho! see him now,” said Atkinson, lying back, and holding
his sides while he laughed, and rolled over; “you can
get off anything on that muff, — any hoax in the world, —
he 's so soft! Come, come, my dear boy, sit down. I was
only seeing how wide I could make you open those great
black eyes of your'n, — that 's all.”

“You 'd better take care how you joke with me,” said
Moses, with that look of gloomy determination which Mara
was quite familiar with of old. It was the rallying effort of
a boy who had abandoned the first outworks of virtue to
make a stand for the citadel. And Atkinson, like a prudent
besieger after a repulse, returned to lie on his arms.

He began talking volubly on other subjects, telling stories,
and singing songs, and pressing Moses to drink.

Mara was comforted to see that he declined drinking, —

that he looked gloomy and thoughtful, in spite of the jokes
of his companions; but she trembled to see, by the following
conversation, how Atkinson was skilfully and prudently
making apparent to Moses the extent to which he had him
in his power. He seemed to Mara like an ugly spider skilfully
weaving his web around a fly. She felt cold and faint;
but within her there was a heroic strength.

She was not going to faint; she would make herself bear
up. She was going to do something to get Moses out of
this snare, — but what? At last they rose.

“It is past three o'clock,” she heard one of them say.

“I say, Mo,” said Atkinson, “you must make tracks for
home, or you won't be in bed when Mother Pennel calls
you.”

The men all laughed at this joke as they turned to go on
board the schooner.

When they were gone, Moses threw himself down and hid
his face in his hands. He knew not what pitying little face
was looking down upon him from the hemlock shadows, —
what brave little heart was determined to save him. He
was in one of those great crises of agony that boys pass
through when they first awake from the fun and frolic of
unlawful enterprises to find themselves sold under sin, and
feel the terrible logic of evil which constrains them to pass
from the less to greater crime. He felt that he was in the
power of bad, unprincipled, heartless men, who, if he refused
to do their bidding, had the power to expose him. All he
had been doing would come out. His kind old foster-parents
would know it. Mara would know it. Mr. Sewell and Miss
Emily would know the secrets of his life that past month.
He felt as if they were all looking at him now. He had disgraced
himself, — had sunk below his education, — had been

false to all his better knowledge and the past expectations of
his friends, — living a mean, miserable, dishonorable life, —
and now the ground was fast sliding from under him, and the
next plunge might be down a precipice from which there
would be no return. What he had done up to this hour had
been done in the roystering, inconsiderate gamesomeness of
boyhood. It had been represented to himself only as “sowing
wild oats,” “having steep times,” “seeing a little of life,”
and so on; but this night he had had propositions of piracy
and robbery made to him, and he had not dared to knock
down the man that made them, — had not dared at once to
break away from his company. He must meet him again, —
must go on with him, or — he groaned in agony at the thought.

It was a strong indication of that repressed, considerate
habit of mind which love had wrought in the child, that
when Mara heard the boy's sobs rising in the stillness, she
did not, as she wished to, rush out and throw her arms
around his neck and try to comfort him.

But she felt instinctively that she must not do this. She
must not let him know that she had discovered his secret by
stealing after him thus in the night shadows. She knew how
nervously he had resented even the compassionate glances
she had cast upon him in his restless, turbid intervals during
the past few weeks, and the fierceness with which he had
replied to a few timid inquiries. No, — though her heart
was breaking for him, it was a shrewd, wise little heart, and
resolved not to spoil all by yielding to its first untaught impulses.
She repressed herself as the mother does who refrains
from crying out when she sees her unconscious little
one on the verge of a precipice.

When Moses rose and moodily began walking homeward,
she followed at a distance. She could now keep farther off,

for she knew the way through every part of the forest, and
she only wanted to keep within sound of his footsteps to
make sure that he was going home.

When he emerged from the forest into the open moonlight,
she sat down in its shadows and watched him as he walked
over the open distance between her and the house. He went
in; and then she waited a little longer for him to be quite
retired. She thought he would throw himself on the bed,
and then she could steal in after him. So she sat there quite
in the shadows.

The grand full moon was riding high and calm in the purple
sky, and Harpswell Bay on the one hand, and the wide,
open ocean on the other, lay all in a silver shimmer of light.
There was not a sound save the plash of the tide, now beginning
to go out, and rolling and rattling the pebbles up
and down as it came and went, and once in a while the distant,
mournful intoning of the whippoorwill. There were
silent, lonely ships, sailing slowly to and fro far out to sea,
turning their fair wings now into bright light and now into
shadow, as they moved over the glassy stillness. Mara
could see all the houses on Harpswell Neck and the white
church as clear as in the daylight. It seemed to her some
strange, unearthly dream.

As she sat there she thought over her whole little life, all
full of one thought, one purpose, one love, one prayer, for
this being so strangely given to her out of that silent sea,
which lay so like a still eternity around her, — and she revolved
again what meant the vision of her childhood. Did
it not mean that she was to watch over him and save him
from some dreadful danger? That poor mother was lying
now silent and peaceful under the turf in the little graveyard
not far off, and she must care for her boy.

A strong motherly feeling swelled out the girl's heart, —
she felt that she must, she would, somehow save that treasure
which had so mysteriously been committed to her.

So, when she thought she had given time enough for
Moses to be quietly asleep in his room, she arose and
ran with quick footsteps across the moonlit plain to the
house.

The front-door was standing wide open, as was always the
innocent fashion in these regions, with a half-angle of moonlight
and shadow lying within its dusky depths. Mara
listened a moment, — no sound: he had gone to bed then.
“Poor boy,” she said, “I hope he is asleep; how he must
feel! poor fellow. It 's all the fault of those dreadful men!”
said the little dark shadow to herself, as she stole up the
stairs past his room as guiltily as if she were the sinner.
Once the stairs creaked, and her heart was in her mouth,
but she gained her room and shut and bolted the door.

She kneeled down by her little white bed, and thanked
God that she had come in safe, and then prayed him to
teach her what to do next.

She felt chilly and shivering, and crept into bed, and lay
with her great soft brown eyes wide open, intently thinking
what she should do.

Should she tell her grandfather? Something instinctively
said No; that the first word from him which showed Moses
he was detected, would at once send him off with those
wicked men. “He would never, never bear to have this
known,” she said. Mr. Sewell? — ah, that was worse.
She herself shrank from letting him know what Moses had
been doing; she could not bear to lower him so much in his
eyes. He could not make allowances, she thought. He is
good to be sure, but he is so old and grave, and does n't

know how much Moses has been tempted by these dreadful
men; and then perhaps he would tell Miss Emily, and they
never would want Moses to come there any more.

“What shall I do?” she said to herself. “I must get
somebody to help me or tell me what to do. I can't tell
grandmamma; it would only make her ill, and she would n't
know what to do any more than I. Ah, I know what I will
do, — I 'll tell Captain Kittridge; he was always so kind to
me; and he has been to sea and seen all sorts of men, and
Moses won't care so much perhaps to have him know, because
the Captain is such a funny man, and don't take
everything so seriously. Yes, that 's it. I 'll go right
down to the cove in the morning. God will bring me
through, I know He will;” and the little weary head fell
back on the pillow asleep. And as she slept, a smile settled
over her face, perhaps a reflection from the face of her
good angel, who always beholdeth the face of our Father in
Heaven.