IN
SIXTEEN HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX
A TALE OF OLDEN TIMES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF DIVERS UNFINISHED MANUSCRIPTS,
Come,
listen to my story,
Tho’ often told before,
Of
men who passed to glory
Thro’
toil and travail sore;
Of
men who did for conscience’ sake,
Their
native land forego,
And
sought a home and freedom here,
Two
hundred years ago. FLINT.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR GEO. B. WHITTAKER,
AVE-MARIA LANE.
1825.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY COX AND BAYLIS, GREAT QUEEN STREET.
A
PEEP AT THE PILGRIMS.
CHAP. I.
What? Do I love her,
That I desire to hear her speak again,
And feast upon her eyes? SHAKESPEARE.
ON the following afternoon, Captain Standish was
obliged to leave home on business; and, having charged Alexander to entertain
Major Atherton till he returned, the lad proposed his favourite amusement of
fishing. They were soon launched upon the Bay; but, from whatever cause, the
fish proved shy, which, however, only stimulated the perseverance of Alexander,
who toiled manfully; and with much of his father’s ardour, applied himself to
the task as if his life depended on success.
Atherton was certainly less zealous;
his eyes continually reverted to the distant shores of the Gurnet,
and his thoughts were probably occupied by certain associations connected with
it; for his companion, while skilfully managing his own line, observed that his
kinsman’s remained long in the water, and only stirred by the dull motion of
the waves. When he finally drew it out the hook was without bait, and
Alexander, who had seen it glitter before it reached the surface, exclaimed,
“Upon my word, Major Atherton, that
fish had a dainty morsel from your hook, and he must have worked cautiously to
take it off without pricking his gills.”
“Really,” said Atherton, “there is
no sport for us to-day; I think the scaly race have all gone to bed in broad
sunshine.”
“Look, here are two notable fellows
I have caught,” returned Alexander, “and here comes another; no¾he has bit, and gone off with himself.”
“I should like to be off too,
Alexander, if it please you,” said Atherton; “there is really more toil than
pleasure in this tedious angling.”
“I will land you if you wish it,”
said Alexander, “and return here by myself; my father will laugh at us if we
carry home no more spoil.”
“Yonder is Plymouth,” said Atherton,
“if we can push in there I will pass an hour or two, and be ready to return
with you.”
In a few moments Major Atherton
stood on the Plymouth beach, and while deliberating what course to pursue, he
moved slowly on, and, as if unconscious what path his feet had chosen, started
at finding himself by the oak tree which shaded the dwelling of Mr. Grey. “I
will not call again to-day,” he thought, and passed leisurely on, though not
without a strict survey of the premises. No person was visible; and Miriam’s
kitten, which lay sunning herself on the doorstep, was the only animated object
in the vicinity. Retracing his steps, Atherton was soon again on the sea shore,
and not far from the Pilgrim’s rock, close to which the Virginia pinnace lay at anchor. Thin groves of trees were here and
there scattered along the shore, apparently the second growth of large forests,
which had undoubtedly once covered the plain where the village now stood, and
which, on the first arrival of the colony, presented the appearance of a level
field, though retaining vestiges of former cultivation, and bearing marks of
the rude implements with which the natives were accustomed to till their
ground, and prepare the ridges for their corn plantations. These appearances
confirmed the report of some friendly savages, that it had once been the site
of a flourishing Indian town, whose inhabitants were swept away by a contagious
malady, which had desolated the country from the Bay of Plymouth to the shores
of the Narraganset.
As Major Atherton was passing along
the skirts of a small wood, a faint rustling among the withered branches,
caused him to look round; and, at the same instant, the low humming of a sweet
female voice directed his attention to a spot, where, leaning carelessly
against a trunk of a tree, his eyes rested on the figure of Miriam Grey. She
evidently did not see him, and was busily arranging some gay autumnal flowers
and fresh evergreens into a bouquet, occasionally stopping to examine them with
minute attention, while her countenance expressed the pleasure derived from her
simple amusement. It is uncertain how long Atherton might have continued to
admire in silence the graceful negligence of her attitude, and listen to the
plaintive melody of her voice, if, in changing her position, a corresponding
motion on his part had not apprised her of his proximity. A vivid blush, which
dyed even her forehead with crimson, convinced Atherton that he was observed,
and her confusion was in a slight degree shared by himself. In the first start
of surprise, Miriam had dropped a part of her nosegay, and, to relieve his
embarrassment, at which he felt surprised, Atherton sprang forward, and raising
it from the ground, returned it to her; retaining, however, a sprig of
evergreen, which he gallantly placed in his own bosom, without receiving even a
reproving glance, unless a still deeper glow could be interpreted as one.
“I hope,” said Atherton, “I shall
not interrupt your employment, though I have sadly deranged the flowers which
you were assorting with so much taste.”
“It will only prolong my
occupation,” returned Miriam, “which, trifling as it is, has served to pass
away a few moments, while waiting for my cousin Lois, who has wandered away, I
know not whither. But perhaps you may have met with her?”
“I have not,” said Atherton,
“though, indeed, my walk has not been extended far from this spot, at least
since I caught the sound of your voice, which attracted me to it.”
“I was scarcely aware,” said Miriam,
“that my idle hum rose into an audible sound, or I should have been more
guarded in a place like this.”
“A place exposed to intruders, would
you say?” asked Atherton, smiling.¾“Believe me, my intrusion was unpremeditated; and I hope you will not
punish me by regretting that you charmed me awhile, though unconsciously, with
the delightful melody of your voice.”
“I should scarcely expect,” said
Miriam, “that our New-England music could have any charms for you, who have
been accustomed to the skilful harmony of your own country.”
“And yet,” replied Atherton, “no
music was ever so pleasant to my ear as the simple psalmody of your
congregation, which my mother used to sing, and delighted to teach me in my
childhood. It is long,” he added, after a brief pause, “since I listened to
those strains, which your voice recals to my memory,
like the charm of renewed happiness.”
“I fear it has also awakened
unpleasant remembrances,” said Miriam, who observed a shade of sadness pass
over his countenance.
“They are recollections of pure and
heartfelt happiness,” returned Atherton; “and though alloyed by many painful
hours which have since intervened, I would not for worlds obliterate them from
my memory.”
“But,” said Miriam, “would it not be
prudent to repel associations which have at least as much pain as pleasure
associated with them?”
“Not if you exclude music,” said
Atherton, “that is one of the last enjoyments I should be willing to sacrifice;
and never has my heart more deeply felt its influence, than when listening to
the melody of untutored voices in your assemblies, and by your
fire-sides.”
“We humble puritans,” said Miriam,
with arch gravity, “are a psalm-singing people; but our untaught harmony is
rarely honoured with the approbation of those who chaunt
to the sound of the organ in high places.”
“Their commendation,” returned
Atherton, “must at least be sincere and disinterested.”
“We regard it but as the incense of
a vain sacrifice,” replied Miriam, in the same tone; and then quickly resuming
her usual manner, she added, “but it will be night ere we reach home, if we
wait much longer for Lois. I know not but she may be already there, though she
left me only to go a short distance, and promised to return directly.”
“Shall I seek her, and tell her you
have been waiting long and impatiently?” asked Atherton, who feared his
presence embarrassed her, or might be considered improper in a place where
strictness of manners was carried to an extreme.
“I have not been very impatient,”
returned Miriam, “though were it not for giving you so much trouble¾¾”
“Do not speak of trouble,”
interrupted Atherton; “any thing which obliges you will give me pleasure. So
farewell, and in a few moments I hope to return successful.”
Atherton looked back more than once
as he pursued the way in the direction which Miriam pointed out, and saw her
still on the spot where he had left her, and again busied with her flowers,
until the windings of the path concealed her from his view. But though her
fingers were employed with the flowers, her thoughts seemed wandering to other
subjects; for she had plucked every blossom from its stem, and strewed the
ground with their leaves; and when only a single stalk remained in her hand,
she looked at it in surprise, and exclaimed audibly,¾
“My beautiful flowers! what have I
done to them?”
“And may I ask, fair Miriam,” said a
voice behind her, “what subject of contemplation has so entirely absorbed your
mind?”
Miriam started, and turning round,
saw Mr. Calvert by her side, and with perfect calmness, she replied¾
“It would be difficult to answer
your question, sir; I am myself scarcely conscious what ideas engrossed me at
the moment you appeared.”
“Perhaps,” said Calvert, in a tone
of irony very usual with him, “perhaps you were admiring the beauties of
nature, or drawing moral reflections from the fall of the autumnal leaf.”
“No,” said Miriam, pointing to the
scattered flowers, “I was destroying the beauties of nature, instead of admiring
them; and my reflections were certainly less melancholy than the season and
this place are calculated to excite.”
“And what is there of melancholy
connected with this place?” asked Calvert; “just now it seemed to me a scene of
happiness which almost excited my envy.”
Miriam, without noticing his last
remark, pointed to a level bank, which arose abruptly from the ocean directly
at their feet; it appeared to have been once cultivated, but was then covered
with coarse grass, and a few stinted evergreens.
“This,” she said, “is the
burial-place where our poor colony, during the dreadful winter which succeeded
their arrival, were obliged to consign more than half their number who fell
victims to the distress and fatigue of their situation. Many an honoured and
virtuous head reposes here, who, while their memory is fading away on earth,
are doubtless receiving a bright reward for their sufferings and pious labours
where there are no more trials, nor any change.”
“But I see no graves,” said Calvert;
“not even a single stone to mark it as a place of interment.”
“No,” returned Miriam; “for so much
were we reduced by sickness and death, that it was thought expedient to level
the ground and plant it, lest the natives should discover our weakness, and
take advantage of it when we were unable to resist them. But the spot is no
less sacred in our eyes than if marked by the most stately monuments of
marble.”
“In a few years,” said Calvert, “all
will be forgotten; and even now the living have ceased to mourn for those who
lie here.”
“They are no longer mourned,” said
Miriam; “but their untimely fate cannot be remembered without feelings of
tenderness and regret; particularly by those who shared their dangers, and were
mercifully spared to longer and happier days.”
“You have imbibed these feelings,”
said Calvert, “from the gloomy traditions of the good people around you; you
were then an infant, and incapable of realizing dangers or misfortunes.”
“True,” said Miriam; “yet every
affecting incident is impressed upon my mind as strongly as if I had then been
mature in age and reason; and I should think even a stranger would feel a touch
of interest and sympathy in such calamities.”
“They do,” said Calvert, “and none
more deeply than myself, in all which concerns the colony, in all that
interests you, Miriam; but pardon me, if I say this cloud of sadness is less
suited to your countenance than the smiles which usually adorn it.”
“Your trifling is ill-timed, sir,”
replied Miriam, “and we will drop a subject which seems to have wearied you.
Now, that I have answered all your questions, may I be permitted to inquire
what accident has brought you hither so unexpectedly?”
“Accident,” said Calvert, “has often
fortunately conducted me to you.”
“Yesterday, for instance,” interrupted
Miriam, “when your high-mettled steed came so
suddenly upon us, to the great alarm of my palfrey, and the imminent hazard of
our necks.”
“Yes, yesterday,” continued Calvert,
“but to-day my intrusion is entirely voluntary; and I confess I was drawn here
by a spell which my heart is unable to resist.”
“A spell!” said Miriam with
simplicity: “really, Mr. Calvert, I do not understand you.”
“Then you must be the only one who
is ignorant of the witchery of your charms,” said Calvert.
“Have you witches in Virginia, sir?”
asked Miriam, gravely; “you seem familiar with such beings, but they have not
yet disturbed the peace of our colony.”
Calvert looked at her in some
perplexity, to discover if the grave simplicity of her manner was real or
affected; but before his doubts were satisfied, she added,¾
“Perhaps I am indebted to their
counsel for the favour of this interview.”
“No,” replied Calvert, “I have long
regarded you from my pinnace yonder, and only waited
till you should be left alone before I joined you.”
“Indeed!” said Miriam; “I was not
aware of being a subject of observation; but had you reached this place a few
moments sooner, you would have conferred on Major Atherton, as well as myself,
the pleasure of your society.”
“That,” said Calvert, “can be
desired by neither of us; and what I would say to you Miriam, can concern
yourself alone, least of all the person whom you have mentioned.”
“I must beg you to be brief then,”
said Miriam; “for I momently expect his return, as he
left me but to seek my cousin, and methinks I even now hear their footsteps.”
As she spoke she turned from him
with the air of one who listens attentively; and Calvert, with ill-concealed
impatience and vexation, retreated from her a few paces in silence. But as no
one appeared he presently returned, and looking at her attentively, asked,¾
“How is it that a stranger like
Major Atherton has excited so much interest in this place, where, till within a
few weeks, his very name was unknown?”
“Like all other strangers of fair and
honourable character,” said Miriam, “ he has claims upon our hospitality which
it is our duty to discharge.”
“And what evidence have you,” asked
Calvert, “that this character belongs to Major Atherton?”
“All that we can have of a
foreigner,” said Miriam,¾“the evidence of those friends whose letters commended him to our
favour: and his good conduct since he has been with us has gained him the
esteem of many, who are not used to bestow it lightly and without cause.”
“Not to mention his heroic attempt
to save your life,” returned Calvert, “which has doubtless obtained your
individual regard.”
Miriam was about to reply when they
heard the sound of approaching voices; and immediately Lois Grey with Henry
Weldon and Atherton, emerged from the grove of trees, directly against them.
Major Atherton, who was speaking with animation, stopped abruptly when he saw
Calvert conversing alone with Miriam; and the idea that she had perhaps wished
his absence to receive the visit of another, excited feelings which he could
with difficulty repress. Calvert marked the variations of his countenance,
which he considered a confirmation of suspicions he had before entertained; nor
did he fail to meet the deep blush of Miriam, excited by the apprehension that
her situation might be misunderstood by one whose good opinion she felt
unwilling to forfeit. Shaking off her confusion, as much as possible, however,
she advanced to meet them, and, taking her cousin’s arm, said to her,¾
“I have been long expecting you,
Lois; but the delay is sufficiently explained, since I find you have not been
indulging a solitary ramble.”
“No,” said Lois, “I chanced to meet
Mr. Weldon, and, ¾”
“And you walked on,” interrupted
Miriam, “quite forgetful of your promise and my lonely state.”
“I will not trouble you with an
explanation,” returned Lois, “as you have probably been so agreeably engaged
that my absence was scarcely regretted.”
“Well,” said Miriam, “we must now
hasten, for it is already past the time when we promised my father to be at
home.”
They shortly regained the highway,
where Atherton separated from the party, though urged by Lois Grey to return
with them, pleading, as his excuse, that Alexander Standish would be waiting
for him. Alexander, however, was not on the beach, nor was his boat visible on
the water; and Atherton, concluding he had returned without him, determined to
walk back to Captain Standish’s, which, as he chanced to be in a musing mood,
was by no means a disagreeable alternative.
It was then nearly dark, and
Atherton was passing hastily along, when he met Mr. Calvert just issuing from
the gate at Mr. Grey’s. Calvert looked at him in surprise.
“I thought, sir,” he said, “you were
long since comfortably seated in the Captain’s warm-quarters; you will be late
if you have all that distance to go to-night.”
“That is of little consequence,”
replied Atherton, “the path is as familiar to me by night as in the noon-day.”
“But you have taken the longest
way,” pursued Calvert; “this road is leading you far round from the direct route.”
“It is a matter of choice,” returned
Atherton: “and I presume I am at liberty to take whichever suits my convenience
or pleasure.”
“Certainly,” said Calvert, “and I am
myself too sensible of the peculiar attractions of this, to be surprised at
your preference.”
Calvert spoke in a sarcastic tone,
which was calculated to irritate the feelings of Atherton; but he prudently
refrained from answering, and coldly bidding him good night, pursued his
solitary way.
Captain Standish had been expecting
the return of Major Atherton with some impatience; and when he at last heard
him enter the house, he knocked the ashes from his pipe and called loudly to
bid Mistress Saveall put the supper on the table
instantly.
But Mistress Saveall’s
shrill voice answered from her dominions, that “it took time for all things;
and Master Alexander’s fish could not be fried in a minute.”
“They have been at home a good hour,
or more,” said the Captain; “and less time than that might suffice to make them
as brown as a hazle-nut.”
“Yes,” replied the dame; “and as
cold as a stone, withal; and then who but me would be blamed when they were
served up, and not fit to eat?”
“Use your hands, Mistress, instead
of your tongue, and it please you,” said the Captain; “these women can do nothing
without prating like magpies all the time about it.”
He pushed the door, not very gently,
as he concluded: and the reply of the
housekeeper, who,
with the becoming spirit of her sex, seemed resolved to give the last word, was
lost to the ear of Atherton, who had been entertained by the rest of the
domestic dialogue; from which he inferred, that his prolonged absence had been
displeasing to all parties.
But the Captain’s good humour
returned the moment his kinsman entered the room; and rising from his
elbow-chair, he said, gaily,¾
“Well, Edward, you are really taken
with a roving spirit; but if you play the truant often, I fear good Mistress Saveall’s small stock of patience will be quite exhausted.”
“Perhaps,” said Atherton,
“occasional exercise may strengthen that valuable property; and I think, sir,
you would have reason to thank me for any improvement of the kind.”
“Why, yes,” returned the Captain;
“but to tell the truth, I am not over anxious to have my own patience put to
the test very often. I fear it would not come forth, like gold from the
furnace, purified by the trial.”
“I believe the virtue is not apt to
flourish well in our profession,” returned Atherton. “But I have not yet
explained the cause of my absence, which, I am sorry to believe, has kept you
so long waiting for me.”
“No matter,” replied the Captain;
“it has given us better appetites, and we can talk over the matter while eating
our supper.”
“Here comes Alexander,” said
Atherton; “and now I may hope to know if he forgot his promise to stop for me
at the beach.”
“No,” said Alexander, “I waited for
you till almost sunset, and then I met Hobamock, who
told me he saw you in the woods with Miriam Grey; so I thought you would go
home with her, and it was of no use to stay longer.”
“I chanced to meet her, in walking,
as I was about to inform you, Captain,” said Atherton, carelessly, “and her
cousin Lois, with Mr. Weldon and Calvert.”
“But Hobamock
told me you were alone with Miriam,” returned Alexander; “and shall I tell you,
Major, something more that he said about you?”
“No,” said Atherton, quickly; “Hobamock’s eyes are waxing dim, I fancy; and he must have
mistaken the rest of our party for pine stumps, or savin
trees.”
“Hobamock’s
eyes are sharp enough,” said the Captain; “but you say Mr. Calvert was there? I
think that young gallant will find himself mistaken if he hopes to carry away
our rose-bud from New-England.”
“Women are said to be fond of
novelty and variety,” said Atherton; “and perhaps she may prefer the warmer and
brighter climate of Virginia.”
“No; no such thing,” returned the
Captain; “besides, Calvert is a churchman, and her father would almost as soon
see her married to the Pope of Rome, if his Holiness might be permitted to take
unto himself a lawful wife.”
Major Atherton paused till he had
twice measured the room with his steps; but willing to learn more of the
Captain’s opinion on that subject, he at length said,¾
“Calvert is insinuating in his
manners and address, and may overcome the scruples of Miriam, if not her
father’s; it is hardly possible that Mr. Grey would withhold his consent if the
happiness of his only child were concerned.”
“Now, Edward Atherton,” said the
Captain, smiling, “I perceive you judge of us from your own good mother, who
was all mildness and charity; she was a Puritan, too; but we, true
Nonconformists, Separatists, Independents, or, as godly Mr. Cotton of the
Massachusetts has, at last, styled us, Congregationalists, hold it a sin to
enter into a covenant with you heretics and idolaters; and believe me, even
Miriam Grey herself would rather marry that prosing, preaching Benjamin Ashly, than to choose from among the best of you.”
“Really, sir,” said Atherton, almost
indignantly, “you would give us an exalted idea of Miriam Grey’s taste and
discernment.”
“Not so,” said the Captain; “but it
is a part of her creed; and she would think it rebelling against the light of
conscience, to err one jot or tittle from that. I do
not think, though, that the girl has any fancy for Master Ashly,
unless it may be to indulge her merry humour in laughing at him now and then;
for she hath a light heart; ay, and as innocent too, as the smile on her rosy
lips. But here is a savoury smell of supper, and I think we may all do
tolerable justice to it to-night.”
“I can answer for myself,” said
Atherton, “that it was never more welcome; a long walk certainly promotes the
appetite wonderfully.”
“A long walk and a long fast,”
returned the Captain; “so now for a vigorous onset.” And, drawing their chairs
around the table, Mistress Saveall’s choice dishes
and good cookery, soon diverted the conversation to more epicurean topics.
But the interesting subject which
had previously engaged them was still predominant in the mind of Atherton, and
followed him even to the retirement of his own apartment. The incipient
predilection which he had imbibed for Miriam Grey, was heightened by a renewed
opportunity of seeing and conversing with her; and the undisguised admiration
of Calvert, which seemed to set every competitor at defiance, only stimulated
his interest. While both pride and affection shrunk from the idea of yielding
to his claims, or being superseded by his superior address, his heart became
insensibly animated with the hope of success, and every obstacle served only to
increase the ardour of his pursuit. The religious prejudices of her father, and
perhaps her own, Atherton considered but too lightly; and, in spite of all that
Captain Standish had said, with the sophistry of love he persuaded himself
that, could he win her affections, it would be easy to remove every doubt and
difficulty from her mind. He remembered the happy union of his parents, which
their difference of faith had never, for an instant, interrupted; and the
slight barrier of a creed appeared to him too vain to excite any serious
uneasiness. His imagination glowing with enchanting hopes and visions of
happiness, he resigned himself to repose, and in sleep pursued the airy dreams
which had occupied his waking thoughts.
The next day and the next passed
away, and Major Atherton was prevented by a variety of circumstances from
revisiting Plymouth; but on the afternoon of the third, which was Sunday, he
recollected to have been particularly edified by the preaching of Mr. Reynal, and expressed to the Captain a wish to hear him
again.
“Just as you please, cousin
Atherton,” said the Captain. “Mr. Reynal is a sound
and orthodox divine; and perhaps his wholesome doctrine may help to settle your
doubts, if you have any, and lead you into the right way. But I hope, before
long, we shall have a worthy minister of our own; it is now four years since we
separated from the church of Plymouth, and in all that time we have had only
the prophesyings and exhortations of the gifted
brethren, for our public teaching.”
Atherton declined the Captain’s
offer of his best horse, which he would fain have pressed into his service; and
having become well accustomed to the way, he walked on at a brisk pace, and
reached the place of his destination just as the people were assembling for the
afternoon service. As he mingled with the congregation who were ascending the
hill leading to the place of worship, he observed Mr. Calvert at a short
distance, apparently endeavouring to overtake him. Atherton did not wish to
avoid him; he therefore slackened his pace, and in a moment was joined by
Calvert.
“Really, Major Atherton,” said
Calvert, “you must be marvellously fond of exercise to walk hither so very
often.”
“And you,” returned Atherton, “seem
equally averse to it; Captain Standish was only yesterday remarking on your
long absence from his house.”
“I have business and other affairs
which engage my time,” said Calvert, carelessly; “but pray tell me, Major
Atherton, if you have turned puritan in good earnest?”
“Why do you ask me that question,
sir? I have never avowed any deviation from the principles in which I was
educated.”
“And being educated by parents of different
persuasions,” replied Calvert, “you were probably instructed in the faith of
both, and feel at liberty to adopt whichever shall suit your inclination; at
present you seem much inclined to favour the religion of this land.”
“I have ever followed the faith
which my father professed,” said Atherton, “though I am not so bigotted as to absent myself from the worship of those who
differ from me.”
“It is a good rule,” returned
Calvert with a smile of peculiar meaning, “to conform in matters of such
trifling importance, and doubtless very politic in certain cases.”
“I do not perfectly comprehend you,
sir,” replied Atherton; “and if it is not too much trouble, must beg you to
explain.”
“Oh, I dislike explanations above
all things,” said Calvert; “but now be candid, Major, and tell me if you really
came eight miles to hear good Mr. Reynal’s long
sermon, or to catch a stray beam from certain bright eyes, which may chance to
wander this way?”
“Probably, sir, you judge of my
motives from your own feelings and wishes,” said Atherton, colouring highly.
“Very likely,” returned Calvert,
coolly; “and I know of no more rational way of judging of what lies beyond our
observation.”
“In that case,” said Atherton, “I
should choose to know that my judge was a man of correct and honourable
feelings.”
“Certainly,” replied Calvert; “and
of course you will not dispute my pretensions to the office, though I never set
myself up for a miracle of goodness, as some officers in our regiment did:
there was Captain R¾, for instance, not to mention one or two others.”
“I believe you were never accused of
raising your standard of perfection too highly,” said Atherton.
“No, I hate canting, and never try
to pass for better than I am,” said Calvert, pointedly; “except,” he added, “in
cases of necessity: for instance, here we are at the entrance of the
tabernacle, and must strive to look as demure as possible; for it is as much
the fashion to wear long faces in a puritan meetinghouse as it is to practice
smiles and bows at court.”
As he finished speaking, they both
entered the house, and accepted of seats which were civilly offered them near
the door. A moment after Mr. Grey and his family came in, and passed on to
their usual places. This circumstance seemed unnoticed by Calvert, till the
eagerness with which the eyes of Atherton pursued them, excited a transient
smile; and during the remainder of the services, his countenance was marked by
a gravity which might have passed for the expression of a serious and devout
mind. As soon as the congregation was dismissed, he took the arm of Atherton,
who was disposed to linger behind, and walked to the bottom of the hill with
him, where they stopped by mutual, though tacit consent.
“May I ask what direction you are
about to take?” said Mr. Calvert.
“Home, that is to Captain
Standish’s,” replied Atherton; “and if you are disposed to return with me, I
will promise you a welcome reception from my host.”
“Another time I will try it,” said
Calvert; “but now I am going to our friend Mr. Grey’s, and will make you the
tempting offer to accompany me; now do not say you have no wish to go there.”
“I shall not,” returned Atherton;
“on the contrary, it would give me pleasure, but they are accustomed to keep
this day so sacred, that the visit of a stranger might not be acceptable.”
“As you please,” said Calvert, “but
I have never been received otherwise than graciously at any time.”
“If,” said Atherton, “you can suit
your conversation to circumstances, as well as you have your countenance this
afternoon, I am not surprised at their forbearance.”
“Far better,” replied Calvert. “I
discourse of theology with the father, and settle all controverted
points to his full satisfaction; and sing psalms with the daughter and niece,
till they believe me on the point of abjuring the mother church, with all her pomps and ceremonies; and if they don’t end by begging me
to crop my hair, and round off my ears, I shall be satisfied.”
“And that is not trying to appear
better than you are, is it?” asked Atherton.
“Not better, only a little
different,” said Calvert; “besides, you forget my saving clause, and this is a
case of necessity. But hush! they are close by us, even now.”
Atherton looked round, and saw
Miriam and Lois Grey, almost at his side; but they were busily engaged in
conversation, and did not observe them, till Miriam accidentally dropping her
handkerchief, Atherton and Calvert, at the same instant stooped to raise it
from the ground. The latter gained the prize, and Miriam received it from his
hand with a smile; though Atherton fancied a still brighter one animated her
features, as she returned his salutation; and the idea lessened the
mortification of his defeat, and the reluctance he felt to part from her.
Calvert bade him farewell with an air of triumph which seemed to say, “I have
the advantage over you;” and Atherton, conquering a strong inclination to join
them, turned into another direction, and was soon in the well-known path which
led to the residence of Captain Standish.
CHAP. II.
Ce que je ressens
pour vous,
L’amour meme n’a rien si tendre,
Ni l’amitie de si doux.
Loin
de vous, mon coeur soupire,
Pres de vous, je suis interdit;
Voila
ce que j’ai
a vous dire,
Helas! peut-etre, ai je
trop dit!”
ON the ensuing week Major Atherton
was an almost daily visitant at the house of Mr. Grey. Every morning he found
some excuse for going to Plymouth; and Captain Standish, who was at that time
particularly occupied with some affairs of his own, was pleased to hear of his
kinsman’s frequent engagements at the Governor’s or Mr. Bradford’s; though not
always aware that these engagements were concluded in the society of Miriam
Grey. He was received by every member of the family with the utmost cordiality;
and the eloquent blushes of Miriam, the engaging confidence and graceful
timidity which alternately marked her manner towards him, encouraged his hopes,
and increased the attachment he cherished for her; which became deeper and
stronger, as every interview disclosed to him some new charm in her mind and
character. There was, also, enough of variety, uncertainty and doubt, to create
perplexity and induce him to conceal his sentiments, till more fully convinced
that they would meet with a favourable reception.
The conduct of Mr. Calvert was well
calculated to render Atherton mistrustful of Miriam’s affection; he was
continually near her; and Atherton often sighed, as he observed her, with
apparent pleasure, enter into conversation with him, and listen to his
descriptions of foreign countries and the adventures of other days, which he
had always at command, and possessed the pleasing art of relating with a spirit
and humour that could not fail to amuse.
Atherton, like other lovers, was
ingenious in tormenting himself with visionary fears, and too little skilled in
the female heart, to detect the subtle evasions to which it has recourse to
conceal an acknowledged prepossession: his hopes were constantly fluctuating;
and, often depressed by circumstances, from which, with more experience, he
would have drawn the most flattering inferences. Calvert always assumed the
aspect of a favoured lover: conscious of his advantages, he seemed secure of
conquest; or, if at any time uncertain, he artfully concealed it, and wore an
air of presumption, from which the more delicate and honourable mind of
Atherton revolted. He was evidently no stranger to the views and feelings of
his rival; but he appeared totally to disregard them, and resolved not to admit
the possibility that he could become a successful candidate for the favour of
his mistress. His manners were frank and careless; but Atherton, as his visits
became more frequent, remarked an occasional caprice and coldness: he also
fancied that Mr. Grey began to regard the attentions which both himself and
Calvert directed to his daughter with a suspicious eye. He had no wish to conceal
his sentiments, and only waited for a favourable opportunity to disclose them,
both to Miriam and her father.
Atherton called at the house one
evening, and was not displeased, on entering the parlour, to find it occupied
by Miriam alone. She was carelessly reclining in a huge elbow chair, with her
eyes fixed on the blazing fire, which glanced brightly on her figure and
countenance, and revealed an expression of unusual pensiveness. Without raising
her eyes as he entered, she continued to hum the air of a tune which Atherton
had himself taught her, and of which he was particularly fond, because it had
been a favourite with his mother. It was a beautiful sacred melody, that even
Mr. Grey approved, and though the flageolet, on which Atherton played with
uncommon skill, was not of puritanical invention, he had frequently listened
with pleasure as its soft melody mingled with the sweet and rich tones of his
daughter’s voice.
Miriam, however, perceived Atherton
even sooner than he wished; and, hastily rising, she offered him a seat,
saying, with a smile,¾
“Excuse my inattention, sir, but I
thought it was Lois who entered.”
“And you, I hope,” said Atherton,
“will forgive my interrupting the reverie which you seemed to be enjoying.”
“The interruption is quite
fortunate,” returned Miriam, “for I was at that moment attempting your
favourite air, and need your assistance to go through with it. I fear my ear
must be growing dull, for I never made so much discord in a simple tune.”
“Mine must be dull, indeed, if you
did,” said Atherton, “for I was admiring the ease and correctness with which
you sung it. But you must allow me to hear you again, in order to judge which
of us is mistaken.”
“If you will accompany me,” replied
Miriam; “ and, in the mean time, some lights will look more cheerful than this
fitful blaze.”
“They will spoil this pleasant
twilight, which is the most delightful season of the day,” said Atherton.
He took the flageolet from his
pocket as he spoke, and Miriam, who had nearly reached the door, returned, and,
after stirring the fire into a brighter glow, commenced the song, which she
executed without a single false note; though the sound of the instrument often
died away, as Atherton, in listening to her, seemed fearful that the softest breath
might interrupt the harmony which she created.
Major Atherton was at all times
strongly alive to the charms of music, but the voice of Miriam Grey had
acquired an influence over his feelings at which he was often surprised, yet
seldom endeavoured to resist. As soon as she had finished he rose abruptly from
his chair, and for several moments paced the room in silence. Miriam, perplexed
at his conduct, regarded him almost with alarm; but she at length ventured to
say, in a timid accent,¾
“I fear I have done wrong, Major
Atherton, and again unfortunately awakened some painful remembrances.”
Atherton suddenly stopped, and
advancing towards her, took her hand, and looking earnestly in her face,
replied,¾
“You
do wrong, Miriam? you awaken
painful remembrance? No; believe me; when with you,
the past is forgotten, and my presumptuous hopes dare to image scenes of future
happiness, which your smiles have encouraged, and your lips alone can
sanction.”
Miriam, in silent confusion, averted
her blushing face from his ardent gaze; but, as he eagerly watched the
variations of her countenance, the brilliant glow faded into a deadly paleness,
and with a look of alarm, she hastily withdrew her hand, which he still
retained within his own. Atherton followed the direction of her eyes, and, with
a start of surprise, beheld Mr. Grey, who had entered unperceived, standing
with folded arms, and regarding them with severe and fixed attention. Atherton
instantly recovered his self-possession, and, with the calmness of conscious
integrity, awaited the expected reproof. But Mr. Grey, after the first
scrutiny, resumed his usual gravity, and, taking a chair, he coolly said¾
“I would not interrupt you, Major
Atherton; you would doubtless say nothing to my daughter which may not reach my
ear also.”
“By no means, sir,” returned
Atherton; “and I have long wished for an opportunity to explain myself on a
subject which nearly concerns my happiness.”
“It is a subject to which I may not
listen,” said Mr. Grey. “Young man,” he added, emphatically, “you have gained
my esteem, and I owe you a debt of gratitude which can never be cancelled; yet
my religion and my principles are more precious unto me than the gratification
of any worldly feelings, the enjoyment of any temporal pleasure, even than the
earthly happiness of my child. Deceive not yourself, therefore, with the vain
belief, that I shall sacrifice my duty to the idle wishes of an indiscreet and
youthful passion.”
Mr. Grey spoke with mildness, but in
a tone of decision, which chilled the ardent hopes of Atherton, who was about
to answer, and plead his suit with the earnestness of passionate feeling, when
a glance of intreaty from Miriam checked his
utterance; and the entrance of Lois Grey, at the same moment, determined him to
defer the conversation till a more fitting time. He was, however, too much
disturbed to enter into general discourse, and soon after took his leave,
depressed in spirits by his unexpected repulse, though still resolved to bear
up against all difficulties, and if possible to overcome them.
Mr. Grey, after the departure of
Atherton, remained a few moments absorbed by his own reflections; and then
seating himself by his daughter’s side, he fixed his eyes upon her as if
searching her inmost thoughts.
“Why do you look at me so earnestly,
sir?” asked Miriam, endeavouring to shake off the embarrassment which his
manner, combined with recent circumstances, had caused.
“I have ever been accustomed,
Miriam,” he replied, “to read in your countenance the feelings of your heart; I
would learn, if I may still rely on it, and expect your confidence.”
“Can you doubt it?” said Miriam;
“till I have once deceived you, father, you cannot, ought not, to suspect me.”
“I do not, my child.¾Major Atherton too is candid, and he has not sought to disguise his
sentiments, which were apparent to me, even before the events of this day.”
“Dear father!” said Miriam, deeply
blushing, “you mistake;¾he has not, he
only¾¾”
“I will spare your blushes, Miriam,”
interrupted Mr. Grey. “It is not my intention to question you concerning what
he said; though had I not unexpectedly heard his words, the confusion which my
presence excited could not be mistaken.”
“You regard the subject too
seriously, sir. I beg it may not occasion you one moment of anxiety.”
“Did it concern you less deeply,
Miriam, it would not; but the dread that your affections may become engaged to
one with whom you can have no connection, has already given me much
uneasiness.”
“I trust my inclination will never
render me forgetful of my duty,” said Miriam; but less firmly than she had
before spoken.
“Most fervently do I hope so,”
returned Mr. Grey, again regarding her with attention; “and I place much
confidence, Miriam, in the strength and rectitude of your principles.”
“I do not think they will be tried
very severely in this instance,” said Miriam, smiling.
“Take heed lest you fall into a
snare through presumption and vain self-confidence, Miriam,” said her father.
“I have forewarned you of the danger, and it remains with you to avoid or
overcome it.”
“I know not how to avoid it,” said
Miriam, gravely; “but it is written, ‘resist the devil, and he will flee from
you;’ and I think, father, Major Atherton cannot prove more irresistible than
he.”
“If you rely on your own strength
alone, Miriam, you may find, too late, that you have ‘leaned on a broken
reed.’”
“Dear father!” said Miriam, archly,
“do you think Major Atherton so very attractive, that I cannot see him without
danger of admiring him, more than you approve?”
“You know that I regard him highly,
Miriam; and, in his outward conduct, since he has sojourned amongst us, have
seen much to commend; but had there been less, I would not withhold my
gratitude from the preserver of my child.”
“And has not that entitled him to my
esteem and gratitude, likewise?” asked Miriam with emotion.
“Most assuredly it has,” said Mr.
Grey; “nevertheless, Miriam, we do endanger our faith by holding familiar
intercourse with the zealots of a perverse and antichristian church; with whom
we are commanded to have no fellowship, but rather to reprove them; except, as
the apostle doubtless meant, so far as the laws of hospitality and courtesy
shall require.”
“But, sir, we know that Major
Atherton has been taught to respect our opinions, and even imbibed from his
mother a prejudice in their favour; and at all times he has cheerfully
conformed to our customs, and devoutly joined in our worship.”
“We can place no dependence, my
child, on an outward conformity, without some evidence of a willing spirit, and
this external reverence is most likely to mislead your inexperience, and
conceal the real danger.”
“Dear father!” said Miriam,
earnestly, “you shall find I am not so very weak and irresolute, but that,
though only a timid girl, I possess some portion of the resolution which
enabled you to endure and overcome so much for the establishment of that pure
religion which you have taught me, by precept and example, to prize so highly.
No,” she added with a blush; “even should your fears be realized, I could never
become an apostate from the faith which I have received from you.”
“Continue to value it more dearly
than your life,” said Mr. Grey; “and never, for an instant, place it in
competition with any earthly passion. However firm, however sincere, you may
now feel yourself to be, believe me there would be no security for your
principles if the sophistry of love were united with the perverse, but
plausible arguments which the sons of prelacy can so well command and urge for
their subversion.”
“And do you believe, father, that
the truth can so readily yield to error and falsehood?”
“Women are born to submit,” returned
Mr. Grey, “and, as the weaker vessel, it is meet they should be guided by those
who have rule over them. I well know how easily they become converts to such as
they regard with affection. Your mother, Miriam, was wandering in the mazes of
error when I first beheld her; and though Providence was pleased to give me
favour in her eyes, and to make me the instrument of plucking her, as a brand from
the burning, yet, but for the love which she bore me, she would probably have
lived and died in the bosom of an idolatrous church.”
“You were armed with the weapons of
truth,” said Miriam, “and she could not resist their force; but you will not,
father, deny the influence of our sex. If the entreaties of Dalilah
could subdue Samson, how much more powerful must be the arguments of religion
from the lips of a virtuous woman? Even the apostle saith,
‘The believing wife shall sanctify the unbelieving husband.’”
“It may have been so, my daughter;
but the same apostle also saith, ‘Be ye not yoked
together with unbelievers;’ which is but to provoke the displeasure of Heaven,
and incur its judgments, as did the children of Israel, when they took them
wives from the daughters of the land.”
“Yet, father, did not Moses marry an
Ethiopian woman? and was not Miriam the prophetess reproved, and smitten with
leprosy, because she spake evil against it?”
“That cannot be an ensample to us,”
said Mr. Grey, “to whom the Lord doth not, as unto his servant Moses, speak
face to face; and though your temporal happiness is most dear to me, Miriam,
never could I consent to promote it by permitting your union with one, who
might endanger your eternal interests by leading you to trust in baseless
ceremonies, and to bow down to the graven images of Episcopacy.”
“Fear not for me, father,” said
Miriam, “I have at present no wish to change my situation; and if ever I shall
be induced to quit you, it must be with your free consent, your full and
decided approbation.”
“I fully trust your word, Miriam;
yet I wish not, like unhappy Jephtha, to bind my
daughter to a state of celibacy. I would rather urge you to increase your
usefulness by a worthy choice, and like a true ‘mother in Israel,’ faithfully
discharge the duties of your sex and station; that before my eyes are closed I
may have the satisfaction of seeing my descendants rising up to honour, and
advance those civil and religious institutions, of which we, ‘through much
tribulation,’ have laid the ‘foundation stone.’”
Miriam made no reply; and after a few moments of
unbroken silence, Mr. Grey resumed the discourse.
“I feel my heart eased of a heavy burthen by this conversation with
you, Miriam: and in the strengthened conviction that you have sufficient
discretion and virtue to direct you, I shall commence my voyage with more
resolution, and feel the pain of parting from you less severe.”
“If I could be permitted to go with you!” said Miriam; “indeed,
father, I cannot reconcile myself to the thought of a separation; but I can
submit to any thing if you will only take me with you.”
“It is impossible,” said Mr. Grey:
“the difficulties of the voyage, the persecutions which still await our devoted
sect,¾every
thing forbids it. You must remain here, Miriam, and strive not to indulge any
anxious thoughts or repining wishes.”
“But so many long months must pass
away before you will return, father! and till now you have never gone from me
scarcely for one short week.”
“The time will fly swiftly, my
child, though it seems long in looking forward; and with your cousin Lois, who
has ever been dear as a sister to you, it cannot pass unhappily. I feel
comforted in leaving you with her; she is older and more experienced than
yourself, and fully competent to advise you in every circumstance and
situation.”
“But Lois will soon have other
claims on her affection,” said Miriam; “and I begin already to fear that Mr.
Weldon will engross more than his share.”
“You need have no fear on that
subject, Miriam,” said Lois, who had hitherto remained silent. “I think my
heart is large enough to contain more than one object of affection.”
“But there is one whom I need not
name, Miriam,” said Mr. Grey with some hesitation, “whose heart has long been
bound to you; and I would fain see you disposed to reward his faithful love
with the favour it has merited.”
“Indeed, father,” said Miriam, “I
would be contented with the smallest corner of Lois’s heart, rather than
possess the whole of his.”
“You always speak lightly on this
subject, Miriam; yet you know it is one which I have long regarded with
satisfaction; and I do still hope that you will not always remain wilfully
blind to the excellent qualities of Master Ashly.”
“Now do not call me a stubborn girl,
father; but in truth I cannot value his goodness as it deserves; and it would
be unjust for me to snatch the prize from some maiden more enamoured of his
worth.”
“Bring forth your ‘strong reasons,’
Miriam, and tell me what you particularly object to in him.”
“Nothing in particular, but every thing in general. Forgive me, father, but he has
really no one quality which I should call agreeable.”
“And is piety and sincerity
nothing?” asked Mr. Grey; “are integrity and uprightness of character so very
disagreeable?”
“No, indeed, father; but I would
choose a companion who has a lighter heart, and less solemn countenance, to
lead me through the journey of life. I fear I should tire of virtue itself, if
always before my eyes in so ungentle a form. Master Ashly
is so image-like withal, that, though in no danger of worshipping him, I might
possibly commit the sin of converting him into a laughing-stock.”
“You cannot object to his person,
Miriam,” said Mr. Grey, with an air of displeasure; “the youth is
well-favoured, and tall and comely as a cedar of Lebanon.”
“Yes, quite tall enough,” returned
Miriam; “and, as Captain Standish once said, as stiff as the ramrod of his
musket. Cousin Lois,” continued the laughing damsel, “did it ever strike you
that Mistress Rebecca Spindle would make a suitable helpmate for him?¾a little too ancient perhaps, but otherwise far better qualified than
myself; and, it may be, less inclined to shun so advantageous an alliance.”
“You are strangely perverse,
Miriam,” said Mr. Grey; “but I cannot suffer my worthy young friend to be thus
trifled with; you must be unaccountably prejudiced, or else prepossessed in
favour of some other. I hope Mr. Calvert has not caused you to misprise our plain New-England youths.”
“No, sir,” replied Miriam; “Mr. Calvert
is very well in his way; but he wants some of Benjamin Ashly’s
rare qualities. I would choose a man more like,¾like myself, father, with just a pleasant mixture of the good and
agreeable.”
“And the evil, you should add,
child,” said her father, smiling.
“I left that for you father, and
rightly judged that you would not forget the addition.”
As she finished speaking, Mr Calvert
entered the room; he was less animated than usual, and seemed inclined to
remain silent and thoughtful.