Hobomok/Chapter XI

Farewell! Oh, in that word---that fatal word---howe'er We promise---hope---believe---there breathes despair.


 * Byron

The interim between Brown's sentence and his departure, seemed like "a hideous dream." In vain Mary tried to recognize its certainty enough to prepare the letter which he was to convey. It was not until the day before the dreaded event, that the solicitations of her mother prevailed on her to commence the task; and when she did, the pen remained uplifted, and the stainless sheet lay for a long time before her, while she pressed her hand upon her brow in a bewilderment of misery. She wrote "Deare Grandfather,"--- but could proceed no further. The name of that fond, doting relation was encircled with painful thoughts. By him she had been reared with more than tenderness, like some fair and slender blossom in his gardens. There she had been the little idol of the brilliant circle. There too, she had first seen Charles Brown, and mingled with him in the graceful evolutions of the dance, while her young heart in vain strove to be proof against the intoxicating witchery of light and motion. And there, as she gazed on his lofty forehead, stamped with the proud, deep impress of intellect, and watched the changeful lustre of his dark, eloquent eyes, that alternately beamed with high or tender thoughts, she too became covetous of mental riches, and worshipped at the shrine of genius. Amid this fairy dream, the stern voice of duty was heard commanding her to depart from her country and her kindred, and to go to a land of strangers. It recks not how many sighs and tears it cost, the sacrifice was made; and Heaven in reward gave to her solitude the only being that could enliven its dreariness.

What was she now? A lily weighed down by the pitiless pelting of the storm; a violet shedding its soft, rich perfume on bleakness and desolation; a plant which had been fostered and cherished with mild sunshine and gentle dews, removed at once from the hot-house to the desert, and left to unfold its delicate leaves beneath the darkness of the lowering storm. And of the two, for whom she had cheerfully endured this change, one was already within sight of the mansions of the blest---and the other was soon to be like a bright and departed vision. 'Twas bitterness, all bitterness, and she bowed down her head and wept.

"It must not be thus," said she, as she thoughtfully walked across the room. The painful sacrifice was made with serenity; and none shall say, that I at last shrunk from the trial---" and with steadier nerve, she wrote as follows:

"Deare Grandfather,

"I againe take up my penn to write upon the same paper you gave me when I left you, and tolde me thereupon to write my thoughts in the deserte. Alas, what few I have, are sad ones. I remember you once saide that Shakspeare would have beene the same greate poet if he had been nurtured in a Puritan wildernesse. But indeed it is harde for incense to rise in a colde, heavy atmosphere, or for the buds of fancie to put forth, where the heartes of men are as harde and sterile as their unploughed soile. You will wonder to hear me complain, who have heretofore beene so proud of my cheerfulnesse. Alas, howe often is pride the cause of things whereunto we give a better name. Perhaps I have trusted too muche to my owne strengthe in this matter, and Heaven is nowe pleased to send a more bitter dispensation, wherewithal to convince me of my weakness. I woulde tell you more, venerable parente, but Mr. Brown will conveye this to your hande, and he will saye much, that I cannot finde hearte or roome for. The settlement of this Western Worlde seemeth to goe on fast now that soe many men of greate wisdome and antient blood are employed therein. They saye much concerning our holie church being the Babylone of olde, and that vials of fierce wrath are readie to be poured out upon her. If the prophecies of these mistaken men are to be fulfilled, God grante I be not on earthe to witnesse it. My dear mother is wasting awaye, though I hope she will long live to comforte me. She hath often spoken of you lately. A fewe dayes agone, she said she shoulde die happier if her grey-haired father coulde shed a tear upon her grave. I well know that when that daye does come, we shall both shed many bitter tears. I must leave some space in this paper for her feeble hande to fill. The Lord have you in His holie keeping till your dutifull grandchilde is againe blessed with the sighte of your countenance.

"With all love and reverence,

"Your Affectionate and Dutifull Childe,

" Mary Conant. "

"Deare and Venerable Sire,

"I knowe nott wherewithal to address you, for my hearte is full, and my hande trembleth with weaknesse. My kinde Mary is mistaken in thinking I shall long sojourne upon Earthe. I see the grave opening before me, but I feel that I cannot descend thereunto till I have humbly on my knees asked the forgiveness of my offended father. He who hath made man's hearte to suffer, alone knoweth the wretchedness of mine when I have thought of your solitary old age. Pardon, I beseech you, my youthfull follie and disobedience, and doe not take offence if I write that the husbande for whose sake I have suffered much, hath been through life a kinde and tender helpe-meete; for I knowe it will comforte you to think upon this, when I am dead and gone. I would saye much more, but though my soule is strong in affection for you, my body is weake. God Almighty bless you, is the prayer of

"Your loving Daughtere,

" Mary Conant. "

The letter once finished, how was it to be delivered to the young man? Mr. Conant had given commands which his wife dared not disobey, and seemed more than ever inclined to keep watch upon Mary's motions. In this dilemma she resolved to tax the ready wit of her friend Sally; but when she sought Mrs. Collier for that purpose, she found her ready equipped for a journey.

"What, are you going to Plymouth so soon?" asked Mary. "I thought you told me you did go not till to-morrow."

"And so I supposed then," answered Sally; "but John hath heard that the boat will sail this afternoon, and he is coming for me shortly. I was just stepping in, to bid you good-bye."

"And you are going away from Salem then, for--- always," said Mary, as the tears came to her eyes. "What shall I do, when you are gone?"

"You used to tell me to trust in God," replied her friend, "and perhaps I did wrong that I did not think more of such sober talk. I declare, I did not suppose any thing would have made me so sorry to go back to Plymouth," added she, and the ready tears of sympathy trickled down her cheeks.

"Well, good-bye," said Mary, as she threw her arms round her neck in the full tide of girlish affection. "I shall always love you for your kindness to me and my good mother. Peradventure when we are both ancient women, there will be a road cut through from hence, and I shall come and see you."

At another time Mary would have mourned bitterly over the loss of her old associate; but now in the selfishness of more weighty sorrows, she hardly expended a thought upon it. Her whole mind was occupied in devising a method of seeing Brown, free from interruption. We know that love now usually finds means to effect his purpose, and it seems he laughed as loudly at locksmiths in 1629, as he does in these degenerate days. At the instigation of Mr. Brown, the widow Willet (whose red cardinal gave such offence to Mr. Oldham), was induced to request Mary's company through the night, under pretence of her son's absence. The lonely woman had frequently asked the same favor, and it was, of course, granted without hesitation. Once arrived within her dwelling, the sorrowful young couple were left to an undisturbed discourse upon their present prospects and future plans. The night passed rapidly away, and the sun rose brightly on the pale and agitated pair, as if no hearts were there, to meet his rays with sickening desolation. Brown rested his arm upon Mary's shoulder, and pointed to the rising light, as he said,

"It is the signal of separation. The vessel sails at early sunrise. Would it had never been day."

"Oh," replied Mary, "were it not for the hope of speedy re-union, how gladly would I now lay down my aching head deep, deep, in the cold earth."

"Talk not so sadly, Mary," answered her lover. "If your mother lives long, I shall again come to America, at least for a season; and if she dies, you will soon return to your grandfather, who will make us both happy."

"Alas, Charles," replied she, "it makes me shudder to think of the wickedness of such devoted love. I did even wish to night that mother's earthly trials were all over, and I at liberty to follow you wheresoever you went, through storms or sunshine. It was a wicked thought, and I struggled till I overcame it."

"Be ever thus, my own dear girl," rejoined the young man. "I could not love you if you were otherwise. May the atmosphere of your mind be always so pure that a passing cloud has power wherewithal to disturb it."

For some moments he stood silently clasping her to his heart. He moved from her, and made a reluctant motion toward the table where he had placed his hat---walked across the room again and again---looked out upon the increasing light, and cursed its swiftness; at length, a loud, shrill blast came upon the morning air; "'Tis the last signal for all to be on board," exclaimed he; "and now I must depart."

She sprung to his embrace, and his arms twined round her, "and clung as they would cling forever." One deep, painful pause, one fervent, long protracted kiss on that cold brow, and he was gone.

The maiden slowly returned to her father's house, sick, exhausted, and weary of life. The household duties were silently and serenely performed; and no outward token of anguish could be discovered save a death-like paleness. Two hours elapsed, and yet the gay pennon of the Queen Elizabeth was seen fluttering in the air. Mary could not follow the multitude to the beach, and give the sacredness of her grief to the vulgar gaze; but she sought a woody, retired hill, and watched the departure of her lover's vessel, which with spreading sails, was soon seen wheeling from the shore. A handkerchief was waving from the quarter deck; it was a farewell signal, and was speedily answered. It again waved toward the thicket, and Mary knew that her last token of love had not passed unobserved. Her intense and eager gaze was never turned from the object, until the red-cross flag indistinctly mingled with the horizon. Mary looked on the bright, blue expanse of water before her. The deep furrows, which had so lately marred its beauty, had all passed away, as suddenly as the tribulations of boyhood; and as she turned away from that smooth surface, she, for the first time, realized what she had as yet shrunk from acknowledging, the cheerless, utter solitude of the heart.