Hobomok/Chapter XVII

The tempter speaks, when all is still, And phantoms in the mind will raise, That haunt the path of after days.

On one sad night she left her home; She parted with the tawny chief, And left me lonely in my grief.


 * Yamoyden

The same restlessness which had led Mary to dame Willet's, soon made that scene of former happiness insupportable. The loquacious old woman did not understand the nature of the human heart so well as the friends of Job, who "sat down on the ground, and none spake a word to him; for they saw that his grief was very great." Mary could not endure the good dame's blunt sympathy; beside, every object which there met her view, did but remind her of her lover's farewell interview; so she drew her cloak around her, and prepared to depart. The old lady followed her, and gently taking hold of her arm, looked in her face as if fearful of expressing her doubts.

"Mary," said she, "I have done all I could to comfort you; but verily, my dear child, I fear you are not altogether yourself."

"Assuredly I am," replied Mary; "but I cannot stay here, for when I stand at that little window, it seems as if I could see him as he looked the last time I ever saw him."

Notwithstanding this declaration, there was a partial derangement of Mary's faculties. A bewilderment of despair that almost amounted to insanity. She sat down by her mother's grave, and wished to weep. The sorrow that can be exhausted, however keen it may be, has something of luxury in it, compared with grief when her fountains are all sealed, and her stormy waters are dashing and foaming within the soul. Mary's heart refused to overflow, and she laid down her head on the cold sod, in hopes it would cool the burning agony of her brain. As she sat thus, insensible of the autumnal chilliness, she felt something lightly thrown over her. She looked up, and perceived that it was Hobomok, who had covered her with his blanket, and silently removed a short distance from her. He approached when he saw her rise.

"It's a cold night for Mary to be on the graves," said he.

"Ah, Hobomok," she replied, "I shall soon be in my own grave."

The savage turned away his head for some time, as if struggling with some violent emotion.

"How Hobomok wish he could make you happy," at length said he.

There was a chaos in Mary's mind;---a dim twilight, which had at first made all objects shadowy, and which was rapidly darkening into misery, almost insensible of its source. The sudden stroke which had dashed from her lips the long promised cup of joy, had almost hurled reason from his throne. What now had life to offer? If she went to England, those for whom she most wished to return, were dead. If she remained in America, what communion could she have with those around her? Even Hobomok, whose language was brief, figurative, and poetic, and whose nature was unwarped by the artifices of civilized life, was far preferable to them. She remembered the idolatry he had always paid her, and in the desolation of the moment, she felt as if he was the only being in the wide world who was left to love her. With this, came the recollection of his appearance in the mystic circle. A broken and confused mass followed; in which a sense of sudden bereavement, deep and bitter reproaches against her father, and a blind belief in fatality were alone conspicuous. In the midst of this whirlwind of thoughts and passions, she turned suddenly towards the Indian, as she said,

"I will be your wife, Hobomok, if you love me."

"Hobomok has loved you many long moons," replied he; "but he loved like as he loves the Great Spirit."

"Then meet me at my window an hour hence," said she, "and be ready to convey me to Plymouth."

She returned home; and Hobomok, overjoyed at this unexpected fortune, prepared to obey her injunctions. Her father was absent when she entered, and lighting a taper, she sat down in the solitary room, and alternately attempted to fix her attention on the prayer book and Bible. In a few moments Mr. Conant returned. He spoke but little; but his prayer that evening evinced much parental tenderness as well as lofty piety. Fervently did he beseech that God would heal the wounded and broken heart, and lead back all those who were wandering in errors to the true fold of Christ Jesus.

When Mary thought that she was perhaps hearing that venerable voice for the last time, her heart relented. She acknowledged that a sort of desperate resentment towards him, had partly influenced her late conduct; and she asked herself,

"What if he has been harsh and restrained in his intercourse with me? It is cruel to wrench from him his last earthly tie; and to prostrate the soul of a parent, because my own lies bleeding in the dust."

Perhaps this effort of dawning reason and gentler feeling would have prevailed; but her father angrily seized the prayer book, which she had carelessly left in his way, and would have thrown it upon the fire, had she not caught his arm and rescued it from his grasp.

"Have it out of my sight," exclaimed the old man, in a violent tone. "My soul abhorreth it, as it doth the spirits of the bottomless pit."

That single act decided the fluctuating fate of his child. Who can look back upon all the important events of his life, without acknowledging that the balance of destiny has sometimes been weighed down by the most trivial touch of circumstance. Mary's mind was just in that vacillating state when a breath would have turned her from her purpose, or confirmed it forever. Her heart writhing and convulsed as it was, was gentle still; and it now craved one look of tenderness, one expression of love. That soothing influence she in vain sought; and the feelings which had harrowed up her soul to that fatal resolution, again returned in their full force. In the unreasonableness of mingled grief and anger, she accused her father as the sole cause of her present misery; and again she sunk under the stupifying influence of an ill directed belief in the decrees of heaven, and the utter fruitlessness of all human endeavour. It was strange that trouble had power to excite her quiet spirit to so much irascibility; and powerful indeed must have been the superstition, which could induce so much beauty and refinement, even in a moment of desperation, to exchange the social band, stern and dark as it was, for the company of savages. Mary retired to her own room, resolved on immediate departure; but she was not sufficiently collected to make any necessary arrangements; she even neglected taking a change of apparel. However, Brown's miniature was not forgotten; and as it lay before her, she could think of nothing, only that the form, which once could boast so much dignified beauty, was now unshrouded and uncoffined in the deep, deep ocean,---and imagination shuddered over the thoughts which followed. She placed the miniature in her bosom, and looked out upon the scenes she was so soon to leave. Her eye first rested upon Endicott's Hollow, where, as she supposed, it had been first revealed to her that Hobomok was to be her husband; and falling on her knees,

"Oh, Charles," murmured she, "if thy pure spirit is looking down upon this action, forgive me, in that I do but submit to my fate."

Presently the low whistle of Hobomok was heard. She obeyed the signal, and in a few moments she was by his side, walking toward the seashore. Almost every thing in their path was, in some way or other, connected with Brown; and she would frequently pause, as she uttered some mournful and incoherent soliloquy. The Indian had witnessed the dreadful ruins of mind in his own tribe, and the fear of her insanity more than once occurred to him; then again her brief answers to his questions would be so prompt and rational, that he could not admit the doubt.

"She is communing with the Good Spirit," thought he.

And now might be seen the dark chieftain seated in his boat, exulting in his prize, and rowing with his whole strength, while the rays of a bright October moon shone full upon the contrast of their countenances. Neither of them spoke, save when Hobomok stooped on his oar, and drawing the blanket more closely around her, asked whether or not the cold was uncomfortable. He would often raise his loud, clear voice in some devotional boat-song, alternately English or Indian, among which the following seemed to be a favorite.

"Lend me, oh, moon, lend me thy light, that I may go back to my wigwam, and my wakon bird may rest there in safety. I will rise with the sun, to see his fire consume the morning couds. I will come back to my wakon-bird, laden with beaver and deer."

The whole scene was singularly melancholy. Nothing but the face of the Indian wore an expression of gladness. Mary, so pale and motionless, might have seemed like a being from another world, had not her wild, frenzied look revealed too much of human wretchedness. The moon, it is true, pursued her heavenly path as bright and tranquil as ever; but the passing clouds made her appear hurried and perturbed, even as the passions of men float before the mild rays of the Gospel, making them seem as troubled and capricious as their own. Nature too, was in her saddest robe; and the breeze, as it swept along the variegated foliage, sounded like the dismal roarings of the distant ocean. Mary's meditations were more dull, and cold, and dreary still. It is difficult to tell what the feelings could have been, half bewildered as they were, which led her to persevere in so strange a purpose. It is even doubtful if their victim could have defined them. But whatever they were, they were endured and cherished, until the boat drew up on the shore of Plymouth. Fortunately for Hobomok, none of the inhabitants had risen, and he guided her to his wigwam unobserved. In a few words, he explained to his mother the occasion of the visit. Full of astonishment, the grateful squaw danced, sung, and caressed Mary, with every demonstration of frantic joy. Hobomok endeavoured to calm her transports, and urged the necessity of forwarding the marriage immediately; for the savage had many fears that Mary would yet shrink from the strange nuptials. His arguments were readily assented to, and Hobomok asked his intended bride whether she was willing to be married in the Indian form.

"Yes," answered she, and turned from him, as if a sudden pang had passed through her heart.

"She is mad," whispered the old squaw.

Her son hesitated a moment, then taking some wine, which Governor Bradford had once given his sick mother, he offered it to her, as he said,

"If Mary sick, this will make her well."

"I am not sick," was the laconic reply.

Hobomok again convinced of her rationality, went forth to make arrangements for his marriage. In the course of an hour, he returned with four of his relations. They spoke no English, but each one lifted his hands as he looked at Mary, and seemed to utter some exclamation of surprise. Presently they joined in a dance, singing in a low tone, for fear of exciting the suspicion of their white neighbours. After this was concluded, Hobomok stept out, and looked cautiously in every direction, to see that none were approaching, then taking Mary by the hand, he led her round the wigwam, and again entered. In the mean time, a mat had been placed in the centre of the room, and thither the Indian led his bride. The eldest of the company then presented him with a witch-hazel wand of considerable length, and having placed one end of it in Mary's hand, the bridegroom stood waiting for the ceremony. The oldest Indian then uttered some short harangues, in which he dwelt upon the duty of a husband to hunt plenty of deer for his wife, to love her, and try to make her happy; and that the wife should love her husband, and cook his venison well, that he might come home to his wigwam with a light heart. To this Hobomok responded in a tone half way between singing and speaking,

"Hobomok love her like as better than himself. Nobody but Great Spirit know how well he loveth her."

The priest then looked toward Mary, as if waiting for her answer.

"Tell how well you love him," said the Indian woman, as she touched her arm. Mary raised her head with a look, which had in it much of the frightful expression of one walking in his sleep, as she replied,

"I love him better than any body living."

Hobomok then took the rod, which they had held, and breaking it into five pieces, gave one to each of the witnesses. The married couple still continued standing, and the company formed a circle and danced round them three times, singing their marriage song. When this was finished, Hobomok took out his pipe and handed it to the priest. It was the one which Brown had sent, and when Mary saw it, she uttered a piercing shriek, as she pointed to it, and said, "Send it away! Send it away!" Her husband understood her meaning, and returning it to his pocket, he produced another. After each one had smoked, they again formed a ring, and danced and sung as before, each one, as he came near the door, dancing backward, and disappearing. After they had all gone, Hobomok went out and buried Brown's beautiful present in the earth. Mary continued listless and unmoved, apparently unconscious of any change in her situation. But the ceremony of that morning was past recall; and Mary Conant was indeed the wife of Hobomok.