EARLY IN THE MORNING.
The town of Boston had little of its present compactness in those days.
True, there existed streets and lanes, and wharves which served as
barriers to the harbor, but green turf lay richly where slabs of granite
form the sidewalk now, the streets wound in and out as they had been
trodden broader and broader from the forest paths, and around the houses
were yards and pleasant gardens, with carpets of green turf in which the
wild flowers still lingered. The dwellings were mostly of wood; low,
broad, and heavy, with cumbrous adornments; coats of arms surmounted the
doors, cut out with the broad-axe and chisel, and heavy wooden cornices
loomed over the front, betraying a surplus of timber and a lamentable
scarcity of architectural art. Among these more imposing buildings,
houses of hewn logs, and even ruder cabins were scattered, but the
trees, the grass, and many a clinging vine, gave to the infant city a
picturesque beauty which can never belong to the brick, granite, and
mortar which have taken so many imposing forms since. But even then
Boston had its fashionable street, and its aristocratic neighborhood.
To this portion of the town young Lovel bent his steps, and soon came
out upon the green lanes of North Boston, which was in fact a wide area,
where the palaces of the New World loomed proudly among the grand old
forest trees, which softened their stateliness with touches of natural
beauty.
The most imposing of these mansions, conspicuous for its three stories,
and a certain attempt at architectural beauty, was the residence of Sir
William Phipps, Captain-General and Governor-in-chief of New England.
Those who knew the sheep-tender of Kennebec, the younger brother of
twenty-six children, who even in his boyhood turned haughtily from the
occupation of his father when proposed to him, and predicted of himself
_that he was born to greater matters_, might have wondered as they stood
before that stately dwelling, and saw in its vastness and its ornaments
a fulfilment of the sheep-boy's prophecy. In all New England there was
not a dwelling like that, or a man so powerful as its owner. Yet Sir
William Phipps, titled, wealthy, and almost a sovereign, had not yet
passed his prime of life; while he was comparatively a young man, all
this great fortune had been wrought out by his own stern energies.
The youth stood for a moment in front of the mansion, gazing wistfully
at one of the second story windows. It was very early in the morning;
too early for any one in the gubernatorial mansion to be stirring, but
he was disappointed to find the curtains drawn and the shutters
partially closed. Evidently, the youth had expected some one to be
watching for him, rendered miserable by his strange absence over night.
But every thing was still, even to the great elm-tree that swept its
branches over one end of the house, and the rose bushes that clustered
along the terraces. The youth did not like to claim admittance till some
of the servants were astir, so walked up and down the green lane, always
advancing toward the house, till you would have fancied him studying its
architecture; but his eyes always wandered to one window, and that had
nothing but a stone coping and an arched top to command his admiration.
Still the gubernatorial mansion was well worth examining, if it were
only to see how rudely the arts crept first into the New World from the
mother land. Massive stone pilasters separated the windows to the second
story; two long rows of windows ran between that and the roof, all set
in stone, and slightly arched. The central window, with elaborate blinds
and lateral sashes, carried up the outline of that ponderous wooden
portico to the still more ponderous cornices on the roof. This elaborate
attempt at architecture made the governor's house the show place of all
New England. The very children of Boston held their breath with awe of
its grandeur, and were half afraid to pluck dandelions in the green lane
after it was built.
But young Lovel had seen the mansion too often for any feeling of this
kind. The window still remained shrouded in its muslin curtains, though
the birds in the elm branches had burst forth into gushes of music that
might have charmed an angel from the brightest nook in paradise, and the
rising sun came smiling over the terraces, turning each dew-drop,
trembling on its blade of grass, into a diamond, rendering every thing
so beautiful that slumber seemed an absolute sin.
"They take it coolly enough," muttered the youth impatiently, turning
his steps to the broad gravel walk which crossed the terraces and
reached the long, sloping steps that led to the portico. "I might crunch
this white gravel under my feet forever, and she'd sleep on. No matter,
I may as well take it easily as they do; I might be in the bottom of the
harbor for any thing they know, or care either."
As he muttered these words, Lovel crossed the terrace, and stood between
the fluted pillars of the porticoes which rose proudly over him, crowned
with Corinthian leaves, and garlanded with rudely carved flowers, that
ran up over the massy cornices, supplying the deficiency of family
armorial bearings. But in his waywardness he had lost sight of the
window, and so walked back upon the terrace again, pretending, even to
himself, that he wished to gather a handful of blush roses while the
leaves were wet with that diamond light. But his heart beat unsteadily,
and he looked upward every moment as he broke the blossoms impetuously
from their bushes. This impatience at the stillness broke at last upon
the gentle flowers. He dashed them to the turf, shaking all the dew from
their hearts. Then he rushed back to the portico, raised the ponderous
knocker, and prepared to swing it against the great brass head which
seemed to smile defiance beneath the blows ready to be rained upon it.
But his hand was arrested by a sound within the house, and, softly
relinquishing the knocker, he threw himself upon one of the long seats
that ran down each side of the portico, eagerly watching the door.
There was a sound of bolts cautiously drawn, as if a person within were
careful of making a noise. Then a leaf of the great oaken door opened,
and with its glittering knocker wheeled inward; while the head and
shoulders of a young girl appeared bending over the other half, with a
wistful, eager look that filled the young man with repentance at a
single glance.
"Elizabeth!"
She heard and saw him--struggled eagerly with the lower bolts, flung the
last leaf of the door open, and sprang toward him. Then recollecting
herself, she retreated a step, and covering her face with both hands,
burst into a passion of tears that shook her slender form from head to
foot.
Then the young man's heart smote him afresh, for he saw by the withered
roses in her hair, the fine yellow lace that shaded her arms, and her
dress of flowered silk, that the poor girl had not been in bed that
night. She had been waiting, watching, praying no doubt for him.
"Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth! will you not look on me? Are you not glad
that I am safe?"
She could not speak, but trembled all over like the leaves of a vine
when the wind shakes it.
"Elizabeth!"
She took down her hands and turned her eyes on his face--those large
deer-like eyes full of tenderness and shame.
"Elizabeth! is this for me--I am safe, and very, very happy, for this
terror, these blushes. You would not look this way if you cared nothing
about a poor fellow!"
She began to tremble again, and shrunk back with a red glow burning over
her neck, and up to her temples beneath the dusky shadows of her hair.
"Elizabeth, darling, speak to me," said the youth, trembling himself
beneath the sweet joy of the moment, and approaching her with his face
all a-glow.
"Don't, don't! I am sick with shame. I did not know--I did not
hope--they told us you had gone down to the water, out in a fishing-boat
in the midst of the storm last night, that--that--"
"And you believed it--you grieved a little?"
"I feared every thing!"
"No--not altogether, for you see I am alive. But you have suffered; your
eyes are heavy, your cheek white again. Oh, tell me, was it trouble, was
it anxiety on my account? Do not fear to say yes--I will not presume--I
will not half believe it--only let me have the happiness of thinking so,
for one little moment."
She lifted her face, and the dusky shame which blushes usually carry to
the eyes, died out, leaving them soft and clear as a mountain spring.
"Was it for you, Norman, for you that I have wept, and prayed, and
suffered? Ah me, what agonies of fear! Why ask? you know it," here the
little graceful coquetries of her sex would break in, for she began to
get ashamed again--"for are you not a fellow-creature out of the church,
unregenerated and worshipping----"
"You, and every thing you worship," cried the youth, seizing her hand,
which he devoured with his eyes, but dared not touch with his lips.
"Never mind whether I am fit to be drowned or not; give me something
worth living for; tell me that one day when I am wiser and you a little
older, not much, because a good deal can be done in that way after the
ceremony; but tell me that you will be my wife."
His face was all a flush of crimson now, but hers grew pale as death;
the last word--that holy, beautiful word--made her shiver from heart to
limb. He had been too impetuous; Elizabeth Parris had never dared to
think of the mystery he brought so broadly before her. Her pure maidenly
thoughts had hovered round it timidly, as a shadow haunts a white lily,
but she was content with the perfume, without daring to touch the
flower.
"Your wife, your wife!" she murmured, and the words fell from her lips
with silvery slowness, like drops from a fountain. "Your wife, and I not
yet fifteen!"
"But you will think of it. I am a sad fellow to frighten you so; a sad,
wicked fellow, but you will forgive it, Elizabeth; you know, out of the
abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh."
He saw her sweet lips quivering into a smile, and forgave himself at
once.
"There now, you see I can quote Scripture a little, so forgive me this
once. I love you till my heart aches with the joy of it. Think of
this--promise me that you will."
Promise to think of it! alas, poor child, when would she think of any
thing else!