It is necessary that we should go back in the details of our story, in
order to give our readers the antecedents of the characters which we
have so unceremoniously brought upon the stage of action, and that we
may show the locality of our history.
The State of Maine, it must be remembered, was permanently settled so
early as 1616, and it is most probable in the spring of that year,
by Sir Richard Vines, the friend and companion of Sir Ferdinando
Gorges, of Raleigh Gilbert, and the unfortunate Sir Walter Raleigh,
the half-brother of the latter. We say permanently, because there is
no testimony of his having abandoned the colony he had thus founded,
and there is abundant record of his movements, his enterprise and his
history, till it was finally incorporated into the Plymouth charter.
Sir Richard Vines was a stanch Tory and Episcopalian, and as he was
a fearless man, robust and hearty in character, he was not likely to
greatly swerve from those principles inherent to his rank; hence, it
may be inferred he was not over popular with the no less unflinching
Puritan radicals of the Presbyterian order at the Plymouth colony.
The wife of Sir Richard Vines, the Lady Joanna, was sister to the wife
of Sir Walter Raleigh. Hence, in removing from the old world, the
interests of the family were by no means dissevered from “merry old
England,” as they were wont to tenderly call the “Fatherland.”
I must describe somewhat the location chosen by Sir Richard Vines for
his habitation, that my readers may the better understand portions of
our story.
It stood at the head of what is called the Pool, a sheet of water
resembling in shape the Mediterranean sea as seen upon the maps.
Indeed, it is a counterpart of the Mediterranean diminished vastly in
size. The Pool is separated from the outside waves of the Atlantic by
a long ridge or reef of sand, of more than a mile in extent--this reef
hemming it in from the ocean, gives place to a beautiful inland basin,
which is entered by a narrow strait, as if it were a young Gibraltar.
Once in, the waters expand, and spread themselves with complacency at
their successful attempt to _oceanize_ upon a small scale.
Nothing can be conceived more daintily picturesque than the scenery
surrounding the Pool. There are no marshes--no malaria of fogs; all is
fresh, clear white sand--a long ocean reach, and the grand overhanging
woods giving a pathway to the resounding Saco, or broken here and there
by esplanades of green meadows, where the deer and her young disport
themselves, and the beaver constructs his half-human habitation.
At the head of this beautiful sheet of water, as we have said, lived
Sir Richard Vines; in a wilderness of thousands of miles, visited
occasionally by some adventurous ship from the old world, or from the
island of Barbadoes by some trader in fish, which had already become a
valuable staple. His little boat rocked securely within the Pool, while
his trusty followers joined him in the chase, or went on long fishing
and exploring expeditions.
A frank, impulsive man, he gave and inspired confidence; brave himself,
he repelled the aggressor, simply by the force of his presence. Just
and kind in all his dealings with them, the Indians came and went about
his premises exciting no fear, and conscious of no distrust.
Besides the castle of Sir Richard, there sprung up immediately
about it, the less pretentious houses of his followers, and cabins
constructed by occasional traders, to say nothing of the bark wigwams
of the Indians, which clustered here and there near the river, the
friendly owners of which gave the adventurers many a lesson in hunting
the wild denizens of the forest, or spearing and netting the treasures
of the water.
Mistress Joanna was an intrepid as well as handsome dame, who entered
warmly into all the pursuits of her husband, while at the same time she
had a certain self-distrust, most winning and lovely in a woman who
finds herself allied to a wise, protective husband, whose authority she
is proud to accept with wifely tenderness, and womanly grace.
We must now describe an incident which occurred toward the close of the
year 1618, which is too intimately associated with the character of our
heroine to be passed by in silence.
It was a gusty, raw twilight near the end of October. A fall of rain,
with now and then a “spit of snow,” had made a gloomy day in that
cold region; the gorgeous autumnal trees were fast scattering their
rainbow baldrick to the earth, and the summer birds, long away upon
their pilgrimage to sunnier skies, were replaced only by the little
snow-birds, which pecked about the piazza, darted from branch to branch
of the denuded trees, content and joyous in themselves at a time when
nature is a very niggard of her favors.
A ship was hourly expected from England, and recent intelligence of
a more favorable view taken by the court of the case of Sir Walter
Raleigh, (who had been imprisoned in the Tower of London,) had awakened
not only a hope of his release, but even a hope that the ship might
bring him out to the home so affectionately provided for him by his
brother-in-law. So strongly had this hope wrought upon the mind of
Mistress Vines, that she had even caused fires to be built in the
“Raleigh rooms,” and had hung evergreens and ruby berries along the
rafters, amid silken drapery and snowy linen, till the apartment wore a
look not only of warmth and comfort, but of sumptuous elegance also.
She stood in the center of the room, dreamily contemplating the
glowing, crackling flame upon the hearth, and feasting her thoughts
with the sweet hope of a union with her sister Raleigh, when she was
conscious of a shadowy outline that passed before her, _and a drop of
blood fell upon her hand_. Cold rigors lifted her hair upon her head;
her eyes distended; and with a loud shriek she fell convulsed upon the
floor.
When consciousness returned, she desired to be left alone with Sir
Richard, to whom she related the cause of her sudden attack.
“I am fully persuaded,” she went on to say, “that the worst has come
upon our brother, and we have been deceived by a base court, and lying
officials.”
Sir Richard tried to soothe her with better hopes, but in vain. Calling
her old nurse to her side, he strove by every means to restore her
to warmth and her wonted cheer; but, day by day she sickened, and at
length in the Raleigh rooms became the mother of a daughter. This
circumstance, while it restored her to a more equable and healthful
state of mind, did not dispel the impression which had produced the
attack. It is needless to say that the next ship brought out the fatal
news of the beheading of Sir Walter Raleigh, upon that 29th of October,
so well remembered by Mistress Vines.
She named her little one Hope, with a sad irony. She was a small,
weird-looking baby, with large, dark-gray eyes, and skin white, even
waxen white; never did the least tinge of the rose visit the cheek. Her
eyes were shaded by long, black lashes, but, as she grew, it became
evident that her hair was to be _snowy white_. It would seem that this
feature of the human frame being more volatile than all others, is
the one most likely to be affected with change, and that that moment
of horror, which had struck the mother to the earth, changed forever
the color of her child’s hair, and blanched its cheek to a perpetual
paleness.
Years passed, and sons and daughters graced the mansion of Sir Richard
Vines; fair, even beautiful were the children, trained to all gentle
usages by the father and mother, and finally they were sent to England
to be “finished” and presented at court, for the true Englishman never
neglects the duties of his birth, or the privileges of his rank.
Little Hope had reached the age of seventeen. She was exceedingly
diminutive in stature, but most exquisitely formed. Her cheek was still
colorless, and her long, abundant hair still white; but this, while
it gave a peculiarity, did not detract from her beauty. Sometimes
the sisters of Hope would call her “_white head_,” a term which she
resented in a manner unwonted to her character, in which was no
ingredient of vanity.
It was evident that she considered her hair a sacred badge, and
tenderly associated with the fate of her uncle Raleigh; hence, any jest
aimed at this peculiarity not only shocked her reverence, but offended
her taste. She held long and solemn talks with the old English nurse,
Aunt Sallie, about the period of her birth, and the cruel death of Sir
Walter, and the good creature did not fail to impress her mind with
her own superstitious belief in the supernatural omen which we have
heretofore related.
“Your hair is a mark, my pretty darling,” she would say; “it is a mark,
and you are none the worse for it. Not one of your sisters can compare
with my pretty, for handsome looks, with all their airs.”
It was evident that Hope was the favorite of Aunt Sallie, who sometimes
conceived that the child was not fully appreciated by the members of
the household, whose characters circled within the more ordinarily
understood limits. Hope was freakish and petulant, Aunt Sallie would
exclaim:
“And why shouldn’t she have her own way! Surely she is pretty enough to
have it, and _I_ see no fault to be found with her.”
Indeed, Aunt Sallie had little cause for complaint, as all the freaks
of Hope were patiently tolerated, and her peculiar, but most abundant
hair accepted as no detriment to her good looks. At home these
peculiarities were less dangerous to her than they were hereafter to
become to her abroad.
The Indians around her saw and turned again and again to mark those
lips, of that ruby red which goes with perfect health; black, perfectly
arched brows, and long, dark lashes, shading eyes of wonderful
brilliancy and depth of expression. The whole aspect of her beauty,
while it was artistic, would have presented also the idea of something
preternatural, even to those less impressible by such things than the
Indian.
We will now resume the thread of our narrative.