Scarcely had Hope doffed her wet garments, and wrung the water from
her hair, before she was summoned to the presence of her lady mother.
It was a pleasant group, that of the accomplished family in the
large hall, around which hung old portraits brought from England;
the demi-armor still worn by the gentlemen of the day; the knightly
sword, and shapely steel corslet; trophies of the hunt, and implements
of the chase; belts of wampum, and models of birch canoes; bows and
flint-tipped arrows. It was a silvan, stately room, such as taste,
enterprise and thrift only could furnish forth in a family struggling
to overcome the barbarisms of a new world.
In a stiff, high-backed chair, with cushions at her feet, sat the
elegant matron of the household; her handsome daughters, each with
book, music or broidery in hand, were gathered near her person, as if
the companionship were mutually pleasant.
In the embrasure of the window, looking out upon the Pool, with the
long reach of ocean in the distance, sat Sir Richard Vines himself,
the perfection of manly grace and noble bearing, but now his brow was
slightly contracted, and an uneasy flush was upon his cheek.
As little Hope entered the room, he held out his hand to her; she
sprung forward and threw her arms about his neck. The knight returned
her caress, and patting her cheek tenderly, said:
“Go to your mother, child.”
Hope had nearly crossed the room in obedience, when she suddenly turned
round, saying, petulantly:
“She must not talk to me, papa; I am in a bad humor, and can not bear
it.”
Mistress Vines answered, with unwonted sternness:
“Come hither, Hope, and seat yourself upon the cushion. You must leave
off these ways.”
The little lady walked to the side of the room, where, leaning her
shoulder against a pilaster, she crossed one foot over the other, and
bent her head, saying:
“I will stand here, please, mamma; I hate to sit down.”
“I prefer you should sit,” persisted Mistress Vines.
“Indeed, I can not, mamma. I feel as if I should choke, tightened up in
one of those chairs. Indeed, I can not sit down, mamma.”
The sisters could not refrain from a slight titter, which was
instantly checked, for the parents were both severely grave, and Miss
Bloomfield, the governess, shook her little decorous head till every
cork-screw curl upon it was whirling and jerking in a perfect storm of
reprehension.
Before, however, a word had been spoken, Hope suddenly recovered her
native vivacity. She eyed the group with a comical shake of the head,
and burst into one of her merry laughs. Coming forward, she knelt upon
the cushion at her mother’s feet, and tossing back her hair till it
enshrouded her like a vail, she cried:
“I know all you will say to the bad girl; I will be mamma, and
reprimand Hope. Listen!
“Hope, you are too idle, and too wild--no better than a wild Indian.
You are a very unmaidenly girl, fit for nothing good. Why do you not
sit bolt upright in high-backed chairs, as your sisters do? Look at
them! How nice they are! Not a hair of the head out of place. Hear them
make ugly sounds on a hollow board! See how ashamed they are of you,
Hope! You are a grief to us all, Hope, indeed you are. To-day John
Bonyton pulled you out of the water like a fish. You are a trial and a
plague, Hope!”
Here she kissed the hand of Mistress Vines, which had been tenderly
laid upon her head, and then once more threw herself into her father’s
arms, and burst into a wild torrent of sobs and tears.
The family were used to these sudden transitions of feeling upon her
part, but this seemed a mood so much more painful than ordinary, that
all were shocked.
“Do not let my cold, still sisters look at me, papa,” whispered Hope.
Then, lifting up her head, she added, solemnly:
“Papa, you will soon have no little Hope.”
The knight shuddered, and pressed the poor child more tenderly to his
heart.
“Tell me why, little daughter!”
“Every little while, dear father, I see poor, pale-faced Hope standing
before me, looking sad, and oh! so weary, and wringing her hands.”
Mr. Vines certainly felt a cold chill run over him at this description.
She went on.
“This morning I saw Hope seated on the ledge yonder, her hands to her
face, and she weeping, weeping. Mistress Bonyton, too, told me that
this little purple spot upon my shoulder, which you used to kiss, papa,
when I was a little girl, is the devil’s mark, and called me a witch.”
Sir Richard arose hastily from his seat and whispered a few words in
the ear of his wife. A new cause for anxiety had been suggested by the
words of Mistress Bonyton, for at that time the old world was convulsed
by stories of possession and witchcraft, and it was no light thing to
have the aspersion cast upon an individual that he or she might be a
witch.
At this moment the sharp whiz of an arrow passed the lattice. Hope
darted from the room, and seated herself at an upper loop-hole, where
she could see without being seen. She watched John Bonyton where hour
after hour he traversed the slip of sand which separated the Pool from
the ocean, ever and anon sending uneasy glances toward the mansion.
Day after day passed, and Hope went no more abroad, nor did she send
any token to her impatient lover. Day after day John Bonyton wandered
along the shore, as if its impatient turbulence best responded to the
wild passions that consumed him. The dirge of the sea, creeping amid
the weeds that cushioned the rocks, and then hurrying from point to
point in stifled sobs--anon lifting incoherent voices to storm the ear
of night--responded to some unknown depth within, and soothed while it
deepened his emotions.
Could the unhappy youth have looked within the bower of Hope, he would
have seen her seated upon the floor, her intense eyes following his
slightest movement, and she weeping bitterly. She refused food, and
nothing could tempt her from her covert.
At length Samoset, chief of the neighboring tribe of Indians, desired
to see her. He brought her a beautiful osier basket, in which was
hidden a wood-pigeon. Hope lifted the bird from its cluster of leaves
and found the blood trickling from its breast, and a small arrow still
in the wound. She recoiled with pity, and cast reproachful eyes upon
the chief. Samoset pointed to Bonyton pacing the beach, and sternly
showed the arrow in the breast of the dove. He whispered a word or two
in her ear and turned away, followed by Hope.
No sooner did John Bonyton perceive the figure of Hope moving slowly
toward the woods, than he followed in her footsteps. Seating herself
upon her favorite ledge of rocks, she awaited his coming. The youth was
greatly shocked at the change both in her manner and looks, and he cast
himself at her feet and pressed both her hands within his own.
“Poor, dear Hope!” he murmured.
She looked sadly in his face--a look of silent, helpless reproach more
emphatic than words. At length she said, in a voice scarcely above a
whisper:
“It seems very strange to me, dear John, how people can get along in
this world, and why they are put here to be made so miserable. And so
you will go away, John Bonyton--go, and we shall never meet again.”
The young man smoothed back the hair which had blown across the face
of the speaker, and the passive manner so unlike Hope’s old self,
emboldened him to lay her pale cheek upon his shoulder, and he answered:
“I will not be gone long, Hope; the time will soon pass away.”
“But what shall I do, with nobody to understand me? And, besides this,
John Bonyton who goes away will not be the John Bonyton that comes
back.”
“Why not, little Hope?”
“Why not? How can you ask, when nothing is to-day what it was
yesterday?”
He made the usual protestations of never-changing devotion, which she
broke short with her old impetuosity, waving her hand for him to be
silent, when a twig snapped near by, and John Bonyton sprung to his
feet.
“It is Acashee,” said Hope, coldly. “She is always in your path.”
Again all was silent save the wood-robin, which sung upon a branch
overhead, and Hope resumed:
“Do not go, John Bonyton. Do not enter the ship that will bear you
away, for I shall never see you again. You may come back--but _my_ John
Bonyton will return no more.”
The youth smiled fondly, for Hope had never before shown him such
favor. The mournful tenderness of her looks and words thrilled him with
rapture, and he replied:
“I shall return ten times more worthy of you, Hope.”
Hope started, turned pale, and withdrew her hand from his grasp.
“I said you would change, and you boast that you will.”
“Only to be better, nobler, more worthy of your love.”
She looked dreamily into his face and murmured:
“And I? I shall be the same--”
“Surely, dear Hope. Lovely and beautiful. Always growing dear to my
heart.”
She shook her head, and in the same dreamy way went on:
“When the sun goes down I am never quite sure it will come up again;
and when it does it has not the same look. The same cloud never
returns; the withered blossom does not bloom again; no face wears twice
the same look; the smile of yesterday is not that of to-day.”
“But the heart, little Hope, the heart is the same.”
“No, no, no! least of all. That goes on and adds or loses and the eye
tells of its altered beatings. No, John Bonyton, I shall never see
_you_ again. See how changed we two are since we last met. Look upon
the rock yonder jutting over the sea. What do you behold?”
The youth followed the wavy line of the small, pale hand, and said,
with a smile:
“I see the bright sunshine there, and the sea-birds dip their wings
into the sea.”
She still pointed with a sad smile.
“You see nothing more! I see little Hope standing there leaning over
the water; she is pale and thin, and her hair has become a shroud.”
The youth burst into tears, and clasped her wildly in his arms. At this
moment there was a cry as of the loon, and Hope faintly answered it.
She knew Acashee had witnessed the scene, and an angry flush overspread
her face. With a sudden spring she descended the ledge, and returned to
the house.