A lovely child she was, of looks serene,
And motions, which, on things indifferent shed
The grace and gentleness from whence they came.
SHELLEY.
The child shall live.
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
Here are two pilgrims,
And neither knows one footstep of the way.
HEYWORD’S DUCHESS OF SUFFOLK.
With equal virtue formed, and equal grace,
The same, distinguished by their sex alone.
THOMPSON.
A short gap in this narrative places the present action of our story in
America. It is needless here to narrate the first settlement of the New
England Colonies. The landing of the Pilgrim Fathers has been
immortalised both in prose and verse until it has become as familiar to
each American as any household word. We will not, therefore, ask the
reader’s detention at the perusal of a thrice-told tale. It is likewise
known that that landing was but the herald of a succession of
immigrations, and the establishment of numerous colonies. Owing to the
talent and liberal education, not less than the enterprise of the early
settlers, this wilderness was not long, in spite of repeated obstacles,
ere it grew up into flourishing villages and towns, some of them fairer
than had ever graced the stalwort ground of Old England.
We introduce the reader into one of those villages, situated some twenty
miles distant from New Haven. It might somewhat surprise him when we
say, were it not for the frequent instances of the rapid growth of
cities in our western wilds, which we would remind him have sprung up
within his own recollection, that the latter place was, even at the
period to which we refer, a flourishing and important town. Yet,
notwithstanding the superior size and consequence of New Haven, the
village of L—— was the place in which the governor of the colony chose
to reside.
Had the course of our narrative not led us thither, we could have
selected no better sample than L., of the truth of what we have asserted
regarding the existence of neat and attractive villages in New England
at that early day. It was situated on the high-road, in a small valley,
through which wound down certain rocky falls, a clear rivulet, that
afforded excellent opportunities of fishing to such of the inhabitants
as were fond of the occupation of the angle. These, however, were few,
for then, as now, the people of Connecticut possessed much of the same
busy spirit which is one of their distinguishing characteristics. The
glassy brook alluded to, served yet another purpose during the season
when the sportive inhabitants of the watery element had disappeared. In
the winter-time, when thickly frozen over, it formed, out of their
school-houses, the grand resort of the children of the village for the
purpose of skating and sliding. There, at those times, on a clear,
bracing day, such as no country but New England ever shows in
perfection, might always be seen a crowd of these happy beings, of both
sexes, and of various ages, all collected together, some to partake and
others merely to observe the amusements mentioned.
Upon a certain day, the neighborhood of the brook was thronged even to a
greater extent than usual, owing to the exceeding brightness of the
weather, which had led some of the tenderest mothers to withhold their
customary mandate enjoining immediate return from school, lest the
beloved object of the command might suffer from playing in the cold.
Among those who had thus had their ordinary restrictions remitted, was a
little girl whose extreme loveliness must have arrested the attention of
any observer. Her features were not merely beautiful, but there was a
charm in her countenance more attractive still—that purity and mildness
which our fancy attributes to angels. There was a bewitching grace,
moreover, in her attitudes that might have furnished delighted
employment to the painter and sculptor, had there been any time or
inclination among the colonists to bestow upon the cultivation of the
arts.
This child was seemingly about five years old. She was standing, with a
number of other little ones of her own age, looking on with great
apparent delight—now at the larger boys, who were skating dexterously,
and describing many a circle and angle, unknown in mathematics, upon the
smooth surface of the brook, and then at a number of girls merrily
chasing each other upon a slide at one side.
As one of the large boys spoken of passed her, he said, “Come, Jessy, I
will give you a ride upon the ice;” and taking her in his arms, he was
soon again gliding rapidly along.
“Take care!” shouted a noble-looking youth, whose glowing complexion and
sparkling eye shone with the excitement of the exercise. “Take care, the
ice is slightly cracked there, and it will scarcely bear the double
weight.”
It was too late. Ere the words were well spoken, the ice gave way, and
the boy who bore the fair burden sunk beneath the congealed element.
One loud shriek from the mingled voice of the young spectators announced
the frightful accident.
With the speed of lightning, the youth who had uttered the words of
warning darted forward, and plunging under the ice, disappeared from
view.
Great consternation prevailed for some moments. Many of the children
gave way to loud cries; others quietly wept; while a few of the older
and more considerate ran toward their homes, in order to summon
assistance.
In less time than it has taken to represent the state of feeling which
prevailed during his absence, Frank Stanley rose to the surface, bearing
in his arms the unconscious form of the young creature he had saved.
Recovering his position on the ice, he speedily regained the shore, and
overcome with the exertion, laid her gently on the ground.
The heart in his bosom was frozen with cold, but a quickening thrill
passed through it, boy as he was, as he gazed upon those sweetly
composed features. Her hair was dripping, and her long, wet lashes by
upon her cheek as quietly as upon that of a dead child. Her garments
hung heavily around her, and her tiny hands, which were half lost in
their folds, were cold and still, as well as beautiful as gems of
classic sculpture.
As his companions came up bearing the other sufferer, Frank Stanley
hastily snatched off his own saturated coat, and spread it over her
senseless body, ere he again, with recovered strength, raised her in his
arms.
The alarmed villagers by this time came flocking to the spot, among whom
was the governor of the settlement, whose venerable and striking
countenance manifested peculiar anxiety.
“Your niece is safe, Governor H——,” said Frank Stanley, pressing
forward and exposing his fair burden. “She is merely insensible from
fright.”
“Thank God that she is saved!” exclaimed the governor, receiving her in
his arms. “But whose rash act was it,” continued he, looking sternly
around among the boys, “that exposed my Jessy to such peril?”
Something like a flush of indignation passed over the countenance of
young Stanley, as he replied, “It was an accident, sir, which might have
happened in the hands of more experienced persons than ourselves.”
“Thou hast been in danger thyself, Frank, hast thou not?” asked the
governor, his stern mood giving way immediately at the sight of the
youth’s dripping clothes. “And is there no one else more dangerously
injured?” inquired he, casting an anxious, scrutinizing glance among the
collected group.
“Frederick, here, is wet too, but not otherwise the worse for the
accident.”
“Let him and Frank, then, immediately return to their homes, and don dry
garments; and I must look to my little girl here, that she do not suffer
for this.”
So saying, the governor turned and departed, pressing the little
lifeless one more closely in his arms.
His disappearance was the signal for the dispersion of the group, the
young members of which turned toward their homes, much sobered in
spirits from the accident here related.
Following Governor H. to his home, we will leave him a moment and pause
to describe that rustic dwelling. It was situated at some little
distance from the main village, and was of larger size than most of the
cottages there. Like them, however, it bore the same rural name, though
it looked more like an English villa of some pretensions. On each side
of a graceful portico stretched piazzas, covered in summer with roses
and woodbine, while the neat enclosure in front, surrounded by its white
paling, bloomed richly with American plants and shrubbery. At this
season, however, the roses were dead, and the shrubbery lifeless; and
the frozen ground of the well-kept walk rung under the tread of the
stout governor, as he flung open the gate and rapidly approached the
house.
The brilliant lustre of the brass-knocker, the white and spotless
door-step, and the immaculate neatness of every thing around, were types
of the prevailing habits of the proprietors.
At the door, awaiting Governor H.’s arrival with great anxiety depicted
on their faces, stood two female figures, the one being a genteel
matron, somewhat advanced in years, and the other a young lady of less
than twenty summers.
“Relieve yourselves of your apprehensions,” said the governor, in a loud
voice, as soon as he came within speaking distance. “She had merely
fainted from fright, and seems to be even now gradually recovering.”
“The Lord be praised!” exclaimed the ladies, advancing to the steps of
the portico to meet him.
They entered the house together. In a moment the fainting child was laid
upon a couch, and being quickly attired in dry clothing, restoratives
were actively applied. The elder female chafed her small, chilled palms
in her own, while the younger administered a warm drink to her frozen
lips.
After a short time she unclosed her eyes, smiled faintly, and throwing
her dimpled arms around the neck of the young lady who bent over her,
burst into tears. “My dear sister,” she said, faintly, “I dreamed that I
had gone to Heaven, where I heard sweet music, and saw little children
like myself, with golden crowns upon their heads, and beautiful lyres in
their hands.”
“God has not called thee there yet. He has kindly spared thee to us a
little longer,” said the young person to whom she spoke, stooping down
and kissing her tenderly, while she, in like manner, relieved herself by
a flood of tears.
“The Almighty is very merciful,” said the matron, wiping her eyes, while
something like a moisture hung upon the lashes of the governor’s
piercing orbs, and dimmed their usual keenness.
“I am not ill, uncle, aunt, Lucy, and we need none of us cry,” said the
child, with the fickleness of an April day and the elasticity of her
years, instantly changing her tears for smiles. “See, I am able to get
up,” she added, disentangling herself from the embrace of her whom she
had called her sister, and sitting upon the side of the couch.
At that moment a shadow without attracted her attention. “There is Mr.
Elmore, Lucy!” she exclaimed, with childish glee.
The young lady had barely time to wipe away the traces of her recent
emotion, when a tall figure crossed the portico and entered the room
without ceremony. The new comer was a young man in the bloom of youth.
As he entered, he lifted his hat, and a quantity of fair brown hair fell
partially over a commanding forehead. His features were handsome, and
his aspect both manly and prepossessing.
The governor and his wife advanced and greeted him cordially, while the
blush that mantled on the of Lucy Ellet, as she half rose and extended
her hand to him, told that a sentiment warmer than mere friendship
existed between them.
“Where is the young heroine of this accident, which I hear had well nigh
proved fatal?” asked the stranger, after he had exchanged
congratulations with the rest.
The little Jessy, who had at first shrunk away with the bashfulness of
childhood, here timidly advanced. The stranger smiled, stroked her soft
ringlets, kissed her fair brow, and she nestled herself in his breast.
The whole party drawing near the fire, an interesting specimen was now
exhibited of those social and endearing habits of the early settlers
peculiar to their intercourse.
The simple room and furniture were eloquent of the poetry of home. Not
decorated by any appendages of mere show, whatever could contribute to
sterling comfort was exhibited in every node and corner of the
good-sized apartment. The broad, inviting couch on which the rescued
child had lain was placed opposite the chimney. The heavy book-case,
containing the family library, occupied a deep recess to the right. On
the left was a side-board, groaning with plate, the remains of English
wealth. The large, round dining-table, polished as a mirror, stood in
its customary place in the centre of the room. Two great arm-chairs,
covered with chintz and garnished with rockers—the seats belonging to
the heads of the family—filled a space on either side of the hearth,
within which burned a huge turf fire, that threw its kindly warmth to
the remotest walls. Over the mantel-piece hung a full-length miniature
portrait of the first Protector of the British Commonwealth. Coiled on a
thick rug before the fire lay a large Angola cat. A mastiff dog had so
far overcome his natural antipathy to her race, as to keep her company
on the other side; while the loud breathings of both evinced the depth
of their slumbers.
The huge arm-chair on the left was the throne of the governor. There he
received and dispatched the documents pertaining to his office. There
also he wrote his letters, read his papers, received his visiters,
conversed with his friends, and chatted with his family. There, besides,
he gave excellent advice to such of the members of the settlement as
needed it: and there, above all, arose morning and evening the voice of
his pious worship.
The lesser arm-chair on the right was the seat of Mrs. H., who, in like
manner, had her established routine of duties which she discharged
there, with not less laudable exactness and fidelity. Nor was there at
any time a more pleasing feature in the whole apartment than her
motherly figure and cheerful visage fixed within its comfortable
embrace.
While the party were agreeably engaged in conversation they were
suddenly interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
“Who can that be?” said the governor. “Will you ask who knocks, Mr.
Elmore?”
The latter rose and unlatched the door, when two figures crossed the
threshold.
“Pray pardon us,” said one of the new comers, in a courteous voice, “but
having business of importance with the governor, we have ventured to
intrude,” and he lifted his hat with something of foreign urbanity.
The speaker was not handsome, but there was a certain elegance in his
air, and intelligence in his countenance that were agreeable. He was
clad in a velvet traveling-dress, and possessed an address greatly
superior to any of the villagers, at the same time that his height and
the breadth of his muscular limbs were calculated to induce that
admiration which the appearance of great strength in his sex always
inspires.
His companion was totally different in all outward respects—being a man
of about fifty years of age, attired in a garb which was chiefly
distinguished by an affectation of ill-assorted finery. A colored silk
handkerchief, in which glittered a large paste brooch, was twisted
around his neck, and his breeches were ornamented with plated buckles.
His harsh countenance was traced with furrows, while his hair fell over
a low and forbidding brow, on which hung a heavy frown, unrelieved by
any pleasing expression of the other features.
“Walk in, gentlemen, and approach the fire,” said Governor H., rising
and eyeing the strangers with a keen and rather dissatisfied glance.
In drawing near the younger gallant cast an unsuppressed look of
admiration upon Lucy Ellet, that caused her to bend down her sparkling
eyes, which had previously been fixed on himself and his companion with
an arch expression of penetrating curiosity.
It was not surprising that the attention of the stranger had been
attracted by the appearance of this young lady, for, like the little
Jessy, she was endowed with a more than ordinary share of personal
attractions. Yet it must be admitted that the styles of their beauty
were of an exactly opposite cast. One of those singular freaks of Nature
which sometimes creates children of the same parents in the most
dissimilar mould, seemed to have operated in their case to produce two
sisters as unlike in every particular relating to outward appearance as
possible.
While the young countenance of Jessy was of the tenderest and softest
Madonna cast, her eyes of a delicate azure, and the light golden locks
parted upon a fair brow, like a gleam of sunshine upon a hill of snow,
her sister’s face was precisely the opposite. Lucy’s complexion, indeed,
was of the darkest hue ever seen in maidens of English birth, yet
mantled withal by so rich a shade of color, that for many it might have
possessed a greater charm than the fairness of a blonde. Her hair was
black as night; and her eyes, of the same hue, were never excelled in
lustre or beauty by the loveliest damsels of Spain. Her countenance was
of a lively and expressive character, in which spirit and wit seemed to
predominate; and the quick, black eye, with its beautifully penciled
brow, seemed to presage the arch remark to which the rosy and half
smiling lip appeared ready to give utterance.
“We have ridden far,” said the younger stranger, breaking the silence
which ensued when they had taken seats, and turning his eye again on
Lucy, as though he hoped to elicit a reply to his remark.
He was not disappointed. “May I ask,” said she, “what distance you have
come?”
“We left Massachusetts a couple of days ago,” he replied, “and have been
at hard riding ever since.”
“You spoke of business, gentlemen,” remarked the governor, rather
impatiently; “will you be so good as to proceed with the object of your
visit?”
“I address Governor H., sir, I presume?” said the ill-looking stranger,
speaking for the first time.
He signified ascent.
“Our business is official and private,” continued the speaker, in a
voice harsh and unpleasant, looking around uneasily at the spectators.
“All affairs with me are conducted in the presence of my family,” said
the governor drily.
“It is imperative, sir, that we see you alone,” urged the other, in a
dictatorial tone.
“Will you look whether there is a good fire in your little sanctum?”
said her uncle to Lucy, giving her at the same time a significant
glance, and having referred in his remark to a small room adjoining,
where Lucy not unfrequently repaired, surrounded by numbers of the
village children—with whom she was a general favorite—to dress their
dolls, cover their balls, and perform other similar acts. Here, too, she
retired for the purpose of reading, writing, and other occasions of
privacy. More than all, it was the spot sacred to an hour’s conversation
with Mr. Elmore apart from the rest of the family during his visits.
The little Jessy anticipated Lucy, just as she was rising, and opened
the door leading to the room spoken of.
“The fire burns brightly, uncle,” said the child.
“Will you walk in here with me, gentlemen?” said the governor.
The two strangers rose, and Governor H. held the door until they had
preceded him into the room. Going in last, he threw another expressive
glance at Lucy, and followed them, leaving the door ajar.
Lucy, with the quickness of her character, read in her uncle’s look that
he wished her to overhear the conversation about to take place between
himself and his visiters. Moving her chair, therefore, near the half
open door, while her lover was engaged in speaking with her aunt, and
playing at the same time with the soft curls of the fair Jessy, who was
leaning on his knee, she applied herself to listen.
“Your names first, gentlemen: you have not yet introduced yourselves,”
said her uncle’s voice.
“Mr. Dale,” replied the pleasing tones of the young stranger who had
spoken on their first entrance, “and Mr. Brooks.”
“Be seated, then, Messrs. Dale and Brooks,” observed the governor, “and
have the kindness to proceed in unfolding the nature of your errand.”
“I am the bearer of these documents for you,” said the harsh voice of
him who had been introduced as Mr. Brooks.
Lucy here heard the rattling of paper, as though the governor were
unfolding a letter. He proceeded to read aloud:
“The bearers, James Brooks and Thomas Dale, having been empowered by His
Majesty, in the enclosed warrant, to seize the persons of the escaped
regicides, Lisle and Heath, you are hereby desired, not only to permit
said Brooks and Dale to make thorough search throughout your colony, but
likewise to furnish them with every facility for that purpose; it being
currently believed that the said regicides are secreted in New Haven.
ENDICOTT,
_Governor of Massachusetts Colony_.”
There was now again a rattling, as if occasioned by the unfolding of
paper. The governor continued:
“Whereas, Henry Lisle and William Heath, of the city of London, having
been confined under charge of treason and rebellion, have made their
escape—and whereas it is believed they have fled to our possessions in
America, we do hereby authorize and appoint our true and loyal subjects,
James Brooks and Thomas Dale, to make diligent search throughout all the
New England colonies for the said traitors and rebels. Moreover we do
hereby command our subjects, the governors and deputy-governors of said
colonies, to aid and abet by all possible means their capture and
imprisonment: And we do hereby denounce as rebels any who may secrete or
harbor said Lisle and Heath, in the accomplishing of this our royal
mandate.”
Lucy heard her uncle clear his throat after he had ceased reading, and
there was a moment’s pause.
“It will be impossible,” said he at length, “Messrs. Brooks and Dale,
for me to act officially in this matter until I have convened the
magistrates of the colony.”
“I see no necessity for any thing of the kind,” said Mr. Brooks, in an
irritated tone.
“Nevertheless, there exists a very great necessity,” answered the
governor, decidedly; “so much so, that as I have said, it will be
utterly out of the question for me to proceed independently in relation
to the affair.”
“How soon, then, can this convocation be summoned?”
“Not certainly before twenty-four hours from this time,” replied the
governor: “or perhaps a day later. You are aware that the meeting will
have to take place in New Haven, which is twenty miles distant.”
“We might easily proceed there at once, and reach the place in time to
call a convention, and settle the affair to-night,” urged Mr. Brooks,
dictatorially.
“I am a slow man, and cannot bring myself to be in a hurry. One night
can make no possible difference, and to-morrow I will call a meeting of
the magistrates.”
Lucy here arose and approached a door leading to the outer piazza. Her
lover’s eye followed her graceful figure with a feeling of pride as she
crossed the room. She turned at the door, and seeking his eye ere she
closed it, gave him a signal to follow her.
In some surprise, he instantly obeyed.
“Henry,” she said earnestly, and in a low voice, as if fearing that some
one might chance to be near, “Henry, I have overheard what has passed
between my uncle and his visiters. The latter are persons commissioned
by King Charles to apprehend the escaped prisoners who have taken refuge
in New Haven. They wish to obtain authority for their arrest and
re-imprisonment, as well as for making a strict search throughout the
colony, and will probably obtain this to-morrow. What do you think can
be done in this emergency?”
“I scarce know what to say, dear Lucy,” said he, as he took her hand
involuntarily, and seemed to be reflecting deeply on her words.
“Could not you,” resumed Lucy, “return at once to New Haven, and apprise
the exiles of their danger?”
“Excellent: I will set out at once.”
“I have thought of a place of security for them likewise,” continued
Lucy, and she drew nearer and whispered a word in his ear.
“Admirable girl!” exclaimed her lover, delightedly. “Why, Lucy, I
believe you are inspired by the Almighty for the exigencies of this
moment. But I must depart without delay.”
“Yes,” said Lucy, “there is not an instant’s time to be lost; and I will
contrive to detain the officers until you are too far on your way for
them to overtake you, in case they should design proceeding to New Haven
to-night.”
He pressed her hand affectionately to his lips, and was gone.
Lucy returned into the room she had left just at the moment that her
uncle and the strangers re-entered.
“Your visiters, uncle, will probably remain and take some refreshment,”
said she, as she perceived they were about to depart, and giving him at
the same time an arch look to second her invitation. “Tea will be in a
short time, gentlemen,” she added, fixing her eyes on the younger
stranger with such a coquettish urgency as to make her appeal
irresistible.
“Take seats, gentlemen,” said the governor, in a more cordial tone than
he had yet assumed.
“I thank you,” said Mr. Brooks, “but we will—”
“We will remain,” interrupted Mr. Dale, giving a wink to his companion,
and turning toward the fire.
Mr. Brooks had no alternative but to follow his example; and the
governor and his wife held him in conversation, while Lucy exerted all
her powers of entertainment for the benefit of Mr. Dale. The little
Jessy, more wearied than usual in consequence of her late adventure,
fell asleep upon the couch, and did not awake until tea was over, and
the visiters had departed.
True to his promise, early on the following morning Governor H. set out
for New Haven, and convened the magistrates of the colony. After a short
consultation, the determination was arrived at, that the exiled
regicides not having violated any of the laws by which the community was
governed, were not subject to arrest under their order. But to that part
of the mandate authorising a search to be made, and prohibiting a
secretion of the offenders, they paid loyal respect, and the sanctity of
every house resigned and exposed to the inquisition of the officers.
Their search, however, was unsuccessful, and they set out the next
morning on their return to Massachusetts.