Hope Leslie. Catharine Maria Sedgwick
Table of Contents
“There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks that now are still;
There are seats left void in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill.”
Mrs Hemans
Magawisca rose from her sleepless pillow to join the family at prayers, her mind distracted with opposing fears, which her face, the mirror of her soul, too truly reflected.
Mrs Fletcher observed her narrowly, and confirmed in her forebodings by the girl’s apprehensive countenance, and still farther by Digby’s report of her behaviour during the night, she resolved to dispatch him to Mr Pynchon for his advice and assistance, touching her removal to the fort, or the appointment of a guard for Bethel. Her servant, (who prudently kept his alarm to himself, knowing, as he said, that a woman’s fears were always ahead of danger) applauded her decision, and was on the point of proceeding to act upon it, when a messenger arrived with the joyful tidings, that Mr Fletcher was within a few hours ride of Bethel. And the intelligence, no less joyful to Dame Grafton, that with his luggage, already arrived at the village, was a small box of millinery, which she had ordered from London.
Mrs Fletcher feeling, as good wives do, a sense of safety from the proximity of her husband, bade Digby defer any new arrangement till he had the benefit of his master’s counsel. The whole house was thrown into the commotion so common in a retired family, when an arrival is about to interrupt the equable current of life. Whatever unexpressed and superior happiness some others might have felt, no individual made such bustling demonstrations as Mrs Grafton. It was difficult to say which excited her most, the anticipation of seeing her niece, Hope Leslie, or of inspecting the box of millinery.
Immediately after dinner, two of the menservants were despatched to the village to transport their master’s luggage. They had hardly gone when Mrs Grafton recollected that her box contained a present for Madam Holioke, which it would be a thousand pities to have brought to Bethel, and lie there, perhaps a week before it would be sent to her, and ‘she would like of all things, if Mrs Fletcher saw no objection, to have the pony saddled and ride to the village herself, where the present could be made forthwith.’
Mrs Fletcher was too happy to throw a shadow across any one’s path, and wearied too, perhaps, with Mrs Grafton’s fidgetting, (for the good dame had all day been wondering whether her confidential agent had matched her orange satin; how she had trimmed her cap, &c. &c. &c.) she ordered a horse to be saddled and brought to the door. The animal proved a little restive, and Mrs Grafton, not excelling in horsemanship, became alarmed and begged that Digby might be allowed to attend her.
Digby’s cleverness was felt by all the household, and his talents were always in requisition for the miscellaneous wants of the family; but Digby, like good servants in every age, was aware of his importance, and was not more willing than a domestic of the present day, to be worked like a machine. He muttered something of “old women’s making fools of themselves with new topknots,” and saying aloud, that “Mistress Grafton knew it was his master’s order, that all the menservants should not be away from the place at the same time,” he was turning off, when Mrs Fletcher, who was standing at the door observing him, requested him with more authority than was usual in her manner, to comply with Mrs Grafton’s request.
“I would not wish,” said Digby, still hesitating, “to disoblige Mistress Grafton – if it were a matter of life and death,” he added, lowering his voice; “but to get more furbelows for the old lady when with what she has already, she makes such a fool of herself, that our young witlings, Master Everell and Oneco, garnish out our old Yorkshire hen with peacock’s feathers and dandelions, and then call her, ‘Dame Grafton in a flurry.’”
“Hush, Digby!” said Mrs Fletcher, “it ill fits you to laugh at such fooleries in the boys – they shall be corrected, and do you learn to treat your master’s friend with respect.”
“Come – come, Digby,” screamed Mrs Grafton.
“Shall I go and break my master’s orders?” asked Digby, still bent on having his own way.
“For this once you shall, Digby,” answered Mrs Fletcher, “and if you need an apology to your master, I shall not fail to make it.”
“But if any thing should happen to you, Mistress Fletcher” –
“Nothing will happen, my good Digby. Is not your master at hand? and an hour or two will be the extent of your absence. So, get thee along without more ado.”
Digby could not resist any farther the authority of his gentle mistress, and he walked by the side of Mrs Grafton’s pony, with slow unwilling steps.
All was joy in Mrs Fletcher’s dwelling. “My dear mother,” said Everell, “it is now quite time to look out for father and Hope Leslie. I have turned the hour-glass three times since dinner, and counted all the sands I think. Let us all go on the front portico where we can catch the first glimpse of them, as they come past the elm trees. Here, Oneco,” he continued, as he saw assent in his mother’s smile, “help me out with mother’s rocking-chair – rather rough rocking,” he added as he adjusted the rockers lengthwise with the logs that served for the flooring – “but mother won’t mind trifles just now. Ah! blessed baby brother,” he continued, taking in his arms the beautiful infant – “you shall come too, even though you cheat me out of my birthright, and get the first embrace from father.” Thus saying, he placed the laughing infant in his go-cart, beside his mother. He then aided his little sisters in their arrangement of the playthings they had brought forth to welcome and astonish Hope; and finally he made an elevated position for Faith Leslie, where she might, he said, as she ought, catch the very first glimpse of her sister.
“Thank, thank you, Everell,” said the little girl as she mounted her pinnacle; “if you knew Hope, you would want to see her first too – every body loves Hope. We shall always have pleasant times when Hope gets here.”
It was one of the most beautiful afternoons at the close of the month of May. The lagging spring had at last come forth in all her power; her “work of gladness” was finished, and forests, fields, and meadows were bright with renovated life. The full Connecticut swept triumphantly on, as if still exulting in its release from the fetters of winter. Every gushing rill had the spring-note of joy. The meadows were, for the first time, enriched with patches of English grain, which the new settlers had sown, scantily, by way of experiment, prudently occupying the greatest portion of the rich mould, with the native Indian corn. This product of our soil is beautiful in all its progress, from the moment, when as now it studded the meadow with hillocks, shooting its bright-pointed spear from its mother earth, to its maturity, when the long golden ear bursts from the rustling leaf.
The grounds about Mrs Fletcher’s house had been prepared with the neatness of English taste; and a rich bed of clover that overspread the lawn immediately before the portico, already rewarded the industry of the cultivators. Over this delicate carpet, the domestic fowls, the first civilized inhabitants of the country, of their tribe, were now treading, picking their food here and there like dainty little epicures.
The scene had also its minstrels; the birds, those ministers and worshippers of nature, were on the wing, filling the air with melody; while, like diligent little housewifes, they ransacked forest and field for materials for their housekeeping.
A mother, encircled by healthful sporting children, is always a beautiful spectacle – a spectacle that appeals to nature in every human breast. Mrs Fletcher, in obedience to matrimonial duty, or, it may be, from some lingering of female vanity, had, on this occasion, attired herself with extraordinary care. What woman does not wish to look handsome? – in the eyes of her husband.
“Mother,” said Everell, putting aside the exquisitely fine lace that shaded her cheek, “I do not believe you looked more beautiful than you do to day when, as I have heard, they called you ‘the rose of the wilderness’ – our little Mary’s cheek is as round and as bright as a peach,