Hope Leslie. Catharine Maria Sedgwick
the litter, and bounded forward.
The friends met. Mr Pynchon covered his face, and groaned aloud. “What has happened to my family?” demanded Mr Fletcher. “My wife? – my son? – my little ones? – Oh! speak – God give me grace to hear thee!”
In vain Mr Pynchon essayed to speak – he could find no words to soften the frightful truth. Mr Fletcher turned his horse’s head towards Bethel, and was proceeding to end, himself, the insupportable suspense, when his friend, seizing his arm, cried – “Stop, stop – go not thither – thy house is desolate” – and then, half-choked with groans and sobs, he unfolded the dismal story.
Not a sound, nor a sigh, escaped the blasted man. He seemed to be turned into stone, till he was roused by the wild shrieks of the little girl, who, unobserved, had listened to the communication of Mr Pynchon.
“Take the child with you,” he said – “I shall go to my house. If – if my boy returns, send a messenger instantly; otherwise, suffer me to remain alone till tomorrow.”
He passed on, without appearing to hear the cries and entreaties of Hope Leslie, who, forcibly detained by Mr Pynchon, screamed, “Oh! take me – take me with you – there are but us two left – I will not go away from you!” but at last, finding resistance useless, she yielded, and was conveyed to the village, where she was received by her aunt Grafton, whose grief was as noisy and communicative, as Mr Fletcher’s had been silent, and unexpressed by any of the forms of sorrow.
Early on the following morning, Mr Pynchon, attended by several others, men and women, went to Bethel to offer their sympathy and service. They met Jennet at the door, who, greatly relieved by the sight of human faces, and ears willing to listen, informed them, that immediately after her master’s arrival, he had retired to the apartment that contained the bodies of the deceased, charging her not to intrude on him.
A murmur of apprehension ran around the circle. “It was misjudged to leave him here alone,” whispered one. “It is not every man, though his faith stand as a mountain in his prosperity, that can bear to have the Lord put forth his hand, and touch his bone and his flesh.”
“Ah!” said another, “my heart misgave me when Mr Pynchon told us how calm he took it; such a calm as that is like the still dead waters that cover the lost cities – quiet is not the nature of the creature, and you may be sure that unseen havoc and ruin are underneath.”
“The poor dear gentleman should have taken something to eat or drink,” said a little plump, full-fed lady; “there is nothing so feeding to grief as an empty stomach. Madam Holioke, do not you think it would be prudent for us to guard with a little cordial and a bit of spiced cake – if this good girl can give it to us,” looking at Jennet. “The dear lady that’s gone was ever thrifty in her housewifery, and I doubt not she hath left such witnesses behind.”
Mrs Holioke shook her head, and a man of a most solemn and owl aspect, who sat between the ladies, turned to the last speaker and said, in a deep guttural tone, “Judy, thou shouldst not bring thy carnal propensities to this house of mourning – and perchance of sin. Where the Lord works, Satan worketh also, tempting the wounded. I doubt our brother Fletcher hath done violence to himself. He was ever of a proud – that is to say, a peculiar and silent make – and what won’t bend, will break.”
The suggestion in this speech communicated alarm to all present. Several persons gathered about Mr Pynchon. Some advised him to knock at the door of the adjoining apartment; others counselled forcing it if necessary. While each one was proffering his opinion, the door opened from within, and Mr Fletcher came among them.
“Do you bring me any news of my son?” he asked Mr Pynchon.
“None, my friend – the scouts have not yet returned.”
Till this question was put and answered, there was a tremulousness of voice, a knitting of the brow, and a variation of colour, that indicated the agitation of the sufferer’s soul; but then a sublime composure overspread his countenance and figure. He noticed every one present with more than his usual attention, and to a superficial observer, one who knew not how to interpret his mortal paleness, the wild melancholy of his glazed eye and his rigid muscles, which had the inflexibility and fixedness of marble, he might have appeared to be suffering less than any person present. Some cried outright – some stared with undisguised and irrepressible curiosity – some were voluble in the expression of their sympathy, while a few were pale, silent, and awestruck. All these many coloured feelings fell on Mr Fletcher like light on a black surface – producing no change – meeting no return. He stood leaning on the mantelpiece, till the first burst of feeling was over – till all, insensibly yielding to his example, became quiet, and the apartment was as still as that in which death held his silent dominion.
Mr Pynchon then whispered to him. “My friend, bear your testimony now – edify us with a seasonable word, showing that you are not amazed at your calamity – that you counted the cost before you undertook to build the Lord’s building in the wilderness. It is suitable that you should turn your affliction to the profit of the Lord’s people.”
Mr Fletcher felt himself stretched on a rack, that he must endure with a martyr’s patience; he lifted up his head and with much effort spoke one brief sentence – a sentence which contains all that a Christian could feel, or the stores of language could express – he uttered, “God’s will be done!” and then hurried away, to hide his struggles in solitude.
Relieved from the restraint of his presence, the company poured forth such moral, consoling, and pious reflections as usually flow spontaneously from the lips of the spectators of suffering; and which would seem to indicate that each individual has a spare stock of wisdom and patience for his neighbour’s occasions, though, through some strange fatality, they are never applied to his own use.
We hope our readers will not think we have wantonly sported with their feelings, by drawing a picture of calamity that only exists in the fictitious tale. No – such events, as we have feebly related, were common in our early annals, and attended by horrors that it would be impossible for the imagination to exaggerate. Not only families but villages, were cut off by the most dreaded of all foes – the ruthless, vengeful savage.
In the quiet possession of the blessings transmitted, we are, perhaps, in danger of forgetting, or undervaluing the sufferings by which they were obtained. We forget that the noble pilgrims lived and endured for us – that when they came to the wilderness, they said truly, though it may be somewhat quaintly, that they turned their backs on Egypt – they did virtually renounce all dependence on earthly supports – they left the land of their birth – of their homes – of their father’s sepulchres – they sacrificed ease and preferment, and all the delights of sense – and for what? – to open for themselves an earthly paradise? – to dress their bowers of pleasure and rejoice with their wives and children? No – they came not for themselves – they lived not to themselves. An exiled and suffering people, they came forth in the dignity of the chosen servants of the Lord, to open the forests to the sunbeam, and to the light of the Sun of Righteousness – to restore man – man oppressed and trampled on by his fellow; to religious and civil liberty, and equal rights – to replace the creatures of God on their natural level – to bring down the hills, and make smooth the rough places, which the pride and cruelty of man had wrought on the fair creation of the Father of all.
What was their reward? Fortune? – distinctions? – the sweet charities of home? No – but their feet were planted on the mount of vision, and they saw, with sublime joy, a multitude of people where the solitary savage roamed the forest – the forest vanished, and pleasant villages and busy cities appeared – the tangled footpath expanded to the thronged highway – the consecrated church planted on the rock of heathen sacrifice.
And that we might realize this vision – enter into this promised land of faith – they endured hardship, and braved death – deeming, as said one of their company, that “he is not worthy to live at all, who, for fear or danger of death, shunneth his country’s service, or his own honour – since death is inevitable and the fame of virtue immortal.”
If these were the fervors of enthusiasm,