Dulcibel: A Tale of Old Salem. Henry Peterson
"He is a worshiped man indeed. Have you met the stranger yet?"
"That Ellis Raymond? No, but I hear he is something of a popinjay in his attire, and swelled up with the conceit that he is better than any of us colonists."
"I do not think so," and the girl's cheek colored a deeper red. "He seems to be a very modest young man indeed. I liked him very much."
"Oh, well, I have not seen him yet. But they say his father was a son of Belial, and fought under the tyrant at Naseby."
"But that is all over and his widowed mother is one of us."
"Hang him, what does it matter!" Then, changing his tone, and looking at her a little suspiciously. "Did Leah Herrick say anything to you against me the other night at the husking?"
"I do not allow people to talk to me against my friends," replied she earnestly.
"She was talking to you a long time I saw."
"Yes."
"It must have been an interesting subject."
"It was rather an unpleasant one to me."
"Ah!"
"She wanted me to join the 'circle' which they have just started at the minister's house. She says that old Tituba has promised to show them how the Indians of Barbados conjure and powwow, and that it will be great sport for the winter nights."
"What did you say to it?"
"I told her I would have nothing to do with such things; that I had no liking for them, and that I thought it was wrong to tamper with such matters."
"That was all she said to you?" and the young man seemed to breathe more freely.
The girl was sharp-witted—what girl is not so in all affairs of the heart?—and it was now her turn. "Leah is very handsome," she said.
"Yes—everybody says so," he replied coolly, as if it were a fact of very little importance to him, and a matter which he had thought very little about.
Dulcibel, was not one to aim all around the remark; she came at once, simply and directly to the point.
"Did you ever pay her any attentions?"
"Oh, no, not to speak of. What made you think of such an absurd thing?"
"'Not to speak of'—what do you mean?"
"Oh, I kept company with her for awhile—before you came to Salem—when we were merely boy and girl."
"There never was any troth plighted between you?"
"How foolish you are, Dulcibel! What has started you off on this track?"
"Yourself. Answer me plainly. Was there ever any love compact between you?"
"Oh, pshaw! what nonsense all this is!"
"If you do not answer me, I shall ask her this very evening."
"Of course there was nothing between us—nothing of any account—only a boy and girl affair—calling her my little wife, and that kind of nonsense."
"I think that a great deal. Did that continue up to the time I came to the village?"
"How seriously you take it all! Remember, I have your promise, Dulcibel."
"A promise on a promise is no promise—every girl knows that. If you do not answer me fully and truly, Jethro, I shall ask Leah."
"Yes," said the young man desperately "there was a kind of childish troth up to that time, but it was, as I said, a mere boy and girl affair."
"Boy and girl! You were eighteen, Jethro; and she sixteen nearly as old as Joseph Putnam and his wife were when they married."
"I do not care. I will not be bound by it; and Leah knows it."
"You acted unfairly toward me, Jethro. Leah has the prior right. I recall my troth. I will not marry you without her consent."
"You will not!" said the young man passionately—for well he knew that Leah's consent would never be given.
"No, I will not!"
"Then take your troth back in welcome. In truth, I met you here this day to tell you that. I love Leah Herrick's little finger better than your whole body with your Jezebel's bodice, and your fine lady's airs. You had better go now and marry that conceited popinjay up at Jo Putnam's, if you can get him."
With that he pushed off down the hill, and up the road, that he might not be forced to accompany her back to the village.
Dulcibel was not prepared for such a burst of wrath, and such an uncovering of the heart. Which of us has not been struck with wonder, even far more than indignation, at such times? A sudden difference occurs, and the man or the woman in whom you have had faith, and whom you have believed noble and admirable, suddenly appears what he or she really is, a very common and vulgar nature. It makes us sick at heart that we could have been so deceived.
Such was the effect upon Dulcibel. What a chasm she had escaped. To think she had really agreed to marry such a spirit as that! But fortunately it was now all over.
She not only had lost a lover, but a friend. And one day before, this also would have had its unpleasant side to her. But now she felt even a sensation of relief. Was it because this very day a new vision had entered into the charmed circle of her life? If it were so, she did not acknowledge the fact to herself; or even wonder in her own mind, why the sudden breaking of her troth-plight had not left her in a sadder humor. For she put "Little Witch" into a brisk canter, and with a smile upon her face rode into the main street of the village.
CHAPTER II.
In Which Some Necessary Information is Given.
Dulcibel Burton was an orphan. Her father becoming a little unsound in doctrine, and being greatly pleased with the larger liberty of conscience offered by William Penn to his colonists in Pennsylvania, had leased his house and lands to a farmer by the name of Buckley, and departed for Philadelphia. This was some ten years previous to the opening of our story. After living happily in Philadelphia for about eight years he died suddenly, and his wife decided to return to her old home in Salem village, having arranged to board with Goodman Buckley, whose lease had not yet expired. But in the course of the following winter she also died, leaving this only child, Dulcibel, now a beautiful girl of eighteen years. Dulcibel, as was natural, went on living with the Buckleys, who had no children of their own, and were very good-hearted and affectionate people.
Dulcibel therefore was an heiress, in a not very large way, besides having wealthy relatives in England, from some of whom in the course of years more or less might reasonably be expected. And as our Puritan ancestors were by no means blind to their worldly interests, believing that godliness had the promise of this world as well as that which is to come—the bereaved maiden became quite an object of interest to the young men of the vicinity.
I have called her beautiful, and not without good reason. With the old manuscript volume—a family heirloom of some Quaker friends of mine—from which I have drawn the facts of this narrative, came also an old miniature, the work of a well-known English artist of that period. The colors have faded considerably, but the general contour and the features are well preserved. The face is oval, with a rather higher and fuller forehead than usual; the hair, which was evidently of a rather light brown, being parted in the center, and brought down with a little variation from the strict Madonna fashion. The eyes are large, and blue. The lips rather full. A snood or fillet of blue ribbon confined her luxuriant hair. In form she was rather above the usual height of women, and slender as became her age; though with a perceptible tendency towards greater fullness with increasing years.
There