CHAPTER VI.

BER EFORE plunging into the more tragic, and perhaps the more interesting, portions of this history, I propose to sketch something of Rachel's wood-life at the cabin, in order (if for no other reason) to show how quietly happy were many of those little Salem cottages before they were struck by the witchcraft avalanche. By the middle of March, indeed, there were plenty of ghostly narratives flying between the villages; but the cabin was so far from both of them that it lay beyond the usual circuit of even the most eccentric and comet-like gossips; so that Rachel heard less to terrify her than might have been expected. The subject alarmed her at times, it is true; but, in general, she did not believe in witchcraft, because her father did not believe in it; and thus it was only after nightfall, or when she was accidentally alone, that any persistent superstitious terrors overbrooded her. Then. perhaps, she grew a shade paler, and look ed fearfully at the windows, as the stormy winds smote them, or the hooting owls filled the air without with their melancholy complaint. Like the voices of wizards, and lost spirits, and prowling fiends, seemed those wailings of fierce despair, those responses of agony, those comfortless moanings over some unutterable sin.

But for the most part, the forest befriended her with murmurs and whisperings of tenderest sympathy. Every morning was full of birds, and every noon freighted with treasures of sun

light. Her father had made her a couple of seats in the pine grove's shadiest thicknesses; and, after her simple housewifery was done, she took her sewing to these leafy hermitages and spent in them a great part of the day. At times the pine needles, awakened by the winds, sang to her in dirges and requiems; not woeful in the highest, such as organs thunder over the graves of perished mortality, but only sweetly mournful, as becomes funeral music for the leaves and flowers of by-gone summers. Robins, larks, blackbirds, and other feathered psalmists chanted and responded in hymns whose cheerful piety, as More said, the colonists would have done well to imitate. Partridges went by with a sudden whir, like gigantic shuttle-cocks, tossed by gamesome spirits. Woodpeckers hammered pertinaciously at the solemn trees, after the fashion of witches and troublesome demons bent on tormenting the elect. Crows cawed and cawed, with mocking laughter, from the chestnuts around the clearing, as if jesting with each other upon the infantine helplessness of the green corn sprouts. Then, later in the season, there came multitudes of crickets and katydids, sharply keeping up the venerable controversies which have divided, from time immemorial, those dogmatical races. An occasional cow lowed thankfully from the abundant grass in some near opening of the woodlands. The tramp of hobnailed shoes, or "great boots," went by, up or down the forest pathway. Rarely by day, but always at nine in the evening, the clamor of the shrill Salem bell reached

the cabin, sweetened by the interval it traversed, as the stern character of the Puritans comes down to us, softened by its journey over centuries.

The sounds of the day were succeeded by others peculiar to the reign of moonlight and starlight. The frogs, in summer time, held turbulent evening congresses in the grassy brook before the cabin, appearing, sometimes, to her quick imagination, as if they were celebrating the mysteries of some amphibious witch communion. Five minutes before or after sundown, the whip-poorwills began their regretful reiterations, tempting her to many groping hunts after their nests, in which she always failed, although lighted by the fire-fles. An hour later arose the sharp, irregular bark of foxes, on the look-out for their fat friends, the partridges. On the deepening flow of eventide followed the moans and whoops of the whole race of owls, hooting out their remorseful and unforgiven wickedness; and at nine came the rising and falling wave of bell music, dying, as if with its last surge, among the pine tops, and warning her to her tranquil, delicious slumber.

It was natural, amid this solitude, that Rachel should feel a desire for pets, and in her gentleness try to domesticate, instead of harming, the wild creatures around her. The only savage individuals, however, with which she could form any tolerable intimacy, were the squirrels. The gray ones, indeed, conceitedly thought themselves too much of a prize, to trust their fat sides and long furs within reach of her fingers; but the red ones and the little chipmuks were soon seduced into a most gossipy familiarity. One loquacious fellow of the red sort cottoned to her, as the Southerners say, with particular quickness. Every morning she carried out, for his personal use, a nubbin of corn, or some other article of squirrel diet. At her appearance he galloped towards her through the grass, in a zigzag of rapid motions, as if he were some kind of a bushy-tailed, four-legged streak of lightning. Halting at her feet, he would take the nubbin from her hand, balance it over a root with one paw, nibble voraciously at its hard kernels, sit up suddenly on his hind legs to rest, put his head on one side to hear the talkative wind and leaves, and then recommence his brisk and amusing little

gluttony. For a tiresome while, any attempt to take him was followed by his immediate flight; but at last he would run up her dress, dive into her lap, and contentedly eat his breakfast under her apron. He learned to know his name, Harry, and generally appeared with his capricious zigzags whenever she called him. Poor little fellow! he came to a bad end at last, and very nearly involved Rachel in his own miserable condemnation.

More constituted by far the most important part of his daughter's human society. He was around the cabin a great part of every day, and always, except in extraordinary cases, during the evening, hoeing his corn and beans, cleaning his gun, casting bullets, arranging his fishing tackle and fabricating rude specimens of household furniture. Then again, he would be gone till noon, or perhaps night, returning in most cases with a load of birds or larger game. At evening he read to Rachel, taking whiffs of tobacco between the sentences, and commenting on the volume with a mixture of humor and gravity, which amused her endlessly. The work oftenest selected was the Utopia of Sir Thomas More, a personage who was reported to be one of our hunter's very remote relatives in some by-gone generation. He translated the Utopia into English, period by period, inasmuch as Rachel knew nothing of Latin; often pausing to dilate upon the hidden wisdom of that wonderful production, and its applicability to the civilization of the human race. Оссаsionally, too, he spent hours in reverie, weaving Utopias of his own for the government of the colony, which, if they had been put into successful practice, would have made the present Yankee population the most extraordinary people that ever astonished the world by its existence.

At other times More passed an entire evening over pen and paper, trying to pin down in rhyme and measure some poetic invention. In general, he tore up his patience and his paper before he completed his Parnassian design; but sometimes he was successful in stating his idea, and then he would read the verses to Rachel. His most fortunate effort, as he thought, was the following little hymn, inscribed to Sister Ann, in memory of her buried daugh

ter:

haps, entirely forgot the circumstance, before both he and Rachel had occasion to tremble at its ultimate consequences.

But, who was it that warned Stacey not to hunt any more around the cabin? Who was it that stoned his dog, and would have whipped its owner, but for the law? Ah, Rachel! who was it that used to bring Harry nubbins of corn, and more walnuts than he ever saw before, in the whole range of squirrel experience? Was it Mark Stanton, Rachel? Yes, it was Mark, as every bird and squirrel in the grove could have sworn; let Rachel say what she would. They knew him by sight-the birds and squirrels-for they had occasion to see him at least four days out of every seven. Mark was conscious of it, too; and, I verily believe, felt ashamed to look some of these impertinent jays in the face. The very katydids seemed to change their song, and make it refer to him; maliciously repeating, for hours together, right in his burning ears, "Stanton did! Stanton didn't! Stanton did! Stanton didn't!"

Rachel must have understood them. and felt that they had some right to make these impudent observations; else, why did she blush so, occasionally, as they chirped above her and Mark, in the gathering mellowness of twilight? But, for my part, I believe that it was all a katydid fabrication. I am sure that Stanton didn't, certainly not at this period of their acquaintance. He would not have dared to attempt such a thing. I would swear that the only use he made of his lips, in her company, was to talk or whistle; and even that with very little confidence, or suc

cess.

Timid as he was, however, in the presence of Rachel, he was bold enough toward that Stacey. If they had both lived a hundred years earlier, or a hundred years later, Stacey would have caught it, without doubt; but, just then, the blackguard was protected by Puritan statutes, and the terrors of justice Hawthorne.

There were few blows given in the streets of Salem, except such as were laid on at the whippingpost, or when a grave elder cut the legs of some unlucky urchin, who forgot to make his manners. This, by the way, seldom happened; for the Puritan children were early slapped into the duty of rendering bows and courtesies not to ministers only, but to every well

dressed person who met them. A very proper habit it was, too, and one which young America of the present day would do well to imitate.

But we must return to our Mark. It was not all sunshine for him at the cabin. Sometimes he thought Rachel was distant to him; and then he was distant also, but excessively miserable. Rachel quickly noticed any such freak of reserve, and felt annoyed about it, but dared not ask an explanation. He would go away, thinking that he could never feel towards her as he had done, and that it was all over; but the next time they met, a single smile from her set everything right, and made him wonder why he was so unhappy the day before. Once he came to the cabin, resolved to ask the meaning of a conversation which she had held with Elder Noyse. Miserable upshot-he never dared open his lips on the subject. chel, in the mean time, was less steadily gay than formerly, especially when Mark was away from the cabin two days altogether; and, after every one of these absences, when she again saw him coming through the alders, her heart beat so fast, that she would get frightened, and very absurdly look the other

way.

Ra

Now, what did all this mean? Where would it naturally lead to? Ah! when two young people get in this way, I am generally afraid that it will all end in their keeping house. So thought the katydids, and they began to scream hysterically from the trees: "Keeping house!" To which the frogs in the grassy brook responded in their hoarsest bass: "Keeping house! Keeping house! Keeping house!"

While Mark was doing his best to win the heart of his wood-nymph, and the frogs and katydids were predicting him all manner of good luck, Elder Noyse, as we have just hinted, was holding suspiciously long conversations with the young damsel. As Martha Carrier said, Noyse loved handsome women, and Rachel was certainly handsome enough to draw out the entire depth and energy of his passion. She did draw them out; she fascinated him without willing it, and, even against her will; fascinated him in spite of that weird peril which he saw daily and hourly lowering upon himself and his people; until, since the landing of the Mayflower, there had not been a New

England elder more hopelessly in love than the young pastor of Salem. How he could wish to marry such a mere chit of a girl, who had not even been sobered by the solemn vows of church membership, was more than the serious and somewhat matter-of-fact people of the village could understand. However, none of them liked to interfere in the matter by remonstrance; for the elders of that time did very nearly what was right in their own eyes, like the Hebrews, when there was no judge in Israel, and so for a while the lovelorn minister went on very quietly and zealously in his courtship. But oxe evening of late May, when the air was half daylight and half moonlight, he was seen in front of the cabin, talking with a very sad earnestness of manner to Master More.

66

Nay, hear me out, sir," he said, with a slight tremor in his voice. "I propose not to have her shoulder at once such a grave responsibility. She shall have full time to prepare herself, for thus bearing, in a peculiar manner, the yoke of holiness. If you choose, let her enter some devout family in the village, and there abide a year, or two years, if needs be, in expectation and in preparation. I would recommend for that purpose the household of your sister's husband, the devout Deacon Bowson."

"Worse and worse, reverend sir," replied More. "One would imagine, from your proposition, that I am not fit to fashion the mind of my own child. It is no compliment. But I pass that by, and return to my objection. She is too young too young to marry a gentleman of your profession; too young to be betrothed to any one."

Master More," interrupted Noyse, with a growing vehemence of emotion, "I cannot be answered thus-truly I cannot. This agonizes my heart-indeed it does. I did not expect it, and it overcomes me. Let me plead with you, not to despise my affection. It is no frail-fangled fancy that you are opposing-no sudden freak of flighty desire; but, the most earnest feeling that ever I had, with regard to the things of this world. I have prayed over it, sir -yes, with groans and tears seeking direction from above, and I do believe that I have a far higher blessing than even yours on the design. Oh, sir, do not stand in the way of it."

"Elder Noyse, if I must tell you," answered More, slowly, but very resolutely, "I do not wish her to marry an elder. Her character is not fitted for such a union as that; it would crush her nature, and make her whole life unhappy! No, she shall not marry an elder."

The face of Noyse, which had passed successively through the phases of hope, surprise, disappointment and grief, now flushed with an expression very similar to anger. "Master More," said he, "are you dealing justly by your daughter, to sit in judgment on her whole future, without in the least consulting her pleasure?"

"Hold there, sir," responded More, in a tone of decided sharpness. "No man shall say that I put fetters on my child's will. I will call her; and you shall hear what she wishes from her own mouth."

He started toward the door of the cabin, as if to summon Rachel; but Noyse followed him, and, gazing earnestly in his eyes, stopped him; for it was visible in More's face that he knew, and had exactly repeated, his daughter's mind. "No," the elder murmured; “do not call her. I could not hear it from her.

Forgive my insistance. I am sufficiently answered, at least for the pres

ent."

His voice trembled, and was almost inaudible; but he steadied it again with a firmness inspired by habits of selfcontrol and a sense of priestly dignity. He observed that the shadows of evening were falling, and that he must go to his home in Salem; even as the Christian, when the shadows of death gather about him, must go to his home in heaven. He shook hands with More, turned away abruptly, and disappeared in the hazy moonlight.

"Is he gone, father?" presently asked a timid voice, almost a whisper, from one of the little front windows of the cabin.

"Ah, you are there, Rachel. Yes, he is gone. Come here and talk to me. Do you know what he wanted?"

"N-no, father," stammered Rachel, very much as if she knew all about it.

"He wanted to marry you, and I told him no. Are you sorry?"

No, father."