It is necessary that we should go back in the details of our story, in order to give our readers the antecedents of the characters which we have so unceremoniously brought upon the stage of action, and that we may show the locality of our history.
The State of Maine, it must be remembered, was permanently settled so early as 1616, and it is most probable in the spring of that year, by Sir Richard Vines, the friend and companion of Sir Ferdinando Gorges, of Raleigh Gilbert, and the unfortunate Sir Walter Raleigh, the half-brother of the latter. We say permanently, because there is no testimony of his having abandoned the colony he had thus founded, and there is abundant record of his movements, his enterprise and his history, till it was finally incorporated into the Plymouth charter.
Sir Richard Vines was a stanch Tory and Episcopalian, and as he was a fearless man, robust and hearty in character, he was not likely to greatly swerve from those principles inherent to his rank; hence, it may be inferred he was not over popular with the no less unflinching Puritan radicals of the Presbyterian order at the Plymouth colony.
The wife of Sir Richard Vines, the Lady Joanna, was sister to the wife of Sir Walter Raleigh. Hence, in removing from the old world, the interests of the family were by no means dissevered from “merry old England,” as they were wont to tenderly call the “Fatherland.”
I must describe somewhat the location chosen by Sir Richard Vines for his habitation, that my readers may the better understand portions of our story.
It stood at the head of what is called the Pool, a sheet of water resembling in shape the Mediterranean sea as seen upon the maps. Indeed, it is a counterpart of the Mediterranean diminished vastly in size. The Pool is separated from the outside waves of the Atlantic by a long ridge or reef of sand, of more than a mile in extent—this reef hemming it in from the ocean, gives place to a beautiful inland basin, which is entered by a narrow strait, as if it were a young Gibraltar. Once in, the waters expand, and spread themselves with complacency at their successful attempt tooceanizeupon a small scale.
Nothing can be conceived more daintily picturesque than the scenery surrounding the Pool. There are no marshes—no malaria of fogs; all is fresh, clear white sand—a long ocean reach, and the grand overhanging woods giving a pathway to the resounding Saco, or broken here and there by esplanades of green meadows, where the deer and her young disport themselves, and the beaver constructs his half-human habitation.
At the head of this beautiful sheet of water, as we have said, lived Sir Richard Vines; in a wilderness of thousands of miles, visited occasionally by some adventurous ship from the old world, or from the island of Barbadoes by some trader in fish, which had already become a valuable staple. His little boat rocked securely within the Pool, while his trusty followers joined him in the chase, or went on long fishing and exploring expeditions.
A frank, impulsive man, he gave and inspired confidence; brave himself, he repelled the aggressor, simply by the force of his presence. Just and kind in all his dealings with them, the Indians came and went about his premises exciting no fear, and conscious of no distrust.
Besides the castle of Sir Richard, there sprung up immediately about it, the less pretentious houses of his followers, and cabins constructed by occasional traders, to say nothing of the bark wigwams of the Indians, which clustered here and there near the river, the friendly owners of which gave the adventurers many a lesson in hunting the wild denizens of the forest, or spearing and netting the treasures of the water.
Mistress Joanna was an intrepid as well as handsome dame, who entered warmly into all the pursuits of her husband, while at the same time she had a certain self-distrust, most winning and lovely in a woman who finds herself allied to a wise, protective husband, whose authority she is proud to accept with wifely tenderness, and womanly grace.
We must now describe an incident which occurred toward the close of the year 1618, which is too intimately associated with the character of our heroine to be passed by in silence.
It was a gusty, raw twilight near the end of October. A fall of rain, with now and then a “spit of snow,” had made a gloomy day in that cold region; the gorgeous autumnal trees were fast scattering their rainbow baldrick to the earth, and the summer birds, long away upon their pilgrimage to sunnier skies, were replaced only by the little snow-birds, which pecked about the piazza, darted from branch to branch of the denuded trees, content and joyous in themselves at a time when nature is a very niggard of her favors.
A ship was hourly expected from England, and recent intelligence of a more favorable view taken by the court of the case of Sir Walter Raleigh, (who had been imprisoned in the Tower of London,) had awakened not only a hope of his release, but even a hope that the ship might bring him out to the home so affectionately provided for him by his brother-in-law. So strongly had this hope wrought upon the mind of Mistress Vines, that she had even caused fires to be built in the “Raleigh rooms,” and had hung evergreens and rubyberries along the rafters, amid silken drapery and snowy linen, till the apartment wore a look not only of warmth and comfort, but of sumptuous elegance also.
She stood in the center of the room, dreamily contemplating the glowing, crackling flame upon the hearth, and feasting her thoughts with the sweet hope of a union with her sister Raleigh, when she was conscious of a shadowy outline that passed before her,and a drop of blood fell upon her hand. Cold rigors lifted her hair upon her head; her eyes distended; and with a loud shriek she fell convulsed upon the floor.
When consciousness returned, she desired to be left alone with Sir Richard, to whom she related the cause of her sudden attack.
“I am fully persuaded,” she went on to say, “that the worst has come upon our brother, and we have been deceived by a base court, and lying officials.”
Sir Richard tried to soothe her with better hopes, but in vain. Calling her old nurse to her side, he strove by every means to restore her to warmth and her wonted cheer; but, day by day she sickened, and at length in the Raleigh rooms became the mother of a daughter. This circumstance, while it restored her to a more equable and healthful state of mind, did not dispel the impression which had produced the attack. It is needless to say that the next ship brought out the fatal news of the beheading of Sir Walter Raleigh, upon that 29th of October, so well remembered by Mistress Vines.
She named her little one Hope, with a sad irony. She was a small, weird-looking baby, with large, dark-gray eyes, and skin white, even waxen white; never did the least tinge of the rose visit the cheek. Her eyes were shaded by long, black lashes, but, as she grew, it became evident that her hair was to besnowy white. It would seem that this feature of the human frame being more volatile than all others, is the one most likely to be affected with change, and that that moment of horror, which had struck the mother to the earth, changed forever the color of her child’s hair, and blanched its cheek to a perpetual paleness.
Years passed, and sons and daughters graced the mansion of Sir Richard Vines; fair, even beautiful were the children, trained to all gentle usages by the father and mother, andfinally they were sent to England to be “finished” and presented at court, for the true Englishman never neglects the duties of his birth, or the privileges of his rank.
Little Hope had reached the age of seventeen. She was exceedingly diminutive in stature, but most exquisitely formed. Her cheek was still colorless, and her long, abundant hair still white; but this, while it gave a peculiarity, did not detract from her beauty. Sometimes the sisters of Hope would call her “white head,” a term which she resented in a manner unwonted to her character, in which was no ingredient of vanity.
It was evident that she considered her hair a sacred badge, and tenderly associated with the fate of her uncle Raleigh; hence, any jest aimed at this peculiarity not only shocked her reverence, but offended her taste. She held long and solemn talks with the old English nurse, Aunt Sallie, about the period of her birth, and the cruel death of Sir Walter, and the good creature did not fail to impress her mind with her own superstitious belief in the supernatural omen which we have heretofore related.
“Your hair is a mark, my pretty darling,” she would say; “it is a mark, and you are none the worse for it. Not one of your sisters can compare with my pretty, for handsome looks, with all their airs.”
It was evident that Hope was the favorite of Aunt Sallie, who sometimes conceived that the child was not fully appreciated by the members of the household, whose characters circled within the more ordinarily understood limits. Hope was freakish and petulant, Aunt Sallie would exclaim:
“And why shouldn’t she have her own way! Surely she is pretty enough to have it, andIsee no fault to be found with her.”
Indeed, Aunt Sallie had little cause for complaint, as all the freaks of Hope were patiently tolerated, and her peculiar, but most abundant hair accepted as no detriment to her good looks. At home these peculiarities were less dangerous to her than they were hereafter to become to her abroad.
The Indians around her saw and turned again and again to mark those lips, of that ruby red which goes with perfect health; black, perfectly arched brows, and long, dark lashes,shading eyes of wonderful brilliancy and depth of expression. The whole aspect of her beauty, while it was artistic, would have presented also the idea of something preternatural, even to those less impressible by such things than the Indian.
We will now resume the thread of our narrative.