Dorothy the Puritan: The Story of a Strange Delusion

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Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

T. Dorothy i

II. The Wooing of the Puritan 24

Chapter I. Dorothy

Wild, gloomy forests through whose interlacing boughs the sunshine scarcely penetrated, and whose weird recesses seldom echoed to the footsteps of the white man, stretched for many miles beyond the little town, or rather hamlet, of Salem. This forest was admirable, as it displayed the grand proportions of uncultivated nature. To the homesick, pining emigrants, however, seeking an asylum in an unknown country, its mysterious, unexplored depths were tremendous obstacles to be overcome. These early pioneers, whose destiny it was to settle here, were indeed courageous souls.

It was an age of superstition. What more natural than that the Puritans should have peopled these unknown wilds with demons, witches, and strange beings, whose baleful influence, issuing from these dark retreats, spread destroying hands upon helpless humanity ?

Of the Salem of those days few vestiges remain ; two hundred years have obliterated many of the old landmarks. Our imagination must therefore come to our aid in picturing the little puritanical town and its sober citizens, with their superstitions and their straight-laced doctrines.

It is May-day in the year 1691 ; a brilliant flood of sunshine rests upon the grassy village street in long, warm, golden bars of light. A soft breeze, laden with the odor of salt, blows from the sea ; the blossoms upon the fruit-trees are expanding into pink masses of color, and all the air is filled with the kindly warmth of spring.

Before a low wooden house, built on a narrow lane that leads from the principal thoroughfare, a young girl is swinging on a wootien gate. As she swings back and forth she sings in soft, cooing tones, the notes rising clear and true. The gate creaks on its hinges as she propels it violently backward and forward, sending forth a discordant protest against such ill-usage.

The unpainted, weather-beaten house, standing

•

back some distance from the road, was two stories in height, having four windows in both upper and lower stories; the door, however, instead of being between the windows on the lower floor, was for some unaccountable reason at the end of the house, and had above it a small, roughly constructed porch.

In the front yard bloomed in straggling disorder many vines and shrubs, which later in the season would blossom into flowering beans, southernwood, lad's-love and fennel, sweet-brier, ferns, and bayberries. Back of the house lay the farm, its farthest fields terminating in a sandy beach on the shores of the harbor.

On the north side of the house grew a gigantic oak, its great branches resting upon the sloping roof, protecting the lowly, simple home from the scorching suns and beating storms : no doubt this king of the forest had been left standing when its companions fell by its side to build the farmhouse beneath it. On the south side a stately poplar reared its haughty head ; straight, unbending, giving no shade, fit emblem of the austere character of the inhabitants of the little town.

This May-day was a glorious day; to be alive was happiness ; the knowlege of having within one's self the capacity of enjoying God's great gifts made life indeed a blessing. The girl, swinging lazily back and forth upon the gate, raised her voice higher, and sent forth little trills of delight that soared upward till the birds flying above her head paused upon the wing, listened, and responded as to a loving mate.

Suddenly she stopped abruptly in her singing and turned her head. Around the corner of the house a woman came hurriedly. She was large and stout, with a florid complexion, and her eyes were dark, small, and bright. Her gray hair was drawn tightly back from her forehead. She wore a sober-colored gown of coarse cotton ; also a cap, whose frill flapped about her face. Over the gown she wore a bodice of dull-blue hoUand, and a white neckcloth was pinned across her breast. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her firm, well-rounded arms were covered with some cooking ingredients.

As she approached the girl, she cried loudly and angrily, " Dorothy Grey, thou lazy, shiftless hussy, what doest thou, wasting thy time in song and riot ? Out upon thee! I'll give thee a piece of my mind! Get thee to the well for the water." As she spoke she surveyed the girl contemptuously, resting her hands upon her hips and throwing her head back with an impatient motion.

"Aunt Martha, Fm truly sorry thou hadst to wait, yet thou knowest I sang but a little song ; it was scarce louder than the robins sing. I caused no riot ; none heard me save the little bird who did respond for very doubt but what his mate did call him."

Dorothy laughed; and when she laughed one became conscious of the wondrous beauty of her face. This beauty consisted partly in the freshness of extreme youth, her presence affecting one as does the early dawn of a morning in spring, or the pink bud of an unopened rose, the dew still upon its leaves, its sweet incense yet undiffused. Her eyes were of a translucent blue, innocent in expression, the pupils large and dark. Her hair was a light brown, gold when the sun touched it, bringing a shimmering luster to its waving confusion. Her complexion, bronzed by the sea air, was in strange contrast to the clear blue of her eyes, yet it but lent an added charm to the winsomeness of her face. Her figure, though slight and girlish, yet gave evidence of strength and endurance. She stepped down from the wooden gate, and stood irresolutely swinging her foot to and fro upon the rough garden path.

Aunt Martha glared angrily at the smiling girl, and yet her manner was partly indulgent. " I want to know if thou art going to bring that pail of water from the well or no/' she said. " Seventeen years old, and no more use than a yearling colt ! Thine uncle and I berate thee from morning till night ; it IS of no avail ; thou dost not care ; thou fliest in the face of Providence.*' She paused an instant, then continued more vehemently, " Dost not know thou must give account of all thine idle moments ? How long will thine account be ? Tell me that, Dorothy Grey."

Dorothy kept her eyes downcast ; her face was covered with a cloud of discontent, her full red lips were pouting. Then she glanced up shamefacedly, yet impatiently, at her aunt. " I care naught about the account," she muttered. " I add not up every time I swing on the gate and sing."

" I shall argue no further with thee," interrupted her aunt. " Get that water, and do not bespatter it ; bring it to the kitchen door, and hasten tfey lazy steps."

Aunt Martha finished her remarks as she walked around the side of the house to the rear door, her voice rising higher and shriller as she retreated.

Dorothy gazed a moment down the wide, straggling street, then went slowly over the grass-grown path to the well, which lay at some little distance from the house, under the shade of lilac bushes. When she reached the well she threw her hat on the grass, and commenced slowly raising the heavy sweep, preparatory to dropping the pail into the water. She made a lovely picture as she raised her strong arms to propel the sweep, the exercise bringing a bright glow to her brown cheeks, the quaint costume of the Puritan maiden lending an added grace to her pensive beauty.

Suddenly, before the pail was half filled, she dropped the pole and looked down into the well. She could see herself reflected in its clear depths, her image looking back at her like a picture out of a dark frame. She leaned over the mossy curb, and gazed long and earnestly, drawing her mouth down solemnly, then smiling archly to catch the different expressions. Once she turned her pretty head on one side, and shook her finger reproachfully at the image in the water. "Thou art an idler!*' ^^^ said. Then she placed a little bunch of dandelions that grew in the grass near by in her hair, and a spray of lilacs in her bodice, tossing her head as she admired the effect. Then she laughed softly a little cooing laugh.

Aunt Martha and her errand were forgotten. This pleasant occupation was certainly more attractive than carrying heavy pails of water to the kitchen. Dorothy became so preoccupied in the admiring contemplation of herself that she did not hear steps approaching.

" Dorothy," cried a voice, " what art thou doing? Art not afraid of slipping into the well, child?"

The girl raised her head quickly, and her eyes rested on the stern face of her Uncle David. She tore the flowers from her hair and bodice and grasped the well sweep vehemently.

David Holden was a stout, broad man, his figure giving one the impression of great weight combined with lightness of foot. He had an honest face, a pair of keen eyes, and an aquiline nose. A head of bushy gray hair, thick and rebellious, rose in rather a formidable manner above a broad, intellectual brow, while the lower part of his face was bearded after the custom of those days. His dress consisted of knee-breeches, belted doublet, hose of leather, and a high, stiff hat ; across his arm rested a long mantle of dull-colored stuff that fell part way to the ground.

Dorothy turned toward him with an embarrassed smile. " I was but looking at mine image in the well. I must take a pail of water to the house, and must hasten; Aunt Martha is most urgent.*'

The old man's eyes had a twinkle in them, as he answered : " Hast never seen thine image before ? Methinks thou hast. What does the good minister tell thee on the Lord's Day?" His voice took on a more solemn tone. "Thy time is not thine own; 'tis but loaned. We are in probation; waste not the fleeting moments."

** He says many things that I do not always heed," she replied carelessly. ** To speak the truth, I sleep more often than I listen." As she spoke she raised the sweep again ; the pail fell into the well, emitting a gurgling sound as it filled with water.

" Dorothy," screamed her aunt, " I want to know if the well is empty, and thou goest a mile to the creek for water?"

" I am coming," called Dorothy, as she raised her eyes to see her aunt in the door of the kitchen, one foot raised, preparatory to descending the three stone steps that led to the ground.

lO DOROTHY THE PURITAN.

Uncle David chuckled. '* Thou hadst better make haste, Dorothy; she is wroth with thee."

Dorothy grasped the brimming pail, an'd stooping to one side, her arm stretched out to balance herself, she walked quickly toward the house.

Seven years after the landing on Plymouth Rock the colony of Salem was formed, and Salem village founded as its capital ; the name typifying the peace which the brave and persecuted Puritans hoped to win in the New World.

The first permanent settlement of the place was made in 1628, John Endicott, the first governor, coming to the bleak, inhospitable shores with the immigrants.

In 1630 a body of colonists from England were introduced to the new settlement by the succeeding governor, John Winthrop.

Both Endicott and Winthrop held the welfare of the new province very near their hearts, and they laid many ambitious plans for its advancement. Their policy was excellent in inducing intelligent and worthy men to settle, bringing their energy and high purpose to bear upon the future of the town.

Naturally, the principal occupation in those early times was farming. By industry, patience, and thrift, the somber forests gradually gave place to rich and profitable farms. The wild beasts and the Indians were driven to seek remoter haunts, though the latter were a constant menace for many years to the early settlers, often entering the villages and committing many deeds of violence.

These self-contained, undemonstrative Puritans were possessed of a strong religious fervor, a fervor that permeated their every-day lives ; their religion was their law. Neither friend nor foe was able to eradicate the clinging fibers of their creed, which, like the roots of a great tree, spread throughout their whole being. The Scriptures contained for them all the requirements needed for the saving of their souls. Their daily lives were to them examples of a faith which demonstrated fully that this short earthly span was but a probation in hardship for a happier existence. So cold, so austere, so unsmiling was the weary routine they practiced.

They had left their homes in England to seek in a new land both political and religious freedom, and there was no room in the new settlement for those who differed from themselves. Thus, unconsciously, they gave what they had received, intolerance for intolerance, narrowness for narrowness.

Some sixteen years before the opening of this story an emigrant ship sailed before a brisk wind toward the shores of Salem harbor. On the deck, eagerly scanning the fast approaching land, stood a woman, holding a baby in her arms. By her side stood a tall, muscular-looking man. These people were David Holden, Martha his sister, and their little niece Dorothy. Driven by persecution and injustice from the mother-country, they were seeking an asylum in the New World.

A year before their pretty, blue-eyed sister had died. Her husband, a rollicking trooper in the army of " Merry Charles,'* had been killed in battle, so Martha and David took their beautiful child to their hearts. They made the subject of her adoption a theme for lengthy and serious prayer, asking God that He would teach them how to do their duty by the little orphan, so that her feet might ever tread the narrow path — narrow, unfortunately, in more ways than one.

When Dorothy entered the kitchen her aunt was busy assisting a bond-servant to prepare the simple midday meal. She did not look up or address her niece. Dorothy placed the pail of water upon a low bench near the door, then, going to the window, commenced to drum upon the small diamond panes

" Thou art an ungrateful wench," said her aunt sternly. " Have I not loved thee and toiled for thee ? And now thou wouldst turn and sting me. Dorothy, Satan is tempting thee; beware of his foils; pray that thou may est resist his wiles."

Dorothy flung out her hands wildly. " I must speak, I must tell thee both of my feelings ; I caij withstand this desire within me no longer ; I must sing and dance; I like not to pray forever. Ah, that I might be free, free, just once to go forth into the great world — where, I care not, only to be free ! '* She choked hysterically ; her listeners eyed her in amazement and dread. Before her scandalized aunt and uncle were aware of her intentions, she had frantically torn the little mob-cap from her curls, and taking hold of her skirts on either side, she lifted them slightly above her trim ankles, and, singing more sweetly than the yellow-bird that listened on the flowering bush without the door, she tripped lightly across the kitchen boards in a fantastic dance, keeping time to her steps with a sweet roulade heard from the gossiping Mistress Hobbs :

"Ah, to be free, 'neath the greenwood tree, With my true-lover boldl There to sing, while cowslips bring Sweet dew in cups of gold."

Martha, her stern old face suffused with a blush, cried angrily, " Dorothy, cease, I say ; cease, thou wicked girl ! I will e*en tell Mr. Wentworth of thee ; he will commission Mr. Parris to call thee out in meeting. Hast thou no self-respect? Thy dance is an abomination. Cease!" She started in pursuit of the laughing girl, who adroitly evaded her grasp. The rather unusual spectacle then took place of the staid middle-aged woman taking part in what appeared to be an impromptu dance. Round and round went Dorothy, laughing, singing, every motion filled with grace, her lovely face dimpled with mischief, as she dodged her panting, corpulent aunt, who followed in hot pursuit.

" Only one more round, Aunt Martha," she cried, *' then I will ask thee to forgive me, and I know thou wilt ; thou canst not help it."

She started again, and danced forward into a patch of sunlight that lay across the wooden floor ; holding her skirts higher on one side and peeping over them, she gave a clear, rippling laugh, like that of a child caught in mischief. She looked back over her shoulder toward her uncle, who had turned his head discreetly aside, deeming the mere witnessing of this unhallowed scene a falling from grace ; then with lowered eyelids, and making a deep, mocking curtsey, she rose abruptly, to behold the stern eyes of Mr. Wentworth, the foremost deacon of the Puritan Church, looking down reprovingly upon her from the open doorway.

Aunt Martha stepped forward and took the embarrassed girl by the shoulder, shaking her a little roughly. " She is a headstrong girl ; thou must reprove her," she cried excitedly to the man who stood waiting expectantly upon the doorstep. " She has danced a most heathenish dance, here, in the Holden home; thou hast just witnessed those outlandish steps. My advice is not heeded ; she is a degenerate sinner. I am indeed most fearful for the welfare of her soul.'*

Mr. Alden Wentworth, the new-comer, was the rising young advocate of Salem; in fact, he had already been called to the dignity of the bench. He was also a deacon in the church, and much esteemed by the Rev. Mr. Parris, the pastor of the Salem flock. He had held these two important positions but a year ; in that short time, however, he had succeeded in gaining the love, respect, and confidence of the community at large, besides being held in high estimation by the governor. Mr. Wentworth was still a young man, being between thirty and thirty- five years of age; a scholar, honest, upright, conscien-^ tious, and the staunchest of Puritan adherents. Moreover, he was handsome, with dark, deep-set, penetrating eyes, and a firm mouth whose lines denoted gentleness combined with a strong will. He was tall and well formed, his muscular frame indicating health and great strength.

Dorothy looked frightened and embarrassed as Mr. Wentworth's reproving glance fell upon her. She hung her head ; the rosy glow that had recently burnt in her cheeks spread to her brow and neck.

**A dance!'' echoed the shocked deacon in dismay. '* Dorothy, I scarce can credit these words ; thou, a child of prayer!**

Dorothy looked up at him timidly through her long lashes, now wet with tears. " I am indeed a wicked girl, Mr. Wentworth,** she glanced appealingly upward, " yet when the robins and the little yellow-birds sang I felt full envious of them. I must e'en join them in their melody, then the dance must needs come next ; I could not still my feet, I had not power. Thou wilt forgive me if I transgress no more. Thou wilt not, oh, thou wilt not tell Mr. Parris? he surely will call me out in meeting.**

Alden Wentworth did not reply immediately ; he gazed earnestly at the pleading face upturned to his, as she stood in the patch of yellow sunlight, the clear radiance seeming part of her own vivacious personality. A strange, inscrutable expression shone in his eyes as he watched her. Then he stepped forward abruptly ; the sunshine enveloping Dorothy became obscured by the tall shadow that fell across its brightness. With its fading a gloom spread itself upon the dull, smoked walls of the kitchen. The girl seemed snatched, as it were, from the sound of song and joy to the coldness, bleakness, and silence of night.

"Dorothy," he said in his quiet voice, its intonations solemn with a subdued, pious melancholy, " I shall not acquaint Mr. Parris of thy misdeed, though for the levity of a dance he surely would call thee out in meeting ; but far be it from my policy to thus shame thee. Thou art as God made thee, filled with the life of youth and joy. That thou canst not , help; 'tis thine inheritance." He paused, then continued more solemnly : '* But be ever on thy safeguard that this inheritance draw not its net more closely around thy life and strangle thee. Satan hath many devices ; he gives lightness to the foot t and sweetness to the song ; beware lest he control thy steps awry.'*

Martha and David listened respectfully to this reproof, now and then shaking their heads in acquiescence, and glancing askance at Dorothy, as she wiped' the fast-falling tears with the comer of her apron, her rosy, pouting lips trembUng, as she endeavored to regain her self-control.

Presently she drew nearer to the reproving judge. "Then thou art not wroth with me, Mr. Wentworth?'*

" No, my child," he answered kindly.

She stepped close to him, and grasped his hand. " I thank thee ; thou art more kind than aunt. I will come to meeting always, and I will obey thee, and never laugh in the Lord's house again when the tithing-man strikes old Goodman Weldon with the hard stick on his bald head for sleeping. He cried out loud last Sabbath. Didst hear him, Mr. Wentworth? It was such rare sport to see his grimace."

Mr. Wentworth smiled slightly, but did not reply.

"Ah, that sermon," she continued mournfully, " was full three hours long. I saw the hour-glass on the pulpit ledge turned so oft, and the sands fell through so slowly. I cannot tell thee how weary I was. I wish that Mr. Parris would let some other minister preach. He drones and drones, till one grows weary with sleep.'*

" No, no, Dorothy, say not that ; 'tis not respectful to thy pastor. Methinks the sermon last Lord's Day was filled with solace and godly sayings. Three hours is not long to hearken to the Word of God.''

" 'Tis long when the soul is far away," answered Dorothy dreamily. " Full oft I know not where I am till Mr. Parris calls loudly from the pulpit for attention."

Mr. Wentworth smiled indulgently. " Thou art but a child as yet; wisdom will come in time." He then turned abruptly to Martha and David. " I called to acquaint thee. Mistress Holden, with the fact that old Goody Trueman hath been seen again on the edge of the forest. They do say her cloak was of the color of fire ; that a black demon stood by her side, and did hover over her as she plucked the poisonous ivy that grew upon the rocky hillside. When Jonathan Wells, who saw her approach, raised his stick to send her adrift she was no more seen ; the stick did but cleave empty space ; only a small red glow was visible against the clouds. It was as though she had risen with her imps in the air."

*' I can well credit all I hear of Goody Trueman; she is of a certainty a witch, and hath signed the treaty with the Prince of Darkness," said David.

Martha made no comment. She looked distressed and troubled.

" Perchance thy words are true," answered the judge gravely, " yet we conjecture not aright always when we think we behold the agents of the devil. I do but speak to thee of these sayings that be abroad in Salem to warn thee to be circumspect, and if this creature do possess this dreaded power, to be on thy guard."

" Kindness is ever thy forte," replied David. *' We thank thee for thy warning."

Mr. Wentworth replaced his steeple-crowned hat and stepped toward the door. As he changed his position, the shadow fell from Dorothy. She stood once more in the sunshine, his earnest glance resting upon her. '* I bid thee good-day, Dorothy," he said. " I trust to see thee in thy place to-morrow at the meeting-house. Dry thy tears, and when thy feet are restless, walk to the Lord's house and commune with God in thy soul. 'Tis far better for thee than the riotous dance. When thou must sing, sing the psalms. Are they not filled with peace and all good promises? **

" Methinks I am not good as thou art, Mr. Wentworth. I have another self within me that does ever urge me in the wrong direction. Why has God willed us to be unhappy when He has given us so much to enjoy? '* she concluded sadly.

" 'Tis for discipline, the preparation for immortality," he replied earnestly ; '* pray constantly that thy probation be acceptable. We were not created for happiness, but that through our privations we might atone for our many sins, and through much misery be saved, and found at the last garnered into the Lord's house.'*

" I will e'en try, Mr. Wentworth, yet it is very hard." She smiled her pretty smile upon him; he bowed, and went his way under the drooping lilac bush, and the little bird upon its branch burst forth into merry song again.

Dorothy folded her hands demurely, and looking toward her aunt, she said contritely, " I am sorry I danced that awful dance. Aunt Martha. Shall I not help thee form the butter-pats?"

CHAPTER 11.

THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN.

It is well to State here the position in which the ministers of the Puritan days stood in relation to their people. None of the early colonists would have dared or, it is likely, wished to disparage their pastor's teachings, or in fact any of the ordinances of the church. No reproaches were tolerated, no criticisms condoned. Severe were the whippings and fines that befell any luckless delinquent who might express disapprobation of the length of the sermons or prayers of the pastor.

This unlimited control extended not only over the religious life, but also over the secular. The minister's word was law ; even in regard to many trivial every-day concerns he was consulted, and his decision abided by.

The honor of being deacon was second only to

that of being minister. The deacons had especially

important duties to perform. During the absence

of the pastor one of them conducted the service.

The deacons' pew occupied a position raised above the level of the ground, and there they sat in solemn state, leaning against their stiff, high-backed chairs, the objects of g^eat respect, not to say reverential awe.

The Sabbath day v^as observed literally according to the command of the Bible, '* Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy;'* and many other strict laws were enforced, and in most part cheerfully consented to by the people. To enhance the sacredness of the Lord's Day, it was filled from early morning till sundown with prayers, sermons, and singing of psalms. All attended the meetings, some coming from a long distance and suffering much inconvenience in the heat of summer, or in the cold and storms of the long New England winters.

Little children came, tiny images of their solemn parents, while a tithing-man kept order with a long stick, prodding the unfortunate ones who fell asleep during the three-hour sermons. The seats were hard, mere boards without backs; the men sat on one side of the edifice, the women on the other.

Unruly boys, "sons of Belial," as the deacons called them, had seats by themselves in the gallery, and the tithing-man hovered in their vicinity with frowns and threatening gestures, his formidable bearing reducing the giggling, wriggling, weary little Puritan boys to a condition of depressed submission.

The meeting-house was roughly constructed and unpainted. The rafters were exposed to view, and spiders spun great gossamer webs from beam to beam, airy, waving structures; an endless joy and diversion to the poor little restless boys and girls who nodded and twisted uneasily on the hard seats below.

There were no shutters to the building, so that the glare in summer must have been intolerable; while in winter the aching feet and hands and benumbed frames of the pious church-members, seated rigidly in the fireless building, surely showed of what heroic material these old Puritans were made.

Between the services a lunch was partaken of in a " Sabba-house," built on one side of the church for that purpose. It was a very solemn lunch ; no hilarity being allowed, no jest or light word being permitted. Then back they repaired to the meeting-house to more psalm-singing, more lengthy sermons ; then home in the evening glow of the twilight to the grim routine of the hard-working week to come.

This is certainly a drear, cold picture to contemplate, gazing backward through the centuries, from the luxury and ease of our modern days. It is not unnatural that the hardships they encountered in the mere struggle for existence, the fear of Indians and of wild beasts, their dread imaginings regarding the mysteries of nature, which lay yet hidden in the depths of the unexplored wilderness, should have imparted a gloom and a mysticism to their dispositions, and belief in the supernatural.