# Hobomok/Chapter XVIII

A Tale of Early Times - published in 1824
It was strange for him to show Such outward signs of inward wo.
Yamoyden
The next morning Mr. Conant arose, and, as usual, went out to his labors. He came in at his accustomed time, and found that no preparations had been made for their scanty morning meal. He knocked at Mary's door. No one answered. With dreadful apprehension he looked into her apartment. The lifeless object which he had expected, did not meet his view; and he saw at a single glance, that the bed had been unoccupied. A suspicion even more painful than the first, then flashed upon him, that his child had been driven to suicide. "Oh God," thought he, "have I likewise been called to offer my last remaining child upon thine altar." Then came the question,
"Might I not have performed the work of the Lord as well, and shown less rigour to that poor thoughtless girl?" He felt that he had, in reality, known very little of Mary, except through the medium of her mother; and he now blamed himself that he had not given her his confidence and sympathy, instead of compelling her so cautiously to conceal her feelings. The words of his dying wife seemed to resound in his ears, as she said, "Be kind to Mary for my sake;" and with this remembrance came the sting of self-reproach, the keenest that can enter the human soul. For a few moments the old man sat down, and rested his head upon his hand, with more positive wretchedness than he had ever before felt, crushed as his heart had been in the battle of life. He stood for some time hesitating between the consciousness that something must be done, and a perplexity as to what course to pursue. At length the idea that she might have slept at Mr. Oldham's, or Dame Willet's, occurred to his mind, and though he gave it little credence, it afforded a moment's relief.
Mr. Conant had persevered in his resolution to continue at Naumkeak, when but three of his discontented companions remained to share his poverty, and even those three threatened to desert him; when his family, unable to endure such hardships, were obliged to consent to a temporary separation; and when his young, vigorous boys were bowed down to the grave by labor and famine. In the midst of all these difficulties, the MS. states that "he made a vow to abide in Naumkeake as long as the Lorde pleased to spare his life, if he coulde finde a clam on the seacoaste, or an acorne on the trees." This same inflexible self-command had ever since made him the "very soul of counsel," in all times of danger; and it now induced him to chasten his heart, that its agitated feelings might not be betrayed to the wondering gaze of his neighbours. With his usual calm appearance he entered Mr. Oldham's dwelling, and inquired whether they had seen any thing of Mary the preceding night.
"Bless me, no," answered Mrs. Oldham. "I may safely say she has scarcely darkened my doors since the day Sally was married. But is she missing, Goodman?"
Mr. Conant briefly answered that she had not slept at home, and went out as he added,
"Peradventure she abode with Dame Willet."
"Poor man," said Mrs. Oldham. "I always knowed it would be so, from the very minute I heard of Brown's death. I said then she'd never live through it. There never any good come of crossing folks in love, to my knowledge. I'm sure I never would have said a word, if Sally had taken it into her head to marry a Pequod."
"I'm sure I would, though," rejoined her husband. "A pretty piece of business it would be of a truth, to have a parcel of tawny grandchildren at your heels, squeaking powaw, and sheshikwee, and the devil knoweth what all."
"I hope you don't mean that folks have a free will of their own in such matters," said his wife.
"To be sure I do. 'Tan't much that I should have done in the business, if I hadn't had my own way," rejoined he. "But now I have made out to get on my boots, I'll go out and inquire concerning this matter. Mary was as sweet a creature as ever man looked upon; and if she be indeed missing, the boats must be had out."
"You're a sinful wicked man to talk, considering you're a christian," said his wife, as he departed. The application at dame Willet's was equally unsuccessful, and the report that Mary Conant was dead, spread like wildfire through the village. She had been so humble, kind, and cheerful among them, and had so seldom evinced any aversion to their sentiments, that she was a universal favorite. The young admired her as the loveliest being they had ever beheld; and the old, even while they held up her errors of doctrine as a warning to their children, could not refrain from adding,
"Assuredly, in many things she hath borne herself worthy of a woman professing godliness."
For some minutes, the settlement was one scene of commotion.
"Have out the boats---have out the boats," said one.
"Fire guns over the water," said another.
These orders were complied with, and boats were ordered out in several directions. As Mr. Oldham was entering one of these, he espied a ring lying close to the water's edge, and stepping back, he asked Mr. Conant if he had ever seen it.
"The Lady Arabella gave it to my child," answered the disconsolate father; and without further pause he passed through the crowd, who readily made way for him. He entered his desolate home, fastened the door of his little apartment, and threw himself down beside the bed. Hours passed away before the bitterness of affliction could be in any degree overcome; but at length the tears flowed plentifully, and fervently did he pray for support and assistance, to that God who had never forsaken him in his hour of need.
In the meantime the search of his brethren had of course proved useless, though the supposition that Mary was drowned amounted almost to absolute certainty. Now that the opinion was apparently so well proved, every one, as usual, had something to give as additional evidence. Mrs. Endicott made exaggerated reports of the wildness and paleness of her looks, when she came to inquire concerning the letter. Another remembered to have seen her go to her mother's grave at sun-down, and remain there till after the night closed in.
"For my part," says Dame Willet, "I couldn't go quietly to my bed till I went up and looked into Mr. Conant's to see that Mary was at home with her father; for she came down to my house in the evening, and she took hold of my hand till I thought it had been in a vice and she had a dreadful wild look about her. Poor creature, I couldn't help foreboding that all was not right, when she sighed so, and said that she little thought my house was the last place where she should ever see him; for you must know," continued she, "I gave the young folks a meeting without Goodman Conant's knowing of the same."
"And you should take shame and sorrow to yourself for such an action," replied Mr. Skelton. "I grant the maiden had many charms, and much seeming goodness in speech and behaviour, but so had that idolatrous woman of the house of Stuart, whom it pleased the Lord, in his righteousness, to bring to the block. I tell you, woman, the Most High will visit their iniquity upon the heads of all such as bow the knee to Baal, and worship the golden calf of Episcopacy. Wot ye not that Mr. Conant was led by the fear of God in this matter?"
"Assuredly I think so," answered the dame; "but a body couldn't look upon the girl without loving her, and I meant no harm, your Reverence."
"I don't suppose you did, good woman; but it behoves us to give little heed to natural affection, when we are engaged in the work of the Lord Jesus. Forasmuch as it seems useless to waste more time and powder in this melancholy search, I will even go up and speak a word to Mr. Conant, in his troubles; though I doubt not he bears them like a christian."
When Mr. Skelton arrived on his errand of consolation, he distinctly heard the voice of his friend as he prayed,
"If in this thing, O Lord, I have acted from my own pride, rather than from zeal for thy glory, I beseech thee, spare me not---but pour out the vials of thy wrath upon my unworthy head, so that the sins of my child may be forgiven."
The voice ceased---and a few moments after Mr. Skelton knocked for admission. No answer was returned, until he said,
"I have come to see you, Mr. Conant, thinking it might comfort you to unite in prayer during this season of distress."
"I have much reason to thank you," replied Mr. Conant; "but I trust your Reverence will not be offended if I tell you that I would fain be left with God and my own heart for a season."
Before evening Mr. Conant had regained his wonted manner. All his necessary avocations were performed, and at night he went into Mr. Oldham's and said with his customary calmness, "I will partake of whatever you have for supper, if you are so inclined;" and at nine o'clock he performed the family devotions, in a voice so distinct and untroubled, that all who heard him wondered at the strength wherewith it pleased the Lord to support him. But quiet as all seemed on that unruffled surface, there was a tempest beneath, which threatened to uptear the very roots of existence; and even when his lips were opened in prayer at the footstool of divine grace, his thoughts were deep in the cold wave. Whatever were his concealed feelings, before three days had elapsed, none could judge by the most trifling external sign, that the waters of affliction had passed over him. During this time, he had invited Dame Willet and her son Jacob to take up their abode at his house, and they now constituted his whole family. On the third evening after Mary's departure, the good woman and her son were absent, and Mr. Conant seated alone by his solitary fire, when Mr. Collier arrived at Mr. Oldham's, bringing news of the lamentable fact. All were eager to ascertain how, when, and where, it had been discovered.
"It's a dismal story to tell her old father," observed Mr. Collier; "but my good woman hath seen her with her own eyes, and heard her acknowledge that she was married to Hobomok, so there can be no mistake about it. Our knowledge of the matter came after this fashion. Sally went in to see Hobomok's mother, as is often her custom, inasmuch as she is old, and frequently alone. The squaw had stept out when she first went in; but seeing somebody in the bed, Sally thought she had been sick, and so went up to speak to her, when behold, she found it was Mary Conant. She said she was so stupid that she did not seem to know her, and she wouldn't speak a word; only when she asked if what the old squaw said, was true, she answered, Yes. My good woman came home and went to bed sick about it, and she desired me straightway to come up and deliver the tidings."
Considerable altercation ensued, concerning who should inform Mr. Conant. Mr. Oldham and his wife were as eager to undertake the unwelcome task, as their son-in-law was willing to decline it. Mr. Oldham was just preparing to execute the mission, when Mr. Skelton entered, and having heard the story, he put an end to all interfering claims, by saying that he thought it was his duty to impart the same.
As Mr. Conant sat alone, ruminating on the many sad events in his chequered life, a few reluctant tears had forced their way, and lay cold and undisturbed upon his furrowed cheek. Perhaps had he known the near approach of his minister, they had never been shed; as it was, they were hastily brushed away, when he returned the pressure of his hand.
"I'm glad to see you have borne this heavy affliction as becomes a follower of Christ Jesus," said Mr. Skelton.
"It doth but cause our enemies to blaspheme, when christians, who of all men ought to glory in affliction, are disposed to murmur at the weight thereof," replied Mr. Conant. "Whatsoever dispensation the Lord may send in his anger, I hope he will always give me strength to say, `My trust is in thee, and in the shadow of thy wings will I take refuge.' Besides, Mr. Skelton, how would it beseem me to talk of my own sorrows, when the Lord hath so sorely smitten us all?"
"Of a truth," rejoined the clergyman, "he hath removed many goodly pillars from the land. Much could I wish that the godly Mr. Higginson were alive this day; inasmuch as he had a soul-ravishing, a soulsaving, and a soul-comforting speech. Alas, that he left not his mantle behind him."
"No doubt he was taken away from the evil to come," answered Mr. Conant. "But we have abundant need of his pious reproofs among us, notwithstanding you carry yourself much for the edification of those unto whom you are called to minister. These are trying times among us. Numbers are swept off by sickness; and the blight and mildew in our corn seemeth to forbode a famine; and as for the colony at Shawmut, I verily fear, their joyful beginning will have but a dolorous end."
"If every man bears his part of the public calamities as well as you have borne the death of your child, I have no doubt the Lord will smile upon our undertakings; though for a season `He feedeth us with the bread of tears, and giveth us tears to drink in great measure,"' rejoined Mr. Skelton.
"Why, I trust, I have not in vain heard your godly exhortations from the pulpit," said Mr. Conant; "nor yet the dying admonitions of Mr. Higginson, who told us in all times of trouble to lean upon the Lord of Hosts. Verily I will rest upon His promises, though `mine own familiar friend, in whom my soul trusted, who did eat of my bread, should lift up his heel against me;' yea, though `lover and friend be put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness."'
"But what would you say," asked Mr. Skelton, "if Mary was yet alive?"
"What would I say?" exclaimed he, starting up eagerly. Then with more composure he added, "Verily, I would thank the Lord, in that the bitter cup had passed from me. Have you heard any news?"
"Mary is alive and well at Plymouth," answered Mr. Skelton.
"God be praised," said Mr. Conant---and now indeed the tears fell fast and unrestrained. He seized Mr. Skelton's hand, and repeated again and again, "The Lord be praised---The Lord be praised for all his goodness."
A stern, unbending sense of duty, a gloomy experience of human nothingness, all his strange obliquities of character had left him a father still. The clergyman said nothing to interrupt this burst of feeling, until Mr. Conant paused and inquired,
"But why went she thither without my knowledge?"
"That is what will be the hardest for you to bear like a christian," rejoined Mr. Skelton; "and I would not tell you thereof till you have strengthened your mind for the worst."
"I can bear any thing, if so be she is alive," answered the distressed father. "I beseech you, let me hear the worst."
"She is married to Hobomok," replied Mr. Skelton.
The unexpected information fell like a deadly blow on the heart of the old man; and those cheeks and lips grew pale, which no man had ever before seen blanched since his boyhood. He stood at the window a moment, firmly compressing his lips, to keep back some choking emotion; but finding the effort ineffectual, he took up his hat and went forth to seek a solitude where he might pour out his sorrows before his Maker. An hour elapsed before he returned, and could Mary have foreknown the agony of that hour, she had never left the parental roof. When he again entered his house, he found his friend still waiting for his return. He took his offered hand, as he said,
"I am more calm now, Sir. God forgive me, if in aught I have rebelled against his holy will; but assuredly I find I could more readily have covered her sweet face with the clods, than bear this; but the Lord's will be done."
"It behoves you to think what would have become of her unconverted soul if she had died in such a state," replied the minister. "Goodman Collier thinks she was bereaved of reason, when she did this deed; and peradventure the Lord may yet raise her up to be `a burning and a shining light."'
"For her soul's salvation, God grant she may not be in her right mind," answered Mr. Conant. "I would fain have the poor stray lamb returned to the fold."
"Had you no suspicions concerning Hobomok's visits heretofore?" asked Mr. Skelton.
"I knew he was grateful to us for much we had done for him at Plymouth," rejoined Mr. Conant; "but verily, had I been told it extended further, I had never believed so unlikely a thing. I knew that Mary loved to hear his long stories, abounding as they were with metaphors, but then the thoughtless child was always given to vain imaginations, which profit not. Her good mother told me, the day before she died, that Mary's heart would always hanker after him who is now lost in the bowels of the ocean; and I promised that I would give my assent to their marriage. Peradventure this chastisement hath come upon me, because I thought in my heart, to countenance the doings of the unrighteous."
"Well," replied Mr. Skelton, "it is a mercy to receive the reward of our sins, in some sort, during this life; but you must not be tempted to forget Him in whom you said you would put your trust, `though darkness overshadowed you, and the waters compassed you about."'
Mr. Conant shook his head despairingly. "I had made up my mind to her watery grave," said he; "but to have her lie in the bosom of a savage, and mingle her prayers with a heathen, who knoweth not God, is hard for a father's heart to endure."
"Let us unite in prayer," said Mr. Skelton. "Verily at all seasons it is the best balm for a wounded soul."
Mr. Conant was indeed soothed and strengthened by the exercise. The next day saw him busy in his daily employments;---weeks and months past on, and witnessed the same unvaried fortitude. But the heart of the old man was bowed down within him. The widow Willet said, she often heard him groan bitterly in the night; and his neighbours frequently noticed him leaning upon his axe or his hoe, by the hour together, apparently lost in melancholy reflections.