"Nay, nay," cried the youth, blushing scarlet, "not meet again--G.o.d forbid that you speak sooth in this. Indeed, indeed--"

But the minister wrung his hand, turned suddenly down a cross street, and disappeared before the sentence was finished.

Young Lovel looked after him for a moment, made a step to follow the course he had taken, then returning slowly, walked on.

CHAPTER IV.

EARLY IN THE MORNING.

The town of Boston had little of its present compactness in those days.

True, there existed streets and lanes, and wharves which served as barriers to the harbor, but green turf lay richly where slabs of granite form the sidewalk now, the streets wound in and out as they had been trodden broader and broader from the forest paths, and around the houses were yards and pleasant gardens, with carpets of green turf in which the wild flowers still lingered. The dwellings were mostly of wood; low, broad, and heavy, with c.u.mbrous adornments; coats of arms surmounted the doors, cut out with the broad-axe and chisel, and heavy wooden cornices loomed over the front, betraying a surplus of timber and a lamentable scarcity of architectural art. Among these more imposing buildings, houses of hewn logs, and even ruder cabins were scattered, but the trees, the gra.s.s, and many a clinging vine, gave to the infant city a picturesque beauty which can never belong to the brick, granite, and mortar which have taken so many imposing forms since. But even then Boston had its fashionable street, and its aristocratic neighborhood.

To this portion of the town young Lovel bent his steps, and soon came out upon the green lanes of North Boston, which was in fact a wide area, where the palaces of the New World loomed proudly among the grand old forest trees, which softened their stateliness with touches of natural beauty.

The most imposing of these mansions, conspicuous for its three stories, and a certain attempt at architectural beauty, was the residence of Sir William Phipps, Captain-General and Governor-in-chief of New England.

Those who knew the sheep-tender of Kennebec, the younger brother of twenty-six children, who even in his boyhood turned haughtily from the occupation of his father when proposed to him, and predicted of himself _that he was born to greater matters_, might have wondered as they stood before that stately dwelling, and saw in its vastness and its ornaments a fulfilment of the sheep-boy's prophecy. In all New England there was not a dwelling like that, or a man so powerful as its owner. Yet Sir William Phipps, t.i.tled, wealthy, and almost a sovereign, had not yet pa.s.sed his prime of life; while he was comparatively a young man, all this great fortune had been wrought out by his own stern energies.

The youth stood for a moment in front of the mansion, gazing wistfully at one of the second story windows. It was very early in the morning; too early for any one in the gubernatorial mansion to be stirring, but he was disappointed to find the curtains drawn and the shutters partially closed. Evidently, the youth had expected some one to be watching for him, rendered miserable by his strange absence over night.

But every thing was still, even to the great elm-tree that swept its branches over one end of the house, and the rose bushes that cl.u.s.tered along the terraces. The youth did not like to claim admittance till some of the servants were astir, so walked up and down the green lane, always advancing toward the house, till you would have fancied him studying its architecture; but his eyes always wandered to one window, and that had nothing but a stone coping and an arched top to command his admiration.

Still the gubernatorial mansion was well worth examining, if it were only to see how rudely the arts crept first into the New World from the mother land. Ma.s.sive stone pilasters separated the windows to the second story; two long rows of windows ran between that and the roof, all set in stone, and slightly arched. The central window, with elaborate blinds and lateral sashes, carried up the outline of that ponderous wooden portico to the still more ponderous cornices on the roof. This elaborate attempt at architecture made the governor's house the show place of all New England. The very children of Boston held their breath with awe of its grandeur, and were half afraid to pluck dandelions in the green lane after it was built.

But young Lovel had seen the mansion too often for any feeling of this kind. The window still remained shrouded in its muslin curtains, though the birds in the elm branches had burst forth into gushes of music that might have charmed an angel from the brightest nook in paradise, and the rising sun came smiling over the terraces, turning each dew-drop, trembling on its blade of gra.s.s, into a diamond, rendering every thing so beautiful that slumber seemed an absolute sin.

"They take it coolly enough," muttered the youth impatiently, turning his steps to the broad gravel walk which crossed the terraces and reached the long, sloping steps that led to the portico. "I might crunch this white gravel under my feet forever, and she'd sleep on. No matter, I may as well take it easily as they do; I might be in the bottom of the harbor for any thing they know, or care either."

As he muttered these words, Lovel crossed the terrace, and stood between the fluted pillars of the porticoes which rose proudly over him, crowned with Corinthian leaves, and garlanded with rudely carved flowers, that ran up over the ma.s.sy cornices, supplying the deficiency of family armorial bearings. But in his waywardness he had lost sight of the window, and so walked back upon the terrace again, pretending, even to himself, that he wished to gather a handful of blush roses while the leaves were wet with that diamond light. But his heart beat unsteadily, and he looked upward every moment as he broke the blossoms impetuously from their bushes. This impatience at the stillness broke at last upon the gentle flowers. He dashed them to the turf, shaking all the dew from their hearts. Then he rushed back to the portico, raised the ponderous knocker, and prepared to swing it against the great bra.s.s head which seemed to smile defiance beneath the blows ready to be rained upon it.

But his hand was arrested by a sound within the house, and, softly relinquishing the knocker, he threw himself upon one of the long seats that ran down each side of the portico, eagerly watching the door.

There was a sound of bolts cautiously drawn, as if a person within were careful of making a noise. Then a leaf of the great oaken door opened, and with its glittering knocker wheeled inward; while the head and shoulders of a young girl appeared bending over the other half, with a wistful, eager look that filled the young man with repentance at a single glance.

"Elizabeth!"

She heard and saw him--struggled eagerly with the lower bolts, flung the last leaf of the door open, and sprang toward him. Then recollecting herself, she retreated a step, and covering her face with both hands, burst into a pa.s.sion of tears that shook her slender form from head to foot.

Then the young man's heart smote him afresh, for he saw by the withered roses in her hair, the fine yellow lace that shaded her arms, and her dress of flowered silk, that the poor girl had not been in bed that night. She had been waiting, watching, praying no doubt for him.

"Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth! will you not look on me? Are you not glad that I am safe?"

She could not speak, but trembled all over like the leaves of a vine when the wind shakes it.

"Elizabeth!"

She took down her hands and turned her eyes on his face--those large deer-like eyes full of tenderness and shame.

"Elizabeth! is this for me--I am safe, and very, very happy, for this terror, these blushes. You would not look this way if you cared nothing about a poor fellow!"

She began to tremble again, and shrunk back with a red glow burning over her neck, and up to her temples beneath the dusky shadows of her hair.

"Elizabeth, darling, speak to me," said the youth, trembling himself beneath the sweet joy of the moment, and approaching her with his face all a-glow.

"Don't, don't! I am sick with shame. I did not know--I did not hope--they told us you had gone down to the water, out in a fishing-boat in the midst of the storm last night, that--that--"

"And you believed it--you grieved a little?"

"I feared every thing!"

"No--not altogether, for you see I am alive. But you have suffered; your eyes are heavy, your cheek white again. Oh, tell me, was it trouble, was it anxiety on my account? Do not fear to say yes--I will not presume--I will not half believe it--only let me have the happiness of thinking so, for one little moment."

She lifted her face, and the dusky shame which blushes usually carry to the eyes, died out, leaving them soft and clear as a mountain spring.

"Was it for you, Norman, for you that I have wept, and prayed, and suffered? Ah me, what agonies of fear! Why ask? you know it," here the little graceful coquetries of her s.e.x would break in, for she began to get ashamed again--"for are you not a fellow-creature out of the church, unregenerated and worshipping----"

"You, and every thing you worship," cried the youth, seizing her hand, which he devoured with his eyes, but dared not touch with his lips.

"Never mind whether I am fit to be drowned or not; give me something worth living for; tell me that one day when I am wiser and you a little older, not much, because a good deal can be done in that way after the ceremony; but tell me that you will be my wife."

His face was all a flush of crimson now, but hers grew pale as death; the last word--that holy, beautiful word--made her shiver from heart to limb. He had been too impetuous; Elizabeth Parris had never dared to think of the mystery he brought so broadly before her. Her pure maidenly thoughts had hovered round it timidly, as a shadow haunts a white lily, but she was content with the perfume, without daring to touch the flower.

"Your wife, your wife!" she murmured, and the words fell from her lips with silvery slowness, like drops from a fountain. "Your wife, and I not yet fifteen!"

"But you will think of it. I am a sad fellow to frighten you so; a sad, wicked fellow, but you will forgive it, Elizabeth; you know, out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh."

He saw her sweet lips quivering into a smile, and forgave himself at once.

"There now, you see I can quote Scripture a little, so forgive me this once. I love you till my heart aches with the joy of it. Think of this--promise me that you will."

Promise to think of it! alas, poor child, when would she think of any thing else!

CHAPTER V.

SIR WILLIAM AND HIS WIFE.

Probably Elizabeth Parris would not have sat down in the portico, but the night's watching had made her faint. When Norman Lovel darted off to gather up the roses he had plucked, and so rudely scattered, she sank down, watching him dreamily as he cast them away a second time, and gathered fresh ones, unmindful, poor child, that this might be a type of his character, and those poor flowers of her own fate.

He came back, bringing a rich harvest of blush roses--he never gave any other to Elizabeth--with both hands wet with the dew which rained out of their hearts.

"Come," he said, heaping them on the seat by her side, "let us gather up a bouquet for the breakfast-table. Lady Phipps loves flowers fresh from the thicket."

Elizabeth Parris started up with a look of sudden dismay.

"Lady Phipps! and I have known that you are safe all this time without telling her--how selfish, how cruel! It was almost morning before she went to her room. I am sure she has not slept."