CHAPTER FIRST.
That beautiful spot, now known as Mount Auburn, was formerly covered by a forest, which in the early days of New England was the scene of many a startling incident and wild adventure; the wolf howled in its thickets, and the wild cat issuing from its borders, found an easy prey among the flocks of the neighboring farmers: on this account, the utmost skill and energy of the colonists were often taxed, to save their property from pillage and destruction. The young men of those times were bold and expert in the chase, and stimulated by rewards offered by the colony, they often pursued their game many miles from Boston, and seldom returned without trophies of their skill and success. In this way, the vicinity of the town was soon cleared of these scourges of newer and less populous settlements. At the period of our narrative, however, the race of wild animals was not extinct, and the chase was kept up as one of the most agreeable and salutary sports which the austerity of those days would permit.
It was a fine evening in September, 1691, when two young men, who had been engaged all day with a company of sportsmen, were returning leisurely home on horseback. They were both members of Harvard college, room mates and intimate friends. They lingered a mile or two behind their associates, and though travelling after dark was not very safe in those days, yet the beauty of the evening tempted them to loiter, and possibly they were not unwilling to encounter some little adventure, to make up for a dull and unsuccessful chase. At any rate, their conversation was sufficiently interesting to detain them awhile on the road.
'Have you heard from your cousin Mary of late?' said James Lyford to his companion.
'Why do you ask that question? I have no such cousin as you refer to,' replied his friend.
'I have heard you call her cousin Mary,' said James, 'and it was fair to judge from your manner of speaking, that she bore this relation to you.'
'Cousin,' replied Walter, 'is a name that belongs to every body or nobody, as the case may be. It is a very convenient term, and affords a good house to shelter in, when you are bored with questions. I have forty such cousins as Mary.'
'Then you have forty such houses to shelter in,' said Lyford. 'Verily, Walter, you will have no want of inns on the road to matrimony.'
'Forty inns are none too many for a road that promises to be so long, as the one you think I am travelling. To be serious, Lyford, I wish you would let me alone about Mary. She is beautiful and good, but I dare not marry in this Puritan land. I must not reside here; and much as I love Mary Graham, I can never take her to the lighter habits and frivolous scenes of licentious France. You are aware that my parents have left Virginia for Paris; that city must be my home. I must grapple with its temptations, perhaps fall under their power; but duty, honor, nay love itself forbid me to take Mary to its blighting influences. But why talk of such subjects? I am but twenty-one years old and this passion of love, the wise heads say, is not to be depended on; my own feelings may change. And now, Lyford, you have the reasons why Mary Graham must still be my cousin.'