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."