HE inhabitants of the settlement of Cocheeco, in New Hampshire, lived for a few years in large blockhouses, well adapted for the purpose of defence against the Indians. But a few of the bolder spirits, encouraged by the long peace with the red men, moved their families into log houses of their own construction. The furthest of the huts from the garrison was built by a Mr. Bray, an Englishman. On one occasion, Mr. Bray and his wife left home, leaving Rebecca, their only child, in charge of her Aunt Mary.

Little Rebecca was, of course, the pet of her aunt. When the work of the house had been completed, the latter would teach the little girl some mysteries of needle work, or explain some passages in the Scriptures for her benefit. One day, Aunt Mary had just finished reading the verse, in the fifth chapter of Matthew, which says, “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy,” when an Indian burst into the room, and throwing himself panting at her feet, exclaimed, in broken English, “for mercy’s sake, hide me, the warriors are on my path.”

Aunt Mary was not disposed to grant his request. In common with all the early settlers, she hated and feared the Indians. But Rebecca earnestly plead for him, saying that he would be killed by Major Waldron’s men from the garrison. A loud shout was heard in the distance, and the Indian renewed his entreaties for a refuge. “Blessed are the merciful, for they—shall obtain mercy,” repeated Rebecca, and Aunt Mary then expressed her wish to secrete the Indian from his pursuers. The little girl then took the red man by the hand, led him up into the loft, made him get into a box containing shelled corn, and then spread the corn over him in such a manner, that he could not be seen. She then descended, and resumed her reading to Aunt Mary as if nothing had occurred. A moment after, the door was burst open, and the pursuers entered, exclaiming, “Is the villainous redskin here?”

The little girl expressed her surprise, and asked what redskin.

“The Indian who has escaped,” answered a youth; “we have lost his track; but Mr. Gove says he saw the top of his head through the wood, and we came here.”

Rebecca strove to divert their attention by saying she heard a noise, just then, of something running around the house. Mr. Gove persisted in saying that he believed the Indian to be in the house, and to satisfy him one of the young men proposed that he should go up stairs and search for him. Rebecca accompanied him. Gove searched every nook and corner of the loft, and even lifted up some of the corn from the box where the Indian was concealed; but at length gave it up, descended the stairs and joined his friends. The pursuers then sought their victim elsewhere.

That night, Rebecca brought the red man from his hiding-place, and making him promise to spare the mothers and babes who might fall into his power, let him go, with a heart filled with gratitude.

In explanation of the Indian’s situation, we may say that the colonial government, fearful of another outbreak among the Indians, and jealous of their numbers, had ordered Major Waldron, the commander of the post, to put the strange red men, who came there, to death, and by a stratagem, the Major had succeeded in killing all but this one, who was preserved by the efforts of little Rebecca.

Time flew by, and Rebecca grew to be a fine specimen of feminine maturity. Her parents died, and she was left to the guardianship of Major Waldron. She resided with Aunt Mary, to whose care she had been confided by a mother’s dying breath; and though the major had made many efforts to convince them that the garrison was a much safer place, they still kept the old house. The flower in the wilderness did not “waste its sweetness on the desert air.” On the contrary, Rebecca’s charms had already made several captives, one of whom was the only son of Major Waldron.

George Waldron had been educated in England, had moved in refined circles, travelled three years, and returned to America, with personal advantages which might have made many a conquest in the field of love. He saw Rebecca soon after his arrival, and was immediately “smitten to the heart.” But the beauty could only give him a sister’s love; for her heart was in possession of another. Morris Green had been her playmate in childhood, and in riper years, her confidant and friend. They had not been formally plighted, but they felt that they were united by stronger bonds than words. A few days after Waldron’s arrival, Morris saved him from the gripe of a bear, that was about to spring upon him, by shooting the animal, and from that time the two young men became warm, self-denying friends. A few weeks after the adventure with the bear, George Waldron obtained for Morris Green, a midshipman’s warrant for his Majesty’s frigate Cyclops, then lying at Portsmouth, with orders to join the squadron in the West Indies.

Morris quickly and joyfully informed Rebecca of his good fortune, and prepared to start for Portsmouth. Hand-in-hand he and Rebecca visited the grave-yard, where slept the remains of her loved parents. There they exchanged vows of constancy, and parted sadly, though hopefully. Rebecca watched he retreating form of her lover until it was lost in the forest, and then, as she sank upon her mother’s grave, her tears flowed freely.

A voice near Rebecca, exclaimed, “A pretty scene, upon my word!” She sprang to her feet and faced the intruder. A mixture of scorn and fear was upon her features, and she at length turned to fly. But the bold intruder seized her hand, and said, “Now my pretty bird, this meeting is too opportune to part so soon. What with your own shyness, the constant watch of that old hypocrite, Waldron, who means to coax or force you to marry the sapient George, and the close attentions of that very sentimental youth who has just left you, I have not the smallest chance of urging my own suit.”

“Oh, that can never, never be,” answered Rebecca, hardly conscious of what she said, “for I already love another.”

“Hear me, Rebecca,” said the other, “your beauty would become a higher sphere than that stripling can give you to move in. At the death of my father, I shall become Lord Marsden; and at the death of my uncle, who is much his senior, his title of Marquis of Winchelsea will also revert to me. Think how different would be your position as Marchioness of Winchelsea, surrounded with wealth and splendor, than as the wife of that poor boy.”

“I have promised to become the wife of another,” replied Rebecca, “and I would not break the promise, if I could. I can love you as a sister, but never as your wife!”

“It is enough, Rebecca,” said the young man, “you reject the love of a man whom you could have moulded to your will. But I am not to be slighted with impunity. You are in my power, and shall rue the hour when you dared to scorn me.” As he uttered these words, he sprang towards her, but stumbled over the head-stone of her mother’s grave and fell headlong; while Rebecca, pale with terror, fled, and never paused until safe within the cottage.

Edward Sinclair, the intruder upon Rebecca’s privacy, had been residing at Waldron’s about a year; consigned to the Major’s care, it was whispered, by his father, as a sort of penance for certain conduct which was unbecoming the future Lord of Marsden Hall. Well-informed, frank, and jovial, he soon rendered himself a favorite with all those in the settlement, who considered eccentricity natural to a jovial companion, and did not question the justice of his acts. Being fond of hunting, Sinclair soon made friends of the Indians, with whom he would hunt for weeks at a time. They called him Neddo. That Sinclair was in love with Rebecca, the reader may gather from his language towards her. But there was ever a something evil in his nature which made her shun his presence.

A few days after Morris’s departure, when Rebecca thought him “far o’er the briny deep,” she was surprised to see him enter the cottage, covered with dust, and throw himself upon a chair. She and Aunt Mary expressed their surprise, and asked why he was not in the frigate. In reply, he handed Rebecca a letter, which, he said, would explain the matter better than he could. The letter was read as follows:

“At first,” said Morris, “I thought this all a hoax; but soon began to regard it as a timely and truthful warning. I was down at the shoals last week, and I knew that the ship would pass near the islands, that a good swimmer could easily reach the shore, where there were two or three fishing schooners anchored, which could bring me back. In the middle of the night, I slipped through a port, and swam ashore. As the ship sailed like a race horse, they will get so far before they miss me, they will not turn back for a single man.” Morris said much more to silence the fears of his anxious friends, who at length set about preparing food for the half-famished runaway, when the door opened, and Edward Sinclair rushed in, crying, “Run, Morris, run! the bloodhounds are at your heels.” Morris sprang to his feet, and rushed to the back door, which opened on the forest; but Sinclair pushed him back, and in a few moments a party of men entered, arrested Morris, as a deserter, and bore him off, leaving Aunt Mary and Rebecca wringing their hands, and crying bitterly. As soon as they had left the house, Rebecca fell on the floor in a fainting fit. When she recovered, Sinclair was bending over her, with compassion and respect upon his features.

Sinclair explained that he had tried to put the pursuing party upon a false scent, and save Morris; that the deserter would be condemned by a court-martial; yet in consideration of the motive, they would certainly recommend him to the mercy of his majesty; in which case he would appeal to his father, whose influence he represented as all powerful at court, and a pardon could easily be procured. Rebecca grasped eagerly at such a hope, and began to look upon the one who held it forth as a brother.

The court-martial was held in Boston harbor; the proof of desertion was positive, and Morris was sentenced to death, without a hint being given of any appeal to royal mercy. Rebecca received the terrible news, as the lily receives the blast of the tempest—it almost crushed her spirit. She did not—could not weep until the morning of the day that was to give her lover to the arms of death. Her feelings then found vent in tears. She left the cottage, and walked quickly towards the house of Major Waldron, where she found the old man writing. Throwing herself before him, she clasped his knees, and implored him to save Morris Green. Waldron answered that he could not. Morris had had a fair trial, and it would be unjust in him, supposing he could, to change the verdict. Rebecca continued—“You can if you will. I know you have wished me to marry George instead of Morris Green; and now I will promise, that if you will procure a pardon for Morris, the day he is free from prison I will marry George.”

This chimed in with Waldron’s schemes. It had long been his aim to bring about a union between his son George and Rebecca. He snatched eagerly the opportunity, and said he would try what he could do. A messenger was sent in all haste to Portsmouth, and the officers composing the court-martial were eagerly persuaded to reprieve the prisoner until a petition could be sent to the king. But months were to pass before an answer would be received, during which Morris must remain in prison, leaving the field clear to his rivals.

Sinclair now spent much of his time with Rebecca, who regarded him with the most friendly feelings, except when he urged his suit, when a revulsion of feeling made her suspect that self-interest was at the root of all his vaunted service for her and Morris. As for George Waldron, his feelings were in a state of confusion not to be described. He loved Rebecca, deeply—devotedly; and to secure her happiness and that of his friend Morris, he felt that no sacrifice could be too great. Yet he hoped to make Rebecca his wife, and could not resolve to break the engagement his father had made.

At length a vessel arrived, bearing a full pardon for the deserter; and Major Waldron now required of Rebecca the performance of her part of the contract. It was agreed that the marriage should not take place until the day after Morris’s return. Morris had been aware that a petition had been sent to the king on his behalf, but he knew nothing of the terms until the morning of his release, and then he felt that he would much rather have died than consented to live upon such terms. However, he resolved to see Rebecca once more, and then leave the country for ever.

He reached the cottage, where he expected to meet Rebecca, but found it deserted, and in the utmost confusion. Surprised, he turned from the cottage to seek an explanation, when a footstep caused him to raise his head, and he stood face to face with George Waldron. They each grasped the other’s hand; for friendship was still strong in both.

“I have been very wrong and wicked,” said George Waldron, “but I have suffered for it. Yesterday, after a long struggle, I resolved to release Rebecca from an engagement, into which I knew she had been forced. I did so. But now she is gone. Last night Aunt Mary awoke and found herself alone; she gave the alarm, and people have hunted for lier ever since. I fear she has been carried off by the Indians.”

Morris was almost stunned by this unlooked for calamity. At length he grasped the hand of his friend and said, “We are friends—brothers; together we will go and rescue her or share her fate.” A slight noise at this instant caused them to turn, and standing near them, his arms folded on his breast, his keen eye fixed upon them, was an Indian, whom they recognised as one who was often about the settlement.

“Has the pale-face’s council fire gone out, or are their braves turned squaws, that the foe enters the wigwam and steals their ‘Wild Rose,’ and no warriors start on the trail?”

“Do you know any thing of Rebecca Bray,” demanded Morris.

Yondeega’s eyes were open. Neddo’s trail and the Wild Rose’s trail were one.

George started. He knew that Edward Sinclair had two days previous, joined a hunting party; but he supposed that he had gone away to avoid being present at Rebecca’s nuptials. “The false-hearted villain!” said he, “I will follow him, and he shall yet feel the weight of my arm.”

“No, no,” said Yondeega, with a flashing eye and knotted brow. “No pale-face touch him. Yondeega’s tomahawk is sharp, and his rifle never fails it aim. Yondeega will kill him like a dog.” The features of the Indian then assumed an expression of sorrow. “Yondeega had a daughter; she was fair as the spring flowers, and cheerful as the song of birds. The Yengese came and spake with his forked tongue, the maiden listened, and her heart changed. She has left the wigwam of her tribe to follow the stranger.”

From this the young men gathered that Sinclair had been as false to his red as to his white friends, and having signified to the Indian that they would follow where he led, they set off in pursuit of the lost flower.

Rebecca had risen early, and was taking a short walk near the cottage, when she was seized and borne off by some Indians. They marched about eight hours, bearing Rebecca on a rude litter, until they came to a large sheet of water called Lake Winnipiseogee, where they embarked in a canoe and rowed to an island, on which stood two or three deserted Indian huts. In one of these, Rebecca was left, with two Indians. In a moment, the door opened, and Edward Sinclair, stripped of his Indian disguise, stood before her. He confessed that he had stolen her. But it was because he could not live without her, and he wanted to take her to Europe with him. In vain the young girl entreated, plead her attachment to another, and her want of affection for Sinclair.

“And do you think,” said he fiercely, “that I could bear to see you the wife of Morris Green? It was I who advised him to desert, and who attempted to prevent him from getting a pardon. But I will be revenged yet. In the meantime, you are in my power, and from this place you shall never go, except as my wife—”

The sound of light footsteps interrupted his words, and the next instant a young Indian girl, breathless with haste, rushed into the hut, exclaiming, “Fly, fly! the pale-faces are in pursuit.” Sinclair sprang forward, as if meditating flight; but a moment’s pause seemed to alter his intention, and he said, pointing to Rebecca, “Hide her, Yarro, and I will meet them here.”

The young Indian frowned, as she replied, “Yarro no hide her; pale-face no hurt her.” A deep-breathed curse escaped the young man, and a fierce glance shot from his eye; but the next moment it yielded to a mild, tender expression, as he spoke a few words to Yarro in her own tongue.

Yarro smilingly listened to his false words, which were, in fact, no less than a promise, that if she would hide Rebecca, he would marry her, join the tribe and become a great chief. She instantly advanced towards the white maiden, and in spite of her struggles, bandaged her mouth, and drew her into a covert close to the hut. Sinclair saw all this, and then taking his rifle, he advanced to meet Morris and George, who had just emerged from the forest into the clearing in front of the hut. “What is the matter, George?” he asked.

“Edward,” demanded George, sternly, “do you know any thing of Rebecca Bray?”

“How can I know any thing of her?” mildly replied Sinclair; “you know I started off to hunt the day before you were to be married but—”

The speaker paused; the bullet of Yondeega, who, having tarried behind to secure the canoe, had just caught sight of his foe, had started on its fatal errand; but it did not not reach its destined victim. Yarro, who saw all that had passed, gave a slight scream, and throwing her arms around the neck of her beloved, shielded him from danger by receiving the ball herself. They laid her upon the grass. Sinclair bent over her, grief and remorse painted on his features, while the rest of the party, including Rebecca, who had contrived to unbandage herself, stood looking on in mournful silence. Yarro opened her eyes, a smile of joy stole over her features, as she met the gaze of Sinclair, and she murmured—“Yarro very happy, for the Great Spirit has smiled on her;” and with that happy smile still lingering on her features, the poor girl passed to the “spirit land.”

A moment of silence ensued, and the next, Sinclair sprang to his feet, and darted into the forest, pursued by Yondeega, who soon, however, returned, completely baffled. This was the last that was seen of Edward Sinclair in this country; although a rumor came two years afterwards that he had fallen in a duel, in England, with an officer as reckless as himself.

Yarro was buried on the island, and then the party returned to the settlement. The remainder of the story is soon told. Major Waldron yielded to the entreaties of Rebecca and Morris, assisted by the virtuous energy of George, and consented to a union of the lovers, who amid all trials, had remained true to each other. At the-wedding, among the number of pale and red faces that of Yondeega was recognised, and many thanks were returned to him for his generous conduct.

“Pale-face no need feel grateful. Wild Rose hide Yondeega; Yondeega save Wild Rose; that all,” said the Indian. In answer to eager questioning, he then informed them, that he had known of Neddo’s designs in regard to Rebecca, and as soon as he saw her upon the island, he recognised her as the little girl who had saved his life, and resolved to save her. He hurried to inform her friends, and the result is known. When he had finished his story, Rebecca exclaimed, “I then found mercy by the very person to whom I had shown mercy.”

Original

Original

Original