Transcriber’s Notes:

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

[Additional Transcriber’s Notes] are at the end.

CONTENTS

[Chapter I. Standing Alone.]
[Chapter II. The Fatal Omen.]
[Chapter III. Sorrowful Misgivings.]
[Chapter IV. The Net-weaver.]
[Chapter V. The “Elect.”]
[Chapter VI. Apollo and Diana.]
[Chapter VII. A Family Conclave.]
[Chapter VIII. The Spider’s Webs.]
[Chapter IX. The Fatal Dance.]
[Chapter X. In Vain.]
[Chapter XI. “Deserted are the Dwellings of Moina.”]
[Chapter XII. A Man of Mettle.]
[Chapter XIII. A Liking For Misery.]
[Chapter XIV. The Crystal Stone.]
[Chapter XV. Alone in the Wilderness.]
[Chapter XVI. The Unseen Eye.]
[Chapter XVII. A Reminiscence.]
[Chapter XVIII. Snake vs. Spider]
[Chapter XIX. The Priestess.]
[Chapter XX. The Vigil.]
[Chapter XXI. Dead Ashes.]
[Chapter XXII. Below the Falls.]
[Chapter XXIII. The Torch Extinguished.]
[The Silent Hunter.]

Semi-Monthly Novel Series.

No. 142.

BEADLE’S
DIME NOVELS

THE SAGAMORE OF SACO.

BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.

BEADLE & CO., 118 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK.

T. B. Callender, cor. 3d & Walnut, Phila.

Beadle’s Dime Novels, No. 143—Ready February 11.

THE SWAMP SCOUT.

BY W. J. HAMILTON,

AUTHOR OF “PEDDLER SPY,” “SHAWNEES’ FOE,” “THE HUNCHBACK,” ETC.

Turning abruptly to the right, so as to get away from the main trail, he approached the island from behind. He did not expect to find Marion there. He knew very well that the Swamp Fox was in another part of the swamp, but he was confident that he should find either Peter Horry or his brother. Nor was he disappointed. As he approached the camp from behind he found himself safe from the view of the partisans by a fringe of low bushes. Lying prostrate behind these, he advanced on his belly, like a snake, until the sound of voices, evidently very near at hand, warned him to desist.

BEADLE AND COMPANY, Publishers, 118 William Street, N. Y.

THE
SAGAMORE OF SACO.

And she who climbed the storm-swept steep,

She who the foaming wave would dare

So oft, love’s vigil here to keep,

Stranger, albeit thou think’st I dote,

I know, I know she watches there.—Hoffman.

BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH,

AUTHOR OF “THE NEWSBOY,” “BERTHA AND LILY,” “BALD EAGLE,” ETC.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
118 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by

BEADLE AND COMPANY.

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

(No. 142.)

THE
SAGAMORE OF SACO.

CHAPTER I.
STANDING ALONE.

“John is a wild renegate, and a shame to the colony,” exclaimed Captain Richard Bonyton, in a burst of unfatherly indignation. It was evident that he neither understood nor loved this son John of his.

“I do not think so badly of him,” rejoined Sir Richard Vines. “We must bear in mind, my friend, that in breaking away from the trammels of society, we have helped to sow this unchartered license in our children, good neighbor.”

“That may be,” rejoined Bonyton, bitterly, “and we are likely to reap the fruits of it. My renegate son and your mad daughter are like to make a comely span.”

The Governor started and turned pale at this unceremonious speech, but he replied, in a calm voice:

“My daughter, Mr. Bonyton, shall be looked to.”

Bonyton grasped his hand warmly.

“Nay, nay, my noble friend, we are both stricken of God and afflicted in this matter; let us not add a drop to our bitter cup by estrangement between ourselves. Look yonder where they come.”

At this moment the two of whom they had been speaking emerged from the verge of the forest. The girl was evidently angry, for she gesticulated rapidly, and gave emphasis to her words by twanging her bowstring till it gave out a sharp, shrill sound like a subdued yell. As they approached, the two fathers stepped aside, where they could watch the pair unperceived.

At a glance they saw that both were dripping with water, and both were pale and excited.

The lips of John Bonyton were compressed to a single line of blue, his brow contracted sharply, and, as they paused on the verge of the forest, his flashing black eyes were fixed upon the face of Hope, who stood looking upward to him, her exquisite head thrown back; while ever and anon she gave her long hair a shake to relieve it of the heavy drops of water, and then twanged the bowstring as a help to her expression, they heard her say:

“You know I can swim, John Bonyton. You know I never want help anywhere, nor for any thing.” (A shake of the hair, and twang of bow.)

“I know you fear nothing, Hope—”

“Fear!” interrupted the girl. “Fear! I scorn the idea. Haven’t I leaped a hundred times from rock to rock across the Saco falls? Leaped the wolve’s chasm?”

“I know it all, Hope, but—”

“But me no buts! Haven’t I defied Samoset himself when he made me angry? (A shake and a twang.) When that ugly Terrentine would have carried me off to make me into a medicine-woman, did he not barely escape with his life? and hadn’t I his scalping-knife out of his own girdle to defend myself with?”

Young Bonyton shuddered.

“You fear nothing, I know, Hope, but I could not see you drown.”

“Drown!” returned the other, twanging her bow till it fairly yelled; “do you not know I would rather drown ten times, than be brought out of the water in your arms? You know I would, John Bonyton.”

“I could not see you drown, Hope,” he reiterated, with more of softness in his look and tone.

“Suppose I chose to drown, John Bonyton, what right had you to interfere?”

“Hope—dear Hope, I know you did.”

“Well, and what if I did? Do you think I will be pulled out like a fish, and be laid upon the bank to open and shut my mouth for lack of breath, and you looking on? I tell you, John Bonyton, I hate you.”

The youth smiled—a manly, deferential smile, and whispered a word in her ear. Suddenly she started, gave one wild, earnest look into his face—then stepped aside. The blood rushed like a torrent to her face, and she fled homeward with the speed of a startled fawn.

At this moment the quick ear of young Bonyton detected the sound of footsteps, and he pressed forward to encounter his father and Sir Richard Vines. The whole truth flashed upon his mind.

“You have seen all and heard all,” cried the excited youth. “Sir Richard, give me little Hope to wife and I promise to do and be all you ask of me.”

The two calm, stern men glanced at each other, and each smiled, it might have been thoughtfully, it might have been in scorn; whichever it was, the effect was to irritate the already vehement youth and he went on:

“Yes, you contemn us both; we have always been met with scorn and contempt. Because we do not join your long, canting, hypocritical prayers, you have caused us to live like outcasts in the land. My very soul loathes the doings of this people, and by the God above, if you do not give me Hope to wife, I will have her, if I back my suit with an army of Indians.”

“In sooth, you would make a pretty pair,” retorted the elder Bonyton, in clear, cold tones and a sarcastic curl of the lip.

“Do not taunt me now, father; I can not bear it,” and he went on more calmly. “Give me Hope, Sir Richard, and I will leave this wild life; I will plant, study, fish, go to sea, and even aim to be eminent in the church; any thing that you and my father may exact, I will do, only give me this one desire of my life.”

It may be this appeal from the young, handsome lips of the boy touched some delicate, long-silent link in the chain of association in the mind of Sir Richard Vines, for his look and voice softened, and he laid his hand tenderly upon the shoulder of the youth, and said:

“On my soul, John, I am sorry for this, most sorry. Go to England, my dear boy; this wild land affords no scope for a mind like yours. I will give you letters to my noble kinsmen, who will promote your interest, and you will forget all this.”

“Never—never!” returned the youth.

“Time works wonders, my boy.”

“Alas! it makes the noble forget their youth and the true forget their truth!”

“Go, my son, to a land that needs just such ardent spirits as yours; go and help your king and country.”

A dark frown passed over the face of Captain Bonyton, for it was well known that the colonists, with few exceptions, sympathized with the parliament of England, and not with Charles First. But touched to finer issues, the headstrong youth felt a softness steal over him, and he answered to the sentiment rather than to the fact of paternity.

“Nay, my father, give me Hope; the world is nothing to me deprived of her.”

Here the natural sarcasm of the elder Bonyton broke forth.

“Go, John, go, in God’s name; it were a pity that so much chivalry should be wasted here in this wilderness. Go, fight with the king against his turbulent parliament. I doubt if thy single hand may not turn the scale. That bold man Cromwell is making hot work at home. It were better for thee to go there and die in harness, than stay here and marry a mad woman.”

Young Bonyton’s eyes glared momentarily upon the father who gave utterance to this cutting speech, but he turned to Sir Richard and said, imploringly:

“Tell me, yea or nay, my father.”

Sir Richard pressed his hand upon his brow, to crowd back the pang caused by the words of the elder Bonyton, and then he took the hand of John and said, in a voice so low and solemn that it was well-nigh inaudible:

“Young man, you know not what you ask. Hope must not be, can not be, a wife. She is God’s child, John. He has seen fit to reserve some of his gifts to be her eternal inheritance. She is incomplete in mind—not mad.”

Bonyton groaned audibly, and Sir Richard continued: “Go to England, my dear boy. I see that Charles is wrong, very wrong. I see Cromwell will place his plebeian foot upon the royal purple. I see the virtuous Hampden will be crushed amidst conflicting interests. I foresee great, marvelous changes, the germs of a new order of things. Go, my son, and cast in your mite into the treasury of order and patriotism. You have youth, health, and the impulses of a generous and heroic nature: go, and feel your heart respond to the promptings of duty. Go, and God be with you.”

He had spoken with warmth and enthusiasm, the tears springing to his eyes, and the young man grasped his hand with energy, and replied:

“I will go, my father. I will be all that you depict, sure that Hope will be mine, or will remain as she now is. Shall it not be so, Sir Richard? Shall I not some day, when more worthy of her, call her wife?”

“John, men, who are men, prove their manhood by resisting inordinate desires. Such desires granted often come in the shape of a curse.”

“That they do,” responded Captain Bonyton with bitterness. “Like the hankerings of God’s people for flesh, the Almighty grants it to them, till they are filled with loathing and abhorrence, even of that for which they had lusted.”

Sir Richard Vines, obeying a sudden warm impulse of the heart, threw his arms around the unhappy youth and exclaimed:

“My poor boy! Forget my little Hope, or let her be to you only as a sister.”

CHAPTER II.
THE FATAL OMEN.

It is necessary that we should go back in the details of our story, in order to give our readers the antecedents of the characters which we have so unceremoniously brought upon the stage of action, and that we may show the locality of our history.

The State of Maine, it must be remembered, was permanently settled so early as 1616, and it is most probable in the spring of that year, by Sir Richard Vines, the friend and companion of Sir Ferdinando Gorges, of Raleigh Gilbert, and the unfortunate Sir Walter Raleigh, the half-brother of the latter. We say permanently, because there is no testimony of his having abandoned the colony he had thus founded, and there is abundant record of his movements, his enterprise and his history, till it was finally incorporated into the Plymouth charter.

Sir Richard Vines was a stanch Tory and Episcopalian, and as he was a fearless man, robust and hearty in character, he was not likely to greatly swerve from those principles inherent to his rank; hence, it may be inferred he was not over popular with the no less unflinching Puritan radicals of the Presbyterian order at the Plymouth colony.

The wife of Sir Richard Vines, the Lady Joanna, was sister to the wife of Sir Walter Raleigh. Hence, in removing from the old world, the interests of the family were by no means dissevered from “merry old England,” as they were wont to tenderly call the “Fatherland.”

I must describe somewhat the location chosen by Sir Richard Vines for his habitation, that my readers may the better understand portions of our story.

It stood at the head of what is called the Pool, a sheet of water resembling in shape the Mediterranean sea as seen upon the maps. Indeed, it is a counterpart of the Mediterranean diminished vastly in size. The Pool is separated from the outside waves of the Atlantic by a long ridge or reef of sand, of more than a mile in extent—this reef hemming it in from the ocean, gives place to a beautiful inland basin, which is entered by a narrow strait, as if it were a young Gibraltar. Once in, the waters expand, and spread themselves with complacency at their successful attempt to oceanize upon a small scale.

Nothing can be conceived more daintily picturesque than the scenery surrounding the Pool. There are no marshes—no malaria of fogs; all is fresh, clear white sand—a long ocean reach, and the grand overhanging woods giving a pathway to the resounding Saco, or broken here and there by esplanades of green meadows, where the deer and her young disport themselves, and the beaver constructs his half-human habitation.

At the head of this beautiful sheet of water, as we have said, lived Sir Richard Vines; in a wilderness of thousands of miles, visited occasionally by some adventurous ship from the old world, or from the island of Barbadoes by some trader in fish, which had already become a valuable staple. His little boat rocked securely within the Pool, while his trusty followers joined him in the chase, or went on long fishing and exploring expeditions.

A frank, impulsive man, he gave and inspired confidence; brave himself, he repelled the aggressor, simply by the force of his presence. Just and kind in all his dealings with them, the Indians came and went about his premises exciting no fear, and conscious of no distrust.

Besides the castle of Sir Richard, there sprung up immediately about it, the less pretentious houses of his followers, and cabins constructed by occasional traders, to say nothing of the bark wigwams of the Indians, which clustered here and there near the river, the friendly owners of which gave the adventurers many a lesson in hunting the wild denizens of the forest, or spearing and netting the treasures of the water.

Mistress Joanna was an intrepid as well as handsome dame, who entered warmly into all the pursuits of her husband, while at the same time she had a certain self-distrust, most winning and lovely in a woman who finds herself allied to a wise, protective husband, whose authority she is proud to accept with wifely tenderness, and womanly grace.

We must now describe an incident which occurred toward the close of the year 1618, which is too intimately associated with the character of our heroine to be passed by in silence.

It was a gusty, raw twilight near the end of October. A fall of rain, with now and then a “spit of snow,” had made a gloomy day in that cold region; the gorgeous autumnal trees were fast scattering their rainbow baldrick to the earth, and the summer birds, long away upon their pilgrimage to sunnier skies, were replaced only by the little snow-birds, which pecked about the piazza, darted from branch to branch of the denuded trees, content and joyous in themselves at a time when nature is a very niggard of her favors.

A ship was hourly expected from England, and recent intelligence of a more favorable view taken by the court of the case of Sir Walter Raleigh, (who had been imprisoned in the Tower of London,) had awakened not only a hope of his release, but even a hope that the ship might bring him out to the home so affectionately provided for him by his brother-in-law. So strongly had this hope wrought upon the mind of Mistress Vines, that she had even caused fires to be built in the “Raleigh rooms,” and had hung evergreens and ruby berries along the rafters, amid silken drapery and snowy linen, till the apartment wore a look not only of warmth and comfort, but of sumptuous elegance also.

She stood in the center of the room, dreamily contemplating the glowing, crackling flame upon the hearth, and feasting her thoughts with the sweet hope of a union with her sister Raleigh, when she was conscious of a shadowy outline that passed before her, and a drop of blood fell upon her hand. Cold rigors lifted her hair upon her head; her eyes distended; and with a loud shriek she fell convulsed upon the floor.

When consciousness returned, she desired to be left alone with Sir Richard, to whom she related the cause of her sudden attack.

“I am fully persuaded,” she went on to say, “that the worst has come upon our brother, and we have been deceived by a base court, and lying officials.”

Sir Richard tried to soothe her with better hopes, but in vain. Calling her old nurse to her side, he strove by every means to restore her to warmth and her wonted cheer; but, day by day she sickened, and at length in the Raleigh rooms became the mother of a daughter. This circumstance, while it restored her to a more equable and healthful state of mind, did not dispel the impression which had produced the attack. It is needless to say that the next ship brought out the fatal news of the beheading of Sir Walter Raleigh, upon that 29th of October, so well remembered by Mistress Vines.

She named her little one Hope, with a sad irony. She was a small, weird-looking baby, with large, dark-gray eyes, and skin white, even waxen white; never did the least tinge of the rose visit the cheek. Her eyes were shaded by long, black lashes, but, as she grew, it became evident that her hair was to be snowy white. It would seem that this feature of the human frame being more volatile than all others, is the one most likely to be affected with change, and that that moment of horror, which had struck the mother to the earth, changed forever the color of her child’s hair, and blanched its cheek to a perpetual paleness.

Years passed, and sons and daughters graced the mansion of Sir Richard Vines; fair, even beautiful were the children, trained to all gentle usages by the father and mother, and finally they were sent to England to be “finished” and presented at court, for the true Englishman never neglects the duties of his birth, or the privileges of his rank.

Little Hope had reached the age of seventeen. She was exceedingly diminutive in stature, but most exquisitely formed. Her cheek was still colorless, and her long, abundant hair still white; but this, while it gave a peculiarity, did not detract from her beauty. Sometimes the sisters of Hope would call her “white head,” a term which she resented in a manner unwonted to her character, in which was no ingredient of vanity.

It was evident that she considered her hair a sacred badge, and tenderly associated with the fate of her uncle Raleigh; hence, any jest aimed at this peculiarity not only shocked her reverence, but offended her taste. She held long and solemn talks with the old English nurse, Aunt Sallie, about the period of her birth, and the cruel death of Sir Walter, and the good creature did not fail to impress her mind with her own superstitious belief in the supernatural omen which we have heretofore related.

“Your hair is a mark, my pretty darling,” she would say; “it is a mark, and you are none the worse for it. Not one of your sisters can compare with my pretty, for handsome looks, with all their airs.”

It was evident that Hope was the favorite of Aunt Sallie, who sometimes conceived that the child was not fully appreciated by the members of the household, whose characters circled within the more ordinarily understood limits. Hope was freakish and petulant, Aunt Sallie would exclaim:

“And why shouldn’t she have her own way! Surely she is pretty enough to have it, and I see no fault to be found with her.”

Indeed, Aunt Sallie had little cause for complaint, as all the freaks of Hope were patiently tolerated, and her peculiar, but most abundant hair accepted as no detriment to her good looks. At home these peculiarities were less dangerous to her than they were hereafter to become to her abroad.

The Indians around her saw and turned again and again to mark those lips, of that ruby red which goes with perfect health; black, perfectly arched brows, and long, dark lashes, shading eyes of wonderful brilliancy and depth of expression. The whole aspect of her beauty, while it was artistic, would have presented also the idea of something preternatural, even to those less impressible by such things than the Indian.

We will now resume the thread of our narrative.

CHAPTER III.
SORROWFUL MISGIVINGS.

Scarcely had Hope doffed her wet garments, and wrung the water from her hair, before she was summoned to the presence of her lady mother. It was a pleasant group, that of the accomplished family in the large hall, around which hung old portraits brought from England; the demi-armor still worn by the gentlemen of the day; the knightly sword, and shapely steel corslet; trophies of the hunt, and implements of the chase; belts of wampum, and models of birch canoes; bows and flint-tipped arrows. It was a silvan, stately room, such as taste, enterprise and thrift only could furnish forth in a family struggling to overcome the barbarisms of a new world.

In a stiff, high-backed chair, with cushions at her feet, sat the elegant matron of the household; her handsome daughters, each with book, music or broidery in hand, were gathered near her person, as if the companionship were mutually pleasant.

In the embrasure of the window, looking out upon the Pool, with the long reach of ocean in the distance, sat Sir Richard Vines himself, the perfection of manly grace and noble bearing, but now his brow was slightly contracted, and an uneasy flush was upon his cheek.

As little Hope entered the room, he held out his hand to her; she sprung forward and threw her arms about his neck. The knight returned her caress, and patting her cheek tenderly, said:

“Go to your mother, child.”

Hope had nearly crossed the room in obedience, when she suddenly turned round, saying, petulantly:

“She must not talk to me, papa; I am in a bad humor, and can not bear it.”

Mistress Vines answered, with unwonted sternness:

“Come hither, Hope, and seat yourself upon the cushion. You must leave off these ways.”

The little lady walked to the side of the room, where, leaning her shoulder against a pilaster, she crossed one foot over the other, and bent her head, saying:

“I will stand here, please, mamma; I hate to sit down.”

“I prefer you should sit,” persisted Mistress Vines.

“Indeed, I can not, mamma. I feel as if I should choke, tightened up in one of those chairs. Indeed, I can not sit down, mamma.”

The sisters could not refrain from a slight titter, which was instantly checked, for the parents were both severely grave, and Miss Bloomfield, the governess, shook her little decorous head till every cork-screw curl upon it was whirling and jerking in a perfect storm of reprehension.

Before, however, a word had been spoken, Hope suddenly recovered her native vivacity. She eyed the group with a comical shake of the head, and burst into one of her merry laughs. Coming forward, she knelt upon the cushion at her mother’s feet, and tossing back her hair till it enshrouded her like a vail, she cried:

“I know all you will say to the bad girl; I will be mamma, and reprimand Hope. Listen!

“Hope, you are too idle, and too wild—no better than a wild Indian. You are a very unmaidenly girl, fit for nothing good. Why do you not sit bolt upright in high-backed chairs, as your sisters do? Look at them! How nice they are! Not a hair of the head out of place. Hear them make ugly sounds on a hollow board! See how ashamed they are of you, Hope! You are a grief to us all, Hope, indeed you are. To-day John Bonyton pulled you out of the water like a fish. You are a trial and a plague, Hope!”

Here she kissed the hand of Mistress Vines, which had been tenderly laid upon her head, and then once more threw herself into her father’s arms, and burst into a wild torrent of sobs and tears.

The family were used to these sudden transitions of feeling upon her part, but this seemed a mood so much more painful than ordinary, that all were shocked.

“Do not let my cold, still sisters look at me, papa,” whispered Hope. Then, lifting up her head, she added, solemnly:

“Papa, you will soon have no little Hope.”

The knight shuddered, and pressed the poor child more tenderly to his heart.

“Tell me why, little daughter!”

“Every little while, dear father, I see poor, pale-faced Hope standing before me, looking sad, and oh! so weary, and wringing her hands.”

Mr. Vines certainly felt a cold chill run over him at this description. She went on.

“This morning I saw Hope seated on the ledge yonder, her hands to her face, and she weeping, weeping. Mistress Bonyton, too, told me that this little purple spot upon my shoulder, which you used to kiss, papa, when I was a little girl, is the devil’s mark, and called me a witch.”

Sir Richard arose hastily from his seat and whispered a few words in the ear of his wife. A new cause for anxiety had been suggested by the words of Mistress Bonyton, for at that time the old world was convulsed by stories of possession and witchcraft, and it was no light thing to have the aspersion cast upon an individual that he or she might be a witch.

At this moment the sharp whiz of an arrow passed the lattice. Hope darted from the room, and seated herself at an upper loop-hole, where she could see without being seen. She watched John Bonyton where hour after hour he traversed the slip of sand which separated the Pool from the ocean, ever and anon sending uneasy glances toward the mansion.

Day after day passed, and Hope went no more abroad, nor did she send any token to her impatient lover. Day after day John Bonyton wandered along the shore, as if its impatient turbulence best responded to the wild passions that consumed him. The dirge of the sea, creeping amid the weeds that cushioned the rocks, and then hurrying from point to point in stifled sobs—anon lifting incoherent voices to storm the ear of night—responded to some unknown depth within, and soothed while it deepened his emotions.

Could the unhappy youth have looked within the bower of Hope, he would have seen her seated upon the floor, her intense eyes following his slightest movement, and she weeping bitterly. She refused food, and nothing could tempt her from her covert.

At length Samoset, chief of the neighboring tribe of Indians, desired to see her. He brought her a beautiful osier basket, in which was hidden a wood-pigeon. Hope lifted the bird from its cluster of leaves and found the blood trickling from its breast, and a small arrow still in the wound. She recoiled with pity, and cast reproachful eyes upon the chief. Samoset pointed to Bonyton pacing the beach, and sternly showed the arrow in the breast of the dove. He whispered a word or two in her ear and turned away, followed by Hope.

No sooner did John Bonyton perceive the figure of Hope moving slowly toward the woods, than he followed in her footsteps. Seating herself upon her favorite ledge of rocks, she awaited his coming. The youth was greatly shocked at the change both in her manner and looks, and he cast himself at her feet and pressed both her hands within his own.

“Poor, dear Hope!” he murmured.

She looked sadly in his face—a look of silent, helpless reproach more emphatic than words. At length she said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper:

“It seems very strange to me, dear John, how people can get along in this world, and why they are put here to be made so miserable. And so you will go away, John Bonyton—go, and we shall never meet again.”

The young man smoothed back the hair which had blown across the face of the speaker, and the passive manner so unlike Hope’s old self, emboldened him to lay her pale cheek upon his shoulder, and he answered:

“I will not be gone long, Hope; the time will soon pass away.”

“But what shall I do, with nobody to understand me? And, besides this, John Bonyton who goes away will not be the John Bonyton that comes back.”

“Why not, little Hope?”

“Why not? How can you ask, when nothing is to-day what it was yesterday?”

He made the usual protestations of never-changing devotion, which she broke short with her old impetuosity, waving her hand for him to be silent, when a twig snapped near by, and John Bonyton sprung to his feet.

“It is Acashee,” said Hope, coldly. “She is always in your path.”

Again all was silent save the wood-robin, which sung upon a branch overhead, and Hope resumed:

“Do not go, John Bonyton. Do not enter the ship that will bear you away, for I shall never see you again. You may come back—but my John Bonyton will return no more.”

The youth smiled fondly, for Hope had never before shown him such favor. The mournful tenderness of her looks and words thrilled him with rapture, and he replied:

“I shall return ten times more worthy of you, Hope.”

Hope started, turned pale, and withdrew her hand from his grasp.

“I said you would change, and you boast that you will.”

“Only to be better, nobler, more worthy of your love.”

She looked dreamily into his face and murmured:

“And I? I shall be the same—”

“Surely, dear Hope. Lovely and beautiful. Always growing dear to my heart.”

She shook her head, and in the same dreamy way went on:

“When the sun goes down I am never quite sure it will come up again; and when it does it has not the same look. The same cloud never returns; the withered blossom does not bloom again; no face wears twice the same look; the smile of yesterday is not that of to-day.”

“But the heart, little Hope, the heart is the same.”

“No, no, no! least of all. That goes on and adds or loses and the eye tells of its altered beatings. No, John Bonyton, I shall never see you again. See how changed we two are since we last met. Look upon the rock yonder jutting over the sea. What do you behold?”

The youth followed the wavy line of the small, pale hand, and said, with a smile:

“I see the bright sunshine there, and the sea-birds dip their wings into the sea.”

She still pointed with a sad smile.

“You see nothing more! I see little Hope standing there leaning over the water; she is pale and thin, and her hair has become a shroud.”

The youth burst into tears, and clasped her wildly in his arms. At this moment there was a cry as of the loon, and Hope faintly answered it. She knew Acashee had witnessed the scene, and an angry flush overspread her face. With a sudden spring she descended the ledge, and returned to the house.

CHAPTER IV.
THE NET-WEAVER.

Among the Indian maidens was a bold, handsome girl, a little older than Hope, who was her constant and favored companion, and having more intelligence and tact than usually falls to the primitive maidens of the forest, Acashee, or the Spider, (literally net-weaver, or snare-builder,) had contrived to divest herself of the usual toils and drudgeries of her sex in a savage condition.

Acashee was the daughter of Samoset, of the Kennebec tribe—the Indian who went to and remained three years in England, where he shared the royal favor of Elizabeth, whose accomplished courtiers vied with each other in lavishing attentions upon a man who presented a new and generous type of the race, undebauched by the vices of civilization.

Shakespeare without doubt received many a poetic hint from the noble savage, and most certainly owed to him the story of the Tempest, and the fable of the Pucks, or as the Indians called them Puck-wud-jees—being literally wood-fairies.

The courage and address of Acashee had rendered her the friend and companion of her father, and his attendant upon many a long and perilous march. Among savage tribes intelligence of a strange or interesting character is conveyed by fleet runners, who go from tribe to tribe after the manner of the Highland clans so graphically described by Walter Scott in the “speed, Malise, speed” of his spirited poem. Accordingly, Samoset was one of the first to reach the sea-shore, and look with wonder upon the ship which had come like a rare bird, or superior agent, from the spirit-land. He it was who, fifteen years afterward, hailed the Pilgrims at Plymouth with the words: “Welcome, Englishmen.”

Samoset had been of great service to the colony upon the Saco river, and Sir Richard Vines and family had not failed to treat his daughter Acashee with much consideration. Little Hope more especially singled her out as her favorite friend and companion. She liked her for her beauty, her courage, her strength and activity, combined with an easy gayety rare in the children of the wood, and almost unknown among the anxious and over-taxed pilgrims to the new world.

The artful savage maiden, acute and penetrating, had not failed to perceive the peculiar characteristics of Hope, and had not failed to turn them to account in her own way. She played her game in a manner worthy of her name, of Net-weaver, in the best sense, Spider in its worst. She hinted to the melancholy and superstitious Pilgrim settlers, doubts of her state as a true human being, for the Indians believed in the incarnation of certain malignant beings, no less than the ascetic whites.

To the Indians of the many tribes with whom she and her father were in constant intercourse, she enlarged upon Hope’s gifts as a wonderful medicine-woman, and it was she who had more than once induced them to make attempts to abduct her for purposes of divination.

While our poor Hope was thus constantly under the eye of her wily and malignant companion, she was a source, also, of much solicitude on the part of the parents, who began to feel painfully that evil and cruel thoughts were rife in the minds of their neighbors regarding her, which might end in some tragedy even more distressing than the fate of Sir Walter Raleigh, with whom Hope was so fond of associating herself.

Mistress Vines was a cheerful, active, dignified woman, or she would have been sore distressed as the conviction grew upon her that all was not quite right with little Hope. In high courtly or civilized society her peculiarities would not have been observed—the pressure of the same serving to keep its members in equal balance; but in an experience admitting of greater latitude, it became evident that she, the product of a civilized, but bred amidst a primitive, race, had inherited the graces of the one, and absorbed the wild freedom of the other.

Having once obtained the key to the formation of her mind, all its manifestations were complete and harmonious. The study of a book was irksome to her, but that which she learned from the utterance of the human tongue never escaped her memory.

There was a preternatural directness in all the elements of her mind—a wild, vivid adherence to truth under every aspect, which rendered any modification of it, under any circumstances, impossible to her; hence it was followed without the power to anticipate results. It might have been genius—for nothing was impossible to her; and yet, according to ordinary calculations, little was attainable. She would say, “I know it is thus and thus,” but the why it was so it was impossible for her to define.

“Did it ever occur to you, my husband,” asked Mistress Vines, “that there is something in the look of poor little Hope strangely like our brother Raleigh?”

“Often, often, sweetheart; nor is it strange. Do not be distressed about Hope; she is as God has given her to us, and in his good time he will clear away those shadows which obscure the brightness of the spirit he has made. Take heart, good dame.”

“She is good and beautiful in spite of all,” rejoined the wife, eying her daughter tenderly. “Shall we ever send her to England?”

“Thy heart yearns for the mother-land, sweetheart?”

“Nay, my dear, good husband, I am more than content. I live not for England, but for thee and our little ones.”

And she leaned both hands clasped upon his shoulder, in a most tender, wifely way.

“If thou art truly content, sweet heart,”—and in saying this he separated the words, as if the better to express the deep sentiment of the love he bore her—“I rejoice, deeply rejoice, for old England is verging upon critical times; and even here, men and women are not quite safe from evil tongues and evil designs!”

He drew her nearer to his breast as he said this, for there were surmises and rumors which he did not name to his lovely wife.

It was evident to both parents that Hope must be left to her own existence, and suffered to enjoy it in her own way; nor was this by any means a limited or degraded one. Her exquisite organization, her perfect health and vivid vitality, were combined with a degree of hardy activity astonishing in one so delicately made.

As a child, the Indians had treated Hope with a deference and tenderness that implied a doubt whether a creature so fair and diminutive could master the rude encounters of life; but as she grew in years, and they saw her small feet so active, and her tiny wrath so ready to wreak itself, their admiration knew no bounds. They delighted to become her instructors in all wildwood games and primitive exploits, and so apt a pupil did they find her that she seemed to their simple observation a prodigy of cleverness rather than one whose mental organization was a subject of doubt or anxiety.

She was expert at the bow and arrow, could swim like a duck, and come out of the water and shake the drops from her long hair without that shrunken, soused-over look so common to women who breast the waters. She was fond of the Indian mode of dress, rarely being willing to conform to the usages prevalent at the time. She was fond of all ornaments that left her movements unimpeded, but refused the use of braid, bodkin, or fillet to curb the redundancy of her locks.

None of these things were lost upon the artful Acashee, who, in turn, teased or flattered Hope, as might best subserve the great purpose of her life, which was to separate her from John Bonyton, for whom she had conceived a passion the more profound for the obstacles which promised to defeat its gratification.

Hope was well aware of the arts of the girl; but she liked her bold, fearless ways, and her untiring activity. With senses as keen as those of the young savage, she detected her hanging like a shadow over her own pathway, and knew that John Bonyton in the chase of the wild deer, and spearing salmon far up the Falls of the Saco, was often confronted by her rival, and was not unwilling to loiter in the presence of the bright, handsome savage.

On the morning of the day when our story opens, when Hope was found quarreling so vehemently with her lover for having saved her from a long sleep under the sea, the two girls, as was their wont, had met upon a point of land a few miles distant from the Pool, designing to follow the beautiful winding of the Saco up to the Falls, and watch the salmon, like golden ingots, “shoot” the cataract.

Standing upon this promontory, Hope’s dreamy eyes wandered over the landscape, drinking in its beauty, as her kinsman Raleigh might have done in one of his poetic moods. Acashee, on the contrary, practiced all the subtle arts of her nature, and all the coquetries of a wildwood beauty, to interest the heart of John Bonyton. Aroused at length from her reverie, Hope saw the flashing eyes of Bonyton resting admiringly, as she thought, upon her companion. With a wild impulse of undefined jealousy and rage, she threw aside her bow and arrows, and cast herself into the sea.

She was rescued, as we have seen, by the athletic youth, greatly to the discomfiture of the impulsive child. Severe and biting reproaches were exchanged subsequently between the two girls, in which the red maiden betrayed a readiness and spirit as unexpected as it was fearful. Hope was not lacking in her vocabulary of spleen, and she turned her head scoffingly, crying:

“You are a long-legged, big, black-bodied spider, and that is what your name means.”

Acashee darted forward, seizing her by the wrist; she bent down and looked fiercely into her eyes; grinding her teeth, she hissed with the rage and venom of the serpent, into the ears of Hope:

“I am a spider! I weave a strong web. I will snare in it the little fly. Go to, you had a friend; now you have a foe.”

And dashing the hand from her grasp, she plunged into the forest.

Hope laughed a bitter, contemptuous laugh, and turned slowly homeward, followed by the repentant Bonyton, to have the indignant words of the girl and the protestations of the other overheard by the two fathers.

CHAPTER V.
THE “ELECT.”

The voyage which it was proposed for John Bonyton to take to England was deferred from time to time, and the young people resumed their careless, desultory life, now in the forest and now upon the sea—Acashee even more devoted than before in her attentions upon Hope. It might be noticed, however, that the people of the colony were more watchful, and even more critical, in their observance of the latter than usual.

Often as she passed in her short velvet tunic with her white hair floating in the wind, glances were exchanged, intermingled with now and then an ominous and malignant frown.

While the Indians watched her slightest movement with interest akin to awe, the less sympathetic colonists looked upon her with distrust amounting to aversion, and many had conceived the idea that she belonged to that dangerous class “accursed of God,” and to be destroyed by men, as in those olden times, when the King of Israel consulted one akin to Hope in the person of the Witch of Endor. But, as yet, these were surmises only whispered in secret, and concealed from the knowledge of the Governor and his friends.

The Indians of the Saco tribe, while they were more powerful than all others of the eastern tribes, were less aggressive, also. Conscious of their power, they cared little to molest those whom they could easily crush, and hence they devoted themselves warmly to the white colonists, perceiving in them at once much to excite their admiration and stimulate their own endeavor.

Hope was from the first installed a favorite, and they watched her slightest look or word with interest, and then, as years developed more and more her individual characteristics, she was invested by them with a profound awe. They had penetrated some of these marked features, even before they were divined by her own family, and they would come long miles to bring her some dainty gift, exquisite tiny baskets, broidered moccasins, or shells from the sea-shore, and seating themselves upon the mat under the broad piazza, watch her every movement, and listen to the silvery tongue of the child with hair like the snow-flake.

Had Hope been ambitious or deceitful, she might have turned her mysterious power over the savage mind to some account; but, simple-hearted and truthful, she enjoyed her little triumphs without any thought of what might lie beyond. The chief of the Saco tribe, seeing her contempt for all household avocations, looked upon her with wonder and delight as the incarnation of some of their own deities, who would eventually bring great glory to the tribe.

Mistress Vines, while no one could bring the slightest charge against her, was by no means popular with the “elect ladies” of the colony. Mindful of her household, over which she presided with affectionate dignity, and truly loving and honoring her husband, she was little inclined to countenance any course which should create any interest outside of the sacred relation of the family.

Thoughtful as she was tender, judicious as she was affectionate, she was doubly happy in a husband worthy of all reverence and duty, to whom she could refer all abstruse and vexing questions of opinion, and whose decisions were to her wifely mind the wisest and best.

Mistress Bonyton, the mother of John, was in the habit of collecting the principal women of the colony at her house on the Saturday of every week, for the purposes of prayer and religious discussion.

Mistress Vines had received many invitations to join this supplicating conclave, but from the above reasons, together with a natural vivacity of character, which rendered gloom and pretension distasteful to her, she had neglected to ally herself with these ascetic women in what she regarded as an evidence of cant, and, it may be, of hypocrisy also, to her clear, cheerful intellect.

Captain Bonyton, however, secretly gave Sir Richard a hint, in a neighborly way, that the women felt themselves aggrieved at this omission, and the more, hinted at dark, mysterious opinions in regard to little Hope, which it might be well to counteract by a more familiar intercourse of Mistress Vines with her neighbors.

Sir Richard having suggested this to his fair dame, she might have been seen the next afternoon, fresh as a rose, and bright as the morning, picking her way to the mansion of Mistress Bonyton.

She carried herself bravely in her high heels, and the stiffest of stiff ruffs barricading her fair neck, and her rich brown hair drawn back from her handsome forehead, and frizzed in a way wondrous to behold. A little less of style, a little less of fineness, my lady, would have better suited the austere dames who await thy coming!

They were seated in the “fore-room” of the house, the shutters of which were partially closed, giving a dim, ghostly aspect to the interior, in which were seated about twenty women, plainly dressed, each with her hair parted at the top of the head and drawn to the back as smooth and tight as hair could well be drawn. The elderly matrons were seated at one side, and the younger grouped together near the door. Fair, pale young faces were not wanting; prematurely grave, but pure and tender.

“It is nearly upon the stroke of three, and yet she does not come. Reach me the Bible; the Lord’s work must not wait because of his tardy servants.”

This from Mistress Bonyton, who drew down her face ominously, and closed with a groan.

“What think you of that child, Hope? I would have thy opinion, dame, for I have great misgivings.”

Mistress Bonyton put her finger in the Bible, where she had found the chapter she designed to read, and she now closed the book over it, and standing the large volume on end, bent forward, resting her chin upon it, she looked out of the corner of her eye at Mistress Higgins, who had asked the question.

“I think thy thought, dame.”

The younger women started; but Mistress Higgins continued:

“I saw her even now, as I came in, worrying a snake, and truly it was a rare sight to see the docility of the beast.”

“Whist! my lady is at the door!” exclaimed one of the younger women.

Mistress Vines entered, with her pretty, courtly manner, curtesying right and left, after the fashion of the times, and then instinctively seated herself beside the young matrons, who blushed and smiled at her pleasant greeting, while the elders gravely bent their heads and pursed up their mouths in a pious way. A silence of some minutes intervened, for the Lady Joanna was no unimportant personage to be present, and was well known for a smart dame, with ready wit, and sharp repartee, and though in her absence it might be politic to treat her with indifference or contempt, she being present altered the case; and even Mistress Bonyton, habituated to command, and accustomed to lead off her satellites in a free and easy manner, found herself inconveniently awed in her presence.

At length Mistress Bonyton, in a solemn voice, and with intermitting groans, grasping the Bible and closing her eyes, said:

“We have appropriated this afternoon for the especial purpose of praying for the conversion of that pleasant (groan) but ungodly (groan) man, Sir Richard Vines.”

Mistress Vines started; her wifely face reddened with surprise, not unmingled with anger, and she replied promptly, with her bright eyes surveying the group:

“I thank ye, good dames, in that ye will pray for my noble lord; but, in what way has he earned the right to be called ungodly?”

“Our occasion is for the holding forth of prayer, not to discuss carnal questions,” responded Mistress Bonyton.

“But indeed, good dame, let me know his offenses, that I may the better join in your prayers.”

“It is not meet that we talk,” interposed Dame Higgins; “thou art holding a chosen vessel, gifted in prayer, from the altar.”

And at once the group arose, and each grasping the back of a chair, which they tilted upon two legs, Mistress Bonyton opened with a violent denunciation of the “sins of pride and haughtiness; of the hankering after the leeks and garlics of Egypt, in the shape of Episcopacy; and the high head which portended a fall; and the crimpings and mincings, and titles and shows of aristocracy, a shame to the church here planted in the wilderness.”

Mistress Vines quietly moved upon tip-toe to the door and went out, much flushed in the face, and most certainly carrying her pretty head quite as high as the prayer had indicated. She did not even wait for the “amen,” but put the door between her and them, leaving Mistress Bonyton to her invective, which they called prayer.

As she tripped along, she met Sir Richard, who smiled when he saw her flashing eye, but he put her arm within his, smiled, and patted the hand that lay upon his arm, for he divined the cause.

“Ay, sweetheart, they do not look upon thy husband with thine eyes,” and stooping his head to hers he whispered, with a boyish laugh, “heaven forefend that they should.”

Whereat she laughed, and they passed onward to their happy home.

CHAPTER VI.
APOLLO AND DIANA.

From this time it became evident that a strong public opinion was gradually setting itself against the family. Mistress Vines, conceiving herself in point of birth and family superior to any other woman in the colony, might be pardoned some little haughtiness which so well became her handsome head, and being of a higher culture than her neighbors, it might not be surprising if some consciousness of it were apparent in her manners; but these petty traits weigh heavily on the minds of a people more ambitious than cultivated, and inclined to envy and jealousy, as the proud and ignorant are sure to be.

The wife and daughters of Captain Bonyton more especially conceived themselves aggrieved by the deportment of Mistress Vines, and though the captain exerted his utmost influence to allay the growing irritation, he was far from being successful, women being very apt to think that when they have made a matter the subject of prayer, they must necessarily be in the right. To these causes was added another nearer home: John Bonyton, the son and brother, had, from the first, shown himself not only interested in Hope Vines, but completely absorbed in her. Seeing this, outraged as they conceived themselves to have been by the mother, the undisguised devotion of John to Hope, “the impish creetur’,” as they not unfrequently called her, was adding gall to bitterness.

John Bonyton was a bold, headstrong boy, such as the period and circumstances of a new and unsettled country would be likely to develop, but such as the rigid disciplinarians of the day would regard with little favor. It is well known that these iron-cast men and women must either break down the high spirits engendered by their own flesh and blood, and mental make, or be confronted by a spirit like their own, which nothing can quell but the maker of the spirit of man.

Tall and dark, the youth John Bonyton was handsome withal, reckless and roving; disinclined to toil, and expert in woodland sports, like Hope, he found better companionship with the natives of the forest, and dwellers in the wigwam, than in the more exact decorums of civilized society. Generous and daring, he was also tender to the gentler sex, even to a degree unwonted among the stern men who had found a refuge from persecution amid the wilds of the New World.

The unthrifty son, and the white-haired, dark-eyed daughter of Sir Richard Vines were considered one and inseparable. In the wildest woods, adown the deepest ravines, up the highest hills, and off by the sea-side, might be traced everywhere the footsteps of the strong, peril-loving children, and the silvery laugh of little Hope rung like the chimes of the wren-bird upon the air.

Nothing could be more wildly picturesque than the two—he with his dark, flashing eyes and curling hair, athletic, and yet light and flexible as a young mountain sapling, armed with pouch and gun, and followed by a brace of hounds, his invariable companions, and the pretty Hope in her short, crimson-velvet frock, revealing feet arched, elastic and small, even for her diminutive figure, and molding the pointed shoe by its firm pressure. A light velvet cap surmounted her head, and bracelets of gems and strings of wampum intermingled upon her arms and girdle. Over these hung her abundant hair, like a silvery vail—rippling, wavy, and crisping into curls about her temples. She generally carried a bow and arrow in her hands, and was nothing loth to bring down a bird or arrest the flight of a rabbit in her pathway.

She was self-willed, like her companion; but while he was gentle always in her presence, she was capricious and always imperious, not scrupling to assert her claims with a high toss of her pretty head, and a stamp of the little foot. Full of health, and naturally courageous, danger rather allured than repelled her; living mostly in the open air, she was as clear of eye and firm of foot as a young stag.

Hope neither felt nor affected timidity in roaming the stormy sea-coast or climbing the wildest rocky crags. Her foot as readily and instinctively leaped, unaided, the blackest chasms, the rudest headlands, and the rockiest cliffs, as did that of her companion, and she walked onward, after achieving these feats, without comment or exultation.

In sailing over the Pool, or along the sea, John Bonyton gave her the rudder to steer as a matter of course, and if the wind were high, so they had recourse to the oar, Hope assumed one in the same manner.

Sir Richard’s family were standing upon the piazza, watching the movements of Hope, who stood upon a slip of rock extending seaward, with oar in hand, and her hair tied in a knot under her chin. She had evidently determined upon a row to one of the islands in the distance, to which her companion objected, pointing to the masses of dark cloud rolling up from the sea, and the already dark purple hue of the waves in the lurid light of the gathering storm.

Mrs. Vines laughed as Hope gesticulated rapidly, and seizing the rope which held the boat, drew it in to land, and sprung therein. Her companion could do no less than follow, and they were soon sailing down the harbor, the little boat careening heavily.

“Is she not a perfect little Puck, as our Indians call the wood-fairies?” said Mistress Vines.

“True, most true, sweetheart; but a fearful cloud, I fear, is gathering over our house. Say not a word, my brave wife, but we must go home. I hear that which chills me to the heart. Poor, dear, innocent little Hope! Ah! dame, when we hear of tortures inflicted upon others, we hardly realize their import till those we love are threatened therewith.”

“They would not dare to touch a hair of her precious head,” responded Mistress Vines.

“Indeed, they would, sweetheart; but we will leave them before their plans are matured; and first, we must send this headstrong boy abroad. He stays only to his and our ruin. Use that silvery tongue of thine, dame, to urge his departure.”

“Ah! I see it all—we must abandon this dear Paradise of ours, where we have been so happy, and where our children were born, and go to a new land once more, and to a new people. Oh! my husband, my heart misgives me.”

And she folded her two hands upon his shoulder, and bowed her head thereon, with a burst of tears.

CHAPTER VII.
A FAMILY CONCLAVE.

Mistress Bonyton sat with her daughters, busy with knitting-work and sewing, when Dame Higgins entered, with work in hand, to pass an hour in neighborly chat. Hardly were they seated, when in the distance were seen John Bonyton and Hope Vines casting their hooks into the sea, fishing; for from the point of rocks on which they stood, many a fine bass had been brought ashore.

Dame Higgins eyed Mistress Bonyton sharply; she was making a net, and as she drew the mesh home, the strong twine snapped with a keen, biting sound, which seemed not unpleasant to the notable dame. Every time she knotted the mesh, she lifted her eyes and scrutinized the face of the hostess, as she drew the twine home.

“I think our brother John is certainly bewitched,” said Perseverance Bonyton, to her sister, at the same time biting off the thread of the seam she had just completed.

Nancy, who had been addressed, was darning a pair of stockings, with a small yellow gourd inside to hold the parts in shape. She threaded the darning-needle, arranged the gourd, and commenced working before she spoke, and then her laconic answer was no more than:

“I shouldn’t wonder!”

“My conscience, Nance, is that all you’ve got to say, after waiting so long to get it out?”

Nancy compressed her lips like one determined not to be provoked into speech, holding the stocking close to her breast, and passing the needle over and under the threads, weaving in a perfect piece of cloth. At last the rent was closed, and she held it up in triumph, saying: