 | CHAPTER V. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
In your walks that now are still;
There are seats left void in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill.”
Mrs. Hemans.
Magawisca rose from her sleepless pillow to
join the family at prayers, her mind distracted
with opposing fears, which her face, the mirror of
her soul, too truly reflected.
Mrs. Fletcher observed her narrowly, and confirmed
in her forebodings by the girl's apprehensive
countenance, and still farther by Digby's report
of her behaviour during the night, she resolved
to dispatch him to Mr. Pynchon for his advice
and assistance, touching her removal to the fort,
or the appointment of a guard for Bethel. Her
servant, (who prudently kept his alarm to himself,
knowing, as he said, that a woman's fears
were always ahead of danger) applauded her decision,
and was on the point of proceeding to
act upon it, when a messenger arrived with the
joyful tidings, that Mr. Fletcher was within a
few hours ride of Bethel. And the intelligence,
no less joyful to Dame Grafton, that with his
small box of millinery, which she had ordered
from London.
Mrs. Fletcher feeling, as good wives do, a sense
of safety from the proximity of her husband, bade
Digby defer any new arrangement till he had the
benefit of his master's counsel. The whole house
was thrown into the commotion so common in a
retired family, when an arrival is about to interrupt
the equable current of life. Whatever unexpressed
and superior happiness some others
might have felt, no individual made such bustling
demonstrations as Mrs. Grafton. It was difficult
to say which excited her most, the anticipation of
seeing her niece, Hope Leslie, or of inspecting
the box of millinery.
Immediately after dinner, two of the men-servants
were despatched to the village to transport
their master's luggage. They had hardly gone
when Mrs. Grafton recollected that her box contained
a present for Madam Holioke, which it
would be a thousand pities to have brought to
Bethel, and lie there, perhaps a week before it
would be sent to her, and `she would like of all
things, if Mrs. Fletcher saw no objection, to have
the pony saddled and ride to the village herself,
where the present could be made forthwith.'
Mrs. Fletcher was too happy to throw a shadow
across any one's path, and wearied too, perhaps,
with Mrs. Grafton's fidgetting, (for the good dame
had all day been wondering whether her confidential
she had trimmed her cap, &c. &c. &c.) she
ordered a horse to be saddled and brought to
the door. The animal proved a little restive,
and Mrs. Grafton, not excelling in horsemanship,
became alarmed and begged that Digby might be
allowed to attend her.
Digby's cleverness was felt by all the household,
and his talents were always in requisition for the
miscellaneous wants of the family; but Digby,
like good servants in every age, was aware of his
importance, and was not more willing than a domestic
of the present day, to be worked like a
machine. He muttered something of “old women's
making fools of themselves with new top-knots,”
and saying aloud, that “Mistress Grafton
knew it was his master's order, that all the
men-servants should not be away from the place
at the same time,” he was turning off, when Mrs.
Fletcher, who was standing at the door observing
him, requested him with more authority than was
usual in her manner, to comply with Mrs. Grafton's
request.
“I would not wish,” said Digby, still hesitating,
“to disoblige Mistress Grafton—if it were a matter
of life and death,” he added, lowering his voice;
“but to get more furbelows for the old lady when
with what she has already, she makes such a fool
of herself, that our young witlings, Master Everell
and Oneco, garnish out our old Yorkshire
then call her, `Dame Grafton in a flurry.' ”
“Hush, Digby!” said Mrs. Fletcher, “it ill
fits you to laugh at such fooleries in the boys—
they shall be corrected, and do you learn to treat
your master's friend with respect.”
“Come—come, Digby,” screamed Mrs. Grafton.
“Shall I go and break my master's orders?”
asked Digby, still bent on having his own way.
“For this once you shall, Digby,” answered
Mrs. Fletcher, “and if you need an apology to
your master, I shall not fail to make it.”
“But if any thing should happen to you, Mistress
Fletcher”—
“Nothing will happen, my good Digby. Is not
your master at hand? and an hour or two will be
the extent of your absence. So, get thee along
without more ado.”
Digby could not resist any farther the authority
of his gentle mistress, and he walked by the side
of Mrs. Grafton's pony, with slow unwilling steps.
All was joy in Mrs. Fletcher's dwelling. “My
dear mother,” said Everell, “it is now quite time
to look out for father and Hope Leslie. I have
turned the hour-glass three times since dinner, and
counted all the sands I think. Let us all go on
the front portico where we can catch the first
glimpse of them, as they come past the elm-trees.
Here, Oneco,” he continued, as he saw assent in
his mother's smile, “help me out with mother's
as he adjusted the rockers lengthwise with the logs
that served for the flooring—“but mother wont
mind trifles just now. Ah! blessed baby brother,”
he continued, taking in his arms the beautiful infant—“you
shall come too, even though you cheat
me out of my birthright, and get the first embrace
from father.” Thus saying, he placed
the laughing infant in his go-cart, beside his mother.
He then aided his little sisters in their arrangement
of the playthings they had brought
forth to welcome and astonish Hope; and finally
he made an elevated position for Faith Leslie,
where she might, he said, as she ought, catch the
very first glimpse of her sister.
“Thank, thank you, Everell,” said the little
girl as she mounted her pinnacle; “if you knew
Hope, you would want to see her first too—every
body loves Hope. We shall always have pleasant
times when Hope gets here.”
It was one of the most beautiful afternoons at
the close of the month of May. The lagging
spring had at last come forth in all her power;
her “work of gladness” was finished, and forests,
fields, and meadows were bright with renovated
life. The full Connecticut swept triumphantly
on, as if still exulting in its release from
the fetters of winter. Every gushing rill had the
spring-note of joy. The meadows were, for the
first time, enriched with patches of English grain,
which the new settlers had sown, scantily, by way
portion of the rich mould, with the native Indian
corn. This product of our soil is beautiful in all
its progress, from the moment, when as now it
studded the meadow with hillocks, shooting its
bright-pointed spear from its mother earth, to its
maturity, when the long golden ear bursts from
the rustling leaf.
The grounds about Mrs. Fletcher's house had
been prepared with the neatness of English taste;
and a rich bed of clover that overspread the lawn
immediately before the portico, already rewarded
the industry of the cultivators. Over this delicate
carpet, the domestic fowls, the first civilized inhabitants
of the country, of their tribe, were now
treading, picking their food here and there like
dainty little epicures.
The scene had also its minstrels; the birds, those
ministers and worshippers of nature, were on the
wing, filling the air with melody; while, like
diligent little housewifes, they ransacked forest
and field for materials for their house-keeping.
A mother, encircled by healthful sporting children,
is always a beautiful spectacle—a spectacle
that appeals to nature in every human breast.
Mrs. Fletcher, in obedience to matrimonial duty,
or, it may be, from some lingering of female vanity,
had, on this occasion, attired herself with
extraordinary care. What woman does not wish
to look handsome?—in the eyes of her husband.
“Mother,” said Everell, putting aside the exquisitely
believe you looked more beautiful than you do to
day when, as I have heard, they called you `the
rose of the wilderness'—our little Mary's cheek is
as round and as bright as a peach, but it is not so
handsome as yours, mother. `Your heart has sent
this colour here,” he continued, kissing her tenderly—“it
seems to have come forth to tell us that
our father is near.”
“It would shame me, Everell,” replied his mother,
embracing him with a feeling that the proudest
drawing-room belle might have envied, “to
take such flattery from any lips but thine.”
“Oh do not call it flattery, mother—look, Magawisca—for
heaven's sake cheer up—look, would
you know mother's eye? just turn it, mother, one
minute from that road—and her pale cheek too—
with this rich colour on it?”
“Alas! alas!” replied Magawisca, glancing her
eyes at Mrs. Fletcher, and then as if heart-struck,
withdrawing them, “how soon the flush of the setting
sun fades from the evening cloud.”
“Oh Magawisca,” said Everell impatiently,”
why are you so dismal? your voice is too sweet for
a bird of ill-omen. I shall begin to think as Jennet
says—though Jennet is no text-book for me—
I shall begin to think old Nelema has really bewitched
you.”
“You call me a bird of ill-omen,” replied Magawisca,
half proud, half sorrowful, “and you call
the owl a bird of ill-omen, but we hold him sacred—
cries, awake! awake!”
“Magawisca, you are positively unkind—Jeremiah's
lamentations on a holiday would not be
more out of time than your croaking is now—the
very skies, earth, and air seem to partake our joy
at father's return, and you only make a discord.
Do you think if your father was near I would not
share your joy?”
Tears fell fast from Magawisca's eye, but she
made no reply, and Mrs. Fletcher observing and
compassionating her emotion, and thinking it probably
arose from comparing her orphan state to
that of the merry children about her, called her
and said, “Magawisca, you are neither a stranger,
nor a servant, will you not share our joy? Do
you not love us?”
“Love you!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands,
“love you! I would give my life for you.”
“We do not ask your life, my good girl,” replied
Mrs. Fletcher, kindly smiling on her, “but a
light heart and a cheerful look. A sad countenance
doth not become this joyful hour. Go and
help Oneco—he is quite out of breath, blowing
those soap bubbles for the children.”
Oneca smiled, and shook his head, and continued
to send off one after another of the prismatic
globes, and as they rose and floated on the air and
brightened with the many-coloured ray, the little
girls clapped their hands, and the baby stretched
his to grasp the brilliant vapour.
“Oh!” said Magawisca, impetuously covering
her eyes, “I do not like to see any thing so beautiful,
pass so quickly away.”
Scarcely had she uttered these words, when suddenly,
as if the earth had opened on them, three
Indian warriors darted from the forest and pealed
on the air their horrible yells.
“My father! my father!” burst from the lips of
Magawisca, and Oneco.
Faith Leslie sprang towards the Indian boy, and
clung fast to him—and the children clustered
about their mother—she instinctively caught her
infant and held it close within her arms as if their
ineffectual shelter were a rampart.
Magawisca uttered a cry of agony, and springing
forward with her arms uplifted, as if deprecating
his approach, she sunk down at her father's
feet, and clasping her hands, “save them—save
them,” she cried, “the mother—the children—oh
they are all good—take vengeance on your enemies
—but spare—spare our friends—our benefactors
—I bleed when they are struck—oh command
them to stop!” she screamed, looking to the companions
of her father, who unchecked by her cries,
were pressing on to their deadly work.
Mononotto was silent and motionless, his eye
glanced wildly from Magawisca to Oneco. Magawisca
replied to the glance of fire—“yes, they
have sheltered us—they have spread the wing of
love over us—save them—save them—oh it will
be too late,” she cried, springing from her father,
nature rebelled against the work of revenge,
there was no relenting of purpose. Magawisca
darted before the Indian who was advancing towards
Mrs. Fletcher with an uplifted hatchet.
“You shall hew me to pieces ere you touch her,”
she said, and planted herself as a shield before her
benefactress.
The warrior's obdurate heart untouched by the
sight of the helpless mother and her little ones,
was thrilled by the courage of the heroic girl—he
paused and grimly smiled on her when his companion,
crying, “hasten, the dogs will be on us!” levelled
a deadly blow at Mrs. Fletcher—but his
uplifted arm was penetrated by a musket shot and
the hatchet fell harmless to the floor.
“Courage, mother!” cried Everell, reloading
the piece, but neither courage nor celerity could
avail—the second Indian sprang upon him, threw
him on the floor, wrested his musket from him,
and brandishing his tomahawk over his head, he
would have aimed the fatal stroke, when a cry
from Mononotto arrested his arm.
Everell extricated himself from his grasp, and
one hope flashing into his mind, he seized a bugle-horn
which hung beside the door, and winded it.
This was the conventional signal of alarm—and
he sent forth a blast—long and loud—a death-cry.
Mrs. Grafton and her attendants were just
mounting their horses to return home. Digby
comes from our master's dwelling! ride for your
life, Hutton!” he tossed away a bandbox that encumbered
him, and spurred his horse to its utmost
speed.
The alarm was spread through the village, and
in a brief space Mr. Pynchon with six armed men
were pressing towards the fatal scene.
In the mean time the tragedy was proceeding
at Bethel. Mrs. Fletcher's senses had been stunned
with terror. She had neither spoken nor
moved after she grasped her infant. Everell's
gallant interposition, restored a momentary consciousness;
she screamed to him—“Fly, Everell,
my son, fly; for your father's sake, fly.”
“Never,” he replied, springing to his mother's
side.
The savages, always rapid in their movements,
were now aware that their safety depended on
despatch. “Finish your work, warriors,” cried
Mononotto. Obedient to the command, and infuriated
by his bleeding wound, the Indian, who
on receiving the shot, had staggered back, and
leant against the wall, now sprang forward, and
tore the infant from its mother's breast. She
shrieked, and in that shriek, passed the agony of
death. She was unconscious that her son, putting
forth a strength beyond nature, for a moment
kept the Indian at bay; she neither saw nor felt
the knife struck at her own heart. She felt not
as they met around her neck. She fainted,
and fell to the floor, dragging her impotent
protectors with her.
The savage, in his struggle with Everell, had
tossed the infant boy to the ground; he fell quite
unharmed on the turf at Mononotto's feet. There
raising his head, and looking up into the chieftain's
face, he probably perceived a gleam of
mercy, for with the quick instinct of infancy, that
with unerring sagacity directs its appeal, he clasped
the naked leg of the savage with one arm, and
stretched the other towards him with a piteous
supplication, that no words could have expressed.
Mononotto's heart melted within him; he
stooped to raise the sweet suppliant, when one of
the Mohawks fiercely seized him, tossed him wildly
around his head, and dashed him on the door-stone.
But the silent prayer—perhaps the celestial
inspiration of the innocent creature, was not lost.
“We have had blood enough,” cried Mononotto,
“you have well avenged me, brothers.”
Then looking at Oneco, who had remained in
one corner of the portico, clasping Faith Leslie
in his arms, he commanded him to follow him
with the child. Everell was torn from the lifeless
bodies of his mother and sisters, and dragged
into the forest. Magawisca uttered one cry of
agony and despair, as she looked, for the last
time, on the bloody scene, and then followed her
father.
As they passed the boundary of the cleared
ground, Mononotto tore from Oneco his English
dress, and casting it from him—“Thus perish,”
he said, “every mark of the captivity of my children.
Thou shalt return to our forests,” he continued,
wrapping a skin around him, “with the
badge of thy people.”
| CHAPTER V. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts | |