University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

About five miles from the place where our tale
first opens and in a southwesterly direction, stood
a neat cottage, in size and appearance greatly the
superior of the generality of these buildings,
erected in this part of the country. It was composed
of logs it is true, but then parts of them
were hewn and put together with compactness
and regularity, while the crevices were neatly
filled with a clay-like substance. The roof was
pierced by a chimney built of stone, and was well
thatched with straw. A stranger, after traveling
through much of the surrounding country, would
have been struck with the air of taste and elegant
neatness
belonging to it, compared with the more
slovenly appearance of many of its neighbors.
The ground round about, was generally level, of
a fertile order, and exhibited marks of fruitful
tillage. In the immediate vicinity of the cottage,
grass had sprung up, forming a thick green sward,
a sure indicative of civilization. A few fences,
rough it is true, but still answering the purpose
for which they were designed, marked out the
fields of tillage, and secured the crops from the
invasion of cattle. In the rear of the cottage,
was formed a garden; back of which, in orchard
regularity, were set out various kinds of domestic
trees—such as the apple, pear, peach, and so forth.
Opposite the house, some hundred yards distant,
was a barn, built of logs, where the cattle could
find shelter from the rough storms of winter.
In front of the house ran the road before mentioned,
which wound over a hill a short distance

to the right. Altogether, the whole betokened
the owner a farmer of the first class, bred in some
of the Eastern States, who had come to the “Far
West” with the intention of here passing the
remainder of his days. Such was the fact; and
although in speaking of him and his family, we
may digress a little from the main story, we trust
the reader will deem such digression pardonable.

William Webber was a man in size far above
the ordinary—standing six feet one inch, with
limbs and body well proportioned. In years he
numbered some forty-five, with a robust, healthy
look about his face that would have set him
five years younger. There was nothing remarkable
in his countenance, which was open and frank
in expression, wherein was likewise written a look
of honest hospitality. His complexion was light,
with light-brown hair, cut close and combed up
above a high, intellectual forehead. His eyes were
grey, full, and very expressive, as were his features
generally. Around his mouth were a few
lines that denoted firmness, when roused, with
courage to act; while his features exhibited a
calm self-possession that would be of very material
service to one in the hour of peril.

He had been born and bred in the good old State
of Massachusetts, where he lived in comfortable
circumstances, until about five years previous to
the opening of our story; when following up a
desire he had for sometime entertained, he came to
the West, purchased the land where he now resided,
built the cottage, returned, and soon removed
his family hither; which consisted of a
wife and two sons—one now aged twenty, the
other some three years his elder.

His wife was a robust, healthy looking woman,
some five years his junior, of the medium height,
very fleshy, with a full, round, good-natured-looking
countenance, such as we behold almost daily,
and one to whom the adage, “fat, fair and forty,”
would be truly applicable.

The eldest son, John, in some respects resembled
his father—tall, well-built, with features of
a similar shape, though in expression far different.
In saying there was a resemblance between him
and his father, we wish the reader to distinctly understand
it was only in the formation of the features—all
else being totally different. His complexion
was dark, with jet black hair, and eyes
somewhat shaded by dark, heavy, overhanging
brows. Around his mouth were lines similar to
those of his father, yet taking more of a sinister
turn. His look generally, was that of a man
dark, deep, and treacherous, and one little likely
to inspire confidence. But it was when he
smiled, which he did but seldom, that you would
have been the most struck by an expression from
which you would involuntarily recoil, as from
the gaze of a deadly serpent.

From youth up, John had been a being isolated
as it were from the world, wrapped up in his own
dark thoughts, communing but seldom with any,
and then with those of a disposition like to his
own. Already had he caused his father much
anxiety and trouble; and was, in fact, one cause
of his removing to the West, where he thought
he would be free from the snares and temptations
likely to be thrown around him in the East, and
where as he supposed he would be free at least
from companions in vice, and where, to sum up,
he would in all probability spend his days in honest
pursuits. Could the first design of his father
have been strictly carried out, viz: that of removing
him from temptation, bad company, and
so forth, the latter might perchance have followed.
But alas! in selecting the West, and more especially
this part of it, he undesignedly opened a
field for the cultivation of his son's natural disposition,
by throwing him among the most depraved
villains of which society could boast.
That he was an apt scholar, the sequel of our
story will probably show.

His brother Rufus, younger by three years, was
of a make and disposition in every respect totally
different. In stature he was of the medium size,
straight and slim, with light hair, and a fair, sunny
countenance. His features were regular, approaching
perhaps a little too much the feminine,
with such an open, expressive frankness of look,
that your confidence was immediately won. His
disposition was mild and affable, his voice rich and
musical in tone, while his full blue eyes not unfrequently
flashed forth gleams of a lofty intellect.
Around his mouth also, were lines similar
to those of his father, expressive of firmness and
a determination of character.

There is one other of whom we must speak to
complete the family, in order to do which it will
be necessary for us to go back somewhat in our
narrative. About fifteen years prior to the date
of our story, a stranger, accompanied by a little
girl some three years of age, cailed late one evening
at the residence of Webber, and requested
permission to tarry through the night, which request
was granted. He was a dark, stern looking
man, some thirty-five years of age, and of a
moody, taciturn disposition. But little was gleaned
from his conversation, as to who he was or
whence he came. In the morning he asked permission
for the child to remain a few days, stating
as a reason that business of importance called him
away. The permission was granted and he took
his leave, since when he had never been heard
from. Enquiries were instituted by Webber, but
nothing authentic had ever been heard concerning
him. A man answering his description was
seen a short time after in the western part of
New York, apparently bound for the West; and
Webber came to the conclusion the child had
been voluntarily deserted; the more so, as on
questioning her, the account she gave was of
harsh treatment, and sometimes severe chastisement,
for asking of home. The child was too
young to give even a succinct detail of her adventures,
remembering only some of the more
glaring, such as the dark man carrying her away
from home, putting her in a house that floated on
the water, and the like—from all of which Webber
drew his conclusions that she had been brought
from another country, perhaps across the Atlantic,
by an intrigueing design he was unable to
fathom.

It was a riddle too deep for the gossips infesting
the neighborhood of Webber (as what place
do they not) to solve, concerning who was the
child, who were her parents, where she came
from, and so forth; and after various conjectures,
probable and improbable, they finally agreed that
her parents were no better than they should be,
and that being of that doubtful cast, it were better
to shun the company of the child, lest by intercourse
their prudish decorum should be vielated,
and their over-wise virtuous principles become
contaminated.

So much for ye, moth-eaters of reputation
colleagues of idleness and breeders of scandal!—
who “strain at a knat and swallow a camel”—
blasting all with your polluted breath whom the

world hath not acknowledged above your reach—
preying upon society as the worm will sooner or
later prey upon your corrupted flesh!—God send
that the innocent and harmless wanderer be not
caught within your damning toils!

If the child was shunned by some, she was not
by all; for Webber, to whom she soon became
an object of affection, determined to rear her as
though she were his own; and as she grew older,
he had no cause to regret it; for naturally of a
sweet, affectionate disposition, she won friends
among those who were at first disposed to treat
her uncivilly, while to Webber she clung with all
the fondness of a child to a parent.

Time in the meanwhile rolled on, and what at
first created a great commotion among the gossips,
gradually wore away, settled down into a
shake of the head whenever the object of calumny
approached, until at length, won over in
spite of themselves by her angel disposition, even
the retailers of scandal ceased their persecutions
and the unknown wanderer became an object of
general regard.

About this period an event took place, which
created another mighty sensation, although gossip
this time ran in a very different channel from
the previous one. It was a calm summer evening
in the month of August. The sun had just retired
behind the Western hill, and was yet tipping
the mountain tops with a rich golden tint;
the songsters were singing their farewell songs
for the night; the breeze came with that gentle,
soothing effect, so delightful on such an eve, making
one feel that placid, yet saddened happiness,
which wins our thoughts from the darker things
of life, and directs them into a higher, nobler,
holier vein. Around the porch of Webber's
dwelling were seated himself, wife, and two children—one
a fair-haired boy of winning appearance,
the other a girl of bright eyes and golden
tresses, whose age might be thirteen. In the
countenance of the latter there was something
so noble, so fascinating, combined with such a
quiet, thoughtful, almost melancholy air, that ten
to one a stranger would have paused to wonder
why one so young should bear the look of maturer
years. As Webber gazed upon her, and
mused on her sad, singular fate—torn from home
and friends at so early an age—thrown upon the
world for protection, and thought what if such
had been the case with one of his own children,
he involuntarily hove a sigh, and vowed to watch
over her with more than a parent's care.

Suddenly the attention of the group, which had
been occupied in various ways, was arrested by
the rapid approach of a horseman. A minute
later he was standing among them, his horse
foaming and panting from hard riding, while with
his own head uncovered he wiped the perspiration
from his heated brow.

“Is your name Webber?” demanded he of that
individual.

“It is.”

“William Webber?”

“The same.”

“Ten years ago a stranger left with you a little
girl: am I right?”

“You are,” answered Webber, wondering what
was to be revealed. “This is the child;” and he
pointed towards her.

The stranger turned an enquiring glance, examined
her attentively from head to foot, apparently
much struck by her appearance, and then
said abruptly: “Enough! I am commanded to
deliver you this packet;” saying which he placed
a sealed package in Webber's hand—turned—
mounted his horse—dashed the spurs into his sides,
and ere the astonished group had recovered from
their surprise, he was fast speeding out of sight.

“Strange,” remarked Webber, breaking the
seal; “what new mystery is this?” As he spoke,
he opened the parcel, and was surprised to find ten
one hundred dollar notes, accompanied with the
following singular epistle:

“To William Webber, greeting:—Ten years
since was placed in your charge a child, who bears
or bore the name of Emily Nevance. In the
name of God! treat her well! Educate her for
any station in society, and accept the notes enclosed,
with the thanks of the