CHAPTER V.

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“There have been sweet singing voices 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 despatch 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 luggage, already arrived at the village, was a small box of millinery which she had ordered from London.

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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 fidgeting (for the good dame had all day been wondering whether her confidential agent had matched her orange satin; how 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 restiff; and Mrs. Grafton, not excelling {85} 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 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 Mrs. 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 hen with peacock’s feathers and dandelions, and then call her ‘Dame Grafton in a flurry--’”

“Hush, Digby!” said Mrs. Fletcher; “it ill befits 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.

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“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 any apology to your master, I shall not fail to make it.”

“But if anything 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 rocking-chair: rather rough rocking,” he added, as he adjusted the rockers lengthwise with the logs that served for the flooring; “but mother won’t 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 kiss from father.” Thus saying, he placed the laughing infant in his go-cart beside his mother. He then {87} 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: everybody 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 of experiment, prudently occupying the greatest portion of their 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 {88} 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 housewives, they ransacked forest and field for materials for their housekeeping.

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 dressed 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 fine lace that shaded her cheek, “I do not 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.”

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“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.”

“Alas! alas!” replied Magawisca, glancing her eye at Mrs. Fletcher, and then, as if heart-struck, withdrawing them, “how soon the flush of the setting sun fades away.”

“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; he is our sentinel, and when danger is near he cries awake! awake!”

“Magawisca, you are positively unkind: Jeremiah’s lamentations on a holyday would not be more out of time than your croaking is now: the very skies, earth, and air seem to partake our joy at my 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 {90} 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.”

Oneco 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 anything 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.

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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, whose silence and fixedness showed that, if his better 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.

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“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 listened for a moment; then exclaiming, “It 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, {93} 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 leaned 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 the arms of her defenders, Everell and Magawisca, 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,” {94} 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.”