Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
Semi-Monthly Novel Series.
No. 142.
BEADLE’S DIME NOVELS
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
* * * * *
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.”