It was just midnight, and John Bonyton still paced the sands at the
head of the Pool, striving in vain to wrest his thoughts from the one
object of his devotion. At length, as the moon was lost in the west, he
turned wearily homeward, with that vague unrest with which persons turn
to a disagreeable location. Emerging from a grove of pines, he observed
a figure leaning against the bole of one of these, with head drooping
upon its breast.
“What do you here, Acashee?” he asked, coldly, as he stood before her.
“Think of John Bonyton.”
“I like it not, Acashee. I like it not. Thou art beautiful--thou art
bright, and full of power. Go seek a chief of thy tribe best worthy of
thee, and pursue me no more.”
“I AM beautiful, John Bonyton. Fresh, and strong, and straight as the
mountain-ash. I am fit to mother heroes, John Bonyton, and you turn
from me to love a girl small as the rabbit compared with the panther.”
She approached him; she laid her slender wrist upon his arm, and looked
into his face with her dark eyes, that had a serpent fascination in
them, while her parted coral lips showed the small white teeth, and
gave an indescribable seductiveness to her person.
John Bonyton shook off her hand sternly.
“Go, Acashee. It is not becoming the daughter of a great chief to seek
the love of the white man.”
And he turned away.
Acashee’s face flushed with rage, but she did not follow him. In a low,
soft voice she called:
“Come back, John Bonyton, I have something of which to speak.”
He returned, and again she laid her slender wrist upon his arm, and he
could feel the pulse leap in its little round.
“Bethink thee, John Bonyton, thy people contemn thee; Sir Richard Vines
will not give thee his daughter, or if he did, the Great Spirit will
not suffer Hope Vines to wed!”
“What mean you?”
“She is set apart; she is a diviner of secrets, a prophet of the
future. Such are reserved for the good of the people.”
Bonyton laughed with scorn, and replied:
“You speak your wish, Acashee. Hope shall yet be my wife. Go, and let
us meet no more.”
The girl ground her teeth with rage as she saw him ready to leave her,
but she resumed, with a soft voice and seductive smile, detaining him
gently by the hand.
“Come to our people, John Bonyton; come, and be a great chief, and
command a thousand warriors; come, and all the tribes of the east
will bow down to the great chief, who has married the wisest and most
beautiful woman of the red-men. Come, and Acashee will deck your
wigwam; she who is proud as the eagle to the approaches of others,
shall coo like the wood-pigeon in the ears of him who has moved the
soul of the red maiden, and made her like the timid fawn--she who has
been proud as the eagle upon the rock.”
She spoke at first with pride, gradually softening her tones to a
tender, caressing beseechingness, which might have been dangerous to
one less steadfast than John Bonyton.
“Cease, I beseech thee, Acashee. I have no choice but to love Hope
Vines.”
“Listen to what I tell you,” she cried, fiercely. “Hope Vines shall
not be your wife while the sea rolls, or the sun shines. She shall be
burned for a witch. She shall know what it is to bring the blush of
shame and the blight of scorn upon the cheek of Acashee.”
With a wild look of rage and malevolence, she dashed into the forest.
Her language was not lost upon Bonyton, who recalled many words and
incidents which confirmed him in the belief that danger impended over
Hope Vines, and the threat, “She shall be burned for a witch,” had a
fearful significance.
Meanwhile, Acashee pursued her way homeward, half in doubt whether she
should forward the plans of the women of the colony, who, she was well
aware, designed to denounce Hope as a witch, or whether she should aid
her own people in their scheme to abduct her, in their belief that she
would prove a great medicine-woman, or priestess.
With these views, many a council had been held to devise the most
favorable method of securing her person, while at the same time no
indignity, no distress or injury should afflict the sweetness of her
soul. While the women of the Pilgrim faith were devising means to
degrade and torture this tender child of genius, this nightingale
smothered in its own sweets, these children of the woods were intent
only to raise her to the highest pitch of reverence and devotion.
Upon reaching home, Acashee found that circumstances were favoring
her designs against Hope, even beyond her expectations; for a council
was already convened whose object was to secure her person. Acashee,
though not allowed to be seated in council, was too wise and too much
respected to be excluded therefrom; hence, she leaned against a tree
behind her father, and listened.
“For many years the corn failed us, and the venison was poor; the
fish showed their dead white bellies all along the sea-shore; the
burial-places of our people were heaped with our dead; and then came
these pale-faces!”
Thus commenced a white-haired chief, recalling the misfortunes of his
people.
“Our medicine-men, our prophets, foretold their coming,” returned
another.
“Yes, my brother, and they foretold the ruin of the tribes. I see
already our people fading, fading, like the mist as the sun comes up.”
“Why look only at black omens, my father? Maybe the pale-faces have
brought to us one who can show us how to avert the calamities of our
people.”
Acashee started forward like a young panther at these words of her
father, and exclaimed:
“Thou hast well said, my father.”
Samoset lifted his hand and waved his daughter back; then he said, in a
low voice, meant for her ear alone:
“The net-weaver is keen and subtle; let her beware, or she may be
caught in her own trap.”
“What is Wa-ain (white soul) to me? Do I not seek the prophet-voice of
our people?”
Samoset’s eyes flashed fire upon the girl; he rose to his feet and
motioned her to follow, saying, as he went:
“Does the squaw hope to deceive a chief? Do I not know thee? Do I not
know that Hope Vines is to thee what the hazel is to the rattlesnake?
Go thy ways, lest I condemn thee to the hoe and the paddle.”
Samoset loved Hope with a paternal tenderness and a religious
reverence; and when he sought to secure her as a prophet, it was in
accordance with these sentiments only, and he resolved to protect her
from the animosity which he so well read in the mind of his imperious
daughter. Returning to the council at length, he was ready to adopt
measures to secure her person, and therefore listened to the reasons
assigned for their belief in her supernatural gifts.
“Hardly do her feet touch the earth,” said a chief. “Her hair is
the pearly hue of the spirit-land, fair as the snowy mist when the
evening star nestles beside the young moon. Her eyes seek the stars,
and like the eagle’s, penetrate the midday sun--she is a waif from the
spirit-land. Her own people would subject her to toil, or to their
foolish arts--they do not understand her. We see in her the gift of the
Great Spirit--let us take her to worship.”
This speech was received with approval, and many were the devices
suggested to accomplish this object. The chief turned to Samoset.
“Thy daughter is wise; she understands Wa-ain; let her be called.”
At a signal, Acashee approached with her hands folded, and with humble,
downcast eyes, for the threat of her father had terrified her. She
stood behind him in silence.
“Will it break the heart of Wa-ain to take her from her kind? Will she
learn to forget them?”
Acashee shook her head.
“Speak, my daughter,” said her father.
“Wa-ain has no heart; she will forget all but one.”
The chiefs exchanged significant glances.
“When that one is hidden from her eyes she will forget; she hears in
him the lost voices of the land of perpetual spring. When he is gone,
the voices now lost will come to her ear.”
Acashee glanced furtively at her father, and then said:
“Who will look to the comfort of Wa-ain?--who will spread the skins for
her couch, and provide the fine food for her lips? She can not live
like an Indian girl.”
“The old chief will provide, my daughter,” answered Samoset, a grim
smile crossing his features, for, proud as he was of his daughter, he
knew well the cruelty of her heart, and he would not trust Hope to her
keeping. He continued:
“John Bonyton goes over the great water; he goes to fight in behalf of
the great English father--we shall see him no more.”
In spite of her Indian nerves, Acashee trembled and turned pale at this
announcement.
“How shall we obtain the person of Wa-ain? Shall we wait till John
Bonyton is gone?” she at length asked.
“Unfold thy purpose, daughter,” said Samoset.
Acashee saw that her father read her mind clearly--knew the hatred she
bore to Hope Vines--knew of a something, which was not hate, that made
her heart throb at the name of John Bonyton--knew that he saw how the
abduction of the girl would work out her own revenge. She answered, at
length, in a clear, low voice:
“Wa-ain loves the games and festivals of the tribes; what hinders that
she should join in a dance before the departure of John Bonyton?”
“Why before his departure?” This from her father.
“Because, when he is gone, Wa-ain will no more be seen abroad; like the
wood-pigeon, she will seek the deepest shades, and thence go to the
spirit-land.”
The council was prolonged still further, but at length the hint of
Acashee was accepted, and it was resolved to induce Hope to join the
Indians in one of their annual festivals, in the progress of which it
would be easy to so far remove her from observation, that a few trusty
agents could carry her far beyond the reach of her own people.
Acashee retired, glad to hide her exultation at this plan to separate
the lovers, from the penetrating eye of her father.