“With a few words,” he commenced, “all will be plain to you. I need not tell you, friends, that my character, since my advent among you, has been an assumed one. Seth Jones is a myth, and to my knowledge, no such person ever existed. My real name is Eugene Morton. Ten years ago, Mary Haverland and I pledged our love to each other. We were to be married in one year; but, when a few months of that time had elapsed, the Revolutionary War broke out, and a call was made upon our little village, in New Hampshire, for volunteers. I had no desire, nor right to refuse. Our little company proceeded to Massachusetts, where the war was then raging. In a skirmish, a few days after the battle of Bunker Hill, I was dangerously wounded, and was left with a farmer by the wayside. I sent word by one of my comrades to Mary, that I was disabled, but hoped to see her in a short time. The bearer of that message probably was killed, for it is certain, my words never reached her; though a very different report, did. We had a man in our company, who was a lover of Mary’s. Knowing of my misfortune, he sent her word that I was killed. When I rejoined my company, a few months after, I learned that this man had deserted. A suspicion that he had returned home, impelled me to obtain leave of absence to visit my native place. I there learned that Haverland, with his wife and sister, had left the village for the West. One of my friends informed me that this deserter had gone with them, and, it was understood, would marry Mary. I could not doubt the truth of this report, and, for a time, I feared I should commit suicide. To soften this great sorrow, I returned at once, joined our company, and plunged into every battle that I possibly could. I often purposely exposed myself to danger, soliciting death rather than life. In the winter of 1776, I found myself under General Washington, at Trenton; I had crossed the Delaware with him, and, by the time it was fairly light, we were engaged in a desperate fight with the Hessians. In the very heat of the battle, the thought suddenly came to me, that the story of Mary’s marriage was untrue. Singularly enough, when the battle was over, I did not think any more of it. But in the midst of the following engagement at Princeton, the same thought came to me again, and haunted me from that time, until the close of the war. I determined to seek out Mary. All that I could learn, was, that Haverland had emigrated ‘out this way.’ If she had married the deserter, I knew it was under a firm belief that I was dead. Consequently I had no right to pain her by my presence. For this reason, I assumed a disguise. I discolored my now long untamed hair. It so changed my whole appearance, that I hardly knew myself. My youthful color was now changed into the bronze of war, and sorrow had wrought its changes. It was not strange then, that any old friend should not know me, particularly when I could so successfully personate the ‘Green Mountain Boy,’ in voice and manner. My identity was perfectly secure, I knew, from detection. I came in this section, and after a long and persevering hunt, one day I found Haverland cutting in the wood. I introduced myself to him as Seth Jones. I found Mary. The report which had reached me of her marriage was false, she was still true to her first love! I should have made myself known then, had not the danger which threatened Haverland, come upon him almost immediately. As his family were then tormented by the fate of Ina, I thought my recognition would only serve to embarrass and distract their actions. Besides, I felt some amusement in the part I was playing, and often enjoyed the speculation I created, by giving you, as it were, a glimpse now and then into my real nature, I varied my actions and language, on purpose to increase your wonder.” He here paused and smiled, as if at the recollection of his numerous ludicrous escapades. He continued: “I have little more to add. I congratulate you, Graham, on the prize you have won. You are to be married to-morrow night. Mary, will you not marry me at the same time?”
“Yes,” replied the radiant woman, placing her hands in his. “You have my hand now, as you have had my heart through all these long, sorrowing years.”
Morton kissed her forehead tenderly.
“Now, congratulate me,” said he, with a beaming face.
And they gathered around him, and such shaking of hands, and such greetings, we venture to say, were never seen before. Our friends experienced some difficulty at first, in believing that Seth Jones was gone forever. They even felt some regrets that his pleasing, eccentric face had passed away; but, they had gained in his place, a handsome, noble-hearted man, of whom they were all proud.
The next day was spent in preparations for the great double wedding that was to take place that evening. Messengers were sent up and down the river, and back into the woods, there was not a settler within twenty miles, who had not been invited. At nightfall, the company began to collect. Some came in boats, some on horseback, and others on foot. A double wedding rarely took place in the backwoods, and while this occasion was too full of romance to be slighted by any, old or young.
When the lights were produced in the woodman’s house, there was a motley assemblage without and within. You could have heard old and middle-aged men talking about the prospect of the crops, and looking up to the sky, and wisely predicating the probabilities of a change in the weather, or discussing, in anxious tones, the state of feeling among the Indians along the frontier; you could have heard—as they would be termed now-a-days—“gawky” young men as sagely discoursing upon the same subjects, venturing a playful thrust now and then, at one of their number about some “Alminy,” or “Serapheemy,” sweetheart.
The woodman’s house had been much enlarged for the occasion. A long shed amply sufficient to contain all the guests, was built alongside, and connecting with it. After participating in a bountiful meal in this, the tables were removed, and preparation made for the marriage.
A sudden hush fell upon the assemblage. All eyes turned toward the door, through which Eugene Morton and Edward Graham, each with his affianced leaning upon his arm entered.