Time flew by, and Rebecca grew to be a fine specimen of feminine maturity. Her parents died, and she was left to the guardianship of Major Waldron. She resided with Aunt Mary, to whose care she had been confided by a mother’s dying breath; and though the major had made many efforts to convince them that the garrison was a much safer place, they still kept the old house. The flower in the wilderness did not “waste its sweetness on the desert air.” On the contrary, Rebecca’s charms had already made several captives, one of whom was the only son of Major Waldron.
George Waldron had been educated in England, had moved in refined circles, travelled three years, and returned to America, with personal advantages which might have made many a conquest in the field of love. He saw Rebecca soon after his arrival, and was immediately “smitten to the heart.” But the beauty could only give him a sister’s love; for her heart was in possession of another. Morris Green had been her playmate in childhood, and in riper years, her confidant and friend. They had not been formally plighted, but they felt that they were united by stronger bonds than words. A few days after Waldron’s arrival, Morris saved him from the gripe of a bear, that was about to spring upon him, by shooting the animal, and from that time the two young men became warm, self-denying friends. A few weeks after the adventure with the bear, George Waldron obtained for Morris Green, a midshipman’s warrant for his Majesty’s frigate Cyclops, then lying at Portsmouth, with orders to join the squadron in the West Indies.
Morris quickly and joyfully informed Rebecca of his good fortune, and prepared to start for Portsmouth. Hand-in-hand he and Rebecca visited the grave-yard, where slept the remains of her loved parents. There they exchanged vows of constancy, and parted sadly, though hopefully. Rebecca watched he retreating form of her lover until it was lost in the forest, and then, as she sank upon her mother’s grave, her tears flowed freely.
A voice near Rebecca, exclaimed, “A pretty scene, upon my word!” She sprang to her feet and faced the intruder. A mixture of scorn and fear was upon her features, and she at length turned to fly. But the bold intruder seized her hand, and said, “Now my pretty bird, this meeting is too opportune to part so soon. What with your own shyness, the constant watch of that old hypocrite, Waldron, who means to coax or force you to marry the sapient George, and the close attentions of that very sentimental youth who has just left you, I have not the smallest chance of urging my own suit.”
“Oh, that can never, never be,” answered Rebecca, hardly conscious of what she said, “for I already love another.”
“Hear me, Rebecca,” said the other, “your beauty would become a higher sphere than that stripling can give you to move in. At the death of my father, I shall become Lord Marsden; and at the death of my uncle, who is much his senior, his title of Marquis of Winchelsea will also revert to me. Think how different would be your position as Marchioness of Winchelsea, surrounded with wealth and splendor, than as the wife of that poor boy.”
“I have promised to become the wife of another,” replied Rebecca, “and I would not break the promise, if I could. I can love you as a sister, but never as your wife!”
“It is enough, Rebecca,” said the young man, “you reject the love of a man whom you could have moulded to your will. But I am not to be slighted with impunity. You are in my power, and shall rue the hour when you dared to scorn me.” As he uttered these words, he sprang towards her, but stumbled over the head-stone of her mother’s grave and fell headlong; while Rebecca, pale with terror, fled, and never paused until safe within the cottage.
Edward Sinclair, the intruder upon Rebecca’s privacy, had been residing at Waldron’s about a year; consigned to the Major’s care, it was whispered, by his father, as a sort of penance for certain conduct which was unbecoming the future Lord of Marsden Hall. Well-informed, frank, and jovial, he soon rendered himself a favorite with all those in the settlement, who considered eccentricity natural to a jovial companion, and did not question the justice of his acts. Being fond of hunting, Sinclair soon made friends of the Indians, with whom he would hunt for weeks at a time. They called him Neddo. That Sinclair was in love with Rebecca, the reader may gather from his language towards her. But there was ever a something evil in his nature which made her shun his presence.
A few days after Morris’s departure, when Rebecca thought him “far o’er the briny deep,” she was surprised to see him enter the cottage, covered with dust, and throw himself upon a chair. She and Aunt Mary expressed their surprise, and asked why he was not in the frigate. In reply, he handed Rebecca a letter, which, he said, would explain the matter better than he could. The letter was read as follows: