“Go on,” said the pedlar proudly; “take me to Major Dunwoodie; he, at least, may be kind, although he may be just.”
“I can do better than by marching so far in such disgraceful company; this Mr. Dunwoodie has let one or two tories go at large; but the troop of Captain Lawton is quartered some half mile nearer, and his receipt will get me the reward as soon as his major’s: how relish you the idea of supping with Captain Lawton this evening, Mr. Birch?”
“Give me my money, or set Harvey free,” cried the spinster in alarm.
“Your bribe was not enough, good woman, unless there is money in this bed,” thrusting his bayonet through the ticking, and ripping it for some distance, he took a malicious satisfaction in scattering its contents about the room.
“If,” cried the housekeeper, losing sight of her personal danger in care for her newly acquired property, “there is law in the land, I will be righted!”
“The law of the neutral ground is the law of the strongest; but your tongue is not as long as my bayonet; you had, therefore, best not set them at loggerheads, or you might be the loser.”
A figure stood in the shadow of the door as if afraid to be seen in the group of Skinners, but a blaze of light raised by some articles thrown in the fire by his persecutors, showed the pedlar the face of the purchaser of his little domain. Occasionally there was some whispering between this man and the Skinner nearest him, that induced Harvey to suspect he had been the dupe of a contrivance, in which that wretch had participated: it was, however, too late to repine, and he followed the party from the house with a firm and collected tread, as if marching to a triumph and not to a gallows. In passing through the yard the leader of the band fell over a billet of wood, and received a momentary hurt from the fall; exasperated at the accident, the fellow sprung on his feet, filling the air with execrations.
“The curse of heaven light on the log,” he exclaimed, “the night is too dark for us to move in; throw that brand of fire in yon pile of tow, to light up the scene.”
“Hold!” roared the speculator; “you’ll fire the house.”
“And see the farther,” said the other, hurling the brand in the midst of the combustibles; in an instant the building was in flames; “come on, let us move towards the heights while we have light to pick our road.”
“Villain!” cried the exasperated purchaser, “is this your friendship, this my reward for kidnapping the pedlar?”
“’Twould be wise to move more from the light, if you mean to entertain us with abuse, or we may see too well to miss our mark,” cried the leader of the gang; the next instant he was as good as his threat, but happily missed the terrified speculator, and equally appalled spinster, who saw herself again reduced from comparative wealth to poverty, by the blow. Prudence dictated to the pair a speedy retreat, and the next morning, the only remains of the dwelling of the pedlar was the huge chimney we have already mentioned.
Chapter XV
“Trifles, light as air,
Are to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs from holy writ.”
Moor of Venice.
* * *
THE WEATHER, which had been mild and clear since the storm, now changed with the suddenness of the American climate. Towards evening the cold blasts poured down from the mountains, and flurries of snow plainly indicated that the month of November had arrived—a season whose temperature varies from the heats of summer to the cold of winter. Frances had stood at the window of her own apartment, watching the slow progress of the funeral procession, with a melancholy that was too deep to be excited by the spectacle. There was something in the sad office that was in unison with her feelings. As she gazed around, she saw the trees bending to the force of the wind, that swept through the valley with an impetuosity that shook even the buildings; and the forest, that had so lately glittered in the sun with its variegated hues, was fast losing its loveliness, as the leaves were torn from the branches, and were driving irregularly before the eddies of the blast. A few of the southern dragoons, who were patroling the passes which led to the encampment of the corps, could be distinguished at a distance on the heights, bending to their pommels, as they faced the keen air which had so lately traversed the great fresh water lakes, and drawing their watch coats about them in tighter folds.
Frances witnessed the disappearance of the wooden tenement of the deceased, as it was slowly lowered from the light of day, and the sight added to the chilling dreariness of the view. Captain Singleton was sleeping under the care of his own man, while his sister had been persuaded to take possession of her room, for the purpose of obtaining the repose, of which her last night’s journeying had robbed her. The apartment of Miss Singleton communicated with the room occupied by the sisters, through a private door, as well as through the ordinary passage of the house; this door was partly open, and Frances moved towards it with the benevolent intention of ascertaining the situation of her guest, when the surprised girl saw her, whom she had thought to be sleeping, not only awake, but employed in a manner that banished all probability of present repose. The black tresses, that during the dinner had been drawn in close folds over the crown of the head, were now loosened, and fell in profusion over her shoulders and bosom, imparting a slight degree of wildness to her countenance. The chilling white of her complexion was strongly contrasted with eyes of the deepest black, that were fixed in rooted attention on a picture she held in her hand. Frances hardly breathed, as she was enabled, by a movement of Isabella, to see that it was the figure of a man in the well known dress of the southern horse; but she gasped for breath, and instinctively laid her hand on her heart to quell its throbbings, as she thought she recognised the lineaments that were so deeply seated in her own imagination. Frances felt she was improperly prying into the sacred privacy of another, but her emotions were too powerful to permit her to speak, and she drew back to a chair, where she still retained a view of the stranger, from whose countenance she felt it to be impossible to withdraw her eyes. Isabella was too much engrossed by her own feelings to discover the trembling figure of the witness to her actions, and she pressed the inanimate image to her lips, with an enthusiasm that denoted the most intense passion. The expression of the countenance of the fair stranger was so changeable, and the transitions were so rapid, that Frances had scarcely time to distinguish the character of the emotion, before it was succeeded by another equally powerful, and equally attractive. Admiration and sorrow were, however, the preponderating passions; the latter was indicated by large drops that fell from her eyes on the picture, and which followed each other over her cheek at such intervals, as seemed to pronounce the grief too heavy to admit of the ordinary demonstrations of sorrow. Every movement of Isabella was marked by an enthusiasm that was peculiar to her nature, and every passion in its turn triumphed in her breast. The fury of the wind, as it whistled round the angles of the building, was in consonance with those feelings, and she rose and moved to a window of her apartment. Her figure was now hid from the view of Frances, who was about to rise and approach her guest, when tones of a thrilling melody chained her in breathless silence to the spot. The notes were wild, and the voice not powerful, but the execution exceeded any thing that Frances had ever heard, and she stood, endeavouring to stifle the sounds of her own gentle breathing, until the following song was concluded:
Cold blow the blasts o’er the tops of the mountain,
And bare is the oak on the hill,
Slowly the vapours exhale from the fountain,
And bright gleams the ice-bordered rill;
All nature is seeking its annual rest,
But the slumbers of peace have deserted my breast.
Long has the storm pour’d its weight on my nation,
And long have her brave stood the shock;
Long has our chieftain ennobled his station,
A bulwark on liberty’s rock—
Unlicens’d
ambition relaxes its toil,
Yet blighted affection represses my smile.
Abroad the wild fury of winter is low’ring,
And leafless, and drear is the tree,
But the vertical sun of the south appears pouring
Its fierce killing heats upon me—
Without all the season’s chill symptoms begin,
But the fire of passion is raging within.
Frances abandoned her whole soul to the suppressed melody of the music, though the language of the song expressed a meaning, which united with certain events of that and the preceding day, left a sensation of uneasiness in the bosom of the warm-hearted girl, to which she had hitherto been a stranger. Isabella moved from the window as her last tones melted on the ear of her admiring listener, and, for the first time, her eye rested on the pallid face of the intruder. A glow of fire lighted the countenances of both at the same instant, and the blue eye of Frances met the brilliant black one of her guest for a single moment, and both fell in abashed confusion on the carpet; they advanced, however, until they met, and had taken each other’s hand, before either ventured again to look her companion in the face.
“This sudden change in the weather, and perhaps the situation of my brother, have united to make me melancholy, Miss Wharton,” said Isabella in a low tone, and in a voice that trembled as she spoke.
“’Tis thought you have little to apprehend for your brother,” said Frances, in the same embarrassed manner; “had you seen him when he was brought in by Major Dunwoodie”—
Frances paused with a feeling of conscious shame, for which she could not account, and in raising her eyes, she saw Isabella studying her countenance, with an earnestness that again drove the blood tumultuously to her temples.
“You were speaking of Major Dunwoodie,” said Isabella faintly.
“He was with Captain Singleton.”
“Do you know Dunwoodie—have you seen him often?” Once more Frances ventured to look her guest in the face, and again she met the piercing eyes bent on her as if to search her inmost heart. “Speak, Miss Wharton, is Major Dunwoodie known to you?”
“He is my relative,” said Frances, appalled at the manner of the other.
“A relative!” echoed Miss Singleton; “in what degree—speak, Miss Wharton, I conjure you to speak.”
“Our parents were cousins,” faintly replied Frances.
“And he is to be your husband,” said the stranger impetuously.
Frances felt shocked and all her pride awakened by this direct attack upon her feelings, and she raised her eyes from the floor to her interrogator a little proudly, when the pale cheek and quivering lip of Isabella removed her resentment in a moment.
“It is true—my conjecture is true—speak to me, Miss Wharton—I conjure you, in mercy to my feelings, to tell me—do you love Dunwoodie?” There was a plaintive earnestness in the voice of Miss Singleton, that disarmed Frances of all resentment, and the only answer she could make was hiding her burning face between her hands, as she sunk back in a chair to conceal her confusion.
Isabella paced the floor in silence for several minutes, until she had succeeded in conquering the violence of her feelings, when she approached the place where Frances yet sat, endeavouring to exclude the eyes of her companion from reading the shame expressed in her countenance, and taking the hand of the other, she spoke with an evident effort at composure.
“Pardon me, Miss Wharton, if my ungovernable feelings have led me into impropriety—the powerful motive—the cruel reason”—she hesitated; Frances now raised her face, and their eyes once more met—they fell in each other’s arms, and laid their burning cheeks together—the embrace was long—was ardent and sincere—but neither spoke—and on separating, Frances retired to her own room without farther explanation.
While this extraordinary scene was acting in the room of Miss Singleton, matters of great importance were agitated in the drawing-room. The disposition of the fragments of such a dinner as the one we have recorded, was a task that required no little exertion and calculation. Notwithstanding several of the small game had nestled in the pocket of Capt. Lawton’s man, and even the assistant of Dr. Sitgreaves had calculated the uncertainty of his remaining long in such good quarters, still there was more left unconsumed than the prudent Miss Peyton knew how to dispose of to advantage. Caesar and his mistress had, therefore, a long and confidential communication on this important business, and the consequence was that Colonel Wellmere was left to the hospitality of Sarah Wharton. All the ordinary topics of conversation were exhausted, when the colonel, with a little of the uneasiness that is in some degree inseparable from conscious error, touched lightly on the transactions of the preceding day.
“We little thought, Miss Wharton, when I first saw this Mr. Dunwoodie in your house in Queen-street, that he was to be the renowned warrior he has proved himself,” said Wellmere, endeavouring to smile away his chagrin.
“Renowned, when we consider the enemy he overcame,” said Sarah with consideration for her companion’s feelings. “’Twas most unfortunate indeed in every respect that you met with the accident, or doubtless the Royal arms would have triumphed in their usual manner.”
“And yet the pleasure of such society as this accident has introduced me to, would more than repay the pain of a mortified spirit and wounded body,” added the colonel in a manner of peculiar softness.
“I hope the latter is but trifling,” said Sarah, stooping to hide her blushes under the pretext of biting a thread from the work on her knee.
“Trifling, indeed, compared to the former,” returned the colonel in the same manner. “Ah! Miss Wharton, it is in such moments that we feel the full value of friendship and sympathy!”
Those who have never tried it, cannot easily imagine, what a rapid progress a warm hearted female can make in love, in the short space of half an hour, particularly where there is a predisposition to the distemper. Sarah found the conversation, when it began to touch on friendship and sympathy, too interesting to venture her voice with a reply. She however turned her eyes on the colonel, and saw him gazing at her fine face with an admiration that was quite as manifest, and much more soothing, than any words could make it.
Their tete-a-tete was uninterrupted for an hour, and although nothing that would be called decided by an experienced matron was said by the gentleman, he uttered a thousand things that delighted his companion, who retired to her rest with a lighter heart than she had felt since the arrest of her brother by the Americans.
Chapter XVI
“And let me the canakin clink, clink,
And let me the canakin clink.
A soldier’s a man;
A life’s but a span;
Why then, let a soldier drink.”
Iago.
* * *
THE POSITION held by the corps of dragoons, we have already said, was a favorite place of halting with their commander. A cluster of some half dozen, small, and dilapidated buildings formed what, from the circumstance of two roads intersecting each other at right angles, was called the village of the Four Corners. As usual, one of the most imposing of these edifices had been termed, in the language of the day, “a house of entertainment for man and beast.” On a rough board suspended from the gallows looking post that had supported the ancient sign was, however, written in red chalk “Elizabeth Flanagan, her hotel,” an ebullition of the wit of some of the idle wags of the corps. The matron, whose name had thus been exalted to an office of such unexpected dignity, ordinarily discharged the duties of a female sutler, washerwoman, and, to use the language of Katy Haynes, petticoat-doctor to the troops. She was the widow of a soldier who had been killed in the service, and who, like herself, was a native of a distant island, and had early tried his fortune in the colonies of North America. She constantly migrated with the troops, and it was seldom that they became stationary for two days at a
time, but the little cart of the bustling woman was seen driving into the encampment, loaded with such articles, as she conceived would make her presence most welcome. With a celerity that seemed almost supernatural, Betty took up her ground and commenced her occupation. Sometimes the cart itself was her shop; at others, the soldiers made her a rude shelter of such materials as offered; but on the present occasion she had seized on a vacant building, and by dint of stuffing the dirty breeches and half dried linen of the troopers into the broken windows, to exclude the cold which had now become severe, she formed what she herself had pronounced to be “most iligant lodgings.” The men were quartered in the adjacent barns, and the officers collected in the “Hotel Flanagan,” as they facetiously called head-quarters. Betty was well known to every trooper in the corps, could call each by his christian or nick-name, as best suited her fancy; and, although absolutely intolerable to all whom habit had not made familiar with her virtues, was a general favorite with these partizan warriors. Her faults were, a trifling love of liquor, excessive filthiness, and a total disregard of all the decencies of language; her virtues, an unbounded love for her adopted country, perfect honesty when dealing on certain known principles with the soldiery, and great good nature. Added to these, Betty had the merit of being the inventor of that beverage which is so well known at the present hour, to all the patriots who make a winter’s march between the commercial and political capitals of this great state, and which is distinguished by the name of “cock-tail.” Elizabeth Flanagan was peculiarly well qualified by education and circumstances to perfect this improvement in liquors, having been literally brought up on its principal ingredient, and having acquired from her Virginian customers the use of mint, from its flavour in a julep, to its height of renown in the article in question. Such, then, was the mistress of the mansion, who, reckless of the cold northern blasts, showed her blooming face from the door of the building to welcome the arrival of her favorite, Captain Lawton, and his companion, her master in matters of surgery.
James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels Page 24