James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Frances—my own Frances!” he exclaimed, “why this distress—let not the situation of your brother create any alarm. As soon as the duty I am now on is completed, I will hasten to the feet of Washington, and beg his release. The Father of his Country will never deny such a boon to one of his favourite pupils.”

  “Major Dunwoodie, for your interest in behalf of my poor brother, I thank you,” said the trembling girl drying her eyes, and rising with dignity. “But such language addressed to me, surely is improper.”

  “Improper! are you not mine—by the consent of your father—your aunt—your brother—nay, by your own consent, my sweet Frances.”

  “I wish not, Major Dunwoodie, to interfere with the prior claims that any other lady may have to your affections,” said Frances struggling to speak with firmness.

  “None other, I swear, by Heaven, none other has any claim on me,” cried Dunwoodie with fervour; “you alone are mistress of my inmost soul.”

  “You have practised so much, and so successfully, Major Dunwoodie, that it is no wonder you excel in deceiving the credulity of my sex,” returned Frances, attempting a smile which the tremulousness of her muscles smothered in its birth.

  “Am I a villain, Miss Wharton, that you receive me with such language—when have I ever deceived you, Frances—who has practised in this manner on your purity of heart?”

  “Why has not Major Dunwoodie honoured the dwelling of his intended father with his presence lately? Did he forget it contained one friend on a bed of sickness, and another in deep distress? Has it escaped his memory that it held his intended wife? Or is he fearful of meeting more than one that can lay a claim to that title? Oh, Peyton—Peyton, how have I been deceived in you—with the foolish credulity of my youth, I thought you all that was brave, noble, generous, and loyal.”

  “Frances, I see how you have deceived yourself,” cried Dunwoodie, his face in a glow of fire; “you do me injustice, I swear by all that is most dear to me, that you do me injustice.”

  “Swear not, Major Dunwoodie,” interrupted Frances, her fine countenance lighting with the lustre of womanly pride; “the time is gone by for me to credit oaths.”

  “Miss Wharton, would you have me a coxcomb—make me contemptible in my own eyes, by boasting with the hope of raising myself in your estimation?”

  “Flatter not yourself that the task is so easy, sir,” returned Frances, moving towards the cottage; “we converse together, in private, for the last time;—but—possibly—my father would welcome my mother’s kinsman.”

  “No, Miss Wharton, I cannot enter his dwelling now: I should act in a manner unworthy of myself. You drive me from you, Frances, in despair. I am going on desperate service, and may not live to return. Should fortune prove severe, at least do my memory justice; remember that the last breathings of my soul, will be for your happiness.” So saying he had already placed his foot in the stirrup, but his youthful mistress turning on him an eye that pierced his soul, arrested the action.

  “Peyton—Major Dunwoodie,” she said, “can you ever forget the sacred cause, in which you are enlisted? Duty both to your God and to your country, forbids your doing any thing rashly. The latter has need of your services; besides”—but her voice became choked, and she was unable to proceed.

  “Besides what?” echoed the youth, springing to her side, and offering to take her hand in his own. Frances having, however, recovered herself, coldly repulsed him, and continued her walk homeward.

  “Is this our parting!” cried Dunwoodie, in agony; “am I a wretch, that you treat me so cruelly? You have never loved me, and wish to conceal your own fickleness by accusations that you will not explain.”

  Frances stopped short in her walk, and turned on him a look of so much purity and feeling, that, heart-stricken, Dunwoodie would have knelt at her feet for pardon; but motioning him for silence, she once more spoke—

  “Hear me, Major Dunwoodie, for the last time; it is a bitter knowledge when we first discover our own inferiority; but it is a truth that I have lately learnt. Against you I bring no charges—make no accusations—no: not willingly in my thoughts. Were my claims to your heart just, I am not worthy of you. It is not a feeble, timid girl like me, that could make you happy. No, Peyton, you are formed for great and glorious actions, deeds of daring and renown, and should be united to a soul like your own: one that can rise above the weakness of her sex. I should be a weight to drag you to the dust; but with a different spirit in your companion, you might soar to the very pinnacle of earthly glory. To such a one, therefore, I resign you freely, if not cheerfully; and pray, oh! how fervently, do I pray, that with such a one you may be happy.”

  “Lovely enthusiast!” cried Dunwoodie; “you know not yourself, nor me. It is a woman, mild, gentle, and dependant as yourself that my very nature loves—deceive not yourself with visionary ideas of generosity, which will only make me miserable.”

  “Farewell, Major Dunwoodie,” said the agitated girl, pausing for a moment to gasp for breath; “forget that you ever knew me—remember the claims of your bleeding country and be happy.”

  “Happy!” repeated the youthful soldier bitterly, as he saw her light form gliding through the gate of the lawn, and disappearing behind its shrubbery; “yes, I am now happy indeed!”

  Throwing himself into the saddle, he plunged his spurs into his horse and soon overtook his squadron, which was marching slowly over the hilly roads of the county, to gain the banks of the Hudson.

  But painful as were the feelings of Dunwoodie at this unexpected termination of the interview with his mistress, they were but light compared with those which were experienced by the fond girl herself. Frances had, with the keen eye of jealous love, easily detected the attachment of Isabella Singleton to Dunwoodie. Delicate and retiring herself, it never could pre­sent itself to her mind that this love had been unsought. Ardent in her own affections, and artless in their exhibition, she had early caught the eye of the young soldier; but it required all the manly frankness of Dunwoodie to court her favour, and the most pointed devotion to obtain his conquest. This done—his power was durable, entire, and engrossing. But the unusual occurrences of the few preceding days, the altered mien of her lover during those events, his unwonted indifference to herself, and chiefly the romantic idolatry of Isabella, had aroused new sensations in her bosom. With a dread of her lover’s integrity had been awakened the never-failing concomitant of the purest affection—a distrust of her own merits. In the moment of enthusiasm, the task of resigning her lover to another, who might be more worthy of him, seemed easy—but it is in vain that the imagination attempts to deceive the heart. Dunwoodie had no sooner disappeared, than our heroine felt all the misery of her situation; and if the youth found some relief in the cares of his command, Frances was less fortunate in the performance of a duty imposed on her by filial piety.—The removal of his son had nearly destroyed the little energy of Mr. Wharton, who required all the tenderness of his remaining children to convince him that he was able to perform the ordinary functions of life.

  Chapter XX

  “Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces,

  Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces;

  That man who hath a tongue, I say, is no man,

  If with that tongue he cannot win a woman.”

  Two Gentlemen of Verona.

  * * *

  IN MAKING the arrangement by which Captain Lawton had been left, with Sergeant Hollister and twelve men, as a guard over the wounded and heavy baggage of the corps, Dunwoodie had consulted not only the information which had been conveyed in the letter of Col. Singleton, but the bruises of his comrade’s body. In vain Lawton declared himself fit for any duty that man could perform, or he plainly intimated that his men would never follow Tom Mason to a charge, with the alacrity and confidence with which they followed himself; his commander was firm, and the reluctant captain was comp
elled to comply with as good a grace as he could assume. Before parting, Dunwoodie repeated his caution to keep a watchful eye on the inmates of the cottage, and especially enjoined him, if any movements of a particularly suspicious nature were seen in the neighbourhood, to break up from his present quarters, and to move down with his party, and take possession of the domains of Mr. Wharton. A vague suspicion of danger to the family had been awakened in the breast of the major, by the language of the pedlar, although he was unable to refer it to any particular source, or to understand why it was to be apprehended.

  For some time after the departure of the troops, the captain was walking before the door of the “Hotel,” inwardly cursing his fate that condemned him to an inglorious idleness, at a moment when a meeting with the enemy might be expected, and replying to the occasional queries of Betty, who from the interior of the building, ever and anon, demanded in a high tone of voice, an explanation of various passages in the pedlar’s escape which as yet she could not comprehend. At this instant he was joined by the surgeon, who had hitherto been engaged among his patients in a distant building, and was profoundly ignorant of every thing that had occurred, even to the departure of the troops.

  “Where are all the sentinels, John,” he inquired, as he gazed around with a look of curiosity, “and why are you here, alone?”

  “Off—all off, with Dunwoodie, to the river. You and I are left here to take care of a few sick men, and some women.”

  “I am glad, however,” said the surgeon, “that Major Dunwoodie had consideration enough, not to move the wounded. Here, you Mrs. Elizabeth Flanagan, hasten with some food, that I may appease my appetite. I have a dead body to dissect, and am in haste.”

  “And here you, Mister Doctor Archibald Sitgreaves,” echoed Betty, showing her blooming countenance from a broken window of the kitchen, “you are ever a coming too late; here is nothing to ate but the skin of Jenny and the body yee’r mintioning.”

  “Woman,” said the surgeon, in anger, “do you take me for a cannibal, that you address your filthy discourse to me, in this manner.—I bid you hasten with such food as may be proper to be received into the stomach fasting.”

  “And I’m sure it’s for a pop-gun that I should be taking you sooner than for a cannon-ball,” said Betty, winking at the captain, “and I tell yee that it’s fasting you must be, unless yee’l let me cook yee a steak from the skin of Jenny. The boys have ate me up entirely.”

  Lawton now interfered to preserve the peace, and assured the surgeon that he had already despatched the proper persons in quest of food for the party. A little mollified with this explanation, the operator soon forgot his hunger, and declared his intention of proceeding to business at once.

  “And where is your subject?” asked Lawton.

  “The pedlar,” said the other, glancing a look at the sign-post. “I made Hollister put a stage so high that the neck would not be dislocated by the fall, and I intend making as handsome a skeleton of him, as there is in the States of North-America—the fellow has good points, and his bones are well knit. I will make a perfect beauty of him. I have long been wanting something of the sort to send as a present to my old aunt in Virginia, who was so kind to me when a boy.”

  “The devil! would you send the old woman a dead man’s bones.”

  “Why not?” said the surgeon; “what nobler object is there in nature than the figure of a man—and a skeleton may be called his elementary parts. But what has been done with the body?”

  “Off too.”

  “Off! and who has dared to interfere with my perquisites?”

  “Sure jist the divil,” said Betty; “and who’ll be taking yeerself away some of these times too, without asking yeer lave.”

  “Silence, you witch,” said Lawton, with difficulty suppressing a laugh; “is this the manner in which to address an officer.”

  “Who called me the filthy Elizabeth Flanagan,” cried the washerwoman, snapping her fingers contemptuously. “I can remimber a frind for a year, and don’t forgit an inimy for a month.”

  But the friendship, or enmity of Mrs. Flanagan was alike indifferent to the surgeon, who could think of nothing but his loss; and Lawton was obliged to explain to his friend the apparent manner in which it had happened.

  “And a lucky escape it was for yee, my jewel of a doctor,” cried Betty, as the captain concluded. “Sergeant Hollister, who saw him face to face, as it might be, says it’s Beelzeboob, and no pidler, unless it may be in a small matter of lies and thefts, and sich wickednesses. Now a pretty figure yee would have been in cutting up Beelzeboob, if the major had hang’d him. I don’t think it’s very asy he would have been under yeer knife.”

  Thus doubly disappointed in his meal and his business, Sitgreaves suddenly declared his intention of visiting the “Locusts,” and inquiring into the state of Captain Singleton. Lawton was ready for the excursion, and mounting they were soon on the road, though the surgeon was obliged to submit to a few more jokes from the washerwoman, before he could get out of hearing. For some time the two rode in silence, when Lawton perceiving that his companion’s temper was somewhat ruffled by his disappointments and Betty’s attack, made an effort to restore the tranquillity of his feelings.

  “That was a charming song, Archibald, that you commenced, last evening, when we were interrupted by the party that brought in the pedlar,” he said. “The allusion to Galen was much to the purpose.”

  “I knew you would like it, Jack, when you had got the fumes of the wine out of your head. Poetry is a respectable art, though it wants the precision of the exact sciences, and the natural beneficence of the physical. Considered in reference to the wants of life, I should define poetry as an emollient, rather than as a succulent.”

  “And yet your Ode was full of the meat of wit.”

  “Ode is by no means a proper term for the composition. I should term it a classical ballad.”

  “Very probably,” said the trooper; “hearing only one verse, it was difficult to class the composition.”

  The surgeon involuntarily hem’d, and began to clear his throat, although scarcely conscious himself to what the preparation tended. But the captain rolling his dark eyes towards his companion, and observing him to be sitting with great uneasiness on his horse, continued—

  “The air is still, and the road solitary—why not give the remainder? It is never too late to repair a loss.”

  “My dear John, if I thought it would correct the errors you have imbibed, from habit and indulgence, nothing could give me more pleasure.”

  “We are fast approaching some rocks on our left—the echo will double my satisfaction.”

  Thus encouraged, and somewhat impelled by the opinion that he both sang and wrote with taste, the surgeon set about complying with the request in sober earnest. Some little time was lost, in clearing his throat, and getting the proper pitch of his voice, but, no sooner were these two points achieved, than Lawton had the secret delight of hearing his friend commence—

  “Hast thou ever”—

  “Hush!” interrupted the trooper; “what rustling noise is that, among the rocks?”

  “It must have been the rushing of the melody. A powerful voice is like the breathing of the winds—.”

  “Hast thou ever”—

  “Listen,” said Lawton, stopping his horse. He had not done speaking when a stone fell at his feet, and rolled harmlessly across the path.

  “A friendly shot, that,” cried the trooper, “neither the weapon, nor its force, implies much ill will.”

  “Blows from stones seldom produce more than contusions,” said the operator, bending his gaze in every direction in vain, in quest of the hand from which the missile had been hurled; “it must be meteoric—there is no living being in sight, except ourselves.”

  “It would be easy to hide a regiment behind those rocks,” returned the trooper, dismounting, and ta
king the stone in his hand,—“Oh! here is the explanation, along with the mystery.” So saying, he tore a piece of paper that had been ingeniously fastened to the small fragment of rock which had thus singularly fallen before him, and opening it, the captain read the following words written in no very legible hand.

  “A musket bullet will go farther than a stone, and things more dangerous than yarbs for wounded men, lie hid in the rocks of West-Chester. The horse may be good, but can he mount a pricipice?”

  “Thou sayest the truth, strange man,” said Lawton: “courage and activity would avail but little against assassination, and these rugged passes.” Remounting his horse, he cried aloud—“Thanks, unknown friend—your caution will be remembered.”

  A meagre hand was extended for an instant over a rock, in the air, and afterwards nothing further was seen, or heard, in that quarter, by the soldiers.

  “Quite an extraordinary interruption,” said the astonished Sitgreaves, “and a letter of a very mysterious meaning!”

  “Oh! ’tis nothing but the wit of some bumpkin, who thinks to frighten two of the Virginians by an artifice of this kind,” said the trooper, placing the billet in his pocket; “but let me tell you, Mr. Archibald Sitgreaves, you were wanting to dissect just now, a very honest fellow.”

  “It was the pedlar—one of the most notorious spies in the enemy’s service; and I must say, that I think it would be an honour to such a man to be devoted to the uses of science.”

  “He may be a spy—he must be one,” said Lawton, musing; “but he has a heart above enmity, and a soul that would honour a soldier.”