James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  The joy of Miss Peyton was more sobered, and she took frequent occasions to reprove her niece for the exuberance of her spirits, before there was a certainty that their expectations were to be realized. But the slight smile that hovered around the lips of the virgin contradicted the very sobriety of feeling that she inculcated.

  “Why, dearest aunt,” said Frances playfully, in reply to one of her frequent reprimands, “would you have me repress the pleasure that I feel at Henry’s deliverance, when you yourself have so often declared it to be impossible, that such men as ruled in our country could sacrifice an innocent man.”

  “Nay, I did believe it impossible, my child, and yet think so; but still there is a discretion to be shown in joy, as well as in sorrow.”

  Frances recollected the declarations of Isabella, and turned an eye filled with tears of gratitude on her excellent aunt as she replied—

  “True; but there are feelings that will not yield to reason.—Ah! there are those monsters, who have come to witness the death of a fellow creature, moving around yon field, as if life was, to them, nothing but a military show.”

  “It is but little more to the hireling soldier,” said Henry, endeavouring to forget his uneasiness.

  “You gaze, my love, as if you thought a military show of some importance,” said Miss Peyton, observing her niece to be looking from the window with a fixed and abstracted attention.—But Frances answered not.

  From the window where she stood the pass that they had travelled through the highlands was easily to be seen; and the mountain which held on its summit the mysterious hut was directly before her. Its side was rugged and barren; huge and apparently impassable barriers of rocks presenting themselves through the stunted oaks, which, stripped of their foliage, were scattered over its surface. The base of the hill was not half a mile from the house, and the object which attracted the notice of Frances, was the figure of a man emerging from behind a rock of remarkable formation, and as suddenly disappearing. This manoeuvre was several times repeated, as if it were the intention of the fugitive, (for such by his air he seemed to be,) to reconnoitre the proceedings of the soldiery, and assure himself of the position of things on the plain. Notwithstanding the distance, Frances instantly imbibed the opinion that it was Birch. Perhaps this impression was partly owing to the air and figure of the man, but in a great measure to the idea that presented itself on formerly beholding the object at the summit of the mountain.—That they were the same figure she was confident, although this wanted the appearance, which in the other she had taken for the pack of the pedlar. Harvey had so connected himself with the mysterious deportment of Harper, within her imagination, that under circumstances of less agitation than those in which she had laboured since her arrival, she would have kept her suspicions to herself. Frances, therefore, sat ruminating on this second appearance in silence, and endeavouring to trace what possible connexion this extraordinary man could have with the fortunes of her own family. He had certainly saved Sarah, in some degree, from the blow that had partially alighted on her, and in no instance had he proved himself to be hostile to their interests.

  After gazing for a long time at the point where she had last seen the figure, in the vain expectation of its re-appearance, she turned to her friends in the apartment. Miss Peyton was sitting by Sarah, who gave some slight additional signs of observing what passed, but who still continued insensible to either joy, or grief.

  “I suppose by this time, my love, that you are well acquainted with the manoeuvres of a regiment,” said Miss Peyton; “it is no bad quality in a soldier’s wife, at all events.”

  “I am not a wife yet,” said Frances, colouring to the eyes; “and we have little reason to wish for another wedding in our family.”

  “Frances!” exclaimed her brother, starting from his seat, and pacing the floor in violent agitation, “touch not the chord again, I entreat you. While my fate is uncertain I would wish to be at peace with all men.”

  “Then let the uncertainty cease,” cried Frances, springing to the door; “for here comes Peyton with the joyful intelligence of your release.”

  The words were hardly uttered before the door opened, and the major entered. In his air there was the appearance of neither success, nor defeat, but there was a marked display of vexation. He took the hand that Frances in the fulness of her heart extended towards him, but instantly relinquishing it, threw himself into a chair, in evident fatigue.

  “You have failed,” said Wharton, with a bound of his heart, but an appearance of composure.

  “Have you seen Harper?” cried Frances, turning pale.

  “I have not—I crossed the river in one boat as he must have been coming to this side, in another. I returned without delay, and traced him for several miles into the Highlands, by the western pass, but there I unaccountably lost him. I have returned here to relieve your uneasiness; but see him I will this night, and bring a respite for Henry.”

  “But saw you Washington?” asked Miss Peyton.

  Dunwoodie gazed at her a moment in abstracted musing, and the question was repeated. He answered gravely, and with some reserve—

  “The commander in chief had left his quarters.”

  “But, Peyton,” cried Frances, in returning terror, “if they should not see each other, it will be too late. Harper alone will not be sufficient.”

  Her lover turned his eyes slowly on her anxious countenance, and dwelling a moment on her features, said, still musing—

  “You say that he promised to assist Henry.”

  “Certainly, of his own accord, and in requital for the hospitality he had received.”

  Dunwoodie shook his head, and began to look grave.

  “I like not that word hospitality—it has an empty sound—there must be something more reasonable to tie Harper. I dread some mistake—repeat to me all that passed.”

  Frances, in a hurried and earnest voice, complied with his request. She related particularly the manner of his arrival at the “Locusts,” the reception that he received, and the events that passed, as minutely as her memory could supply her with the means. As she alluded to the conversation that occurred between her father and his guest, the major smiled, but remained silent. She then gave a detail of Henry’s arrival, and the events of the following day. She dwelt upon the part where Harper had desired her brother to throw aside his disguise, and recounted, with wonderful accuracy, his remarks upon the hazard of the step that the youth had taken. She even remembered a remarkable expression of his to her brother, “that he was safer from Harper’s knowledge of his person, than he would be without it.” Frances mentioned, with the warmth of youthful admiration, the benevolent character of his deportment to herself, and gave a minute relation of his adieus to the whole family.

  Dunwoodie at first listened with grave attention—evident satisfaction followed as she proceeded. When she spoke of herself, in connexion with their guest, he smiled with pleasure, and as she concluded, he exclaimed, with delight—

  “We are safe!—we are safe!”

  But he was interrupted, as will be seen, in the following chapter.

  * In America, Justice is administered in the name of “The good people, & c. & c.” the sovereignty residing with them.

  Chapter XXVIII

  “The owlet loves the gloom of night,

  The lark salutes the day,

  The timid dove will coo at hand—

  But falcons soar away.”

  Song in Duo.

  * * *

  IN A COUNTRY, settled like these states, by a people who fled their native land, and much-loved fire sides, victims of consciences and religious zeal, none of the decencies and solemnities of a christian death are dispensed with, when circumstances will admit of their exercise. The good woman of the house was a strict adherent to the forms of the church to which she belonged; and, having herself been awakened to a sense of
her depravity, by the ministry of the divine who harangued the people of the adjoining parish, she thought it was from his exhortations only, that salvation could be meted out to the short-lived hopes of Henry Wharton. Not that the kind-hearted matron was so ignorant of the doctrines of the religion which she professed, as to depend, theoretically, on mortal aid for protection; but she had, to use her own phrase, “set so long under the preaching of good Mr. ——,” that she had unconsciously imbibed a practical reliance on his assistance, for that, which, her faith should have taught her, could come from the Deity alone.—With her, the consideration of death was at all times awful; and the instant that the sentence of the prisoner was promulgated, she despatched Caesar, mounted on one of her husband’s best horses, in quest of her clerical monitor. This step had been taken without consulting either Henry, or his friends, and it was only when the services of Caesar were required on some domestic emergency, that she explained the nature of his absence. The youth heard her, at first, with an unconquerable reluctance to admit of such a spiritual guide; but as our view of the things of this life becomes less vivid, our prejudices and habits cease to retain their influence; and a civil bow of thanks was finally given in requital for the considerate care of the well-meaning woman.

  The black returned early from his expedition, and as well as could be gathered from his somewhat incoherent narrative, a minister of God might be expected to arrive in the course of the day. The interruption that we mentioned in our preceding chapter, was occasioned by the entrance of the landlady. At the intercession of Dunwoodie, orders had been given to the sentinel who guarded the door of Henry’s room, that the members of the prisoner’s family should, at all times, have free access to his apartment: Caesar was included in this arrangement, as a matter of convenience, by the officer in command; but strict inquiry and examination was made into the errand of every other applicant for admission. The major had, however, included himself among the relatives of the British officer; and one pledge, that no rescue should be attempted, was given in his name, for them all. A short conversation was passing between the woman of the house and the corporal of the guard, before the door that the sentinel had already opened in anticipation of the decision of his non-commissioned commandant.

  “Would you refuse the consolations of religion to a fellow-creature, about to suffer death?” said the matron with earnest zeal. “Would you plunge a soul into the fiery furnace, and a minister at hand to point out the strait and narrow path.”

  “I’ll tell you what, good woman,” returned the corporal, gently pushing her away; “I’ve no notion of my back being a highway for any man to walk to heaven upon.—A pretty figure I should make at the pickets, for disobeying orders—Just step down and ask Lieutenant Mason, and you may bring in the whole congregation. We have not taken the guard from the foot-soldiers but an hour, and I shouldn’t like to have it said that we know less of our duty than the militia.”

  “Admit the woman,” said Dunwoodie, sternly; observing, for the first time, that one of his own corps was on post.

  The corporal raised his hand to his cap and fell back in silence; the soldier stood to his arms, and the matron entered.

  “Here is a reverend gentleman below, come to soothe the parting soul, in the place of our own divine, who is engaged with an appointment that could not be put aside—’tis to bury old Mr. ——.”

  “Show him in,” said Henry, with feverish impatience.

  “But will the sentinel let him pass? I would not wish a friend of Mr. —— to be rudely stopped on the threshold, and he a stranger.”

  All eyes were now turned on Dunwoodie, who, looking at his watch, spoke a few words with Henry, in an under tone, and hastened from the apartment, followed by Frances. The subject of their conversation, was a wish expressed by the prisoner for a clergyman of his own persuasion, and a promise from the major that one should be sent from Fish-kill town, through which he was about to pass, on his way to the ferry to intercept the expected return of Harper. Mason soon made his bow at the door, and willingly complied with the wishes of the landlady, and the divine was invited to make his appearance, accordingly.

  The person who was ushered into the apartment, preceded by Caesar, and followed by the matron, was a man, beyond the middle age, or who might rather be said to approach the down-hill of life. In stature, he was above the size of ordinary men, though his excessive leanness, might contribute in deceiving as to his height; his countenance was sharp and unbending, and every muscle seemed set in rigid compression. No joy, or relaxation, appeared ever to have dwelt on features that frowned habitually, as if in detestation of the vices of mankind. The brows were beetling, dark, and forbidding, giving the promise of eyes of no less repelling expression; but the organs were concealed beneath a pair of enormous green goggles, through which they glared around with a fierceness that denounced the coming day of wrath. All was fanaticism, uncharitableness, and denunciation. Long, lank hair, a mixture of gray and black, fell down his neck, and in some degree obscured the sides of his face, and, parting on his forehead, fell in either direction in straight and formal screens. On the top of this ungraceful exhibition, was laid, impending forward, so as to overhang in some measure the whole fabric, a large hat of three equal cocks. His coat was of a rusty black, and his breeches and stockings were of the same colour: his shoes without lustre, and half concealed beneath huge plated buckles.

  He stalked into the room, and giving a stiff nod with his head, took the chair offered him by the black, in dignified silence. For several minutes no one broke this ominous pause in the conversation; Henry feeling a repugnance to his guest, that he was vainly endeavouring to conquer, and the stranger himself drawing forth occasional sighs and groans, that threatened a dissolution of the unequal connexion between his sublimated soul and its ungainly tenement. During this deathlike preparation, Mr. Wharton, with a feeling nearly allied to that of his son, led Sarah from the apartment. His retreat was noticed by the divine in a kind of scornful disdain, who began to hum the air of a popular psalm tune, giving it the full richness of the twang that distinguishes the Eastern* psalmody.

  “Caesar,” said Miss Peyton, “hand the gentleman some refreshment; he must need it after his ride.”

  “My strength is not in the things of life,” said the divine, speaking in a hollow sepulchral voice. “Thrice have I this day held forth in my master’s service, and fainted not; still it is prudent to help this frail tenement of clay, for, surely, ‘the labourer is worthy of his hire.’”

  Opening a pair of enormous jaws, he took a good measure of the proffered brandy, and suffered it to glide downwards, with that sort of facility with which man is prone to sin.

  “I apprehend then, sir, that fatigue will disable you from performing the duties, which kindness has induced you to attempt.”

  “Woman!” exclaimed the stranger, with energy; “when was I ever known to shrink from a duty? But ‘judge not, lest ye be judged’, and fancy not that it is given to mortal eyes to fathom the intentions of the deity.”

  “Nay,” returned the maiden, meekly, and slightly disgusted with his jargon; “I pretend not to judge of either events, or the intentions of my fellow creatures, much less of those of omnipotence.”

  “’Tis well, woman—’tis well,” cried the minister, waving his head with supercilious disdain; “humility becometh thy sex, and lost condition—thy weakness driveth thee on headlong, like ‘unto the besom of destruction.’”

  Surprised at this extraordinary deportment, but yielding to that habit which urges us to speak reverently on sacred subjects, even when perhaps we had better continue silent, Miss Peyton replied—

  “There is a power above, that can and will sustain us all in well-doing, if we seek its support in humility and truth.”

  The stranger turned a lowering look at the speaker, and then composing himself into an air of self-abasement, he continued in the same repelling tones—
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br />   “It is not every one that cryeth out for mercy that will be heard. The ways of providence are not to be judged by men—‘Many are called, but few chosen.’ It is easier to talk of humility, than to feel it. Are you so humbled, vile worm, as to wish to glorify God by your own damnation? If not, away with you for a publican and a pharisee!”

  Such gross fanaticism was uncommon in America, and Miss Peyton began to imbibe the impression that their guest was deranged; but remembering that he had been sent by a well known divine, and one of reputation, she discarded the idea, and with some forbearance, observed—

  “I may deceive myself, in believing that mercy is proffered to all, but it is so soothing a doctrine that I would not willingly be undeceived.”

  “Mercy is only for the elect,” cried the stranger, with an unaccountable energy; “and you are in the ‘valley of the shadow of death.’ Are you not a follower of idle ceremonies, which belong to the vain church, that our tyrants would gladly establish here, along with their stamp-acts and tea-laws? Answer me that, woman; and remember, that heaven hears your answer: Are you not of that idolatrous communion?”

  “I worship at the altars of my fathers,” said Miss Peyton, motioning to Henry for silence; “but bow to no other idol than my own infirmities.”

  “Yes, yes—I know ye—self-righteous and papal, as ye are—followers of forms and listeners to bookish preaching—think you, woman, that holy Paul had notes in his hand to propound the word to the believers.”