James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “This!” echoed the other, glancing his eyes over the miserable furniture, and scanning the air of poverty that pervaded the place; “why this house has even less of comfort than the ship we have left!”

  “It has enough for my wants,” said the stranger, seating himself with composure, and deliberately placing his bundle by his side. “Go you to your palace, in Tremont-street: it shall be my care that we meet again.”

  The officer understood the character of his companion too well to hesitate, and bending low, he quitted the apartment, leaving the other leaning his head on his cane, while the matron was gazing at her unexpected guest, with a wonder that was not unmingled with dread.

  * This phrase is general for all born in Boston. [1832]

  † It is scarcely necessary to tell the intelligent reader that an author is not responsible for words of local use, when used in the mouths of his characters. [1832]

  ‡ The Old South, in contradistinction to the Old North, and a numerous progeny of new meeting-houses, is as well known in Boston as is St. Peter’s at Rome. [1832]

  § The allusion is to a rencontre between the soldiers and citizens, in which five or six of the latter were killed. This event was of great influence in the subsequent contest. [1832]

  ¶ Perhaps it may be necessary to explain to the European reader, that the Puritans observed the evening of Saturday as the commencement of the sabbath. [1832]

  Chapter III

  “From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,

  While China’s earth receives the smoking tide:

  At once they gratify their scent and taste,

  And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.”

  Rape of the Lock.

  * * *

  THE RECOLLECTION of the repeated admonitions of his mother, served to keep Job to his purpose. The instant the officer appeared, he held his way across the bridge, and after proceeding for a short distance further, along the water’s edge, they entered a broad and well built avenue, which led from the principal wharf into the upper parts of the town. Turning up this street, the lad was making his way, with great earnestness, when sounds of high merriment and conviviality, breaking from an opposite building, caught his attention, and induced him to pause.

  “Remember your mother’s injunction,” said the officer; “what see you in that tavern, to stare at?”

  “’Tis the British Coffee-house!” said Job, shaking his head; “yes, any body might know that by the noise they make in’t on Saturday-night! see, it’s filled now, with Lord Boot’s* officers, flaring afore the windows, like so many red devils; but to-morrow, when the Old South bell rings, they’ll forget their Lord and maker, every sinner among them!”

  “Fellow!” exclaimed the officer, “this is trespassing too far—proceed to Tremont-street, or leave me, that I may procure another guide.”

  The youth cast a look aside at the angry eye of the other, and then turned and proceeded, muttering so loud as to be overheard—

  “Every body that’s raised in Boston knows how to keep Saturday-night; and if you’re a Boston boy, you should love Boston ways.”

  The officer did not reply, and as they now proceeded with great diligence, they soon passed through King and Queen-streets, and entered that of Tremont. At a little distance from the turning, Job stopped, and pointing to a building near them, he said—

  “There; that house with the court-yard afore it, and the pile-axters, and the grand looking door, that’s ma’am Lechmere’s; and every body says she’s a grand lady, but I say it is a pity she isn’t a better woman.”

  “And who are you, that ventures thus boldly to speak of a lady so much your superior?”

  “I!” said the idiot, looking up simply into the face of his interrogator, “I am Job Pray, so called.”

  “Well, Job Pray, here is a crown for you. The next time you act as guide, keep more to your business.—I tell you lad, I offer a crown.”

  “Job don’t love crowns—they say the king wears a crown, and it makes him flaunty and proud like.”

  “The disaffection must have spread wide indeed, if such as he refuse silver, rather than offend their principles!” muttered the officer to himself.—“Here then is half a guinea, if you like gold better.”

  The natural continued kicking a stone about with his toes, without taking his hands from the pockets where he wore them ordinarily, with a sort of idle air, as he peered from under his slouched hat at this renewed offer.

  “You wouldn’t let the grannies whip Job,” he said, “and Job won’t take your money.”

  “Well boy, there is more of gratitude in that than a wiser man would always feel! Come, Meriton, I shall meet the poor fellow again, and will not forget this. I commission you to see the lad better dressed, in the beginning of the week.”

  “Lord, sir,” said the valet, “if it is your pleasure, most certainly; but I declare I don’t know in what style I should dress such a figure and countenance, to make any thing of them!”

  “Sir, sir,” cried the lad, running a few steps after the officer, who had already proceeded, “if you won’t let the grannies beat Job any more, Job will always show you the way through Boston; and run your a’r’nds too!”

  “Poor fellow! I promise that you shall not be again abused by the soldiery. Good night, honest friend—let me see you again.”

  The idiot appeared satisfied with this assurance, for he immediately turned, and gliding along the street with a sort of shuffling gait, he soon disappeared round the first corner. In the meantime the young officer advanced to the entrance which led into the court-yard of Mrs. Lechmere’s dwelling. The house was of bricks, and of an exterior altogether more pretending than most of those in the lower parts of the town. It was heavily ornamented, in wood, according to the taste of a somewhat earlier day, and presented a front of seven windows in its two upper stories, those at the extremes being much narrower than the others. The lower floor had the same arrangement, with the exception of the principal door.

  Strong lights were shining in many parts of the house, which gave it, in comparison with the gloomy and darkened edifices in its vicinity, an air of peculiar gaiety and life. The rap of the gentleman was answered instantly by an old black, dressed in a becoming, and what, for the colonies, was, a rich livery. The inquiry for Mrs. Lechmere was successful, and the youth conducted through a hall of some dimensions, into an apartment which opened from one of its sides. This room would be considered, at the present day, as much too small to contain the fashion of a country town; but what it wanted in size, was amply compensated for in the richness and labour of its decorations. The walls were divided into compartments, by raised panel-work, beautifully painted with imaginary landscapes and ruins. The glittering, varnished surfaces of these pictures were burthened with armorial bearings, which were intended to illustrate the alliances of the family. Beneath the surbase were smaller divisions of panels, painted with various architectural devices; and above it rose, between the compartments, fluted pilasters of wood, with gilded capitals. A heavy wooden, and highly ornamented cornice, stretched above the whole, furnishing an appropriate outline to the walls. The use of carpets was, at that time, but little known in the colonies, though the wealth and station of Mrs. Lechmere would probably have introduced the luxury, had not her age, and the nature of the building, tempted her to adhere to ancient custom. The floor, which shone equally with the furniture, was tessellated with small alternate squares of red-cedar and pine, and in the centre were the ‘saliant Lions’ of Lechmere, attempted by the blazonry of the joiner. On either side of the ponderous and laboured mantel, were arched compartments, of plainer work, denoting use, the sliding panels of one of which, being raised, displayed a beaufet, groaning with massive plate. The furniture was old, rich, and heavy, but in perfect preservation. In the midst of this scene of colonial splendour, which was rendered as impressive as poss
ible by the presence of numerous waxen lights, a lady, far in the decline of life, sat, in formal propriety, on a small settee. The officer had thrown his cloak into the hands of Meriton, in the hall, and as he advanced up the apartment, his form appeared in the gay dress of a soldier, giving to its ease and fine proportions, the additional charm of military garnish. The hard, severe eye of the lady, sensibly softened with pleased surprise, as it dwelt on his person for an instant after she arose to receive her guest, but the momentary silence was first broken by the youth, who said—

  “I have entered unannounced, for my impatience has exceeded my breeding, madam, while each step I have taken in this house recalls the days of boyhood, and of former freedom within its walls.”

  “My cousin Lincoln!” interrupted the lady, who was Mrs. Lechmere; “that dark eye, that smile, nay, the very step announces you! I must have forgotten my poor brother, and one also who is still so dear to us, not to have known you a true Lincoln!”

  There was a distance in the manner of both, at meeting, which might easily have been imparted by the precise formula of the provincial school, of which the lady was so distinguished a member, but which was not sufficient to explain the sad expression that suddenly and powerfully blended with the young man’s smile. The change, however, was but momentary, and he answered courteously to her assurances of recognition—

  “I have long been taught to expect a second home in Tremont-street, and I find by your flattering remembrance of myself and parents, dear madam, that my expectations are justified.”

  The lady was sensibly pleased at this remark, and she suffered a smile to unbend her rigid brow.

  “A home, certainly,” she answered, “though it be not such a one as the heir of the house of Lincoln may have been accustomed to dwell in. It would be strange, indeed, could any allied to that honourable family, forget to entertain its representative with due respect.”

  The youth seemed conscious that quite as much had now been said as the occasion required, and he raised his head from bowing on her hand, with the intention of changing the subject to one less personal, when his eye caught a glimpse of the figure of another, and more youthful female, who had been concealed, hitherto, by the drapery of a window-curtain. Advancing to this young lady, he said, with a quickness that rather betrayed his willingness to suspend further compliment—

  “And here I see one also, to whom I have the honor of being related; Miss Dynevor?”

  “Though it be not my grand-child,” said Mrs. Lechmere, “it is one who claims an equal affinity, Major Lincoln; it is Agnes Danforth, the daughter of my late niece.”

  “’Twas my eye then, and not my feelings that were mistaken,” returned the young soldier; “I hope this lady will admit my claim to call her cousin?”

  A simple inclination of the body was the only answer he received, though the lady did not decline the hand which he offered with his salutations. After a few more of the usual expressions of pleasure, and the ordinary inquiries that succeed such meetings, the party became seated, and a more regular discourse followed.

  “I am pleased to find you remember us then, cousin Lionel,” said Mrs. Lechmere; “we have so little in this remote province that will compare with the mother country, I had feared no vestiges of the place of your birth could remain on your mind.”

  “I find the town greatly altered, it is true, but there are many places in it which I still remember, though certainly their splendour is a little diminished by absence and a familiarity with other scenes.”

  “Doubtless, an acquaintance with the British court will have no tendency to exalt our humble customs in your imagination; neither do we possess many buildings to attract the notice of a travelled stranger. There is a tradition in our family, that your seat in Devonshire is as large as any dozen edifices in Boston, public or private; nay, we are proud of saying, that the king himself is lodged as well as the head of the Lincoln family, only when at his castle of Windsor!”

  “Ravenscliffe is certainly a place of some magnitude,” returned the young man, carelessly, “though you will remember his majesty affects no great state at Kew. I have, however, spent so little of my time in the country, that I hardly know its conveniences or its extent.”

  The old lady bowed with that sort of complacency which the dwellers in the colonies were apt to betray, whenever an allusion was made to the acknowledged importance of their connexions in that country toward which they all looked as the fountain of honour; and then, as quickly as if the change in her ideas was but a natural transition in the subject, she observed—

  “Surely Cecil cannot know of the arrival of our kinsman! she is not apt to be so remiss in attention to our guests!”

  “She does me the more honour, that she considers me a relative, and one who requires no formality in his reception.”

  “You are but cousins twice removed,” returned the old lady, a little gravely; “and there is surely no affinity in that degree which can justify forgetfulness of the usual courtesies. You see, cousin Lionel, how much we value the consanguinity, when it is the subject of pride to the most remote branches of the family!”

  “I am but little of a genealogist, madam; though, if I retain a true impression of what I have heard, Miss Dynevor is of too good blood, in the direct line, to value the collateral drops of an intermarriage.”

  “Pardon me, major Lincoln; her father, colonel Dynevor, was certainly an Englishman of an ancient and honourable name, but no family in the realm need scorn an alliance with our own. I say our own, cousin Lionel, for I would never have you forget that I am a Lincoln, and the sister of your grandfather.”

  A little surprised at the seeming contradiction in the language of the good lady, the young man bowed his head to the compliment, and cast his eyes at his younger companion with a sort of longing, to change the discourse, by addressing the reserved young woman nigh him, that was very excusable in one of his sex and years. He had not time, however, to make more than one or two common-place remarks, and receive their answers, before Mrs. Lechmere said, with some exhibition of staid displeasure against her grandchild—

  “Go, Agnes, and acquaint your cousin of this happy event. She has been sensibly alive to your safety, during the whole time consumed by your voyage. We have had the prayers of the church, for a ‘person gone to sea,’ read each Sunday, since the receipt of the letters, announcing your intention to embark; and I have been exceedingly pleased to observe the deep interest with which Cecil joined in our petitions.”

  Lionel mumbled a few words of thanks, and leaning back in his chair, threw his eyes upward, but whether in pious gratitude or not, we conceive it is not our province to determine. During the delivery of Mrs. Lechmere’s last speech, and the expressive pantomime that succeeded it, Agnes Danforth rose and left the room. The door had been some little time closed before the silence was again broken; during which, Mrs. Lechmere evidently essayed in vain, once or twice, to speak. Her colour, pale and immovable as usually seemed her withered look, changed, and her lip trembled involuntarily. She, however, soon found utterance, though the first tones of her voice were choked and husky.

  “I may have appeared remiss, cousin Lionel,” she said, “but there are subjects that can be discussed with propriety, only between the nearest relatives. Sir Lionel—you left him in as good a state of bodily health, I hope, as his mental illness will allow?”

  “It is so represented to me.”

  “You have not seen him lately?”

  “Not in fifteen years; my presence was said to increase his disorder, and the physicians forbade any more interviews. He continues at the private establishment near town, and, as the lucid intervals are thought to increase, both in frequency and duration, I often indulge in the pleasing hope of being restored again to my father. The belief is justified by his years, which, you know, are yet under fifty.”

  A long and apparently a painful silence succeede
d this interesting communication; at length the lady said, with a tremour in her voice, for which the young man almost reverenced her, as it so plainly bespoke her interest in her nephew, as well as the goodness of her heart—

  “I will thank you for a glass of that water in the beaufet. Pardon me, cousin Lionel, but this melancholy subject always overcomes me. I will retire a few moments, with your indulgence, and hasten the appearance of my grandchild. I pine that you may meet.”

  Her absence just at that moment was too agreeable to the feelings of Lionel, for him to gainsay her intention; though, instead of following Agnes Danforth, who had preceded her on the same duty, the tottering steps of Mrs. Lechmere conducted her to a door which communicated with her own apartment. For several minutes the young man trampled on the ‘salient lions’ of Lechmere, with a rapidity that seemed to emulate their own mimic speed, as he paced the narrow apartment, his eye glancing vacantly along the laboured wainscots, embracing the argent, azure and purpure fields of the different escutcheons, as heedlessly, as if they were not charged with the distinguishing symbols of so many honourable names. This mental abstraction was, however, shortly dissipated by the sudden appearance of one who had glided into the room, and advanced to its centre, before he became conscious of her presence. A light, rounded, and exquisitely proportioned female form, accompanied by a youthful and expressive countenance, with an air in which womanly grace blended so nicely with feminine delicacy as to cause each motion and gesture to command respect, at the same time that it was singularly insinuating, was an object to suspend, even at a first glance, provided that glance were by surprise, the steps of a more absent and less courteous youth than the one we have attempted to describe. Major Lincoln knew that this young lady could be no other than Cecil Dynevor, the daughter of a British officer, long since deceased, by the only child of Mrs. Lechmere, who was also in her grave; and consequently that she was one to whom he was so well known by character, and so nearly allied by blood, as to render it an easy task for a man accustomed to the world, to remove any little embarrassments which might have beset a less practised youth, by acting as his own usher. This he certainly attempted, and at first, with a freedom which his affinity, and the circumstances, would seem to allow, though it was chastened by easy politeness. But the restraint visible in the manner of the lady was so marked, that by the time his salutations were ended, and he had handed her to a seat, the young man felt as much embarrassment as if he found himself alone, for the first time, with the woman whom he had been pining, for months, to favour with a very particular communication. Whether it is that nature has provided the other sex with a tact for these occasions, or that the young lady became sensible her deportment was not altogether such as was worthy either of herself, or the guest of her grandmother, she was certainly the first to relieve the slight awkwardness that was but too apparent in the commencement of the interview.