James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “My ruin! and my character!” returned Abigail, looking about her with a haggard eye and a trembling lip; “what is ruin, Madam Lechmere, if this poverty be not it! or what loss of character can bring upon me more biting scorn than I am now ordained to suffer for my sins!”

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Lechmere, endeavouring to affect a kinder tone, though dislike was still too evident in her manner, “in the hurry of my grand-nephew’s reception, I have forgotten my usual liberality.”

  The woman took the piece of silver which Mrs. Lechmere slowly placed in her hand, and held it in her open palm for several moments, regarding it with a vacant look, which the other mistook for dissatisfaction.

  “The troubles, and the decreasing value of property, have sensibly affected my income,” continued the richly clad and luxurious Mrs. Lechmere; “but if that should be too little for your immediate wants, I will add to it another crown.”

  “’Twill do—’twill do,” said Abigail, clenching her hand over the money, with a grasp that was convulsive—“yes, yes, ’twill do. Oh! Madam Lechmere, humbling and sinful as that wicked passion is, would to God that no motive worse than avarice had proved my ruin!”

  Lionel thought his aunt cast an uneasy and embarrassed glance at her companion, which he construed into an expression that betrayed there were secrets even between these strange confidants; but the momentary surprise exhibited in her features, soon gave place to her habitual look of guarded and severe formality; and she replied, with an air of coldness, as if she would repulse any approach to an acknowledgment of their common transgression—

  “The woman talks like one who is beside herself! of what crime has she been guilty, but such as those to which our nature is liable!”

  “True, true,” said Abigail Pray, with a half-stifled, hysterical laugh—“’tis our guilty, guilty nature, as you say. But I grow nervous, I believe, as I grow old and feeble, Madam Lechmere; and I often forget myself. The sight of the grave so very near, is apt to bring thoughts of repentance to such as are more hardened even than I.”

  “Foolish girl!” said Mrs. Lechmere, endeavouring to skreen her pallid features, by drawing down the calash, with a hand that trembled more with terror than with age, “why should you speak thus freely of death, who are but a child!”

  Lionel heard the faltering, husky tones of his aunt, as they appeared to die in her throat, but nothing more was distinctly audible, until, after a long pause, she raised her face, and looked about her again with a severe, unbending eye, and continued—

  “Enough of this folly, Abigail Pray—I have come to learn more of your strange inmate—”

  “Oh! ’tis not enough, Madam Lechmere,” interrupted the conscience-stricken woman; “we have so little time left us for penitence and prayer, that there never can be enough, I fear, to answer our mighty transgressions. Let us speak of the grave, Madam Lechmere, while we can yet do it on this side of eternity.”

  “Ay! speak of the grave, while out of its damp cloisters; ’tis the home of the aged,” said a third voice, whose hollow tones might well have issued from some tomb; “I am here to join in the wholesome theme.”

  “Who—who—in the name of God, who art thou!” exclaimed Mrs. Lechmere, forgetting her infirmities, and her secret compunctions, in new emotions, and rising involuntarily from her seat; “tell me, I conjure thee, who art thou?”

  “One, aged like thyself, Priscilla Lechmere, and standing on the threshold of that final home of which you would discourse. Speak on, then, ye widowed women; for if ever ye have done aught that calls for forgiveness, ’tis in the grave ye shall find the heavenly gift of mercy offered to your unworthiness.”

  By changing the position of his body a little, Lionel was enabled to command a view of the whole apartment. In the door-way stood Ralph, immovable in his attitude, with one hand raised towards heaven, and the other pointing impressively downward, as if about to lay bare the secrets of that tomb of which his wasted limbs, and faded lineaments marked him as a fit tenant, while his searching eye-balls glared about him, from the face of one to the other, with that look of quickness and penetration, that Abigail Pray had so well described as ‘scorching.’ Within a few feet of the old man, Mrs. Lechmere remained standing, rigid and motionless as marble, her calash fallen back, and her death-like features exposed, with horror and astonishment rooted in every muscle, as with open mouth, and eyes riveted on the intruder, she gazed as steadily as if placed in that posture by the chisel of the statuary. Abigail shaded her eyes with her hand, and buried her face in the folds of her garments, while strong convulsive shudderings ran through her frame, and betrayed the extent of the emotions she endeavoured to conceal. Amazed at what he had witnessed, and concerned for the apparent insensibility of his aunt, whose great age rendered such scenes dangerous, Lionel was about to rush into the apartment, when Mrs. Lechmere so far recovered her faculties as to speak, and the young man lost every consideration in a burning curiosity, which was powerfully justified by his situation.

  “Who is it that calls me by the name of Priscilla?” said Mrs. Lechmere; “none now live who can claim to be so familiar.”

  “Priscilla—Priscilla,” repeated the old man, looking about him, as if he would require the presence of another; “it is a soft and pleasant sound to my ears, and there is one that owns it besides thee, as thou knowest.”

  “She is dead; years have gone by since I saw her in her coffin; and I would forget her, and all like her, who have proved unworthy of my blood.”

  “She is not dead!”—shouted the old man, in a voice that rung through the naked rafters of the edifice like the unearthly tones of some spirit of the air; “she lives—she lives—ay! she lives!”

  “Lives!” repeated Mrs. Lechmere, recoiling a step before the forward movement of the other; “why am I so weak as to listen! ’tis impossible.”

  “Lives!” exclaimed Abigail Pray, clasping her hands with agony; “Oh! would to God she did live! but did I not see her a bloated, disfigured corpse! did I not with these very hands place the grave-clothes about her once lovely frame! Oh! no—she is dead—dead—and I am a”—

  “’Tis some madman that asserts these idle tales,” exclaimed Mrs. Lechmere, with a quickness that interrupted the epithet the other was about to apply to herself. “The unfortunate girl is long since dead, as we know; why should we reason with a maniac?”

  “Maniac!” repeated Ralph, with an expression of the most taunting irony; “no—no—no—such there is, as you and I well know, but ’tis not I who am mad—thou art rather crazed thyself, woman; thou hast made one maniac already, wouldst thou make another?”

  “I!” said Mrs. Lechmere, without quailing before the ardent look she encountered—“that God who bestows reason, recalls his gift at will; ’tis not I who exercise such power.”

  “How say’st thou, Priscilla Lechmere?” cried Ralph, stepping with an inaudible tread so nigh as to grasp, unperceived, her motionless arm with his own wasted fingers; “yes—I will call thee Priscilla, little as thou deservest the name—dost thou deny the power to craze—where, then, is the head of thy boasted race? the proud Baronet of Devonshire, the wealthy, and respected, and once happy companion of Princes—thy nephew Lionel Lincoln? Is he in the halls of his fathers? leading the armies of his king?—ruling and protecting his household?—or is he the tenant of a gloomy cell?—thou knowest he is—thou knowest he is—and, woman, thy vile machinations have placed him there!”

  “Who is it that dare thus speak to me!” demanded Mrs. Lechmere, rallying her faculties, to look down this charge—“if my unhappy nephew is indeed known to thee, thy own knowledge will refute this base accusation”—

  “Known to me! I would ask what is hid from me? I have looked at thee, and observed thy conduct, woman, for the life of man, and nothing that thou hast done is hid from me—I tell thee, I know all. Of this sinful woman here also, I know all—have I not told
thee, Abigail Pray, of thy most secret transgressions?”

  “Oh! yes—yes; he is indeed acquainted with what I had thought was now concealed from every eye but that of God”—cried Abigail, with superstitious terror—

  “Nor of thee am I ignorant, thou miserable widow of John Lechmere; and of Priscilla, too, do I not know all?”—

  “All!” again exclaimed Abigail—

  “All!” repeated Mrs. Lechmere in a voice barely audible, when she sunk back in her chair, in a state of total insensibility. The breathless interest he felt in all that had passed, could detain Lionel no longer from rushing to the assistance of his aunt. Abigail Pray, who, it would seem, had been in some measure accustomed to such scenes with her lodger, retained, however, sufficient self-command to anticipate his motions, and when he had gained the door he found her already supporting, and making the usual applications to Mrs. Lechmere. It became necessary to divest the sufferer of part of her attire, and Abigail assuring Lionel of her perfect competency to act by herself, requested him to withdraw, not only on that account, but because she felt assured that nothing could prove more dangerous to her reviving patient, than his unexpected presence. After lingering a moment, until he witnessed the signs of returning life, Lionel complied with the earnest entreaties of the woman; and leaving the room, he groped his way to the foot of the ladder, with a determination to ascend to the apartment of Ralph, in order to demand at once an explanation of what he had just seen and heard. He found the old man seated in his little tower, his hand shading his eyes from the feeble light of the miserable candle, and his head drooping upon his bosom, like one in pensive musing. Lionel approached him, without appearing to attract his attention, and was compelled to speak, in order to announce his presence.

  “I have received your summons, by Job,” he said, “and have obeyed it.”

  “’Tis well,” returned Ralph.

  “Perhaps I should add that I have been an astonished witness of your interview with Mrs. Lechmere, and have heard the bold and unaccountable language you have seen proper to use to that lady.”

  The old man raised his head, and Lionel saw the bright rays from his eyes quicken, as he answered—

  “You then heard the truth, and witnessed its effects on a guilty conscience.”

  “I also heard what you call the truth, in connexion, as you know, with names most dear to me.”

  “Art certain of it, boy?” returned Ralph, looking the other steadily in the face; “has no other become dearer to you, of late, than the authors of your being—speak, and remember that you answer one of no common knowledge.”

  “What mean you, sir! is it in nature to love any as we do a parent?”

  “Away with this childish simplicity,” continued the other sternly; “the grandchild of that wretched woman below—do you not love her, and can I put trust in thee!”

  “What trust is there incompatible with affection for a being so pure as Cecil Dynevor?”

  “Ay,” murmured the old man in an under tone, “her mother was pure, and why may not the child be worthy of its parentage?” He paused, and a long, and on the part of Lionel, a painful and embarrassed silence succeeded, which was at length broken by Ralph, who said, abruptly—“you were in the field to-day, Major Lincoln.”

  “Of that you must be certain, as I owe my life to your kind interposition. But why have you braved the danger of an arrest, by trusting your person in the power of the troops? Your presence and activity among the Americans must be known to many in the army besides myself.”

  “And would they think of searching for their enemies within the streets of Boston, when the hills without are filling with armed men! My residence in this building is known only to the woman below, who dare not betray me, her worthy son, and to you. My movements are secret and sudden when men least expect them. Danger cannot touch such as I.”

  “But,” said Lionel, hesitating with embarrassment, “ought I to conceal the presence of one whom I know to be inimical to my king?”—

  “Lionel Lincoln, you overrate your courage,” interrupted Ralph, smiling—“you dare not shed the blood of him who has spared your own;—but enough of this—we understand each other, and one old as I should be a stranger to fear.”

  “No, no,” said a low, solemn voice, from a dark corner of the apartment, where Job had stolen unseen, and was now nestled in security—“you can’t frighten Ralph!”

  “The boy is a worthy boy, and he knows good from evil; what more is necessary to man in this wicked world!” muttered Ralph, in those quick and indistinct tones that characterized his manner.

  “Whence came you, fellow, and why did you abandon me so abruptly?” demanded Lionel.

  “Job has just been into the market to see if he couldn’t find something that might be good for Nab,” returned the lad.

  “Think not to impose on me with this nonsense! Is food to be purchased at any hour of the night, though you had the means!”

  “Now that is convincing the king’s officers don’t know every thing,” said the simpleton, laughing within himself—“here’s as good a pound bill, old tenor, as was ever granted by the Bay-Colony, and meat’s no such rarity, that a man, who has a pound-bill, old tenor, in his pocket, can’t go under old Funnel when he pleases, for all their acts of parliament.”

  “You have plundered the dead!” cried Lionel, observing that Job exhibited in his hand several pieces of silver, besides the note he had mentioned.

  “Don’t call Job a thief!” said the lad, with a threatening air; “there’s law in the Bay yet, though the people don’t use it; and right will be done to all, when the time comes. Job shot a granny, but he’s no thief.”

  “You were then paid for your secret errand, last night, foolish boy; and have been tempted to run into danger by money. Let it be the last time—in future, when you want, come to me for assistance.”

  “Job won’t go of a’r’nds for the king if he’d give him his golden crown, with all its di’monds and flauntiness, unless Job pleases, for there’s no law for it.”

  Lionel, with a view to appease the lad, now made a few kind and conciliating remarks, but the other did not deign to reply, falling back in his corner in a sullen manner, as if he would repair the fatigue of the day by a few moments of sleep. In the mean time, Ralph had sunk into a profound reverie, when the young soldier remembered that the hour was late, and he had yet obtained no explanation of the mysterious charges. He therefore alluded to the subject, in a manner which he thought best adapted to obtain the desired intelligence. The instant Lionel mentioned the agitation of his aunt, his companion raised his head again, and a smile like that of exultation lighted the wan face of the old man, who answered, pointing with an emphatic gesture to his own bosom—

  “’Twas here, boy, ’twas here—nothing short of the power of conscience, and a knowledge like that of mine, could strike that woman speechless in the presence of any thing human.”

  “But what is this extraordinary knowledge? I am in some degree the natural protector of Mrs. Lechmere, and independently of my individual interest in your secret, I have a right, in her behalf, to require an explanation of so serious allegations.”

  “In her behalf!” repeated Ralph. “Wait, impetuous young man, until she bids you push the inquiry—it shall then be answered, in a voice of thunder.”

  “If not in justice to my aged aunt, at least remember your repeated promises to unfold that sad tale of my own domestic sorrows, of which you claim to be the master.”

  “Ay, of that, and much more, am I in possession,” returned the old man, smiling, as if conscious of his knowledge and power; “if you doubt it, descend and ask the miserable tenant of this warehouse—or the guilty widow of John Lechmere.”

  “Nay, I doubt nothing but my own patience; the moments fly swiftly, and I have yet to learn all I wish to know.”

  “This is neither the tim
e, nor is it the place, where you are to hear the tale,” returned Ralph; “I have already said that we shall meet beyond the colleges for that purpose.”

  “But after the events of this day, who can tell when it will be in the power of an officer of the crown to visit the colleges in safety?”

  “What!” cried the old man, laughing aloud, and in bitterness, “has the boy found the strength and the will of the despised colonists so soon! But I pledge to thee my word, that thou shalt yet see the place, and in safety.—Yes, yes, Priscilla Lechmere, thy hour is at hand, and thy doom is sealed for ever!”

  Lionel again mentioned his aunt, and alluded to the necessity of his soon rejoining her, as he already heard footsteps below, which indicated that preparations were making for her departure. But his petitions and remonstrances were now totally unheeded, his aged companion was pacing swiftly up and down his small apartment, muttering incoherent sentences, in which the name of Priscilla was alone audible, and his countenance betraying the inward workings of absorbing and fierce passions. In a few moments more, the shrill voice of Abigail was heard calling upon her son, in a manner which plainly denoted her knowledge that he was concealed somewhere about the building. Job heard her calls repeated, until the tones of her voice became angry and threatening, when he stole slowly from his corner, and moved towards the ladder, with a sunken brow and lingering step. Lionel knew not how to act. His aunt was still ignorant of his presence, and he thought if Abigail Pray had wished him to appear, he would in some manner be included in the summons. He had also his own secret reasons for wishing his visits to Ralph unknown; accordingly, he determined to watch the movements below, under the favour of the darkness, and to be governed entirely by circumstances. He took no leave of his companion on departing, for long use had so far accustomed him to the eccentric manner of the old man, that he well knew any attempt to divert his attention from his burning thoughts, would be futile at a moment of so intense excitement.

  From the head of the ladder where Lionel took his stand, he saw Mrs. Lechmere, preceded by Job with a lantern, walking with a firmer step than he could have hoped for, towards the door, and he overheard Abigail cautioning her wilful son to light her visiter to a neighbouring corner, where it appeared a conveyance was in waiting. On the threshold, his aunt turned, and the light from the candle of Abigail falling on her features, Lionel caught a full view of her cold, hard eye, which had regained all its worldly expression, though softened a little by a shade of thought deeper than usual.