“What did you say to the poor fellow?” asked Isabella, who at once concluded he was the coadjutor in her preservation.
“Say, my dear child! of course, nothing.”
They were now all gazing at the personation of Kisel, seated on the door-step, his head down, and he apparently absorbed in catching flies. “I think I know the poor fellow,” said Meredith, who recognised some odd articles of Kisel’s odd apparel—“he is a half-idiot, who from his infancy attached himself to Eliot Lee, and clung to him as you have seen a snarl of drifted seaweed adhere to a rock. I am amazed that a man of Lee’s common sense should have such an attendant.”
“I honour him for it,” said Isabella; “honest, heartfelt, constant affection, elevates the humblest and the meanest. From all I have heard of Eliot Lee,” she continued, after a moment’s pause, “it is not his fault if his friends in all conditions of life do not cling to him.”
Isabella’s remark was commonplace enough, but the tremulous tone in which it was uttered struck Miss Ruthven. Judging, as most persons do, from her own consciousness, she thought there was but one key to a young lady’s emotions; and whispering to Isabella, she said, “Your blush is beautiful, but a tell-tale.”
150“False, of course, then,” replied Isabella, nettled and embarrassed; and suddenly recollecting she had an unperformed duty towards the uncouth lad at the door, she left the drawing-room (declining Meredith’s attendance) to perform it.
“This Captain Lee,” said Miss Ruthven to Meredith, “must be a gentleman I sometimes saw at West Point. Our Charlotte was half in love with him.”
“Indeed!”
“‘Indeed,’ yes; but be pleased now, Mr. Meredith, to recall your absent thoughts, and attend to me, who am cast upon your tender mercies. I have a word to charm back the wanderers—Isabella Linwood!—Ah, I see you are here—now tell me honestly, do you not think that was a false sentiment of hers? do you think one must of necessity be constant in friendship or love? You are in the constant vein now, but hear me out. Suppose I am interested, in love if you please, with a particular individual—I see another who is to him Hyperion to a satyr, and by a fixed law of nature one attraction must be overcome by the other. It is not a deliberate or a voluntary change—it certainly is not caprice: I am but the passive subject of an irresistible power.”
“The object still changing, the sympathy true,” said Meredith, with a satirical smile.
“That was meant,” replied Miss Ruthven, “for a piquant satire: it is a mere truism,” and fixing her lustrous eyes on Meredith, she continued: “The heart must have an object, but we are at the mercy of chance; and should we cling to that first thrown in our way when taste is crude and judgment unripe, and cling to it after another appears ten thousand times more worthy? Should we, when daylight comes, shut out the blessed sun, and continue to grope by a rushlight? We cannot—it will penetrate the crevices and annihilate the stinted beam that we thought enough for us in the luminary’s absence. Ah, Mr. Meredith, there is much puling parrotry 151about constancy, and first love, and all that—I am sure of it, am sure the object may change, and the sympathy remain, in the truest, tenderest hearts. That sympathy—a queer name, is it not?—is always alive and susceptible, a portion of the soul, a part of life; a part! life itself.”
There was a strange confusion of ideas in Meredith’s mind as he listened to this rhapsody of Helen Ruthven. By degrees one came clearly out of the mist: and “is the girl in love with me?” was his mental interrogatory.
153CHAPTER XIII.
“Is’t possible that but seeing you should love her?”
In the meantime Eliot had been released from his durance, where he had suffered, as mortals sometimes mysteriously do, what he seemed in no-wise to have deserved; and passing unobserved into the entry, he had preceded Miss Linwood down the stairs, and was standing within the outer door in conversation with his attendant, so earnest that he did not perceive her approach till she said, “Am I intruding?”
She was answered by Herbert’s suddenly turning his face to her, and uttering “Isabella!”
In the suddenness of surprise and joy she forgot every thing but his presence; and would have thrown her arms around him but for Eliot’s intervention.
“Herbert!—Miss Linwood! I entreat you to be cautious—your brother’s safety is at stake—not a moment is to be lost—is concealment possible at your father’s house?”
“Possible!—certain. I will instantly go home.”
“Stop—pray hush, Herbert. Was the reason of your coming down stairs known to any one, Miss Linwood?”
“Only to Helen Ruthven and Mr. Meredith.”
“Two foxes on the scent!—that’s all,” said Herbert.
“Oh, no, Herbert; they would be the last to betray; but they do not suspect you.”
“Then all may be managed,” said Eliot; “trust no one, Miss Linwood—you cannot serve your brother better than 154by appearing at Sir Henry’s table, and letting it be known, incidentally, that you have seen my attendant.”
“I understand you, and will do my best. Heaven help us!—avoid by all means seeing mamma, Herbert—she will not dare incur the responsibility of concealing your presence. Go in at the back gate—you can easily elude Jupe—trust all to Rose. God bless you, dear brother,” she concluded; and in spite of the danger of observation, she gave him one hasty embrace, and returned to the drawing-room to enact a part—a difficult task to Isabella Linwood.
The few guests expected soon after arrived; and Mr. Linwood reappeared from his walk with the air of a person who has tidings to communicate. “Ah, Isabella,” said he, “I have news for you.”
“The rebels have been crucifying more tories, I suppose?”
“Pshaw, Belle—you know I did not believe that any more than you did when Rivington first published it. I have heard news of your Yankee preservers.”
“Only heard!—then I have the advantage of you, for I have seen them.”
“Seen them! Lord bless me—where, child?”
“In the hall below. I seized the opportunity of relieving you from the interview appointed this evening.”
“You astonish me! Well, after all, Robertson’s suspicions may be groundless. He has just received advice to look out sharply for the attendant of Captain Lee, who is suspected not to be the person he passes for.”
“And what if he is not, papa?”
“What if he is not!—a true girl-question! Why, he may be an officer, who, under the disguise of a servant, may be a very efficient emissary for Mr. Washington. He may have come to confer with ‘some of our whited sepulchres’—pretended tories, but whigs to the back-bone—we have plenty such.”
155“It would be very dangerous,” said a sapient young lady, “to let such a person go at large.”
“But, papa,” continued Isabella, without noticing the last interlocutor, “it seems to me very improbable that General Washington would be accessary to any such proceeding.”
“Ah, he’ll take care to guard appearances. He is as chary of his reputation as Cæsar was of his wife’s—a crafty one is Mr. Washington. The passport seems to have contained a true description of the true servant of this Captain Lee. Probably some young Curtius has assumed the responsibility of the imposition. His detection will reflect no dishonour on the great head of the schismatics—only expose the poor youth to danger.”
“Danger, papa!” Isabella’s tone indicated that the word fell on her ear associated with a life she loved.
“Yes, Miss Linwood; he may find a short and complete cure for whiggism; for, I take it, that in that department of t’other world which these gentry go to, they will find rebellion pretty well under.”
“Oh my! how you hate the whigs, Mr. Linwood!” exclaimed the aforesaid young lady. “Supposing it were poor dear Herbert who had disguised himself just to take a peep at us all.”
“Herbert!” echoed Mr. Linwood, his colour deepening and flushing his high forehead,—“Herbert!—he is joined
to idols—I should let him alone.”
“My! Isabella, is it not quite shocking to hear your father speak in such a hard-hearted way of poor Herbert?” whispered the young lady, who still cherished a boarding-school love for Herbert. “But, dear me! who is that coming in with Sir Henry?—He must be one of the young officers who arrived in the ship yesterday. ‘Captain Lee, an American officer!’” reiterating Sir Henry’s presentation of his guest. “My! 156I ought to have known the uniform; but I had no idea there was such an elegant young man in the American army—had you, Isabella?”
Isabella was too much absorbed in her own observations to return any thing more than bows and nods to her voluble companion. She saw Meredith advance to Eliot with that engaging cordiality which he knew so well how to throw into his manner; and she perceived that Eliot met him with a freezing civility, that painfully re-excited the apprehensions she had long felt, that there was “something rotten in the state of Denmark.” Sir Henry, after addressing each of his guests with that official and measured politeness that marks the great man’s exact estimate of the value of each nod, smile, and word vouchsafed to his satellites, advanced to her, and said in an under tone, “My dear Miss Linwood, I have sacrificed my tastes at your shrine—invited a rebel to my table in consideration of the service he had the honour of rendering you, and my valued friend your father, this morning.”
“If all I have heard of the gentleman be true,” replied Isabella, “Sir Henry will find his society an indulgence rather than a sacrifice of taste.”
“Perhaps so.” Sir Henry shrugged his shoulders. “He seems a clever person; but you know antipathies are stubborn; and, entre nous, I have what may be termed a natural aversion to an American. I mean, of course, a rebel American.”
England was so much the Jerusalem of the loyal colonists, the holy city towards which they always worshipped, that Sir Henry, in uttering this sentiment, had no doubt of its calling forth a responsive “amen” from Miss Linwood’s bosom. But her pride was touched. For the first time an American feeling shot athwart her mind, and, like a sunbeam falling on Memnon’s statue, it elicited music to one ear at least. “Have a care, Sir Henry,” she replied aloud; “such sentiments from our rulers engender rebellion, and almost make it virtue. I 157am beginning to think that if I had been a man, I should not have forgotten that I was an American.” Her eye encountered Eliot Lee’s; and his expressed a more animated delight than he would have ventured to imbody in words, or than she would have heard spoken with complacency.
Sir Henry turned on his heel, and Eliot occupied his position. Without adverting to what he had just overheard, or alluding to the discords of the country, he spoke to Miss Linwood of her brother, of course, as if he had left him in camp; from her brother they naturally passed to his sister. Both were topics that called forth their most eloquent feelings. The consciousness of a secret subject of common concern heightened their mutual interest, and in half an hour they had passed from the terra incognita of strangers to the agreeable footing of friends.
“I saw you bow to Miss Ruthven,” said Isabella: “you knew her at West Point?”
“Slightly,” replied Eliot, with a very expressive curl of his lip.
“Did not I hear my name?” asked Miss Ruthven, advancing, hanging on Meredith’s arm, and seating herself in a vacant chair near Miss Linwood.
“You might, for we presumed to utter it,” replied Isabella.
“Oh, I suppose Captain Lee has been telling you of my escape from that stronghold of the enemy—indeed, I could endure it no longer. You know, Captain Lee, there is no excitement there but the scenery; and even if I were one of those favoured mortals who find ‘tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, and sermons in stones,’ I have no fancy for them. I prefer the lords of the creation,” fixing her eyes expressively on Meredith, “to creation itself.”
“Pray tell me, Captain Lee,” asked Isabella, “is your sister such a worshipper of nature as she used to be? it seemed to be an innate love with her.”
158“Yes, it is; and it should be so, if, as some poets imagine, there is a mysterious correspondence and affinity between the outward world and pure spirits.”
“Dear Bessie! I am so charmed to hear from her again. She has sent me but one letter in six months, and that a very, very sad one.” Isabella’s eye involuntarily turned towards Meredith, but there was no indication that the sounds that entered his ears touched a chord of feeling, or even of memory. It was worth remarking, that while subjects had been alluded to that must have had the most thrilling interest for both Miss Ruthven and Meredith, they neither betrayed by a glance of the eye, a variation of colour, or a faltering of voice, the slightest consciousness. Truly, “the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light.”
At the very moment Isabella was speaking so tenderly of her friend, Meredith interrupted her with, “I beg your pardon, Miss Linwood, but I have a controversy with Miss Ruthven which you must decide. I insist there is disloyalty in discarding the Queen Charlotte bonnet; a fright, I grant, very like the rustic little affair your sister Bessie used to wear, Lee; and absolute treason in substituting la vendange, a Bacchante concern, introduced by the Queen of France, the patroness of the rebel cause—pardon me, Captain Lee—your decision, Miss Linwood; we wait your decision—”
Isabella carelessly replied, “I wear la vendange;” but not thus carelessly did she dismiss the subject from her mind. “Meredith could not so lightly have alluded to Bessie, in speaking to her brother,” thought she, while she weighed each word in a tremulous balance, “if he had ever trifled with the affections of that gentle creature, I have been unjust to him! he is no heart-breaker after all.” There is no happier moment in the history of the heart than when it is relieved of a distrust; and most deeply to be pitied is a young, enthusiastic, 159and noble-minded creature, who, with a standard of ideal perfection, has her affections fixed, and her confidence wavering.
Eliot perceived that Miss Linwood’s mind was abstracted, and feeling his position to be an awkward one, he withdrew to a distant part of the room. Meredith, too, made his observations. He was acute enough to perceive that he had allayed Isabella’s suspicions. He was satisfied with the present, and not fearful of the future.
“Pray tell me, Meredith, do you know that Captain Lee?” asked a Major St. Clair.
“Very well; we were at Harvard together!”
“Ah! scholar turned soldier. These poor fellows have no chance against the regular bred military. Homer and Virgil are not the masters to teach our art.”
“Our army would halt for officers if they were,” said Miss Linwood.
“St. Clair,” said Meredith, “is of the opinion of the old Romans. Plutarch, you know, says they esteemed Greek and scholar terms of reproach.”
“You mistake me, Meredith; I meant no reproach to the learned Theban; upon my word, he strikes me as quite a soldier-like looking fellow—a keen, quick eye—powerful muscles—good air—very good air, has he not, Miss Linwood?”
“Just now he appears to me to have very much the air of a neglected guest. Jasper, pray present Major St. Clair to your sometime friend.”
“Excuse me, Miss Linwood,” replied the major, “we have roturiers enough in our own household. I am not ambitious of making the acquaintance of those from the rebel camp.”
“May I ask,” resumed Isabella, “who our roturiers are?”
“Oh, the merchants—men of business, and that sort of people.”
160“Our city gentry?”
Major St. Clair bowed assent.
Isabella bowed and smiled too, but not graciously; her pride was offended. A new light had broken upon her, and she began to see old subjects in a fresh aspect. Strange as it may appear to those who have grown up with the rectified notions of the present day, she for the first time perceived the folly of measuring American society by a European standard—of casting it in an old and worn mould—of permitting its vigorous youth to be cramped
and impaired by transmitted manacles and shackles. Her fine mind was like the perfectly organized body, that wanted but to be touched by fire from Heaven to use all its faculties freely and independently.
It was obvious that Meredith avoided Eliot, but this she now believed was owing to the atmosphere of the court drawing-room. Eliot was not so uncomfortable as she imagined. A common man in his position might not have risen above the vanities and littlenesses of self. He might have been fearful of offending against etiquette, the divinity of small polished gentlemen. He might, an irritable man would, have been annoyed by the awkward silence in which he was left, interrupted only by such formal courtesies as Sir Henry deemed befitting the bearing of the host to an inferior guest. But Eliot Lee cared for none of these things—other and higher matters engrossed him. He was meditating the chances of getting Herbert safe back to West Point, and the means of averting Washington’s displeasure. He was eagerly watching Isabella Linwood’s face, where it seemed to him her soul was mirrored, and inferring from its eloquent mutations her relations with Linwood; and he was contrasting Sir Henry’s luxurious establishment, and the flippant buzz of city gossip he heard around him, with the severe voluntary privations and intense occupations of his own general and his companions in arms. His meditations were suddenly put to flight.
161Isabella had been watching for an opportunity to speak privately to Eliot of her brother. Miss Ruthven and Meredith never quitted her side. Miss Ruthven seemed like an humble worshipper incensing two divinities, while, like the false priest, she was contriving to steal the gift from the altar; or rather, like an expert finesser, she seemed to leave the game to others while she held, or fancied she held, the controlling card in her own hand. “I must make a bold push,” thought Isabella, “to escape from these people;” and beckoning to Eliot, who immediately obeyed her summons, she said, “Permit me, Sir Henry, to show Captain Lee the fine picture of Lord Chatham in your breakfasting-room?”
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