The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “It is kind, cousin Lionel,” she said, extending her withered hand to her young kinsman, “in the sick to come thus to visit the well. For after so long apprehending the worst on your account, I cannot consent that my trifling injury should be mentioned before your more serious wounds.”

  “Would, madam, that you had as happily recovered from their effects as myself,” returned Lionel, taking her hand and pressing it with great sincerity. “I shall never forget that you owe your illness to anxiety for me.”

  “Let it pass, sir; it is natural that we should feel strongly in behalf of those we love. I have lived to see you well again, and, God willing, I shall live to see this wicked rebellion crushed.” She paused; and smiling, for a moment, on the young pair who had approached her couch, she continued, “Cecil has told me all, Major Lincoln.”

  “No, not all, dear madam,” interrupted Lionel; “I have something yet to add; and in the commencement, I will own that I depend altogether on your pity and judgment to support my pretensions.”

  “Pretensions is an injudicious word, cousin Lionel; where there is a perfect equality of birth, education, and virtues, and, I may say, considering the difference in the sexes, of fortune too, it may amount to claims; but pretensions is an expression too ambiguous. Cecil, my child, go to my library; in the small, secret drawer of my escritoir, you will find a paper bearing your name; read it, my love, and bring it hither.”

  She motioned to Lionel to be seated, and when the door had closed on Cecil, she resumed the conversation.

  “As we are about to speak of business, the confused girl may as well be relieved, Major Lincoln. What is this particular favour that I shall be required to yield?”

  “Like any other sturdy mendicant, who may have already partaken largely of your bounty, I come to beg the immediate gift of the last and greatest boon you can bestow.”

  “My grandchild. There is no necessity for useless reserves between us, cousin Lionel, for you will remember that I too am a Lincoln. Let us then speak freely, like two friends, who have met to determine on a matter equally near the heart of each.”

  “Such is my earnest wish.—I have been urging on Miss Dynevor the peril of the times, and the critical situation of the country, in both of which I have found the strongest reasons for our immediate union.”

  “And Cecil?—”

  “Has been like herself; kind, but dutiful. She refers me entirely to your decision, by which alone she consents to be guided.”

  Mrs. Lechmere made no immediate reply, but her features betrayed the inward workings of her mind. It certainly was not displeasure that caused her to hesitate, her hollow eye lighting with a gleam of satisfaction that could not be mistaken; neither was it uncertainty, for her whole countenance seemed to express rather the uncontrollable agitation which might accompany the sudden accomplishment of long-desired ends, than any doubt as to their prudence. Gradually her agitation subsided; and as her feelings became more natural, her hard eyes filled with tears, and when she spoke, there was a softness mingled with the tremor of her voice that Lionel had never before witnessed.

  “She is a good and a dutiful child, my own, my obedient Cecil! She will bring you no wealth, Major Lincoln, that will be esteemed among your hoards, nor any proud title to add to the lustre of your honourable name; but she will bring you what is as good, if not better—nay, I am sure it must be better—a pure and virtuous heart, that knows no guile!”

  “A thousand and a thousand times more estimable in my eyes, my worthy aunt!” cried Lionel, melting before the touch of nature, which had so effectually softened the harsh feelings of Mrs. Lechmere; “let her come to my arms pennyless, and without a name; she will be no less my wife, no less her own invaluable self.”

  “I spoke only by comparison, Major Lincoln; the child of Colonel Dynevor, and the granddaughter of the Lord Viscount Cardonnell, can have no cause to blush for her lineage; neither will the descendant of John Lechmere be a dowerless bride! When Cecil shall become Lady Lincoln, she need never wish to conceal the escutcheon of her own ancestors under the bloody hand of her husband’s.”

  “May heaven long avert the hour when either of us may be required to use the symbol!” exclaimed Lionel.

  “Did I not understand aright! was not your request for an instant marriage?”

  “Never less in error, my dear Madam; but you surely do not forget that one lives so mutually dear to us, who has every reason to hope for many years of life; and I trust, too, of happiness and reason!”

  Mrs. Lechmere looked wildly at her nephew, and then passed her hand slowly before her eyes, from whence she did not withdraw them until an universal shudder had shaken the whole of her enfeebled frame.

  “You are right, my young cousin,” she said, smiling faintly—“I believe bodily weakness has impaired my memory.—I was dreaming of days long past! You stood before me in the image of your desolate father, while Cecil bore that of her mother; my own long-lost, but wilful Agnes! Oh! she was my child, my child! and God has forgotten her faults in mercy to a mother’s prayers!”

  Lionel recoiled a step before the energy of the invalid’s manner, in speechless amazement. A flush passed into her pallid cheeks, and as she concluded, she clasped her hands before her, and sunk on the pillows which supported her back. Large tears fell from her eyes, and slowly moving over her wasted cheeks, dropped singly upon the counterpane. Lionel laid his hand upon the night-bell, but an expressive gesture from his aunt prevented his ringing.

  “I am well, again,” she said—“hand me the restorative by your side.”

  Mrs. Lechmere drank freely from the glass, and in another minute her agitation subsided, her features settling into their rigid composure, and her eye resuming its hard expression, as if nothing had occurred to disturb her usual cold and worldly look.

  “You see how much better youth can endure the ravages of disease than age, by my present weakness, Major Lincoln,” she continued; “but let us return to other, and more agreeable subjects—you have not only my consent, but my wish that you should wed my grandchild. It is a happiness that I have rather hoped for, than dared to expect, and I will freely add, ’tis a consummation of my wishes that will render the evening of my days not only happy, but blessed!”

  “Then, dearest Madam, why should it be delayed—no one can say what a day may bring forth at such a time as this, and the moment of bustle and action is not the hour to register the marriage vows.”

  After musing a moment, Mrs. Lechmere replied—

  “We have a good and holy custom in this religious province, of choosing the day which the Lord has set apart for his own exclusive worship, as that on which to enter into the honourable state of matrimony. Choose, then, between this or the next Sabbath for your nuptials.”

  Whatever might be the ardour of the young man, he was a little surprised at the shortness of the former period; but the pride of his sex would not admit of hesitation.

  “Let it be this day, if Miss Dynevor can be brought to consent.”

  “Here then she comes, to tell you, that at my request, she does. Cecil, my own sweet child, I have promised Major Lincoln that you will become his wife this day.”

  Miss Dynevor, who advanced into the centre of the room, before she heard the purport of this speech, stopped short, and stood like a beautiful statue, expressing astonishment and dismay. Her colour went and came with alarming quickness, and the paper fell from her trembling hands to her feet, which appeared riveted to the floor.

  “To-day!” she repeated, in a voice barely audible—“did you say to-day, grandmother?”

  “Even to-day, my child.”

  “Why this reluctance, this alarm, Cecil?” said Lionel, approaching, and leading her gently to a seat. “You know the peril of the times—you have condescended to own your sentiments—consider; the winter is breaking, and the first thaw can lead to events which may entirely a
lter our situation.”

  “All these may have weight in your eyes, Major Lincoln,” interrupted Mrs. Lechmere, in a voice whose marked solemnity drew the attention of her hearers; “but I have other and deeper motives. Have I not already proved the dangers and the evils of delay! Ye are young, and ye are virtuous; why should ye not be happy? Cecil, if you love and revere me, as I think you do, you will become his wife this day.”

  “Let me have time to think, dearest grandmother. The tie is so new and so solemn! Major Lincoln—dear Lionel, you are not wont to be ungenerous; I throw myself on your kindness!”

  Lionel did not speak, and Mrs. Lechmere calmly answered—

  “’Tis not at his, but at my request that you will comply.”

  Miss Dynevor rose from her seat by the side of Lionel, with an air of offended delicacy, and said, with a mournful smile, to her lover—

  “Illness has rendered my good mother timid and weak—will you excuse my desire to be alone with her.”

  “I leave you, Cecil,” he said, “but if you ascribe my silence to any other motive than tenderness to your feelings, you are unjust to yourself and me.”

  She expressed her gratitude only in her looks, and he immediately withdrew, to await the result of their conversation in his own apartment. The half-hour that Lionel passed in his chamber seemed half a year, but at the expiration of that short period of time, Meriton came to announce that Mrs. Lechmere desired his presence again in her room.

  The first glance of her eye assured Major Lincoln that his cause had triumphed. His aunt had sunk back on her pillows, her countenance set in a calculating and rigid expression, which indicated a satisfaction so selfish that it almost induced the young man to regret she had not failed. But when his eyes met the tearful and timid glances of the blushing Cecil, he felt, that provided she could be his without violence to her feelings, he cared but little at whose instigation she had consented.

  “If I am to read my fate by your goodness, I know I may hope,” he said, advancing to her side—“if in my own deserts, I am left to despair.”

  “Perhaps ’twas foolish, Lincoln,” she said, smiling through her tears, and frankly placing her hand in his, “to hesitate about a few days, when I feel ready to devote my life to your happiness. It is the wish of my grandmother that I place myself under your protection.”

  “Then this evening unites us for ever?”

  “There is no obligation on your gallantry that it should positively take place this very evening, if any, or the least difficulties present.”

  “But none do nor can,” interrupted Lionel. “Happily the marriage forms of the colony are simple, and we enjoy the consent of all who have any right to interfere.”

  “Go, then, my children, and complete your brief arrangements,” said Mrs. Lechmere; “’tis a solemn knot that ye tie! it must, it will be happy!”

  Lionel pressed the hand of his intended bride, and withdrew, and Cecil throwing herself into the arms of her grandmother, gave vent to her feelings in a burst of tears. Mrs. Lechmere did not repulse her child; on the contrary, she pressed her once or twice to her heart, but still an observant spectator might have seen that her looks betrayed more of worldly pride, than of those natural emotions which such a scene ought to have excited.

  Chapter XXI

  “Come, friar Francis be brief; only to the plain form of marriage.”

  Much ado about nothing.

  * * *

  MAJOR LINCOLN had justly said, the laws regulating marriages in Massachusetts, which were adapted to the infant state of the country, threw but few impediments in the way of the indissoluble connexion. Cecil had, however, been educated in the bosom of the English church, and she clung to its forms and ceremonies with an affection that may easily be accounted for by their solemnity and beauty. Notwithstanding the colonists often chose the weekly festival for their bridals, the rage of reform had excluded the altar from most of their temples, and it was not usual with them to celebrate their nuptials in the places of public worship. But there appeared so much of unreasonable haste, and so little of due preparation in her own case, that Miss Dynevor, anxious to give all solemnity to an act to whose importance she was sensibly alive, expressed her desire to pronounce her vows at that altar where she had so long been used to worship, and under that roof where she had already, since the rising of the sun, poured out the thanksgivings of her pure spirit in behalf of the man who was so soon to become her husband.

  As Mrs. Lechmere declared that the agitation of the day, and her feeble condition must unavoidably prevent her witnessing the ceremony, there existed no sufficient reason for not indulging the request of her grandchild, notwithstanding it was not in strict accordance with the customs of the place. But being married at the altar, and being married in public, were not similar duties, and in order to effect the one and avoid the other, it was necessary to postpone the ceremony until a late hour, and to clothe the whole in a cloak of mystery, that the otherwise unembarrassed state of the parties would not have required.

  Miss Dynevor made no other confidant than her cousin. Her feelings being altogether elevated above the ordinarily idle considerations which are induced by time and preparations on such an occasion, her brief arrangements were soon ended, and she awaited the appointed moment without alarm, if not without emotion.

  Lionel had much more to perform. He knew that the least intimation of such a scene would collect a curious and a disagreeable crowd around and in the church, and he therefore determined that his plans should be arranged in silence, and managed secretly. In order to prevent a surprise, Meriton was sent to the clergyman, requesting him to appoint an hour in the evening when he could give an interview to Major Lincoln. He was answered, that at any moment after nine o’clock Dr. Liturgy would be released from the duties of the day, and in readiness to receive him. There was no alternative; and ten was the time mentioned to Cecil when she was requested to meet him before the altar. Major Lincoln distrusted a little the discretion of Polwarth, and he contented himself with merely telling his friend that he was to be married that evening, and that he must be careful to repair to Tremont-street in order to give away the bride; appointing an hour sufficiently early for all the subsequent movements. His groom and his valet had their respective and separate orders, and long before the important moment he had every thing arranged, as he believed, beyond the possibility of a disappointment.

  Perhaps there was something a little romantic, if not diseased in the mind of Lionel, that caused him to derive a secret pleasure from the hidden movements he contemplated. He was certainly not entirely free from a touch of that melancholy and morbid humour which has been mentioned as the characteristic of his race, nor did he always feel the less happy because he was a little miserable. However, either by his activity of intellect, or that excellent training he had undergone, by being required to act early for himself, he had so far succeeded in quelling the evil spirit within him, as to render its influence quite imperceptible to others, and nearly so to himself. It had, in fine, left him what we have endeavoured to represent him in these pages, not a man without faults, but certainly one of many high and generous virtues.

  As the day drew to a close, the small family party in Tremont-street collected in their usual manner to partake of the evening repast, which was common throughout the colonies at that period. Cecil was pale, and at times a slight tremor was perceptible in the little hand which did the offices of the table; but there was a forced calmness seated in her humid eyes that betokened the resolution she had summoned to her assistance, in order to comply with the wishes of her grandmother. Agnes Danforth was silent and observant, though an occasional look betrayed what she thought of the mystery and suddenness of the approaching nuptials. It would seem, however, that the importance of the step she was about to take, had served to raise the bride above the little affectations of her sex; for she spoke of the preparations like one who owned her int
erest in their completion, and who even dreaded that something might yet occur to mar them.

  “If I were superstitious, and had faith in omens, Lincoln,” she said, “the hour and the weather might well intimidate me from taking this step. See, the wind already blows across the endless wastes of the ocean, and the snow is driving through the streets in whirlwinds!”

  “It is not yet too late to countermand my orders, Cecil,” he said, regarding her anxiously; “I have made all my movements so like a great commander, that it is as easy to retrograde as to advance.”

  “Would you then retreat before one so little formidable as I?” she returned, smiling.

  “You surely understand me as wishing only to change the place of our marriage. I dread exposing you and our kind cousin to the tempest, which, as you say, after sweeping over the ocean so long, appears rejoiced to find land on which to expend its fury.”

  “I have not misconstrued your meaning, Lionel, nor must you be mistaken in mine. I will become your wife to-night, and cheerfully too; for what reason can I have to doubt you now, more than formerly! But my vows must be offered at the altar.”

  Agnes perceiving that her cousin spoke with suppressed emotion that made utterance difficult, gaily interrupted her—

  “And as for the snow, you know little of Boston girls, if you think an icicle has any terrors. I vow, Cecil, I do think you and I have been guilty, when children, of coasting* in a hand-sled, down the side of Beacon, in a worse flurry than this.”

  “We were guilty of many mad and silly things at ten, that might not grace twenty, Agnes.”

  “Lord, how like a matron she speaks already!” interrupted the other, throwing up her eyes and clasping her hands in affected admiration; “nothing short of the church will satisfy so discreet a dame, Major Lincoln! so dismiss your cares on her account, and begin to enumerate the cloaks and over-coats necessary to your own preservation.”