The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Sister of thy grandfather—mother of thy wife,” repeated Mrs. Lechmere, slowly, and in a manner that sufficiently indicated the unsettled state of her thoughts—“Both are true!”

  “Speak to me of my mother, if you acknowledge the ties of blood—tell me of her dark fate!”

  “She is in her grave—dead—yes—yes—her boasted beauty has been fed upon by beastly worms! What more would ye have, mad boy? Would’st wish to see her bones in their winding-sheet?”

  “The truth!” cried Ralph; “declare the truth, and thy own wicked agency in the deed.”

  “Who speaks?” repeated Mrs. Lechmere, dropping her voice again, to the tremulous cadency of debility and age, and looking about her at the same time, as if a sudden remembrance crossed her brain; “surely I heard sounds I should know!”

  “Here; look on me—fix thy wandering eye, if it yet has power to see, on me,” cried Ralph—“’tis I that speaks to thee, Priscilla Lechmere.”

  “What wouldst thou? My daughter? she is in her grave! Her child? She is wedded to another—Thou art too late! Thou art too late! Would to God thou hadst asked her of me in season”—

  “The truth—the truth—the truth!” continued the old man—“the holy and undefiled truth! Give us that, and naught else.”

  This singular and solemn appeal awakened the energies of the woman, whose inmost soul appeared to recoil before his cries. She made an effort to raise herself, and exclaimed—

  “Who says that I am dying? I am but seventy! and only yesterday I was a child—a pure, an uncontaminated child! He lies—he lies! I have no mortification—I am strong, and have years to live and repent in.”

  In the pauses of her utterance, the voice of the old man was still heard shouting—

  “The truth—the truth—the holy, undefiled truth!”

  “Let me rise and look upon the sun,” continued the dying woman. “Where are ye? Cecil, Lionel—my children, do ye desert me now? Why do ye darken the room? Give me light—more light!—more light! for the sake of all in heaven and earth, abandon me not to this black and terrific darkness!”

  Her aspect had become so hideously despairing, that the voice of even Ralph was stilled, and she continued uninterruptedly to shriek out the ravings of her soul.

  “Why talk to such as I of death!—My time has been too short!—Give me days—give me hours—give me moments! Cecil, Agnes—Abigail; where are ye—help me, or I fall!”

  She raised herself, by a desperate effort, and clutched wildly at the empty air. Meeting the extended hand of Lionel, she caught it with a dying grasp, gave a smile, under the false security it imparted, and falling backward again, her mortal part settled, with an universal shudder, into a state of eternal rest.

  As the exclamations of the deceased ended, so deep a stillness succeeded, that the passing gusts of the gale were heard sighing among the roofs of the town, and might easily be mistaken, at such a moment, for the moanings of unembodied spirits over so accursed an end.

  Chapter XXIV

  “I wonder, sir, since wives are monstrous to you,

  And that you fly them, as you swear them, lordship,

  Yet, you desire to marry.”

  All’s well that ends well.

  * * *

  CECIL HAD LEFT the room of her grandmother, with the consciousness of sustaining a load of anguish to which her young experience had hitherto left her a stranger. On her knees, and in the privacy of her closet, she poured out the aspirations of her pure spirit, in fervent petitions to that power, which she who most needed its support, had so long braved by the mockery of respect, and the seemliness of devotion. With her soul elevated by its recent communion with God, and her feelings soothed even to calmness by the sacred glow that was shed around them, the youthful bride prepared to resume her post at the bed-side of her aged relative.

  In passing from her own room to that of Mrs. Lechmere, she heard the busy voice of Agnes below, together with the sounds of the preparations that were making to grace her own hasty bridal, and for a moment she paused to assure herself that all which had so recently passed was more than the workings of a disturbed fancy. She gazed at the unusual, though modest ornaments of her attire; shuddered as she remembered the awful omen of the shadow, and then came to the dreadful reality with an overwhelming conviction of its truth. Laying her hand on the door, she paused with secret terror, to catch the sounds that might issue from the chamber of the sick. After listening a moment, the bustle below was hushed, and she, too, heard the whistling of the wind as its echoes died away among the chimneys and angles of the building. Encouraged by the stillness of those within her grandmother’s room, Cecil opened the door, under the pleasing impression that she should find the resignation of a Christian, where she had so lately witnessed the incipient ravings of despair. Her entrance was timid, for she dreaded to meet the hollow, but glaring eye of the nameless being who had borne the message of the physician, and of whose mien and language she retained a confused but fearful recollection. Her hesitation and her fears, were alike vain; for the room was silent and tenantless. Casting one wondering look around, in quest of the form most dear to her, Cecil advanced with a light step to the bed, and raising the coverlid, discovered the fatal truth.

  The lineaments of Mrs. Lechmere had already stiffened, and assumed that cadaverous and ghastly expression which marks the touch of death. The parting soul had left the impression of its agony on her features, exhibiting the wreck of those passions which caused her, even in death, to look backward on that world she was leaving for ever, instead of forward to the unknown existence, towards which she was hurried. Perhaps the suddenness and the very weight of the shock, sustained the cheerless bride in that moment of trial. She neither spoke nor moved for more than a minute; but remained with her eyes riveted on the desolation of a countenance she had revered from infancy, with a species of holy awe that was not entirely free from horror. Then came the recollection of the portentous omens of her wedding, and with it a dread that the heaviest of her misfortunes were yet in reserve. She dropped the covering on the pallid features, and quitted the apartment with a hurried step. The room of Lionel was on the same floor with that which she had just left, and before she had time for reflection, her hand was on its lock. Her brain was bewildered with the rush of circumstances. For a single instant she paused with maiden bashfulness, recoiling in shame from the act she was about to commit, when all her fears, mingled with glimmerings of the truth, flashed across her mind, and she burst into the room, uttering the name of him she sought, aloud.

  The brands of a fallen fire had been carefully raked together, and were burning with a feeble and wavering flame. The room seemed filled with a cold air, which, as she encountered it, chilled the delicate person of Cecil; and flickering shadows were playing on the walls, with the uncertain movements imparted by the unsteady light. But, like the apartment of the dead, the room was still and empty. Perceiving that the door of the little dressing-room was open, she rushed to its threshold, and the mystery of the cold air and the wavering fire was explained, when she felt the gusts of wind rush by her from the open door at the foot of the private stairs. If Cecil had ever been required to explain the feelings which induced her to descend, or the manner in which it was effected, she would have been unable to comply, for quick as thought she stood on the threshold of the outer-door, nearly unconscious of her situation.

  The moon was still wading among driving clouds, shedding just light enough to make the spectator sensible of the stillness of the camp and town. The easterly wind yet howled along the streets, occasionally lifting whirlwinds of snow, and wrapping whole squares in its wreaths. But neither man nor beast was visible.

  The bewildered bride shrunk from the dismal view, with a keen perception of its wild consonance with the death of her grandmother. In another moment she was again in the room above, each part of which she examined with maddening anxiety for th
e person of her husband. But her powers, excited and unnatural as they had become, could support her no longer. She was forced to yield to the impression that Lionel had deserted her in the most trying moment, and it was not strange that she coupled the sinister omens of the night with his mysterious absence. The heart-stricken girl clasped her hands in anguish, and shrieking the name of her cousin, sunk on the floor in insensibility.

  Agnes was busily and happily employed with her domestics, in preparing such a display of the wealth of the Lechmeres as should not disgrace her cousin in the eyes of her more wealthy lord and master. The piercing cry, however, notwithstanding the bustle of hurrying servants, and the clatter of knives and plates, penetrated to the supper-room, stilling each movement, and blanching every cheek.

  “’Tis my name!” said Agnes; “who calls?”

  “If it was possible,” returned Meriton, with a suitable emphasis, “that Master Lionel’s bride could scream so, I should say it was my Lady’s voice!”

  “’Tis Cecil—’tis Cecil!” cried Agnes, darting from the room; “O, I feared—I feared these hasty nuptials!”

  There was a general rush of the menials into the chambers, when the fatal truth became immediately known to the whole family. The lifeless clay of Mrs. Lechmere was discovered in its ghastly deformity, and, to all but Agnes, it afforded a sufficient solution of the situation of the bride.

  More than an hour passed before the utmost care of her attendants succeeded in restoring Cecil to a state in which questions might avail any thing. Then her cousin took advantage of the temporary absence of her women, to mention the name of her husband. Cecil heard her with sudden joy; but looking about the room wildly, as if seeking him with her eyes, she pressed her hands upon her heart, and fell backward in that state of insensibility from which she had just been roused. No part of this expressive evidence of grief was lost on the other, who left the room the instant her care had succeeded in bringing the sufferer once more to her recollection.

  Agnes Danforth had never regarded her aunt with that confiding veneration and love which purified the affections of the granddaughter of the deceased. She had always possessed her more immediate relatives, from whom she derived her feelings and opinions, nor was she wanting in sufficient discernment to distinguish the cold and selfish traits that had so particularly marked the character of Mrs. Lechmere. She had, therefore, consented to mortify her own spirit, and submit to the privations and dangers of the siege, entirely from a disinterested attachment to her cousin, who, without her presence, would have found her situation irksome.

  In consequence of this disposition of her mind, Agnes was more shocked than distressed by the unexpected death that had occurred. Perhaps, if her anxiety had been less roused in behalf of Cecil, she might have retired to weep over the departure of one she had known so long, and of one, also, that, in sincerity of heart, she believed so little prepared for the change. As it was, however, she took her way calmly to the parlour, where she summoned Meriton to her presence.

  When the valet made his entrance, she assumed the appearance of a composure that was far from her feelings, and desired him to seek his master, with a request he would give Miss Danforth a short interview, without delay. During the time Meriton was absent on this errand, Agnes endeavoured to collect her thoughts.

  Minute passed after minute, however, and the valet did not return. She arose, and stepping lightly to the door, listened, and thought she heard his footsteps moving about in the more distant parts of the building, with a quickness that proved he conducted the search in good faith. At length she heard them nigher, and it was soon certain he was on his return. Agnes seated herself, as before, and with an air that seemed as if she expected to receive the master instead of the man. Meriton, however, returned alone.

  “Major Lincoln!” she said; “you desired him to meet me here?”

  The whole countenance of Meriton expressed his amazement, as he answered—

  “Lord! Miss Agnus; Master Lionel has gone out! gone out on such a night! and what is more remarkable, he has gone out without his mourning; though the dead of his own blood and connexions lies unburied in the house!”

  Agnes preserved her composure, and gladly led the valet on in the path his thoughts had taken, in order to come at the truth, without betraying her own apprehensions.

  “How know you, Mr. Meriton, that your master has been so far forgetful of appearances?”

  “As certain, Ma’am, as I know that he wore his parade uniform this evening when he left the house the first time; though little did I dream his honour was going to get married! If he hasn’t gone out in the same dress, where is it?—Besides, Ma’am, his last mourning is under lock, and here is the key in my pocket.”

  “’Tis singular he should choose such an hour, as well as the time of his marriage, to absent himself!”

  Meriton had long learned to identify all his interests with those of his master, and he coloured under the oblique imputation that he thought was no less cast on Lionel’s gallantry, than on his sense of propriety in general.

  “Why, Miss Agnus, you will please remember, Ma’am,” he answered, “as this wedding hasn’t been at all like an English wedding—nor can I say that it is altogether usual to die in England as suddenly as Ma’am Lechmere has been pleased”—

  “Perhaps,” interrupted Agnes, “some accident may have happened to him. Surely no man of common humanity would willingly be away at such a moment!”

  The feelings of Meriton now took another direction, and he unhesitatingly adopted the worst apprehensions of the young lady.

  Agnes leaned her forehead on her hand, for a minute, in reflection, before she spoke again. Then raising her eyes to the valet, she said—

  “Mr. Meriton, know you where captain Polwarth sleeps?”

  “Certainly, Ma’am! He’s a gentleman as always sleeps in his own bed, unless the king’s service calls him elsewhere. A considerate gentleman is captain Polwarth, Ma’am, in respect of himself!”

  Miss Danforth bit her lip, and her playful eye lighted for an instant, with a ray that banished its look of sadness; but in another moment her features became demure, if not melancholy, and she continued—

  “I believe, then—’tis awkward and distressing, too, but nothing better can be done!”

  “Did you please to give me any orders, Miss Agnus?”

  “Yes, Meriton; you will go to the lodgings of captain Polwarth, and tell him Mrs. Lincoln desires his immediate presence here, in Tremont-street.”

  “My Lady!” repeated the amazed valet—“why, Miss Agnus, the women says as my Lady is unconscionable, and does not know what is doing, or who speaks to her! A mournful wedding, Ma’am, for the heir of our house!”

  “Then, tell him,” said Agnes, as she arose to leave the room, “that Miss Danforth would be glad to see him.”

  Meriton waited no longer than was necessary to mutter his approbation of this alteration in the message, when he left the house, with a pace that was a good deal quickened by growing fears on the subject of his master’s safety. Notwithstanding his apprehensions, the valet was by no means insensible to the severity of the climate, nor to the peculiar qualities of that night in which he was so unexpectedly thrust abroad to encounter its fury. He soon succeeded, however, in making his way to the quarters of Polwarth, in the midst of the driving snow, and in defiance of a cold that chilled his very bones. Happily for the patience of the worthy valet, Shearflint, the semi-military attendant of the captain, was yet up, having just discharged his nightly duties about the person of his master, who had not deemed it prudent to seek his pillow without proving the consolations of the trencher. The door was opened at the first tap of Meriton, and when the other had expressed his surprise, by the usual exclamations, the two attendants adjourned to the sitting-room, where the embers of a good wood fire were yet shedding a grateful heat in the apartment.

  �
�What a shocking country is this America for cold, Mr. Shearflint,” said Meriton, kicking the brands together with his boot, and rubbing his hands over the embers—“I doesn’t think as our English cold is at all like it. It’s a stronger and a better cold is ours, but it doesn’t cut one like dull razors, as this here of America.”

  Shearflint, who fancied himself particularly liberal, and made it a point to show magnanimity to his enemies, never speaking of the colonists without a sort of protecting air, that he intended should reflect largely on his own candour, briskly replied—

  “This is a new country, Mr. Meriton, and one shouldn’t be over-nice. When one goes abroad one must learn to put up with difficulties; especially in the colonies, where it can’t be expected all things should be as comfortable as we has ’em at ’ome.”

  “Well, now, I call myself as little particular in respect of weather,” returned Meriton, “as any going. But give me England for climate, if for nothing else. The water comes down in that blessed country in good, honest drops, and not in little frozen bits, which prick one’s face like so many fine needles!”

  “You do look, Mr. Meriton, a little as if you had been shaking your master’s powder-puff about your own ears. But I was just finishing the heel-tap of the captain’s hot toddy; perhaps if you was to taste it, ’twould help to thaw out the idears.”

  “God bless me! Shearflint,” said Meriton, relinquishing his grasp of the tankard, to take breath after a vigorous draught—“do you always stuff his night-cap so thick?”

  “No—no—the captain can tell a mixture by his nose, and it doesn’t do to make partial alterations in his glass,” returned Shearflint, giving the tankard a circular motion to stir its contents, while he spoke, and swallowing the trifle that remained, apparently at a gulp; “then as I thinks it a pity that any thing should be wasted in these distressing times, I generally drinks what’s left, after adding sum’at to the water, just to mellow it down. But what brings you abroad such a foul night, Mr. Meriton?”