The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Sure enough, my idears wanted thawing, as you instigated, Shearflint! Here have I been sent on a message of life and death, and I was forgetting my errand like a raw boy just hired from the country!”

  “Something is stirring, then!” said the other, offering a chair, which his companion received, without any words, while Polwarth’s man took another, with equal composure. “I thought as much, from the captain’s hungry appearance, when he came home to night, after dressing himself with so much care, to take his supper in Tremont-street.”

  “Something has been stirring, indeed! For one thing, it is certain, Master Lionel was married to-night, in the King’s Chapel!”

  “Married!” echoed the other—“well, thank heaven, no such unavoidables has befallen us, though we have been amputrated. I couldn’t live with a married gentleman, no how, Mr. Meriton. A master in breeches is enough for me, without one in petticoats to set him on!”

  “That depends altogether on people’s conditions, Shearflint,” returned Meriton, with a condescending air, as if he pitied the other.—“It would be great folly for a captain of foot, that is nothing but a captain of foot, to unite in hymen. But, as we say at Ravenscliffe and Soho, Cupid will listen to the siyths of the heir of a Devonshire Baronet, with fifteen thousand a year.”

  “I never heard any one say it was more than ten,” interrupted the other, with a strong taint of ill-humour.

  “Not more than ten! I can count ten myself, and I am sure there must be some that I doesn’t know of.”

  “Well, if it be twenty,” cried Shearflint, rising and kicking the brands among the ashes, in a manner to destroy all the cheerfulness of the little fire that remained, “it wont help you to do your errand. You should remember that us servants of poor captains have nobody to help us with our work, and want our natural rest. What’s your pleasure, Mr. Meriton?”

  “To see your master, Mister Shearflint.”

  “That’s impossibility! he’s under five blankets, and I wouldn’t lift the thinnest of them for a month’s wages.”

  “Then I shall do it for you, because speak to him I must. Is he in this room?”

  “Ay, you’ll find him somewhere there, among the bed-clothes,” returned Shearflint, throwing open the door of an adjoining apartment, secretly hoping Meriton would get his head broke for his trouble, as he removed himself out of harm’s way, by returning to the fire-place.

  Meriton was compelled to give the captain several rough shakes before he succeeded in rousing him from his deep slumbers. Then, indeed, he overheard the sleeper muttering—

  “A damn foolish business, that—had we made proper use of our limbs we might have kept them. You take this man to be your husband—better for worse—richer or poorer—ha! who are you rolling, dog? have you no regard to digestion, to shake a man in this manner, just after eating!”

  “It’s I, sir—Meriton.”

  “And what the devil do you mean by this liberty, Mr. I, or Meriton, or whatever you call yourself!”

  “I am sent for you in a great hurry, sir—awful things have happened to-night up in Tremont!”—

  “Happened!” repeated Polwarth, who by this time was thoroughly awake—“I know, fellow, that your master is married—I gave the bride away myself. I suppose nothing else, that is particularly extraordinary, has happened.”

  “Oh! Lord, yes, sir—my Lady is in fainting-fits, and master Lionel has gone, God knows whither, and Madam Lechmere is dead!”

  Meriton had not concluded, before Polwarth sprang from his bed in the best manner he was able, and began to dress himself, by a sort of instinct, though without any definite object. By the unfortunate arrangement of Meriton’s intelligence, he supposed the death of Mrs. Lechmere to be in consequence of some strange and mysterious separation of the bride from her husband, and his busy thoughts did not fail to recall the singular interruption of the nuptials, so often mentioned.

  “And Miss Danforth!” he asked—“how does she bear it?”

  “Like a woman, as she is, and a true lady. It is no small thing as puts Miss Agnus beside herself, sir!”

  “No, that it is not! she is much more apt to drive others mad.”

  “’Twas she, sir, as sent me to desire you to come up to Tremont-street, without any delay.”

  “The devil it was! Hand me that boot, my good fellow.—One boot, thank God, is sooner put on than two! The vest and stock next. You, Shearflint! where have you got to, sirrah! Bring me my leg, this instant.”

  As soon as his own man heard this order, he made his appearance, and as he was much more conversant with the mystery of his master’s toilette than Meriton, the captain was soon equipped.

  During the time he was dressing, he continued to put hasty questions to Meriton, concerning the cause of the disturbance in Tremont-street, the answers to which only served to throw him more upon the ocean of uncertainty than ever. The instant he was clad, he wrapped himself in his cloak, and taking the arm of the valet, he essayed to find his way through the tempest to the spot where he was told Agnes Danforth awaited his appearance, with a chivalry that in another age, and under different circumstances, would have made him a hero.

  Chapter XXV

  “Proud lineage! now how little thou appearest!”

  Blair.

  * * *

  NOTWITHSTANDING THE UNUSUAL alacrity with which Polwarth obeyed the unexpected summons of the capricious being whose favour he had so long courted, with so little apparent success, he lingered in his steps as he approached near enough to the house in Tremont-street, to witness the glancing lights which flitted before the windows. On the threshold he stopped, and listened to the opening and shutting of doors, and all those marked, and yet stifled sounds, which are wont to succeed a visit of the grim monarch to the dwellings of the sick. His rap was unanswered, and he was compelled to order Meriton to show him into the little parlour where he had so often been a guest, under more propitious circumstances. Here he found Agnes, awaiting his appearance with a gravity, if not sadness of demeanour, that instantly put to flight certain complimentary effusions with which the captain had determined to open the interview, in order to follow up, in the true temper of a soldier, the small advantage he conceived he had obtained in the good opinion of his mistress. Altering the exulting expression of his features, with his first glance at the countenance of Miss Danforth, Polwarth paid his compliments in a manner better suited to the state of the family, and desired to know if in any manner he could contribute to their comfort or relief.

  “Death has been among us, captain Polwarth,” said Agnes, “and his visit has, indeed, been sudden and unexpected. To add to our embarrassment, Major Lincoln is missing!”

  As she concluded, Agnes fastened her eyes on the face of the other, as if she would require an explanation of the unaccountable absence of the bridegroom.

  “Lionel Lincoln is not a man to fly, because death approaches,” returned the captain, musing; “and less should I suspect him of deserting, in her distress, one like the lovely creature he has married. Perhaps he has gone in quest of medical aid?”

  “It cannot be. I have gathered from the broken sentences of Cecil, that he, and some third person, to me unknown, were last with my aunt, and must have been present at her death; for the face was covered. I found the bride in the room which Lionel has lately occupied—the doors open, and with indications that he and his unknown companion had left the house by the private stairs, which communicate with the western door. As my cousin speaks but little, all other clue to the movements of her husband is lost, unless this ornament, which I found glittering among the embers of the fire, may serve for such a purpose. It is, I believe, a soldier’s gorget?”

  “It is, indeed; and it would seem the wearer has been in some jeopardy, by this bullet-hole through its centre. By heavens! ’tis that of M’Fuse!—Here is the 18th engraved; and I know these little marks which
the poor fellow was accustomed to make on it at every battle; for he never failed to wear the bauble. The last was the saddest record of them all!”

  “In what manner, then, could it be conveyed into the apartment of Major Lincoln? Is it possible that”—

  “In what manner, truly!” interrupted Polwarth, rising in agitation, and beginning to pace the room, in the best manner his mutilated condition would allow—“Poor Dennis! that I should find such a relic of thy end, at last! You did not know Dennis, I believe. He was a man, fair Agnes, every way adapted by nature for a soldier. His was the form of Hercules! The heart of a lion, and the digestion of an ostrich! But he could not master this cruel lead! He is dead, poor fellow, he is dead!”

  “Still you find no clue in the gorget by which to trace the living?” demanded Agnes.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Polwarth, starting—“I think I begin to see into the mystery! The fellow who could slay the man with whom he had eaten and drunk, might easily rob the dead! You found the gorget near the fire of Major Lincoln’s room, say you fair Agnes?”

  “In the embers, as if cast there for concealment, or dropped in some sudden strait.”

  “I have it—I have it,” returned Polwarth, striking his hands together, and speaking through his teeth—“’twas that dog who murdered him, and justice shall now take its swing—fool or no fool, he shall be hung up like jerked beef, to dry in the winds of heaven!”

  “Of whom speak you, Polwarth, with that threatening air?” inquired Agnes, in a soothing voice, of which, like the rest of her sex, she well knew not only the power, but when to exercise it.

  “Of a canting, hypocritical, miscreant, called Job Pray—a fellow with no more conscience than brains, nor any more brains than honesty. An ungainly villain; who will eat of your table to day, and put the knife that administered to his hunger to your throat to-morrow! It was such a dog that butchered the glory of Erin!”

  “It must have been in open battle, then,” said Agnes, “for though wanting in reason, Job has been reared in the knowledge of good and evil. The child must be strongly stamped with the wrath of God, indeed, for whom some effort is not made by a Boston mother, to recover his part in the great atonement!”

  “He, then, is an exception; for surely no Christian will join you in the great natural pursuit of eating at one moment, and turn his fangs on a comrade at the next.”

  “But what has all this to do with the absent bridegroom?”

  “It proves that Job Pray has been in his room since the fire was replenished, or some other than you would have found the gorget.”

  “It proves a singular association, truly, between Major Lincoln and the simpleton,” said Agnes, musing; “but still it throws no light on his disappearance. ’Twas an old man that my cousin mentioned in her unconnected sentences!”

  “My life on it, fair Agnes, that if Major Lincoln has left the house mysteriously to-night, it is under the guidance of that wretch!—I have known them together in council more than once, before this.”

  “Then, if he be weak enough to forsake such a woman as my cousin, at the instigation of a fool, he is unworthy of another thought!”

  Agnes coloured as she spoke, and turned the conversation, with a manner that denoted how deeply she resented the slight to Cecil.

  The peculiar situation of the town, and the absence of all her own male relatives, soon induced Miss Danforth to listen to the reiterated offers of service from the captain, and finally to accept them. Their conference was long and confidential; nor did Polwarth retire until his footsteps were assisted by the dull light of the approaching day. When he left the house to return to his own quarters, no tidings had been heard of Lionel, whose intentional absence was now so certain, that the captain proceeded to give his orders for the funeral of the deceased, without any further delay. He had canvassed with Agnes the propriety of every arrangement so fully, that he was at no loss how to conduct himself. It had been determined between them that the state of the siege, as well as certain indications of movements which were already making in the garrison, rendered it inexpedient to delay the obsequies a moment longer than was required by the unavoidable preparations.

  Accordingly, the Lechmere vault, in the church-yard of the ‘King’s Chapel,’ was directed to be opened, and the vain trappings in which the dead are usually enshrouded, were provided. The same clergyman who had so lately pronounced the nuptial benediction over the child, was now required to perform the last melancholy offices of the church over the parent, and the invitations to the few friends of the family who remained in the place were duly issued in suitable form.

  By the time the sun had fallen near the amphitheatre of hills, along whose crests were, here and there, to be seen the works of the indefatigable men who held the place in leaguer, the brief preparations for the interment were completed. The prophetical words of Ralph were now fulfilled, and, according to the custom of the province, the doors of one of its proudest dwellings were thrown open for all who choose, to enter and depart at will. The funeral train, though respectable, was far from extending to that display of solemn countenances which Boston in its peace and pride would not have failed to exhibit on any similar occasion. A few of the oldest and most respected of the inhabitants, who were distantly connected by blood, or alliances with the deceased, attended; but there had been nothing in the cold and selfish character of Mrs. Lechmere to gather the poor and dependent in sorrowing groups around her funeral rites. The passage of the body, from its late dwelling to the tomb, was quiet, decent, and impressive, but entirely without any demonstrations of grief. Cecil buried herself and her sorrows, together, in the privacy of her own room, and none of the more distant relatives who had collected, male or female, appeared to find it at all difficult to restrain their feelings within the bounds of the most rigid decorum.

  Dr. Liturgy received the body, as usual, on the threshold of the sacred edifice, and the same solemn and affecting language was uttered over the dead, as if she had departed soothed by the most cheerful visions of an assured faith. As the service proceeded, the citizens clustered about the coffin, in deep attention, in admiration of the unwonted tremor and solemnity that had crept into the voice of the priest.

  Among this little collection of the inhabitants of the colony, were interspersed a few men in the military dress, who, having known the family of the deceased in more settled times, had not forgotten to pay the last tribute to the memory of one of its dead.

  When the short service was ended, the body was raised on the shoulders of the attendants, and borne into the yard, to its place of rest. At such a funeral, where few mourned, and none wept, no unnecessary delay would be made in disposing of the melancholy relicks of mortality. In a very few moments, the narrow tenement which contained the festering remains of one who had so lately harboured such floods of human passion, was lowered from the light of day, and the body was left to moulder by the side of those who had gone before to the darkness of the tomb. Perhaps of all who witnessed the descent of the coffin, Polwarth alone, through that chain of sympathies which bound him to the caprice of Agnes, felt any emotion at all in consonance with the scene. The obsequies of the dead were, like the living character of the woman, cold, formal, and artificial. The sexton and his assistants had hardly commenced replacing the stone which covered the entrance of the vault, when a knot of elderly men set the example of desertion, by moving away in a body from the spot. As they picked their footsteps among the graves, and over the frozen ground of the church-yard, they discoursed idly together, of the fortunes and age of the woman, of whom they had now taken their leave for ever. The curse of selfishness appeared even to have fallen on the warning which so sudden an end should have given to those who forgot they tottered themselves on the brink of the grave. They spoke of the deceased as of one who had failed to awaken the charities of our nature, and though several ventured conjectures as to the manner in which she had disposed of her worldl
y possessions, not one remembered to lament that she had not continued longer, to enjoy them. From this theme they soon wandered to themselves, and the whole party quitted the church-yard, joking each other on the inroads of time, each man attempting to ape the elastic tread of youth, in order not only to conceal from his companions the ravages of age, but with a vain desire to extend the artifice so far, if possible, as to deceive himself.

  When the seniors of the party withdrew, the remainder of the spectators did not hesitate to follow, and in a few minutes Polwarth found himself standing before the vault, with only two others of all those who had attended the body. The captain, who had been at no little expense of time and trouble to maintain the decencies which became a near friend of the family of the deceased, stood a minute longer to permit these lingering followers to retire also, before he turned his own back on the place of the dead. But perceiving they both maintained their posts, in silent attention, he raised his eyes, more curiously, to examine who these loiterers might be.

  The one nearest to himself was a man whose dress and air bespoke him to be of no very exalted rank in life, while the other was a woman of a still inferior condition, if an opinion might be formed from the squalid misery exhibited in her attire. A little fatigued with the arduous labours of the day, and of the duties of the unusual office he had assumed, the worthy captain touched his hat, with studied decorum, and said—

  “I thank you, good people, for this mark of respect to the memory of my deceased friend; but as we have performed all that can now be done in her behalf, we will retire.”

  Apparently encouraged by the easy and courteous manner of Polwarth, the man approached still nigher, and after bowing with much respect, ventured to say—

  “They tell me ’tis the funeral of Madam Lechmere that I have witnessed?”