 | CHAPTER XII. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
“This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna:
“Gonzago is the Duke's name; his wife, Baptista:
“You shall see, anon; 'tis a knavish piece of work.”
Hamlet.
The agitation and deep excitement produced
by the events of the day, had not yet subsided
in the town, when Lionel found himself again
in its narrow streets. Men passed swiftly by him,
as if bent on some unusual and earnest business;
and more than once the young soldier detected
the triumphant smiles of the women, as they
looked curiously out on the scene, from their half-open
windows, and their eyes detected the professional
trappings of his dress. Strong bodies of
the troops were marching in different directions,
and in a manner which denoted that the guards
were strengthening, while the few solitary officers
he met watched his approaching figure with
cautious jealousy, as if they apprehended a dangerous
enemy in every form they encountered.
The gates of Province-house were open, and,
as usual, guarded by armed men. As Lionel
passed leisurely along, he perceived that the grenadier
to whom he had spoken on the preceding
of the governors.
“Your experience did not deceive you, my
old comrade,” said Lionel, lingering a moment
to address him—“we have had a warm day.”
“So it is reported in the barracks, your
honour,” returned the soldier—“our company
was not ordered out, and we are to stand double
duty. I hope to God the next time there is
any thing to do, the grenadiers of the—th may
not be left behind—it would have been for the
credit of the army had they been in the field
to-day.”
“Why do you think so, my veteran? The
men who were out are thought to have behaved
well; but it was impossible to make head against
a multitude in arms.”
“It is not my place, your honour, to say this
man did well, and that man behaved amiss,” returned
the proud old soldier; “but when I hear
of two thousand British troops turning their backs,
or quickening their march before all the rabble
this country can muster, I want the flank companies
of the—th to be at hand, if it should be
only that I may say I have witnessed the disgraceful
sight with my own eyes.”
“There is no disgrace where there is no misconduct,”
said Lionel.
“There must have been misconduct somewhere,
your honour, or such a thing could not
have happened—consider, your honour, the very
flower of the army! Something must have been
wrong, and although I could see the latter part of
the business from the hills, I can hardly believe it
to be true.” As he concluded, he shook his head,
and continued his steady pace along his allotted
ground, as if unwilling to pursue the humiliating
subject any further. Lionel passed slowly on,
even taught this humble menial of the crown to
regard with contempt a whole nation, because
they were believed to be dependants.
The dock-square was stiller than usual, and
the sounds of revelry, which it was usual to hear at
that hour from the adjacent drinking-houses,
were no longer audible. The moon had not yet
risen, and Lionel passed under the dark arches of
the market with a quick step, as he now remembered
that one in whom he felt so deep an interest
awaited his appearance. Job, who had followed
in silence, glided by him on the drawbridge, and
stood holding the door of the old building in his
hand, when he reached its threshold. Lionel
found the large space in the centre of the warehouse,
as usual, dark and empty, though the dim
light of a candle glimmered through the fissures in
a partition which separated an apartment in one of
the little towers that was occupied by Abigail
Pray, from the ruder parts of the edifice. Low
voices were also heard issuing from this room, and
Major Lincoln, supposing he should find the old
man and the mother of Job in conference together,
turned to request the lad would precede
him, and announce his name. But the changeling
had also detected the whispering sounds, and
it would seem with a more cunning ear, for he
turned and darted through the door of the building
with a velocity that did not abate until Lionel,
who watched his movements with amazement,
saw his shuffling figure disappear among the
shambles of the market-place. Thus deserted by
his guide, Lionel groped his way towards the
place where he believed he should find the door
which led into the tower. The light deceived
him, for as he approached it, his eye glanced
through one of the crevices of the wall, and he
of those interviews which evinced the singular
and mysterious affinity between the fortunes
of the affluent and respected Mrs. Lechmere and
the miserable tenant of the warehouse. Until
that moment, the hurry of events, and the crowd
of reflections which had rushed over the mind of
the young man throughout the busy time of the
last twenty-four hours, had prevented his recalling
the hidden meaning of the singular discourse of
which he had already been an auditor. But now,
when he found his aunt led into these haunts of
beggary, by a feeling he was not weak enough to
attribute to her charity, he stood rooted to the
spot by a curiosity, which, at the same time that he
found it irresistible, he was willing to excuse, under
a strong impression that these private communications
were in some way connected with
himself.
Mrs. Lechmere had evidently muffled her person
in a manner that was intended to conceal
this mysterious visit from any casual observer of
her movements; but the hoops of her large calash
were now so far raised as to admit a distinct view
of her withered features, and of the hard eye which
shot forth its selfish, worldly glances, from amid
the surrounding decay of nature. She was seated,
both in indulgence to her infirmities, and
from that assumption of superiority she never neglected
in the presence of her inferiors, while her
companion stood before her, in an attitude that
partook more of restraint than of respect.
“Your weakness, foolish woman,” said Mrs.
Lechmere, in those stern, repulsive tones she so
well knew how to use when she wished to intimidate,
“will yet prove your ruin. You owe it to
respect for yourself, to your character, and even
to your safety, that you should exhibit more firmness,
idle supersition.”
“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 called so! 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 grandnephew'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, cleaching
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
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 her 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 her 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, “and I am here
to join in the wholesome theme.”
“Who—who—in the name of God, who art
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 now enabled to command a view of
the whole apartment. In the door-way stood
Ralph, immovable in his attitude, with one
hand raised high 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
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 yet
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 criminal 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 an one 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 such a holy 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
with a mighty effort, 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 bid 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
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 now 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 the 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 in scorn—“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!
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 irritated
lad, now made a few kind and conciliating
remarks, but the changeling 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
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 fierce 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 independent of my individual
interest in your secret, have a right, in her
behalf, to require an explanation of such 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 time, 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,
in the bitterness of his scorn “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 the changeling 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 steps. Lionel now
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 soon 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
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 such 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 deeper
shade of thought than usual.
“Let the scene of to-night be forgotten, my
good Abigail,” she said. “Your lodger is a
nameless being, who has gleaned some idle tale,
and wishes to practise on our credulity to enrich
himself. I will consider more of it; but
on no account do you hold any further communion
with him—I must remove you, my trusty
woman; this habitation is unworthy of you, and
of your dutiful son, too—I must see you better
lodged, my good Abigail, indeed I must.”
Lionel could distinguish the slight shudder that
passed through the frame of her companion, as
she alluded to the doubtful character of Ralph;
but without answering, Abigail held the door open
for the departure of her guest. The instant Mrs.
Lechmere disappeared, Lionel glided down the
ladder, and stood before the astonished woman.
“When I tell you I have heard all that passed
to-night,” he abruptly said, “you will see the folly
demand so much of your secret as affects the happiness
of me or mine.”
“No—no—not of me, Major Lincoln,” said
the terrified female—“not of me, for the love of
God, not of me—I have sworn to keep it, and
one oath—” her emotions choked her, and her
voice became indistinct.
Lionel regretted his vehemence, and ashamed
to extort a confession from a woman, he attempted
to pacify her feelings, promising to require no
further communication at that time.
“Go—go”—she said, motioning him to depart,
“and I shall be well again—leave me, and then
I shall be alone with that terrible old man, and
my God!”
Perceiving her earnestness, he reluctantly complied,
and meeting Job on the threshold, he ceased
to feel any further uneasiness for her safety.
During his rapid walk to Tremont-street, Major
Lincoln thought intently on all he had heard and
witnessed. He remembered the communications
by which Ralph had attained such a powerful
interest in his feelings, and he fancied he could
discover a pledge of the truth of the old man's
knowledge in the guilt betrayed by the manner
of his aunt. From Mrs. Lechmere his thoughts
recurred to her lovely grandchild, and for a moment
he was perplexed, by endeavouring to explain
her contradictory deportment towards himself;—at
one time she was warm, frank, and
even affectionate; and at another, as in the short
and private interview of that very evening,
cold, constrained, and repulsive. Then, again,
he recollected the object which had chiefly induced
him to follow his regiment to his native
country, and the recollection was attended
by that shade of dejection which such reflections
On reaching the house, he ascertained
the safe return of Mrs. Lechmere, who had
already retired to her room, attended by her
lovely relatives. Lionel immediately followed
their example, and as the excitement of that
memorable and busy day subsided, it was succeeded
by a deep sleep, that fell on his senses
like the forgetfulness of the dead.
| CHAPTER XII. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston | |