University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Macbeth.

Major Lincoln found the King's Chapel differing
in every particular from the venerable, but
prostituted building he had just quitted. As he
entered, the light of his lantern played over the
rich scarlet covering of many a pew, and glanced
upon the glittering ornaments of the polished organ,
which now slumbered in as chilled a silence,
as the dead which lay in such multitudes within
and without the massive walls. The laboured columns,
with their slender shafts and fretted capitals,
threw shapeless shadows across the dim background,
peopling the galleries and ceiling with
imaginary phantoms of thin air. As this slight
delusion passed away, he became sensible of the
change in the temperature. The warmth was
not yet dissipated which had been maintained during
the different services of the day; for notwithstanding
the wants of the town and garrison,
the favoured temple, where the representative
of the sovereign was wont to worship, knew
not the ordinary privations of the place. Job
was directed to supply the dying embers of the
stoves with fresh fuel, and as the simpleton well
knew where to find the stores of the church, his

office was performed with an alacrity that was not
a little increased by his own sufferings.

When the bustle of preparation had subsided,
Lionel drew a chair from the chancel, while Job
crouched by the side of the quivering iron he had
heated, in that attitude he was wont to assume,
and which so touchingly expressed the secret consciousness
he felt of his own inferiority. As the
grateful warmth diffused itself over the half-naked
frame of the simpleton, his head sunk
upon his bosom, and he was fast falling into
a slumber, like a worried hound that had at
length found ease and shelter. A more active
mind would have wished to learn the reasons
that could induce his companion to seek such
an asylum at that unseasonable hour. But
Job was a stranger to curiosity; nor did the
occasional glimmerings of his mind often extend
beyond those holy precepts which had
been taught him with such care, before disease
had sapped his faculties, or those popular
principles of the time, that formed so essential
a portion of the thoughts of every New-Englandman.

Not so with Major Lincoln. His watch told
him that many weary minutes must elapse before
he could expect to receive his bride, and
he disposed himself to wait with as much patience
as comported with five-and-twenty, and
the circumstances. In a short time the stillness
of the chapel was restored, interrupted only by the
passing gusts of the wind without, and the dull
roaring of the furnace by whose side Job slumbered
in a state of happy oblivion.

Lionel endeavoured to still his truant thoughts,
and bring them in training for the solemn ceremony
in which he was soon to be an actor. Finding
the task too difficult, he arose, and approaching

a window, looked outupon the solitude, and the
whirlwinds of snow that drifted through the streets,
eagerly listening for those sounds of approach
which his reason told him he ought not yet to
expect. Again he seated himself, and turned
his eyes inquiringly about him, with a sort of inward
apprehension that some one lay concealed,
in the surrounding gloom, with a secret design
to mar his approaching happiness. There
was so much of wild and feverish romance in the
incidents of the day, that he found it difficult, at
moments, to credit their reality, and had recourse
to hasty glances at the altar, his attire, and even
his insensible companion, to remove the delusion
from his mind. Again he looked upward at the
unsteady and huge shadows which wavered along
the ceiling and the walls, and his former apprehensions
of some hidden evil were revived
with a vividness that amounted nearly to a presentiment.
So uneasy did he become at length,
under this impression, that he walked along the
more distant aisles, scrupulously looking into the
dark pews, and throwing a scrutinizing glance
behind each column, and was rewarded for
his trouble, by hearing the hollow echoes of
his own footsteps.

In returning from this round he approached
the stove, and yielded to a strong desire of listening
to the voice of even Job, in a moment of such
morbid excitement. Touching the simpleton
lightly with his foot, the other awoke with that
readiness which denoted the sudden and disturbed
nature of his ordinary rest.

“You are unusually dull to-night, Job,” said
Lionel, endeavouring to hush his uneasiness in
affected pleasantry, “or you would inquire the
reason why I pay my visit to the chruch at this
extraordinary hour?”

“Boston folks love their meetin'us's,” returned
the obtuse simpleton.

“Ay! but they love their beds, too, fellow;
and one-half of them are now enjoying what you
seem to covet so much.”

“Job loves to eat, and to be warm!”

“And to sleep too, if one may judge by your
drowsiness.”

“Yes, sleep is sweet; Job don't feel a-hungered
when he's sleeping.”

Lionel remained silent, for several moments,
under a keen perception of the suffering exhibited
in the touching helplessness, which marked
the manner of the other, before he continued—

“But I expect to be joined, soon, by the
clergyman, and some ladies, and captain Polwarth.”

“Job likes captain Polwarth—he keeps a
grand sight of provisions!”

“Enough of this! can you think of nothing
but your stomach, boy?”

“God made hunger,” said Job, gloomily,
“and he made food, too; but the king keeps
it all for his rake-hellies!”

“Well, listen, and be attentive to what I tell
you.—One of the ladies who will come here, is
Miss Dynevor; you know Miss Dynevor, Job?
the beautiful Miss Dynevor!”

The charms of Cecil had not, however, made
their wonted impression on the dull eye of the
idiot, who still regarded the speaker with his
customary air of apathy.

“Surely, Job, you know Miss Dynevor!” repeated
Lionel, with an irritability that, at any
other time, he would have been the first to
smile at—“she has often given you money and
clothes.”

“Yes; Ma'am Lechmere is her grandam!”

This was certainly one of the least recommendations
his mistress possessed, in the eyes
of Lionel, who paused a moment, with inward
vexation, before he added—

“Let who will be her relatives, she is this night
to become my wife. You will remain and witness
the ceremony, and then you will extinguish the
lights, and return the key of the church to Dr.
Liturgy. In the morning come to me for your
reward.”

The changeling arose, with an air of singular
importance, and answered—

“To be sure. Major Lincoln is to be married,
and he asks Job to the wedding! Now,
Nab may preach her sarmons about pride and
flaunty feelings as much as she will; but blood
is blood, and flesh is flesh, for all her sayings!”

Struck by the expression of wild meaning that
gleamed in the eyes of the simpleton, Major Lincoln
demanded an explanation of his ambiguous
language. But ere Job had leisure to reply,
though his vacant look again denoted that his
thoughts were already contracting themselves
within their usually narrow limits, a sudden noise
drew the attention of both to the entrance
of the chapel. The door opened in the next
instant, and the figure of the divine, powdered
with drifted snow, and encased in various defences
against the cold, was seen, moving with
a becoming gravity, through the principal aisle.
Lionel hastened to receive him, and to conduct
him to the seat he had just occupied himself.

When Dr. Liturgy had uncloaked, and appeared
in his robes of office, the benevolence of his
smile, and the whole expression of his countenance,
denoted that he was satisfied with the condition
in which he found the preparations.

“There is no reason why a church should not
be as comfortable as a man's library, Major Lincoln,”
he said, hitching his seat a little nearer to
the stove. “It is a puritanical and a dissenting
idea, that religion has any thing forbidding
or gloomy in its nature; and wherefore should
we assemble amid pains and inconvenience to
discharge its sacred offices.”

“Quite true, sir,” returned Lionel, looking
anxiously through one of the windows—“I have
not yet heard the hour of ten strike, though
my watch tells me it is time!”

“The weather renders the public clocks very
irregular. There are so many unavoidable evils
to which flesh is heir, that we should endeavour
to be happy on all occasions—indeed it is a
duty—”

“It's not in the natur of sin to make fallen
man happy,” said a low, growling voice from
behind the stove.

“Ha! what! did you speak, Major Lincoln—
a very singular sentiment for a bridegroom!”
muttered the divine.

“'Tis that weak young man, whom I have
brought hither to assist with the fires, repeating
some of the lore of his mother; nothing else,
sir.”

By this time Dr. Liturgy had caught a glimpse
of the crouching Job, and comprehending the interruption,
he fell back in his chair, smiling superciliously,
as he continued—

“I know the lad, sir; I should know him.
He is learned in the texts, and somewhat given
to disputation in matters of religion. 'Tis a pity
the little intellect he has, had not been better
managed in his infancy; but they have helped
to crush his feeble mind with their subtleties,

We—I mean we of the established church—often
style him the Boston Calvin—ha, ha, ha!—
Old Cotton was not his equal in subtilty! but
speaking of the establishment, do you not fancy
that one of the consequences of this rebellion
will be to extend its benefits to the colonies,
and that we may look forward to the period
when the true church shall possess its inheritance
in these religious provinces?”

“Oh, most certainly,” said Lionel, again walking
anxiously to the window; “would to God
they had come!”

The divine, with whom weddings were matters
of too frequent occurrence to awaken his sympathies,
understood the impatient bridegroom
literally, and replied accordingly.

“I am glad to hear you say it, Major Lincoln,
and I hope when the act of amnesty shall be passed,
to find your vote on the side of such a condition.”

At this instant Lionel caught a glimpse of the
well-known sleigh, moving slowly along the deserted
street, and uttering a cry of pleasure, he
rushed to the door to receive his bride. Dr.
Liturgy finished his sentence to himself, and
rising from his comfortable position, he took
the light and entered the chancel. The disposition
of the candles having been previously made,
when they were lighted, his book opened, his
robes adjusted, and his features settled into a suitable
degree of solemnity, he stood, waiting with
becoming dignity the approach of those over
whom he was to pronounce the nuptial benediction.
Job placed himself within the shadows
of the building, and stood regarding the attitude
and imposing aspect of the priest, with
a species of childish awe.

Then came a group, emerging from the obscurity
of the distant part of the church, and moving
slowly toward the altar. Cecil was in front, leaning
on that arm which Lionel had given her, as much
for support, as through courtesy. She had removed
her outer and warmer garments in the vestibule
of the sacred edifice, and now appeared, attired
in a manner as well suited to the suddenness
and privacy, as to the importance of the
ceremony. A mantle of satin, trimmed with delicate
furs, fell carelessly from her shoulders, partly
concealing by its folds the exquisite proportions
of her slender form. Beneath was a vestment
of the same rich material, cut, after the
fashions of that period, in a manner to give the
exact outlines of the bust. Across the stomacher
were deep rows of fine lace, and wide borders of
the same valuable texture followed the retiring
edges of her robe, leaving the costly dress within
partly exposed to the eye. But the beauty and
simplicity of her attire (it was simple for that
day) was lost, or, rather, it served to adorn, unnoticed,
the melancholy beauty of her countenance.

As they approached the expecting priest, Cecil
threw, by a gentle movement, her mantle on
the rails of the chancel, and accompanied Lionel,
with a firmer tread than before, to the foot of the
altar. Her cheeks were pale; but it was rather
with a compelled resolution than dread, while her
eyes were full of tenderness and thought: Of the
two devotees of Hymen, she exhibited, if not the
most composure, certainly the most singleness of
purpose and intentness on the duty before them;
for while the looks of Lionel were stealing uneasily
about the building, as if he expected some
hidden object to start up out of the darkness,
her's were riveted on the priest in sweet and earnest
attention.

They paused in their alloted places; and after
a moment was allowed for Agnes and Polwarth,
who alone followed, to enter the chancel, the low
but deep tones of the minister were heard in the
solemn stillness of the place.

Dr. Liturgy had borrowed a suitable degree of
inspiration from the dreariness of the hour, and
the solitude of the building where he was required
to discharge his sacred functions. As he
delivered the opening exhortation of the service,
he made long and frequent pauses between the
members of the sentences, giving to each injunction
a distinct and impressive emphasis. But when
he came to those closing words—

“If any man can show just cause why they may
not be lawfully joined together let him now speak,
or else, hereafter, for ever hold his peace.”

He lifted his voice, and raised his eyes to the
more distant parts of the chapel, as though he
addressed a multitude in the gloom. The faces
of all present involuntarily followed the direction
of his gaze, and a moment of deep expectation,
which can only be explained by the
singularly wild character of the scene, succeeded
the reverberation of his tones. At that moment,
when each had taken breath, and all were again
turning to the altar, a huge shadow rose upon
the gallery, and extended itself along the ceiling,
until its gigantic proportions were seen hovering,
like an evil spectre, nearly above them.

The clergyman suspended the half-uttered sentence.
Cecil grasped the arm of Lionel convulsively,
while a shudder passed through her frame,
that seemed about to shake it to dissolution.

The shadowy image then slowly withdrew,
not without, however, throwing out a fantastic
gesture, with an arm which stretched itself across
the vaulted roof, and down the walls as if about
to clutch its victims beneath.

“If any man can show just cause why they may
not be lawfully joined together, let him now speak,
or else, hereafter, for ever hold his peace,” repeated
the priest aloud, as if he would summon the universe
at the challenge.

Again the shadow rose, presenting this time
the strong and huge lineaments of a human
face, which it was not difficult, at such a moment,
to fancy possessed even expression and
life. Its strongly marked features seemed to
work with powerful emotion, and the lips moved
as if the airy being was speaking to unearthly
ears. Next came two arms, raised above
the gazing group, with clasped hands, as in the
act of benediction, after which the whole vanished,
leaving the ceiling in its own dull white,
and the building still as the graves which surrounded
it.

Once more the excited minister uttered the
summons; and again every eye was drawn, by
a secret impulse, to a spot which seemed to
possess the form without the substance of a human
being. But the shadow was seen no more.
After waiting several moments in vain, Dr. Liturgy
proceeded, with a voice in which a growing tremor
was very perceptible, but no further interruption
was experienced to the end of the service.

Cecil pronounced her vows, and plighted her
troth in tones of holy emotion, while Lionel,
who was prepared for some strange calamity,
went through the service to the end with a
forced calmness. They were married; and when
the blessing was uttered, not a sound nor a whisper
was heard in the party. Silently they all
turned away from the spot, and prepared to leave
the place. Cecil stood passively, and permitted
Lionel to wrap her form in the folds of her mantle
with tender care, and when she would have
smiled her thanks for the attention, she merely

raised her anxious eyes to the ceiling, with an
expression that could not be mistaken. Even
Polwarth was mute; and Agnes forgot to offer
those congratulations and good-wishes with which
her heart had so recently been swelling.

The clergyman muttered a few words of caution
to Job concerning the candles and the fire,
and hurried after the retiring party with a quickness
of step that he was willing to ascribe to the
lateness of the hour, and with a total disregard
to the safety of the edifice; leaving the chapel
to the possession of the ill-gifted, but undisturbed
son of Abigail Pray.