 | CHAPTER VIII. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
“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 her God, and her feelings soothed
even to calmness by the sacred glow that was
shed around them, the youthful bride at length
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
she remembered the awful omen of the shadow,
and then came to the dreadful reality with an
overwhelming conviction of its truth. After
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 deathlike
stillness of those within her grandmother's
room. Cecil now 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, however,
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 at a
glance.
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
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 that countenance she had revered from her 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 of the dead,
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, even recoiling
in sensitive shame from the act she was about
to commit, when all her fears, mingled with
glimmerings of the truth, flashed again 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
narrow stairs. If Cecil had ever been required to
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 the 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 dim wreaths.
But neither man nor beast was visible amid the
dreariness.
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 was examined with
maddening anxiety for the 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 total 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 is it
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 her 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
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 solitude and 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 the sincerity of her heart, she
believed so little prepared for the mighty change.
As it was, however, she took her way calmly to
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 for any
emergency.
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
highly 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
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 deep 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
that was a good deal quickened by his 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 he was in, 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 the 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 coals—“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 ever made it a point to show his 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;
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 most 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?”
“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
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 sort
of condescending air of condolence, as though
he pitied the other's poverty.—“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 in his manner.
“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, in the least, 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 for his sudden expedition.
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
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 VIII. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston | |