 | CHAPTER IX. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
“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
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 the 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 though 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
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 his 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
she well knew not only the power, but when to
exercise it.
“Of a canting, hypocritical, miscreant, who
is 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 same knife that
administered to his hunger to your throat tomorrow!
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 of the deceased
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 had 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
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 final 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 which 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 solemn 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
tottered 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 their conjectures as to the manner
in which she had disposed of her worldly
possessions, not one remembered to lament
that she had continued no 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 even an inferior condition, if an opinion
might be formed from the squalid misery that
was 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
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?”
“They tell you true, sir,” returned the captain,
beginning slowly to pick his way towards the
gate; “of Mrs. Priscilla, the relict of Mr. John
Lechmere—a lady of a creditable descent, and I
think it will not be denied that she has had honourable
interment!”
“If it be the lady I suppose,” continued the
stranger, “she is of an honourable descent indeed.
Her maiden name was Lincoln, and she
is aunt to the great Devonshire Baronet of that
family.”
“How! know you the Lincolns?” exclaimed
Polwarth, stopping short, and turning to examine
the other with a stricter eye. Perceiving,
however, that the stranger was a man of harsh
and peculiarly forbidding features, in the vulgar
dress already mentioned, he muttered—“you
may have heard of them, friend, but I should doubt
whether your intimacy could amount to such
wholesome familiarities as eating and drinking.”
“Stronger intimacies than that, sir, are sometimes
brought about between men who were born
to very different fortunes,” returned the stranger,
with a peculiarly sarcastic and ambiguous
smile, which meant more than met the eye—
“but all who know the Lincolns, sir, will allow
them, she had reason to be proud of her blood.”
“Ay, you are not tainted, I see, with these
revolutionary notions, my friend,” returned Polwarth;
“she was also connected with a very good
sort of a family in this colony, called the Danforths—you
know the Danforths?”
“Not at all, sir, I—”
“Not know the Danforths!” exclaimed Polwarth,
once more stopping to bestow a freer scrutiny
on his companion. After a short pause, however,
he nodded his head, in approbation of his
own conclusions, and added—“No, no—I am
wrong—I see you could not have known much of
the Danforths!”
The stranger appeared quite willing to overlook
the cavalier treatment he received, for he continued
to attend the difficult footsteps of the
maimed soldier, with the same respectful deference
as before.
“I have no knowledge of the Danforths, it is
true,” he answered, “but I may boast of some
intimacy with the family of Lincoln.”
“Would to God, then,” cried Polwarth, in a
sort of soliloquy, which escaped him in the fullness
of his heart, “you could tell us what has become
of its heir!”
The stranger stopped short in his turn, and
exclaimed—
“Is he not serving with the army of the king,
against this rebellion! Is he not here!”
“He is here, or he is there, or he is any where;
I tell you he is lost.”
“He is lost!” echoed the other.
“Lost!” repeated a humble female voice, at
the very elbow of the captain—
This singular repetition of his own language,
aroused Polwarth from the abstraction into which
the vault to the church-yard gate, he had unconsciously
approached the woman before mentioned,
and when he turned at the sounds of her
voice, his eyes fell full upon her anxious countenance.
The very first glance was enough to tell
the observant captain, that in the midst of her
poverty and rags, he saw the broken remains of
great female beauty. Her dark and intelligent
eyes, set as they were in a sallow and sunken
eountenance, still retained much of the brightness,
if not of the softness and peace of youth. The
contour of her face was also striking, though she
might be said to resemble one whose loveliness
had long since departed with her innocence. But
the gallantry of Polwarth was proof even against
the unequivocal signs of misery, if not of guilt,
which were so easily to be traced in her appearance,
and he respected even the remnants of female
charms which were yet visible amid such a mass
of unseemliness, to regard them with an unfriendly
eye. Apparently encouraged by the kind look
of the captain, the woman ventured to add—
“Did I hear aright, sir; said you that Major
Lincoln was lost?”
“I am afraid, good woman,” returned the captain,
leaning on the iron-shod stick, with which he
was wont to protect his footsteps along the icy
streets of Boston—“that this siege has, in your
case, proved unusually severe. If I am not mistaken
in a matter in which I profess to know
much, nature is not supported as nature should be.
You would ask for food, and God forbid that I
should deny a fellow-creature a morsel of that
which constitutes both the seed and the fruits of
life. Here is money.”
The muscles of the attenuated countenance of
the woman worked with a sudden convulsive motion,
and, for a moment, she glanced her eyes
quickly over her pallid features, she answered—
“Whatever may be my wants and my suffering,
I thank my God that he has not levelled me
with the beggar of the streets. Before that evil
day shall come, may I find a place amongst these
frozen hillocks where we stand. But, I beg pardon,
sir, I thought I heard you speak of Major
Lincoln.”
“I did—and what of him? I said he was lost,
and it is true, if that be lost which cannot be
found.”
“And did Madam Lechmere take her leave
before he was missing?” asked the woman, advancing
a step nearer to Polwarth, in her intense
anxiety to be answered.
“Do you think, good woman, that a gentleman
of Major Lincoln's notion of things, would
disappear after the decease of his relative, and
leave a comparative stranger to fill the office
of principal mourner!”
“The Lord forgive us all our sins and wickedness!”
muttered the woman, drawing the shreds
of her tattered cloak about her shivering form,
and hastening silently away into the depths of the
grave-yard. Polwarth regarded her unceremonious
departure for a moment, in surprise, and
then turning to his remaining companion, he remarked—
“That woman is unsettled in her reason, for
the want of wholesome nutriment. It is just as
impossible to retain the powers of the mind, and
neglect the stomach, as it is to expect a truant
boy will make a learned man.” By this time
the worthy captain had forgotten whom it was
he addressed, and he continued, in his usual
philosophic strain, “children are sent to school
to learn all useful inventions but that of eating;
much of an invention as any other discovery.
Every mouthful a man swallows has to undergo
four important operations, each of which may
be called a crisis in the human constitution.”
“Suffer me to help you over this grave,”
said the other, officiously offering his assistance.
“I thank you, sir, I thank you—'tis a sad commentary
on my words!” returned the captain,
with a melancholy smile. “The time has been
when I served in the light corps, but your
men in unequal quantities are good for little
else but garrisons! As I was saying, there
is first, the selection; second, mastication; third,
deglutition; and lastly, the digestion.”
“Quite true, sir,” said the stranger, a little
abruptly; “thin diet and light meals are best for
the brain.”
“Thin diet and light meals sir, are good for
nothing but to rear dwarfs and idiots!” returned
the captain, with some heat. “I repeat to you,
sir—”
He was interrupted by the stranger, who suddenly
smothered a dissertation on the connexion
between the material and immaterial, by
asking—
“If the heir of such a family be lost, is there
none to see that he is found again?”
Polwarth finding himself thus checked in the
very opening of his theme, stopped again, and
stared the other full in the face for a moment,
without making any reply. His kind feeling,
however, got the better of his displeasure,
and yielding to the interest he felt in the fate of
Lionel, he answered—
“I would go all lengths, and incur every hazard
to do him service!”
“Then, sir, accident has brought those together
who are willing to engage in the same undertaking!
I, too, will do my utmost to discover
him! I have heard he has friends in this province.
Has he no connexion to whom we may
apply for intelligence?”
“None nearer than a wife.”
“A wife!” repeated the other, in surprise—“is
he then married?”
A long pause ensued, during which the stranger
mused deeply, and Polwarth bestowed a still
more searching scrutiny than ever on his companion.
It would appear that the result was not
satisfactory to the captain, for shaking his head, in
no very equivocal manner, he resumed the task of
picking his way among the graves, towards the
gate, with renewed diligence. He was in the
act of seating himself in the pung, when the
stranger again stood at his elbow, and said—
“If I knew where to find his wife, I would
offer my services to the lady?”
Polwarth pointed to the building of which Cecil
was now the mistress, and answered, somewhat
superciliously, as he drove away—
“She is there, my good friend, but your application
will be useless!”
The stranger received the direction in an understanding
manner, and smiled with satisfied confidence,
while he took the opposite route from
that by which the busy equipage of the captain
had already disappeared.
| CHAPTER IX. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston | |