 | CHAP. XVIII. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution |  |
18. CHAP. XVIII.
Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home,
Like hope's gay glance from troubled ocean's foam?
The Corsair.
In the October following, the regiments, with several
ships of war, arrived in Boston harbour, and drew up
as if to blockade the town. In a few days, the barracks
at the Castle, the Town House, and Fanueil Hall were
filled; and a long line of tents, here and there surmounted
by the red cross standard, stretched across our beautiful
Common. Wherever the eye turned, it rested on
British uniforms;—wherever the bright sun glanced, it
was reflected by British steel. There is no language
that can describe how the souls of men were goaded
and maddened in this hour of trial. The hum of business
and of pleasure ceased; the wrath that had hitherto
expended itself in flashes of wit, or hasty ebullitions
of feeling, now retreated to garrison the heart,—and
left men stern, silent, and reserved; the step of youth
lost its buoyancy, and became firm, bold, and heavy,—
like the platoon tread of battle; even the exuberant glee
of boyhood was checked; and “the very air seemed
like the suppressed breathing of a curse.”
A fortnight after the ships of war had drawn up
around the entrance of the harbour, a merchant-vessel,
bearing the national flag of England, passed through the
were seen waving on the deck, and brief smiles
were exchanged, as the brig rapidly cut her way through
the waters. The two men-of-war occupied by Colonel
Fitzherbert's troops, fired a heavy salute as she passed,
for the betrothed wife of their commander was on board.
Lucretia had preferred accompanying a few friends
in the London Packet, to an escort so warlike as that
which attended her lover. A separation of eight
or ten weeks had of course taken place; but the moment
the brig was recognised by the national vessels,
one of them lowered a boat,—the packet slackened sail,
as it was swiftly rowed toward her, and ten minutes after,
Colonel Fitzherbert was on board.
When Lucretia saw his tall, elegant figure, when she
listened to the voice that had, for the last two months,
been heard only in her dreams, all her doubts and cares
were forgotten; and she received him with a warm and
frank affection, which she made no attempt to conceal;
but his brow was troubled,—he seemed absent and uneasy,—and
though unbounded in his gallantry, it was
too much like the heartless obsequiousness of habit.
“You have seen all our friends?” said Lucretia,
her very plain face brightening with eagerness and joy
as she spoke.
“I have, and every one is impatient for your arrival.
I almost began to be jealous of your superior importance,
when I found every welcome cut short by inquiries
and lamentations for you.”
Lucretia playfully threw her handkercief to his face,
impatient, and good-hearted as ever, I suppose;
and quite as learned with regard to the comparative
value of Mecklin and Brussels?”
“I have heard no disputes of that nature,” replied
the Colonel; “but her arguments with Doctor Byles
are as acid as ever. Last evening they had some altercation
about grammar; at the close of which she
told him she thoroughly disliked people that were always
in the imperative mood. `And I for my part,'
rejoined the Doctor, `have no patience with a person
who is forever in the accusative case. It is a pity she
has not an active verb for an husband.' ”
“Has your good uncle altered any? and does he lose
his temper with my insubordinate countrymen?” asked
Miss Fitzherbert.
“Oh, you know uncle Hutchinson well enough,” said
he, in a confidential tone. “The more uproar the better
sport for him, as long as the tea is consigned to his sons,
and commissions given to his nephews. He does but
act from the motives that stimulate us all, in every pursuit.
All mankind are selfish; and the greater their
hypocrisy, the more credit they get for benevolence and
patriotism.”
We will not develope the train of association in Miss
Fitzherbert's mind, but her expression saddened, and
her voice was hurried, as she asked, “Have you seen
the Osbornes?”
“I met Henry in the street,” rejoined he; “but the
interviews between whigs and dragoons are not likely
given this laconic answer, his lips compressed firmly, as
if they were never more to open.
“Is it possible you have not called there?” inquired
Lucretia.
Colonel Fitzherbert's face was even redder than his
uniform; and he angrily answered, “I have not called,
madam. I have political as well as personal reasons;
and you know them both. It is a subject upon which
I have desired you never to speak. Methinks you take
it upon you somewhat early to regulate my motions.”
Miss Fitzherbert did not attempt to reply. The tears
started to her eyes, and she turned away to conceal
them.
“A plague on her jealousy,” thought the Colonel.
“I shall lose her at this rate. Confound it! that ever
I should place myself in a dilemma, where I can neither
take a decided stand, nor retreat with honour.”
“Pardon me, Miss Fitzherbert,” said he, aloud. “If
you knew half the insults that have been heaped upon
his majesty's troops in this rebellious town, you would
not wonder that I speak of Bostonians with some asperity.
I assure you, dearest Lucretia, I did not mean to
wound your feelings.”
“The offence that I cannot find it in my heart to forgive
you, Frederic, must indeed be of a deep die,” she
replied.
As she finished speaking, she joined a group of ladies
on the quarter-deck, and the conversation became general,
until the vessel drew up to the wharf. The Lieutenant
landing, waving his handkerchief in signal of welcome.
Lucretia's heart rose painfully high, as scenes so well
remembered and beloved came upon her view. It
seemed to her as if the packet would never reach its
destined point; and scarcely had its motion ceased, ere
she was on shore, enfolded in the arms of her uncle.
After the first congratulations were over, he observed,
“Our telescope has been in great demand for several
days. We descried the packet before it passed the
castle; and hastened to receive you. The carriage has
been in waiting an hour; for Madam Sandford could
not believe that winds and waves would be no more
favourable to you than to other mortals.”
Lucretia begged that they might be detained no longer
than was necessary; and Colonel Fitzherbert having
promised soon to follow with the servants and baggage,
they gave their parting salutations to the ladies on board,
and ordered the coachman to drive on.
Our traveller felt a sort of bewildered and incredulous
sensation, when she found herself whirled along in
the self-same carriage, and through the self-same streets,
which she had two years before traversed with such
totally different feelings.
She had then formed many plans for the single life
on which she thought herself firmly and forever resolved;
she had returned the affianced bride of the very
man for whose sake she had made the resolution. She
was then anxious and frightened at the weight of splendour
she saw in prospect; it now sat easily and gracefully
mind and manners, that few would have recognised the
American orphan, in the richly dressed and highly
cultivated English heiress.
The changes that had taken place in Boston, seemed
to Lucretia even greater than her own. The whole
face of that thriving and happy population was indeed
most sadly changed. The troops, in their gorgeous,
flame-coloured uniform, were extended in long lines, or
scattered in groups, throughout the town. Cannon were
placed in front of Fanueil Hall, and sentinels with gleaming
bayonets paced to and fro in front of the building.
The citizens, in their plain, republican dress, eyed their
gaudy oppressors with an angry scowl, and passing to
the other side, shunned them as if they were a `pestilence
walking at noon-day.'
Lucretia had heard much of the increasing disorders
in her native land; but she was not prepared for a sight
like this; and her native generosity and high ideas of
freedom, for a moment overcame the influences that
surrounded her.
“The Spanish have insulted England,” she said,
“and the government have paused to deliberate, and
condescended to reason with them; but when Americans
remonstrate, it seems they are answered in a voice
of thunder. Methinks the revenue must be costly that
is extorted at the point of so many bayonets.”
“It is but for a short time,” answered Hutchinson;
“and the army lack employment just now. We have
they will then submit with as good a grace as possible.”
Miss Fitzherbert had no attention to give to such discussions
at that moment,—for the home of her youth
was before her.
Jethro flourished his whip, and the horses gave a
bound, as if they partook of her impatience.
To press her earliest friend again and again to her
heart,—to ask a thousand questions,—to call the servants
around her, and bid them welcome,—seemed but
the work of a moment.
After the first joyful agitation was over, Miss Sandford
followed her to her dressing room. “Why, you are
quite a different being,” said she, taking her by the arm,
and carefully examining her dress, from the ornamented
India comb, to the embroidered hem of her travelling
habit. “I declare how much good it does some folks
to travel.”
“My heart is not changed,” replied Lucretia. “I
hope it will never be chilled. Is Grace Osborne well?”
“That is just what I want to speak with you about,”
replied Miss Sandford. “You could not have received
my answer to the letter you wrote me in August?”
“No, I did not, dear madam; but what of Grace?”
“I was going to scold at you for your silly conduct;
but it seems you did not receive my letter; and we are
really glad to have you married here;—only, taking one
thing with another, I think it would have been far better
to have had the wedding before you left Fitzherbert
Hall.”
“Well, dear aunt, I will talk of all this another time.
What were you going to say of Grace?”
“Why, my child, I do not think it is proper for you
to ask Colonel Fitzherbert questions about her. It only
offends him.”
“Heaven knows, I would sooner suffer myself, than
give him pain at any time,” replied Lucretia; “but
why should that offend him, aunt Sandford?”
“Why, from all that I can gather, there was some
foolish business at Mr. Osborne's; but then it was a
frolic of youth,—nothing was ever meant by it. Grace
told me last week that she would not marry Colonel
Fitzherbert, even if he wished it. I do not believe a
word of that; but then it shows plainly enough that she
cares nothing about him. So if she does look a little
paler than she did when you went away, don't imagine
she is dying for love.—Consumption has run in her
family for years.”
“Oh, Aunt,” exclaimed Lucretia, “why didn't you
tell me she was ill before this?”
“She is not ill,—that is, not very ill; only a little
thinner than she was two years ago. I dare say she
will be well as ever before the winter is gone.”
Lucretia gave her a most anxious and distressed look.
She saw that her aunt wished to prepare her for something,
which she had not the courage to reveal. All her
native impetuosity rushed to her heart. “I must see her
now—this very hour,” said she. “Oh, how I shall wish
I had never seen England;”—and without regarding the
arguments, tears, and remonstrances of the matron, she
step hastened to the well remembered dwelling of her
friend.
A loud and rapid knock indicated her impatience.
“How do you do, Phœbe?” said she, as the servant
opened the door. “Is Miss Grace at home? tell her
Lucretia Fitzherbert is here.”
Miss Osborne's writing-desk was open on the library
table, and a book in which she had just been writing
lay upon it.
The wind blew the leaves as Lucretia entered the
room, and she noticed one page all blistered with tears.
It was several minutes before Grace made her appearance.
She was trying to compose herself for the dreaded,
though much wished-for interview. Presently a
light step was heard, and an instant after, she was sobbing
upon the neck of her long absent friend.
Her form was attenuated almost to a shadow of her
former self, and the bright red spot on her cheek proclaimed
too well, that to her, the world had little more
to offer.
Lucretia saw the dreadful truth at a single glance;
and when she drew her closely to her heart, that heart
ached almost to bursting.
Poor Grace had vainly endeavoured to nerve her
gentle nature for the trying scene. Her early friendship
—her bright and happy dream of love,—all—all were
conjured up too vividly before her. Both wept, longer
and more violently than joy ever weeps;—and when the
first tumult of emotion had at last subsided, neither of
deep and complicated.
After a very long silence, Lucretia brushed back her
disordered hair, and making an effort to be cheerful,
said, “Where is your father and Henry, dear Grace?”
“They have gone to Cambridge, to remain until
night,” she replied.
A thrill ran through Miss Fitzherbert's whole frame.
That voice had still the spirit of melody within it—but,
oh, how feeble, how hollow were its tones!
“Then I will stay with you all day, if you can send
word to aunt Sandford.”
“It is kind—very kind in you to remain with me,
when so many other friends are wishing to see you,”
said Grace.
“I never was unkind,” she replied, pressing her hand
earnestly; and unable longer to crowd back the subject
that was ever uppermost in her heart, she burst into
tears, and exclaimed, “Oh, dearest Grace, if you had
but told me!”
Her friend looked up inquiringly. The idea that
Lucretia suspected the truth, now, for the first time,
flashed upon her mind; and without reply she buried
her face in her handkerchief.
Another long pause was interrupted by Miss Fitzherbert,
who in a frenzied tone, said, “Tell me, Grace,
and tell me truly,—did Colonel Fitzherbert offer you
marriage before he left America?”
“He never offered it,” answered Miss Osborne.
“How then could he tell me you had rejected him?”
Grace tried to smile, as she answered, “How came
you to doubt the word of your destined husband? It is
a sad thing, Lucretia.”
“If you think so,” rejoined her friend, “speak but
one word, to tell me those doubts are unfounded. Can
you, ought you in conscience to conceal any thing from
me, in a case where the whole happiness of my life is
at stake?”
Grace gazed at her for a moment with intense expression,
as if she would have gladly laid down her life
to speak that one consoling word, could she have spoken
it truly; then with a convulsed motion, she covered her
face with both her hands, and wept aloud.
“I wish you both happy,” said she, in a voice stifled
with sobs; “and if you cannot be so otherwise, forget
that such a creature as Grace Osborne ever lived.”
“I, for one, cannot be happy on such conditions,”
replied Lucretia. In accents of exceeding tenderness,
she added, “You are ill, dear Grace;—very ill and
wretched.”
“I am ill, but not wretched,” answered Miss Osborne.
“Consumption is handed down to our family through
many generations; but `the cup that my Heavenly Father
hath given me to drink, shall I not drink it?' Truly
it is offered at an early age; but religion sweetens
the draught.”
“Colonel Fitzherbert still loves you,” said Lucretia.
“He has struggled with his affection, but he cannot conquer
it; for he never hears you mentioned without deep
emotion. Were I to tell him all, he would return to
with all his faults. Could you forgive him, and live for
his sake?”
The shrinking delicacy of Grace revolted at the idea;
and, forgetful of her caution, she exclaimed, “Could
you remind a lover of his broken vow? When he had
turned from you, could you pluck him by the sleeve,
and entreat him for one kind glance?”
“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Lucretia, springing on
her feet, and pacing the room in the agony of her spirit,
“it is true;—it is true.”
Grace pitied her from her inmost soul. She pressed
her hand to her lips, twined her wasted arms round her
neck, and tried every soothing endearment that friendship
and compassion could suggest.
It was not long before Lucretia assumed her native
firmness and energy. “This subject is too distressing
to us both,” said she. “How well I have loved him,
and what a wreck this is to all my hopes, mortal can
never know. Neither of us is to blame. You did not
tell me of this before I left America, because you well
knew how much my own feelings were entangled. Had
I known it earlier, I would sooner have died than have
given such a stab to your peace; and you, in your disinterested
kindness, would willingly have gone to your
grave, and left me in ignorance of it. I have only one
question more to ask; if Colonel Fitzherbert were again
free, would you marry him?”
Grace was silent a moment; and there seemed to be
a slight conflict of feeling; but in her pure and well
voice, she answered, “No.—I could not respect a man
whose principles had ever wavered. I could not entrust
my happiness to one whose affection for me had
once been shaken. It is a grievous disappointment to
find duplicity where we had expected truth; but love
cannot remain when confidence has fled. His attachment
to you will no doubt continue; for your mind is
capable of reflecting all the light of his.”
“And you have truly expressed your decided sentiments?”
said Lucretia.
“I have.”
“Then we will never more speak of it, dear Grace.”
With affected calmness, Miss Fitzherbert then asked
some general questions about her work, her books, &c.
but the conversation soon became languid. Lucretia
leaned her head on her hand in silence, watching the
various fantastic figures formed by the glowing embers;
and as Grace looked steadly at the same object, the
tear that would not drop, rested on her long, drooping
eye-lash, like liquid pearl.
“You must excuse me, Lucretia, if I retire to my
bed,” said she. “I am weak, and a trifle wearies me.”
She rose, and attempted to walk,—but again sunk
into the chair from extreme debility.
Lucretia and Phœbe supported her to her couch. For
an hour or more, her friend continued to walk softly
about the chamber, now and then pausing to bathe her
head, or whisper some word of kindness.
Phœbe prepared food; but though Miss Fitzberbert
had tasted very slight refreshment since her arrival, it
was with difficulty she constrained herself to eat a few
morsels, just to satisfy the kind-hearted servant.
“You see I am restless, dear Grace,” said she. “I
cannot feel easy any where just now; and you will be
more calm if I leave you.”
“You will come again, soon?” said Grace, warmly
pressing her hand.
Lucretia stooped down and kissed her fading cheek;
“To-morrow, and next day, and every day, my dear
girl,” said she.
When she descended to the library, she walked the
room slowly for several minutes, endeavouring to collect
her scattered thoughts, and decide on the course of conduct
she was to pursue.
Miss Osborne's book still lay on the writing-desk,
open at the blistered page. Curiosity was powerfully
excited, and, without trusting herself to think of the impropriety
of such an action, she eagerly read its contents.
It appeared to have been dated on the same day
that she had received Lucretia's letter of November
15th; and indicated a powerful struggle in the mind of
the conscientious girl.
In one line she expressed a resolution to make her
friend acquainted with Colonel Fitzherbert's real character;—in
the next, she seemed to doubt whether this
purpose had been formed from a sense of duty, or from
pride, resentment, or some other lurking evil of her
nature.
On the first page of the book was pinned the billet
that had accompanied Somerville's rose. Grace, secure
in the absence of all her family, had unguardedly left
her desk open; and her friend's unexpected visit had
driven it entirely from her memory.
Lucretia was not, till now, aware how strongly she
had hoped that her fears were all ungrounded;—but
here was confirmation strong. The sparkling cup of
happiness was indeed broken at her feet.
Colonel Fitzherbert had spent the afternoon at Governor
Hutchinson's, in a state of mind scarcely more
enviable than that of Montezuma, when stretched on
his bed of flaming coals. Apprehension, remorse, ambition,
and avarice, were all struggling within him for
victory. It was one of those eventful moments in life,
when character and destiny seem to be entirely placed
in the hand of circumstance. His affection for
Grace sometimes returned upon his heart, like a bird of
calm, not to be driven away by the lowering storm.
He had been told that Lucretia's sudden visit was owing
to her slight illness. Vanity, or something better,
whispered that he might possibly be the cause; and for
a moment the fresh garland of youthful love seemed
preferable to wealth's glittering chain. His conscience
whispered to him that he was a knave; and reason
plainly told him he was a fool. His fault had no tinge
of spirit in it. It was base and cowardly. He had
sought to attain his wishes by means not only unjustifiable,
but strangely impolitic; and now, while unbending
pride forbade him to take a single step to extricate himself,
suspended by threads equally brittle.
However, he compelled himself to reject all thoughts
except Lucretia's princely fortune. He was alone in
the parlour when she entered; and having studied his
part, he performed it well.
Raising her hand to his lips, he complained that, after
having been separated so long, she should leave him
thus abruptly.
Whatever Lucretia's feelings were, her manner was
polite, though melancholy, and fairly baffled all conjecture.
After talking upon subjects of general interest, the
Colonel at length ventured to speak of their marriage.
With a constrained smile, Lucretia answered, “I
leave that matter entirely to you and Aunt Sandford. I
promise to conform to any arrangement you choose to
make.”
This was more than he had hoped. He had expected
to hear doubts stated, if not to be loaded with reproaches;
and the ready acquiescence which lightened
his heart of such a load of apprehension, utterly bewildered
him. “It is then as I hoped,” thought he;
“Grace no longer cares for me, and she has kindly and
delicately concealed what she no doubt considers a
mere boyish freak.”
Once the thought crossed his mind, that Lucretia
knew all, but could not persuade herself to relinquish
him. If it was so, he certainly was not disposed to
quarrel with such strength of affection, at that moment.
such exclusive preference. The admiration she had
evinced during their first acquaintance, which he then
thought somewhat too undisguised, was now remembered
with pleasure; and with no little exultation he recalled
to his mind, how often a single remark from him had
made her deaf to all the eloquence and flattery that surrounded
her in England. He well knew that this was
no stratagem,—no trick of policy. It was the natural
movements of a glowing heart, unpractised in concealment;
and it did awaken gratitude that almost bordered
on affection.
Madam Sandford was even more surprised, rejoiced,
and puzzled; Governor Hutchinson, ignorant of his
nephew's `hair-breadth 'scapes,' was warm and sincere
in his congratulations; and all, save the heart of Lucretia,
`went merry as a marriage bell.'
She passed a sleepless, mlserable night. To love
and doubt is torment enough;—but to love, and yet
know we are the victims of cold, selfish, deceitful policy,
is `anguish unmixed, and agony pure.'
| CHAP. XVIII. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution | |