The Complete Works of

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

(1789-1851)

Contents

The Leatherstocking Tales

The Novels

PRECAUTION

THE SPY

THE PIONEERS

THE PILOT

LIONEL LINCOLN

THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS

THE PRAIRIE

THE RED ROVER

THE WEPT OF WISH-TON-WISH

THE WATER-WITCH

THE BRAVO

THE HEIDENMAUER

THE HEADSMAN: THE ABBAYE DES VIGNERONS

THE MONIKINS

HOMEWARD BOUND

HOME AS FOUND

THE PATHFINDER

MERCEDES OF CASTILE

THE DEERSLAYER

THE TWO ADMIRALS

THE WING-AND-WING

WYANDOTTÉ

AFLOAT AND ASHORE

MILES WALLINGFORD

SATANSTOE

THE CHAINBEARER

THE REDSKINS

THE CRATER

JACK TIER

THE OAK OPENINGS

THE SEA LIONS

THE WAYS OF THE HOUR

The Shorter Fiction

TALES FOR FIFTEEN: OR IMAGINATION AND HEART

NO STEAMBOATS

AN EXECUTION AT SEA

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF

THE LAKE GUN

The Play

UPSIDE DOWN: OR PHILOSOPHY IN PETTICOATS

Selected Non-Fiction

A RESIDENCE IN FRANCE

RECOLLECTIONS OF EUROPE

THE CHRONICLES OF COOPERSTOWN

NED MYERS

NEW YORK

The Criticism

DISCOURSE ON THE LIFE, GENIUS, AND WRITINGS OF JAMES FENIMORE COOPER by W. C. Bryant

FENIMORE COOPER’S LITERARY OFFENCES by Mark Twain

BOOKS NECESSARY FOR A LIBERAL EDUCATION by Wilkie Collins

TALES OF THE SEA, 1898 by Joseph Conrad

VARIOUS REVIEWS by Carl Van Doren

The Biographies

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER by Thomas R. Lounsbury

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER by Mary E. Phillips

© Delphi Classics 2013

Version 1

The Complete Works of

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

By Delphi Classics, 2013

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The Leatherstocking Tales

The novels are grouped in story chronological order, with their setting dates provided, followed by the original publication date in brackets.

The Deerslayer - 1740-1755 (1841)

The Last of the Mohicans - 1757  (1826)

The Pathfinder - 1750s  (1840)

The Pioneers - 1793  (1823)

The Prairie - 1804  (1827)

The Novels

Cooper was born in 1789 in Burlington, New Jersey

Cooper’s father, William, a United States Congressman, who founded Cooperstown, New York.

PRECAUTION

OR, PREVENTION IS BETTER THAN CURE

Cooper’s first novel was published anonymously in 1820, when its author was thirty-one years old. Accounts differ, but it appears that it was Mrs Cooper who suggested that her husband write a novel, apparently in response to Cooper’s angry dismissal of an English tale he had been reading aloud to his family. At this time, Cooper was living with his wife in rural Scarsdale, NY. His naval career apparently behind him, with no definite career prospects on the immediate horizon and with his finances rapidly diminishing, Cooper took on the challenge with enthusiasm and, although only enjoying a modest success, Precaution was to be the commencement of a remarkable literary career spanning more than thirty novels and earning its author widespread acclaim.

The plot of Precaution echoes the ‘society’ novel whose dismissal prompted Cooper to attempt a better book himself. Set in early nineteenth-century England, it relates the marriage-hunting experiences of the sons and daughters of the Moseley, Jarvis and Chatterton families. Amongst these romantic (and financial) machinations, the eponymous ‘precaution’ is that advised by Mrs Wilson – aunt and mentor of the protagonist, Emily Moesley. The novel recalls those of Jane Austen and many early readers and reviewers were convinced that the novel was the work of an English woman, much to Cooper’s amusement.

The title page of the first edition

CONTENTS

Preface to the New Edition

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX.

Chapter X.

Chapter XI.

Chapter XII.

Chapter XIII.

Chapter XIV.

Chapter XV.

Chapter XVI.

Chapter XVII.

Chapter XVIII.

Chapter XIX.

Chapter XX.

Chapter XXI.

Chapter XXII.

Chapter XXIII.

Chapter XXIV.

Chapter XXV.

Chapter XXVI.

Chapter XXVII.

Chapter XXVIII.

Chapter XXIX.

Chapter XXX.

Chapter XXXI.

Chapter XXXII.

Chapter XXXIII.

Chapter XXXIV.

Chapter XXXV.

Chapter XXXVI.

Chapter XXXVII.

Chapter XXXVIII.

Chapter XXXIX.

Chapter XL.

Chapter XLI.

Chapter XLII.

Chapter XLIII.

Chapter XLIV.

Chapter XLV.

Chapter XLVI.

Chapter XLVII.

Chapter XLVIII.

Chapter XLIX.

An illustration from an early edition of the novel

“Be wise to-day. It is madness to defer;
To-morrow’s caution may arrive too late.”

Preface to the New Edition

This book originally owed its existence to an accident, and it was printed under circumstances that prevented the usual supervision of the press by the author. The consequences were many defects in plot, style, and arrangement, that were entirely owing to precipitation and inexperience; and quite as many faults, of another nature, that are to be traced solely to a bad manuscript and worse proof reading. Perhaps no novel of our times was worst printed than the first edition of this work. More than a hundred periods were placed in the middle of sentences, and perhaps five times that number were omitted in places where they ought to have been inserted. It is scarcely necessary to add, that passages were rendered obscure, and that entire paragraphs were unintelligible.

Most of the faults just mentioned have now been corrected, though it would require more labor than would produce an entirely new work, to repair all the inherent defects that are attributable to haste, and to the awkwardness of a novice in the art of composing. In this respect, the work and its blemishes are probably inseparable. Still, the reader will now be better rewarded for his time, and, on the whole; the book is much more worthy of his attention.

It has been said that Precaution owes its existence to fortuitous circumstances. The same causes induced its English plot, and, in a measure, the medley of characters that no doubt will appear a mistake in the conception. It can scarcely be said that the work was commenced with any view to publication; and when it was finally put into a publisher’s hands, with “all its imperfections on its head,” the last thought of the writer was any expectation that it would be followed by a series of similar tales from the same pen.

More than this the public will feel no interest in knowing, and less than this the author could not consent to say on presenting to the world a reprint of a book with so few claims to notice.

Chapter I.

“I wonder if we are to have a neighbor in the Deanery soon,” inquired Clara Moseley, addressing herself to a small party assembled in her father’s drawing-room, while standing at a window which commanded a distant view of the house in question.

“Oh yes,” replied her brother, “the agent has let it to a Mr. Jarvis for a couple of years, and he is to take possession this week.”

“And who is the Mr. Jarvis that is about to become so near a neighbor?” asked Sir Edward Moseley.

“Why, sir, I learn he has been a capital merchant; that he has retired from business with a large fortune; that he has, like yourself, sir, an only hope for his declining years in son, an officer in the army; and, moreover, that he has couple of fine daughters; so, sir, he is a man of family in one sense, at least, you see. But,” dropping his voice, “whether he is a man of family in your sense, Jane,” looking at his second sister, “is more than I could discover.”

“I hope you did not take the trouble, sir, to inquire on my account,” retorted Jane, coloring slightly with vexation at his speech.

“Indeed I did, my dear sis, and solely on your account,” replied the laughing brother, “for you well know that no gentility, no husband; and it’s dull work to you young ladies without at least a possibility of matrimony; as for Clara, she is — — “

Here he was stopped by his youngest sister Emily placing her hand on his mouth, as she whispered in his ear, “John, you forget the anxiety of a certain gentleman about a fair incognita at Bath, and a list of inquiries concerning her lineage, and a few other indispensables.” John, in his turn, colored, and affectionately kissing the hand which kept him silent, addressed himself to Jane, and by his vivacity and good humor soon restored her to complacency.

“I rejoice,” said Lady Moseley, “that Sir William has found a tenant, however; for next to occupying it himself, it is a most desirable thing to have a good tenant in it, on account of the circle in which we live.”

“And Mr. Jarvis has the great goodness of money, by John’s account,” caustically observed Mrs. Wilson, who was a sister of Sir Edward’s.

“Let me tell you, madam,” cried the rector of the parish, looking around him pleasantly, and who was pretty constant, and always a welcome visitor in the family, “that a great deal of money is a very good thing in itself, and that a great many very good things may be done with it.”

“Such as paying tythes, ha! doctor,” cried Mr. Haughton, a gentleman of landed property in the neighborhood, of plain exterior, but great goodness of heart, and between whom and the rector subsisted the most cordial good will.

“Aye, tythes, or halves, as the baronet did here, when he forgave old Gregson one half his rent, and his children the other.”

“Well, but, my dear,” said Sir Edward to his wife, “you must not starve our friends because we are to have a neighbor. William has stood with the dining-room door open these five minutes— “

Lady Moseley gave her hand to the rector, and the company followed them, without any order, to the dinner table.

The party assembled around the hospitable board of the baronet was composed, besides the before-mentioned persons, of the wife of Mr. Haughton, a woman of much good sense and modesty of deportment: their daughter, a young lady conspicuous for nothing but good nature; and the wife and son of the rector — the latter but lately admitted to holy orders himself.

The remainder of the day passed in an uninterrupted flow of pleasant conversation, the natural consequence of a unison of opinions on all leading questions, the parties having long known and esteemed each other for those qualities which soonest reconcile us to the common frailties of our nature. On parting at the usual hour, it was agreed to meet that day week at the rectory, and the doctor, on making his bow to Lady Moseley, observed, that he intended, in virtue of his office, to make an early call on the Jarvis family, and that, if possible, he would persuade them to be of the party.

Sir Edward Moseley was descended from one of the most respectable of the creations of his order by James, and had inherited, with many of the virtues of his ancestor, an estate which placed him amongst the greatest landed proprietors of the county. But, as it had been an invariable rule never to deduct a single acre from the inheritance of the eldest son, and the extravagance of his mother, who was the daughter of a nobleman, had much embarrassed the affairs of his father, Sir Edward, on coming into possession of his estate, had wisely determined to withdraw from the gay world, by renting his house in town, and retiring altogether to his respectable mansion, about a hundred miles from the metropolis. Here he hoped, by a course of systematic but liberal economy, to release himself from all embarrassments, and to make such a provision for his younger children, the three daughters already mentioned, as he conceived their birth entitled them to expect. Seventeen years enabled him to accomplish this plan; and for more than eighteen months, Sir Edward had resumed the hospitality and appearance usual in his family, and had even promised his delighted girls to take possession, the ensuing winter, of the house in St. James’s Square. Nature had not qualified Sir Edward for great or continued exertions, and the prudent decision he had taken to retrieve his fortunes, was perhaps an act of as much forecast and vigor as his talents or energy would afford; it was the step most obviously for his interests, and the one that was safest both in its execution and consequences, and as such it had been adopted: but, had it required a single particle more of enterprise or calculation, it would have been beyond his powers, and the heir might have yet labored under the difficulties which distressed his more brilliant, but less prudent parent.

The baronet was warmly attached to his wife; and as she was a woman of many valuable and no obnoxious qualities, civil and attentive by habit to all around her, and perfectly disinterested in her attachments to her own family, nothing in nature could partake more of perfection in the eyes of her husband and children than the conduct of this beloved relative. Yet Lady Moseley had her failings, however, although few were disposed to view her errors with that severity which truth and a just discrimination of character render necessary. Her union had been one of love, and for a time it had been objected to by the friends of her husband, on the score of fortune; but constancy and perseverance prevailed, and the protracted and inconsequent opposition of his parents had left no other effects than an aversion in the children to the exercise of parental authority, in marrying their own descendents: an aversion which, though common to both the worthy baronet and his wife, was somewhat different in its two subjects. In the husband it was quiescent; but in the wife, it was slightly shaded with the female esprit de corps, of having her daughters comfortably established, and that in due season. Lady Moseley was religious, but hardly pious; she was charitable in deeds, but not always in opinions; her intentions were pure, but neither her prejudices nor her reasoning powers suffered her to be at all times consistent. Still few knew her that did not love her, and none were ever heard to say aught against her breeding, her morals, or her disposition.

The sister of Sir Edward had been married, early in life, to an officer in the army, who, spending much of his time abroad on service, had left her a prey to that solicitude to which she was necessarily a prey by her attachment to her husband. To find relief from this perpetual and life-wearing anxiety, an invaluable friend had pointed out the only true remedy of which her case admitted, a research into her own heart, and the employments of active benevolence. The death of her husband, who lost his life in battle, caused her to withdraw in a great measure from the world, and gave time and inducement for reflections, which led to impressions on religion that were sufficiently correct in themselves, and indispensable as the basis of future happiness, but which became slightly tinctured with the sternness of her vigorous mind, and possibly, at times were more unbending than was compatible with the comforts of this world; a fault, however, of manner, more than of matter. Warmly attached to her brother and his children, Mrs. Wilson, who had never been a mother herself, yielded to their earnest entreaties to become one of the family; and although left by the late General Wilson with a large income, ever since his death she had given up her own establishment, and devoted most of her time to the formation of the character of her youngest niece. Lady Moseley had submitted this child entirely to the control of the aunt; and it was commonly thought Emily would inherit the very handsome sum left at the disposal of the General’s widow.

Both Sir Edward and Lady Moseley possessed a large share of personal beauty when young, and it had descended in common to all their children, but more particularly to the two youngest daughters. Although a strong family resemblance, both in person and character, existed between these closely connected relatives, yet it existed with shades of distinction that had very different effects on their conduct, and led to results which stamped their lives with widely differing degrees of happiness.

Between the families at Moseley Hall and the rectory, there had existed for many years an intimacy founded on esteem and on long intercourse. Doctor Ives was a clergyman of deep piety; and of very considerable talents; he possessed, in addition to a moderate benefice, an independent fortune in right of his wife, who was the only child of a distinguished naval officer. Both were well connected, well bred, and well disposed to their fellow creatures. They were blessed with but one child, the young divine we have mentioned, who promised to equal his father in all those qualities which had made the Doctor the delight of his friends, and almost the idol of his parishioners.

Between Francis Ives and Clara Moseley, there had been an attachment, which had grown with their years, from childhood. He had been her companion in their youthful recreations, had espoused her little quarrels, and participated in her innocent pleasures, for so many years, and with such an evident preference for each other in the youthful pair, that, on leaving college to enter on the studies of his sacred calling with his father, Francis rightly judged that none other would make his future life as happy, as the mild, the tender, the unassuming Clara. Their passion, if so gentle a feeling deserve the term, received the sanction of their parents, and the two families waited only for the establishment of the young divine, to perfect the union.

The retirement of Sir Edward’s family had been uniform, with the exception of an occasional visit to an aged uncle of his wife’s, and who, in return, spent much of his time with them at the Hall, and who had openly declared his intention of making the children of Lady Moseley his heirs. The visits of Mr. Benfield were always hailed with joy, and as an event that called for more than ordinary gaiety; for, although rough in manner, and somewhat infirm from years, the old bachelor, who was rather addicted to the customs in which he had indulged in his youth, and was fond of dwelling on the scenes of former days, was universally beloved where he was intimately known, for an unbounded though eccentric philanthropy.

The illness of the mother-in-law of Mrs. Wilson had called her to Bath the winter preceding the spring when our history commences, and she had been accompanied thither by her nephew and favorite niece. John and Emily, during the month of their residence in that city, were in the practice of making daily excursions in its environs. It was in one of these little drives that they were of accidental service to a very young and very beautiful woman, apparently in low health. They had taken her up in their carriage, and conveyed her to a farm-house where she resided, during a faintness which had come over her in a walk; and her beauty air, and manner, altogether so different from those around her, had interested them both to a painful degree. They had ventured to call the following day to inquire after her welfare, and this visit led to a slight intercourse, which continued for the fortnight they remained there.

John had given himself some trouble to ascertain who she was, but in vain. They could merely learn that her life was blameless, that she saw no one but themselves, and her dialect raised a suspicion that she was not English, It was to this unknown fair Emily alluded in her playful attempt to stop the heedless rattle of her brother, who was not always restrained from uttering what he thought by a proper regard for the feelings of others.

Chapter II.

The morning succeeding the day of the dinner at the Hall, Mrs. Wilson, with all her nieces and her nephew, availed herself of the fineness of the weather to walk to the rectory, where they were all in the habit of making informal and friendly visits. They had just got out of the little village of B —— , which lay in their route, when a rather handsome travelling carriage and four passed them, and took the road which led to the Deanery.

“As I live,” cried John, “there go our new neighbors the Jarvis’s; yes, yes, that must be the old merchant muffled up in the corner; I mistook him at first for a pile of bandboxes; then the rosy-cheeked lady, with so many feathers, must be the old lady — heaven forgive me, Mrs. Jarvis I mean — aye, and the two others the belles.”

“You are in a hurry to pronounce them belles, John,” said Jane, pettishly; “it would be well to see more of them before you speak so decidedly.”

“Oh!” replied John, “I have seen enough of them, and” — he was interrupted by the whirling of a tilbury and tandem followed by a couple of servants on horseback. All about this vehicle and its masters bore the stamp of decided fashion; and our party had followed it with their eyes for a short distance, when, having reached a fork in the roads, it stopped, and evidently waited the coming up of the pedestrians, as if to make an inquiry. A single glance of the eye was sufficient to apprise the gentleman on the cushion (who held the reins) of the kind of people he had to deal with, and stepping from his carriage, he met them with a graceful bow, and after handsomely apologizing for the trouble he was giving, he desired to know which road led to the Deanery. “The right,” replied John, returning his salutation.

“Ask them, Colonel,” cried the charioteer, “whether the old gentleman went right or not.”

The Colonel, in the manner of a perfect gentleman, but with a look of compassion for his companion’s want of tact, made the desired inquiry; which being satisfactorily answered, he again bowed and was retiring, as one of several pointers who followed the cavalcade sprang upon Jane, and soiled her walking dress with his dirty feet.

“Come hither, Dido,” cried the Colonel, hastening to beat the dog back from the young lady; and again he apologized in the same collected and handsome manner, then turning to one of the servants, he said, “call in the dog, sir,” and rejoined his companion. The air of this gentleman was peculiarly pleasant; it would not have been difficult to pronounce him a soldier had he not been addressed as such by his younger and certainly less polished companion. The Colonel was apparently about thirty, and of extremely handsome face and figure, while his driving friend appeared several years younger, and of altogether different materials.

“I wonder,” said Jane, as they turned a corner which hid them from view, “who they are?”

“Who they are?” cried the brother, “why the Jarvis’s to be sure; didn’t you hear them ask the road to the Deanery?

“Oh! the one that drove, he may be a Jarvis, but not the gentleman who spoke to us — surely not, John; besides, he was called Colonel, you know.”

“Yes, yes,” said John, with one of his quizzing expressions, “Colonel Jarvis, that must be the alderman; they are commonly colonels of city volunteers: yes, that must have been the old gem’mun who spoke to us, and I was right after all about the bandboxes.”

“You forget,” said Clara, smiling, “the polite inquiry concerning the old gem’mun.”

“Ah! true; who the deuce can this Colonel be then, for young Jarvis is only a captain, I know; who do you think he is, Jane?”

“How do you think I can tell you, John? But whoever he is, he owns the tilbury, although he did not drive it; and he is a gentleman both by birth and manners.”

“Why, Jane, if you know so much of him, you should know more; but it is all guess with you.”

“No; it is not guess — I am certain of what I say.”

The aunt and sisters, who had taken little interest in the dialogue, looked at her with some surprise, which John observing, he exclaimed, “Poh: she knows no more than we all know.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Poh, poh, if you know, tell.”

“Why, the arms were different.”

John laughed as he said, “That is a good reason, sure enough, for the tilbury’s being the colonel’s property; but now for his blood; how did you discover that, sis — by his gait and actions, as we say of horses?”

Jane colored a little, and laughed faintly. “The arms on the tilbury had six quarterings.”

Emily now laughed, and Mrs. Wilson and Clara smiled while John continued his teazing until they reached the rectory.

While chatting with the doctor and his wife, Francis returned from his morning ride, and told them the Jarvis family had arrived; he had witnessed an unpleasant accident to a gig, in which were Captain Jarvis, and a friend, a Colonel Egerton; it had been awkwardly driven in turning into the Deanery gate, and upset: the colonel received some injury to his ankle, nothing, however, serious he hoped, but such as to put him under the care of the young ladies, probably, for a few days. After the exclamations which usually follow such details, Jane ventured to inquire who Colonel Egerton was.

“I understood at the time, from one of the servants, that he is a nephew of Sir Edgar Egerton, and a lieutenant-colonel on half-pay, or furlough, or some such thing.”

“How did he bear his misfortune, Mr. Francis?” inquired Mrs. Wilson.

“Certainly as a gentleman, madam, if not as a Christian,” replied the young clergyman, slily smiling; “indeed, most men of gallantry would, I believe, rejoice in an accident which drew forth so much sympathy as both the Miss Jarvis’s manifested.”

“How fortunate you should all happen to be near!” said the tender-hearted Clara.

“Are the young ladies pretty?” asked Jane, with something of hesitation in her manner.

“Why, I rather think they are; but I took very little notice of their appearance, as the colonel was really in evident pain.”

“This, then,” cried the doctor, “affords me an additional excuse for calling on them at an early day, so I’ll e’en go to-morrow.”

“I trust Doctor Ives wants no apologies for performing his duty,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“He is fond of making them, though,” said Mrs. Ives, peaking with a benevolent smile, and for the first time in the little conversation.

It was then arranged that the rector should make his official visit, as intended by himself; and on his report, the ladies would act. After remaining at the rectory an hour, they returned to the hall, attended by Francis.

The next day the doctor drove in, and informed them the Jarvis family were happily settled, and the colonel in no danger, excepting from the fascinations of the two young ladies, who took such palpable care of him that he wanted for nothing, and they might drive over whenever they pleased, without fear of intruding unseasonably.

Mr. Jarvis received his guests with the frankness of good feelings, if not with the polish of high life; while his wife, who seldom thought of the former, would have been mortally offended with the person who could have suggested that she omitted any of the elegancies of the latter. Her daughters were rather pretty, but wanted, both in appearance and manner, the inexpressible air of haut ton which so eminently distinguished the easy but polished deportment of Colonel Egerton, whom they found reclining on a sofa with his leg on a chair, amply secured in numerous bandages, but unable to rise. Notwithstanding the awkwardness of his situation, he was by far the least discomposed person of the party, and having pleasantly excused himself, he appeared to think no more of the matter.

The captain, Mrs. Jarvis remarked, had gone out with his dogs to try the grounds around them, “for he seems to live only with his horses and his gun: young men, my lady, nowadays, appear to forget that there are any things in the world but themselves; now I told Harry that your ladyship and daughters would favor us with a call this morning — but no: there he went, as if Mr. Jarvis was unable to buy us a dinner, and we should all starve but for his quails and pheasants.”

“Quails and pheasants,” cried John, in consternation, “does Captain Jarvis shoot quails and pheasants at this time of the year?”

“Mrs. Jarvis, sir,” said Colonel Egerton, with a correcting smile, “understands the allegiance due from us gentlemen to the ladies, better than the rules of sporting; my friend, the captain, has taken his fishing rod, I believe.”

“It is all one, fish or birds,” continued Mrs. Jarvis, “he is Out of the way when he is wanted, and I believe we can buy fish as easily as birds; I wish he would take pattern after yourself, colonel, in these matters.”

Colonel Egerton laughed pleasantly, but he did not blush; and Miss Jarvis observed, with a look, of something like admiration thrown on his reclining figure, “that when Harry had been in the army as long as his friend, he would know the usages of good society, she hoped, as well.”

“Yes,” said her mother, “the army is certainly the place to polish a young man;” and turning to Mrs. Wilson, she abruptly added, “Your husband, I believe, was in the army, ma’am?”

“I hope,” said Emily hastily, “that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you soon, Miss Jarvis, at the Hall,” preventing by her promptitude the necessity of a reply from her aunt. The young lady promised to make an early visit, and the subject changed to a general and uninteresting discourse on the neighborhood, the country, the weather, and other ordinary topics.

“Now, John,” cried Jane in triumph, as they drove from the door, “you must acknowledge my heraldic witchcraft, as you are pleased to call it, is right for once at least.”

“Oh! no doubt, Jenny,” said John, who was accustomed to use that appellation to her as a provocation, when he wished what he called an enlivening scene; but Mrs. Wilson put a damper on his hopes by a remark to his mother, and the habitual respect of both the combatants kept them silent.

Jane Moseley was endowed by nature with an excellent understanding, one at least equal to that of her brother, but the wanted the more essential requisites of a well governed mind. Masters had been provided by Sir Edward for all his daughters, and if they were not acquainted with the usual acquirements of young women in their rank of life, it was not his fault: his system of economy had not embraced a denial of opportunity to any of his children, and the baronet was apt to think all was done, when they were put where all might be done. Feeling herself and parents entitled to enter into all the gaieties and splendors of some of the richer families in their vicinity, Jane, who had grown up during the temporary eclipse of Sir Edward’s fortunes, had sought that self-consolation so common to people in her situation, which was to be found in reviewing the former grandeur of her house, and she had thus contracted a degree of family pride. If Clara’s weaknesses were less striking than those of Jane, it was because she had less imagination, and because that in loving Francis Ives she had so long admired a character, where so little was to be found that could be censured, that she might be said to have contracted a habit of judging correctly, without being able at all times to give a reason for her conduct or her opinions.

Chapter III.

The day fixed for one of the stated visits of Mr. Benfield had now arrived, and John, with Emily, who was the old bachelor’s favorite niece, went in the baronet’s post-chaise to the town of F —— , a distance of twenty miles, to meet him, in order to accompany him in the remainder of his journey to the Hall, it being a settled rule with the old man, that his carriage horses should return to their own stables every night, where he imagined they could alone find that comfort and care to which their age and services gave them a claim. The day was uncommonly pleasant, and the young people were in high spirits with the expectation of meeting their respected relative, whose absence had been prolonged a few days by a severe fit of the gout.

“Now, Emily,” cried John, as he settled himself comfortably by the side of his sister in the chaise, “let me know honestly how you like the Jarvis’s, and particularly how you like the handsome colonel.”

“Then, John, honestly, I neither like nor dislike the Jarvis’s or the handsome colonel.”

“Well, then, there is no great diversity in our sentiments, as Jane would say.”

“John!”

“Emily!”

“I do not like to hear you speak so disrespectfully of out sister, whom I am sure you love as tenderly as I do myself.”

“I acknowledge my error,” said the brother, taking her hand and affectionately kissing it, “and will endeavor to offend no more; but this Colonel Egerton, sister, is certainly a gentleman, both by blood and in manners, as Jane” — Emily interrupted him with a laugh, which John took very good-naturedly, repeating his remark without alluding to their sister.

“Yes,” said Emily, “he is genteel in his deportment, if that be what you mean; I know nothing of his family.”

“Oh, I have taken a peep into Jane’s Baronetage, where find him set down as Sir Edgar’s heir.”

“There is something about him,” said Emily, musing, “that I do not much admire; he is too easy — there is no nature; I always feel afraid such people will laugh at me as soon as my back is turned, and for those very things they seem most to admire to my face. If I might be allowed to judge, I should say his manner wants one thing, without which no one can be truly agreeable.”

“What’s that?”

“Sincerity.”

“Ah! that’s my great recommendation; but I am afraid I shall have to take the poacher up, with his quails and his pheasants, indeed.”

“You know the colonel explained that to be a mistake.”

“What they call explaining away; but unluckily I saw the gentleman returning with his gun on his shoulder, and followed by a brace of pointers.”

“There’s a specimen of the colonel’s manners then,” said Emily, smiling; “it will do until the truth be known.”

“And Jane, when she saw him also, praised his good nature and consideration, in what she was pleased to call relieving the awkwardness of my remark.”

Emily finding her brother disposed to dwell on the foibles of Jane, a thing he was rather addicted to at times, was silent. They rode some distance before John, who was ever as ready to atone as he was to offend, again apologized, again promised reformation, and during the remainder of the ride only forgot himself twice more in the same way.

They reached F —— two hours before the lumbering coach of their uncle drove into the yard of the inn, and had sufficient time to refresh their own horses for the journey homewards.

Mr. Benfield was a bachelor of eighty, but retained the personal activity of a man of sixty. He was strongly attached to all the fashions and opinions of his youth, during which he had sat one term in parliament, having been a great beau and courtier in the commencement of the reign. A disappointment in an affair of the heart drove him into retirement; and for the last fifty years he had dwelt exclusively at a seat he owned within forty miles of Moseley Hall, the mistress of which was the only child of his only brother. In figure, he was tall and spare, very erect for his years, and he faithfully preserved in his attire, servants, carriages, and indeed everything around him, as much of the fashions of his youth as circumstances would allow: such then was a faint outline of the character and appearance of the old man, who, dressed in a cocked hat, bag wig, and sword, took the offered arm of John Moseley to alight from his coach.

“So,” cried the old gentleman, having made good his footing on the ground, as he stopped short and stared John in the face, “you have made out to come twenty miles to meet an old cynic, have you, sir? but I thought I bid thee bring Emmy with thee.”

John pointed to the window, where his sister stood anxiously watching her uncle’s movements. On catching her eye, he smiled kindly, and pursued his way into the house, talking to himself.

“Aye, there she is indeed; I remember now, when I was a youngster, of going with my kinsman, old Lord Gosford, to meet his sister, the Lady Juliana, when she first came from school (this was the lady whose infidelity had driven him from the world); and a beauty she was indeed, something like Emmy there; only she was taller, and her eyes were black, and her hair too, that was black; and she was not so fair as Emmy, and she was fatter, and she stooped a little — very little; oh! they are wonderfully alike though; don’t you think they were, nephew?” he stopped at the door of the room; while John, who in this description could not see a resemblance, which existed nowhere but in the old man’s affections, was fain to say, “yes; but they were related, you know, uncle, and that explains the likeness.”

“True, boy, true,” said his uncle, pleased at a reason for a thing he wished, and which flattered his propensities. He had once before told Emily she put him in mind of his housekeeper, a woman as old as himself, and without a tooth in her head.

On meeting his niece, Mr. Benfield (who, like many others that feel strongly, wore in common the affectation of indifference and displeasure) yielded to his fondness, and folding her in his arms, kissed her affectionately, while a tear glistened in his eye; and then pushing her gently from him, he exclaimed, “Come, come, Emmy, don’t strangle me, don’t strangle me, girl; let me live in peace the little while I have to remain here — so,” seating himself composedly in an arm chair his niece had placed for him with a cushion, “so Anne writes me, Sir William Harris has let the deanery.”

“Oh, yes, uncle,” cried John.

“I’ll thank you, young gentleman,” said Mr. Benfield, sternly, “not to interrupt me when I am speaking to a lady that is, if you please, sir. Then Sir William has let the deanery to a London merchant, a Mr. Jarvis. Now I knew three people of that name; one was a hackney coachman, when I was a member of the parliament of this realm, and drove me often to the house; the other was valet-de-chambre to my Lord Gosford; and the third, I take it, is the very man who has become your neighbor. If it be the person I mean, Emmy dear, he is like — like — aye, very like old Peter, my steward.”

John, unable to contain his mirth at this discovery of a likeness between the prototype of Mr. Benfield himself in leanness of figure, and the jolly rotundity of the merchant, was obliged to leave the room; Emily, though she could not forbear smiling at the comparison, quietly said, “You will meet him to-morrow, dear uncle, and then you will be able to judge for yourself.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered the old man, “very like old Peter, my steward; as like as two peas.” The parallel was by no means as ridiculous as might be supposed; its history being as follows:

Mr. Benfield had placed twenty thousand pounds in the hands of a broker, with positive orders for him to pay it away immediately for government stock, bought by the former on his account; but disregarding this injunction, the broker had managed the transaction in such a way as to postpone the payment, until, on his failure, he had given up that and a much larger sum to Mr. Jarvis, to satisfy what he called an honorary debt. In elucidating the transaction Mr. Jarvis paid Benfield Lodge a visit, and honestly restored the bachelor his property. This act, and the high opinion he entertained of Mrs. Wilson, with his unbounded love for Emily, were the few things which prevented his believing some dreadful judgment was about to visit this world, for its increasing wickedness and follies. As his own steward was one of the honestest fellows living, he had ever after fancied that there was a personal resemblance between him and the conscientious merchant.

The horses being ready, the old bachelor was placed carefully between his nephew and niece, and in that manner they rode on quietly to the Hall, the dread of accident keeping Mr. Benfield silent most of the way. On passing, however a stately castle, about ten miles from the termination of their ride, he began one of his speeches with,

“Emmy, dear, does Lord Bolton come often to see you?”

“Very seldom, sir; his employment keeps him much of his time at St. James’s, and then he has an estate in Ireland.”

“I knew his father well — he was distantly connected by marriage with my friend Lord Gosford; you could not remember him, I suspect” (John rolled his eyes at this suggestion of his sister’s recollection of a man who had been forty years dead); “he always voted with me in the parliament of this realm; he was a thoroughly honest man; very much such a man to look at as Peter Johnson, my steward: but I am told his son likes the good things of the ministry; well, well, William Pitt was the only minister to my mind. There was the Scotchman of whom they made a Marquis; I never could endure him — always voted against him.”

“Right or wrong, uncle,” cried John, who loved a little mischief in his heart.

“No, sir — right, but never wrong. Lord Gosford always voted against him too; and do you think, jackanapes, that my friend the Earl of Gosford and — and — myself were ever wrong? No, sir, men in my day were different creatures from what they are now: we were never wrong, sir; we loved our country, and had no motive for being in the wrong.”

“How was it with Lord Bute, uncle?”

“Lord Bute, sir,” cried the old man with great warmth, “was the minister, sir — he was the minister; aye, he was the minister, sir, and was paid for what he did.”

“But Lord Chatham, was he not the minister too?”

Now, nothing vexed the old gentleman more than to hear William Pitt called by his tardy honors; and yet, unwilling to give up what he thought his political opinions, he exclaimed, with an unanswerable positiveness of argument,

“Billy Pitt, sir, was the minister, sir; but — but — but — he was our minister, sir.”

Emily, unable to see her uncle agitated by such useless disputes, threw a reproachful glance on her brother, as she observed timidly,

“That was a glorious administration, sir, I believe.”

“Glorious indeed! Emmy dear,” said the bachelor, softening with the sound of her voice, and the recollections of his younger days, “we beat the French everywhere — in America — in Germany; — we took — (counting on his fingers) — we took Quebec — yes, Lord Gosford lost a cousin there; and we took all the Canadas; and we took their fleets: there was a young man killed in the battle between Hawke and Conflans, who was much attached to Lady Juliana — poor soul! how much she regretted him when dead, though she never could abide him when living — ah! she was a tender-hearted creature!”

Mr. Benfield, like many others, continued to love imaginary qualities in his mistress, long after her heartless coquetry had disgusted him with her person: a kind of feeling which springs from self-love, which finds it necessary to seek consolation in creating beauties, that may justify our follies to ourselves; and which often keeps alive the semblance of the passion, when even hope, or real admiration, is extinct.

On reaching the Hall, every one was rejoiced to see their really affectionate and worthy relative, and the evening passed in the tranquil enjoyment of the blessings which Providence had profusely scattered around the family of the baronet, but which are too often hazarded by a neglect of duty that springs from too great security, or an indolence which renders us averse to the precaution necessary to insure their continuance.

Chapter IV.

“You are welcome, Sir Edward,” said the venerable rector, as he took the baronet by the hand; “I was fearful a return of your rheumatism would deprive us of this pleasure, and prevent my making you acquainted with the new occupants of the deanery, who have consented to dine with us to-day, and to whom I have promised, in particular, an introduction to Sir Edward Moseley.”

“I thank you, my dear doctor,” rejoined the baronet; “I have not only come myself, but have persuaded Mr. Benfield to make one of the party; there he comes, leaning on Emily’s arm, and finding fault with Mrs. Wilson’s new-fashioned barouche, which he says has given him cold.”

The rector received the unexpected guest with the kindness of his nature, and an inward smile at the incongruous assemblage he was likely to have around him by the arrival of the Jarvis’s, who, at that moment, drove to his door. The introductions between the baronet and the new comers had passed, and Miss Jarvis had made a prettily worded apology on behalf of the colonel, who was not yet well enough to come out, but whose politeness had insisted on their not remaining a home on his account, as Mr. Benfield, having composedly put on his spectacles, walked deliberately up to the place where the merchant had seated himself, and having examined him through his glasses to his satisfaction, took them off, and carefully wiping them, he began to talk to himself as he put them into his pocket— “No, no; it’s not Jack, the hackney coachman, nor my Lord Gosford’s gentleman, but” — cordially holding out both hands, “it’s the man who saved my twenty thousand pounds.”

Mr. Jarvis, whom shame and embarrassment had kept silent during this examination, exchanged greetings sincerely with his old acquaintance, who now took a seat in silence by his side; while his wife, whose face had begun to kindle with indignation at the commencement of the old gentleman’s soliloquy, observing that somehow or other it had not only terminated without degradation to her spouse, but with something like credit, turned complacently to Mrs. Ives, with an apology for the absence of her son.

“I cannot divine, ma’am, where he has got to; he is ever keeping us waiting for him;” and, addressing Jane, “these military men become so unsettled in their habits, that I often tell Harry he should never quit the camp.”

“In Hyde Park, you should add, my dear, for he has never been in any other,” bluntly observed her husband.

To this speech no reply was made, but it was evidently little relished by the ladies of the family, who were a good deal jealous of the laurels of the only hero their race had ever produced. The arrival and introduction of the captain himself changed the discourse, which turned on the comforts of their present residence.

“Pray, my lady,” cried the captain, who had taken a chair familiarly by the side of the baronet’s wife, “why is the house called the deanery? I am afraid I shall be taken for a son of the church, when I invite my friends to visit my father at the deanery.”

“But you may add, at the same time, sir, if you please,” dryly remarked Mr. Jarvis, “that it is occupied by an old man, who has been preaching and lecturing all his life; and, like others of the trade, I believe, in vain.”

“You must except our good friend, the doctor here, at least, sir,” said Mrs. Wilson; who, observing that her sister shrank from a familiarity she was unused to, took upon herself the office of replying to the captain’s question: “The father of the present Sir William Harris held that station in the church, and although the house was his private property it took its name from the circumstance, which has been continued ever since.”

“Is it not a droll life Sir William leads,” cried Miss Jarvis, looking at John Moseley, “riding about all summer from one watering-place to another, and letting his house year after year in the manner he does?”

“Sir William,” said Dr. Ives, gravely, “is devoted to his laughter’s wishes; and since his accession to his title, has come into possession of another residence in an adjoining county, which, I believe, he retains in his own hands.”

“Are you acquainted with Miss Harris?” continued the lady, addressing herself to Clara; though, without waiting for an answer, she added, “She is a great belle — all the gentlemen are dying for her.”

“Or her fortune,” said her sister, with a pretty toss of the head; “for my part, I never could see anything so captivating in her, although so much is said about her at Bath and Brighton.”

“You know her then,” mildly observed Clara.

“Why, I cannot say — we are exactly acquainted,” the young lady hesitatingly answered, coloring violently.

“What do you mean by exactly acquainted, Sally?” put in the father with a laugh; “did you ever speak to or were you ever in a room with her, in your life, unless it might be at a concert or a ball?”

The mortification of Miss Sarah was too evident for concealment, and it happily was relieved by a summons to dinner.

“Never, my dear child,” said Mrs. Wilson to Emily, the aunt being fond of introducing a moral from the occasional incidents of every-day life, “never subject yourself to a similar mortification, by commenting on the characters of those you don’t know: ignorance makes you liable to great errors; and if they should happen to be above you in life, it will only excite their contempt, should it reach their ears, while those to whom your remarks are made will think it envy.”

“Truth is sometimes blundered on,” whispered John, who held his sister’s arm, waiting for his aunt to precede them to the dining-room.

The merchant paid too great a compliment to the rector’s dinner to think of renewing the disagreeable conversation, and as John Moseley and the young clergyman were seated next the two ladies, they soon forgot what, among themselves, they would call their father’s rudeness, in receiving the attentions of a couple of remarkably agreeable young men.

“Pray, Mr. Francis, when do you preach for us?” asked Mr. Haughton; “I’m very anxious to hear you hold forth from the pulpit, where I have so often heard your father with pleasure: I doubt not you will prove orthodox, or you will be the only man, I believe, in the congregation, the rector has left in ignorance of the theory of our religion, at least.”

The doctor bowed to the compliment, as he replied to the question for his son, that on the next Sunday they were to have the pleasure of hearing Frank, who had promised to assist him on that day.

“Any prospects of a living soon?” continued Mr. Haughton, helping himself bountifully to a piece of plum pudding as he spoke. John Moseley laughed aloud, and Clara blushed to the eyes, while the doctor, turning to Sir Edward, observed with an air of interest, “Sir Edward, the living of Bolton is vacant, and I should like exceedingly to obtain it for my son. The advowson belongs to the Earl, who will dispose of it only to great interest, I am afraid.”

Clara was certainly, too busily occupied in picking raisins from her pudding to hear this remark, but accidentally stole, from under her long eyelashes, a timid glance at her father as he replied:

“I am sorry, my friend, I have not sufficient interest with his lordship to apply on my own account; but he is so seldom here, we are barely acquainted;” and the good baronet looked really concerned.

“Clara,” said Francis Ives in a low and affectionate tone, “have you read the books I sent you?”

Clara answered him with a smile in the negative, but promised amendment as soon as she had leisure.

“Do you ride much, on horseback, Mr. Moseley?” abruptly asked Miss Sarah, turning her back on the young divine, and facing the gentleman she addressed. John, who was now hemmed in between the sisters, replied with a rueful expression that brought a smile into the face of Emily, who was placed opposite to him —

“Yes, ma’am, and sometimes I am ridden.”

“Ridden, sir, what do you mean by that?”

“Oh! only my aunt there occasionally gives me a lecture.”

“I understand,” said the lady, pointing slily with her finger at her own father.

“Does it feel good?” John inquired, with a look of, great sympathy. But the lady, who now felt awkwardly, without knowing exactly why, shook her head in silence, and forced a faint laugh.

“Whom have we here?” cried Captain Jarvis, who was looking out at a window which commanded a view of the approach to the house— “the apothecary and his attendant judging from the equipage.”

The rector threw an inquiring look on a servant, who told his master they were strangers to him.

“Have them shown up, doctor,” cried the benevolent baronet, who loved to see every one as happy as himself, “and give them some of your excellent pasty, for the sake of hospitality and the credit of your cook, I beg of you.”

As this request was politely seconded by others of the party, the rector ordered his servants to show in the strangers.

On opening the parlor door, a gentleman, apparently sixty years of age, appeared, leaning on the arm of a youth of five-and-twenty. There was sufficient resemblance between the two for the most indifferent observer to pronounce them father and son; but the helpless debility and emaciated figure of the former, were finely contrasted by the vigorous health and manly beauty of the latter, who supported his venerable parent into the room with a grace and tenderness that struck most of the beholders with a sensation of pleasure. The doctor and Mrs. Ives rose from their seats involuntarily, and each stood for a moment, lost in an astonishment that was mingled with grief. Recollecting himself, the rector grasped the extended hand of the senior in both his own, and endeavored to utter something, but in vain. The tears followed each other down his cheeks, as he looked on the faded and careworn figure which stood before him; while his wife, unable to control her feelings, sank back into a chair and wept aloud.

Throwing open the door of an adjoining room, and retaining the hand of the invalid, the doctor gently led the way, followed by his wife and son. The former, having recovered from the first burst of her sorrow, and regardless of everything else, now anxiously watched the enfeebled step of the stranger. On reaching the door, they both turned and bowed to the company in a manner of so much dignity, mingled with sweetness, that all, not excepting Mr. Benfield, rose from their seats to return the salutation. On passing from the dining parlor, the door was closed, leaving the company standing round the table in mute astonishment and commiseration. Not a word had been spoken, and the rector’s family had left them without apology or explanation. Francis, however soon returned, and was followed in a few minutes by his mother, who, slightly apologizing for her absence, turned the discourse on the approaching Sunday, and the intention of Francis to preach on that day. The Moseleys were too well bred to make any inquiries, and the deanery family was afraid. Sir Edward retired at a very early hour, and was followed by the remainder of the party.

“Well,” cried Mrs. Jarvis, as they drove from the door, “this may be good breeding, but, for my part, I think both the doctor and Mrs. Ives behaved very rudely, with the crying and sobbing.”

“They are nobody of much consequence,” cried her eldest daughter, casting a contemptuous glance on a plain travelling chaise which stood before the rector’s stables.

“’Twas sickening,” said Miss Sarah, with a shrug; while her father, turning his eyes on each speaker in succession, very deliberately helped himself to a pinch of snuff, his ordinary recourse against a family quarrel. The curiosity of the ladies was, however, more lively than they chose to avow and Mrs. Jarvis bade her maid go over to the rectory that evening, with her compliments to Mrs. Ives; she had lost a lace veil, which her maid knew, and she thought it might have been left at the rectory.

“And, Jones, when you are there, you can inquire of the servants; mind, of the servants — I would not distress Mrs. Ives for the world; how Mr. — Mr. — what’s his name — Oh! — I have forgotten his name; just bring me his name too. Jones; and, as it may make some difference in our party, just find out how long they stay; and — and — any other little thing, Jones, which can be of use, you know.”

Off went Jones, and within an hour she had returned. With an important look, she commenced her narrative, the daughters being accidentally present, and it might be on purpose.

“Why, ma’am, I went across the fields, and William was good enough to go with me; so when we got there, I rang, and they showed us into the servants’ room, and I gave my message, and the veil was not there. Why, ma’am, there’s the veil now, on the back o’ that chair.”

“Very well, very well, Jones, never mind the veil,” cried the impatient mistress.

“So, ma’am, while they were looking for the veil, I just asked one of the maids, what company had arrived, but” — (here Jones looked very suspicious, and shook her head ominously:) “would you think it, ma’am, not a soul of them knew! But, ma’am, there was the doctor and his son, praying and reading with the old gentleman the whole time — and” —

“And what, Jones?”

“Why, ma’am, I expect he has been a great sinner, or he wouldn’t want so much praying just as he is about to die.”

“Die!” cried all three at once: “will he die?”

“O yes,” continued Jones, “they all agree he must die; but this praying so much, is just like the criminals. I’m sure no honest person needs so much praying, ma’am.”

“No, indeed,” said the mother. “No, indeed,” responded the daughters, as they retired to their several rooms for the night.

Chapter V.

There is something in the season of Spring which peculiarly excites the feelings of devotion. The dreariness of winter has passed, and with it, the deadened affections of our nature. New life, new vigor, arises within us, as we walk abroad and feel the genial gales of April breathe upon us; and our hopes, our wishes, awaken with the revival of the vegetable world. It is then that the heart, which has been impressed with the goodness of the Creator, feels that goodness brought, as it were, into very contact with the senses. The eye loves to wander over the bountiful provisions nature is throwing forth in every direction for our comfort, and fixes its gaze on the clouds, which, having lost the chilling thinness of winter, roll in rich volumes, amidst the clear and softened fields of azure so peculiar to the season, leading the mind insensibly, to dwell on the things of another and a better world. It was on such a day, that the inhabitants of B —— thronged toward the village church, for the double purpose of pouring out their thanksgivings, and of hearing the first efforts of their rector’s son in the duties of his sacred calling.

Amongst the crowd whom curiosity or a better feeling had drawn forth, were to be seen the flaring equipage of the Jarvises, and the handsome carriages of Sir Edward Moseley and his sister. All the members of the latter family felt a lively anxiety for the success of the young divine. But knowing, as they well did, the strength of his native talents, the excellence of his education, and the fervor of his piety, it was an anxiety that partook more of hope than of fear. There was one heart, however, amongst them, that palpitated with an emotion that hardly admitted of control, as they approached the sacred edifice, for it had identified itself completely with the welfare of the rector’s son. There never was a softer, truer heart, than that which now almost audibly beat within the bosom of Clara Moseley; and she had given it to the young divine with all its purity and truth.

The entrance of a congregation into the sanctuary will at all times furnish, to an attentive observer, food for much useful speculation, if it be chastened with a proper charity for the weaknesses of others; and most people are ignorant of the insight they are giving into their characters and dispositions, by such an apparently trivial circumstance as their weekly approach to the tabernacles of the Lord. Christianity, while it chastens and amends the heart, leaves the natural powers unaltered; and it cannot be doubted that its operation is, or ought to be, proportionate to the abilities and opportunities of the subject of its holy impression— “Unto whomsoever much is given, much will be required.” While we acknowledge, that the thoughts might be better employed in preparing for those humiliations, of the spirit and thanksgiving of the heart which are required of all, and are so necessary to all, we must be indulged in a hasty view of some of the personages of our history, as they entered the church of B —— .

On the countenance of the baronet, was the dignity and composure of a mind at peace with itself and mankind. His step was rather more deliberate than common; his eye rested on the pavement, and on turning into his pew, as he prepared to kneel, in the first humble petition of our beautiful service, he raised it towards the altar with an expression of benevolence and reverence, that spoke contentment, not unmixed with faith.

In the demeanor of Lady Moseley, all was graceful and decent, while nothing could be properly said to be studied. She followed her husband with a step of equal deliberation, though it was slightly varied by a manner which, while it appeared natural to herself, might have been artificial in another: a cambric handkerchief concealed her face as she sank composedly by the side of Sir Edward, in a style which showed, that while she remembered her Maker, she had not entirely forgotten herself.

The walk of Mrs. Wilson was quicker than that of her sister. Her eye, directed before her, was fixed, as if in settled gaze, on that eternity which she was approaching. The lines of her contemplative face were unaltered, unless there might be traced a deeper shade of humility than was ordinarily seen on her pale, but expressive countenance: her petition was long; and on rising from her humble posture, the person was indeed to be seen, but the soul appeared absorbed in contemplations beyond the limits of this sphere.

There was a restlessness and varying of color, in the ordinarily placid Clara, which prevented a display of her usual manner; while Jane walked gracefully, and with a tincture of her mother’s manner, by her side. She stole one hastily withdrawn glance to the deanery pew ere she kneeled, and then, on rising, handed her smelling-bottle affectionately to her elder sister.

Emily glided behind her companions with a face beaming with a look of innocence and love. As she sank in the act of supplication, the rich glow of her healthful cheek lost some of its brilliancy; but, on rising, it beamed with a renewed lustre, that plainly indicated a heart touched with the sanctity of its situation.

In the composed and sedate manner of Mr. Jarvis, as he steadily pursued his way to the pew of Sir William Harris, you might have been justified in expecting the entrance of another Sir Edward Moseley in substance, if not in externals. But the deliberate separation of the flaps of his coat, as he comfortably seated himself, when you thought him about to kneel, followed by a pinch of snuff as he threw his eye around the building, led you at once to conjecture, that what at first had been mistaken for reverence, was the abstraction of some earthly calculation; and that his attendance was in compliance with custom, and not a little depended upon the thickness of his cushions, and the room he found for the disposition of two rather unwieldy legs.

The ladies of the family followed, in garments carefully selected for the advantageous display of their persons. As they sailed into their seats, where it would seem the improvidence of Sir William’s steward had neglected some important accommodation (some time being spent in preparation to be seated), the old lady, whose size and flesh really put kneeling out of the question, bent forward for a moment at an angle of eighty with the horizon, while her daughters prettily bowed their heads, with all proper precaution for the safety of their superb millinery.

At length the rector, accompanied by his son, appeared from the vestry. There was a dignity and solemnity in the manner in which this pious divine entered on the duties of his profession, which disposed the heart to listen with reverence and humility to precepts that were accompanied with so impressive an exterior. The stillness of expectation pervaded the church, when the pew opener led the way to the same interesting father and son whose entrance had interrupted the guests the preceding day, at the rectory. Every eye was turned on the emaciated parent, bending into the grave, and, as it were, kept from it by the supporting tenderness of his child. Hastily throwing open the door of her own pew, Mrs. Ives buried her face in her handkerchief; and her husband had proceeded far in the morning service before she raised it again to the view of the congregation. In the voice of the rector, there was an unusual softness and tremor that his people attributed to the feelings of a father about to witness the first efforts of an only child, but which in reality were owing to another and a deeper cause.

Prayers were ended, and the younger Ives ascended the pulpit. For a moment he paused; when, casting an anxious glance to the pew of the baronet, he commenced his sermon. He had chosen for his discourse the necessity of placing our dependence on divine grace. After having learnedly, but in the most unaffected manner, displayed the necessity of this dependence, as derived from revelation, he proceeded to paint the hope, the resignation, the felicity of a Christian’s death-bed. Warmed by the subject, his animation soon lent a heightened interest to his language; and at a moment when all around him were entranced by the eloquence of the youthful divine, a sudden and deep-drawn sigh drew every eye to the rector’s pew. The younger stranger sat motionless as a statue, holding in his arms the lifeless body of his parent, who had fallen that moment a corpse by his side. All was now confusion: the almost insensible young man was relieved from his burden; and, led by the rector, they left the church. The congregation dispersed in silence, or assembled in little groups, to converse on the awful event they had witnessed. None knew the deceased; he was the rector’s friend, and to his residence the body was removed. The young man was evidently his child; but here all information ended. They had arrived in a private chaise, but with post horses, and without attendants. Their arrival at the parsonage was detailed by the Jarvis ladies with a few exaggerations that gave additional interest to the whole event, and which, by creating an impression with some whom gentler feelings would not have restrained, that there was something of mystery about them, prevented many distressing questions to the Ives’s, that the baronet’s family forbore putting, on the score of delicacy. The body left B —— at the close of the week, accompanied by Francis Ives and the unweariedly attentive and interesting son. The doctor and his wife went into deep mourning, and Clara received a short note from her lover, on the morning of their departure, acquainting her with his intended absence for a month, but throwing no light upon the affair. The London papers, however, contained the following obituary notice, and which, as it could refer to no other person, as a matter of course, was supposed to allude to the rector’s friend.

“Died, suddenly, at B —— , on the 20th instant, George Denbigh, Esq., aged 63.”

Chapter VI.

During the week of mourning, the intercourse between Moseley Hall and the rectory was confined to messages and notes of inquiry after each other’s welfare: but the visit of the Moseleys to the deanery had been returned; and the day after the appearance of the obituary paragraph, the family of the latter dined by invitation at the Hall. Colonel Egerton had recovered the use of his leg, and was included in the party. Between this gentleman and Mr. Benfield there appeared, from the first moment of their introduction, a repugnance which was rather increased by time, and which the old gentleman manifested by a demeanor loaded with the overstrained ceremony of the day, and which, in the colonel, only showed itself by avoiding, when possible, all intercourse with the object of his aversion. Both Sir Edward and Lady Moseley, on the contrary, were not slow in manifesting their favorable impressions in behalf of the gentleman. The latter, in particular, having ascertained to her satisfaction that he was the undoubted heir to the title, and most probably to the estates of his uncle, Sir Edgar Egerton, felt herself strongly disposed to encourage an acquaintance she found so agreeable, and to which she could see no reasonable objection. Captain Jarvis, who was extremely offensive to her, from his vulgar familiarity, she barely tolerated, from the necessity of being civil, and keeping up sociability in the neighborhood. It is true, she could not help being surprised that a gentleman, as polished, as the colonel, could find any pleasure in an associate like his friend, or even in the hardly more softened females of his family; then again, the flattering suggestion would present itself, that possibly he might have seen Emily at Bath, or Jane elsewhere, and availed himself of the acquaintance of young Jarvis to get into their neighborhood. Lady Moseley had never been vain, or much interested about the disposal of her own person, previously to her attachment to her husband: but her daughters called forth not a little of her natural pride — we had almost said of her selfishness.

The attentions of the colonel were of the most delicate and insinuating kind; and Mrs. Wilson several times turned away in displeasure at herself, for listening with too much satisfaction to nothings, uttered in an agreeable manner, or, what was worse, false sentiments supported with the gloss of language and a fascinating deportment. The anxiety of this lady on behalf of Emily kept her ever on the alert, when chance, or any chain of circumstances, threw her in the way of forming new connexions of any kind; and of late, as her charge approached the period of life her sex were apt to make that choice from which there is no retreat, her solicitude to examine the characters of the men who approached her was really painful. As to Lady Moseley, her wishes disposed her to be easily satisfied, and her mind naturally shrank from an investigation to which she felt herself unequal; while Mrs. Wilson was governed by the convictions of a sound discretion, matured by long and deep reasoning, all acting on a temper at all times ardent, and a watchfulness calculated to endure to the end.

“Pray, my lady,” said Mrs. Jarvis, with a look of something like importance, “have you made any discovery about this Mr. Denbigh, who died in the church lately?”

“I did not know, ma’am,” replied Lady Moseley, “there was any discovery to be made.”

“You know, Lady Moseley,” said Colonel Egerton, “that in town, all the little accompaniments of such a melancholy death would have found their way into the prints; and I suppose this is what Mrs. Jarvis alludes to.”

“Oh yes,” cried Mrs. Jarvis, “the colonel is right.” But the colonel was always right with that lady.

Lady Moseley bowed her head with dignity, and the colonel had too much tact to pursue the conversation; but the captain, whom nothing had ever yet abashed, exclaimed,

“These Denbighs could not be people of much importance — I have never heard the name before.”

“It is the family name of the Duke of Derwent, I believe,” dryly remarked Sir Edward.

“Oh, I am sure neither the old man nor his son looked much like a duke, or so much as an officer either,” exclaimed Mrs. Jarvis, who thought the latter rank the dignity in degree next below nobility.

“There sat, in the parliament of this realm, when I was a member, a General Denbigh,” said Mr. Benfield, with his usual deliberation; “he was always on the same side with Lord Gosford and myself. He and his friend, Sir Peter Howell, who was the admiral that took the French squadron, in the glorious administration of Billy Pitt, and afterwards took an island with this same General Denbigh: aye, the old admiral was a hearty blade; a good deal such a looking man as my Hector would make.”

Hector was Mr. Benfield’s bull dog.

“Mercy,” whispered John to Clara, “that’s your grandfather that is to be uncle Benfield is speaking of.”

Clara smiled, as she ventured to say, “Sir Peter was Mrs. Ives’s father, sir.”

“Indeed!” said the old gentleman, with a look of surprise, “I never knew that before; I cannot say they resemble each other much.”

“Pray, uncle, does Frank look much like the family?” asked John, with an air of unconquerable gravity.

“But, sir,” interrupted Emily, “were General Denbigh and Admiral Ho well related?”

“Not that I ever knew, Emmy dear. Sir Frederick Denbigh did not look much like the admiral; he rather resembled (gathering himself up into an air of formality, and bowing stiffly to Colonel Egerton) this gentleman, here.”

“I have not the honor of the connexion,” observed the colonel, withdrawing behind the chair of Jane.

Mrs. Wilson changed the conversation to one more general; but the little that had fallen from Mr. Benfield gave reason for believing a connexion, in some way of which they were ignorant, existed between the descendants of the two veterans, and which explained the interest they felt in each other.

During dinner, Colonel Egerton placed himself next to Emily, and Miss Jarvis took, the chair on the other side. He spoke of the gay world, of watering-places, novels, plays, and still finding his companion reserved, and either unwilling or unable to talk freely, he tried his favorite sentiment. He had read poetry, and a remark of his lighted up a spark of intelligence in the beautiful face of his companion that for a moment deceived him; but as he went on to point out his favorite beauties, it gave place to a settled composure, which at last led him to imagine the casket contained no gem equal to the promise of its brilliant exterior. After resting from one of his most labored displays of feeling and imagery, he accidentally caught the eyes of Jane fastened on him with an expression of no dubious import, and the soldier changed his battery. In Jane he found a more willing auditor; poetry was the food she lived on, and in works of the imagination she found her greatest delight. An animated discussion of the merits of their favorite authors now took place; to renew which, the colonel early left the dining-room for the society of the ladies; John, who disliked drinking excessively, being happy of an excuse to attend him.

The younger ladies had clustered together round a window and even Emily in her heart rejoiced that the gentlemen had come to relieve herself and sisters from the arduous task of entertaining women who appeared not to possess a single taste or opinion in common with themselves.

“You were saying, Miss Moseley,” observed the colonel in his most agreeable manner, as he approached them, “you thought Campbell the most musical poet we have; I hope you will unite with me in excepting Moore.”

Jane colored, as with some awkwardness she replied, “Moore was certainly very poetical.”

“Has Moore written much?” innocently asked Emily.

“Not half as much as he ought,” cried Miss Jarvis. “Oh! I could live on his beautiful lines.”

Jane turned away in disgust; and that evening, while alone with Clara, she took a volume of Moore’s songs, and very coolly consigned them to the flames. Her sister naturally asked an explanation of so extraordinary a procedure.

“Oh!” cried Jane, “I can’t abide the book, since that vulgar Miss Jarvis speaks of it with so much interest. I really believe aunt Wilson is right in not suffering Emily to read such things.” And Jane, who had often devoured the treacherous lines with ardor, shrank with fastidious delicacy from the indulgence of a perverted taste, when it became exposed, coupled with the vulgarity of unblushing audacity.

Colonel Egerton immediately changed the subject to one less objectionable, and spoke of a campaign he had made in Spain. He possessed the happy faculty of giving an interest to all he advanced, whether true or not; and as he never contradicted, or even opposed unless to yield gracefully, when a lady was his opponent, his conversation insensibly attracted, by putting the sex in good humor with themselves. Such a man, aided by the powerful assistants of person and manners, and no inconsiderable colloquial talents, Mrs. Wilson knew to be extremely dangerous as a companion to a youthful female heart; and as his visit was to extend to a couple of months, she resolved to reconnoitre the state of her pupil’s opinion forthwith in reference to his merits. She had taken too much pains in forming the mind of Emily to apprehend she would fall a victim to the eye; but she also knew that personal grace sweetened a benevolent expression, and added force even to the oracles of wisdom. She labored a little herself under the disadvantage of what John called a didactic manner, and which, although she had not the ability, or rather taste, to amend, she had yet the sense to discern. It was the great error of Mrs. Wilson to attempt to convince, where she might have influenced; but her ardor of temperament, and great love of truth, kept her, as it were, tilting with the vices of mankind, and consequently sometimes in unprofitable combat. With her charge, however, this could never be said to be the case, Emily knew her heart, felt her love, and revered her principles too deeply, to throw away an admonition, or disregard a precept, that fell from lips she knew never spoke idly or without consideration.

John had felt tempted to push the conversation with Miss Jarvis, and he was about to utter something rapturous respecting the melodious poison of Little’s poems, as the blue eye of Emily rested on him in the fulness of sisterly affection and checking his love of the ridiculous, he quietly yielded to his respect for the innocence of his sisters; and, as if eager to draw the attention of all from the hateful subject, he put question after question to Egerton concerning the Spaniards and their customs.

“Did you ever meet Lord Pendennyss in Spain, Colonel Egerton?” inquired Mrs. Wilson, with interest.

“Never, madam,” he replied. “I have much reason to regret that our service lay in different parts of the country: his lordship was much with the duke, and I made the campaign under Marshal Beresford.”

Emily left the group at the window, and taking a seat on the sofa by the side of her aunt, insensibly led her to forget the gloomy thoughts which had begun to steal over her; which the colonel, approaching where they sat, continued, by asking —

“Are you acquainted with the earl, madam?”

“Not in person, but by character,” said Mrs. Wilson, in a melancholy manner.

“His character as a soldier was very high. He had no superior of his years in Spain, I am told.”

No reply was made to this remark, and Emily endeavored anxiously to draw the mind of her aunt to reflections of a more agreeable nature. The colonel, whose vigilance to please was ever on the alert, kindly aided her, and they soon succeeded.

The merchant withdrew, with his family and guest, in proper season: and Mrs. Wilson, heedful of her duty, took the opportunity of a quarter of an hour’s privacy in her own dressing-room in the evening, to touch gently on the subject of the gentlemen they had seen that day.

“How are you pleased, Emily, with your new acquaintances?” familiarly commenced Mrs. Wilson.

“Oh! aunt, don’t ask me; as John says, they are net indeed.”

“I am not sorry,” continued the aunt, “to have you observe more closely than you have been used to the manners of such women as the Jarvises; they are too abrupt and unpleasant to create a dread of any imitation; but the gentlemen are heroes in very different styles.”

“Different from each other, indeed.”

“To which do you give the preference, my dear?”

“Preference, aunt!” said her niece, with a look of astonishment; “preference is a strong word for either; but I rather think the captain the most eligible companion of the two. I do believe you see the worst of him; and although I acknowledge it to be bad enough, he might amend; but the colonel” —

“Go on,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“Why, everything about the colonel seems so seated, so ingrafted in his nature, so — so very self-satisfied, that I am afraid it would be a difficult task to take the first step in amendment — to convince him of its necessity?

“And is it then so necessary?”

Emily looked up from arranging some laces, with an expression of surprise, as he replied:

“Did you not hear him talk of those poems, and attempt to point out the beauties of several works? I thought everything he uttered was referred to taste, and that not a very natural one; at least,” she added with a laugh, “it differed greatly from mine. He seemed to forget altogether there was such a thing as principle: and then he spoke of some woman to Jane, who had left her father for her lover, with so much admiration of her feelings, to take up with poverty and love, as he called it, in place of condemning her want of filial piety — I am sure, aunt, if you had heard that, you would not admire him so much.”

“I do not admire him at all, child; I only want to know your sentiments, and I am happy to find them so correct. It is as you think; Colonel Egerton appears to refer nothing to principle: even the more generous feelings I am afraid are corrupted in him, from too low intercourse with the surface of society. There is by far too much pliability about him for principle of any kind, unless indeed it be a principle to please, no matter how. No one, who has deeply seated opinions of right and wrong, will ever abandon them, even in the courtesies of polite intercourse: they may be silent but never acquiescent: in short, my dear, the dread of offending our Maker ought to be so superior to that of offending our fellow creatures, that we should endeavor, I believe, to be even more unbending to the follies of the world than we are.”

“And yet the colonel is what they call a good companion — I mean a pleasant one.”

“In the ordinary meaning of the words, he is certainly, my dear; yet you soon tire of sentiments which will not stand the test of examination, and of a manner you cannot but see is artificial. He may do very well for a companion, but very ill for a friend; in short, Colonel Egerton has neither been satisfied to yield to his natural impressions, nor to obtain new ones from a proper source; he has copied from bad models, and his work must necessarily be imperfect.”

Kissing her niece, Mrs. Wilson then retired into her own room, with the happy assurance that she had not labored in vain; but that, with divine aid, she had implanted a guide in the bosom of her charge that could not fail, with ordinary care, to lead her straight through the devious path of female duties.

Chapter VII.

A Month now passed in the ordinary occupations and amusements of a country life, during which both Lady Moseley and Jane manifested a desire to keep up the deanery acquaintance, that surprised Emily a little, who had ever seen her mother shrink from communications with those whose breeding subjected her own delicacy, to the little shocks she could but ill conceal. In Jane this desire was still more inexplicable; for Jane had, in a decided way very common to her, avowed her disgust of the manners of their new associates at the commencement of the acquaintance; and yet Jane would now even quit her own society for that of Miss Jarvis, especially if Colonel Egerton happened to be of the party The innocence of Emily prevented her scanning the motives for the conduct of her sister; and she set seriously about an examination into her own deportment to find the latent cause, in order, wherever an opportunity should offer, to evince her regret, had it been her misfortune, to have erred by the tenderness of her own manner.

For a short time the colonel seemed at a loss where to make his choice; but a few days determined him, and Jane was evidently the favorite. It is true, that in the presence of the Jarvis ladies he was more guarded and general in his attentions; but as John, from a motive of charity, had taken the direction of the captain’s sports into his own hands; and as they were in the frequent habit of meeting at the Hall preparatory to their morning excursion, the colonel suddenly became a sportsman. The ladies would often accompany them in their morning excursions; and as John would certainly be a baronet, and the colonel might not if his uncle married, he had the comfort of being sometimes ridden, as well as of riding.

One morning, having all prepared for an excursion on horseback, as they stood at the door ready to mount, Francis Ives drove up in his father’s gig, and for a moment arrested the party. Francis was a favorite with the whole Moseley family, and their greetings were warm and sincere. He found they meant to take the rectory in their ride, and insisted that they should proceed. “Clara would take a seat with him.” As he spoke, the cast of his countenance brought the color into the cheeks of his intended; she suffered herself, however, to be handed into the vacant seat in the gig, and they moved on. John, who was at the bottom good-natured, and loved both Francis and Clara very sincerely, soon set Captain Jarvis and his sister what he called “scrub racing,” and necessity, in some measure, compelled the rest of the equestrians to hard riding, in order to keep up with the sports.

“That will do, that will do,” cried John, casting his eye back, and perceiving they had lost sight of the gig, and nearly so of Colonel Egerton and Jane, “why you carry it off like a jockey, captain; better than any amateur I have ever seen, unless indeed it be your sister.”

The lady encouraged by his commendations, whipped on, followed by her brother and sister at half speed.

“There, Emily,” said John, quietly dropping by her side “I see no reason you and I should break our necks, to show the blood of our horses. Now do you know I think we are going to have a wedding in the family soon?”

Emily looked at him in amazement.

“Frank has got a living; I saw it the moment he drove up. He came in like somebody. Yes, I dare say he has calculated the tithes already a dozen times.”

John was right. The Earl of Bolton had, unsolicited, given him the desired living of his own parish; and Francis was at the moment pressing the blushing Clara to fix the day that was to put a period to his long probation. Clara, who had not a particle of coquetry about her, promised to be his as soon as he was inducted, an event that was to take place the following week; and then followed those delightful little arrangements and plans with which youthful hope is so fond of filling up the void of life.

“Doctor,” said John, as he came out of the rectory to assist Clara from the gig, “the parson here is a careful driver; see, he has not turned a hair.”

He kissed the burning cheek of his sister as she touched the ground, and whispered significantly.

“You need tell me nothing, my dear — I know all — I consent.”

Mrs. Ives folded her future daughter to her bosom; and the benevolent smile of the good rector, together with the kind and affectionate manner of her sisters, assured Clara the approaching nuptials were anticipated, as a matter of course. Colonel Egerton offered his compliments to Francis on his preferment to the living, with the polish of high breeding, and not without an appearance of interest; and Emily thought him for the first time as handsome as he was generally reputed to be. The ladies undertook to say something civil in their turn, and John put the captain, by a hint, on the same track.

“You are quite lucky, sir,” said the captain, “in getting so good a living with so little trouble; I wish you joy of it with all my heart: Mr. Moseley tells me it is a capital thing now for a gentleman of your profession. For my part. I prefer a scarlet coat to a black one, but there must be parsons you know, or how should we get married or say grace?”

Francis thanked him for his good wishes, and Egerton paid a handsome compliment to the liberality of the earl; “he doubted not he found that gratification which always attends a disinterested act;” and Jane applauded the sentiment with a smile.

The baronet, when he was made acquainted with the situation of affairs, promised Francis that no unnecessary delay should intervene, and the marriage was happily arranged for the following week. Lady Moseley, when she retired to the drawing-room after dinner, commenced a recital of the ceremony and company to be invited on the occasion. Etiquette and the decencies of life were not only the forte, but the fault of this lady; and she had gone on to the enumeration of about the fortieth personage in the ceremonials, before Clara found courage to say, that “Mr. Ives and myself both wish to be married at the altar, and to proceed to Bolton Rectory immediately after the ceremony.” To this her mother warmly objected; and argument and respectful remonstrance had followed each other for some time, before Clara submitted in silence, with difficulty restraining her tears. This appeal to the better feelings of the mother triumphed; and the love of parade yielded to love of her offspring. Clara, with a lightened heart, kissed and thanked her, and accompanied by Emily left the room; Jane had risen to follow them, but catching a glimpse of the tilbury of Colonel Egerton she reseated herself.

He had merely driven over at the earnest entreaties of the ladies to beg Miss Jane would accept a seat back with him; “they had some little project on foot, and could not proceed without her assistance.”

Mrs. Wilson looked gravely at her sister, as she smiled acquiescence to his wishes; and the daughter, who but the minute before had forgotten there was any other person in the world but Clara, flew for her hat and shawl, in order, as he said to herself, that the politeness of Colonel Egerton might not keep him waiting. Lady Moseley resumed her seat by the side of her sister with an air of great complacency, as she returned from the window, after having seen her daughter off. For some time each was occupied quietly with her needle, when Mrs. Wilson suddenly broke the silence by saying:

“Who is Colonel Egerton?”

Lady Moseley looked up for a moment in amazement, but recollecting herself, answered,

“The nephew and heir of Sir Edgar Egerton, sister.”

This was spoken in a rather positive way, as if it were unanswerable; yet as there was nothing harsh in the reply, Mrs. Wilson continued,

“Do you not think him attentive to Jane?”

Pleasure sparkled in the still brilliant eyes of Lady Moseley, as she exclaimed —

“Do you think so?”

“I do; and you will pardon me if I say improperly so. I think you were wrong in suffering Jane to go with him this afternoon.”

“Why improperly, Charlotte? If Colonel Egerton is polite enough to show Jane such attentions, should I not be wrong in rudely rejecting them?”

“The rudeness of refusing a request that is improper to grant is a very venial offence. I confess I think it improper to allow any attentions to be forced on us that may subject us to disagreeable consequences; but the attentions of Colonel Egerton are becoming marked, Anne.”

“Do you for a moment doubt their being honorable, or that he dares to trifle with a daughter of Sir Edward Moseley?”

“I should hope not, certainly, although it may be well to guard even against such a misfortune. But I am of opinion it is quite as important to know whether he is worthy to be her husband as it is to know that he is in a situation to become so.”

“On what points, Charlotte, would you wish to be more assured? You know his birth and probable fortune — you see his manners and disposition; but these latter are things for Jane to decide on; she is to live with him, and it is proper she should be suited in these respects.”

“I do not deny his fortune or his disposition, but I complain that we give him credit for the last, and for still more important requisites, without evidence of his possessing any of them. His principles, his habits, his very character, what do we know of them? I say we, for you know, Anne, your children are as dear to me as my own would have been.”

“I believe you sincerely, but the things you mention are points for Jane to decide on. If she be pleased, I have no right to complain. I am determined never to control the affections of my children.”

“Had you said, never to force the affections of your children, you would have said enough, Anne; but to control, or rather to guide the affections of a child, especially a daughter, is, in some cases, a duty as imperative as it would be to avert any other impending calamity. Surely the proper time to do this is before the affections of the child are likely to endanger her peace of mind.”

“I have seldom seen much good result from the interference of parents,” said Lady Moseley, a little pertinaciously.

“True; for to be of use, unless in extraordinary cases, it should not be seen. You will pardon me, Anne, but I have often thought parents are too often in extremes — determined to make the election for their children, or leaving them entirely to their own vanity and inexperience, to govern not only their own lives, but, I may say, to leave an impression on future generations. And, after all, what is this love? In nineteen cases in twenty of what we call affairs of the heart, it would be better to term them affairs of the imagination.”

“And is there not a great deal of imagination in all love?” inquired Lady Moseley, smiling.

“Undoubtedly, there is some; but there is one important difference: in affairs of the imagination, the admired object is gifted with all those qualities we esteem, as a matter of course, and there is a certain set of females who are ever ready to bestow this admiration on any applicant for their favors who may not be strikingly objectionable. The necessity of being courted makes our sex rather too much disposed to admire improper suitors.”

“But how do you distinguish affairs of the heart, Charlotte, from those of the fancy?”

“When the heart takes the lead, it is not difficult to detect it. Such sentiments generally follow long intercourse, and opportunities of judging the real character. They are the only attachments that are likely to stand the test of worldly trials.”

“Suppose Emily to be the object of Colonel Egerton’s pursuit, then, sister, in what manner would you proceed to destroy the influence I acknowledge he is gaining over Jane?”

“I cannot suppose such a case,” said Mrs. Wilson, gravely; and then, observing that her sister looked as if she required an explanation, she continued —

“My attention has been directed to the forming of such principles, and such a taste, if I may use the expression, under those principles, that I feel no apprehension Emily will ever allow her affections to be ensnared by a man of the opinions and views of Colonel Egerton. I am impressed with a twofold duty in watching the feelings of my charge. She has so much singleness of heart, such real strength of native feeling, that, should an improper man gain possession of her affections, the struggle between her duty and her love would be weighty indeed; and should it proceed so far as to make it her duty to love an unworthy object, I am sure she would sink under it. Emily would die in the same, circumstances under which Jane would only awake from a dream, and be wretched.”

“I thought you entertained a better opinion of Jane, sister,” said Lady Moseley, reproachfully.

“I think her admirably calculated to make an invaluable wife and mother; but she is so much under the influence of her fancy, that she seldom gives her heart an opportunity of displaying its excellences; and again, she dwells so much upon imaginary perfections, that adulation has become necessary to her. The man who flatters her delicately will be sure to win her esteem; and every woman might love the being possessed of the qualities she will not fail to endow him with.”

“I do not know that I rightly understand how you would avert all these sad consequences of improvident affections?” said Lady Moseley.

“Prevention is better than cure — I would first implant such opinions as would lessen the danger of intercourse; and as for particular attentions from improper objects, it should be my care to prevent them, by prohibiting, or rather impeding, the intimacy which might give rise to them. And least of all,” said Mrs. Wilson, with a friendly smile, as she rose to leave the room, “would I suffer a fear of being impolite to endanger the happiness of a young woman intrusted to my care.”

Chapter VIII.

Francis, who labored with the ardor of a lover, soon completed the necessary arrangements and alterations in his new parsonage. The living was a good one, and as the rector was enabled to make a very considerable annual allowance from the private fortune his wife had brought him, and as Sir Edward had twenty thousand pounds in the funds for each of his daughters, one portion of which was immediately settled on Clara, the youthful couple had not only a sufficient, but an abundant provision for their station in life; and they entered on their matrimonial duties with as good a prospect of happiness as the ills of this world can give to health, affection, and competency. Their union had been deferred by Dr. Ives until his son was established, with a view to keep him under his own direction during the critical period of his first impressions in the priesthood; and as no objection now remained, or rather, the only one he ever felt was removed by the proximity of Bolton to his own parish, he now joyfully united the lovers at the altar of the village church, in the presence of his wife and Clara’s immediate relatives. On leaving the church Francis handed his bride into his own carriage, which conveyed them to their new residence, amidst the good wishes of his parishioners, and the prayers of their relatives and friends. Dr. and Mrs. Ives retired to the rectory, to the sober enjoyment of the felicity of their only child; while the baronet and his lady felt a gloom that belied all the wishes of the latter for the establishment of her daughters. Jane and Emily acted as bridesmaids to their sister, and as both the former and her mother had insisted there should be two groomsmen as a counterpoise, John was empowered with a carte-blanche to make a provision accordingly. At first he intimated his intention of calling on Mr. Benfield, but he finally settled down, to the no small mortification of the before-mentioned ladies, into writing a note to his kinsman, Lord Chatterton, whose residence was then in London, and who in reply, after expressing his sincere regret that an accident would prevent his having the pleasure of attending, stated the intention of his mother and two sisters to pay them an early visit of congratulation, as soon as his own health would allow of his travelling. This answer arrived only the day preceding that fixed for the wedding, and at the very moment they were expecting his lordship in proper person.

“There,” cried Jane, in triumph, “I told you it was silly to send so far on so sudden an occasion; now, after all, what is to be done — it will be so awkward when Clara’s friends call to see her — Oh! John, John, you are a Marplot.”

“Jenny, Jenny, you are a make-plot,” said John, coolly taking up his hat to leave the room.

“Which way, my son?” said the baronet, who met him at the door.

“To the deanery, sir, to try to get Captain Jarvis to act as bridesmaid — I beg his pardon, groomsman, to-morrow — Chatterton has been thrown from a horse and can’t come.’’

“John!”

“Jenny!”

“I am sure,” said Jane, indignation glowing in her pretty face, “that if Captain Jarvis is to be an attendant, Clara must excuse my acting. I do not choose to be associated with Captain Jarvis.”

“John,” said his mother, with dignity, “your trifling is unseasonable; certainly Colonel Egerton is a more fitting person on every account, and I desire, under present circumstances, that you ask the colonel.”

“Your ladyship’s wishes are orders to me,” said John, gaily kissing his hand as he left the room.

The colonel was but too happy in having it in his power to be of service in any manner to a gentleman he respected as much as Mr. Francis Ives. He accepted the duty, and was the only person present at the ceremony who did not stand within the bonds of consanguinity to the parties. He was invited by the baronet to dine at the hall, as a matter of course, and notwithstanding the repeated injunctions of Mrs. Jarvis and her daughters, to return immediately with an account of the dress of the bride, and with other important items of a similar nature, the invitation was accepted. On reaching the hall, Emily retired immediately to her own room, and at her reappearance when the dinner bell rang, the paleness of her cheeks and the redness of her eyes afforded sufficient proof that the translation of a companion from her own to another family was an event, however happy in itself, not unmingled with grief. The day, however, passed off tolerably well for people who are expected to be premeditatedly happy, and when, in their hearts, they are really more disposed to weep than to laugh. Jane and the colonel had most of the conversation to themselves during dinner: even the joyous and thoughtless John wearing his gaiety in a less graceful manner than usual. He was actually detected by his aunt in looking with moistened eyes at the vacant chair a servant had, from habit, placed at the table, in the spot where Clara had been accustomed to sit.

“This beef is not done, Saunders,” said the baronet to his butler, “or my appetite is not as good as usual to-day. Colonel Egerton, will you allow me the pleasure of a glass of sherry?”

The wine was drunk, and the game succeeded the beef; but still Sir Edward could not eat.

“How glad Clara will be to see us all the day after to-morrow,” said Mrs. Wilson; “your new housekeepers delight in their first efforts in entertaining their friends.”

Lady Moseley smiled through her tears, and turning to her husband said, “We will go early, my dear, that we may see the improvements Francis has been making before we dine.” The baronet nodded assent, but his heart was too full to speak; and apologizing to the colonel for his absence, on the plea of some business with his people, he left the room.

All this time, the attentions of Colonel Egerton to both mother and daughter were of the most delicate kind. He spoke of Clara as if his office of groomsman entitled him to an interest in her welfare; with John he was kind and sociable; and even Mrs. Wilson acknowledged, after he had taken his leave, that he possessed a wonderful faculty of making himself agreeable, and she began to think that, under all circumstances, he might possibly prove as advantageous a connexion as Jane could expect to form. Had any one, however, proposed him as a husband for Emily, affection would have quickened her judgment in a way that would have urged her to a very different decision.

Soon after the baronet left the room, a travelling carriage, with suitable attendants, drove to the door; the sound of the wheels drew most of the company to a window. “A baron’s coronet!” cried Jane, catching a glimpse of the ornaments of the harness.

“The Chattertons,” echoed her brother, running out of the room to meet them.

The mother of Sir Edward was a daughter of this family, and the sister of the grandfather of the present lord. The connexion had always been kept up with a show of cordiality between Sir Edward and his cousin, although their manner of living and habits were very different. The baron was a courtier and a placeman. His estates, which he could not alienate, produced about ten thousand a year, but the income he could and did spend; and the high perquisites of his situation under government, amounting to as much more were melted away year after year, without making the pro vision for his daughters that his duty and the observance of his promise to his wife’s father required at his hands. He had been dead about two years, and his son found himself saddled with the support of an unjointured mother and unportioned sisters. Money was not the idol the young lord worshipped, nor even pleasure. He was affectionate to his surviving parent, and his first act was to settle, during his own life, two thousand a year on her, while he commenced setting aside as much more for each of his sisters annually. This abridged him greatly in his own expenditures; yet, as they made but one family, and the dowager was really a managing woman in more senses than one, they made a very tolerable figure. The son was anxious to follow the example of Sir Edward Moseley, and give up his town house, for at least a time; but his mother had exclaimed, with something like horror, at the proposal:

“Chatterton, would you give it up at the moment it can be of the most use to us?” and she threw a glance at her daughters that would have discovered her motive to Mrs Wilson, which was lost on her son; he, poor soul, thinking she found it convenient to support the interest he had been making for the place held by his father one of more emolument than service, or even honor. The contending parties were so equally matched, that this situation was kept, as it were, in abeyance, waiting the arrival of some acquisition of interest to one or other of the claimants. The interest of the peer, however, had begun to lose ground at the period of which we speak, and his careful mother saw new motives for activity in providing for her children. Mrs. Wilson herself could not be more vigilant in examining the candidates for Emily’s favors than was the dowager Lady Chatterton in behalf of her daughter. It is true, the task of the former Jady was by far the most arduous, for it involved a study of character and development of principle; while that of the latter would have ended with the footing of a rent-roll, provided it contained five figures. Sir Edward’s was well known to contain that number, and two of them were not ciphers. Mr. Benfield was rich, and John Moseley was a very agreeable young man. Weddings are the season of love, thought the prudent dowager, and Grace is extremely pretty. Chatterton, who never refused his mother anything in his power to grant, and who was particularly dutiful when a visit to Moseley Hall was in question, suffered himself to be persuaded his shoulder was well, and they had left town the day before the wedding, thinking to be in time for all the gaieties, if not for the ceremony itself.

There existed but little similarity between the persons and manners of this young nobleman and the baronet’s heir. The beauty of Chatterton was almost feminine; his skin, his color, his eyes, his teeth, were such as many a belle had sighed after; and his manners were bashful and retiring. Yet an intimacy had commenced between the boys at school, which ripened into friendship between the young men at college, and had been maintained ever since, probably as much from the contrarieties of character as from any other cause. With the baron, John was more sedate than ordinary; with John, Chatterton found unusual animation. But a secret charm which John held over the young peer was his profound respect and unvarying affection for his youngest sister, Emily. This was common ground; and no dreams of future happiness, no visions of dawning wealth, crossed the imagination of Chatterton in which Emily was not the fairy to give birth to the one, or the benevolent dispenser of the hoards of the other.

The arrival of this family was a happy relief from the oppression which hung on the spirits of the Moseleys, and their reception marked with the mild benevolence which belonged to the nature of the baronet, and that impressement which so eminently distinguished the manners of his wife.

The honorable Misses Chatterton were both handsome; but the younger was, if possible, a softened picture of her brother. There was the same retiring bashfulness and the same sweetness of temper as distinguished the baron, and Grace was the peculiar favorite of Emily Moseley. Nothing of the strained or sentimental nature which so often characterize what is called female friendships, however, had crept into the communications between these young women. Emily loved her sisters too well to go out of her own family for a repository of her griefs or a partaker in her joys. Had her life been chequered with such passions, her own sisters were too near her own age to suffer her to think of a confidence in which the holy ties of natural affection did not give a claim to a participation. Mrs. Wilson had found it necessary to give her charge very different views on many subjects from those which Jane and Clara had been suffered to imbibe of themselves; but in no degree had she impaired the obligations of filial piety or family concord. Emily was, if anything, more respectful to her parents, more affectionate to her friends, than any of her connexions; for in her the warmth of natural feeling was heightened by an unvarying sense of duty.

In Grace Chatterton she found, in many respects, a temper and taste resembling her own. She therefore loved her better than others who had equally general claims on her partiality, and as such a friend she now received her with cordial and sincere affection.

Jane, who had not felt satisfied with the ordering of Providence for the disposal of her sympathies, and had long felt a restlessness that prompted her to look abroad for a confiding spirit to whom to communicate her — secrets she had none that delicacy would suffer her to reveal — but to communicate her crude opinions and reflections, she had early selected Catherine for this person. Catherine, however, had not stood the test of trial. For a short time the love of heraldry kept them together; but Jane, finding her companion’s gusto limited to the charms of the coronet and supporters chiefly, abandoned the attempt in despair, and was actually on the look-out for a new candidate for the vacant station as Colonel Egerton came into the neighborhood. A really delicate female mind shrinks from the exposure of its love to the other sex, and Jane began to be less anxious to form a connexion which would either violate the sensibility of her nature, or lead to treachery to her friend.

“I regret extremely, Lady Moseley,” said the dowager, as they entered the drawing-room, “that the accident which befel Chatterton should have kept us until it was too late for the ceremony: we made it a point to hasten with our congratulations, however, as soon as Astley Cooper thought it safe for him to travel.”

“I feel indebted for your kindness,” replied the smiling hostess. “We are always happy to have our friends around us, and none more than yourself and family. We were fortunate in finding a friend to supply your son’s place, in order that the young people might go to the altar in a proper manner. Lady Chatterton, allow me to present our friend, Colonel Egerton” — adding, in a low tone, and with a little emphasis,— “heir to Sir Edgar.”

The colonel bowed gracefully, and the dowager dropped a hasty courtesy at the commencement of the speech; but lower bend followed the closing remark, and a glance of the eye was thrown in quest of her daughters, as if she instinctively wished to bring them into what the sailors term “the line of battle.”

Chapter IX.

The following morning, Emily and Grace, declining the invitation to join the colonel and John in their usual rides, walked to the rectory, accompanied by Mrs. Wilson and Chatterton. The ladies felt a desire to witness the happiness that they so well knew reigned in the rectory, for Francis had promised his father to drive Clara over in the course of the day. Emily longed to see Clara, from whom it appeared that she had been already separated a month. Her impatience as they approached the house hurried her ahead of her companions, who waited the more sober gait of Mrs. Wilson. She entered the parlor at the rectory without meeting any one, glowing with exercise, her hair falling over her shoulders, released from the confinement of the hat she had thrown down hastily as she reached the door. In the room there stood a gentleman in deep black, with his back towards the entrance, intent on a book, and she naturally concluded it was Francis.

“Where is dear Clara, Frank?” cried the beautiful girl, faying her hand affectionately on his shoulder.

The gentleman turned suddenly, and presented to her astonished gaze the well remembered countenance of the young man whose parent’s death was not likely to be forgotten at B —— .

“I thought, sir,” said Emily, almost sinking with confusion, “that Mr. Francis Ives— “

“Your brother ‘has not yet arrived, Miss Moseley,” simply replied the stranger, who felt for her embarrassment. “But I will immediately acquaint Mrs. Ives with your visit.” Bowing, he delicately left the room.

Emily, who felt greatly relieved by his manner, immediately confined her hair in its proper bounds, and had recovered her composure by the time her aunt and friends joined her. She had not time to mention the incident, and laughed at her own precipitation, when the rector’s wife came into the room.

Chatterton and his sister were both known to Mrs. Ives, and both were favorites. She was pleased to see them, and after reproaching the brother with compelling her son to ask a favor of a comparative stranger, she turned to Emily, and smilingly said —

“You found the parlor occupied, I believe?”

“Yes,” said Emily, laughing and blushing, “I suppose Mr. Denbigh told you of my heedlessness.”

“He told me of your attention in calling so soon to inquire after Clara, but said nothing more” — a servant just then telling her Francis wished to see her, she excused herself and withdrew. In the door she met Mr. Denbigh, who made way for her, saying, “your son has arrived, ma’am,” and in an easy but respectful manner he took his place with the guests, no introduction passing, and none seeming necessary. His misfortunes appeared to have made him acquainted with Mrs. Wilson, and his strikingly ingenuous manner won insensibly on the confidence of those who heard him. Everything was natural, yet everything was softened by education; and the little party in the rector’s parlor in fifteen minutes felt as if they had known him for years. The doctor and his son now joined them. Clara had not come, but she was looking forward in delightful expectation of to-morrow, and wished greatly for Emily as a guest at the new abode. This pleasure Mrs. Wilson promised she should have as soon as they had got over the hurry of their visit; “our friends,” she added, turning to Grace, “will overlook the nicer punctilios of ceremony, where sisterly regard calls for the discharge of more important duties. Clara needs the society of Emily just now.”

“Certainly,” said Grace, mildly; “I hope no useless ceremony on the part of Emily would prevent her manifesting natural attachment to her sister — I should feel hurt at her not entertaining a better opinion of us than to suppose so for a moment.”

“This, young ladies, is the real feeling to keep alive esteem,” cried the doctor, gaily: “go on, and say and do nothing of which either can disapprove, when tried by the standard of duty, and you need never be afraid of losing a friend that is worth keeping.”

It was three o’clock before the carriage of Mrs. Wilson arrived at the rectory; and the time stole away insensibly in free and friendly communications. Denbigh had joined modestly, and with the degree of interest a stranger might be supposed to feel, in the occurrences of a circle to which he was nearly a stranger; there was at times a slight display of awkwardness, however, about both him and Mrs. Ives, for which Mrs. Wilson easily accounted by recollections of his recent loss and the scene they had all witnessed in that very room. This embarrassment escaped the notice of the rest of the party. On the arrival of the carriage, Mrs. Wilson took her leave.

“I like this Mr. Denbigh greatly,” said Lord Chatterton, as they drove from the door; “there is something strikingly natural and winning in his manner.”

“In his matter too, judging of the little we have seen of him,” replied Mrs. Wilson.

“Who is he, ma’am?”

“I rather suspect he is someway related to Mrs. Ives; her staying from Bolton to-day must be owing to Mr. Denbigh, and as the doctor has just gone he must be near enough to them to be neither wholly neglected nor yet a tax upon their politeness. I rather wonder he did not go with them.”

“I heard him tell Francis,” remarked Emily, “that he could not think of intruding, and he insisted on Mrs. Ives’s going, but she had employments to keep her at home.”

The carriage soon reached an angle in the road where the highways between Bolton Castle and Moseley Hall intersected each other, at a point on the estate of the former. Mrs. Wilson stopped a moment to inquire after an aged pensioner, who had lately met with a loss in business, which she was fearful must have greatly distressed him. In crossing a ford in the little river between his cottage and the market-town, the stream, which had been swollen unexpectedly higher than usual by heavy rains, had swept away his horse and cart loaded with the entire produce of his small field, and with much difficulty he had saved even his own life. Mrs. Wilson had not had it in her power until this moment to inquire particularly into the affair, or to offer the relief she was ever ready to bestow on proper objects. Contrary to her expectations, she found Humphreys in high spirits, showing his delighted grand-children a new cart and horse which stood at the door, and exultingly pointing out the excellent qualities of both. He ceased talking on the approach of the party, and at the request of his ancient benefactress he gave a particular account of the affair.

“And where did you get this new cart and horse, Humphreys?” inquired Mrs. Wilson, when he had ended.

“Oh, madam, I went up to the castle to see the steward, and Mr. Martin just mentioned my loss to Lord Pendennyss, ma’am, and my lord ordered me this cart, ma’am, and this noble horse, and twenty golden guineas into the bargain to put me on my legs again — God bless him for it, for ever!”

“It was very kind of his lordship, indeed,” said Mrs. Wilson, thoughtfully: “I did not know he was at the castle.”

“He’s gone, already, madam; the servants told me that he just called to see the earl, on his way to Lon’on; but finding he’d went a few days agone to Ireland my lord went for Lon’on, without stopping the night even. Ah! madam,” continued the old man, who stood leaning on a stick, with his hat in his hand, “he’s a great blessing to the poor; his servants say he gives thousands every year to the poor who are in want — he is main rich, too; some people say, much richer and more great like than the earl himself. I’m sure I have need to bless him every day of my life.”

Mrs. Wilson smiled mournfully as she wished Humphreys good day and put up her purse, finding the old man so well provided for; a display or competition in charity never entering into her system of benevolence.

“His lordship is munificent in his bounty,” said Emily, as they drove from the door.

“Does it not savor of thoughtlessness to bestow so much where he can know so little?” Lord Chatterton ventured to inquire.

“He is,” replied Mrs. Wilson, “as old Humphrey says, main rich; but the son of the old man and the father of these children is a soldier in the —— th dragoons, of which the earl is colonel, and that accounts to me for his liberality,” recollecting, with a sigh, the feelings which had drawn her out of the usual circle of her charities in the case of the same man.

“Did you ever see Lord Pendennyss, aunt?”

“Never, my dear; he has been much abroad, but my letters were filled with his praises, and I confess my disappointment is great in not seeing him on this visit to Lord Bolton who is his relation; but,” fixing her eyes thoughtfully on her niece, “we shall meet in London this winter, I trust.”

As she spoke a cloud passed over her features, and she continued much absorbed in thought for the remainder of their drive.

General Wilson had been a cavalry officer, and he commanded the very regiment now held by Lord Pendennyss. In an excursion near the British camp he had been rescued from captivity, if not from death, by a gallant and timely interference of this young nobleman, then in command of a troop in the same corps. He had mentioned the occurrence to his wife in his letters, and from that day his correspondence was filled with the praises of the bravery and goodness to the soldiery of his young comrade. When he fell he had been supported from the field by, and he actually died in the arms of the young peer. A letter announcing his death had been received by his widow from the earl himself, and the tender and affectionate manner in which he spoke of her husband had taken a deep hold on her affections. All the circumstances together threw an interest around him that had made Mrs. Wilson almost entertain the romantic wish he might be found worthy and disposed to solicit the hand of Emily. Her anxious inquiries into his character had been attended with such answers as flattered her wishes; but the military duties of the earl or his private affairs had never allowed a meeting; and she was now compelled to look forward to what John laughingly termed their winter campaign, as the only probable place where she could be gratified with the sight of a young man to whom she owed so much, and whose name was connected with some of the most tender though most melancholy recollections of her life.

Colonel Egerton, who now appeared to be almost domesticated in the family, was again of the party at dinner, to the no small satisfaction of the dowager, who from proper inquiries in the course of the day had learned that Sir Edgar’s heir was likely to have the necessary number of figures in the sum total of his rental. While sitting in the drawing-room that afternoon she made an attempt to bring her eldest daughter and the elegant soldier together over a chess-board; a game the young lady had been required to learn because it was one at which a gentleman could be kept longer than any other without having his attention drawn away by any of those straggling charms which might be travelling a drawing-room “seeking whom they may devour.” It was also a game admirably suited to the display of a beautiful hand and arm. But the mother had for a long time been puzzled to discover a way of bringing in the foot also, the young lady being particularly remarkable for the beauty of that portion of the frame. In vain her daughter hinted at dancing, an amusement of which she was passionately fond. The wary mother knew too well the effects of concentrated force to listen to the suggestion: dancing might do for every manager, but she prided herself in acting en masse, like Napoleon, whose tactics consisted in overwhelming by uniting his forces on a given point. After many experiments in her own person she endeavored to improve Catharine’s manner of sitting, and by dint of twisting and turning she contrived that her pretty foot and ankle should be thrown forward in a way that the eye dropping from the move, should unavoidably rest on this beauteous object; giving, as it were, a Scylla and Charybdis to her daughter’s charms.

John Moseley was the first person on whom she undertook to try the effect of her invention; and after comfortably seating the parties she withdrew to a little distance to watch the effect.

“Check to your king, Miss Chatterton,” cried John, early in the game — and the young lady thrust out her foot. “Check to your king, Mr. Moseley,” echoed the damsel, and John’s eyes wandered from hand to foot and foot to hand. “Check king and queen, sir.”— “Check-mate.”— “Did you speak?” said John. Looking up he caught the eye of the dowager fixed on him in triumph— “Oh, ho,” said the young man, internally, “Mother Chatterton, are you playing too?” and, coolly taking up his hat, he walked off, nor could they ever get him seated at the game again.

“You beat me too easily, Miss Chatterton,” he would say when pressed to play, “before I have time to look up it’s check-mate — excuse me.”

The dowager next settled down into a more covert attack through Grace; but here she had two to contend with: her own forces rebelled, and the war had been protracted to the present hour with varied success, and at least without any material captures, on one side.

Colonel Egerton entered on the duties of his dangerous undertaking with the indifference of foolhardiness. The game was played with tolerable ability by both parties; but no emotions, no absence of mind could be discovered on the part of the gentleman. Feet and hands were in motion; still the colonel played as well as usual; he had answers for all Jane’s questions, and smiles for his partner; but no check-mate could she obtain, until wilfully throwing away an advantage he suffered the lady to win the game. The dowager was satisfied nothing could be done with the colonel.

Chapter X.

The first carriages that rolled over the lawn to Bolton parsonage, on the succeeding day, were those of the baronet and his sister; the latter in advance.

“There, Francis,” cried Emily, who was impatiently waiting for him to remove some slight obstruction to her alighting, “thank you, thank you; that will do.”

In the next moment she was in the extended arms of Clara. After pressing each other to their bosoms for a few moments in silence, Emily looked up, with a tear glistening in her eye, and first noticed the form of Denbigh, who was modestly withdrawing, as if unwilling to intrude on such pure and domestic feelings as the sisters were betraying, unconscious of the presence of a witness. Mrs. Wilson and Jane, followed by Miss Chatterton, now entered, and cordial salutes and greetings flowed upon Clara from her various friends.

The baronet’s coach reached the door; it contained himself and wife, Mr. Benfield, and Lady Chatterton. Clara stood on the portico of the building, ready to receive them; her face all smiles, and tears, and blushes, and her arm locked in that of Emily.

“I wish you joy of your new abode, Mrs. Francis.” Lady Moseley forgot her form, and bursting into tears, she pressed her daughter with ardor to her bosom.

“Clara, my love!” said the baronet, hastily wiping his eyes, and succeeding his wife in the embrace of their child. He kissed her, and, pressing Francis by the hand, walked into the house in silence.

“Well, well,” cried the dowager, as she saluted her cousin, “all looks comfortable and genteel here, upon my word, Mrs. Ives: grapery — hot-houses — everything in good style too; and Sir Edward tells me the living is worth a good five hundred a year.”

“So, girl, I suppose you expect a kiss,” said Mr. Benfield who ascended the steps slowly, and with difficulty. “Kissing has gone much out of fashion lately. I remember, on the marriage of my friend, Lord Gosford, in the year fifty-eight, that all the maids and attendants were properly saluted in order. The lady Juliana was quite young then; not more than fifteen: it was there I got my first salute from her — but — so — kiss me.” After which he continued, as they went into the house, “Marrying in that day was a serious business. You might visit a lady a dozen times before you could get a sight of her naked hand. Who’s that?” stopping short, and looking earnestly at Denbigh, who now approached them.

“Mr. Denbigh, sir,” said Clara, “my uncle, Mr. Benfield.”

“Did you ever know, sir, a gentleman of your name, who sat in the parliament of this realm in the year sixty?” Mr. Benfield abruptly asked, as soon as the civilities of the introduction were exchanged. “You don’t look much like him.”

“That was rather before my day, sir,” said Denbigh, with a smile, respectfully offering-to relieve Clara, who supported him on one side, while Emily held his arm on the other.

The old gentleman was particularly averse to strangers, and Emily was in terror lest he should say something rude; but, after examining Denbigh again from head to foot, he took the offered arm, and coolly replied —

“True; very true; that was sixty years ago; you can hardly recollect as long. Ah! Mr. Denbigh, times are sadly altered since my youth. People who were then glad to ride on a pillion now drive their coaches; men who thought ale a luxury, drink their port; aye! and those who went barefoot must have their shoes and stockings, too. Luxury, sir, and the love of ease, will ruin this mighty empire. Corruption has taken hold of everything; the ministry buy the members, he members buy the ministry; everything is bought and sold. Now, sir, in the parliament in which I had the honor of a seat, there was a knot of us, as upright as posts, sir. My Lord Gosford was one, and General Denbigh was another, although I can’t say he was much a favorite with me. You do not look in the least like him. How was he related to you, sir?”

“He was my grandfather,” replied Denbigh, looking pleasantly at Emily, as if to tell her he understood the character of her uncle.

Had the old man continued his speech an hour longer, Denbigh would not have complained. They had stopped while talking, and he thus became confronted with the beautiful figure that supported the other arm. Denbigh contemplated in admiration the varying countenance which now blushed with apprehension, and now smiled in affection, or even with an archer expression, as her uncle proceeded in his harangue on the times. But all felicity in this world has an end, as well as misery. Denbigh retained the recollection of that speech long after Mr. Benfield was comfortably seated in the parlor, though for his life he could not recollect a word he had said.

The Haughtons, the Jarvises, and a few more of their intimate acquaintances, arrived, and the parsonage had a busy air; but John, who had undertaken to drive Grace Chatterton in his own phaeton, was yet absent. Some little anxiety had begun to be manifested, when he appeared, dashing through the gates at a great rate, and with the skill of a member of the four-in-hand.

Lady Chatterton had begun to be seriously uneasy, and she was about to speak to her son to go in quest of them, as they came in sight; but now her fears vanished, and she could only suppose that a desire to have Grace alone could keep one who bad the reputation of a Jehu so much behind the rest of the party. She met them in great spirits, crying,

“Upon my word, Mr. Moseley, I began to think you had taken the road to Scotland, you stayed so long.”

“Your daughter, my Lady Chatterton,” said John, pithily, “would go to Scotland neither with me nor any other man, or I am greatly deceived in her character. Glara, my sister, how do you do?” He saluted the bride with great warmth and affection.

“But what detained you, Moseley?” inquired the mother.

“One of the horses was restive, and he broke the harness. We merely stopped in the village while it was mended.”

“And how did Grace behave?” asked Emily, laughing.

“Oh, a thousand times better than you would, sister; as she always does, and like an angel.”

The only point in dispute between Emily and her brother was her want of faith in his driving; while poor Grace, naturally timid, and unwilling to oppose any one, particularly the gentleman who then held the reins, had governed herself sufficiently to be silent and motionless. Indeed, she could hardly do otherwise had she wished it, so great was his impetuosity of character; and John felt flattered to a degree of which he was himself unconscious. Self-complacency, aided by the merit, the beauty, and the delicacy of the young lady herself, might have led to the very results her mother so anxiously wished to produce, had that mother been satisfied with letting things take their course. But managers very generally overdo their work.

“Grace is a good girl,” said her gratified mother; “and you found her very valiant, Mr. Moseley?”

“Oh, as brave as Cæsar,” answered John, carelessly, in a way that was not quite free from irony.

Grace, whose burning cheek showed but too plainly that praise from John Moseley was an incense too powerful for her resistance, now sank back behind some of the company, endeavoring to conceal the tears that almost gushed from her eyes. Denbigh was a silent spectator of the whole scene, and he now considerately observed, that he had lately seen an improvement which would obviate the difficulty Mr. Moseley had experienced. John turned to the speaker, and they were soon engaged in the discussion of curbs and buckles, when the tilbury of Colonel Egerton drove to the door, containing himself and his friend the captain.

The bride undoubtedly received congratulations that day more sincere than those which were now offered, but none were delivered in a more graceful and insinuating manner than the compliments which fell from Colonel Egerton. He passed round the room, speaking to his acquaintances, until he arrived at the chair of Jane, who was seated next her aunt. Here he stopped, and glancing his eye round, and saluting with bows and smiles the remainder of the party, he appeared fixed at the centre of all attraction.

“There is a gentleman I think I have never seen before,” he observed, to Mrs. Wilson, casting his eyes on Denbigh, whose back was towards him in discourse with Mr. Benfield.

“It is Mr. Denbigh, of whom you heard us speak,” replied Mrs. Wilson. While she spoke, Denbigh faced them. Egerton started as he caught a view of his face, and seemed to gaze on the countenance which was open to his inspection with an earnestness that showed an interest of some kind, but of a nature that was inexplicable to Mrs. Wilson, who was the only observer of this singular recognition; for such it evidently was. All was now natural in the colonel for the moment; his color sensibly changed, and there was an expression of doubt in his face. It might be fear, it might be horror, it might be a strong aversion; it clearly was not love. Emily sat by her aunt, and Denbigh approached them, making a cheerful remark. It was impossible for the colonel to avoid him had he wished it, and he kept his ground. Mrs. Wilson thought she would try the experiment of an introduction.

“Colonel Egerton — Mr. Denbigh.”

Both gentlemen bowed, but nothing striking was seen in the deportment of either. The colonel, who was not exactly at ease, said hastily —

“Mr. Denbigh is, or has been in the army, I believe.”

Denbigh was now taken by surprise in his turn: he cast a look on Egerton of fixed and settled meaning; then carelessly observed, but still as if requiring an answer:

“I am yet; but I do not recollect having had the pleasure of meeting with Colonel Egerton on service.”

“Your countenance is familiar, sir,” replied the colonel, coldly; “but at this moment I cannot tax my memory with the place of-our meeting, though one sees so many strange faces in a campaign, that they come and go like shadows.”

He then changed the conversation. It was some time, however, before either gentleman entirely recovered his ease — and many days elapsed ere anything like intercourse passed between them. The colonel attached himself during this visit to Jane, with occasional notices of the Misses Jarvis, who began to manifest symptoms of uneasiness at the decided preference he showed to a lady they now chose to look upon, in some measure, as a rival.

Mrs. Wilson and her charge, on the other hand, were entertained by the conversation of Chatterton and Denbigh, relieved by occasional sallies from the lively John. There was something in the person and manners of Denbigh that insensibly attracted those whom chance threw in his way. His face was not strikingly handsome, but it was noble; and when he smiled, or was much animated, it invariably communicated a spark of his own enthusiasm to the beholder. His figure was faultless; his air and manner, if less easy than those of Colonel Egerton, were more sincere and ingenuous; his breeding was clearly higher; his respect for others rather bordering on the old school. But in his voice there existed a charm which would make him, when he spoke, to a female ear, almost resistless: it was soft, deep, melodious, and winning.

“Baronet,” said the rector, looking with a smile towards his son and daughter, “I love to see my children happy, and Mrs. Ives threatens a divorce if I go on in the manner I have commenced. She says I desert her for Bolton.”

“Why, doctor, if our wives conspire against us, and prevent our enjoying a comfortable dish of tea with Clara, or a glass of wine with Frank, we must call in the higher authorities as umpires. What say you, sister? Is a parent to desert his child in any case?”

“My opinion is,” said Mrs. Wilson, with a smile, yet speaking with emphasis, “that a parent is not to desert a child, in any case or in any manner.”

“Do you hear that, my Lady Moseley?” cried the good-humored baronet.

“Do you hear that, my Lady Chatterton?” echoed John, who had just taken a seat by Grace, when her mother approached them.

“I hear it, but do not see the application, Mr. Moseley.”

“No, my lady! Why, there is the honorable Miss Chatterton almost dying to play a game of her favorite chess with Mr. Denbigh. She has beaten us all but him, and her triumph will not be complete until she has him too at her feet.”

And as Denbigh politely offered to meet the challenge, the board was produced, and the parties were seated. Lady Chatterton stood leaning over her daughter’s chair, with a view, however, to prevent any of those consequences she was generally fond of seeing result from this amusement; every measure taken by this prudent mother being literally governed by judicious calculation.

“Umph,” thought John, as he viewed the players, while listening with pleasure to the opinions of Grace, who had recovered her composure and spirits; “Kate, after all, has played one game without using her feet.”

Chapter XI.

Ten days or a fortnight flew swiftly by, during which Mrs. Wilson suffered Emily to give Clara a week, having first ascertained that Denbigh was a settled resident at the rectory, and thereby not likely to be oftener at the House of Francis than at the hall, where he was a frequent and welcome guest, both oh his own account and as a friend of Doctor Ives. Emily had returned, and she brought the bride and groom with her; when one evening as they were pleasantly seated at their various amusements, with the ease of old acquaintances, Mr. Haughton entered. It was at an hour rather unusual for his visits; and throwing down his hat, after making the usual inquiries, he began without preface —

“I know, good people, you are all wondering what has brought me out this time of night, but the truth is, Lucy has coaxed her mother to persuade me into a ball in honor of the times; so, my lady, I have consented, and my wife and daughter have been buying up all the finery in B —— , by the way, I suppose, of anticipating their friends. There is a regiment of foot come into barracks within fifteen miles of us, and to-morrow I must beat up for recruits among the officers — girls are never wanting on such occasions.”

“Why,” cried the baronet, “you are growing young again, my friend.” “No, Sir Edward, but my daughter is young, and life has so many cares that I am willing she should get rid of as many as she can at my expense.”

“Surely you would not wish her to dance them away,” said Mrs. Wilson; “such relief I am afraid will prove temporary.”

“Do you disapprove of dancing, ma’am?” said Mr. Haughton, who held her opinions in great respect as well as a little dread.

“I neither approve nor disapprove of it — jumping up and down is innocent enough in itself, and if it must be done it is well it were done gracefully; as for the accompaniments of dancing I say nothing — what do you say, Doctor Ives?”

“To what, my dear madam?”

“To dancing.”

“Oh let the girls dance if they enjoy it.”

“I am glad you think so, doctor,” cried the delighted Mr. Haughton; I was afraid I recollected your advising your son never to dance nor to play at games of chance.”

“You thought right, my friend,” said the doctor, laying down his newspaper; “I did give that advice to Frank, whom you will please to remember is now rector of Bolton. I do not object to dancing as not innocent in itself or as an elegant exercise; but it is like drinking, generally carried to excess: now as a Christian I am opposed to all excesses; the music and company lead to intemperance in the recreation, and they often induce neglect of duties — but so may anything else.”

“I like a game of whist, doctor, greatly,” said Mr. Haughton; “but observing that you never play, and recollecting your advice to Mr. Francis, I have forbidden cards when you are my guest”

“I thank you for the compliment, good sir,” replied the doctor, with a smile; “still I would much rather see you play cards than hear you talk scandal, as you sometimes do.”

“Scandal!” echoed Mr. Haughton.

“Ay, scandal,” said the doctor, coolly, “such as the remark you made the last time, which was only yesterday, I called to see you. You accused Sir Edward of being wrong in letting that poacher off so easily; the baronet, you said, did not shoot himself, and did not know how to prize game as he ought.”

“Scandal, Doctor — do you call that scandal? why I told Sir Edward so himself, two or three times.”

“I know you did, and that was rude.”

“Rude! I hope sincerely Sir Edward has put no such construction on it?”

The baronet smiled kindly, and shook his head.

“Because the baronet chooses to forgive your offences, it does not alter their nature,” said the doctor, gravely: “no, you must repent and amend; you impeached his motives for doing a benevolent act, and that I call scandal.”

“Why, doctor, I was angry the fellow should be let loose; he is a pest to all the game in the county, and every sportsman will tell you so — here, Mr. Moseley, you know Jackson, the poacher.”

“Oh! a poacher is an intolerable wretch!” cried Captain Jarvis.

“Oh! a poacher,” echoed John, looking drolly at Emily, “hang all poachers.”

“Poacher or no poacher, does not alter the scandal,” said the doctor; “now let me tell you, good sir, I would rather play at fifty games of whist than make one such speech, unless indeed it interfered with my duties; now, sir, with your leave I’ll explain myself as to my son. There is an artificial levity about dancing that adds to the dignity of no man: from some it may detract: a clergyman for instance is supposed to have other things to do, and it might hurt him in the opinions of those with whom his influence is necessary, and impair his usefulness; therefore a clergyman should never dance. In the same way with cards; they are the common instruments of gambling, and an odium is attached to them on that account; women and clergymen must respect the prejudices of mankind in some cases, or lose their influence in society.”

“I did hope to have the pleasure of your company, doctor, said Mr. Haughton, hesitatingly.

“And if it will give you pleasure,” cried the rector, “you shall have it with all my heart, good sir; it would be a greater evil to wound the feelings of such a neighbor as Mr. Haughton, than to show my face once at a ball,” and rising, he laid his hand on the shoulder of the other kindly. “Both your scandal and rudeness are easily forgiven; but I wished to show you the common error of the world which has attached odium to certain things, while it charitably overlooks others of a more heinous nature.”

Mr. Haughton, who had at first been a little staggered with the attack of the doctor, recovered himself, and laying a handful of notes on the table, hoped he should have the pleasure of seeing every body. The invitation was generally accepted, and the worthy man departed, happy if his friends did but come, and were pleased.

“Do you dance, Miss Moseley?” inquired Denbigh of Emily, as he sat watching her graceful movements in netting a purse for her father.

“Oh, yes! the doctor said nothing of us girls, you know I suppose he thinks we have no dignity to lose.”

“Admonitions are generally thrown away on young ladies when pleasure is in the question,” said the doctor, with a look of almost paternal affection.

“I hope you do not seriously disapprove of it in moderation,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“That depends, madam, upon circumstances; if it is to be made subsidiary to envy, malice, coquetry, vanity, or any other such little lady-like accomplishment, it certainly had better be let alone. But in moderation, and with the feelings of my little pet here, I should be cynical, indeed, to object.”

Denbigh appeared lost in his own ruminations during this dialogue; and as the doctor ended, he turned to the captain, who was overlooking a game of chess between the colonel and Jane, of which the latter had become remarkably fond of late, playing with her hands and eyes instead of her feet — and inquired the name of the corps in barracks at F —— .

“The —— th foot, sir,” replied the captain, haughtily, who neither respected him, owing to his want of consequence, nor loved him, from the manner in which Emily listened to his conversation.

“Will Miss Moseley forgive a bold request,” said Denbigh, with some hesitation.

Emily looked up from her work in silence, but with some little flutterings at the heart.

“The honor of her hand for the first dance,” continued Denbigh, observing she was in expectation that he would proceed.

Emily laughingly said, “Certainly, Mr. Denbigh, if you can submit to the degradation.”

The London papers now came in, and most of the gentlemen sat down to their perusal. The colonel, however, replaced the men for a second game, and Denbigh still kept his place beside Mrs. Wilson and her niece. The manners, the sentiments, the whole exterior of this gentleman were such as both the taste and judgment of the aunt approved of; his qualities were those which insensibly gained on the heart, and yet Mrs. Wilson noticed, with a slight uneasiness, the very evident satisfaction her niece took in his society. In Dr. Ives she had great confidence, yet Dr. Ives was a friend, and probably judged him favorably; and again, Dr. Ives was not to suppose he was introducing a candidate for the hand of Emily in every gentleman he brought to the hall. Mrs. Wilson had seen too often the ill consequences of trusting to impressions received from inferences of companionship, not to know the only safe way was to judge for ourselves: the opinions of others might be partial — might be prejudiced — and many an improper connexion had been formed by listening to the sentiments of those who spoke without interest, and consequently without examination. Not a few matches are made by this idle commendation of others, uttered by those who are respected, and which are probably suggested more by a desire to please than by reflection or even knowledge. In short Mrs. Wilson knew that as our happiness chiefly interests ourselves, so it was to ourselves, or to those few whose interest was equal to our own, we could only trust those important inquiries necessary to establish a permanent opinion of character. With Doctor Ives her communications on subjects of duty were frequent and confiding, and although she sometimes thought his benevolence disposed him to be rather too lenient to the faults of mankind, she entertained a profound respect for his judgment. It had great influence with her, if it were not always conclusive; she determined, therefore, to have an early conversation with him on the subject so near her heart, and be in a great measure regulated by his answers in the steps to be immediately taken. Every day gave her what he thought melancholy proof of the ill consequences of neglecting a duty, in the increasing intimacy of Colonel Egerton and Jane.

“Here, aunt,” cried John, as he ran over a paper, “is a paragraph relating to your favorite youth, our trusty and well beloved cousin the Earl of Pendennyss.”

“Read it,” said Mrs. Wilson, with an interest his name never failed to excite.

“We noticed to-day the equipage of the gallant Lord Pendennyss before the gates of Annandale-house, and understand the noble earl is last from Bolton castle, Northamptonshire.”

“A very important fact,” said Captain Jarvis, sarcastically; “Colonel Egerton and myself got as far as the village, to pay our respects to him, when we heard he had gone on to town.”

“The earl’s character, both as a man and a soldier,” observed the colonel, “gives him a claim to our attentions that his rank would not: on that account we would have called.”

“Brother,” said Mrs. Wilson, “you would oblige me greatly by asking his lordship to waive ceremony; his visits to Bolton castle will probably be frequent, now we have peace; and the owner is so much from home that we may never see him without some such invitation.”

“Do you want him as a husband for Emily?” cried John, as he gaily seated himself by the side of his sister.

Mrs. Wilson smiled at an observation which reminded her of one of her romantic wishes; and as she raised her head to reply in the same tone, met the eye of Denbigh fixed on her with an expression that kept her silent. This is really an incomprehensible young man in some respects, thought the cautious widow, his startling looks on the introduction to the colonel crossing her mind at the same time; and observing the doctor opening the door that led to the baronet’s library, Mrs. Wilson, who generally acted as soon as she had decided, followed him. As their conversations were known often to relate to the little offices of charity in which they both delighted, the movement excited no surprise, and she entered the library with the doctor uninterrupted.

“Doctor,” said Mrs. Wilson, impatient to proceed to the point, “you know my maxim, prevention is better than cure, This young friend of yours is very interesting.”

“Do you feel yourself in danger?” said the rector, smiling.

“Not very imminent,” replied the lady, laughing good-naturedly. Seating herself, she continued, “Who is he? and who was his father, if I may ask?”

“George Denbigh, madam, both father and son,” said the doctor, gravely.

“Ah, doctor, I am almost tempted to wish Frank had been a girl. You know what I wish to learn.”

“Put your questions in order, dear madam,” said the doctor, in a kind manner, “and they shall be answered.”

“His principles?”

“So far as I can learn, they are good. His acts, as they have come to my notice, are highly meritorious, and I hope they originated in proper motives. I have seen but little of him of late years, however, and on this head you are nearly as good a judge as myself. His filial piety,” said the doctor, dashing a tear from his eye, and speaking with fervor, “was lovely.”

“His temper — his disposition?”

“His temper is under great command, although naturally ardent; his disposition eminently benevolent towards his fellow-creatures.”

“His connexions?”

“Suitable,” said the doctor, gravely.

His fortune was of but little moment. Emily would be amply provided, for all the customary necessaries of her station; and, thanking the divine, Mrs. Wilson returned to the parlor, easy in mind, and determined to let things take their own course for a time, but in no degree to relax the vigilance of her observation.

On her return to the room, Mrs. Wilson observed Denbigh approach Egerton, and enter into conversation of a general nature. It was the first time anything more than unavoidable courtesies had passed between them. The colonel appeared slightly uneasy under his novel situation, while, on the other hand, his companion showed an anxiety to be on a more friendly footing than heretofore. There was something mysterious in the feelings manifested by both these gentlemen that greatly puzzled the good lady; and from its complexion, she feared one or the other was not entirely free from censure. It could not have been a quarrel, or their names would have been familiar, to each other. They had both served in Spain, she knew, and excesses were often committed by gentlemen at a distance from home their pride would have prevented where they were anxious to maintain a character. Gambling, and a few other prominent vices, floated through her imagination, until, wearied of conjectures where she had no data, and supposing, after all, it might be only her imagination, the turned to more pleasant reflections.

Chapter XII.

The bright eyes of Emily Moseley unconsciously wandered round the brilliant assemblage at Mr. Haughton’s, as she took her seat, in search of her partner. The rooms were filled with scarlet coats, and belles from the little town of F —— ; and if the company were not the most select imaginable, it was disposed to enjoy the passing moment cheerfully and in lightness of heart. Ere, however, she could make out to scan the countenances of the men, young Jarvis, decked in the full robes of his dignity, as captain in the —— th foot, approached and solicited the honor of her hand. The colonel had already secured her sister, and it was by the instigation of his friend, Jarvis had been thus early in his application. Emily thanked him, and pleaded her engagement. The mortified youth, who had thought dancing with the ladies a favor conferred on them, from the anxiety his sister always manifested to get partners, stood for a few moments in sullen silence; and then, as if to be revenged on the sex, he determined not to dance the whole evening. Accordingly, he withdrew to a room appropriated to the gentlemen, where he found a few of the military beaux, keeping alive the stimulus they had brought with them from the mess-table.

Clara had prudently decided to comport herself as became a clergyman’s wife, and she declined dancing altogether. Catherine Chatterton was entitled to open the ball, as superior in years and rank to any who were disposed to enjoy the amusement. The dowager, who in her heart loved to show her airs upon such occasions, had chosen to be later than the rest of the family; and Lucy had to entreat her father to have patience more than once during the interregnum in their sports created by Lady Chatterton’s fashion. This lady at length appeared, attended by her son, and followed by her daughters, ornamented in all the taste of the reigning fashions Doctor Ives and his wife, who came late from choice, soon appeared, accompanied by their guest, and the dancing commenced, Denbigh had thrown aside his black for the evening, and as he approached to claim her promised hand, Emily thought him, if not as handsome, much more interesting than Colonel Egerton, who just then passed them while leading her sister to the set. Emily danced beautifully, but perfectly like a lady, as did Jane; but Denbigh, although graceful in his movements and in time, knew but little of the art; and but for the assistance of his partner, he would have more than once gone wrong in the figure. He very gravely asked her opinion of his performance as he handed her to a chair, and she laughingly told him his movements were but a better sort of march. He was about to reply, when Jarvis approached. By the aid of a pint of wine and his own reflections, the youth wrought himself into something of a passion, especially as he saw Denbigh enter, after Emily had declined dancing with himself. There was a gentleman in the corps who unfortunately was addicted to the bottle, and he had fastened on Jarvis as a man at leisure to keep him company. Wine openeth the heart, and the captain having taken a peep at the dancers, and seen the disposition of affairs, returned to his bottle companion, bursting with the indignity offered to his person. He dropped a hint, and a question or two brought the whole grievance forth.

There is a certain set of men in every service who imbibe extravagant notions that are revolting to humanity, and which too often prove to be fatal in their results. Their morals are never correct, and the little they have set loosely about them. In their own cases, their appeals to arms are not always so prompt; but in that of their friends, their perceptions of honor are intuitively keen, and their inflexibility in preserving it from reproach unbending; and such is the weakness of mankind, their “tenderness on points where the nicer feelings of a soldier are involved, that these machines of custom, these thermometers graduated to the scale of false honor, usurp the place of reason and benevolence, and become too often the arbiters of life and death to a whole corps. Such, then, was the confidant to whom Jarvis communicated the cause of his disgust, and the consequences may easily be imagined. As he passed Emily and Denbigh, he threw a look of fierceness at the latter, which he meant as an indication of his hostile intentions. It was lost on his rival, who at that moment was filled with passions of a very different kind from those which Captain Jarvis thought agitated his own bosom; for had his new friend let him alone, the captain would have gone quietly home and gone to sleep.

“Have you ever fought?” said Captain Digby coolly to his companion, as they seated themselves in his father’s parlor, whither they had retired to make their arrangements for the following morning.

“Yes,” said Jarvis, with a stupid look, “I fought once with Tom Halliday at school.”

“At school! My dear friend, you commenced young indeed,” said Digby, helping himself to another glass. “And how did it end?”

“Oh! Tom got the better, and so I cried enough,” said Jarvis, surlily.

“Enough! I hope you did not flinch,” eyeing him keenly “Where were you hit?”

“He hit me all over.”

“All over! The d — l! Did you use small shot? How did you fight?”

“With fists,” said Jarvis, yawning.

His companion, seeing how matters were, rang for his servant to put him to bed, remaining himself an hour longer to finish the bottle.

Soon after Jarvis had given Denbigh the look big with his intended vengeance, Colonel Egerton approached Emily, asking permission to present Sir Herbert Nicholson, the lieutenant-colonel of the regiment, and a gentleman who was ambitious of the honor of her acquaintance; a particular friend of his own. Emily gracefully bowed her assent. Soon after, turning her eyes on Denbigh, who had been speaking to her at the moment, she saw him looking intently on the two soldiers, who were making their way through the crowd to the place where she sat. He stammered, said something she could not understand, and precipitately withdrew; and although both she and her aunt sought his figure in the gay throng that flitted around them, he was seen no more that evening.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Denbigh?” said Emily to her partner, after looking in vain to find his person in the crowd.

“Denbigh! Denbigh! I have known one or two of that name” replied the gentleman. “In the army there are several.”

“Yes,” said Emily, musing, “he is in the army;” and looking up, she saw her companion reading her countenance with an expression that brought the color to her cheeks with a glow that was painful. Sir Herbert smiled, and observed that the room was warm. Emily acquiesced in the remark, for the first time in her life conscious of a feeling she was ashamed to have scrutinized, and glad of any excuse to hide her confusion.

“Grace Chatterton is really beautiful to-night,” whispered John Moseley to his sister Clara. “I have a mind to ask her to dance.”

“Do, John.” replied his sister, looking with pleasure on her beautiful cousin, who, observing the movements of John as he drew near where she sat, moved her face on each side rapidly, in search of some one who was apparently not to be found. Her breathing became sensibly quicker, and John was on the point of speaking to her as the dowager stepped in between them. There is nothing so flattering to the vanity of a man as the discovery of emotions in a young woman excited by himself, and which the party evidently wishes to conceal; there is nothing so touching, so sure to captivate; or, if it seem to be affected, so sure to disgust.

“Now, Mr. Moseley,” cried the mother, “you shall not ask Grace to dance! She can refuse you nothing, and she has been up the last two figures.”

“Your wishes are irresistible, Lady Chatterton,” said John, coolly turning on his heel. On gaining the other side of the room, he turned to reconnoitre the scene. The dowager was fanning herself as violently as if she had been up the last two figures instead of her daughter, while Grace sat with her eyes fastened on the floor, paler than usual. “Grace,” thought the young man, “would be very handsome — very sweet — very — very everything that is agreeable, if — if it were not for Mother Chatterton.” He then led out one of the prettiest girls in the room.

Col. Egerton was peculiarly fitted to shine in a ball room. He danced gracefully and with spirit; was perfectly at home with all the usages of the best society, and was never neglectful of any of those little courtesies which have their charm for the moment; and Jane Moseley, who saw all those she loved around her, apparently as happy as herself, found in her judgment or the convictions of her principles, no counterpoise against the weight of such attractions, all centred as it were in one effort to please herself. His flattery was deep for it was respectful — his tastes were her tastes — his opinions her opinions. On the formation of their acquaintance they differed on some trifling point of poetical criticism, and for near a month the colonel had maintained his opinion with a show of firmness; but opportunities not wanting for the discussion, he had felt constrained to yield to her better judgment, her purer taste. The conquest of Colonel Egerton was complete, and Jane who saw in his attentions the submission of a devoted heart, began to look forward to the moment with trembling that was to remove the thin barrier that existed between the adulation of the eyes and the most delicate assiduity to please, and the open confidence of declared love. Jane Moseley had a heart to love, and to love strongly; her danger existed in her imagination: it was brilliant, unchastened by her judgment, we had almost said unfettered by her principles. Principles such as are found in every-day maxims and rules of conduct sufficient to restrain her within the bounds of perfect decorum she was furnished with in abundance; but to that principle which was to teach her submission in opposition to her wishes, to that principle that could alone afford her security against the treachery of her own passions, she was an utter stranger.

The family of Sir Edward were, among the first to retire, and as the Chattertons had their own carriage, Mrs. Wilson and her charge returned alone in the coach of the former. Emily, who had been rather out of spirits the latter-part of the evening, broke the silence by suddenly observing,

“Colonel Egerton is, or soon will be, a perfect hero!”

Her aunt somewhat surprised, both with the abruptness and with the strength of the remark, inquired her meaning.

“Oh, Jane will make him one, whether or not.”

This was spoken with an air of vexation which she was unused to, and Mrs. Wilson gravely corrected her for speaking in a disrespectful manner of her sister, one whom neither her years nor-situation entitled her in any measure to advise or control. There was an impropriety in judging so near and dear a relation harshly, even in thought. Emily pressed the hand of her aunt and tremulously acknowledged her error; but she added, that she felt a momentary irritation at the idea of a man of Colonel Egerton’s character gaining the command over feelings such as her sister possessed. Mrs. Wilson kissed the cheek of her niece, while she inwardly acknowledged the probable truth of the very remark she had thought it her duty to censure. That the imagination of Jane would supply her lover with those qualities she most honored herself, she believed was taken as a matter of course; and that when the veil she had helped to throw before her own eyes was removed, she would cease to respect, and of course cease to love him, when too late to remedy the evil, she greatly feared. But in the approaching fate of Jane she saw new cause to call forth her own activity.

Emily Moseley had just completed her eighteenth year, and was gifted by nature with a vivacity and ardency of feeling that gave a heightened zest to the enjoyments of that happy age. She was artless but intelligent; cheerful, with a deep conviction of the necessity of piety; and uniform in her practice of all the important duties. The unwearied exertions of her aunt, aided by her own quickness of perception, had made her familiar with the attainments suitable to her sex and years. For music she had no taste, and the time which would have been thrown away in endeavoring to cultivate a talent she did not possess, was dedicated under the discreet guidance of her aunt, to works which had a tendency both to qualify her for the duties of this life, and fit her for that which comes hereafter. It might be said Emily Moseley had never read a book that contained a sentiment or inculcated an opinion improper for her sex or dangerous to her morals; and it was not difficult for those who knew the fact, to fancy they could perceive the consequences in her guileless countenance and innocent deportment. Her looks — her actions — her thoughts, wore as much of nature as the discipline of her well-regulated mind and softened manners could admit. In person she was of the middle size, exquisitely formed, graceful and elastic in her step, without, however, the least departure from her natural movements; her eye was a dark blue, with an expression of joy and intelligence; at times it seemed all soul, and again all heart; her color was rather high, but it varied with every emotion of her bosom; her feelings were strong, ardent, and devoted to those she loved. Her preceptress had never found it necessary to repeat an admonition of any kind, since her arrival at years to discriminate between the right and the wrong.

“I wish,” said Doctor Ives to his wife, the evening his son had asked their permission to address Clara, “Francis had chosen my little Emily.”

“Clara is a good girl,” replied his wife; “she is so mild, so affectionate, that I doubt not she will make him happy — Frank might have done worse at the Hall.”

“For himself he has done well, I hope,” said the father, “a young woman of Clara’s heart may make any man happy but a union with purity, sense, principles, like those of Emily would be more — it would be blissful.”

Mrs. Ives smiled at her husband’s animation. “You remind me more of the romantic youth I once knew than of the grave divine. There is but one man I know that I could wish to give Emily to; it is Lumley. If Lumley sees her, he will woo her; and if he wooes, he will win her.”

“And Lumley I believe to be worthy of her,” cried the rector, now taking up a candle to retire for the night.

Chapter XIII.

The following day brought a large party of the military elegants to the Hall, in acceptance of the baronet’s hospitable invitation to dinner. Lady Moseley was delighted; so long as her husband’s or her children’s interest had demanded a sacrifice of her love of society it had been made without a sigh, almost without a thought. The ties of affinity in her were sacred; and to the happiness, the comfort of those in which she felt an interest, there were few sacrifices of her own propensities she would not cheerfully have made: it was this very love of her offspring that made her anxious to dispose of her daughters in wedlock. Her own marriage had been so happy, that she naturally concluded it the state most likely to ensure the happiness of her children; and with Lady Moseley, as with thousands of others, who averse or unequal to the labors of investigation, jump to conclusions over the long line of connecting reasons, marriage was marriage, a husband was a husband. It is true there were certain indispensables, without which the formation of a connexion was a thing she considered not within the bounds of nature. There must be fitness in fortune, in condition, in education, and manners; there must be no glaring evil, although she did not ask for positive good. A professor of religion herself, had any one told her it was a duty of her calling to guard against a connexion with any but a Christian for her girls, she would have wondered at the ignorance that would embarrass the married state, with feelings exclusively belonging to the individual. Had any one told her it were possible to give her child to any but a gentleman, she would have wondered at the want of feeling that could devote the softness of Jane or Emily, to the association with rudeness or vulgarity. It was the misfortune of Lady Moseley to limit her views of marriage to the scene of this life, forgetful that every union gives existence to a long line of immortal beings, whose future welfare depends greatly on the force of early examples, or the strength of early impressions.

The necessity for restriction in their expenditures had ceased, and the baronet and his wife greatly enjoyed the first opportunity their secluded situation had given them, to draw around their board their fellow-creatures of their own stamp. In the former, it was pure philanthropy; the same feeling urged him to seek out and relieve distress in humble life; while in the latter it was love of station and seemliness. It was becoming the owner of Moseley Hall, and it was what the daughters of the Benfield family had done since the conquest.

“I am extremely sorry,” said the good baronet at dinner, “Mr. Denbigh declined our invitation to-day; I hope he will yet ride over in the evening.”

Looks of a singular import were exchanged between Colonel Egerton and Sir Herbert Nicholson, at the mention of Denbigh’s name; which, as the latter had just asked the favor of taking wine with Mrs. Wilson, did not escape her notice. Emily had innocently mentioned his precipitate retreat the night before; and he had, when reminded of his engagement to dine with them that very day, and promised an introduction to Sir Herbert Nicholson by John, in her presence, suddenly excused himself and withdrawn. With an indefinite suspicion of something wrong, she ventured, therefore, to address Sir Herbert Nicholson.

“Did you know Mr. Denbigh, in Spain?”

“I told Miss Emily Moseley, I believe, last evening, that I knew some of the name,” replied the gentleman evasively; then pausing a moment, he added with great emphasis, “there is a circumstance connected with one of that name, I shall ever remember.”

“It was creditable, no doubt, Sir Herbert,” cried young Jarvis, sarcastically. The soldier affected not to hear the question, and asked Jane to take wine with him. Lord Chatterton, however, putting his knife and fork down gravely, and with a glow of animation, observed with unusual spirit,

“I have no doubt it was, sir.”

Jarvis in his turn, affected not to hear this speech, and nothing farther was said, as Sir Edward saw that the name of Mr. Denbigh excited a sensation amongst his guests for which he was unable to account, and which he soon forgot himself.

After the company had retired, Lord Chatterton, however, related to the astonished and indignant family of the baronet the substance of the following scene, of which he had been a witness that morning, while on a visit to Denbigh at the rectory. They had been sitting in the parlor by themselves, over their breakfast, when a Captain Digby was announced.

“I have the honor of waiting upon you, Mr. Denbigh,” said the soldier, with the stiff formality of a professed duellist, “on behalf of Captain Jarvis, but will postpone my business until you are at leisure,” glancing his eye on Chatterton.

“I know of no business with Captain Jarvis,” said Denbigh, politely handing the stranger a chair, “to which Lord Chatterton cannot be privy; if he will excuse the interruption. The nobleman bowed, and Captain Digby, a little awed by the rank of Denbigh’s friend, proceeded in a more measured manner.

“Captain Jarvis has empowered me, sir, to make any arrangement with yourself or friend, previously to your meeting, which he hopes may be as soon as possible, if convenient to yourself,” replied the soldier, coolly.

Denbigh viewed him for a moment with astonishment, in silence; when recollecting himself, he said mildly, and without the least agitation, “I cannot affect, sir, not to understand your meaning, but am at a loss to imagine what act of mine can have made Mr. Jarvis wish to make such an appeal.”

“Surely Mr. Denbigh cannot think a man of Captain Jarvis’s spirit can quietly submit to the indignity put upon him last evening, by your dancing with Miss Moseley, after she had declined the honor to himself,” said the captain, affecting an incredulous smile. “My Lord Chatterton and myself can easily settle the preliminaries, as Captain Jarvis is much disposed to consult your wishes, sir, in this affair.”

“If he consults my wishes,” said Denbigh, smiling, “he will think no more about it.”

“At what time, sir, will it be convenient to give him the meeting?” then, speaking with a kind of bravado gentlemen of his cast are fond of assuming, “my friend would not hurry any settlement of your affairs.”

“I can never meet Captain Jarvis with hostile intentions,” replied Denbigh, calmly.

“Sir!”

“I decline the combat, sir,” said Denbigh, with more firmness.

“Your reasons, sir, if you please?” asked Captain Digby compressing his lips, and drawing up with an air of personal interest.

“Surely,” cried Chatterton, who had with difficulty estrained his feelings, “surely Mr. Denbigh could never so far forget himself as cruelly’ to expose Miss Moseley by accepting this invitation.”

“Your reason, my lord,” said Denbigh, with interest, “would at all times have its weight; but I wish not to qualify an act of what I conceive to be principle by any lesser consideration. I cannot meet Captain Jarvis, or any other man, in private combat. There can exist no necessity for an appeal to arms in any society where the laws rule, and I am averse to bloodshed.”

“Very extraordinary,” muttered Captain Digby, somewhat at a loss how to act; but the calm and collected manner of Denbigh prevented a reply; and after declining a cup of tea, a liquor he never drank, he withdrew, saying he would acquaint his friend with Mr. Denbigh’s singular notions.

Captain Digby had left Jarvis at an inn, about half a mile from the rectory, for the convenience of receiving early information of the result of his conference. The young man had walked up and down the room during Digby’s absence, in a train of reflections entirely new to him. He was the only son of his aged father and mother, the protector of his sisters, and, he might say, the sole hope of a rising family; and then, possibly, Denbigh might not have meant to offend him — he might even have been engaged before they came to the house; or if not, it might have been inadvertence on the part of Miss Moseley. That Denbigh would offer some explanation he believed, and he had fully made up his mind to accept it, let it be what it might, as his fighting friend entered.

“Well,” said Jarvis, in a tone that denoted anything but a consciousness that all was well.

“He says he will not meet you,” dryly exclaimed his friend, throwing himself into a chair, and ordering a glass of randy and water.

“Not meet me!” exclaimed Jarvis, in surprise. “Engaged, perhaps?”

“Engaged to his d — d conscience.”

“To his conscience! I do not know whether I rightly understand you, Captain Digby,” said Jarvis, catching his breath, and raising his voice a very little.

“Then, Captain Jarvis,” said his friend, tossing off his brandy, and speaking with great deliberation, “he says that nothing — understand me — nothing will ever make him fight a duel.”

“He will not!” cried Jarvis, in a loud voice.

“No, he will not,” said Digby, handing his glass to the waiter for a fresh supply.

“He shall, by —— !”

“I don’t know how you will make him.”

“Make him! I’ll — I’ll post him.”

“Never do that,” said the captain, turning to him, as he leaned his elbows on the table. “It only makes both parties ridiculous. But I’ll tell you what you may do. There’s a Lord Chatterton who takes the matter up with warmth. If I were not afraid of his interests hurting my promotion, I should have resented something that fell from him myself. He will fight, I dare say, and I’ll just return and require an explanation of his words on your behalf.”

“No, no,” said Jarvis, rather hastily; “he — he is related to the Moseleys, and I have views there it might injure.”

“Did you think to forward your views by making the young lady the subject of a duel?” asked Captain Digby sarcastically, and eyeing his companion with contempt.

“Yes, yes,” said Jarvis; “it would certainly hurt my views.”

“Here’s to the health of His Majesty’s gallant —— regiment of foot!” cried Captain Digby, in a tone of irony, when three-quarters drunk, at the mess-table, that evening, “and to its champion, Captain Henry Jarvis!”

One of the corps was present accidentally as a guest; and the following week, the inhabitants of F —— saw the regiment in their barracks, marching to slow time after the body of Horace Digby.

Lord Chatterton, in relating the part of the foregoing circumstances which fell under his observation, did ample justice to the conduct of Denbigh; a degree of liberality which did him no little credit, as he plainly saw in that gentleman he had, or soon would have, a rival in the dearest wish of his heart; and the smiling approbation with which his cousin Emily rewarded him for his candor almost sickened him with apprehension. The ladies were not slow in expressing their disgust at the conduct of Jarvis, or backward in their approval of Denbigh’s forbearance. Lady Moseley turned with horror from a picture in which she could see nothing but murder and bloodshed; but both Mrs. Wilson and her niece secretly applauded a sacrifice of worldly feelings on the altar of duty; the former admiring the consistent refusal of admitting any collateral inducements, in explanation of his decision: the latter, while she saw the act in its true colors, could hardly help believing that a regard for her feelings had, in a trifling degree, its influence in inducing him to decline the meeting. Mrs. Wilson saw at once what a hold such unusual conduct would take on the feelings of her niece, and inwardly determined to increase, if possible, the watchfulness she had invariably observed on all he said or did, as likely to elucidate his real character, well knowing that the requisites to bring or to keep happiness in the married state were numerous and indispensable; and that the display of a particular excellence, however good in itself, was by no means conclusive as to character; in short, that we perhaps as often meet with a favorite principle as with a besetting sin.

Chapter XIV.

Sir Edward Moseley had some difficulty in restraining the impetuosity of his son, who was disposed to resent this impertinent interference of young Jarvis with the conduct of his favorite sister; indeed, the young man only yielded to his profound respect to his father’s commands, aided by a strong representation on the part of his sister of the disagreeable consequences of connecting her name with such a quarrel. It was seldom the good baronet felt himself called on to act as decidedly as on the present occasion. He spoke to the merchant in warm, but gentleman-like terms, of the consequences which might have resulted to his own child from the intemperate act of his son; exculpated Emily entirely from censure, by explaining her engagement to dance with Denbigh, previously to Captain Jarvis’s application; and hinted the necessity, if the affair was not amicably terminated, of protecting the peace of mind of his daughters against any similar exposures, by declining the acquaintance of a neighbor he respected as much as Mr. Jarvis.

The merchant was a man of few words, but of great promptitude. He had made his fortune, and more than once saved it, by his decision; and assuring the baronet he should hear no more of it, he took his hat and hurried home from the village, where the conversation passed. On arriving at his own house, he found the family collected in the parlor for a morning ride, and throwing himself into a chair, he broke out on the whole party with great violence.

“So, Mrs. Jarvis,” he cried, “you would spoil a very tolerable book-keeper, by wishing to have a soldier in your family; and there stands the puppy who would have blown out the brains of a deserving young man, if the good sense of Mr. Denbigh had not denied him the opportunity.”

“Mercy!” cried the alarmed matron, on whom Newgate (for her early life had been passed near its walls), with all its horrors, floated, and a contemplation of its punishments had been her juvenile lessons of morality— “Harry! Harry! would you commit murder?”

“Murder!” echoed her son, looking askance, as if dodging the bailiffs. “No, mother; I wanted nothing but what was fair. Mr. Denbigh would have had an equal chance to blow out my brains; I am sure everything would have been fair.”

“Equal chance!” muttered his father, who had cooled himself, in some measure, by an extra pinch of snuff. “No, sir, you have no brains to lose. But I have promised Sir Edward that you shall make proper apologies to himself, to his daughter, and to Mr. Denbigh.” This was rather exceeding the truth, but the alderman prided himself on performing rather more than he promised.

“Apology!” exclaimed the captain. “Why, sir, the apology is due to me. Ask Colonel Egerton if he ever heard of apologies being made by the challenger.”

“No, sure,” said the mother, who, having made out the truth of the matter, thought it was likely enough to be creditable to her child; “Colonel Egerton never heard of such a thing. Did you, colonel?”

“Why, madam,” said the colonel, hesitatingly, and politely handing the merchant his snuff-box, which, in his agitation, had fallen on the floor, “circumstances sometimes justify a departure from ordinary measures. You are certainly right as a rule; but not knowing the particulars in the present case, it is difficult for me to decide. Miss Jarvis, the tilbury is ready.”

The colonel bowed respectfully to the merchant, kissed his hand to his wife, and led their daughter to his carriage.

“Do you make the apologies?” asked Mr. Jarvis, as the door closed.

“No, sir,” replied the captain, sullenly

“Then you must make your pay answer for the next sit months,” cried the father, taking a signed draft on his banker from his pocket, coolly tearing it in two pieces, carefully putting the name in his mouth, and chewing it into a ball.

“Why, alderman,” said his wife (a name she never used unless she had something to gain from her spouse, who loved to hear the appellation after he had relinquished the office), “it appears to me that Harry has shown nothing but a proper spirit. You are unkind — indeed you are.”

“A proper spirit? In what way? Do you know anything of the matter?”

“It is a proper spirit for a soldier to fight, I suppose,” said the wife, a little at a loss to explain.

“Spirit, or no spirit, apology, or ten and sixpence.”

“Harry,” said his mother, holding up her finger in a menacing attitude, as soon as her husband had left the room (for he had last spoken with the door in his hand), “if you do beg his pardon, you are no son of mine.”

“No,” cried Miss Sarah, “nor any brother of mine. I would be insufferably mean.”

“Who will pay my debts?” asked the son, looking up at the ceiling.

“Why, I would, my child, if — if — I had not spent my own allowance.”

“I would,” echoed the sister; “but if we go to Bath, you know, I shall want all my money.”

“Who will pay my debts?” repeated the son.

“Apology, indeed! Who is he, that you, a son of Alderman — of — Mr. Jarvis, of the deanery, B —— , North ‘amptonshire, should beg his pardon — a vagrant that nobody knows!”

“Who will pay my debts?” again inquired the captain drumming with his foot.”

“Harry,” exclaimed the mother, “do you love money better than honor — a soldier’s honor?”

“No, mother; but I like good eating and drinking. Think mother; it’s a cool five hundred, and that’s a famous deal of money.”

“Harry,” cried the mother, in a rage, “you are not fit for a soldier. I wish I were in your place.”

“I wish, with all my heart, you had been for an hour this morning,” thought the son. After arguing for some time longer, they compromised, by agreeing to leave it to the decision of Colonel Egerton, who, the mother did not doubt, would applaud her maintaining; the Jarvis dignity, a family in which he took quite as much interest as he felt for his own — so he had told her fifty times. The captain, however, determined within himself to touch the five hundred, let the colonel decide as he might; but the colonel’s decision obviated all difficulties. The question was put to him by Mrs. Jarvis, on his return from the airing, with no doubt the decision would be favorable to her opinion. The colonel and herself, she said, never disagreed; and the lady was right — for wherever his interest made it desirable to convert Mrs. Jarvis to his side of the question, Egerton had a manner of doing it that never failed to succeed.

“Why, madam,” said he, with one of his most agreeable smiles, “apologies are different things, at different times. You are certainly right in your sentiments, as relates to a proper spirit in a soldier; but no one can doubt the spirit of the captain, after the stand he took in this affair; if Mr. Denbigh would not meet him (a very extraordinary measure, in deed, I confess), what can your son do more? He cannot make a man fight against his will, you know.”

“True, true,” cried the matron, impatiently, “I do not want him to fight; heaven forbid! but why should he, the challenger, beg pardon? I am sure, to have the thing regular, Mr. Denbigh is the one to ask forgiveness.”

The colonel felt at a little loss how to reply, when Jarvis, in whom the thoughts of the five hundred pounds had worked a revolution, exclaimed —

“You know, mother, I accused him — that is, I suspected him of dancing with Miss Moseley against my right to her; now you find that it was all a mistake, and so I had better act with dignity, and confess my error.”

“Oh, by all means,” cried the colonel, who saw the danger of an embarrassing rupture between the families, otherwise: “delicacy to your sex particularly requires that, ma’am, from your son;” and he accidentally dropped a letter as he spoke.

“From Sir Edgar, colonel?” asked Mrs. Jarvis, as he stooped to pick it up.

“From Sir Edgar, ma’am, and he begs to be remembered to yourself and all of your amiable family.”

Mrs. Jarvis inclined her body, in what she intended for a graceful bend, and sighed — a casual observer might have thought, with maternal anxiety for the reputation of her child — but it was conjugal regret, that the political obstinacy of the alderman had prevented his carrying up an address, and thus becoming Sir Timothy. Sir Edgar’s heir prevailed, and the captain received permission to do what he had done several hours before.

On leaving the room, after the first discussion, and before the appeal, the captain had hastened to his father with his concessions. The old gentleman knew too well the influence of five hundred pounds to doubt the effect in the present in stance, and he had ordered his carriage for the excursion It came, and to the hall they proceeded. The captain found his intended antagonist, and in a rather uncouth manner, he made the required concession. He was restored to his former favor — no great distinction — and his visits to the hall were suffered, but with a dislike Emily could never conquer, nor at all times conceal.

Denbigh was occupied with a book, when Jarvis commenced his speech to the baronet and his daughter, and was apparently too much engaged with its contents, to understand what was going on, as the captain blundered through. It was necessary, the captain saw by a glance of his father’s eyes, to say something to that gentleman, who had delicately withdrawn to a distant window. His speech was consequently made here too, and Mrs. Wilson could not avoid stealing a look at them. Denbigh smiled, and bowed in silence. It is enough, thought the widow; the offence was not against him, it was against his Maker; he should not arrogate to himself, in any manner, the right to forgive, or to require apologies — the whole is consistent. The subject was never afterwards alluded to: Denbigh appeared to have forgotten it; and Jane sighed gently, as she devoutly hoped the colonel was not a duellist.

Several days passed before the deanery ladies could sufficiently forgive the indignity their family had sustained, to resume the customary intercourse. Like all other grievances, where the passions are chiefly interested, it was forgotten in time, however, and things were put in some measure on their former footing. The death of Digby served to increase the horror of the Moseleys, and Jarvis himself felt rather uncomfortable, on more accounts than one, at the fatal termination of the unpleasant business.

Chatterton, who to his friends had not hesitated to avow his attachment to his cousin, but who had never proposed for her, as his present views and fortune were not, in his estimation, sufficient for her proper support, had pushed every interest he possessed, and left no steps unattempted an honorable man could resort to, to effect his object. The desire to provide for his sisters had been backed by the ardor of a passion that had reached its crisis; and the young peer who could not, in the present state of things, abandon the field to a rival so formidable as Denbigh, even to further his views to preferment, was waiting in anxious suspense the decision on his application. A letter from his friend informed him, his opponent was likely to succeed; that, in short, all hopes of success had left him. Chatterton was in despair. On the following day, however, he received a second letter from the same friend, unexpectedly announcing his appointment. After mentioning the fact, he went on to say— “The cause of this sudden revolution in your favor is unknown to me, and unless your lordship has obtained interest I am ignorant of, it is one of the most singular instances of ministerial caprice I have ever known.” Chatterton was as much at a loss as his friend, to understand the affair; but it mattered not; he could now offer to Emily — it was a patent office of great value, and a few years would amply portion his sisters. That very day, therefore, he proposed, and was refused.

Emily had a difficult task to avoid self-reproach, in regulating her deportment on this occasion. She was fond of Chatterton as a relation — as her brother’s friend — as the brother of Grace, and even on his own account; but it was the fondness of a sister. His manner — his words, which, although never addressed to herself, were sometimes overheard unintentionally, and sometimes reached her through her sisters, had left her in no doubt of his attachment; she was excessively grieved at the discovery, and had innocently appealed to her aunt for directions how to proceed. Of his intentions she had no doubt, but at the same time he had not put her in a situation to dispel his hopes; as to encouragement, in the usual meaning of the term, she gave none to him, nor to any one else. There are no little attentions that lovers are fond of showing to their mistresses, and which mistresses are fond of receiving, that Emily ever permitted to any gentleman — no rides — no walks — no tête-à-têtes. Always natural and unaffected, there was a simple dignity about her that forbade the request, almost the thought, in the gentlemen of her acquaintance: she had no amusements, no pleasures of any kind in which her sisters were not her companions; and if anything was on the carpet that required an attendant, John was ever ready. He was devoted to her; the decided preference she gave him over every other man, upon such occasions, flattered his affection; and he would, at any time, leave even Grace Chatterton to attend his sister. All this too was without affectation, and generally without notice. Emily so looked the delicacy and reserve she acted with so little ostentation that not even her own sex had affixed to her conduct the epithet of squeamish; it was difficult, therefore, for her to do anything which would show Lord Chatterton her disinclination to his suit, without assuming a dislike she did not feel, or giving him slights that neither good breeding nor good nature could justify. At one time, indeed, she had expressed a wish to return to Clara; but this Mrs. Wilson thought would only protract the evil, and she was compelled to wait his own time. The peer himself did not rejoice more in his ability to make the offer, therefore, than Emily did to have it in her power to decline it. Her rejection was firm and unqualified, but uttered with a grace and a tenderness to his feelings, that bound her lover tighter than ever in her chains, and he resolved on immediate flight as his only recourse.

“I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred to Lord Chatterton,” said Denbigh, with great interest, as he reached the spot where the young peer stood leaning his head against a tree, on his way from the rectory to the hall.

Chatterton raised his face as he spoke: there were evident traces of tears on it, and Denbigh, greatly shocked, was about to proceed as the other caught his arm.

“Mr. Denbigh,” said the young man, in a voice almost choked with emotion, “may you never know the pain I have felt this morning. Emily — Emily Moseley — is lost to me — for ever.”

For a moment the blood rushed to the face of Denbigh, and his eyes flashed with a look that Chatterton could not stand. He turned, as the voice of Denbigh, in those remarkable tones which distinguished it from every other voice he had ever heard, uttered —

“Chatterton, my lord, we are friends, I hope — I wish it; from my heart.”

“Go, Mr. Denbigh — go. You were going to Miss Moseley — do not let me detain you.” “I am going with you, Lord Chatterton, unless you forbid it,” said Denbigh, with emphasis, slipping his arm through that of the peer.

For two hours they walked together in the park; and when they appeared at dinner, Emily wondered why Mr. Denbigh had taken a seat next to her mother, instead of his usual place between herself and her aunt. In the evening, he announced his intention of leaving B —— for a short time with Lord Chatterton. They were going to London together; but he hoped to return within ten days. This sudden determination caused some surprise; but, as the dowager supposed it was to secure the new situation, and the remainder of their friends thought it might be business, it was soon forgotten, though much regretted for the time. The gentlemen left the hall that night to proceed to an inn, from which they could obtain a chaise and horses; and the following morning, when the baronet’s family assembled around their social breakfast, they were many miles on the road to the metropolis.

Chapter XV.

Lady Chatterton, finding that little was to be expected in her present situation, excepting what she looked forward to from the varying admiration of John Moseley to her youngest daughter, determined to accept an invitation of Borne standing to a nobleman’s seat about fifty miles from the hall, and, in order to keep things in their proper places, to leave Grace with her friends, who had expressed a wish to that effect. Accordingly, the day succeeding the departure of her son, she proceeded on her expedition, accompanied by her willing assistant in the matrimonial speculations.

Grace Chatterton was by nature retiring and delicate; but her feelings were acute, and on the subject of female propriety sensitive to a degree, that the great want of it in a relation she loved as much as her mother had possibly in some measure increased. Her affections were too single in their objects to have left her long in doubt as to their nature with respect to the baronet’s son; and it was one of the most painful orders she had ever received, that which compelled her to accept her cousin’s invitation. Her mother was peremptory, however, and Grace was obliged to comply. Every delicate feeling she possessed revolted at the step: the visit itself was unwished for on her part; but there did exist a reason which had reconciled her to that — the wedding of Clara. But now to remain, after all her family had gone, in the house where resided the man who had as yet never solicited those affections she had been unable to withhold, it was humiliating — it was degrading her in her own esteem, and she could scarcely endure it.

It is said that women are fertile in inventions to further their schemes of personal gratification, vanity, or even mischief. It may be it is true; but the writer of these pages is a man — one who has seen much of the other sex, and he is happy to have an opportunity of paying a tribute to female purity and female truth. That there are hearts so disinterested as to lose the considerations of self, in advancing the happiness of those they love; that there are minds so pure as to recoil with disgust from the admission of deception, indelicacy, or management, he knows; for he has seen it from long and close examination. He regrets that the very artlessness of those who are most pure in the one sex, subjects them to the suspicions of the grosser-materials which compose the other He believes that innocency, singleness of heart, ardency of feeling, and unalloyed, shrinking delicacy, sometimes exist in the female bosom, to an extent that but few men are happy enough to discover, and that most men believe incompatible with the frailties of human nature. Grace Chatterton possessed no little of what may almost be called this ethereal spirit and a visit to Bolton parsonage was immediately proposed by her to Emily. The latter, too innocent herself to suspect the motives of her cousin, was happy to be allowed to devote a fortnight to Clara, uninterrupted by the noisy round of visiting and congratulations which had attended her first week; and Mrs. Wilson and the two girls left the hall the same day with the Dowager Lady Chatterton. Francis and Clara were happy to receive them, and they were immediately domesticated in their new abode. Doctor Ives and his wife had postponed an annual visit to a relation of the former on account of the marriage of their son, and they now availed themselves of this visit to perform their own engagement. B —— appeared in some measure deserted, and Egerton had the field almost to himself. Summer had arrived, and the country bloomed in all its luxuriance of vegetation: everything was propitious to the indulgence of the softer passions; and Lady Moseley, ever a strict adherent to forms and decorum, admitted the intercourse between Jane and her admirer to be carried to as great lengths as those forms would justify. Still the colonel was not explicit; and Jane, whose delicacy dreaded the exposure of feelings that was involved in his declaration, gave or sought no marked opportunities for the avowal of his passion. Yet they were seldom separate, and both Sir Edward and his wife looked forward to their future union as a thing not to be doubted. Lady Moseley had given up her youngest child so absolutely to the government of her aunt, that she seldom thought of her future establishment. She had that kind of reposing confidence in Mrs. Wilson’s proceedings that feeble minds ever bestow on those who are much superior to them; and she even approved of a system in many respects which she could not endeavor to imitate. Her affection for Emily was not, however, less than what she felt for her other children: she was, in fact, her favorite, and, had the discipline of Mrs. Wilson admitted of so weak an interference, might have been injured as such.

John Moseley had been able to find out exactly the hour they breakfasted at the deanery, the length of time it took Egerton’s horses to go the distance between that house and the hall; and on the sixth morning after the departure of his aunt, John’s bays were in his phaeton, and allowing ten minutes for the mile and a half to the park gates, John had got happily off his own territories, before he met the tilbury travelling eastward. I am not to know which road the colonel may turn, thought John: and after a few friendly, but rather hasty greetings, the bays were again in full trot to the parsonage.

“John,” said Emily, holding out her hand affectionately, and smiling a little archly, as he approached the window where she stood, “you should take a lesson in driving from Frank; you have turned more than one hair, I believe.”

“How is Clara?” cried John, hastily, taking the offered hand, with a kiss, “aye, and aunt Wilson?”

“Both well, brother, and out walking this fine morning.”

“How happens it you are not with them?” inquired the brother, throwing his eyes round the room. “Have they left you alone?”

“No Grace has this moment left me.”

“Well, Emily,” said John, taking his seat very composedly, but keeping his eyes on the door, “I have come to dine with you. I thought I owed Clara a visit, and have managed nicely to give the colonel the go-by.”

“Clara will be happy to see you, dear John, and so will aunt, and so am I” — as she drew aside his fine hair with her fingers to cool his forehead.

“And why not Grace, too?” asked John, with a look of a little alarm.

“And Grace, too, I fancy — but here she is, to answer for herself.”

Grace said little on her entrance, but her eyes were brighter than usual, and she looked so contented and happy that Emily observed to her, in an affectionate manner —

“I knew the eau-de-Cologne would do your head good.”

“Is Miss Chatterton unwell?” asked John, with a look of interest.

“A slight headache,” said Grace, faintly, “but I feel much better.”

“Want of air and exercise: my horses are at the door; phaeton will hold three easily; run, sister, for your hat,” almost pushing Emily out of the room as he spoke. In a few; minutes the horses might have been suffering for air, but surely not for exercise.

“I wish,” cried John, with impatience, when at the distance of a couple of miles from the parsonage, “that gentleman had driven his gig out of the road.”

There was a small group on one side of the road, consisting of a man, a woman, and several children. The owner of the gig had alighted, and was in the act of speaking to them, as the phaeton approached at a great rate.

“John,” cried Emily, in terror, “You never can pass — you upset us.”

“There is no danger, dear Grace,” said the brother, endeavoring to check his horses; he succeeded in part, but not so as to prevent his passing at a spot where the road was very narrow; a wheel hit violently against a stone, and some of his works gave way. The gentleman immediately hastened to his assistance — it was Denbigh.

“Miss Moseley!” cried he, in a voice of the tenderest interest “you are not hurt in the least, I hope.”

“No,” said Emily, recovering her breath, “only frightened;” and taking his hand, she sprang from the carriage.

Miss Chatterton found courage to wait quietly for the care of John. His “dear Grace,” had thrilled on every nerve, and she afterwards often laughed at Emily for her terror when there was so little danger. The horses were not in the least frightened, and after a little mending, John declared all was safe. To ask Emily to enter, the carriage again, was to exact no little sacrifice of her feelings to her reason; and she stood in a suspense that too plainly showed that, the terror she had been in had not left her.

“If,” said Denbigh, modestly, “if Mr. Moseley will take the ladies in my gig, I will drive the phaeton to the hall, as it is rather unsafe for so heavy a load.”

“No, no, Denbigh,” said John, coolly, “you are not used to such mettled nags as mine — it would be indiscreet for you to drive them: if, however, you will be good enough to take Emily into your gig — Grace Chatterton, I am sure, is not afraid to trust my driving, and we might all get back as well as ever.”

Grace gave her hand almost unconsciously to John, and he handed her into the phaeton, as Denbigh stood willing to execute his part of the arrangement, but too diffident to speak. It was not a moment for affectation, if Emily had been capable of it, and blushing with the novelty of her situation, she took her place in the gig. Denbigh stopped and turned his eyes on the little group with which he had been talking, and at that moment they caught the attention of John also. The latter inquired after their situation. The tale was a piteous one, the distress evidently real. The husband had been gardener to a gentleman in a neighboring county, and he had been lately discharged, to make way, in the difficulty of the times, for a relation of the steward, who was in want of the place. Suddenly thrown on the world, with a wife and four children, with but the wages of a week for his and their support, they had travelled thus far on the way to a neighboring parish, where he said he had a right to, and must seek, public assistance. The children were crying for hunger, and the mother, who was a nurse, had been unable to walk further than where she sat, but had sunk on the ground overcome with fatigue, and weak from the want of nourishment. Neither Emily nor Grace could refrain from tears at the recital of these heavy woes; the want of sustenance was something so shocking in itself, and brought, as it were, immediately before their eyes, the appeal was irresistible. John forgot his bays — forgot even Grace, as he listened to the affecting story related by the woman, who was much revived by some nutriment Denbigh had obtained from a cottage near them, and to which they were about to proceed by his directions, as Moseley interrupted them. His hand shook, his eyes glistened as he took his purse from his pocket, and gave several guineas from it to the mendicant. Grace thought John had never appeared so handsome as the moment, he banded the money to the gardener; his face glowed with unusual excitement, and his symmetry had lost the only charm he wanted in common, softness. Denbigh, after waiting patiently until Moseley had bestowed his alms, gravely repeated his directions for their proceeding to the cottage, when the carriages moved on.

Emily revolved, in her mind, during their short ride, the horrid distress she had witnessed. It had taken a strong hold on her feelings. Like her brother, she was warm-hearted and compassionate, if we may use the term, to excess; and had she been prepared with the means, the gardener would have reaped a double harvest of donations. It struck her, at the moment, unpleasantly, that Denbigh had been so backward in his liberality. The man had rather sullenly displayed half a crown as his gift, in contrast with the golden shower of John’s generosity. It had been even somewhat offensive in its exhibition, and urged her brother to a more hasty departure than, under other circumstances, he would just at the moment have felt disposed to make. Denbigh, however, had taken no notice of the indignity, and continued his directions in the same mild and benevolent manner he had used during the whole interview. Half a crown was but little, thought Emily, for a family that was starving; and, unwilling to judge harshly of one she had begun to value so highly, she came to the painful conclusion, her companion was not as rich as he deserved to be. Emily had not yet to learn that charity was in proportion to the means of the donor, and a gentle wish insensibly stole over her that Denbigh might in some way become more richly endowed with the good things of this world. Until this moment her thoughts had never turned to his temporal condition. She knew he was an officer in the army, but of what rank, or even of what regiment, she was ignorant. He had frequently touched in his conversations on the customs of the different countries he had seen. He had served in Italy, in the north of Europe, in the West Indies, in Spain. Of the manners of the people, of their characters, he not unfrequently spoke, and with a degree of intelligence, a liberality, a justness of discrimination, that had charmed his auditors; but on the point of personal service he had maintained a silence that was inflexible, and not a little surprising — more particularly of that part of his history which related to the latter country; from all which she was rather inclined to think his military rank was not as high as she thought he merited, and that possibly he felt an awkwardness of putting it in contrast with the more elevated station of Colonel Egerton. The same idea had struck the whole family, and prevented any inquiries which might be painful. He was so connected with the mournful event of his father’s death, that no questions could be put with propriety to the doctor’s family; and if Francis had been more communicative to Clara, she was too good a wife to mention it, and her own family was possessed of too just a sense of propriety to touch upon points that might bring her conjugal fidelity in question.

Though Denbigh appeared a little abstracted during the ride, his questions concerning Sir Edward and her friends kind and affectionate. As they approached the house he suffered his horse to walk, and, after some hesitation, he took a letter from his pocket, and handing it to her, said —

“I hope Miss Moseley will not think me impertinent in becoming the bearer of a letter ‘from her cousin, Lord Chatterton. He requested it so earnestly, that I could not refuse taking what I am sensible is a great liberty; for it would be deception did I affect to be ignorant of his admiration, or of his generous treatment of a passion she cannot return. Chatterton,” and he smiled mournfully, “is yet too true to cease his commendations.”

Emily blushed painfully, but she took the letter in silence; and as Denbigh pursued the topic no further, the little distance they had to go was ridden in silence. On entering the gates, however, he said, inquiringly, and with much interest —

“I sincerely hope I have not given offence to your delicacy, Miss Moseley. Lord Chatterton has made me an unwilling confidant. I need not say the secret is sacred, on more accounts than one.”

“Surely not, Mr. Denbigh,” replied Emily, in a low tone; and the gig stopping, she hastened to accept the assistance of her brother to alight.

“Well, sister,” cried John, laughing, “Denbigh is a disciple to Frank’s system of horse-flesh. Hairs smooth enough here, I see. Grace and I thought you would never get home.” Now, John fibbed a little, for neither Grace nor he had thought in the least about them, or anything else but each other, from the moment they separated until the gig arrived.

Emily made no reply to this speech, and as the gentlemen were engaged in giving directions concerning their horses, she seized an opportunity to read Chatterton’s letter.

“I avail myself of the return of my friend Mr. Denbigh to that happy family from which reason requires my self-banishment to assure my amiable cousin, of my continued respect for her character, and to convince her of my gratitude for the tenderness she has manifested to feelings she cannot return. I may even venture to tell her what few women would be pleased to hear, but what I know Emily Moseley too well to doubt, for a moment, will give her unalloyed pleasure — that owing to the kind, the benevolent, the brotherly attentions of my true friend, Mr. Denbigh, I have already gained a peace of mind and resignation I once thought was lost to me for ever. Ah! Emily, my beloved cousin, in Denbigh you will find, I doubt not, a mind, principles, congenial to your own. It is impossible that he could see you without wishing to possess such a treasure; and, if I have a wish that is now uppermost in my heart, it is, that you may learn to esteem each other as you ought, when, I doubt not, you will become as happy as you both deserve to be. What greater earthly blessing can I implore upon you!

“Chatterton.”

Emily, while reading this epistle, felt a confusion but little inferior to that which would have oppressed her had Denbigh himself been at her feet, soliciting that love Chatterton thought him so worthy of possessing; and when they met, she could hardly look in the face a man who, it would seem, had been so openly selected by another, as the fittest to be her partner for life. The unaltered manner of Denbigh himself, however, soon convinced her that he was entirely ignorant of the contents of the note, and it greatly relieved her from the awkwardness his presence at first occasioned.

Francis soon returned, accompanied by his wife and aunt, and was overjoyed to find the guest who had so unexpectedly arrived. His parents had not yet returned from their visit, and Denbigh, of course, would remain at his present quarters. John promised to continue with them for a couple of days: and everything was soon settled to the perfect satisfaction of the whole party. Mrs. Wilson knew the great danger of suffering young people to be inmates of the same house too well, wantonly to incur the penalties, but her visit had nearly expired, and it might give her a better opportunity of judging Denbigh’s character; and Grace Chatterton, though too delicate to follow herself, was well contented to be followed, especially when John Moseley was the pursuer.

Chapter XVI.

“I am sorry, aunt, Mr. Denbigh is not rich,” said Emily to Mrs, Wilson, after they had retired in the evening, almost unconscious of what she uttered. The latter looked at her niece in surprise, at a remark so abrupt, and one so very different from the ordinary train of Emily’s reflections, as she required an explanation. Emily, slightly coloring at the channel her thoughts had insensibly strayed into, gave her aunt an account of their adventure in the course of the morning’s drive, and touched lightly on the difference in the amount of the alms of her brother and those of Mr. Denbigh.

“The bestowal of money is not always an act of charity,” observed Mrs. Wilson, gravely, and the subject was dropped: though neither ceased to dwell on it in her thoughts, until sleep closed the eyes of both.

The following day Mrs. Wilson invited Grace and Emily to accompany her in a walk; the gentlemen having preceded them in pursuit of their different avocations. Francis had his regular visits of spiritual consolation; John had gone to the hall for his pointers and fowling-piece, the season for woodcock having arrived; and Denbigh had proceeded no one knew whither. On gaining the high-road, Mrs. Wilson desired her companions to lead the way to the cottage where the family of the mendicant gardener had been lodged, and thither they soon arrived. On knocking at the door, they were immediately admitted to an outer room; in which they found the wife of the laborer who inhabited the building, engaged in her customary morning employments. They explained the motives of the visit, and were told that the family they sought were in an adjoining room, but she rather thought at that moment engaged with a clergyman who had called a quarter of an hour before. “I expect, my lady, it’s the new rector, who everybody says is so good to the poor and needy; but I have not found time yet to go to church to hear his reverence preach, ma’am,” courtseying and handing the fresh dusted chairs to her unexpected visitors. The ladies seated themselves, too delicate to interrupt Francis in his sacred duties, and were silently waiting his appearance, when a voice was distinctly heard through the thin partition, the first note of which undeceived them as to the character of the gardener’s visitor.

“It appears then, Davis, by your own confession,” said Denbigh, mildly, but in a tone of reproof, “that your frequent acts of intemperance have at least given ground for the steward’s procuring your discharge if it has not justified him in doing that which his duty to your common employer required.”

“It is hard, sir,” replied the man sullenly, “to be thrown on the world with a family like mine, to make way for a younger man with but one child.”

“It may be unfortunate for your wife and children,” said Denbigh, “but just, as respects yourself. I have already convinced you, that my interference or reproof is not an empty one: carry the letter to the person to whom it is directed, and I pledge you, you shall have a new trial; and should you conduct yourself soberly, and with propriety, continued and ample support; the second letter will gain you children immediate admission to the school I mentioned; and I now leave you, with an earnest injunction to remember that habits of intemperance not only disqualify you to support those who have such great claims on your protection, but inevitably lead to a loss of those powers which are necessary to insure your own eternal welfare.”

“May Heaven bless your honor,” cried the woman, with fervor, and evidently in tears, “both for what you have said, and what you have done. Thomas only wants to be taken from temptation, to become a sober man again — an honest one he has ever been, I am sure.”

“I have selected a place for him,” replied Denbigh “where there is no exposure through improper companions, and everything now depends upon himself, under Providence.”

Mrs. Wilson had risen from her chair on the first intimation given by Denbigh of his intention to go, but had paused at the door to listen to this last speech; when beckoning her companions, she hastily withdrew, having first made a small present to the woman of the cottage, and requested her not to mention their having called.

“What becomes now of the comparative charity of your brother and Mr. Denbigh, Emily?” asked Mrs. Wilson, as they gained the road on their return homewards. Emily was not accustomed to hear any act of John slightly spoken of without at least manifesting some emotion, which betrayed her sisterly regard; but on the present occasion she chose to be silent; while Grace, after waiting in expectation that her cousin would speak, ventured to say timidly —

“I am sure, dear madam, Mr. Moseley was very liberal and the tears were in his eyes while he gave the money. I was looking directly at them the whole time.”

“John is compassionate by nature,” continued Mrs. Wilson with an almost imperceptible smile. “I have no doubt his sympathies were warmly enlisted in behalf of this family and possessing much, he gave liberally. I have no doubt he would have undergone personal privation to have relieved their distress, and endured both pain and labor, with such an excitement before him. But what is all that to the charity of Mr. Denbigh?”

Grace was unused to contend, and, least of all, with Mrs. Wilson; but, unwilling to abandon John to such censure, with increased animation, she said —

“If bestowing freely, and feeling for the distress you relieve, be not commendable, madam, I am sure I am ignorant what is.”

“That compassion for the woes of others is beautiful in itself, and the want of it an invariable evidence of corruption from too much, and an ill-governed, intercourse with the world, I am willing to acknowledge, my dear Grace,” said Mrs. Wilson, kindly; “but the relief of misery, where the heart has not undergone this hardening ordeal, is only a relief to our own feelings: this is compassion; but Christian charity is a higher order of duty: it enters into every sensation of the heart; disposes us to judge, as well as to act, favorably to our fellow creatures; is deeply seated in the sense of our own unworthiness; keeps a single eye, in its dispensations of temporal benefits, to the everlasting happiness of the objects of its bounty; is consistent, well regulated; in short,” — and Mrs. Wilson’s pale cheek glowed with an unusual richness of color— “it is an humble attempt to copy after the heavenly example of our Redeemer, in sacrificing ourselves to the welfare of others, and does and must proceed from a love of his person, and an obedience to his mandates.”

“And Mr. Denbigh, aunt,” exclaimed Emily, the blood mantling to her cheeks with a sympathetic glow, while she lost all consideration for John in the strength of her feelings, “his charity you think to be of this description?”

“So far, my child, as we can understand motives from the nature of the conduct, such appears to have been the charity of Mr. Denbigh.”

Grace was silenced, if not convinced; and the ladies continued their walk, lost in their own reflections, until they reached a bend in the road which hid the cottage from view. Emily involuntarily turned her head as they arrived at the spot, and saw that Denbigh had approached within a few paces of them. On joining them, he commenced his complimentary address in such a way as convinced them the cottager had been true to the injunction given by Mrs. Wilson. No mention was made of the gardener, and Denbigh began a lively description of some foreign scenery, of which their present situation reminded him. The discourse was maintained with great interest by himself and Mrs. Wilson for the remainder of their walk.

It was yet early when they reached the parsonage, where they found John, who had driven to the hall to breakfast, and who, instead of pursuing his favorite amusement of shooting, laid down his gun as they entered, observing, “It is rather soon yet for the woodcocks, and I believe I will listen to your entertaining conversation, ladies, for the remainder of the morning.” He threw himself upon a sofa at no great distance from Grace, and in such a position as enabled him, without rudeness, to study the features of her lovely face, while Denbigh read aloud to the ladies Campbell’s beautiful description of wedded love, in Gertrude of Wyoming.

There was a chastened correctness in the ordinary manner of Denbigh which wore the appearance of the influence of his reason, and a subjection of the passions, that, if anything, gave him less interest with Emily than had it been marked by an evidence of stronger feeling. But on the present occasion, this objection was removed: his reading was impressive; he dwelt on those passages which most pleased him with a warmth of eulogium fully equal to her own undisguised sensations. In the hour occupied in the reading this exquisite little poem, and in commenting on its merits and sentiments, Denbigh gained more on her imagination than in all their former intercourse. His ideas were as pure, as chastened, and almost as vivid as those of the poet; and Emily listened to his periods with intense attention, as they flowed from him in language as glowing as his ideas. The poem had been first read to her by her brother, and she was surprised to discover how she had overlooked its beauties on that occasion. Even John acknowledged that it certainly appeared a different thing now from what he had then thought it; but Emily had taxed his declamatory power in the height of the pheasant season, and, somehow or other, John now imagined that Gertrude was just such a delicate, feminine, warm-hearted domestic girl as Grace Chatterton. As Denbigh closed the book, and entered into a general conversation with Clara and her sister, John followed Grace to a window, and speaking in a tone of unusual softness for him, he said —

“Do you know, Miss Chatterton, I have accepted your brother’s invitation to go into Suffolk this summer, and that you are to be plagued with me and my pointers again?”

“Plagued, Mr. Moseley!” said Grace, in a voice even softer than his own. “I am sure — I am sure, we none of us think you or your dogs in the least a plague.”

“Ah! Grace,” and John was about to become what he had never been before — sentimental — when he saw the carriage of Chatterton, containing the dowager and Catherine entering the parsonage gates.

Pshaw! thought John, there comes Mother Chatterton “Ah! Grace,” said John, “there are your mother and sister returned already.”

“Already!” said the young lady, and, for the first time in her life, she felt rather unlike a dutiful child. Five minutes could have made no great difference to her mother, and she would greatly have liked to hear what John Moseley meant to have said; for the alteration in his manner convinced her that his first “ah! Grace” was to have been continued in a somewhat different language from that in which the second “ah! Grace” was ended.

Young Moseley and her daughter, standing together at the open window, caught the attention of Lady Chatterton the moment she got a view of the house, and she entered with a good humor she had not felt since the disappointment in her late expedition in behalf of Catherine; for the gentleman she had had in view in this excursion had been taken up by another rover, acting on her own account, and backed by a little more wit and a good deal more money than what Kate could be fairly thought to possess. Nothing further in that quarter offering in the way of her occupation, she turned her horses’ heads towards London, that great theatre on which there never was a loss for actors. The salutations had hardly passed before, turning to John, she exclaimed, with what she intended for a most motherly smile, “What! not shooting this fine day, Mr. Moseley? I thought you never missed a day in the season.”

“It is rather early yet, my lady,” said John, coolly, a little alarmed by the expression of her countenance.

“Oh!” continued the dowager, in the same strain, “I see how it is; the ladies have too many attractions for so gallant a young man as yourself.” Now, as Grace, her own daughter, was the only lady of the party who could reasonably be supposed to have much influence over John’s movements — a young gentleman seldom caring as much for his own as for other people’s sisters, this may be fairly set down as a pretty broad hint of the opinion the dowager entertained of the real state of things; and John saw it, and Grace saw it. The former coolly replied, “Why, upon the whole, if you will excuse the neglect, I will try a shot this fine day,” In five minutes, Carlo and Rover were both delighted. Grace kept her place at the window, from a feeling she could not define, and of which perhaps she was unconscious, until the gate closed, and the shrubbery hid the sportsman from her sight, and then she withdrew to her room to weep.

Had Grace Chatterton been a particle less delicate — less retiring — blessed with a managing mother, as she was, John Moseley would not have thought another moment about her. But, on every occasion when the dowager made any of her open attacks, Grace discovered so much distress, so much unwillingness to second them, that a suspicion of a confederacy never entered his brain. It is not to be supposed that Lady Chattelton’s manoeuvres were limited to the direct and palpable schemes we have mentioned; no — these were the effervescence, the exuberance of her zeal; but as is generally the case, they sufficiently proved the ground-work of all her other machinations; none of the little artifices of such as placing — of leaving alone — of showing similarity of tastes: — of compliments to the gentlemen, were neglected. — This latter business she had contrived to get Catherine to take off her hands; but Grace could never pay a compliment in her life, unless changing of color, trembling, undulations of the bosom, and such natural movements can be so called; but she loved dearly to receive them from John Moseley.

“Well, my child,” said the mother, as she seated herself by the side of her daughter, who hastily endeavored to conceal her tears, “when are we to have another wedding? I trust everything is settled between you and Mr. Moseley, by this time.”

“Mother! Mother!” said Grace, nearly gasping for breath, “Mother, you will break my heart, indeed you will.” She hid her face in the clothes of the bed by which she sat, and wept with a feeling of despair.

“Tut, my dear,” replied the dowager, not noticing her anguish, or mistaking it for a girlish shame, “you young people are fools in these matters, but Sir Edward and myself will arrange everything as it should be.”

The daughter now not only looked up, but sprang from her seat, her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed in horror, her cheek pale as death; but the mother had retired, and Grace sank back into her chair with a sensation of disgrace, of despair, which could not have been surpassed, had she really merited the obloquy and shame which she thought were about to be heaped upon her.

Chapter XVII.

The succeeding morning, the whole party, with, the exception of Denbigh, returned to the hall. Nothing had occurred out of the ordinary course of the colonel’s assiduities; and Jane, whose sense of propriety forbad the indulgence of premeditated tête-à-têtes, and such little accompaniments of every-day attachments, was rejoiced to see a sister she loved, and an aunt she respected, once more in the bosom of her family.

The dowager impatiently waited an opportunity to effect, what she intended for a master-stroke of policy in the disposal of Grace. Like all other managers, she thought no one equal to herself in devising ways and means, and was unwilling to leave anything to nature. Grace had invariably thwarted all her schemes by her obstinacy; and as she thought young Moseley really attached to her, she determined by a bold stroke to remove the impediments of false shame, and the dread of repulse, which she believed alone kept the youth from an avowal of his wishes, and get rid at once of a plague that had annoyed her not a little — her daughter’s delicacy.

Sir Edward spent an hour every morning in his library, overlooking his accounts, and in other necessary employments of a similar nature, and it was here she determined to have the conference.

“My Lady Chatterton, you do me honor,” said the baronet, handing her a chair on her entrance.

“Upon my word, cousin,” cried the dowager, “you have a very convenient apartment here,” looking around her in affected admiration of all she saw.

The baronet replied, and a short discourse on the arrangements of the whole house insensibly led to some remarks on the taste of his mother, the Honorable Lady Moseley (a Chatterton), until, having warmed the feelings of the old gentleman by some well-timed compliments of that nature, she ventured on the principal object of her visit.

“I am happy to find, Sir Edward, you are so well pleased with the family as to wish to make another selection from it. I sincerely hope it may prove as judicious as the former one.”

Sir Edward was a little at a loss to understand her meaning, although he thought it might allude to his son, who he had some time suspected had views on Grace Chatterton; and willing to know the truth, and rather pleased to find John had selected a young woman he loved in his heart, he observed —

“I am not sure I rightly understand your ladyship, though I hope I do.”

“No!” cried the dowager, in well-counterfeited affectation of surprise. “Perhaps, after all, maternal anxiety has deceived me, then. Mr. Moseley could hardly have ventured to proceed without your approbation.”

“I have ever declined influencing any of my children, Lady Chatterton,” said the baronet, “and John is not ignorant of my sentiments. I sincerely hope, however, you allude to an attachment to Grace?”

“I did certainly, Sir Edward,” said the lady, hesitatingly “I may be deceived; but you must understand the feelings of a mother, and a young woman ought not to be trifled with.”

“My son is incapable of trifling, I hope,” cried Sir Edward; with animation, “and, least of all, with Grace Chatterton No; you are quite right. If he has made his choice, he should not be ashamed to avow it.”

“I would not wish, on any account, to hurry matters,” said the dowager; “but the report which is abroad will prevent other young men from putting in their claims, Sir Edward” (sighing). “I have a mother’s feelings: if I have been hasty, your goodness will overlook it.” And Lady Chatterton placed her handkerchief to her eyes, to conceal the tears that did not flow.

Sir Edward thought all this very natural, and as it should be, and he sought an early conference with his son.

“John,” said the father, taking his hand kindly, “you have no reason to doubt my affection or my compliance to your wishes. Fortune is a thing out of the question-with a young man of your expectations.” And Sir Edward, in his eagerness to smoothe the way, went on: “You can live here, or occupy my small seat in Wiltshire. I can allow you five thousand a year, with much ease to myself. Indeed, your mother and myself would both straighten ourselves, to add to your comforts; but it is unnecessary — we have enough, and you have enough.”

Sir Edward, in a few moments, would have settled everything to the dowager’s perfect satisfaction, had not John interrupted him by the exclamation of —

“To what do you allude, father?”

“Allude?” said Sir Edward, simply. “Why, Grace Chatterton, my son.”

“Grace Chatterton! Sir Edward. What have I to do with Grace Chatterton?”

“Her mother has made me acquainted with your proposals, and” —

“Proposals!”

“Attentions, I ought to have said; and you have no reason to apprehend anything from me, my child.”

“Attentions!” said John, haughtily. “I hope Lady Chatterton does not accuse me of improper attentions to her daughter?”

“No, not improper, my son,” said his father: “on the contrary, she is much pleased with them.”

“She is, is she? But I am displeased that she should undertake to put constructions on my acts that no attention or words of mine will justify.”

It was now Sir Edward’s turn to be surprised. He had thought he was doing his son a kindness, when he had only been forwarding the dowager’s schemes; but averse from contention, and wondering at his cousin’s mistake, which he at once attributed to her anxiety in behalf of a favorite daughter, he told John he was sorry there had been any misapprehension, and left him.

“No, no,” said Moseley, internally, as he paced up and down his father’s library, “my lady dowager, you are not going to force a wife down my throat. If you do, I am mistaken; and Grace, if Grace” — John softened and began to feel unhappy a little, but anger prevailed.

From the moment Grace Chatterton conceived a dread of her mother’s saying anything to Sir Edward, her whole conduct was altered. She could hardly look any of the family in the face, and it was her most ardent wish that they might depart. John she avoided as she would an adder, although it nearly broke her heart to do so.

Mr. Benfield had stayed longer than usual, and he now wished to return. John Moseley eagerly profited by this opportunity, and the very day after the conversation in the library he went to Benfield Lodge as a dutiful nephew, to see his venerable uncle safely restored once more to the abode of his ancestors.

Lady Chatterton now perceived, when too late, that she had overshot her mark, while, at the same time, she wondered at the reason of a result so strange from such well-digested and well-conducted plans. She determined, however, never again to interfere between her daughter and the baronet’s heir; concluding, with a nearer approach to the truth than always accompanied her deductions, that they resembled ordinary lovers in neither their temperaments nor opinions.

Perceiving no further use in remaining any longer at the hail, she took her leave, and, accompanied by both her daughters, proceeded to the capital, where she expected to meet her son.

Dr. Ives and his wife returned to the rectory on the same day, and Denbigh immediately resumed his abode under their roof. The intercourse between the rector’s family and Sir Edward’s was renewed with all its former friendly confidence.

Colonel Egerton began to speak of his departure also, but hinted at intentions of visiting L —— at the period of the baronet’s visit to his uncle, before he proceeded to town in the winter.

L —— was a small village on the coast, within a mile of Benfield Lodge; and from its natural convenience, it had long been resorted to by the neighboring gentry for the benefit of sea bathing. The baronet had promised Mr. Benfield his visit should be made at an earlier day than usual, in order to gratify Jane with a visit to Bath, before they went to London, at which town they were promised by Mrs. Jarvis the pleasure of her society, and that of her son and daughters.

Precaution is a word of simple meaning in itself, but various are the ways adopted by different individuals in this life to enforce its import; and not a few are the evils which it is thought necessary to guard against. To provide in season against the dangers of want; personal injury, loss of character, and a great many other such acknowledged misfortunes, has become a kind of instinctive process of our natures. The few exceptions which exist only go to prove the rule: in addition to these, almost every man has some ruling propensity to gratify, to advance which his ingenuity is ever on the alert, or some apprehended evil to avert, which calls all his prudence into activity. Yet how seldom is it exerted, in order to give a rational ground to expect permanent happiness in wedlock.

Marriage is called a lottery, and it is thought, like all other, lotteries, there are more blanks than prizes; yet is it not made more precarious than it ought to be, by our neglect of that degree of precaution which we would be ridiculed for omitting in conducting our every-day concerns? Is not the standard of matrimonial felicity placed too low? Ought we not to look more to the possession of principles than to the possession of wealth? Or is it at all justifiable in a Christian to commit a child, a daughter, to the keeping of a man who wants the very essential they acknowledge most necessary to constitute a perfect character? Most men revolt at infidelity in a woman, and most men, however licentious themselves, look for, at least, the exterior of religion in their wives. The education of their children is a serious responsibility; and although seldom conducted on such rules as will stand the test of reason, it is not to be entirely shaken off: they choose their early impressions should be correct, their infant conduct at least blameless. And are not-one half mankind of the male sex? Are precepts in religion, in morals, only for females? Are we to reverse the theory of the Mahommedans, and though we do not believe it, act as if men had no souls. Is not the example of the father as important to the son as that of the mother to the daughter? In short, is there any security against the commission of enormities, but an humble and devout dependence on the assistance of that Almighty Power, which alone is able to hold us up against temptation?

Uniformity of taste is no doubt necessary to what we call love, but is not taste acquired? Would our daughters admire a handsome deist, if properly impressed with a horror of his doctrines, sooner than they now would admire a handsome Mahommedan? We would refuse our children to a pious dissenter, to give them to impious members of the establishment: we make the substance less than the shadow.

Our principal characters are possessed of these diversified views of the evils to be averted. Mrs. Wilson considers Christianity an indispensable requisite in the husband to be permitted to her charge, and watches against the possibility of any other than a Christian’s gaining the affections of Emily. Lady Chatterton considers the want of an establishment as the unpardonable sin, and directs her energies to prevent this evil; while John Moseley looks upon a free will as the birthright of an Englishman, and is, at the present moment, anxiously alive to prevent the dowager’s making him the husband of Grace, the thing of all others he most strenuously desires.

Chapter XVIII.

John Moseley returned from L —— within a week, and appeared as if his whole delight consisted in knocking over the inoffensive birds. His restlessness induced him to make Jarvis his companion; for although he abhorred the captain’s style of pursuing the sport, being in his opinion both out of rule and without taste, yet he was a constitutional fidget, and suited his own moving propensities at the moment. Egerton and Denbigh were both frequently at the hall, but generally gave their time to the ladies, neither being much inclined to the favorite amusement of John.

There was a little arbor within the walls of the park, which for years had been a retreat from the summer heats to the ladies of the Moseley family; even so long as the youth of Mrs. Wilson it had been in vogue, and she loved it with a kind of melancholy pleasure, as the spot where she had first listened to the language of love from the lips of her late husband. Into this arbor the ladies had one day retired, during the warmth of a noon-day sun, with the exception of Lady Moseley, who had her own engagement in the house. Between Egerton and Denbigh there was maintained a kind of courtly intercourse, which prevented any disagreeable collision from their evident dislike. Mrs. Wilson thought, on the part of Denbigh, it was the forbearance of a principled indulgence to another’s weakness; while the colonel’s otherwise uniform good breeding was hardly able to conceal a something amounting to very near repugnance. Egerton had taken his seat on the ground, near the feet of Jane; and Denbigh was stationed on a bench placed without the arbor but so near as to have the full benefit of the shade of the noble oak, branches of which had been trained so as to compose its principal covering. It might have been accident, that gave each his particular situation; but it is certain they were so placed as not to be in sight of each other, and so placed that the colonel was ready to hand Jane her scissors, or any other little implement that she occasionally dropped, and that Denbigh could read every lineament of the animated countenance of Emily as she listened to his description of the curiosities of Egypt, a country in which he had spent a few months while attached to the army in Sicily. In this situation we will leave them for an hour, happy in the society of each other, while we trace the route of John Moseley and his companion, in their pursuit of woodcock, on the same day.

“Do you know, Moseley,” said Jarvis, who began to think he was a favorite with John, now that he was admitted to his menus plaisirs, “that I have taken it into my head this Mr. Denbigh was very happy to plead his morals for not meeting me. He is a soldier, but I cannot find out what battles he has been in.”

“Captain Jarvis,” said John, coolly, “the less you say about that business the better. Call in Rover.”

Now, another of Jarvis’s recommendations was a set of lungs that might have been heard half a mile with great ease on a still morning.

“Why,” said Jarvis, rather humbly, “I am sensible, Mr Moseley, I was very wrong as regards your sister; but don’t you think it a little odd in a soldier not to fight when properly called upon?”

“I suppose Mr. Denbigh did not think himself properly called upon, or perhaps he had heard what a great shot you were.”

Six months before his appearance in B —— , Captain Jarvis had been a clerk in the counting-room of Jarvis, Baxter & Co., and had never held fire-arms of any kind in his hand, with the exception of an old blunderbuss, which had been a kind of sentinel over the iron chest for years. On mounting the cockade, he hail taken up shooting as a martial exercise, inasmuch as the burning of gunpowder was an attendant of the recreation. He had never killed but one bird in his life, and that, was an owl, of which he took the advantage of daylight and his stocking feet to knock off a tree in the deanery grounds, very early after his arrival. In his trials with John, he sometimes pulled trigger at the same moment with his companion; and as the bird generally fell, he thought he had an equal claim to the honor. He was fond of warring with crows and birds of the larger sort, and invariably went provided with small balls fitted to the bore of his fowling-piece for such accidental rencontres. He had another habit, which was not a little annoying to John, who had several times tried in vain to break him of it — that of shooting at marks. If birds were not plenty, he would throw up a chip, and sometimes his hat, by way of shooting on the wing.

As the clay was excessively hot, and the game kept close, John felt willing to return from such unprofitable labor. The captain now commenced his chip firing, which in a few minutes was succeeded by his hat.

“See, Moseley, see; I have hit the band,” cried the captain, delighted to find he had at last wounded his old antagonist. “I don’t think you can beat that yourself.”

“I am not sure I can,” said John, slipping a handful of gravel in the muzzle of his piece slily, “but I can do, as you did — try.”

“Do,” cried the captain, pleased to get his companion down to his own level of amusements. “Are you ready?”

“Yes; throw.”

Jarvis threw, and John fired: the hat fairly bounced.

“Have I hit it?” asked John, while reloading the barrel he had discharged.

“Hit it!” said the captain, looking ruefully at his hat. “It looks like a cullender; but, Moseley, your gun don’t scatter well: a dozen shot have gone through in the same place.”

“It does look rather like a cullender,” said John, as he overlooked his companion’s beaver, “and, by the size of some of the holes, one that has been a good deal used.”

The reports of the fowling-pieces announced to the party in the arbor the return of the sportsmen, it being an invariable practice with John Moseley to discharge his gun before he came in; and Jarvis had imitated him, from a wish to be what he called in rule.

“Mr. Denbigh,” said John, as he put down his gun, “Captain Jarvis has got the better of his hat at last.”

Denbigh smiled without speaking; and the captain, unwilling to have anything to say to a gentleman to whom be had been obliged to apologize, went into the arbor to show the mangled condition of his head-piece to the colonel, on whose sympathies he felt a kind of claim, being of the same corps. John complained of thirst, and went to a little run of water but a short distance from them, in order to satisfy it. The interruption of Jarvis was particularly unseasonable. Jane was relating, in a manner peculiar to herself, in which was mingled that undefinable exchange of looks lovers are so fond of, some incident of her early life to the colonel that greatly interested him. Knowing the captain’s foibles, he pointed, therefore, with his finger, as he said —

“There is one of your old enemies, a hawk.”

Jarvis threw down his hat, and ran with boyish eagerness to drive away the intruder. In his haste, he caught up the gun of John Moseley, and loading it rapidly/threw in a ball from his usual stock; but whether the hawk saw and knew him, or whether it saw something else it liked better, it made a dart for the baronet’s poultry-yard at no great distance, and was out of sight in a minute. Seeing that his foe had vanished, the captain laid the piece where he had found it, and, recovering his old train of ideas, picked up his hat again.

“John,” said Emily, as she approached him affectionately, “you were too warm to drink.”

“Stand off, sis,” cried John, playfully, taking up the gun from against the body of the tree, and dropping it towards her.

Jarvis had endeavored to make an appeal to the commiseration of Emily in favor of the neglected beaver, and was within a few feet of them. At this moment, recoiling from the muzzle of the gun, he exclaimed, “It is loaded!” “Hold,” cried Denbigh, in a voice of horror, as he sprang between John and his sister. Both were too late; the piece was discharged. Denbigh, turning to Emily, and smiling mournfully, gazed for a moment at her with an expression of tenderness, of pleasure, of sorrow, so blended that she retained the recollection of it for life, and fell at her feet.

The gun dropped from the nerveless grasp of young Moseley. Emily sank in insensibility by the side of her preserver. Mrs. Wilson and Jane stood speechless and aghast. The colonel alone retained the presence of mind necessary to devise the steps to be immediately taken. He sprang to the examination of Denbigh; the eyes of the wounded man were open, and his recollection perfect: the first were fixed in intense observation on the inanimate body which lay at his side.

“Leave me, Colonel Egerton,” he said, speaking with difficulty, and pointing in the direction of the little run of water, “assist Miss Moseley — your hat — your hat will answer.”

Accustomed to scenes of blood, and not ignorant that time and care were the remedies to be applied to the wounded man, Egerton flew to the stream, and returning immediately, by the help of her sister and Mrs. Wilson, soon restored Emily to life. The ladies and John had now begun to act. The tenderest assiduities of Jane were devoted to her sister; while Mrs. Wilson observing her niece to be uninjured by anything but the shock, assisted John in supporting the wounded man.

Denbigh spoke, requesting to be carried to the house; and Jarvis was despatched for help. Within half an hour, Denbigh was placed on a couch in the house of Sir Edward, and was quietly waiting for that professional aid which could only decide on his probable fate. The group assembled in the room were in fearful expectation of the arrival of the surgeons, in pursuit of whom messengers had been sent both to the barracks in F —— and to the town itself. Sir Edward sat by the side of the sufferer, holding one of his hands in his own, now turning his tearful eyes on that daughter who had so lately been rescued as it were from the certainty of death, in mute gratitude and thanksgiving; and now dwelling on the countenance of him, who, by bravely interposing his bosom to the blow, had incurred in his own person the imminent danger of a similar fate, with a painful sense of his perilous situation, and devout and earnest prayers for his safety. Emily was with her father, as with the rest of his family, a decided favorite; and no reward would have been sufficient, no gratitude lively enough, in the estimation of the baronet, to compensate the protector of such a child. She sat between her mother and Jane, with a hand held by each, pale and oppressed with a load of gratitude, of thanksgiving, of woe, that almost bowed her to the earth. Lady Moseley and Jane were both sensibly touched with the deliverance of Emily, and manifested the interest they took in her by the tenderest caresses, while Mrs. Wilson sat calmly collected within herself, occasionally giving those few directions which were necessary under the circumstances, and offering up her silent petitions in behalf of the sufferer. John had taken horse immediately for F —— , and Jarvis had volunteered to go to the rectory and Bolton. Denbigh inquired frequently and with much anxiety for Dr. Ives; but the rector was absent from home on a visit to a sick parishioner, and it was late in the evening before he arrived. Within three hours of the accident, however, Dr. Black, the surgeon of the —— th, reached the hall, and immediately proceeded to examine the wound. The ball had penetrated the right breast, and gone directly through the body; it was extracted with very little difficulty, and his attendant acquainted the anxious friends of Denbigh that the heart certainly, and he hoped the lungs, had escaped uninjured. The ball was a very small one, and the principal danger to be apprehended was from fever: he had taken the usual precautions against that, and should it not set in with a violence greater than he apprehended at present, the patient might be abroad within the month.

“But,” continued the surgeon, with the hardened indifference of his profession, “the gentleman has had a narrow chance in the passage of the ball itself; half an inch would have settled his accounts with this world.”

This information greatly relieved the family, and orders were given to preserve a silence in the house that would favor the patient’s disposition to quiet, or, if possible, sleep.

Dr. Ives now reached the hall. Mrs. Wilson had never Been the rector in the agitation, or with the want of self-command he was in, as she met him at the entrance of the house.

“Is he alive? — is there hope? — where is George?” — cried the doctor, as he caught the extended hand of Mrs. Wilson. She briefly acquainted him with the surgeon’s report, and the reasonable ground there was to expect Denbigh would survive the injury.

“May God be praised,” said the rector, in a suppressed voice, and he hastily withdrew into another room. Mrs. Wilson followed him slowly and in silence; but was checked on opening the door with the sight of the rector on his knees, the tears stealing down his venerable cheeks in quick succession. “Surely,” thought the widow, as she drew back unnoticed, “a youth capable of exciting such affection in a man like Dr. Ives, cannot be unworthy.”

Denbigh, hearing of the arrival of his friend, desired to see him alone. Their conference was short, and the rector returned from it with increased hopes of the termination of this dreadful accident. He immediately left the hall for his own house, with a promise of returning early on the following morning.

During the night, however, the symptoms became unfavorable; and before the return of Dr. Ives, Denbigh was in a state of delirium from the height of his fever, and the apprehensions of his friends were renewed with additional force.

“What, what, my good sir, do you think of him?” said the baronet to the family physician, with an emotion that the danger of his dearest child would not have exceeded, and within hearing of most of his children, who were collected in the ante-chamber of the room in which Denbigh was placed.

“It is impossible to say, Sir Edward,” replied the physician: “he refuses all medicines, and unless this fever abates, there is but little hope of recovery.”

Emily stood during this question and answer, motionless, pale as death, and with her hands clasped together, betraying by the workings of her fingers in a kind of convulsive motion, the intensity of her interest. She had seen the draught prepared which it was so desirable that Denbigh should take, and it now stood rejected on a table, where it could be seen through the open door of his room. Almost breathless, she glided in, and taking the draught in her hand, she approached the bed, by which sat John alone, listening with a feeling of despair to the wanderings of the sick man. Emily hesitated once or twice, as she drew near Denbigh; her face had lost the paleness of anxiety, and glowed with another emotion.

“Mr. Denbigh — dear Denbigh.” said Emily, with energy, unconsciously dropping her voice into the softest notes of persuasion, “will you refuse me? — me, Emily Moseley, whose life you have saved?”

“Emily Moseley!” repeated Denbigh, and in those tones so remarkable to his natural voice. “Is she safe? I thought she was killed — dead.” Then, as if recollecting himself, he gazed intently on her countenance — his eye became less fiery — his muscles relaxed — he smiled, and took, with the docility of a well-trained child, the prescribed medicines from her hand. His ideas still wandered, but his physician, profiting by the command Emily possessed over his patient, increased his care, and by night the fever had abated, and before morning the wounded man was in a profound sleep. During the whole day, it was thought necessary to keep Emily by the side of his bed; but at times it was no trifling tax on her feelings to remain there. He spoke of her by name in the tenderest manner, although incoherently, and in terms that restored to the blanched cheeks of the distressed girl more than the richness of their native color. His thoughts were not confined to Emily, however: he talked of his father, of his mother, and frequently spoke of his poor deserted Marian. The latter name he dwelt on in the language of the warmest affection, condemned his own desertion of her, and, taking Emily for her, would beg her forgiveness, tell her her sufferings had been enough, and that he would return, and never leave her again. At such moments his nurse would sometimes show, by the paleness of her cheeks, her anxiety for his health; and then, as he addressed her by her proper appellation, all her emotions appeared absorbed in the sense of shame at the praises with which he overwhelmed her. Mrs. Wilson succeeded her in the charge of the patient, and she retired to seek that repose she so greatly needed.

On the second morning after receiving the wound, Denbigh dropped into a deep sleep, from which he awoke refreshed and perfectly collected in mind. The fever had left him, and his attendants pronounced, with the usual cautions to prevent a relapse, his recovery certain. It were impossible to have communicated any intelligence more grateful to all the members of the Moseley family; for Jane had even lost sight of her own lover, in sympathy for the fate of a man who had sacrificed himself to save her beloved sister.

Chapter XIX.

The recovery of Denbigh was as rapid as the most sanguine expectation of his friends could hope for, and in ten days he left his bed, and would sit an hour or two at a time in his dressing-room, where Mrs. Wilson, accompanied by Jane or Emily, came and read to him; and it was a remark of Sir Edward’s gamekeeper, that the woodcocks had become so tame during the time Mr. Moseley was shut up in attendance on his friend, that Captain Jarvis was at last actually seen to bag one honestly.

As Jarvis felt something like a consciousness that but for his folly the accident would not have happened, and also something very like shame for the manner he had shrunk from the danger Denbigh had so nobly met, he pretended a recall to his regiment, then on duty near London, and left the deanery. He went off as he came in — in the colonel’s tilbury, and accompanied by his friend and his pointers, John, who saw them pass from the windows of Denbigh’s dressing-room, fervently prayed he might never come back again — the chip-shooting poacher!

Colonel Egerton had taken leave of Jane the evening preceding, with many assurances of the anxiety with which he should look forward to the moment of their meeting at L —— , whither he intended repairing as soon as his corps had gone through its annual review. Jane had followed the bent of her natural feelings too much, during the period of Denbigh’s uncertain fate, to think much of her lover, or anything else but her rescued sister and her preserver; but now the former was pronounced in safety, and the latter, by the very reaction of her grief, was, if possible, happier than ever, Jane dwelt in melancholy sadness on the perfections of the man who had taken with him the best affections (as she thought) of her heart. With him all was perfect: his morals were unexceptionable; his manners showed it; his tenderness of disposition manifest, for they had wept together over the distresses of more than one fictitious heroine; his temper, how amiable! he was never angry — she had never Been it; his opinions, his tastes, how correct! they were her own; his form, his face, how agreeable! — her eyes had seen it, and her heart acknowledged it; besides, his eyes confessed the power of her own charms; he was brave, for he was a soldier; — in short, as Emily had predicted, he was a hero — for he was Colonel Egerton.

Had Jane been possessed of less exuberance of fancy, she might have been a little at a loss to identify all these good properties with her hero: or had she possessed a matured or well-regulated judgment to control that fancy, they might possibly have assumed a different appearance. No explanation had taken place between-them, however. Jane knew, both by her own feelings and by all the legends of love from its earliest days, that the moment of parting was generally a crisis in affairs of the heart, and, with a backwardness occasioned by her modesty, had rather avoided than sought an opportunity to favor the colonel’s wishes. Egerton had no been over anxious to come to the point, and everything was left as heretofore: neither, however, appeared to doubt in the least the state of the other’s’ affections; and there might be said to exist between them one of those not unusual engagements by implication which it would have been, in their own estimation, a breach of faith to recede from, but which, like all other bargains that are loosely made, are sometimes violated when convenient. Man is a creature that, as experience has sufficiently proved, it is necessary to keep in his proper place in society by wholesome restrictions; and we have often thought it a matter of regret that some well understood regulations did not exist by which it became not only customary, but incumbent on him, to proceed in his road to the temple of Hymen. We know that it is ungenerous, ignoble, almost unprecedented, to doubt the faith, the constancy, of a male paragon; yet, somehow, as the papers occasionally give us a sample of such infidelity; as we have sometimes seen a solitary female brooding over her woes in silence, and, with the seemliness of feminine decorum shrinking from the discovery of its cause, or which the grave has revealed for the first time, we cannot but wish that either the watchfulness of the parent, or a sense of self-preservation in the daughter, would, for the want of a better, cause them to adhere to those old conventional forms of courtship which require a man to speak to be understood, and a woman to answer to be committed.

There was a little parlor in the house of Sir Edward Moseley, that was the privileged retreat of none but the members of his own family. Here the ladies were accustomed to withdraw into the bosom of their domestic quietude, when occasional visitors had disturbed their ordinary intercourse; and many were the hasty and unreserved communications it had witnessed between the sisters, in their stolen flights from the graver scenes of the principal apartments. It might be aid to be sacred to the pious feelings of the domestic affections. Sir Edward would retire to it when fatigued with his occupations, certain of finding some one of those he loved to draw his thoughts off from the cares of life to the little incidents of his children’s happiness; and Lady Moseley, even in the proudest hours of her reviving splendor, seldom passed the door without looking in, with a smile, on the faces she might find there. It was, in fact, the room in the large mansion of the baronet, expressly devoted, by long usage and common consent, to the purest feelings of human nature. Into this apartment Denbigh had gained admission, as the one nearest to his own room and requiring the least effort of his returning strength to reach; and, perhaps, by an undefinable feeling of the Moseleys which had begun to connect him with themselves, partly from his winning manners, and partly by the sense of the obligation he had laid them under.

One warm day, John and his friend had sought this retreat, in expectation of meeting his sisters, who they found, however, on inquiry, had walked to the arbor. After remaining conversing for an hour by themselves, John was called away to attend to a pointer that had been taken ill, and Denbigh throwing a handkerchief over his head to guard against the danger of cold, quietly composed himself on one of the comfortable sofas of the room, with a disposition to sleep. Before he had entirely lost his consciousness, a light step moving near him, caught his ear; believing it to be a servant unwilling to disturb him, he endeavored to continue in his present mood, until the quick but stifled breathing of some one nearer than before roused his curiosity. He commanded himself, however, sufficiently, to remain quiet; a blind of a window near him was carefully closed; a screen drawn from a corner and placed so as sensibly to destroy the slight draught of air in which he laid himself; and other arrangements were making, but with a care to avoid disturbing him that rendered them hardly audible. Presently the step approached him again, the breathing was quicker, though gentle, the handkerchief was moved, but the hand was with drawn hastily as if afraid of itself. Another effort was successful, and Denbigh stole a glance through his dark lashes, on the figure of Emily as she-stood over him in the fulness of her charms, and with a face in which glowed an interest he had never witnessed in it before. It undoubtedly was gratitude. For a moment she gazed on him, as her color increased in richness. His hand was carelessly thrown over an arm of the sofa; she stooped towards it with her face gently, but with an air of modesty that shone in her very figure. Denbigh felt the warmth of her breath, but her lips did not touch it. Had he been inclined to judge the actions of Emily Moseley harshly, it were impossible to mistake the movement for anything but the impulse of natural feeling. There was a pledge of innocence, of modesty in her countenance, that would have prevented any misconstruction; and he continued quietly awaiting what the preparations on her little mahogany secretary were intended for.

Mrs. Wilson entertained a great abhorrence of what is commonly called accomplishments in a woman; she knew that too much of that precious time which could never be recalled, was thrown away in endeavoring to acquire a smattering in what, if known, could never be of use to the party, and what can never be well known but to a few, whom nature and long practice have enabled to conquer. Yet as her niece had early manifested a taste for painting, and a vivid perception of the beauties of nature, her inclination had been indulged, and Emily Moseley sketched with neatness and accuracy, and with great readiness. It would have been no subject of surprise, had admiration, or some more powerful feeling, betrayed to the artist, on this occasion, the deception the young man was practising. She had entered the room from her walk, warm and careless; her hair, than which none was more beautiful, had strayed on her shoulders, freed, from the confinement of the comb, and a lock was finely contrasted to the rich color of a cheek that almost burnt with the exercise and the excitement. Her dress, white as the first snow of the winter; her looks, as she now turned them on the face of the sleeper, and betrayed by their animation the success of her art; formed a picture in itself, that Denbigh would have been content to gaze on for ever. Her back was to a window that threw its strong light on the paper — the figures of which were reflected, as she occasionally held it up to study its effect, in a large mirror so placed that Denbigh caught a view of her subject. He knew it at a glance — the arbor — the gun — himself, all were there; it appeared to have been drawn before — it must have been, from its perfect state, and Emily had seized a favorable moment to complete his own resemblance. Her touches were light and finishing, and as the picture was frequently held up for consideration, he had some time allowed for studying it. His own resemblance was strong; his eyes were turned on herself, to whom Denbigh thought she had not done ample justice, but the man who held the gun bore no likeness to John Moseley, except in dress. A slight movement of the muscles of the sleeper’s mouth might have betrayed his consciousness, had not Emily been too intent on the picture, as she turned it in such a way that a strong light fell on the recoiling figure of Captain Jarvis. The resemblance was wonderful. Denbigh thought he would have known it, had he seen it in the Academy itself. The noise of some one approaching closed the portfolio; it was only a servant, yet Emily did not resume her pencil. Denbigh watched her motions, as she put the picture carefully in a private drawer of the secretary, reopened the blind, replaced the screen, and laid the handkerchief, the last thing on his face, with a movement almost imperceptible to himself.

“It is later than I thought,” said Denbigh, looking at his watch; “I owe an apology, Miss Moseley, for making so free with your parlor; but I was too lazy to move.”

“Apology! Mr. Denbigh,” cried Emily, with a color varying with every word she spoke, and trembling at what she thought the nearness of detection, “you have no apology to make for your present debility; and surely, surely, least of all to me!”

“I understand from Mr. Moseley,” continued Denbigh, with a smile, “that our obligation is at least mutual; to your, perseverance and care, Miss Moseley, after the physicians had given me up, I believe I am, under Providence, indebted for my recovery.”

Emily was not vain, and least of all addicted to a display of any of her acquirements; very few even of her friends knew she ever held a pencil in her hand; yet did she now unaccountably throw open her portfolio, and offer its contents to the examination of her companion. It was done almost instantaneously, and with great freedom, though not without certain flushings of the face and heavings of the bosom, that would have eclipsed Grace Chatterton in her happiest moments of natural flattery. Whatever might have been the wishes of Mr. Denbigh to pursue a subject which had begun to grow extremely interesting, both from its import and the feelings’ of the parties, it would have been rude to decline viewing the contents of a lady’s portfolio. The drawings were, many of them, interesting, and the exhibitor of them now appeared as anxious to remove them in haste, as she had but the moment before been to direct his attention to her performances. Denbigh would have given much to dare to ask for the paper so carefully secreted in the private drawer; but neither the principal agency he had himself in the scene, nor delicacy to his companion’s wish for concealment, would allow of the request.

“Doctor Ives! how happy I am to see you,” said Emily, hastily closing her portfolio, and before Denbigh had gone half through its contents; “you have become almost a stranger to us since Clara left us.”

“No, no, my little friend, never a stranger, I hope, at Moseley Hall,” cried the doctor, pleasantly; “George, I am happy to see you look so well — you have even a color — there is a letter for you, from Marian.”

Denbigh took the letter eagerly, and retired to a window to peruse it. His hand shook as he broke the seal, and his interest in the writer, or its contents, could not have escaped the notice of any observer, however indifferent.

“Now, Miss Emily, if you will have the goodness to order me a glass of wine and water after my ride, believe me, you will do a very charitable act,” cried the doctor, as he took his seat on the sofa.

Emily was standing by the little table, deeply musing on the contents of her portfolio; for her eyes were intently fixed on the outside, as if she expected to see through the leather covering their merits and faults.

“Miss Emily Moseley,” continued the doctor, gravely, “am I to die of thirst or not, this warm day?”

“Do you wish anything, Doctor Ives?”

“A servant to get me a glass of wine and water.”

“Why did you not ask me, my dear sir?” said Emily, as she threw open a cellaret, and handed him what he wanted.

“There, my dear, there is a great plenty,” said the doctor, with an arch expression; “I really thought I had asked you thrice — but I believe you were studying something in that portfolio.”

Emily blushed, and endeavored to laugh at her own absence of mind; but she would have given the world to know who Marian was.

Chapter XX.

As a month had elapsed since he received his wound, Denbigh took an opportunity, one morning at breakfast, where he was well enough now to meet his friends, to announce his intention of trespassing no longer on their kindness, but of returning that day to the rectory. The communication distressed the whole family, and the baronet turned to him in the most cordial manner, as he took one of his hands; and said with an air of solemnity —

“Mr. Denbigh, I could wish you to make this house your home; Dr. Ives may have known you longer, and may have the claim of relationship on you, but I am certain he cannot love you better; and are not the ties of gratitude as binding as those of blood?”

Denbigh was affected by the kindness of Sir Edward’s manner.

“The regiment I belong to, Sir Edward, will be reviewed next week, and it has become my duty to leave here; there is one it is proper I should visit, a near connexion, who is acquainted with the escape I have met with, and wishes naturally to see me; besides, my dear Sir Edward, she has many causes of sorrow, and it is a debt I owe her affection to endeavor to relieve them.”

It was the first time he had ever spoken of his family, or hardly of himself, and the silence which prevailed plainly showed the interest his listeners took in the little he uttered.

That connexion, thought Emily — I wonder if her name be Marian? But nothing further passed, excepting the affectionate regrets of her father, and the promises of Denbigh to visit them again before he left B —— , and of joining them at L —— immediately after the review of which he had spoken. As soon as he had breakfasted, John drove him in his phaeton to the rectory.

Mrs. Wilson, like the rest of the baronet’s family, had been too deeply impressed with the debt they owed this young man to interfere with her favorite system of caution against too great an intimacy between her niece and her preserver. Close observation and the opinion of Dr. Ives had prepared her to give him her esteem; but the gallantry, the self-devotion he had displayed to Emily was an act calculated to remove heavier objections than she could imagine as likely to exist to his becoming her husband. That he meant it, was evident from his whole deportment of late. Since the morning the portfolio was produced, Denbigh had given a more decided preference to her niece. The nice discrimination of Mrs, Wilson would not have said his feelings had become stronger, but that he labored less to conceal them. That he loved her niece she suspected from the first fortnight of their acquaintance, and it had given additional stimulus to her investigation into his character; but to doubt it, after stepping between her and death, would have been to have mistaken human nature. There was one qualification she would have wished to have been certain he possessed: before this accident, she would have made it an indispensable one; but the gratitude, the affections of Emily, she believed now to be tab deeply engaged to make the strict inquiry she otherwise would have done; and she had the best of reasons for believing that if Denbigh were not a true Christian, he was at least a strictly moral man, and assuredly one who well understood the beauties of a religion she almost conceived it impossible for any impartial and intelligent man long to resist. Perhaps Mrs. Wilson, having in some measure interfered with her system, like others, had, on finding it impossible to conduct so that reason would justify all she did, began to find reasons for what she thought best to be done under the circumstances. Denbigh, however, both by his acts and his opinions, had created such an estimate of his worth in the breast of Mrs. Wilson, that there would have been but little danger of a repulse had no fortuitous accident helped him in his way to her favor.

“Who have we here?” said Lady Moseley. “A landaulet and four — the Earl of Bolton, I declare!”

Lady Moseley turned from the window with that collected grace she so well loved, and so well knew how to assume, to receive her noble visitor. Lord Bolton was a bachelor of sixty-five, who had long been attached to the court, and retained much of the manners of the old school. His principal estate was in Ireland, and most of that time which his duty at Windsor did not require he gave to the improvement of his Irish property. Thus, although on perfectly good terms with the baronet’s family, they seldom met. With General Wilson he had been at college, and to his widow he always showed much of that regard he had invariably professed for her husband, The obligation he had conferred, unasked, on Francis Ives, was one conferred on all his friends, and his reception was now warmer than usual.

“My Lady Moseley,” said the earl, bowing formally on her hand, “your looks do ample justice to the air of Northamptonshire. I hope you enjoy your usual health.”

Then, waiting her equally courteous answer, he paid his compliments, in succession, to all the members of the family; a mode undoubtedly well adapted to discover their several conditions, but not a little tedious in its operations, and somewhat tiresome to the legs.

“We are under a debt of gratitude to your lordship,” said Sir Edward, in his simple and warm-hearted way, “that I am sorry it is not in our power to repay more amply than by our thanks.”

The earl was, or affected to be, surprised, as he required an explanation.

“The living at Bolton,” said Lady Moseley, with dignity.

“Yes,” continued her husband; “in giving the living to Frank you did me a favor, equal to what you would have done had he been my own child; and unsolicited, too, my lord, it was an additional compliment.”

The earl sat rather uneasy during this speech, but the love of truth prevailed; for he had been too much round the person of our beloved sovereign not to retain all the impressions of his youth; and after a little struggle with his self-love, he answered —

“Not unsolicited, Sir Edward. I have no doubt, had nay better fortune allowed me the acquaintance of my present rector, his own merit would have obtained what a sense of justice requires I should say was granted to an applicant to whom the ear of royalty itself would not have been deaf.”

It was the turn of the Moseleys now to look surprised, and Sir Edward ventured to ask an explanation.

“It was my cousin, the Earl of Pendennyss, who applied for it, as a favor done to himself; and Pendennyss is a man not to be refused anything.”

“Lord Pendennyss!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, with animation; “and in what way came we to be under this obligation to Lord Pendennyss?”

“He did me the honor of a call during my visit to Ireland, madam,” replied the earl; “and on inquiring of my steward after his old friend, Doctor Stevens, learnt his death, and the claims of Mr. Ives; but the reason he gave me was his interest in the widow of General Wilson,” bowing with much solemnity to the lady as he spoke.

“I am gratified to find the earl yet remembers us,” said Mrs. Wilson, struggling to restrain her tears. “Are we to have the pleasure of seeing him soon?”

“I received a letter from him yesterday, saying he should be here in all next week, madam.” And turning pleasantly to Jane and her sister, he continued, “Sir Edward, you have here rewards fit for heavier services, and the earl is a great admirer of female charms.”

“Is he not married, my lord?” asked the baronet, with great simplicity.

“No, baronet, nor engaged; but how long he will remain so after his hardihood in venturing into this neighborhood, will, I trust, depend on one of these young ladies.”

Jane looked grave — for trifling on love was heresy, in her estimation; but Emily laughed, with an expression in which a skilful physiognomist might have read — if he means me, he is mistaken.

“Your cousin, Lord Chatterton, has found interest, Sir Edward,” continued the peer, “to obtain his father’s situation; and if reports speak truth, he wishes to become more nearly related to you, baronet.”

“I do not well see how that can happen,” said Sir Edward with a smile, and who had not art enough to conceal his thoughts, “unless he takes my sister here.”

The cheeks of both the young ladies now vied with the rose; and the peer, observing he had touched on forbidden ground, added, “Chatterton was fortunate to find friends able to bear up against the powerful interest of Lord Haverford.”

“To whom was he indebted for the place, my lord?” asked Mis. Wilson.

“It was whispered at court, madam,” said the earl, sensibly lowering his voice, and speaking with an air of mystery “and a lord of the bed-chamber is fonder of discoveries than a lord of the council — that His Grace of Derwent threw the whole of his parliamentary interest into the scale on the baron’s side, but you are not to suppose,” raising his hand gracefully, with a wave of rejection, “that I speak from authority; only a surmise, Sir Edward, only a surmise, my lady.”

“Is not the name of the Duke of Derwent, Denbigh?” inquired Mrs. Wilson, with a thoughtful manner.

“Certainly, madam, Denbigh,” replied the earl, with a gravity with which he always spoke of dignities; “one of our most ancient names, and descended on the female side from the Plantagenets and Tudors.”

He now rose to take his leave, and on bowing to the younger ladies, laughingly repeated his intention of bringing his cousin (an epithet he never omitted), Pendennyss, to their feet.

“Do you think, sister,” said Lady Moseley, after the earl had retired, “that Mr. Denbigh is of the house of Derwent?”

“I cannot say,” replied Mrs. Wilson, musing, “yet it is odd, Chatterton told me of his acquaintance with Lady Harriet Denbigh, but not with the Duke.”

As this was spoken in the manner of a soliloquy, it received no answer, and was in fact but little attended to by any of the party, excepting Emily, who glanced her eye once or twice at her aunt as she was speaking, with an interest the name of Denbigh never failed to excite. Harriet was, she thought, a pretty name, but Marian was a prettier; if, thought Emily, I could know a Marian Denbigh, I am sure I could love her, and her name too.

The Moseleys now began to make their preparations for their departure to L —— , and the end of the succeeding week was fixed for the period at which they were to go. Mrs. Wilson urged a delay of two or three days, in order to give her an opportunity of meeting with the Earl of Pendennyss, a young man in whom, although she had relinquished her former romantic wish of uniting him to Emily, in favor of Denbigh, she yet felt a deep interest, growing out of his connexion with the last moments of her husband, and, his uniformly high character.

Sir Edward accordingly acquainted his uncle, that on the following Saturday he might expect to receive himself and family, intending to leave the hall in the afternoon of the preceding day, and reach Benfield lodge to dinner. This arrangement once made, and Mr. Benfield notified of it, was unalterable, the old man holding a variation from an engagement a deadly sin. The week succeeding the accident which had nearly proved so fatal to Denbigh, the inhabitants of the hall were surprised with the approach of a being, as singular in his manners and dress as the equipage which conveyed him to the door of the house. The latter consisted of a high-backed, old-fashioned sulky, loaded with leather and large-headed brass nails; wheels at least a quarter larger in circumference than those of the present day, and wings on each side large enough to have supported a full grown roc in the highest regions of the upper air. It was drawn by a horse, once white, but whose milky hue was tarnished through age with large and numerous red spots, and whose mane and tail did not appear to have suffered by the shears during the present reign. The being who alighted from this antiquated vehicle was tall and excessively thin, wore his own hair drawn over his almost naked head into a long thin queue, which reached half way down his back, closely cased in numerous windings of leather, or the skin of some fish. His drab coat was in shape between a frock and a close-body — close-body, indeed, it was; for the buttons, which were in size about equal to an old-fashioned China saucer, were buttoned to the very throat, thereby setting off his shape to peculiar advantage; his breeches were buckskin, and much soiled; his stockings blue yarn, although it was midsummer; and his shoes were provided with buckles of dimensions proportionate to the aforesaid buttons; his age might have been seventy, but his walk was quick, and the movements of his whole system showed great activity both of mind and body. He was ushered into the room where the gentlemen were sitting, and having made a low and extremely modest bow, he deliberately put on his spectacles, thrust his hand into an outside pocket of his coat, and produced from under its huge flaps a black leathern pocket-book about as large as a good-sized octavo volume; after examining the multitude of papers it contained carefully, he selected a letter, and having returned the pocket-book to its ample apartment, read aloud,

“For Sir Edward Moseley, bart. of Moseley Hall, B —— , Northamptonshire — with care and speed, by the hands of Mr. Peter Johnson, steward of Benfield Lodge, Norfolk;” and dropping his sharp voice, he stalked up to the baronet, and presented the epistle, with another reverence.

“Ah, my good friend, Johnson,” said Sir Edward as soon as he delivered his errand (for until he saw the contents of the letter, he had thought some accident had occurred to his uncle), “this is the first visit you have ever honored me with; come, take a glass of wine before you go to your dinner; let us drink, that it may not be the last.”

“Sir Edward Moseley, and you, honorable gentlemen, will pardon me,” replied the steward, in his own solemn key, “this is the first time I was ever out of his majesty’s county of Norfolk, and I devoutly wish it may prove the last — Gentlemen, I drink your honorable healths.”

This was the only real speech the old man made during his visit, unless an occasional monosyllabic reply to a question could be thought so. He remained, by Sir Edward’ positive order, until the following day; for having delivered his message, and receiving its answer, he was about to take his departure that evening, thinking he might get a good piece on his road homewards, as it wanted half an hour to sunset. On the following morning, with the sun, he was on his way to the house in which he had been born, and which he had never left for twenty-four hours at a time in his life. In the evening, as he was ushered in by John (who had known him from his own childhood, and loved to show him attention) to the room in which he was to sleep, he broke what the young man called his inveterate silence, with, “Young Mr. Moseley — young gentleman — might I presume — to ask — to see the gentleman?”

“What gentleman?” cried John, astonished at the request, and at his speaking so much.

“That saved Miss Emmy’s life, sir.”

John now fully comprehended him, and led the way to Denbigh’s room; he was asleep, but they were admitted to his bed-side. The steward stood for ten minutes gazing on the sleeper in silence; and John observed, as he blew his nose on regaining his own apartment, that his little grey eyes twinkled with a lustre which could not be taken for anything but a tear.

As the letter was as characteristic of the writer as its bearer was of his vocation, we may be excused giving it at length.

“Dear Sir Edward and Nephew,

“Your letter reached the lodge too late to be answered that evening, as I was about to step into my bed; but I hasten to write my congratulations, remembering the often repeated maxim of my kinsman Lord Gosford, that letters should be answered immediately; indeed, a neglect of it had very nigh brought about an affair of honor between the earl and Sir Stephens Hallett. Sir Stephens was always opposed to us in the House of Commons of this realm; and I have often thought something might have passed in the debate itself, which commenced the correspondence, as the earl certainly told him as much as if he were a traitor to his King and country.

“But it seems that your daughter Emily has been rescued from death by the grandson of General Denbigh, who sat with us in the house. Now I always had a good opinion of this young Denbigh, who reminds me, every time I look at him, of my late brother, your father-in-law that was; and I send my steward, Peter Johnson, express to the hall in order that he may see the sick man, and bring me back a true account how he fares: for should he be wanting for anything within the gift of Roderic Benfield, he has only to speak to have it; not that I suppose, nephew, you will willingly allow him to suffer for anything, but Peter is a man of close observation, although he is of few words, and may suggest something beneficial, that might escape younger heads. I pray for — that is, I hope, the young man will recover, as your letter gives great hopes; and if he should want any little matter to help him along in the army, as I take it he is not over wealthy, you have now a good opportunity to offer your assistance handsomely; and that it may not interfere with your arrangements for this winter, your draft on me for five thousand pounds will be paid at sight; for fear he may be proud, and not choose to accept your assistance, I have this morning detained Peter, while he has put a codicil to my will, leaving him ten thousand pounds. You may tell Emily she is a naughty child, or she would have written me the whole story; but, poor dear, I suppose she has other things on her mind just now. God bless Mr. —— that is, God bless, you all, and try if you cannot get a lieutenant-colonelcy at once — the brother of Lady Juliana’s friend was made a lieutenant-colonel at the first step.

“RODERIC BENFIELD.”

The result of Peter’s reconnoitering expedition has never reached our knowledge, unless the arrival of a servant some days after he took his leave, with a pair of enormous-goggles, and which the old gentleman assured his nephew in a note, both Peter and himself had found useful to weak eyes in their occasional sickness, might have been owing to the prudent forecast of the sagacious steward.

Chapter XXI.

The morning on which Denbigh-left B —— was a melancholy one to all the members of the little circle, in which he had been so distinguished for his modesty, his intelligence, and his disinterested intrepidity. Sir Edward took an opportunity solemnly to express his gratitude for the services he had rendered him, and having retired to his library, delicately and earnestly pressed his availing himself of the liberal offer of Mr. Benfield to advance his interest in the army.

“Look upon me, my dear Mr. Denbigh,” said the good baronet, pressing him by the hand, while the tears stood in his eyes, “as a father, to supply the place of the one you have so recently lost. You are my child; I feel as a parent to you, and must be suffered to act as one.”

To this affectionate offer of Sir Edward, Denbigh replied with an emotion equal to that of the baronet, though he declined, with respectful language, his offered assistance as unnecessary. He had friends powerful enough to advance his interests, without resorting to the use of money; and on taking Sir Edward’s hand, as he left the apartment, he added with great warmth, “yet, my dear Sir, the day will come, I hope, when I shall ask a boon from your hands, that no act of mine or a life of service could entitle me to receive.”

The baronet smiled his assent to a request he already understood, and Denbigh withdrew.

John Moseley insisted on putting the bays in requisition to carry Denbigh for the first stage, and they now stood caparisoned for the jaunt, with their master in a less joyous mood than common, waiting the appearance of his companion.

Emily delighted in their annual excursion to Benfield Lodge. She was beloved so warmly, and returned the affection of its owner so sincerely, that the arrival of the day never failed to excite that flow of spirits which generally accompanies anticipated pleasures, ere experience has proved how trifling are the greatest enjoyments the scenes of this life bestow. Yet as the day of their departure drew near, her spirits sunk in proportion; and on the morning of Denbigh’s leave-taking, Emily seemed anything but excessively happy. There was a tremor in her voice and a redness about her eyes that alarmed Lady Moseley; but as the paleness of her cheeks was immediately succeeded by as fine a color as the heart could wish, the anxious mother allowed herself to be persuaded by Mrs. Wilson there was no danger, and she accompanied her sister to her own room for some purpose of domestic economy. It was at this moment Denbigh entered: he had paid his adieus to the matrons at the door, and been directed by them to the little parlor in quest of Emily.

“I have come to make my parting compliments, Miss Moseley,” he said, in a tremulous voice, as he ventured to hold forth his hand. “May heaven preserve you,” he continued, holding it in fervor to his bosom: then dropping it, he hastily retired, as if unwilling to trust himself any longer to utter all he felt. Emily stood a few moments, pale and almost inanimate, as the tears flowed rapidly from her eyes; and then she sought a shelter in a seat of the window. Lady Moseley, on returning, was alarmed lest the draught would increase her indisposition; but her sister, observing that the window commanded a view of the road, thought the air too mild to do her injury.

The personages who composed the society at B —— had now, in a great measure, separated, in pursuit of their duties or their pleasures. The merchant and his family left the deanery for a watering-place. Francis and Clara had gone on a little tour of pleasure in the northern counties, to take L —— in their return homeward; and the morning arrived for the commencement of the baronet’s journey to the same place. The carriages had been ordered, and servants were running in various ways, busily employed in their several occupations, when Mrs. Wilson, accompanied by John and his sisters, returned from a walk they had taken to avoid the bustle of the house. A short distance from the park gates, an equipage was observed approaching, creating by its numerous horses and attendants a dust which drove the pedestrians to one side of the road. An uncommonly elegant and admirably fitted travelling barouche and six rolled by, with the graceful steadiness of an English equipage: several servants on horseback were in attendance; and our little party were struck with the beauty of the whole establishment.

“Can it be possible Lord Bolton drives such elegant horses?” cried John, with the ardor of a connoisseur in that noble animal. “They are the finest set in the kingdom.”

Jane’s eye had seen, through the clouds of dust, the armorial bearings, which seemed to float in the dark glossy panels of the carriage, and she observed, “It is an earl’s coronet, but they are not the Bolton arms.” Mrs. Wilson and Emily had noticed a gentleman reclining at his ease, as the owner of the gallant show; but its passage was too rapid to enable them to distinguish the features of the courteous old earl; indeed, Mrs. Wilson remarked, she thought him a younger man than her friend.

“Pray, sir,” said John to a tardy groom, as he civilly walked his horse by the ladies, “who has passed in the barouche?”

“My Lord Pendennyss, sir.”

“Pendennyss!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, with a tone of regret, “how unfortunate!”

She had seen the day named for his visit pass without his arrival, and now, as it was too late to profit by the opportunity, he had come for the second time into her neighborhood Emily had learnt, by the solicitude of her aunt, to take an interest in the young peer’s movements, and desired John to ask a question or two of the groom.

“Where does your lord stop to-night?”

“At Bolton Castle, sir; and I heard my lord tell his valet that he intended staying one day hereabouts, and the day after to-morrow he goes to Wales, your honor.”

“I thank you, friend,” said John; when the man spurred his horse after the cavalcade. The carriages were at the door, and Sir Edward had been hurrying Jane to enter, as a servant, in a rich livery and well mounted, galloped up and delivered a letter for Mrs. Wilson, who, on opening it, read the following:

“The Earl of Pendennyss begs leave to present his most respectful compliments to Mrs. Wilson and the family of Sir Edward Moseley. Lord Pendennyss will have the honor of paying his respects in person at any moment that the widow of his late invaluable friend, Lieutenant-General Wilson, will please to appoint.

“Bolton Castle, Friday evening.”

To this note Mrs. Wilson, bitterly regretting the necessity which compelled her to forego the pleasure of meeting her paragon, wrote in reply a short letter, disliking the formality of a note.

“My LORD, “I sincerely regret that an engagement which cannot be postponed compels us to leave Moseley Hall within the hour, and must, in consequence, deprive us of the pleasure of your intended visit. But as circumstances have connected your Lordship with some of the dearest, although the most melancholy events of my life, I earnestly beg you will no longer consider us as strangers to your person, as we have long ceased to be to your character. It will afford me the greatest pleasure to hear that there will be a prospect of our meeting in town next winter, where I may find a more fitting opportunity of expressing those grateful feelings so long due to your lordship from your sincere friend,

“CHARLOTTE WILSON.

“Moseley Hall, Friday morning.”

With this answer the servant was despatched, and the carriages moved on. John had induced Emily to trust herself once more to the bays and his skill; but on perceiving the melancholy of her aunt, she insisted on exchanging seats with Jane, who had accepted a place in the carriage of Mrs. Wilson. No objection being made, Mrs. Wilson and her niece rode the first afternoon together in her travelling chaise. The road run within a quarter of a mile of Bolton Castle, and the ladies endeavored in vain to get a glimpse of the person of the young nobleman. Emily was willing to gratify her aunt’s propensity to dwell on the character and history of her favorite; and hoping to withdraw her attention gradually from more unpleasant recollections, asked several trifling questions relating to those points.

“The earl must be very rich, aunt, from the style he maintains.”

“Very, my dear; his family I am unacquainted with, but I understand his title is an extremely ancient one; and some one, I believe Lord Bolton, mentioned that his estates in Wales alone, exceeded fifty thousand a year.”

“Much good might be done,” said Emily, thoughtfully, “with such a fortune.”

“Much good is done,” cried her aunt, with fervor. “I am told by every one who knows him, his donations are large and frequent. Sir Herbert Nicholson said he was extremely simple in his habits, and it leaves large sums at his disposal every year.”

“The bestowal of money is not always charity,” said Emily, with an arch smile and a slight color.

Mrs. Wilson smiled in her turn as she answered, “not always, but it is charity to hope for the best.”

“Sir Herbert knew him, then?” said Emily.

“Perfectly well; they were associated together in the service for several years, and he spoke of him with a fervor equal to my warmest expectations.”

The Moseley arms in F —— was kept by an old butler of the family, and Sir Edward every year, in going to or coming from L —— , spent a night under its roof. He was received by its master with a respect that none who ever knew the baronet well, could withhold from his goodness of heart and many virtues.

“Well, Jackson,” said the baronet, kindly, as he was seated at the supper table, “how does custom increase with you — I hope you and the master of the Dun Cow are more amicable than formerly.”

“Why, Sir Edward,” replied the host, who had lost a little of the deference of the servant in the landlord, but none of his real respect, “Mr. Daniels and I are more upon a footing of late than we was, when your goodness enabled me to take the house; then he got all the great travellers, and for more than a twelvemonth I had not a title in my house but yourself and a great London doctor, that was called here to see a sick person in the town. He had the impudence to call me the knight barrow-knight, your honor, and we had a quarrel upon that account.”

“I am glad, however, to find you are gaining in the rank of your customers, and trust, as the occasion has ceased, you will be more inclined to be good-natured to each other.”

“Why, as to good-nature, Sir Edward, I lived with your honor ten years, and you must know somewhat of my temper,” said Jackson, with the self-satisfaction of an approving conscience; “but Sam Daniels is a man who is never easy unless he is left quietly at the top of the ladder; however,” continued the host, with a chuckle, “I have given him a dose lately.”

“How so, Jackson?” inquired the baronet, willing to gratify the man’s wish to relate his triumphs.

“Your honor must have heard mention made of a great lord, the Duke of Derwent; well, Sir Edward, about six weeks agone he passed through with my Lord Chatterton.”

“Chatterton!” exclaimed John, interrupting him, “has he been so near us again, and so lately?”

“Yes, Mr. Moseley,” replied Jackson with a look of importance: “they dashed into my yard with their chaise and four, with five servants, and would you think it, Sir Edward, they hadn’t been in the house ten minutes, before Daniels son was fishing from the servants, who they were; I told him, Sir Edward — dukes don’t come every day.”

“How came you to get his grace away from the Dun Cow — chance?”

“No, your honor,” said the host, pointing to his sign, and bowing reverently to his old master, “the Moseley Arms did it. Mr. Daniels used to taunt me with having worn a livery, and has said more than once he could milk his cow, but that your honor’s arms would never lift me into a comfortable seat for life; so I just sent him a message by the way of letting him know my good fortune, your honor.”

“And what was it?”

“Only that your honor’s arms had shoved a duke and a baron into my house — that’s all.”

“And I suppose Daniels’ legs shoved your messenger out of his,” said John, laughing.

“No, Mr. Moseley; Daniels would hardly dare do that but yesterday, your honor, yesterday evening, beat everything. Daniels was seated before his door, and I was taking a pipe at mine, Sir Edward, as a coach and six, with servants upon servants, drove down the street; it got near us, and the boys were reining the horses into the yard of the Dun Cow, as the gentleman in the coach saw my sign: he sent a groom to inquire who kept the house; I got up, your honor, and told him my name, sir. ‘Mr. Jackson,’ said his lordship, ‘my respect for the family of Sir Edward Moseley is too great not to give my custom to an old servant of his family.’”

“Indeed,” said the baronet; “pray who was my lord?”

“The Earl of Pendennyss, your honor. Oh, he is a sweet gentleman, and he asked all about my living with your honor, and about Madam Wilson.”

“Did his lordship stay the night?” inquired Mrs. Wilson, excessively gratified at a discovery of the disposition manifested by the earl towards her.

“Yes, madam, he left here after breakfast.”

“What message did you send the Dun Cow this time, Jackson?” cried John.

Jackson looked a little foolish, but the question being repeated, he answered— “Why, sir, I was a little crowded for room, and so your honor, so I just sent Tom across the street, to know if Mr. Daniels couldn’t keep a couple of the grooms.”

“And Tom got his head broke.”

“No, Mr. John, the tankard missed him; but if— “

“Very well,” said the baronet, willing to change the conversation, “you have been so fortunate of late, you can afford to be generous; and I advise you to cultivate harmony with your neighbor, or I may take my arms down, and you may lose your noble visiters — see my room prepared.”

“Yes, your honor,” said the host, and bowing respectfully he withdrew.

“At least, aunt,” cried John, pleasantly, “we have the pleasure of supping in the same room with the puissant earl, albeit there be twenty-four hours’ difference in the time.”

“I sincerely wish there had not been that difference,” observed his father, taking his sister kindly by the hand.

“Such an equipage must have been a harvest indeed to Jackson,” remarked the mother; as they broke up for the evening.

The whole establishment at Benfield Lodge, were drawn up to receive them on the following day in the great hall, and in the centre was fixed the upright and lank figure of its master, with his companion in leanness, honest Peter Johnson, on his right.

“I have made out, Sir Edward and my Lady Moseley, to get as far as my entrance, to receive the favor you are conferring upon me. It was a rule in my day, and one invariably practised by all the great nobility, such as Lord Gosford — and — and — his sister, the lady Juliana Dayton, always to receive and quit their guests in the country at the great entrance; and in conformity — ah, Emmy dear,” cried the old gentleman, folding her in his arms as the tears rolled down his cheeks, forgetting his speech in the warmth of his feeling, “You are saved to us again; God be praised — there, that will do, let me breathe — let me breathe;” and then by the way of getting rid of his softer feelings, he turned upon John; “so, youngster, you would be playing with edge tools, and put the life of your sister in danger. No gentleman held a gun in my day; that is, no gentleman about the court. My Lord Gosford had never killed a bird in his life, or drove his horse; no sir, gentlemen then were not coachmen. Peter how old was I before I took the reins of the chaise, in driving round the estate — the time you broke your arm? it was— “

Peter, who stood a little behind his master, in modest retirement, and who had only thought his elegant form brought thither to embellish the show, when called upon, advanced a step, made a low bow, and answered in his sharp key:

“In the year 1798, your honor, and the 38th of his present majesty, and the 64th year of your life, sir, June the 12th, about meridian.”

Peter dropped back as he finished; but recollecting himself, regained his place with a bow, as he added, “new style.”

“How are you, old style?” cried John, with a slap on the back, that made the steward jump again.

“Mr. John Moseley — young gentleman” — a term Peter had left off using to the baronet within the last ten years, “did you think — to bring home — the goggles?”

“Oh yes,” said John, gravely, producing them from his pocket. Most of the party having entered the parlor, he put them carefully on the bald head of the steward— “There, Mr Peter Johnson, you have your property again, safe and sound.”

“And Mr. Denbigh said he felt much indebted to your consideration in sending them,” said Emily, soothingly, as she took them off with her beautiful hands.

“Ah, Miss Emmy,” said the steward, with one of his best bows, “that was — a noble act; God bless him!” then holding up his finger significantly, “the fourteenth codicil — to master’s will,” and Peter laid his finger alongside his nose, as he nodded his head in silence.

“I hope the thirteenth contains the name of honest Peter Johnson,” said the young lady, who felt herself uncommonly well pleased with the steward’s conversation.

“As witness, Miss Emmy — witness to all — but God forbid,” said the steward with solemnity, “I should ever live to see the proving of them: no, Miss Emmy, master has done for me what he intended, while I had youth to enjoy it. I am rich, Miss Emmy — good three hundred a year.” Emily, who had seldom heard so long a speech as the old man’s gratitude drew from him, expressed her pleasure at hearing it, and shaking him kindly by the hand, left him for the parlor.

“Niece,” said Mr. Benfield, having scanned the party closely with his eyes, “where is Colonel Denbigh?”

“Colonel Egerton, you mean, sir,” interrupted Lady Moseley.

“No, my Lady Moseley,” replied her uncle, with great formality, “I mean Colonel Denbigh. I take it he is a colonel by this time,” looking expressively at the baronet; “and who is fitter to be a colonel or a general, than a man who is not afraid of gunpowder?”

“Colonels must have been scarce in your youth, sir,” cried John, who had rather a mischievous propensity to start the old man on his hobby.

“No, jackanapes, gentlemen killed one another then, although they did not torment the innocent birds: honor was as dear to a gentleman of George the Second’s court, as to those of his grandson’s, and honesty too, sirrah — ay, honesty. I remember when we were in, there was not a man of doubtful integrity in the ministry, or on our side even; and then again, when we went out, the opposition benches were filled with sterling characters, making a parliament that was correct throughout. Can you show me such a thing at this day?”

Chapter XXII.

A Few days after the arrival of the Moseleys at the lodge John drove his sisters to the little village of L —— , which at that time was thronged with an unusual number of visiters. It had, among other fashionable arrangements for the accommodation of its guests, one of those circulators of good and evil, a public library. Books are, in a great measure, the instruments of controlling the opinions of a nation like ours. They are an engine, alike powerful to save or to destroy. It cannot be denied, that our libraries contain as many volumes of the latter, as the former description; for we rank amongst the latter that long catalogue of idle productions, which, if they produce no other evil, lead to the misspending of time, our own perhaps included. But we cannot refrain expressing our regret, that such formidable weapons in the cause of morality, should be suffered to be wielded by any indifferent or mercenary dealer, who undoubtedly will consult rather the public tastes than the private good: the evil may be remediless, yet we love to express our sentiments, though we should suggest nothing new or even profitable. Into one of these haunts of the idle, then, John Moseley entered with a lovely sister leaning on either arm. Books were the entertainers of Jane, and instructors of Emily. Sir Edward was fond of reading of a certain sort — that which required no great depth of thought, or labor of research; and, like most others who are averse to contention, and disposed to be easily satisfied, the baronet sometimes found he had harbored opinions on things not exactly reconcileable with the truth, or even with each other. It is quite as dangerous to give up your faculties to the guidance of the author you are perusing, as it is unprofitable to be captiously scrutinizing every syllable he may happen to advance; and Sir Edward was, if anything, a little inclined to the dangerous propensity. Unpleasant, Sir Edward Moseley never was. Lady Moseley very seldom took a book in her hand: her opinions were established to her own satisfaction on all important points, and on the minor ones, she made it a rule to coincide with the popular feeling. Jane had a mind more active than her father, and more brilliant than her mother; and if she had not imbibed injurious impressions from the unlicensed and indiscriminate reading she practised, it was more owing to the fortunate circumstance, that the baronet’s library contained nothing extremely offensive to a pure taste, nor dangerous to good morals, than to any precaution of her parents against the deadly, the irretrievable injury to be sustained from ungoverned liberty in this respect to a female mind. On the other hand, Mrs. Wilson had inculcated the necessity of restraint, in selecting the books for her perusal, so strenuously on her niece, that what at first had been the effects of obedience and submission, had now settled into taste and habit; and Emily seldom opened a book, unless in search of information; or if it were the indulgence of a less commendable spirit, it was an indulgence chastened by a taste and judgment that lessened the danger, if it did not entirely remove it.

The room was filled with gentlemen and ladies; and while John was exchanging his greetings with several of the neighboring gentry of his acquaintance, his sisters were running nastily over a catalogue of the books kept for circulation, as an elderly lady, of foreign accent and dress, entered; and depositing a couple of religious works on the counter, she inquired for the remainder of the set. The peculiarity of her idiom and her proximity to the sisters caused them both to look up at the moment, and, to the surprise of Jane, her sister uttered a slight exclamation of pleasure. The foreigner was attracted by the sound, and after a moment’s hesitation, she respectfully curtsied. Emily, advancing, kindly offered her hand, and the usual inquiries after each other’s welfare succeeded. To the questions asked after the friend of the matron Emily learnt, with some surprise, and no less satisfaction, that she resided in a retired cottage, about five miles from L —— , where they had been for the last six months, and where they expected to remain for some time, “until she could prevail on Mrs. Fitzgerald to return to Spain; a thing, now there was peace, of which she did not despair.” After asking leave to call on them in their retreat, and exchanging good wishes, the Spanish lady withdrew, and, as Jane had made her selection, was followed immediately by John Moseley and his sisters. Emily, in their walk home, acquainted her brother that the companion of their Bath incognita had been at the library, and that for the first time she had learnt that their young acquaintance was, or had been, married, and her name. John listened to his sister with the interest which the beautiful Spaniard had excited at the time they first met, and laughingly told her he could not believe their unknown friend had ever been a wife. To satisfy this doubt, and to gratify a wish they both had to renew their acquaintance with the foreigner, they agreed to drive to the cottage the following morning, accompanied by Mrs. Wilson and Jane, if she would go; but the next day was the one appointed by Egerton for his arrival at L —— , and Jane, under a pretence of writing letters, declined the excursion. She had carefully examined the papers since his departure; had seen his name included in the arrivals at London; and at a later day, had read an account of the review by the commander-in-chief of the regiment to which he belonged. He had never written to any of her friends; but, judging from her own feelings, she did not in the least doubt he would be as punctual as love could make him. Mrs. Wilson listened to her niece’s account of the unexpected interview in the library with pleasure, and cheerfully promised to accompany them in their morning’s excursion, as she had both a wish to alleviate sorrow, and a desire to better understand the character of this accidental acquaintance of Emily’s.

Mr. Benfield and the baronet had a long conversation in relation to Denbigh’s fortune the morning after their arrival; and the old man was loud in his expression of dissatisfaction at the youngster’s pride. As the baronet, however, in the fulness of his affection and simplicity, betrayed to his uncle his expectation of a union between Denbigh and his daughter, Mr. Benfield became contented with this reward; one fit, he thought, for any services. On the whole, “it was best, as he was to marry Emmy, he should sell out of the army; and as there would be an election soon, he would bring him into parliament — yes — yes — it did a man so much good to sit one term in the parliament of this realm — to study human nature. All his own knowledge in that way was raised on the foundations laid in the House.” To this Sir Edward cordially assented, and the gentlemen separated, happy in their arrangements to advance the welfare of two beings they so sincerely loved.

Although the care and wisdom of Mrs. Wilson had prohibited the admission of any romantic or enthusiastic expectations of happiness into the day-dreams of her charge, yet the buoyancy of health, of hope, of youth, of innocence, had elevated Emily to a height of enjoyment hitherto unknown to her usually placid and disciplined pleasures. Denbigh certainly mingled in most of her thoughts, both of the past and the future, and she stood on the threshold of that fantastic edifice in which Jane ordinarily resided. Emily was in the situation perhaps the most dangerous to a young female Christian: her heart, her affections, were given to a man, to appearance, every way worthy of possessing them, it is true but she had admitted a rival in her love to her Maker; and to keep those feelings distinct, to bend the passions in due submission to the more powerful considerations of endless duty, of unbounded gratitude, is one of the most trying struggles of Christian fortitude. We are much more apt to forget our God in prosperity than adversity. The weakness of human nature drives us to seek assistance in distress; but vanity and worldly-mindedness often induce us to imagine we control the happiness we only enjoy.

Sir Edward and Lady Moseley could see nothing in the prospect of the future but lives of peace and contentment for their children. Clara was happily settled, and her sisters were on the eve of making connexions with men of family, condition, and certain character. What more could be done for them? They must, like other people, take their chances in the lottery of life; they could only hope and pray for their prosperity, and this they did with great sincerity. Not so Mrs. Wilson: she had guarded the invaluable charge intrusted to her keeping with too much assiduity, too keen an interest, too just a sense of the awful responsibility she had undertaken, to desert her post at the moment watchfulness was most required. By a temperate, but firm and well-chosen conversation she kept alive the sense of her real condition in her niece, and labored hard to prevent the blandishments of life from supplanting the lively hope of enjoying another existence. She endeavored, by her pious example, her prayers, and her Judicious allusions, to keep the passion of love in the breast of Emily secondary to the more important object of her creation; and, by the aid of a kind and Almighty Providence, her labors, though arduous, were crowned with success.

As the family were seated round the table after dinner, on the day of their walk to the library, John Moseley, awakening from a reverie, exclaimed suddenly,

“Which do you think the handsomest, Emily, Grace Chatterton or Miss Fitzgerald?”

Emily laughed, as she answered, “Grace, certainly; do you not think so, brother?”

“Yes, on the whole; but don’t you think Grace looks like her mother at times?”

“Oh no, she is the image of Chatterton.”

“She is very like yourself, Emmy dear,” said Mr. Benfield, who was listening to their conversation.

“Me, dear uncle; I have never heard it remarked before.”

“Yes, yes, she is as much like you as she can stare. I never saw as great a resemblance, excepting between you and Lady Juliana — Lady Juliana, Emmy, was a beauty in her day; very like her uncle, old Admiral Griffin — you can’t remember the admiral — he lost an eye in a battle with the Dutch, and part of his cheek in a frigate, when a young man fighting the Dons. Oh, he was a pleasant old gentleman; many a guinea has he given me when I was a boy at school.”

“And he looked like Grace Chatterton, uncle, did he?” asked John, innocently.

“No, sir, he did not; who said he looked like Grace Chatterton, jackanapes?”

“Why, I thought you made it out, sir: but perhaps it was the description that deceived me — his eye and cheek, uncle.”

“Did Lord Gosford leave children, uncle?” inquired Emily, throwing a look of reproach at John.

“No, Emmy dear; his only child, a son, died at school. I shall never forget the grief of poor Lady Juliana. She postponed a visit to Bath three weeks on account of it. A gentleman who was paying his addresses to her at the time, offered then, and was refused — indeed, her self-denial raised such an admiration of her in the men, that immediately after the death of young Lord Dayton, no less than seven gentlemen offered, and were refused in one week. I heard Lady Juliana say, that what between lawyers and suitors, she had not a moment’s peace.”

“Lawyers?” cried Sir Edward: “what had she to do with lawyers?”

“Why, Sir Edward, six thousand a year fell to her by the death of her nephew; and there were trustees and deeds to be made out — poor young woman, she was so affected, Emmy, I don’t think she went out for a week — all the time at home reading papers, and attending to her important concerns. Oh! she was a woman of taste; her mourning, and liveries, and new carriage, were more admired than those of any one about the court. Yes, yes, the title is extinct; I know of none of the name now. The Earl did not survive his loss but six years, and the countess died broken-hearted, about a twelvemonth before him.”

“And Lady Juliana, uncle,” inquired John, “what became of her, did she marry?”

The old man helped himself to a glass of wine, and looked over his shoulder to see if Peter was at hand. Peter, who had been originally butler, and had made it a condition of his preferment, that whenever there was company, he should be allowed to preside at the sideboard, was now at his station. Mr. Benfield, seeing his old friend near him, ventured to talk on a subject he seldom trusted himself with in company.

“Why, yes — yes — she did marry, it’s true, although she did tell me she intended to die a maid; but — hem — I suppose — hem — it was compassion for the old viscount, who often said he could not live without her; and then it gave her the power of doing so much good, a jointure of five thousand a year added to her own income: yet — hem — I do confess I did not think she would have chosen such an old and infirm man — but, Peter, give me a glass of claret.” Peter handed the claret, and the old man proceeded:— “They say he was very cross to her, and that, no doubt, must have made her unhappy, she was so very tender-hearted.”

How much longer the old gentleman would have continued in this strain, it is impossible to say; but he was interrupted by the opening of the parlor door, and the sudden appearance on its threshold of Denbigh. Every countenance glowed with pleasure at this unexpected return of their favorite; and but for the prudent caution of Mrs. Wilson, in handing a glass of water to her niece, the surprise might have proved too much for her. The salutations of Denbigh were returned by the different members of the family with a cordiality that must have told him how much he was valued by all its branches; and after briefly informing them that his review was over, and that he had thrown himself into a chaise and travelled post until he had rejoined them, he took his seat by Mr. Benfield, who received him with a marked preference, exceeding that which he had shown to any man who had ever entered his doors, Lord Gosford himself not excepted. Peter removed from his station behind his master’s chair to one where he could face the new comer; and after wiping his eyes until they filled so rapidly with water, that at last he was noticed by the delighted John to put on the identical goggles which his care had provided for Denbigh in his illness. His laugh drew the attention of the rest to the honest steward, and when Denbigh was told this was Mr. Benfield’s ambassador to the hall, he rose from his chair, and taking the old man by the hand, kindly thanked him for his thoughtful consideration for his weak eyes.

Peter took the offered hand in both his own, and after making one or two unsuccessful efforts to speak, he uttered, “Thank you, thank you; may Heaven bless you,” and burst into tears. This stopped the laugh, and John followed the steward from the room, while his master exclaimed, wiping his eyes, “Kind and condescending; just such another as my old friend, the Earl of Gosford.”

Chapter XXIII.

At the appointed hour, the carriage of Mrs. Wilson was ready to convey herself and niece to the cottage of Mrs. Fitzgerald. John was left behind, under the pretence of keeping Denbigh company in his morning avocations, but really because Mrs. Wilson doubted the propriety of his becoming a visiting acquaintance at the house, tenanted as the cottage was represented to be. John was too fond of his friend to make any serious objections, and was satisfied for the present, by sending his compliments, and requesting his sister to ask permission for him to call in one of his morning excursions, in order to pay his personal respects.

They found the cottage a beautiful and genteel, though a very small and retired dwelling, almost hid by the trees and shrubs which surrounded it, and its mistress in its little veranda, expecting the arrival of Emily. Mrs. Fitzgerald was a Spaniard, under twenty, of a melancholy, yet highly interesting countenance; her manners were soft and retiring, but evidently bore the impression of good company, if not of high life. She was extremely pleased with this renewal of attention on the part of Emily, and expressed her gratitude to both ladies for their kindness in seeking her out in her solitude. She presented her more matronly companion to them, by the name of Donna Lorenza; and as nothing but good feeling prevailed, and useless ceremony was banished, the little party were soon on terms of friendly intercourse. The young widow (for such her dress indicated her to be), did the honors of her house with graceful ease, and conduct ed her visiters into her little grounds, which; together the cottage, gave evident proofs of the taste and elegance of its occupant. The establishment she supported she represented as very small; two women and an aged man servant, with occasionally a laborer for her garden and shrubbery. They never visited; it was a resolution she had made on fixing her residence here, but if Mrs. Wilson and Miss Moseley would forgive the rudeness of not returning their call, nothing would give her more satisfaction than a frequent renewal of their visits. Mrs. Wilson took so deep an interest in the misfortunes of this young female, and was so much pleased with the modest resignation of her manner, that it required little persuasion on the part of the recluse to obtain a promise of soon repeating her visit. Emily mentioned the request of John, and Mrs. Fitzgerald received it with a mournful smile, as she replied that Mr. Moseley had laid her under such an obligation in their first interview, she could not deny herself the pleasure of again thanking him for it; but she must be excused if she desired they would limit their attendants to him, as there was but one gentleman in England whose visits she admitted, and it was seldom indeed he called; he had seen her but once since she had resided in Norfolk.

After giving a promise not to suffer any one else to accompany them, and promising an early call again, our ladies returned to Benfield Lodge in season to dress for dinner. On entering the drawing-room, they found the elegant person of Colonel Egerton leaning on the back of Jane’s chair. He had arrived during their absence, and immediately sought the baronet’s family. His reception, if not as warm as that given to Denbigh, was cordial from all but the master of the house; and even he was in such spirits by the company around him, and the prospects of Emily’s marriage (which he considered as settled), that he forced himself to an appearance of good will he did not feel. Colonel Egerton was either deceived by his manner, or too much a man of the world to discover his suspicion, and everything in consequence was very harmoniously, if not sincerely conducted between them.

Lady Moseley was completely happy. If she had the least doubts before, as to the intentions of Egerton, they were now removed. His journey to that unfashionable watering-place, was owing to his passion; and however she might at times have doubted as to Sir Edgar’s heir, Denbigh she thought a man of too little consequence in the world, to make it possible he would neglect to profit by his situation in the family of Sir Edward Moseley. She was satisfied with both connexions. Mr. Benfield had told her General Sir Frederic Denbigh was nearly allied to the Duke of Derwent, and Denbigh had said the general was his grandfather. Wealth, she knew Emily would possess from both her uncle and aunt; and the services of the gentleman had their due weight upon the feelings of the affectionate mother. The greatest of her maternal anxieties was removed, and she looked forward to the peaceful enjoyment of the remnant of her days in the bosom of her descendants. John, the heir of a baronetcy, and 15,000 pounds a year, might suit himself; and Grace Chatterton, she thought, would be likely to prove the future Lady Moseley. Sir Edward, without entering so deeply into anticipations of the future as his wife, experienced an equal degree of contentment; and it would have been a difficult task to discover in the island a roof, under which there resided at the moment more happy countenances than at Benfield Lodge; for as its master had insisted on Denbigh becoming an inmate, he was obliged to extend his hospitality in an equal degree to Colonel Egerton: indeed, the subject had been fully canvassed between him and Peter the morning of his arrival, and was near being decided against his admission, when the steward, who had picked up all the incidents of the arbor scene from the servants (and of course with many exaggerations), mentioned to his master that the colonel was very active, and that he even contrived to bring water to revive Miss Emmy, a great distance, in the hat of Captain Jarvis, which was full of holes, Mr. John having blown it off the head of the captain without hurting a hair, in firing at a woodcock. This mollified the master a little, and he agreed to suspend his decision for further observation. At dinner, the colonel happening to admire the really handsome face of Lord Gosford, as delineated by Sir Joshua Reynolds, which graced the dining-room of Benfield Lodge, its master, in a moment of unusual kindness, gave the invitation; it was politely accepted, and the colonel at once domesticated.

The face of John Moseley alone, at times, exhibited evidences of care and thought, and at such moments it might be a subject of doubt whether he thought the most of Grace Chatterton or her mother: if the latter, the former was sure to lose ground in his estimation; a serious misfortune to John, not to be able to love Grace without alloy. His letters from her brother mentioned his being still at Denbigh castle, in Westmoreland, the seat of his friend the Duke of Derwent; and John thought one or two of his encomiums on Lady Harriet Denbigh, the sister of his grace, augured that the unkindness of Emily might in time be forgotten. The dowager and her daughters were at the seat of a maiden aunt in Yorkshire, where as John knew no male animal was allowed admittance, he was tolerably easy at the disposition of things. Nothing but legacy-hunting he knew would induce the dowager to submit to such a banishment from the other sex; but that was so preferable to husband-hunting he was satisfied. “I wish,” said John mentally, as he finished the perusal of his letter, “mother Chatterton would get married herself, and she might let Kate and Grace manage for themselves. Kate would do very well, I dare say, and how would Grace make out!” John sighed, and whistled for Dido and Rover.

In the manners of Colonel Egerton there was the same general disposition to please, and the same unremitted attention to the wishes and amusements of Jane. They had renewed their poetical investigations, and Jane eagerly encouraged a taste which afforded her delicacy some little coloring for the indulgence of an association different from the real truth, and which, in her estimation, was necessary to her happiness. Mrs. Wilson thought the distance between the two suitors for the favor of her nieces was, if anything, increased by their short separation, and particularly noticed on the part of the colonel an aversion to Denbigh that at times painfully alarmed, by exciting apprehensions for the future happiness of the precious treasure she had prepared herself to yield to his solicitations, whenever properly proffered. In the intercourse between Emily and her preserver, as there was nothing to condemn, so there was much to admire. The attentions of Denbigh were pointed, although less exclusive than those of the colonel; and the aunt was pleased to observe that if the manners of Egerton had more of the gloss of life, those of Denbigh were certainly distinguished by a more finished delicacy and propriety. The one appeared the influence of custom and association, with a tincture of artifice; the other, benevolence, with a just perception of what was due to others, and with an air of sincerity, when speaking of sentiments and principles, that was particularly pleasing to the watchful widow. At times, however, she could not but observe an air of restraint, if not of awkwardness, about him that was a little surprising. It was most observable in mixed society, and once or twice her imagination pictured his sensations into something like alarm. These unpleasant interruptions to her admiration were soon forgotten in her just appreciation of the more solid parts of his character, which appeared literally to be unexceptionable; and when momentary uneasiness would steal over her, the remembrance of the opinion of Dr. Ives, his behavior with Jarvis, his charity, and chiefly his devotion to her niece, would not fail to drive the disagreeable thoughts from her mind. Emily herself moved about, the image of joy and innocence. If Denbigh were near her, she was happy; if absent, she suffered no uneasiness. Her feelings were so ardent, and yet so pure, that jealousy had no admission. Perhaps no circumstances existed to excite this usual attendant of the passion; but as the heart of Emily was more enchained than her imagination, her affections were not of the restless nature of ordinary attachments, though more dangerous to her peace of mind in the event of an unfortunate issue. With Denbigh she never walked or rode alone. He had never made the request, and her delicacy would have shrunk from such an open manifestation of her preference; but he read to her and her aunt; he accompanied them in their little excursions; and once or twice John noticed that she took the offered hand of Denbigh to assist her over any little impediment in their course, instead of her usual unobtrusive custom of taking his arm on such occasions. “Well, Miss Emily,” thought John, “you appear to have chosen another favorite,” on her doing this three times in succession in one of their walks. “How strange it is women will quit their natural friends for a face they have hardly seen.” John forgot his own— “There is no danger, dear Grace,” when his sister was almost dead with apprehension. But John loved Emily too well to witness her preference of another with satisfaction, even though Denbigh was the favorite; a feeling which soon wore away, however, by dint of custom and reflection. Mr. Benfield had taken it into his head that if the wedding of Emily could be solemnized while the family was at the lodge, it would render him the happiest of men; and how to compass this object, was the occupation of a whole morning’s contemplation. Happily for Emily’s blushes, the old gentleman harbored the most fastidious notions of female delicacy, and never in conversation made the most distant allusion to the expected connexion. He, therefore, in conformity with these feelings, could do nothing openly; all must be the effect of management; and as he thought Peter one of the best contrivers in the world, to his ingenuity he determined to refer the arrangement.

The bell rang— “Send Johnson to me, David.”

In a few minutes, the drab coat and blue yarn stockings entered his dressing-room with the body of Mr. Peter Johnson snugly cased within them.

“Peter,” commenced Mr. Benfield, pointing kindly to a chair, which the steward respectfully declined, “I suppose you know that Mr. Denbigh, the grandson of General Denbigh, who was in parliament with me, is about to marry my little Emmy?”

Peter smiled, as he bowed an assent.

“Now, Peter, a wedding would, of all things, make me most happy; that is, to have it here in the lodge. It would remind me so much of the marriage of Lord Gosford, and the bridemaids. I wish your opinion how to bring it about before they leave us. Sir Edward and Anne decline interfering, and Mrs. Wilson I am afraid to speak to on the subject.”

Peter was not a little alarmed by this sudden requisition on his inventive faculties, especially as a lady was in the case; but, as he prided himself on serving his master, and loved the hilarity of a wedding in his heart, he cogitated for some time in silence, when, having thought a preliminary question or two necessary, he broke it with saying —

“Everything, I suppose, master, is settled between the young people?”

“Everything, I take it, Peter.”

“And Sir Edward and my lady?”

“Willing; perfectly willing.”

“And Madam Wilson, sir?”

“Willing, Peter, willing.”

“And Mr. John and Miss Jane?”

“All willing; the whole family is willing, to the best of my belief.’”

“There is the Rev. Mr. Ives and Mrs. Ives, master?”

“They wish it, I know. Don’t you think they wish others as happy as themselves, Peter?”

“No doubt they do, master. Well, then, as everybody is willing, and the young people agreeable, the only thing to be done, sir, is.”

“Is what, Peter?” exclaimed his impatient master observing him to hesitate.

“Why, sir, to send for the priest, I take it.”

“Pshaw! Peter Johnson, I know that myself,” replied the dissatisfied old man. “Cannot you help me to a better plan?”

“Why, master,” said Peter, “I would have done as well for Miss Emmy and your honor as I would have done for myself. Now, sir, when I courted Patty Steele, your honor, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and sixty-five, I should have been married but for one difficulty, which your honor says is removed in the case of Miss Emmy.”

“What was that, Peter?” asked his master, in a tender tone.

“She wasn’t willing, sir.”

“Very well, poor Peter,” replied Mr. Benfield, mildly “you may go.” And the steward, bowing low, withdrew.

The similarity of their fortunes in love was a strong link in the sympathies which bound the master and man together and the former never failed to be softened by an allusion to Patty. The want of tact in the man, on the present occasion, after much reflection, was attributed by his master to the fact that Peter had never sat in parliament.

Chapter XXIV.

Mrs. Wilson and Emily, in the fortnight they had been at Benfield Lodge, paid frequent and long visits to the cottage: and each succeeding interview left a more favorable impression of the character of its mistress, and a greater certainty that she was unfortunate. The latter, however, alluded very slightly to her situation or former life; she was a Protestant, to the great surprise of Mrs. Wilson; and one that misery had made nearly acquainted with the religion she professed. Their conversations chiefly turned on the customs of her own, as contrasted with those of her adopted country, or in a pleasant exchange of opinions, which the ladies possessed in complete unison. One morning John had accompanied them and been admitted; Mrs. Fitzgerald receiving him with the frankness of an old acquaintance, though with the reserve of a Spanish lady. His visits were permitted under the direction of his aunt, but no others of the gentlemen were included amongst her guests. Mrs. Wilson had casually mentioned, in the absence of her niece, the interposition of Denbigh between her and death; and Mrs. Fitzgerald was so much pleased at the noble conduct of the gentleman, as to express a desire to see him; but the impressions of the moment appeared to have died away, a nothing more was said by either lady on the subject, and it was apparently forgotten. Mrs. Fitzgerald was found one morning, weeping over a letter she held in her hand, and the Donna Lorenza was endeavoring to console her. The situation of this latter lady was somewhat doubtful; she appeared neither wholly a friend nor a menial. In the manners of the two there was a striking difference; although the Donna was not vulgar, she was far from possessing the polish of her more juvenile friend, and Mrs. Wilson considered her to be in a station between that of a housekeeper and that of a companion. After hoping that no unpleasant intelligence occasioned the distress they witnessed, the ladies were delicately about to take their leave, when Mrs. Fitzgerald entreated them to remain.

“Your kind attention to me, dear madam, and the goodness of Miss Moseley, give you a claim to know more of the unfortunate being your sympathy has so greatly assisted to attain her peace of mind. This letter is from the gentleman of whom you have heard me speak, as once visiting me, and though it has struck me with unusual force, it contains no more than I expected to hear, perhaps no more than I deserve to hear.”

“I hope your friend has not been unnecessarily harsh: severity is not the best way, always, of effecting repentance, and I feel certain that you, my young friend, can have been guilty of no offence that does not rather require gentle than stern reproof,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“I thank you, dear madam, for your indulgent opinion of me, but although I have suffered much, I am willing to confess it is a merited punishment; you are, however, mistaken as to the source of my present sorrow. Lord Pendennyss is the cause of grief, I believe, to no one, much less to me.”

“Lord Pendennyss!” exclaimed Emily, in surprise, unconsciously looking at her aunt.

“Pendennyss!” reiterated Mrs. Wilson, with animation “and is he your friend, too?” “Yes, madam; to his lordship I owe everything — honor — comfort — religion — and even life itself.”

Mrs. Wilson’s cheek glowed with an unusual color, at this discovery of another act of benevolence and virtue, in a young nobleman whose character she had so long admired, and whose person she had in vain wished to meet.

“You know the earl, then?” inquired Mrs. Fitzgerald.

“By reputation, only, my dear,” said Mrs. Wilson; “but that is enough to convince me a friend of his must be a worthy character, if anything were wanting to make us your friends.”

The conversation was continued for some time, and Mrs. Fitzgerald saying she did not feel equal just then to the undertaking, but the next day, if they would honor her with another call, she would make them acquainted with the incidents of her life, and the reasons she had for speaking in such terms of Lord Pendennyss. The promise to see her was cheerfully made by Mrs. Wilson, and her confidence accepted; not from a desire to gratify an idle curiosity, but a belief that it was necessary to probe a wound to cure it; and a correct opinion, that she would be a better adviser for a young and lovely woman, than even Pendennyss; for the Donna Lorenza she could hardly consider in a capacity to offer advice, much less dictation. They then took their leave, and Emily, during their ride, broke the silence with exclaiming, —

“Wherever we hear of Lord Pendennyss, aunt, we hear of him favorably.”

“A certain sign, my dear, he is deserving of it. There is hardly any man who has not his enemies, and those are seldom just; but we have met with none of the earl’s yet.”

“Fifty thousand a year will make many friends,” observed Emily, shaking her head.

“Doubtless, my love, or as many enemies; but honor, life, and religion, my child, are debts not owing to money — in this country at least.”

To this remark Emily assented; and after expressing her own admiration of the character of the young nobleman, she dropped into a reverie. How many of his virtues she identified with the person of Mr. Denbigh, it is not, just now, our task to enumerate; but judges of human nature may easily determine, and that too without having sat in the parliament of this realm.

The morning this conversation occurred at the cottage, Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis, with their daughters, made their unexpected appearance at L —— . The arrival of a post-chaise and four with a gig, was an event soon circulated through the little village, and the names of its owners reached the lodge just as Jane had allowed herself to be persuaded by the colonel to take her first walk with him unaccompanied by a third person. Walking is much more propitious to declarations than riding; and whether it was premeditated on the part of the colonel or not, or whether he was afraid that Mrs. Jarvis or some one else would interfere, he availed himself of this opportunity, and had hardly got out of hearing of her brother and Denbigh, before he made Jane an explicit offer of his hand. The surprise was so great, that some time elapsed before the distressed girl could reply. This she, however, at length did, but incoherently: she referred him to her parents, as the arbiters of her fate, well knowing that her wishes had long been those of her father and mother. With this the colonel was obliged to be satisfied for the present. But their walk had not ended, before he gradually drew from the confiding girl an acknowledgment that, should her parents decline his offer, she would be very little less miserable than himself; indeed, the most tenacious lover might have been content with the proofs of regard that Jane, unused to control her feelings, allowed herself to manifest on this occasion. Egerton was in raptures; a life devoted to her would never half repay her condescension; and as their confidence increased with their walk, Jane re-entered the lodge with a degree of happiness in her heart she had never before experienced. The much dreaded declaration — her own distressing acknowledgements, were made, and nothing farther remained but to live and be happy. She flew into the arms of her mother, and; hiding her blushes in her bosom, acquainted her with the colonel’s offer and her own wishes. Lady Moseley, who was prepared for such a communication, and had rather wondered at its tardiness, kissed her daughter affectionately, as she promised to speak to her father, and to obtain his approbation.

“But,” she added, with a degree of formality and caution which had better preceded than have followed the courtship, “we must make the usual inquiries, my child, into the fitness of Colonel Egerton as a husband for our daughter. Once assured of that, you have nothing to fear.”

The baronet was requested to grant an audience to Colonel Egerton, who now appeared as determined to expedite things, as he had been dilatory before. On meeting Sir Edward, he made known his pretensions and hopes. The father, who had been previously notified by his wife of what was forthcoming, gave a general answer, similar to the speech of the mother, and the colonel bowed in acquiescence.

In the evening, the Jarvis family favored the inhabitants of the lodge with a visit, and Mrs. Wilson was struck with the singularity of their reception of the colonel. Miss Jarvis, especially, was rude to both him and Jane, and it struck all who witnessed it as a burst of jealous feeling for disappointed hopes; but to no one, excepting Mrs. Wilson, did it occur that the conduct of the gentleman could be at all implicated in the transaction. Mr. Benfield was happy to see under his roof again the best of the trio of Jarvises he had known, and something like sociability prevailed. There was to be a ball, Miss Jarvis remarked, at L —— , the following day, which would help to enliven the scene a little, especially as there were a couple of frigates at anchor, a few miles off, and the officers were expected to join the party. This intelligence had but little effect on the ladies of the Moseley family; yet, as their uncle desired that, out of respect to his neighbors, if invited, they would go, they cheerfully assented. During the evening, Mrs. Wilson observed Egerton in familiar conversation with Miss Jarvis; and as she had been notified of his situation with respect to Jane, she determined to watch narrowly into the causes of so singular a change of deportment in the young lady. Mrs. Jarvis retained her respect for the colonel in full force; and called out to him across the room, a few minutes before she departed —

“Well, colonel, I am happy to tell you I have heard very lately from your uncle, Sir Edgar.”

“Indeed, madam!” replied the colonel, starting. “He was well, I hope.”

“Very well, the day before yesterday. His neighbor, old, Mr. Holt, is a lodger in the same house with us at L —— ; and as I thought you would like to hear, I made particular inquiries about the baronet.” The word baronet was pronounced with emphasis and a look of triumph, as if it would say, you see we have baronets as well as you. As no answer was made by Egerton, excepting an acknowledging bow, the merchant and his family departed.

“Well, John,” cried Emily, with a smile, “we have heard more good to-day of our trusty and well-beloved cousin, the Earl of Pendennyss.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed her brother. “You must keep Emily for his lordship, positively, aunt: she is almost as great an admirer of him as yourself.”

“I apprehend it is necessary she should be quite as much so, to become his wife,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“Really,” said Emily, more gravely, “if all one hears of him be true, or even half, it would be no difficult task to admire him.”

Denbigh was standing leaning on the back of a chair, in situation where he could view the animated countenance of Emily as she spoke, and Mrs. Wilson noticed an uneasiness and a changing of color in him that appeared uncommon from so trifling a cause. Is it possible, she thought, Denbigh can harbor so mean a passion as envy? He walked away, as if unwilling to hear more, and appeared much engrossed with his own reflections for the remainder of the evening. There were moments of doubting which crossed the mind of Mrs. Wilson with a keenness of apprehension proportionate to her deep interest in Emily, with respect to certain traits in the character of Denbigh; and this, what she thought a display of unworthy feeling, was one of them. In the course of the evening, the cards for the expected ball arrived, and were accepted. As this new arrangement for the morrow interfered with their intended visit to Mrs. Fitzgerald, a servant was sent with a note of explanation in the morning and a request that on the following day the promised communication might be made. To this arrangement the recluse assented, and Emily prepared for the ball with a melancholy recollection of the consequences which grew out of the last she had attended — melancholy at the fate of Digby, and pleasure at the principles manifested by Denbigh, on the occasion. The latter, however, with a smile, excused himself from being of the party, telling Emily he was so awkward that he feared some unpleasant consequences to himself or his friends would arise from his inadvertencies, did he venture again with her into such an assembly.

Emily sighed gently, as she entered the carriage of her aunt early in the afternoon, leaving Denbigh in the door of the lodge, and Egerton absent on the execution of some business; the former to amuse himself as he could until the following morning, and the latter to join them in the dance in the evening.

The arrangement included an excursion on the water, attended by the bands from the frigates, a collation, and in the evening a ball. One of the vessels was commanded by a Lord Henry Stapleton, a fine young man, who, struck with the beauty and appearance of the sisters, sought an introduction to the baronet’s family, and engaged the hand of Emily for the first dance. His frank and gentleman-like deportment was pleasing to his new acquaintances; the more so, as it was peculiarly suited to their situation at the moment. Mrs. Wilson was in unusual spirits, and maintained an animated conversation with the young sailor, in the course of which, he spoke of his cruising on the coast of Spain, and by accident he mentioned his having carried out to that country, upon one occasion, Lord Pendennyss. This was common ground between them, and Lord Henry was as enthusiastic in his praises of the earl, as Mrs. Wilson’s partiality could desire. He also knew Colonel Egerton slightly, and expressed his pleasure, in polite terms, when they met in the evening in the ball-room, at being able to renew his acquaintance. The evening passed off as such evenings generally do — in gaiety, listlessness, dancing, gaping, and heartburnings, according to the dispositions and good or ill fortune of the several individuals who compose the assembly. Mrs. Wilson, while her nieces were dancing, moved her seat to be near a window, and found herself in the vicinity of two elderly gentlemen, who were commenting on the company. After making several common-place remarks, one of them inquired of the other— “Who is that military gentleman amongst the naval beaux, Holt?”

“That is the hopeful nephew of my friend and neighbor, Sir Edgar Egerton; he is here dancing, and misspending his time and money, when I know Sir Edgar gave him a thousand pounds six months ago, on express condition, he should not leave the regiment or take a card in his hand for twelvemonth.”

“He plays, then?”

“Sadly; he is, on the whole, a very bad young man.”

As they changed their topic, Mrs. Wilson joined her sister, dreadfully shocked at this intimation of the vices of a man so near an alliance with her brother’s child. She was thankful it was not too late to avert part of the evil, and determined to acquaint Sir Edward, at once, with what she had heard, in order that an investigation might establish the colonel’s innocence or guilt.

Chapter XXV.

They returned to the lodge at an early hour, and Mrs Wilson, after meditating upon the course she ought to take, resolved to have a conversation with her brother that evening after supper. Accordingly, as they were among the last to retire, she mentioned her wish to detain him, and when left by themselves, the baronet taking his seat by her on a sofa, she commenced as follows, willing to avoid her unpleasant information until the last moment.

“I wished to say something to you, brother, relating to my charge: you have, no doubt, observed the attentions of Mr. Denbigh to Emily?”

“Certainly, sister, and with great pleasure; you must not suppose I wish to interfere with the authority I have so freely relinquished to you, Charlotte, when I inquire if Emily favors his views or not?”

“Neither Emily nor I, my dear brother, wish ever to question your right, not only to inquire into, but to control the conduct of your child; — she is yours, Edward, by a tie nothing can break, and we both love you too much to wish it. There is nothing you may be more certain of, than that, without the approbation of her parents, Emily would accept of no offer, however splendid or agreeable to her own wishes.”

“Nay, sister, I would not wish unduly to influence my child in an affair of so much importance to herself; but my interest in Denbigh is little short of that I feel for my daughter.”

“I trust,” continued Mrs. Wilson, “Emily is too deeply impressed with her duty to forget the impressive mandate, ‘to honor her father and mother:’ yes, Sir Edward, I am mistaken if she would not relinquish the dearest object of her affections, at your request; and at the same time, I am persuaded she would, under no circumstances, approach the altar with a man she did not both love and esteem.”

The baronet did not appear exactly to understand his sister’s distinction, as he observed, “I am not sure I rightly comprehend the difference you make, Charlotte.”

“Only, brother, that she would feel that a promise made at the altar to love a man she felt averse to, or honor one she could not esteem, as a breach of a duty, paramount to all earthly considerations,” replied his sister; “but to answer your question — Denbigh has never offered, and when he does, I do not think he will be refused.”

“Refused!” cried the baronet, “I sincerely hope not; I wish, with all my heart, they were married already.”

“Emily is very young,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and need not hurry: I was in hopes she would remain single a few years longer.”

“Well,” said the baronet, “you and Lady Moseley, sister, have different notions on the subject of marrying the girls.”

Mrs. Wilson replied, with a good-humored smile, “you have made Anne so good a husband, Ned, that she forgets there are any bad ones in the world; my greatest anxiety is, that the husband of my niece may be a Christian; indeed, I know not how I can reconcile it to my conscience, as a Christian myself, to omit this important qualification,”

“I am sure, Charlotte, both Denbigh and Egerton appear to have a great respect for religion; they are punctual at church, and very attentive to the service:” Mrs, Wilson smiled as he proceeded, “but religion may come after marriage, you know.”

“Yes, brother, and I know it may not come at all; no really pious woman can be happy, without her husband is in what she deems the road to future happiness himself; and it is idle — it is worse — it is almost impious to marry with a view to reform a husband: indeed, she greatly endangers her own safety thereby; for few of us, I believe, but find the temptation to err as much as we can contend with, without calling in the aid of example against us, in an object we love; indeed it appears to me, the life of such a woman must be a struggle between conflicting duties.”

“Why,” said the baronet, “if your plan were generally adopted, I am afraid it would give a deadly blow to matrimony.”

“I have nothing to do with generals, brother, I am acting for individual happiness, and discharging individual duties: at the same time I cannot agree with you in its effects on the community. I think no man who dispassionately examines the subject, will be other than a Christian; and rather than remain bachelors, they would take even that trouble; if the strife in our sex were less for a husband, wives would increase in value.”

“But how is it, Charlotte,” said the baronet, pleasantly, “your sex do not use your power and reform the age?”

“The work of reformation, Sir Edward,” replied his sister, gravely, “is an arduous one indeed, and I despair of seeing it general, in my day; but much, very much, might be done towards it, if those who have the guidance of youth would take that trouble with their pupils that good faith requires of them, to discharge the minor duties of life.”

“Women ought to marry,” observed the baronet, musing.

“Marriage is certainly the natural and most desirable state for a woman,” but how few are there who, having entered it, know how to discharge its duties; more particularly those of a mother! On the subject of marrying our daughters, for instance, instead of qualifying them to make a proper choice, they are generally left to pick up such principles and opinions as they may come at, as it were by chance. It is true, if the parent be a Christian in name, certain of the externals of religion are observed; but what are these, if not enforced by a consistent example in the instructor?”

“Useful precepts are seldom lost, I believe, sister,” said Sir Edward, with confidence.

“Always useful, my dear brother; but young people are more observant than we are apt to imagine, and are wonderfully ingenious in devising excuses to themselves for their conduct. I have often heard it offered as an apology, that father or mother knew it, or perhaps did it, and therefore it could not be wrong: association is all-important to a child.”

“I believe no family of consequence admits of improper associates within my knowledge,” said the baronet.

Mrs. Wilson smiled as she answered, “I am sure I hope not, Edward; but are the qualifications we require in companions for our daughters, always such as are most reconcileable with our good sense or our consciences; a single communication with an objectionable character is a precedent, if known and unobserved, which will be offered to excuse acquaintances with worse persons: with the other sex, especially, their acquaintance should be very guarded and select.”

“You would make many old maids, sister.”

“I doubt it greatly, brother; it would rather bring female society in demand. I often regret that selfishness, cupidity, and the kind of strife which prevails in our sex, on the road to matrimony, have brought celibacy into disrepute. For my part, I never see an old maid, but I am willing to think she is so from choice or principle, and although not in her proper place, serviceable, by keeping alive feelings necessary to exist, that marriages may not become curses instead of blessings.”

“A kind of Eddystone, to prevent matrimonial shipwrecks,” said the brother, gayly.

“Their lot may be solitary, baronet, and in some measure cheerless, but infinitely preferable to a marriage that may lead them astray from their duties, or give birth to a family which are to be turned on the world — without any religion but form — without any morals but truisms — or without even a conscience which has not been seared by indulgence. I hope that Anne, in the performance of her system, will have no cause to regret its failure.”

“Clara chose for herself, and has done well, Charlotte; and so, I doubt not, will Jane and Emily: and I confess I think their mother is right.”

“It is true,” said Mrs. Wilson, “Clara has done well, though under circumstances of but little risk; she might have jumped into your fish-pond, and escaped with life, but the chances are she would drown: nor do I dispute the right of the girls to choose for themselves; but I say the rights extend to requiring us to qualify them to make their choice. I am sorry, Edward, to be the instigator of doubts in your breast of the worth of any one, especially as it may give you pain.” Here Mrs. Wilson took her brother affectionately by the hand, and communicated what she had overheard that evening. Although the impressions of the baronet were not as vivid, or as deep as those of his sister, his parental love was too great not to make him extremely uneasy under the intelligence and after thanking her for her attention to his children’s welfare, he kissed her, and withdrew. In passing to his own room, he met Egerton, that moment returned from escorting Jarvis ladies to their lodgings; a task he had undertaken at the request of Jane, as they were without any male attendant. Sir Edward’s heart was too full not to seek immediate relief, and as he had strong hopes of the innocence of the colonel, though he could give no reason for his expectation, he returned with him to the parlor, and in a few words acquainted him with the slanders which had been circulated at his expense; begging him by all means to disprove them as soon as possible. The colonel was struck with the circumstance at first, but assured Sir Edward, it was entirely untrue. He never played, as he might have noticed, and that Mr. Holt was an ancient enemy of his. He would in She morning take measures to convince Sir Edward, that he stood higher in the estimation of his uncle, than Mr. Holt had thought proper to state. Much relieved by this explanation, the baronet, forgetting that this heavy charge removed, he only stood where he did before he took time for his inquiries, assured him, that if he could convince him, or rather his sister, he did not gamble, he would receive him as a son-in-law with pleasure. The gentlemen shook hands and parted.

Denbigh had retired to his room early, telling Mr. Benfield he did not feel well, and thus missed the party at supper; and by twelve, silence prevailed in the house.

As usual after a previous day of pleasure, the party were late in assembling on the following, yet Denbigh was the last who made his appearance. Mrs. Wilson thought he threw a look round the room as he entered, which prevented his making his salutations in his usual easy and polished manner. In a few minutes, however, his awkwardness was removed, and they took their seats at the table. At that moment the door of the room was thrown hastily open, and Mr. Jarvis entered abruptly, and with a look bordering on wildness in his eye— “Is she not here?” exclaimed the merchant scanning the company closely.

“Who?” inquired all in a breath.

“Polly — my daughter — my child,” said the merchant, endeavoring to control his feelings; “did she not come here this morning with Colonel Egerton?”

He was answered in the negative, and he briefly explained the cause of his anxiety. The colonel had called very early, and sent her maid up to his daughter who rose immediately. They had quitted the house together, leaving word the Miss Moseleys had sent for the young lady to breakfast, for some particular reason. Such was the latitude allowed by his wife, that nothing was suspected until one of the servants of the house said he had seen Colonel Egerton and a lady drive out of the village that morning in a post-chaise and four.

Then the old gentleman first took the alarm, and he proceeded instantly to the lodge in quest of his daughter. Of the elopement there now remained no doubt, and an examination into the state of the colonel’s room, who, it had been thought, was not yet risen, gave assurance of it. Here was at once sad confirmation that the opinion of Mr. Holt was a just one. Although every heart felt for Jane during this dreadful explanation, no eye was turned on her excepting the stolen, and anxious glances of her sister; but when all was confirmed, and nothing remained but to reflect or act upon the circumstances, she naturally engrossed the whole attention of her fond parents. Jane had listened in indignation to the commencement of the narrative of Mr. Jarvis, and so firmly was Egerton enshrined in purity within her imagination, that not until it was ascertained that both his servant and clothes were missing, would she admit a thought injurious to his truth. Then indeed the feelings of Mr. Jarvis, his plain statement corroborated by this testimony, struck her at once as true; and as she rose to leave the room, she fell senseless into the arms of Emily who observing her movement and loss of color had flown to her assistance. Denbigh had drawn the merchant out in vain efforts to appease him, and happily no one witnessed this effect of Jane’s passion but her nearest relatives. She was immediately removed to her own room, and in a short time was in bed with a burning fever. The bursts of her grief were uncontrolled and violent. At times she reproached herself — her friends — Egerton; in short, she was guilty of all the inconsistent sensations that disappointed hopes, accompanied by the consciousness of weakness on our part seldom fail to give rise to; the presence of her friends was irksome to her, and it was only to the soft and insinuating blandishments of Emily’s love that she would at all yield. Perseverance and affection at length prevailed, and as Emily took the opportunity of some refreshments to infuse a strong soporific, Jane lost her consciousness of misery in a temporary repose. In the mean time a more searching inquiry had been able to trace out the manner and direction of the journey of the fugitives.

It appeared the colonel left the lodge immediately after his conversation with Sir Edward; he slept at a tavern, and caused his servant to remove his baggage at daylight; here he had ordered a chaise and horses, and then proceeded, as mentioned, to the lodgings of Mr. Jarvis. What arguments he used with Miss Jarvis to urge her to so sudden a flight, remained a secret; but from the remarks of Mrs. Jarvis and Miss Sarah, there was reason to believe that he had induced them to think from the commencement, that his intentions were single, and Mary Jarvis their object. How he contrived to gloss over his attentions to Jane in such a manner as to deceive those ladies, caused no little surprise; but it was obvious it had been done, and the Moseleys were not without hopes his situation with Jane would not make the noise in the world such occurrences seldom fail to excite. In the afternoon a letter was handed to Mr. Jarvis, and by him immediately communicated to the baronet and Denbigh, both of whom he considered as among his best friends. It was from Egerton, and written in a respectful manner: he apologized for his elopement, and excused it on the ground of a wish to avoid the delay of a license or the publishing of bans, as he was in hourly expectation of a summons to his regiment, and contained many promises of making an attentive husband, and an affectionate son. The fugitives were on the road to Scotland, whence they intended immediately to return to London and to wait the commands of their parents. The baronet in a voice trembling with emotion at the sufferings of his own child, congratulated the merchant that things were no worse; while Denbigh curled his lips as he read the epistle, and thought settlements were a greater inconvenience than the bans — for it was a well known fact, a maiden aunt had left the Jarvises twenty thousand pounds between them.

Chapter XXVI.

Although the affections of Jane had sustained a blow, her pride had received a greater, and no persuasions of her mother or sister could induce her to leave her room. She talked little, but once or twice she yielded to the affectionate attentions of Emily, and poured out her sorrows into the bosom of her sister. At such moments she would declare her intention of never appearing in the world again. One of these paroxysms of sorrow was witnessed by her mother, and, for the first time, self-reproach mingled in the grief of the matron. Had she trusted less to appearances and to the opinions of indifferent and ill-judging acquaintances, her daughter might have been apprized in season of the character of the man who had stolen her affections. To a direct exhibition of misery Lady Moseley was always sensible, and, for the moment, she became alive to its causes and consequences; but a timely and judicious safeguard against future moral evils was a forecast neither her inactivity of mind nor abilities were equal to.

We shall leave Jane to brood over her lover’s misconduct, while we regret she is without the consolation alone able to bear her up against the misfortunes of life, and return to the other personages of our history.

The visit to Mrs. Fitzgerald had been postponed in consequence of Jane’s indisposition; but a week after the colonel’s departure, Mrs. Wilson thought, as Jane had consented to leave her room, and Emily really began to look pale from her confinement by the side of a sick bed, she would redeem the pledge she had given the recluse on the following morning. They found the ladies at the cottage happy to see them, and anxious to hear of the health of Jane, of whose illness they had been informed by note. After offering her guests some refreshments, Mrs. Fitzgerald, who appeared laboring under a greater melancholy than usual, proceeded to make them acquainted with the incidents of her life.

The daughter of an English merchant at Lisbon had fled from the house of her father to the protection of an Irish officer in the service of his Catholic Majesty: they were united, and the colonel immediately took his bride to Madrid. The offspring of this union were a son and daughter. The former, at an early age, had entered into the service of his king, and had, as usual, been bred in the faith of his ancestors; but the Señora McCarthy had been educated, and yet remained a Protestant, and, contrary to her faith to her husband, secretly instructed her daughter in the same belief. At the age of seventeen, a principal grandee of the court of Charles sought the hand of the general’s child. The Conde d’Alzada was a match not to be refused, and they were united in the heartless and formal manner in which marriages are too often entered into, in countries where the customs of society prevent an intercourse between the sexes. The Conde never possessed the affections of his wife. Of a stern and unyielding disposition, his harshness repelled her love; and as she naturally turned her eyes to the home of her childhood, she cherished all those peculiar sentiments she had imbibed from her mother. Thus, although she appeared to the world a Catholic, she lived in secret a Protestant. Her parents had always used the English language in their family, and she spoke it as fluently as the Spanish. To encourage her recollections of this strong feature, which distinguished the house of her father from the others she entered, she perused closely and constantly those books which the death of her mother placed at her disposal. These were principally Protestant works on religious subjects, and the countess became a strong sectarian, without becoming a Christian. As she was compelled to use the same books in teaching her only child, the Donna Julia, English, the consequences of the original false step of her grandmother were perpetuated in the person of this young lady. In learning English, she also learned to secede from the faith of her father, and entailed upon herself a life of either persecution or hypocrisy. The countess was guilty of the unpardonable error of complaining to their child of the treatment she received from her husband; and as these conversations were held in English, and were consecrated by the tears of the mother, they made an indelible impression on the youthful mind of Julia, who grew up with the conviction that next to being a Catholic herself, the greatest evil of life was to be the wife of one.

On her attaining her fifteenth year, she had the misfortune (if it could be termed one) to lose her mother, and within the year her father presented to her a nobleman of the vicinity as her future husband. How long the religious faith of Julia would have endured, unsupported by example in others, and assailed by the passions soliciting in behalf of a young and handsome cavalier, it might be difficult to pronounce; but as suitor was neither very young, and the reverse of very handsome, it is certain the more he wooed, the more confirmed she became in her heresy, until, in a moment of desperation, and as an only refuge against his solicitations, she candidly avowed her creed. The anger of her father was violent and lasting: she was doomed to a convent, as both a penance for her sins and a means of reformation. Physical resistance was not in her power, but mentally she determined never to yield. Her body was immured, but her mind continued unshaken and rather more settled in her belief, by the aid of those passions which had been excited by injudicious harshness. For two years she continued in her novitiate, obstinately refusing to take the vows of the order, and at the end of that period the situation of her country had called her father and uncle to the field as defenders of the rights of their lawful prince. Perhaps to this it was owing that harsher measures were not adopted in her case.

The war now raged around them in its greatest horrors, until at length a general battle was fought in the neighborhood, and the dormitories of the peaceful nuns were crowded with wounded British officers. Amongst others of his nation was a Major Fitzgerald, a young man of strikingly handsome countenance and pleasant manners. Chance threw him under the more immediate charge of Julia: his recovery was slow, and for a time doubtful, and as much owing to good nursing as science. The major was grateful, and Julia unhappy as she was beautiful. That love should be the offspring of this association, will excite no surprise. A brigade of British encamping in the vicinity of the convent, the young couple sought its protection from Spanish vengeance and Romish cruelty. They were married by the chaplain of the brigade, and for a month they were happy.

As Napoleon was daily expected in person at the seat of war, his generals were alive to their own interests, if not to that of their master. The body of troops in which Fitzgerald had sought a refuge, being an advanced party of the main army, were surprised and defeated with loss. After doing his duty as a soldier at his post, the major, in endeavoring to secure the retreat of Julia, was intercepted, and they both fell into the hands of the enemy. They were kindly treated, and allowed every indulgence their situation admitted, until a small escort of prisoners was sent to the frontiers; in this they were included, and had proceeded to the neighborhood of the Pyrenees, when, in their turn, the French were assailed suddenly, and entirely routed; and the captive Spaniards, of which the party, with the exception of our young couple, consisted, released. As the French guard made a resistance until overpowered by numbers, an unfortunate ball struck Major Fitzgerald to the earth — he survived but an hour, and died where he fell, on the open field. An English officer, the last of his retiring countrymen, was attracted by the sight of a woman weeping over the body of a fallen man, and approached them. In a few words Fitzgerald explained his situation to this gentleman, and exacted a pledge from him to guard his Julia, in safety, to his mother in England.

The stranger promised everything the dying husband required, and by the time death had closed the eyes of Fitzgerald, he had procured from some peasants a rude conveyance, into which the body, with its almost equally lifeless widow, were placed. The party which intercepted the convoy of prisoners, had been out from the British camp on other duty, but its commander hearing of the escort, had pushed rapidly into a country covered by the enemy to effect their rescue; and his service done, he was compelled to make a hasty retreat to ensure his own security. To this was owing the indifference, which left the major to the care of the Spanish peasantry who had gathered to the spot, and the retreating troops had got several miles on their return, before the widow and her protector commenced their journey. It was impossible to overtake them, and the inhabitants acquainting the gentleman that a body of French dragoons were already harassing their rear, he was compelled to seek another route to the camp. This, with some trouble and no little danger, he at last effected; and the day following the skirmish, Julia found herself lodged in a retired Spanish dwelling, several miles within the advanced posts of the British army. The body of her husband was respectfully interred, and Julia was left to mourn her irretrievable loss, uninterrupted by anything but by the hasty visits of the officer in whose care she had been left — visits which he stole from his more important duties as a soldier.

A month glided by in this melancholy manner, leaving to Mrs. Fitzgerald the only consolation she would receive — her incessant visits to the grave of her husband. The calls of her protector, however, became more frequent; and at length he announced his intended departure for Lisbon, on his way to England. A small covered vehicle, drawn by one horse, was to convey them to the city, at which place he promised to procure her a female attendant, and necessaries for the voyage home. It was no time or place for delicate punctilio; and Julia quietly, but with a heart nearly broken, prepared to submit to the wishes of her late husband. After leaving the dwelling, the manners of her guide sensibly altered; he became complimentary and assiduous to please, but in a way rather to offend than conciliate; until his attentions became so irksome, that Julia actually meditated stopping at some of the villages through which they passed, and abandoning the attempt of visiting England entirely. But the desire to comply with Fitzgerald’s wish, that she would console his mother for the loss of an only child, and the dread of the anger of her relatives, determined her to persevere until they reached Lisbon, where she was resolved to separate for ever from the disagreeable and unknown guardian into whose keeping she had been thrown by chance.

The last day of their weary ride, while passing a wood, the officer so far forgot his own character and Julia’s misfortunes, as to offer personal indignities. Grown desperate from her situation, Mrs. Fitzgerald sprang from the vehicle, and by her cries attracted the notice of an officer who was riding express on the same road with themselves. He advanced to her assistance at speed, but as he arrived near them, a pistol fired from the carriage brought his horse down, and the treacherous friend was enabled to escape undetected. Julia endeavored to explain her situation to her rescuer; and by her distress and appearance, satisfied him at once of its truth. Within a short time, a strong escort of light dragoons came up, and the officer despatched some for a conveyance, and others in pursuit of that disgrace to the army, the villanous guide: the former was soon obtained, but no tidings could be had of the latter. The carriage was found at a short distance, without the horse and with the baggage of Julia, but with no vestige of its owner. She never knew his name, and either accident or art had so completely enveloped him in mystery, that all efforts to unfold it then were fruitless, and had continued so ever since.

On their arrival in Lisbon, every attention was shown to the disconsolate widow the most refined delicacy could, dictate, and every comfort and respect were procured for her which the princely fortune, high rank, and higher character of the Earl of Pendennyss, could, command. It was this nobleman, who, on his way from head-quarters with despatches for England, had been the means of preserving Julia from a fate worse than death. A packet was in waiting for the earl, and they proceeded in her for home. The Donna Lorenza was the widow of a subaltern Spanish officer, who had fallen under the orders and near Pendennyss, and the interest he took in her brave husband had induced him to offer her, in the destruction of her little fortune by the enemy, his protection: for near two years he had maintained her at Lisbon and now, judging her a proper person, had persuaded her to accompany Mrs. Fitzgerald to England.

On the passage, which was very tedious, the earl became more intimately acquainted with the history and character of his young friend, and by a course of gentle yet powerful expedients had drawn her mind gradually from its gloomy contemplation of futurity, to a juster sense of good and evil The peculiarity of her religious persuasion afforded an introduction to frequent discussions of the real opinions of that church, to which Julia had hitherto belonged, although ignorant of all its essential and vital truths. These conversations, which were renewed repeatedly in their intercourse while under the protection of his sister in London, laid the foundations of a faith which left her nothing to hope for but the happy termination of her earthly probation.

The mother of Fitzgerald was dead, and as he had no near relative left, Julia found herself alone in the world. Her husband had taken the precaution to make a will in season it was properly authenticated, and his widow, by the powerful assistance of Pendennyss, was put in quiet possession of a little independency. It was while waiting the decision of this affair that Mrs. Fitzgerald resided for a short time near Bath. As soon as it was terminated, the earl and his sister had seen her settled in her present abode, and once since had they visited her; but delicacy had kept him away from the cottage, although his attempts to serve her had been constant, though not always successful. He had, on his return to Spain, seen her father, and interceded with him on her behalf, but in vain. The anger of the Spaniard remained unappeased, and for a season he did not renew his efforts; out having heard that her father was indisposed, Julia had employed the earl once more to make her peace with him, without prevailing. The letter the ladies had found her weeping over was from Pendennyss, informing her of his want of success on that occasion.

The substance of the foregoing narrative was related by Mrs. Fitzgerald to Mrs. Wilson, who repeated it to Emily in their ride home. The compassion of both ladies was strongly moved in behalf of the young widow; yet Mrs. Wilson did not fail to point out to her niece the consequences of deception, and chiefly the misery which had followed from an abandonment of some of the primary duties of life — obedience and respect to her parent Emily, though keenly alive to all the principles inculcated by her aunt, found so much to be pitied in the fate of her friend, that her failings lost their proper appearance in her eyes, and for a while she could think of nothing but Julia and her misfortunes. Previously to their leaving the cottage, Mrs. Fitzgerald, with glowing cheeks and some hesitation, informed Mrs. Wilson she had yet another important communication to make, but would postpone it until her next visit, which Mrs. Wilson promised should be on the succeeding day.

Chapter XXVII.

Emily threw a look of pleasure on Denbigh, as he handed her from the carriage, which would have said, if looks could talk, “In the principles you have displayed on more than one occasion, I have a pledge of your worth.” As he led her into the house, he laughingly informed her that he had that morning received a letter which would make his absence from L —— necessary for a short time, and that he must remonstrate against these long and repeated visits to a cottage where all attendants of the male sex were excluded, as they encroached greatly on his pleasures and improvements, bowing, as he spoke, to Mrs. Wilson. To this Emily replied, gaily, that possibly, if he conducted himself to their satisfaction; they would intercede for his admission. Expressing his pleasure at this promise, as Mrs. Wilson thought rather awkwardly, Denbigh changed the conversation. At dinner he repeated to the family what he had mentioned to Emily of his departure, and also his expectation of meeting with Lord Chatterton during his journey.

“Have you heard from Chatterton lately, John?” inquired Sir Edward Moseley.

“Yes, sir, to-day: he had left Denbigh Castle a fortnight since, and writes he is to meet his friend, the duke, at Bath.”

“Are you connected with his grace, Mr. Denbigh?” asked Lady Moseley.

A smile of indefinite meaning played on the expressive face of Denbigh, as he answered slightly —

“On the side of my father, madam.”

“He has a sister,” continued Lady Moseley, willing to know more of Chatterton’s friends and Denbigh’s relatives.

“He has,” was the brief reply.

“Her name is Harriet,” observed Mrs. Wilson. Denbigh bowed his assent in silence, and Emily timidly added —

“Lady Harriet Denbigh?”

“Lady Harriet Denbigh — will you do me the favor to take wine?”

The manner of the gentleman during this dialogue had not been in the least unpleasant, but it was peculiar; it prohibited anything further on the subject; and Emily was obliged to be content without knowing who Marian was, or whether her name was to be found in the Denbigh family or not. Emily was not in the least jealous, but she wished to know all to whom her lover was dear.

“Do the Dowager and the young ladies accompany Chatterton?” asked Sir Edward, as he turned to John, who was eating his fruit in silence.

“Yes, sir — I hope — that is, I believe she will,” was the answer.

“She! Who is she, my son?”

“Grace Chatterton,” said John, starting from his meditations. “Did you not ask me about Grace, Sir Edward?”

“Not particularly, I believe,” said the baronet, dryly.

Denbigh again smiled: it was a smile different from any Mrs. Wilson had ever seen on his countenance, and gave an entirely novel expression to his face; it was full of meaning it was knowing — spoke more of the man of the world than anything she had before noticed in him, and left on her mind one of those vague impressions she was often troubled with, that there was something about Denbigh in character or condition, or both, that was mysterious.

The spirit of Jane was too great to leave her a pining or pensive maiden; yet her feelings had sustained a shock that time alone could cure. She appeared again amongst her friends; but the consciousness of her expectations with respect to the colonel being known to them, threw around her a hauteur and distance very foreign to her natural manner. Emily alone, whose every movement sprang from the spontaneous feelings of her heart, and whose words and actions were influenced by the finest and most affectionate delicacy, such as she was not conscious of possessing herself, won upon the better feelings of her sister so far, as to restore between them the usual exchange of kindness and sympathy. But Jane admitted no confidence; she found nothing consoling, nothing solid, to justify her attachment to Egerton; nothing indeed, excepting such external advantages as she was now ashamed to admit had ever the power over her they in reality had possessed. The marriage of the fugitives in Scotland had been announced; and as the impression that Egerton was to be connected with the Moseleys was destroyed of course, their every-day acquaintances, feeling the restraints removed that such an opinion had once imposed, were free in their comments on his character. Sir Edward and Lady Moseley were astonished to find how many things to his disadvantage were generally known; that he gambled — intrigued — and was in debt — were no secrets apparently to anybody, but to those who were most interested in knowing the truth; while Mrs. Wilson saw in these facts additional reasons for examining and judging for ourselves; the world uniformly concealing from the party and his friends their honest opinions of his character. Some of these insinuations reached the ears of Jane: her aunt having rightly judged, that the surest way to destroy Egerton’s power over the imagination of her niece was to strip him of his fictitious qualities, suggested this expedient to Lady Moseley; and some of their visitors had though as the colonel had certainly been attentive to Miss Moseley, it would give her pleasure to know that her rival had not made the most eligible match in the kingdom. The project of Mrs. Wilson succeeded in a great measure; but although Egerton fell, Jane did not find she rose in Her own estimation; and her friends wisely concluded that time was the only remedy that could restore her former serenity.

In the morning, Mrs. Wilson, unwilling to have Emily present at a conversation she intended to hold with Denbigh, with a view to satisfy her annoying doubts as to some minor points in his character, after excusing herself to her niece, invited that gentleman to a morning drive. He accepted her invitation cheerfully; and Mrs. Wilson saw, it was only as they drove from the door without Emily, that he betrayed the faintest reluctance to the jaunt. When they had got a short distance from the lodge she acquainted him with her intention of presenting him to Mrs. Fitzgerald, whither she had ordered the coachman to proceed. Denbigh started as she mentioned the name, and after a few moments’ silence, desired Mrs. Wilson to allow him to stop the carriage; he was not very well — was sorry to be so rude — but with her permission, he would alight and return to the house. As he requested in an earnest manner that she would proceed without him, and by no means disappoint her friend, Mrs. Wilson complied; yet, somewhat at a loss to account for his sudden illness, she turned her head to see how the sick man fared, a short time after he had left her, and was not a little surprised to see him talking very composedly with John who had met him on his way to the fields with his gun. Lovesick — thought Mrs. Wilson with a smile; and as she rode on she came to the conclusion, that as Denbigh was to leave them soon, Emily would have an important communication to make on her return.

“Well,” thought Mrs. Wilson with a sigh, “if it is to happen, it may as well be done at once.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald was expecting her, and appeared rather pleased than otherwise that she had come alone. After some introductory conversation, the ladies withdrew by themselves, and Julia acquainted Mrs. Wilson with a new source of uneasiness. The day the ladies had promised to visit her, but had been prevented by the arrangements for the ball, the Donna Lorenza had driven to the village to make some purchases, attended as usual by their only man-servant, and Mrs. Fitzgerald was sitting in the little parlor in momentary expectation of her friends by herself. The sound of footsteps drew her to the door, which she opened for the admission of the wretch whose treachery to her dying husband’s requests had given her so much uneasiness. Horror — fear — surprise — altogether, prevented her from, making any alarm at the moment, and she sank into a chair. He stood between her and the door, as he endeavored to draw her into a conversation; he assured her she had nothing to fear; that he loved her, and her alone; that he was about to be married to a daughter of Sir Edward Moseley, but would give her up, fortune, everything, if she would consent to become his wife — that the views of her protector, he doubted not, were dishonorable — that he himself was willing to atone for his former excess of passion, by a life devoted to her.

How much longer he would have gone on, and what further he would have offered, is unknown; for Mrs. Fitzgerald, having recovered herself a little, darted to the bell on the other side of the room; he tried to prevent her ringing it, but was too late; a short struggle followed, when the sound of the footsteps of the maid compelled him to retreat precipitately. Mrs. Fitzgerald added, that his assertion concerning Miss Moseley had given her incredible uneasiness, and prevented her making the communication yesterday; but she understood this morning through her maid, that a Colonel Egerton, who had been supposed to be engaged to one of Sir Edward’s daughters, had eloped with another lady. That Egerton was her persecutor, she did not now entertain a doubt; but that it was in the power of Mrs. Wilson probably to make the discovery, as in the struggle between them for the bell, a pocket-book had fallen from the breast-pocket of his coat, and his retreat was too sudden to recover it.

As she put the book into the hands of Mrs. Wilson, she desired she would take means to return it to its owner; its contents might be of value, though she had not thought it correct to examine it. Mrs. Wilson took the book, and as she dropped it into her work-bag, smiled at the Spanish punctilio of her friend in not looking into her prize under the peculiar circumstances.

A few questions as to the place and year of his first attempts, soon convinced her it was Egerton whose unlicensed passions had given so much trouble to Mrs. Fitzgerald. He had served but one campaign in Spain, and in that year, and that division of the army; and surely his principles were no restraint upon his conduct. Mrs. Fitzgerald begged the advice of her more experienced friend as to the steps she ought to take; to which the former asked if she had made Lord Pendennyss acquainted with the occurrence. The young widow’s cheek glowed as she answered, that, at the same time she felt assured the base insinuation of Egerton was unfounded, it had created a repugnance in her to troubling the earl any more than was necessary in her affairs; and as she kissed the hand of Mrs. Wilson she added— “besides, your goodness, my dear madam, renders any other adviser unnecessary now.” Mrs. Wilson pressed her hand affectionately, and assured her of her good wishes and unaltered esteem. She commended her delicacy, and plainly told the young widow, that how ever unexceptionable the character of Pendennyss might be, a female friend was the only one a woman in her situation could repose confidence in, without justly incurring the sarcasms of the world.

As Egerton was now married, and would not probably offer, for the present at least, any further molestation to Mrs. Fitzgerald, it was concluded to be unnecessary to take any immediate measures of precaution; and Mrs. Wilson thought the purse of Mr. Jarvis might be made the means of keeping him within proper bounds in future. The merchant was prompt, and not easily intimidated; and the slightest intimation of the truth would, she knew, be sufficient to engage him on their side, heart and hand.

The ladies parted, with a promise of meeting soon again, and an additional interest in each other by the communications of that and the preceding day.

Mrs. Wilson had ridden half the distance between the cottage and the lodge, before it occurred to her they had not absolutely ascertained, by the best means in their possession, the identity of Colonel Egerton with Julia’s persecutor. She accordingly took the pocket-book from her bag, and opened it for examination: a couple of letters fell from it into her lap, and conceiving their direction would establish all she wished to know, as they had been read, she turned to the superscription of one of them, and saw— “George Denbigh, Esq.” in the well known hand-writing of Dr. Ives. — Mrs. Wilson felt herself overcome to a degree that compelled her to lower a glass of the carriage for air. She sat gazing on the letters until the characters swam before her eyes in undistinguished confusion; and with difficulty she rallied her thoughts to the point necessary for investigation. As soon as she found herself equal to the task, she examined the letters with the closest scrutiny, and opened them both to be sure there was no mistake. She saw the dates, the “dear George” at the commencements, and the doctor’s name subscribed, before she would believe they were real; it was then the truth appeared to break upon her in a flood of light. The aversion of Denbigh to speak of Spain, or of his services in that country — his avoiding Sir Herbert Nicholson, and that gentleman’s observations respecting him — Colonel Egerton’s and his own manners — his absence from the ball, and startling looks on the following morning, and at different times before and since — his displeasure at the name of Pendennyss on various occasions — and his cheerful acceptance of her invitation to ride until he knew her destination, and singular manner of leaving her — were all accounted for by this dreadful discovery, and Mrs. Wilson found the solution of her doubts rushing on her mind with a force and rapidity that sickened her.

The misfortunes of Mrs. Fitzgerald, the unfortunate issue to the passion of Jane, were trifles in the estimation of Mrs. Wilson, compared to the discovery of Denbigh’s unworthiness. She revolved in her mind his conduct on various occasions, and wondered how one who could behave so well in common, could thus yield to temptation on a particular occasion. His recent attempts, his hypocrisy, however, proved that his villany was systematic, and she was not weak enough to hide from herself the evidence of his guilt, or of its enormity. His interposition between Emily and death, she attributed now to natural courage, and perhaps in some measure to chance; but his profound and unvarying reverence for holy things, his consistent charity, his refusing to fight, to what were they owing? And Mrs. Wilson mourned the weakness of human nature, while she acknowledged to her self, there might be men, qualified by nature, and even disposed by reason and grace, to prove ornaments to religion and the world, who fell beneath the maddening influence of their besetting sins. The superficial and interested vices of Egerton vanished before these awful and deeply seated offences of Denbigh, and the correct widow saw at a glance, that he was the last man to be intrusted with the happiness of her niece; but how to break this heartrending discovery to Emily was a new source of uneasiness to her, and the carriage stopped at the door of the lodge, ere she had determined on the first step required of her by duty.

Her brother handed her out, and, filled with the dread that Denbigh had availed himself of the opportunity of her absence to press his suit with Emily, she eagerly inquired after him. She was rejoiced to hear he had returned with John for a fowling-piece, and together they had gone in pursuit of game, although she saw in it a convincing proof that a desire to avoid Mrs. Fitzgerald, and not indisposition, had induced him to leave her. — As a last alternative, she resolved to have the pocket-book returned to him in her presence, in order to see if he acknowledged it to be his property; and, accordingly, she instructed her own man to hand it to him while at dinner, simply saying he had lost it.

The open and unsuspecting air with which her niece met Denbigh on his return gave Mrs. Wilson an additional shock, and she could hardly command herself sufficiently to extend the common courtesies of good breeding to Mr. Benfield’s guest.

While sitting at the dessert, her servant handed the pocket book, as directed by his mistress, to its owner, saying, “Your pocket-book, I believe, Mr. Denbigh.” Denbigh took the book, and held it in his hand for a moment in surprise, and then fixed his eye keenly on the man, as he inquired where he found it, and how he knew it was his. These were interrogatories Francis was not prepared to answer, and in his confusion he naturally turned his eyes on his mistress. Denbigh followed their direction with his own, and in encountering the looks of the lady, he asked in a stammering manner, and with a face of scarlet,

“Am I indebted to you, madam, for my property?”

“No, sir; it was given me by one who found it, to restore to you,” said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, and the subject was dropped, both appearing willing to say no more. Yet Denbigh was abstracted and absent during the remainder of the repast, and Emily spoke to him once or twice without obtaining an answer. Mrs. Wilson caught his eye several times fixed on her with an inquiring and doubtful expression, that convinced her he was alarmed. If any confirmation of his guilt had been wanting, the consciousness he betrayed during this scene afforded it; and she set seriously about considering the shortest and best method of interrupting his intercourse with Emily, before he had drawn from her an acknowledgment of her love.

Chapter XXVIII.

On withdrawing to her dressing-room after dinner, Mrs. Wilson commenced the disagreeable duty of removing the veil from the eyes of her niece, by recounting to her the substance of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s last communication. To the innocence of Emily such persecution could excite no other sensations than surprise and horror; and as her aunt omitted the part concerning the daughter of Sir Edward Moseley, she naturally expressed her wonder as to who the wretch could be.

“Possibly, aunt,” she said with an involuntary shudder, “some of the many gentlemen we have lately seen, and one who has had art enough to conceal his real character from the world.”

“Concealment, my love,” replied Mrs. Wilson, “would be hardly necessary. Such is the fashionable laxity of morals, that I doubt not many of his associates would laugh at his misconduct, and that he would still continue to pass with the world as an honorable man.”

“And ready,” cried her niece, “to sacrifice human life, in the defence of any ridiculous punctilio.”

“Or,” added Mrs. Wilson, striving to draw nearer to her subject, “with a closer veil of hypocrisy, wear even an affectation of principle and moral feeling that would seem to forbid such a departure from duty in favor of custom.”

“Oh! no, dear aunt,” exclaimed Emily, with glowing cheeks and eyes dancing with pleasure, “he would hardly dare to be so very base. It would be profanity.”

Mrs. Wilson sighed heavily as she witnessed that confiding esteem which would not permit her niece even to suspect that an act which in Denbigh had been so warmly applauded, could, even in another, proceed from unworthy motives; and she found it would be necessary to speak in the plainest terms, to awaken her suspicions. Willing, however, to come gradually to the distressing truth, she replied —

“And yet, my dear, men who pride themselves greatly on their morals, nay, even some who wear the mask of religion, and perhaps deceive themselves, admit and practise this very appeal to arms. Such inconsistencies are by no means uncommon. And why, then, might there not, with equal probability, be others who would revolt at murder, and yet not hesitate being guilty of lesser enormities? This is, in some measure, the case of every man; and it is only to consider killing in unlawful encounters as murder, to make it one in point.”

“Hypocrisy is so mean a vice, I should not think a brave man could stoop to it,” said Emily, “and Julia admits he was brave.”

“And would not a brave man revolt at the cowardice of insulting an unprotected woman? And your hero did that too,” replied Mrs. Wilson, bitterly, losing her self-command in indignation.

“Oh! do not call him my hero, I beg of you, dear aunt,” said Emily, starting, excited by so extraordinary an allusion, but instantly losing the unpleasant sensation in the delightful consciousness of the superiority of the man on whom she had bestowed her own admiration.

“In fact, my child,” continued her aunt, “our natures are guilty of the grossest inconsistencies. The vilest wretch has generally some property or which he values himself, and the most perfect are too often frail on some tender point. Long and tried friendships are those only which can be trusted, and these oftentimes fail.”

Emily looked at her aunt in surprise at hearing her utter such unusual sentiments; for Mrs. Wilson, at the same time she had, by divine assistance, deeply impressed her niece with the frailty of her nature, had withheld the disgusting representation of human vices from her view, as unnecessary to her situation and dangerous to her humility.

After a short pause, Mrs. Wilson continued, “Marriage is a fearful step in a woman, and one she is compelled, in some measure, to adventure her happiness on, without fitting opportunities of judging of the merit of the man she confides in. Jane is an instance in point, but I devoutly hope you are not to be another.”

While speaking, Mrs. Wilson had taken the hand of Emily, and by her looks and solemn manner she had succeeded in alarming her niece, although Denbigh was yet furthest from the thoughts of Emily. The aunt reached her a glass of water, and willing to get rid of the hateful subject she continued, hurriedly, “Did you not notice the pocket-book Francis gave to Mr. Denbigh?” Emily fixed her inquiring eyes on her aunt, as the other added, “It was the one Mrs. Fitzgerald gave me to-day.” Something like an indefinite glimpse of the facts crossed the mind of Emily; and as it most obviously involved a separation from Denbigh, she sank lifeless into the extended arms of her aunt. This had been anticipated by Mrs. Wilson, and a timely application of restoratives soon brought her back to a consciousness of misery. Mrs. Wilson, unwilling any one but herself should witness this first burst of grief, succeeded in getting her niece to her own room and in bed. Emily made no lamentations — shed no tears — asked no questions — her eye was fixed, and every faculty appeared oppressed with the load on her heart. Mrs. Wilson knew her situation too well to intrude with unseasonable consolation or useless reflections, but sat patiently by her side, waiting anxiously for the moment she could be of service. At length the uplifted eyes and clasped hands of Emily assured her she had not forgotten herself or her duty, and she was rewarded for her labor and forbearance by a flood of tears. Emily was now able to listen to a more full statement of the reasons her aunt had for believing in the guilt of Denbigh, and she felt as if her heart was frozen up for ever, as the proofs followed each other until they amounted to demonstration. As there was some indication of fever from her agitated state of mind, her aunt required she should remain in her room until morning; and Emily, feeling every way unequal to a meeting with Denbigh, gladly assented After ringing for her maid to sit in the adjoining room, Mrs. Wilson went below, and announced to the family the indisposition of her charge, and her desire to obtain a little sleep. Denbigh looked anxious to inquire after the health of Emily, but there was a restraint on all his actions, since the return of his book, that persuaded Mrs. Wilson he apprehended that a detection of his conduct had taken place. He did venture to ask when they were to have the pleasure of seeing Miss Moseley again, hoping it would be that evening, as he had fixed the morning for his departure; and when he learnt that Emily had retired for the night, his anxiety was sensibly increased, and he instantly withdrew. Mrs. Wilson was alone in the drawing-room, and about to join her niece, as, Denbigh entered it with a letter in his hand: he approached her with a diffident and constrained manner, and commenced the following dialogue:

“My anxiety and situation will plead my apology for troubling Miss Moseley at this time — may I ask you, madam, to deliver this letter — I hardly dare ask you for your good offices.”

Mrs. Wilson took the letter, and coldly replied,

“Certainly, sir; and I sincerely wish I could be of any real service to you.”

“I perceive, madam,” said Denbigh, like one that was choking, “I have forfeited your good opinion — that pocket book— “

“Has made a dreadful discovery,” said Mrs. Wilson, shuddering.

“Will not one offence be pardoned, dear madam?” cried Denbigh, with warmth; “if you knew my circumstances — the cruel reasons — why — why did I neglect the paternal advice of Doctor Ives?”

“It is not yet too late, sir,” said Mrs. Wilson, more mildly, “for your own good; as for us, your deception— “

“Is unpardonable — I see it — I feel it,” cried he, in the accent of despair; “yet Emily — Emily may relent — you will at least give her my letter — anything is better than this suspense.”

“You shall have an answer from Emily this evening, and one entirely unbiassed by me,” said Mrs. Wilson. As she closed the door, she observed Denbigh gazing on her retiring figure with a countenance of despair, that caused a feeling of pity to mingle with her detestation of his vices.

On opening the door of Emily’s room, Mrs. Wilson found her niece in tears, and her anxiety for her health was alleviated. She knew or hoped, that if she could once call in the assistance of her judgment and piety to lessen her sorrows, Emily, however she might mourn, would become resigned to her situation; and the first step to attain this was the exercise of those faculties which had been, as it were, momentarily annihilated. Mrs. Wilson kissed her niece with tenderness, as she placed the letter in her hand, and told her she would call for her answer within an hour. Employment, and the necessity of acting, would, she thought, be the surest means of reviving her energies; nor was she disappointed. When the aunt returned for the expected answer, she was informed by the maid in the ante-chamber, that Miss Moseley was up, and had been writing. On entering, Mrs. Wilson stood a moment in admiration of the picture before her. Emily was on her knees, and by her side, on the carpet, lay the letter and its answer: her face was hid by her hair, and her hands were closed in the fervent grasp of petition. In a minute she rose, and approaching her aunt with an air of profound resignation, but great steadiness, she handed her the letters, her own unsealed:

“Read them, madam, and if you approve of mine, I will thank you to deliver it.”

Her aunt folded her in her arms, until Emily, finding herself yielding under the effects of sympathy, begged to be left alone. On withdrawing to her own room, Mrs. Wilson read the contents of the two letters.

“I rely greatly on the goodness of Miss Moseley to pardon the liberty I am taking, at a moment she is so unfit for such a subject; but my departure — my feelings — must plead my apology. From the moment of my first acquaintance with you, I have been a cheerful subject to your loveliness and innocence. I feel — I know — I am not deserving of such a blessing; but since knowing you, as I do, it is impossible not to strive to win you. You have often thanked me as the preserver of your life, but you little knew the deep interest I had in its safety. Without it my own would be valueless. By accepting my offered hand, you will place me amongst the happiest, or by rejecting it, the most wretched of men.”

To this note, which was unsigned, and evidently written under great agitation of mind, Emily had-penned the following reply:

“Sir — It is with much regret that I find myself reduced to the possibility of giving uneasiness to one to whom I am under such heavy obligations. It will never be in my power to accept the honor you have offered me; and I beg you to receive my thanks for the compliment conveyed in your request, as well as my good wishes for your happiness in future, and fervent prayers that you may be ever found worthy of it — Your humble servant,

“EMILY MOSELEY.”

Perfectly satisfied with this answer, Mrs. Wilson went below in order to deliver it at once. She thought it probable, as Denbigh had already sent his baggage to a tavern, preparatory to his intended journey, they would not meet again; and as she felt a strong wish, both on account of Doctor Ives, and out of respect to the services of the young man himself, to conceal his conduct from the world entirely, she was in hopes that his absence might make any disclosure unnecessary. He took the letter from her with a trembling hand, and casting one of his very expressive looks at her, as if to read her thoughts, he withdrew.

Emily had fallen asleep free from fever, and Mrs. Wilson had descended to the supper-room, when Mr. Benfield was first struck with the absence of his favorite. An inquiry after Denbigh was instituted, and while they were waiting his appearance, a servant handed the old man a note.

“From whom?” cried Mr. Benfield, in surprise.

“Mr. Denbigh, sir,” said the servant.

“Mr. Denbigh?” exclaimed Mr. Benfield: “no accident, I hope — I remember when Lord Gosford — here, Peter, your eyes are young; read it for me, read it aloud.”

As all but Mrs. Wilson were anxiously waiting to know the meaning of this message, and Peter had many preparations to go through before his youthful eyes could make out the contents, John hastily caught the letter out of his hand, saying he would save him the trouble, and, in obedience to his uncle’s wishes, he read aloud:

“Mr. Denbigh, being under the necessity of leaving L —— immediately, and unable to endure the pain of taking leave, avails himself of this means of tendering his warmest thanks to Mr. Benfield, for his hospitality, and to his amiable guests for their many kindnesses. As he contemplates leaving England, he desires to wish them all a long and an affectionate farewell.”

“Farewell!” cried Mr. Benfield; “farewell — does he say farewell, John? Here, Peter, run — no, you are too old — John, run — bring my hat; I’ll go myself to the village — some love-quarrel — Emmy sick — and Denbigh going away — yes — yes, I did so myself — Lady Juliana, poor dear soul, she was a long time before she could forget it — but Peter” — Peter had disappeared the instant the letter was finished, and he was quickly followed by John. Sir Edward and Lady Moseley were lost in amazement at this sudden and unexpected movement of Denbigh, and the breast of each of the affectionate parents was filled with a vague apprehension that the peace of mind of another child was at stake. Jane felt a renewal of her woes, in the anticipation of something similar for her sister — for the fancy of Jane was yet active, and she did not cease to consider the defection of Egerton a kind of unmerited misfortune and fatality, instead of a probable consequence of want of principle. Like Mr. Benfield, she was in danger of raising an ideal idol, and of spending the remainder of her days in devotion to qualities, rarely if ever found identified with a person that never had existed. The old gentleman was entirely engrossed by a different object; and having in his own opinion decided there must have been one of those misunderstandings which sometimes had occurred to himself and Lady Juliana, he quietly composed himself to eat his salad at the supper table: on turning his head, however, in quest of his first glass of wine, he observed Peter standing quietly by the sideboard with the favorite goggles over his eyes. Now Peter was troubled with two kinds of debility about his organs of vision; one was age and natural weakness, while the other proceeded more directly from the heart. His master knew of these facts, and he took the alarm. Again the wine-glass dropped from his nerveless hand, as he said in a trembling tone,

“Peter, I thought you went” —

“Yes, master,” said Peter, laconically.

“You saw him, Peter — will he return?”

Peter was busily occupied at his glasses, although no one was dry.

“Peter,” repeated Mr. Benfield, rising from his seat; “is he coming in time for supper?” Peter was obliged to reply, and deliberately uncasing his eyes and blowing his nose, he was on the point of opening his mouth, as John came into the room, and threw himself into a chair with an air of great vexation. Peter pointed to the young gentleman in silence, and retired.

“John,” cried Sir Edward, “where is Denbigh?”

“Gone, sir.”

“Gone!”

“Yes, my dear father,” said John, “gone without saying good-bye to one of us — without telling us whither, or when to return. It was cruel in him — unkind — I’ll never forgive him” — and John, whose feelings were strong, and unusually excited, hid his face between his hands on the table. — As he raised his head to reply to a question of Mr. Benfield — of “how he knew he had gone, for the coach did not go until daylight?” Mrs. Wilson saw evident marks of tears. Such proofs of emotion in one like John Moseley gave her the satisfaction of knowing that if she had been deceived, it was by a concurrence of circumstances and a depth of hypocrisy almost exceeding belief: self-reproach added less than common, therefore, to the uneasiness of the moment.

“I saw the innkeeper, uncle,” said John, “who told me that Denbigh left there at eight o’clock in a post-chaise and four; but I will go to London in the morning myself.” This was no sooner said than it was corroborated by acts, for the young man immediately commenced his preparations for the journey. The family separated that evening with melancholy hearts; and the host and his privy counsellor were closeted for half an hour ere they retired to their night’s repose. John took his leave of them, and left the lodge for the inn, with his man, in order to be ready for the mail. Mrs, Wilson looked in upon Emily before she withdrew herself, and found her awake, but perfectly calm and composed: she said but little, appearing desirous of avoiding all allusions to Denbigh; and after her aunt had simply acquainted her with his departure, and her resolution to conceal the cause, the subject was dropped. Mrs. Wilson, on entering her own room, thought deeply on the discoveries of the day: they had interfered with her favorite system of morals, baffled her ablest calculations upon causes and effects, but in no degree had impaired her faith or reliance on Providence. She knew one exception did not destroy a rule: she was certain without principles there was no security for good conduct, and the case of Denbigh proved it. To discover these principles, might be difficult; but was a task imperiously required at her hands, as she believed, ere she yielded the present and future happiness of her pupil to the power of any man.

Chapter XXIX.

The day had not yet dawned, when John Moseley was summoned to take his seat in the mail for London. Three of the places were already occupied, and John was compelled to get a seat for his man on the outside. An intercourse with strangers is particularly irksome to an Englishman, and none appeared disposed, for a long time, to break the silence. The coach had left the little village of L —— far behind it, before any of the rational beings it contained thought it prudent or becoming to bend in the least to the charities of our nature, in a communication with a fellow creature of whose name or condition he happened to be ignorant. This reserve is unquestionably characteristic of the nation; to what is it owing! — modesty? Did not national and deep personal vanity appear at once to refute the assertion, we might enter into an investigation of it. The good opinion of himself in an Englishman is more deeply seated, though less buoyant, than that of his neighbors; in them it is more of manner, in us more of feeling; and the wound inflicted on the self-love of the two is very different. The Frenchman wonders at its rudeness, but soon forgets the charge; while an Englishmam broods over it in silence and mortification. It is said this distinction in character is owing to the different estimation of principles and morals in the two nations. The solidity and purity of our ethics and religious creeds may have given a superior tone to our moral feeling; but has that man a tenable ground to value himself on either, whose respect to sacred things grows out of a respect to himself: on the other hand, is not humility the very foundation of the real Christian? For our part, we should be glad to see this national reserve lessened, if not done entirely away; we believe it is founded in pride and uncharitableness, and could wish to see men thrown accidentally together on the roads of the country, mindful that they are also travelling in company the highway of life, and that the goal of their destination is equally attainable by all.

John Moseley was occupied with thoughts very different from those of any of his fellow-travellers, as they proceeded rapidly on their route; and it was only when roused from his meditations by accidentally coming in contact with the hilt of a sword, that he looked up, and in the glimmerings of the morning’s light, recognised the person of Lord Henry Stapleton: their eyes met, and— “My lord,”— “Mr. Moseley,” — were repeated in mutual surprise. John was eminently a social being, and he was happy to find recourse against his gloomy thoughts in the conversation of the dashing young sailor. The frigate of the other had entered the bay the night before, and he was going to town to the wedding of his sister; the coach of his brother the marquis was to meet him about twenty miles from town, and the ship was ordered round to Yarmouth, where he was to rejoin her.

“But how are your lovely sisters, Moseley?” cried the young sailor in a frank and careless manner. “I should have been half in love with one of them if I had time — and money; both are necessary to marriage nowadays, you know.”

“As to time,” said John with a laugh, “I believe that may be dispensed with, though money is certainly a different thing.”

“Oh, time too,” replied his lordship. “I have never time enough to do anything as it ought to be done — always hurried — I wish you could recommend to me a lady who would take the trouble off my hands.”

“It might be done,” said John with a smile, and the image of Kate Chatterton crossed his brain, but it was soon succeeded by that of her more lovely sister. “But how do you manage on board your ship — hurried there too?”

“Oh! never there,” replied the captain gravely; “that’s duty you know, and everything must be regular of course on shore it is a different thing — there I am only a passenger. L —— has a charming society, Mr. Moseley — a week or ten days ago I was shooting, and came to a beautiful cottage about five miles from the village, that was the abode of a much more beautiful woman, a Spaniard, a Mrs. Fitzgerald — I am positively in love with her: so soft, so polished, so modest — — “

“How came you acquainted with her?” inquired Moseley, interrupting him in a little surprise.

“Chance, my dear fellow, chance. I was thirsty, and approached for a drink of water; she was sitting in the veranda, and being hurried for time, you know, it saved the trouble of introduction. I fancy she is troubled with the same complaint; for she managed to get rid of me in no time, and with a great deal of politeness. I found out her name, however, at the next house.”

During this rattling talk, John had fixed his eyes on the face of one of the passengers who sat opposite to him. The stranger appeared to be about fifty years of age, strongly pock-marked, with a stiff military air, and had the dress and exterior of a gentlemen. His face was much sun-burnt, though naturally very fair; and his dark keen eye was intently fixed on the sailor as he continued his remarks.

“Do you know such a lady, Moseley?”

“Yes,” said John, “though very slightly; she is visited one of my sisters, and— “

“Yourself,” cried Lord Henry, with a laugh.

“Myself, once or twice, my lord, certainly,” answered John, gravely; “but a lady visited by Emily Moseley and Mrs. Wilson is a proper companion for any one. Mrs. Fitzgerald is very retired in her manner of living, and chance made us acquainted; but not being, like your lordship, in want of time, we have endeavored to cultivate her society, as we have found it very agreeable.”

The countenance of the stranger underwent several changes during this speech of John’s, and at its close his eyes rested on him with a softer expression than generally marked its rigid and compressed muscles. Willing to change a discourse that was growing too particular for a mail-coach, John addressed himself to the opposite passengers, while his eye yet dwelt on the face of the military stranger.

“We are likely to have a fine day, gentlemen.” The soldier bowed stiffly, as he smiled his assent, and the other passenger humbly answered, “Very, Mr. John,” in the well known tones of honest Peter Johnson. Moseley started, as he turned his face for the first time on the lank figure which was modestly compressed into the smallest possible compass in the corner of the coach, in a way not to come in contact with any of its neighbors.

“Johnson,” exclaimed John, in astonishment, “you here! Where are you going — to London?”

“To London, Mr. John,” replied Peter, with a look of much importance; and then, by way of silencing further interrogatories, he added, “On my master’s business, sir.”

Both Moseley and Lord Henry examined him closely; the former wondering what could take the steward, at the age of seventy, for the first time in his life, into the vortex of the capital; and the latter in admiration at this figure and equipments of the old man. Peter was in full costume, with the exception of the goggles, and was in reality a subject to be gazed at; but nothing relaxed the muscles or attracted the particular notice of the soldier, who, having regained his set form of countenance, appeared drawn up in himself, waiting patiently for the moment he was expected to act. Nor did he utter more than as many words in the course of the first fifty miles of their journey. His dialect was singular, and such as put his hearers at a loss to determine his country. Lord Henry stared at him every time he spoke, as if to say, what countryman are you? until at length he suggested to John he was some officer whom the downfall of Bonaparte had driven into retirement.

“Indeed, Moseley,” he added, as they were about to resume their carriage after a change of horses, “we must draw him out, and see what he thinks of his master now — delicately, you know.” The soldier was, however, impervious to his lordship’s attacks, until the project was finally abandoned in despair. As Peter was much too modest to talk in the presence of Mr. John Moseley and a lord, the young men had most of the discourse to themselves. At a village fifteen miles from London, a fashionable carriage and four, with the coronet of a marquis was in waiting for Lord Henry. John refused his invitation to take a seat with him to town; for he had traced Denbigh from stage to stage, and was fearful of losing sight of him, unless he persevered in the manner he had commenced. Peter and he accordingly were put down safely at an inn in the Strand, and Moseley hastened to make his inquiries after the object of his pursuit. Such a chaise had arrived an hour before, and the gentleman had ordered his trunk to a neighboring hotel. After obtaining the address, and ordering a hackney coach, he hastened to the house; but on inquiring for Mr. Denbigh, to his great mortification was told they knew of no such gentleman. John turned away from the person he was speaking to in visible disappointment, when a servant respectfully inquired if the gentleman had not come from L —— , in Norfolk, that day. “He had,” was the reply. “Then follow me, sir, if you please.” They knocked at a door of one of the parlors, and the servant entered: he returned, and John was shown into a room, where Denbigh was sitting with his head resting on his hand, and apparently musing. On seeing who required admittance, he sprang from his seat and exclaimed —

“Mr. Moseley! Do I see aright?”

“Denbigh,” cried John, stretching out his hand to him, “was this kind — was it like yourself — to leave us so unexpectedly, and for so long a time, too, as your note mentioned?”

Denbigh waved his hand to the servant to retire, and handed a chair to his friend.

“Mr. Moseley,” said he, struggling with his feelings, “you appear ignorant of my proposals to your sister.”

“Perfectly,” answered the amazed John.

“And her rejection of them.”

“Is it possible!” cried the brother, pacing up and down the room. “I acknowledge I did expect you to offer, but not to be refused.”

Denbigh placed in the other hand the letter of Emily, which, having read, John returned, with a sigh. “This, then, is the reason you left us,” he continued. “Emily is not capricious — it cannot be a sudden pique — she means as she says.”

“Yes, Mr. Moseley,” said Denbigh, mournfully; “your sister is faultless — but I am not worthy of her — my deception” — here the door again opened to the admission of Peter Johnson. Both the gentlemen rose at this sudden interruption, and the steward advancing to the table, once more produced the formidable pocket-book, the spectacles, and a letter. He ran over its direction— “For George Denbigh, Esquire, London, by the hands of Peter Johnson, with care and speed.” After the observance of these preliminaries, he delivered the missive to its lawful owner, who opened it, and rapidly perused its contents. Denbigh was much affected with whatever the latter might be, and kindly took the steward by the hand, as he thanked him for this renewed instance of the interest he took in him. If he would tell him where a letter would find him in the morning, he would send a reply to the one he had received. Peter gave his address, but appeared unwilling to go, until assured again and again that the answer would be infallibly sent. Taking a small account-book out of his pocket, and referring to its contents, the steward said, “Master has with Coutts & Co. £7,000; in the bank, £5,000. It can be easily done, sir, and never felt by us.” Denbigh smiled in reply, as he assured the steward he would take proper notice of his master’s offers in his own answer. The door again opened, and the military stranger was admitted to their presence. He bowed, appeared not a little surprised to find two of his mail-coach companions there, and handed Denbigh a letter, in quite as formal, although in a more silent manner than the steward. The soldier was invited to be seated, and the letter was perused with an evident curiosity on the part of Denbigh. As soon as the latter ended it, he addressed the stranger in a language which John rightly judged to be Spanish, and Peter took to be Greek. For a few minutes the conversation was maintained between them with great earnestness, his fellow travellers marvelling much at the garrulity of the soldier however, the stranger soon rose to retire, when the door thrown open for the fourth time, and a voice cried out,

“Here I am, George, safe and sound — ready to kiss the bridesmaids, if they will let me — and I can find time — bless me, Moseley! — old marling-spike! — general! — whew, where is the coachman and guard?” — it was Lord Henry Stapleton. The Spaniard bowed again in silence and withdrew, while Denbigh threw open the door of an adjoining room and excused himself, as he desired Lord Henry to walk in there for a few minutes.

“Upon my word,” cried the heedless sailor, as he complied, “we might as well have stuck together, Moseley; we were bound to one port, it seems.”

“You know Lord Henry?” said John, as he withdrew.

“Yes,” said Denbigh, and he again required his address of Peter, which having been given, the steward departed. The conversation between the two friends did not return to the course it was taking when they were interrupted, as Moseley felt a delicacy in making any allusion to the probable cause of his sister’s refusal. He had, however, begun to hope it was not irremovable, and with the determination of renewing his visit in the morning, he took his leave, to allow Denbigh to attend to his other guest, Lord Henry Stapleton.

About twelve on the following morning, John and the steward met at the door of the hotel where Denbigh lodged, in quest of the same person. The latter held in his hand the answer to his master’s letter, but wished particularly to see its writer. On inquiring, to their mutual surprise they were told, that the gentleman had left there early in the morning, having discharged his lodgings, and that they were unable to say whither he had gone. To hunt for a man without a clew, in the city of London, is usually time misspent Of this Moseley was perfectly sensible, and disregarding a proposition of Peter’s, he returned to his own lodgings. The proposal of the steward, if it did not do much credit to his sagacity, was much in favor of his perseverance and enterprise. It was no other than that John should take one side of the street, and he the other, in order to inquire at every house in the place, until the fugitive was discovered. “Sir,” said Peter, with great simplicity, “when our neighbor White lost his little girl, this was the way we found her, although we went nearly through L —— before we succeeded, Mr. John.” Peter was obliged to abandon this expedient for want of an associate, and as no message was left at the lodgings of Moseley, he started with a heavy heart on his return to Benfield Lodge. But Moseley’s zeal was too warm in the cause of his friend, notwithstanding his unmerited desertion, to discontinue the search for him. He sought out the town residence of the Marquess of Eltringham, the brother of Lord Henry, and was told that both the Marquess and his brother had left town early that morning for his seat in Devonshire, to attend the wedding of their sister.

“Did they go alone?” asked John musing.

“There were two chaises, the Marquess’s and his Grace’s”

“Who was his Grace?” inquired John.

“Why the Duke of Derwent, to be sure.”

“And the Duke? — was he alone?”

“There was a gentleman with his Grace, but they did not know his name.”

As nothing further could be learnt, John withdrew. A good deal of irritation mixed with the vexation of Moseley at his disappointment; for Denbigh, he thought, too evidently wished to avoid him. That he was the companion of his kinsman, the Duke of Derwent, he had now no doubt, and he entirely relinquished all expectations of finding him in London or its environs. While retracing his steps in no enviable state of mind to his lodgings, with a resolution of returning immediately to L —— , his arm was suddenly taken by his friend Chatterton. If any man could have consoled John at that moment, it was the Baron. Questions and answers were rapidly exchanged between them; and with increased satisfaction, John learnt that in the next square, he could have the pleasure of paying his respects to his kinswoman, the Dowager Lady Chatterton, and her two daughters. Chatterton inquired warmly after Emily, and in a particularly kind manner concerning Mr. Denbigh, hearing with undisguised astonishment the absence of the latter from the Moseley family.

Lady Chatterton had disciplined her feelings upon the subject of Grace and John into such a state of subordination, that the fastidious jealousy of the young man now found no ground of alarm in anything she said or did. It cannot be denied the Dowager was delighted to see him again; and if it were fair to draw any conclusions from coloring, palpitations, and other such little accompaniments of female feeling, Grace was not excessively sorry. It is true, it was the best possible opportunity to ascertain all about her friend Emily and the rest of the family; and Grace was extremely happy to have intelligence of their general welfare so direct as was afforded by this visit of Mr. Moseley. Grace looked all she expressed, and possibly a little more; and John thought he looked very beautiful.

There was present an elderly gentleman, of apparently indifferent health, although his manners were extremely lively, and his dress particularly studied. A few minutes observation convinced Moseley this gentleman was a candidate for the favor of Kate; and a game of chess being soon introduced, he also saw he was one thought worthy of peculiar care and attention. He had been introduced to him as Lord Herriefield, and soon discovered by his conversation that he was a peer who promised little towards rendering the house of incurables more convalescent than it was before his admission. Chatterton mentioned him as a distant connexion of his mother; a gentleman who had lately returned from filling an official situation in the East Indies, to take his seat among the lords by the death of his brother. He was a bachelor, and reputed rich, much of his wealth being personal property, acquired by himself abroad. The dutiful son might have added, if respect and feeling had not kept him silent, that his offers of settling a large jointure upon his elder sister had been accepted, and that the following week was to make her the bride of the emaciated debauchee who now sat by her side. He might also have said, that when the proposition was made to himself and Grace, both had shrunk from the alliance with disgust: and that both had united in humble though vain remonstrances to their mother, against the sacrifice, and in petitions to their sister, that she would not be accessary to her own misery. There was no pecuniary sacrifice they would not make to her, to avert such a connexion; but all was fruitless — Kate was resolved to be a viscountess, and her mother was equally determined that she should be rich.

Chapter XXX.

A day elapsed between the departure of Denbigh and the reappearance of Emily amongst her friends. An indifferent observer would have thought her much graver and less animated than usual. A loss of the rich color which ordinarily glowed on her healthful cheek might be noticed; but the placid sweetness and graceful composure which regulated her former conduct pervaded all she did or uttered. Not so with Jane: her pride had suffered more than her feelings — her imagination had been more deceived than her judgment — and although too well bred and soft by nature to become rude or captious, she was changed from a communicative, to a reserved; from a confiding, to a suspicious companion. Her parents noticed this alteration with an uneasiness that was somewhat embittered by the consciousness of a neglect of some of those duties that experience now seemed to indicate, could never be forgotten with impunity.

Francis and Clara had arrived from their northern tour, so happy in each other, and so contented with their lot, that it required some little exercise of fortitude in both Lady Moseley and her daughters, to expel unpleasant recollections while they contemplated it. Their relation of the little incidents of their tour had, however, an effect to withdraw the attention of their friends in some degree from late occurrences; and a melancholy and sympathizing kind of association had taken place of the unbounded confidence and gaiety; which so lately prevailed at Benfield Lodge. Mr. Benfield mingled with his solemnity an air of mystery; and he was frequently noticed by his relatives looking over old papers, and was apparently employed in preparations that indicated movements of more than usual importance.

The family were collected in one of the parlors on an extremely unpleasant day, the fourth after the departure of John, when the thin person of Johnson stalked in amongst them. All eyes were fixed on him in expectation of what he had to communicate, and all apparently dreading to break the silence, from an apprehension that his communication would be unpleasant. In the meantime Peter, who had respectfully left his hat at the door, proceeded to uncase his body from the multiplied defences he had taken against the inclemency of the weather. His master stood erect, with an outstretched hand, ready to receive the reply to his epistle; and Johnson having liberated his body from thraldom, produced the black leathern pocket-book, and from its contents a letter, when he read aloud — Roderic Benfield, Esq., Benfield Lodge, Norfolk; favored by Mr. — here Peter’s modesty got the better of his method; he had never been called Mr. Johnson by anybody, old or young; all knew him in that neighborhood as Peter Johnson — and he had very nearly been guilty of the temerity of arrogating to himself another title in the presence of those he most respected: a degree of self-elevation from which he escaped with the loss of a small piece of his tongue. Mr. Benfield took the letter with an eagerness that plainly indicated the deep interest he took in its contents, while Emily, with a tremulous voice and flushed cheek, approached the steward with a glass of wine.

“Peter,” she said, “take this; it will do you good.”

“Thank you, Miss Emma,” said Peter, casting his eyes from her to his master, as the latter, having finished his letter, exclaimed, with a strange mixture of consideration and disappointment —

“Johnson, you must change your clothes immediately, or you will take cold: you look now like old Moses, the Jew beggar.”

Peter sighed heavily at this comparison, and saw in it a confirmation of his fears; for he well knew, that to his being the bearer of unpleasant tidings was he indebted for a resemblance to anything unpleasant to his master, and Moses was the old gentleman’s aversion.

The baronet now followed his uncle from the room to his library, entering it at the same moment with the steward, who had been summoned by his master to an audience.

Pointing to a chair for his nephew, Mr. Benfield commenced the discourse with saying,

“Peter, you saw Mr. Denbigh; how did he look?”

“As usual, master,” said Peter, laconically, still piqued at being likened to old Moses.

“And what did he say to the offer? did he not make any comments on it? He was not offended at it, I hope,” demanded Mr. Benfield.

“He said nothing but what he has written to your honor,” replied the steward, losing a little of his constrained manner in real good feeling to his master.

“May I ask what the offer was?” inquired Sir Edward.

Mr. Benfield regarding him a moment in silence, said, “Certainly, you are nearly concerned in his welfare; your daughter” — the old man stopped, turned to his letter-book, and handed the baronet a copy of the epistle he had sent to Denbigh. It read as follows:

DEAR FRIEND MR. DENBIGH,

“I have thought a great deal on the reason of your sudden departure from a house I had begun to hope you thought your own; and by calling to mind my own feelings when Lady Juliana became the heiress to her nephew’s estate, take it for granted you have been governed by the same sentiments; which I know both by my own experience and that of the bearer, Peter Johnson, is a never-failing accompaniment of pure affection. Yes, my dear Denbigh, I honor your delicacy in not wishing to become indebted to a stranger, as it were, for the money on which you subsist, and that stranger your wife — who ought in reason to look up to you, instead of your looking up to her; which was the true cause Lord Gosford would not marry the countess — on account of her great wealth, as he assured me himself; notwithstanding, envious people said it was because her ladyship loved Mr Chaworth better: so in order to remove these impediments of delicacy, I have to make three propositions, namely, that I bring you into parliament the next election for my own borough — that you take possession of the lodge the day you marry Emmy, while I will live, for the little time I have to stay here, in the large cottage built by my uncle — and that I give you your legacy of ten thousand pounds down, to prevent trouble hereafter.

“As I know nothing but delicacy has driven you away from us, I make no doubt you will now find all objections removed, and that Peter will bring back the joyful intelligence of your return to us, as soon as the business you left us on, is completed.

“Your uncle, that is to be,

“RODERIC BENFIELD.”

“N.B. As Johnson is a stranger to the ways of the town, I wish you to advise his inexperience, particularly against the arts of designing women, Peter being a man of considerable estate, and great modesty.”

“There, nephew,” cried Mr. Benfield, as the baronet finished reading the letter aloud, “is it not unreasonable to refuse my offers? Now read his answer.”

“Words are wanting to express the sensations which have been excited by Mr. Benfield’s letter; but it would be impossible for any man to be so base as to avail himself of such liberality: the recollection of it, together with that of his many virtues, will long continue deeply impressed on the heart of him, whom Mr. Benfield would, if within the power of man, render the happiest amongst human beings.”

The steward listened eagerly to this answer, but after it was done he was as much at a loss to know its contents as before its perusal. He knew it was unfavorable to their wishes, but could not comprehend its meaning or expressions, and immediately attributed their ambiguity to the strange conference he had witnessed between Denbigh and the military stranger.

“Master,” exclaimed Peter, with something of the elation of a discoverer, “I know the cause, it shows itself in the letter: there was a man talking Greek to him while he was reading your letter.”

“Greek!” exclaimed Sir Edward in astonishment.

“Greek!” said the uncle. “Lord Gosford read Greek; but I believe never conversed in that language.”

“Yes, Sir Edward — yes, your honor — pure wild Greek; it must have been something of that kind,” added Peter, with positiveness, “that would make a man refuse such offers — Miss Emmy — the lodge — £10,000!” — and the steward shook his head with much satisfaction at having discovered the cause.

Sir Edward smiled at the simplicity of Johnson, but disliking the idea attached to the refusal of his daughter, said, “Perhaps, after all, uncle, there has been some misunderstanding between Emily and Denbigh, which may have driven him from us so suddenly.”

Mr. Benfield and his steward exchanged looks, and a new idea broke upon them at the instant. They had both suffered in that way; and after all it might prove that Emily was the one whose taste or feelings had subverted their schemes. The impression, once made, soon became strong, and the party separated; the master thinking alternately on Lady Juliana and his niece, while the man, after heaving one heavy sigh to the memory of Patty Steele, proceeded to the usual occupations of his office.

Mrs. Wilson thinking a ride would be of service to Emily, and having the fullest confidence in her self-command and resignation, availed herself of a fine day to pay a visit to their friend in the cottage. Mrs. Fitzgerald received them in her usual manner, but a single glance of her eye sufficed to show the aunt that she noticed the altered appearance of Emily and her manners, although without knowing its true reason, which she did not deem it prudent to explain. Julia handed her friend a note which she said she had received the day before, and desired their counsel how to proceed in the present emergency. As Emily was to be made acquainted with its contents, her aunt read it aloud as follows:

“MY DEAR NIECE,

“Your father and myself had been induced to think you were leading a disgraceful life, with the officer your husband had consigned you to the care of; for hearing of your captivity, I had arrived with a band of Guerillas, on the spot where you were rescued, early the next morning, and there learnt of the peasants your misfortunes and retreat. The enemy pressed us too much to allow us to deviate from our route at the time; but natural affection and the wishes of your father have led me to make a journey to England, in order to satisfy our doubts as regards your conduct. I have seen you, heard your character in the neighborhood, and after much and long search have found out the officer, and am satisfied, that so far as concerns your deportment, you are an injured woman. I have therefore to propose to you, on my own behalf, and that of the Conde, that you adopt the faith, of your country, and return with me to the arms of your parent, whose heiress you will be, and whose life you may be the means of prolonging. Direct your answer to me, to the care of our ambassador; and as you decide, I am your mother’s brother, LOUIS M’CARTHY Y HARRISON.”

“On what point do you wish my advice?” said Mrs. Wilson, kindly, after she had finished reading the letter, “and when do you expect to see your uncle?”

“Would you have me accept the offer of my father, dear madam, or am I to remain separated from him for the short residue of his life?”

Mrs. Fitzgerald was affected to tears, as she asked this question, and waited her answer, in silent dread of its nature.

“Is the condition of a change of religion, an immovable one?” inquired Mrs. Wilson, in a thoughtful manner.

“Oh! doubtless,” replied Julia, shuddering; “but I am deservedly punished for my early disobedience, and bow in submission to the will of Providence. I feel now all that horror of a change of my religion, I once only affected; I must live and die a Protestant, madam.”

“Certainly, I hope so, my dear,” said Mrs. Wilson; “I am not a bigot, and think it unfortunate you were not, in your circumstances, bred a pious Catholic. It would have saved you much misery, and might have rendered the close of your father’s life more happy; but as your present creed embraces doctrines too much at variance with the Romish church to renounce the one or to adopt the other, with your views, it will be impossible to change your church without committing a heavy offence against the opinions and practices of every denomination of Christians. I should hope a proper representation of this to your uncle would have its weight, or they might be satisfied with your being a Christian, without becoming a Catholic.”

“Ah! my dear madam,” answered Mrs. Fitzgerald, despairingly, “you little know the opinions of my countrymen on this subject.”

“Surely, surely,” cried Mrs. Wilson, “parental affection is a stronger feeling than bigotry.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald shook her head in a manner which bespoke both her apprehensions and her filial regard.

“Julia ought not, must not, desert her father, dear aunt,” said Emily, her face glowing with the ardency of her feelings.

“And ought she to desert her heavenly Father, my child?” asked the aunt, mildly.

“Are the duties conflicting, dearest aunt?”

“The Conde makes them so. Julia is, I trust, in sincerity a Christian, and with what face can she offer up her daily petitions to her Creator, while she wears a mask to her earthly father; or how can she profess to honor doctrines that she herself believes to be false, or practise customs she thinks improper?”

“Never, never,” exclaimed Julia, with fervor; “the struggle is dreadful, but I submit to the greater duty.”

“And you decide rightly, my friend,” said Mrs. Wilson, soothingly; “but you need relax no efforts to convince the Conde of your wishes: truth and nature will finally conquer.”

“Ah!” cried Mrs. Fitzgerald, “the sad consequences of one false step in early life!”

“Rather,” added Mrs, Wilson, “the sad consequences of one false step in generations gone by. Had your grandmother listened to the voice of prudence and duty, she never would have deserted her parents for a comparative stranger, and entailed upon her descendants a train of evils which yet exist in your person.”

“It will be a sad blow to my poor uncle too,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “he who once loved me so much.”

“When do you expect to see him?” inquired Emily.

Julia informed them she expected him hourly; as, fearful a written statement of her views would drive him from the country without paying her a visit before he departed, she had earnestly entreated him to see her without delay.

On taking their leave, the ladies promised to obey her summons whenever called to meet the general, as Mrs. Wilson thought she might be better able to give advice to a friend, by knowing more of the character of her relatives, than she could do with her present information,

One day intervened, and it was spent in the united society of Lady Moseley and her daughters, while Sir Edward and Francis rode to a neighboring town on business; and on the succeeding, Mrs. Fitzgerald apprised them of the arrival of General M’Carthy. Immediately after breakfast, Mrs. Wilson and Emily drove to the cottage, the aunt both wishing the latter as a companion in her ride, and believing the excitement would have a tendency to prevent her niece from indulging in reflections, alike dangerous to her peace of mind and at variance with her duties.

Our readers have probably anticipated, that the stage companion of John Moseley was the Spanish general, who had just been making those inquiries into the manner of his niece’s living which terminated so happily in her acquittal. With that part of her history which relates to the injurious attempts on her before she arrived at Lisbon, he appears to have been ignorant, or his interview with Denbigh might have terminated very differently from the manner already related.

A description of the appearance of the gentleman presented to Mrs. Wilson is unnecessary, as it has been given already; and the discerning matron thought she read through the rigid and set features of the soldier, a shade of kinder feelings, which might be wrought into an advantageous intercession on behalf of Julia. The General was evidently endeavoring to keep his feelings within due bounds, before the decision of his niece might render it proper for him to indulge in that affection for her, which his eye plainly showed existed under the cover of his assumed manner.

It was an effort of great fortitude on the part of Julia to acquaint her uncle with her resolution; but as it must be done, she seized a moment after Mrs. Wilson had at some length defended her adhering to her present faith, until religiously impressed with its errors, to inform him such was her unalterable resolution. He heard her patiently, and without anger, but in visible surprise. He had construed her summons to her house into a measure preparatory to accepting his conditions; yet he betrayed no emotion, after the first expression of his wonder: he told her distinctly, a renunciation of her heresy was the only condition on which her father would own her either as his heiress or his child. Julia deeply regretted the decision, but was firm; and her friends left her to enjoy uninterruptedly for one day, the society of so near a relative. During this day every doubt as to the propriety of her conduct, if any yet remained, was removed by a relation of her little story to her uncle; and after it was completed, he expressed great uneasiness to get to London again, in order to meet a gentleman he had seen there, under a different impression as to his merits, than what now appeared to be just. Who the gentleman was, or what these impressions were, Julia was left to conjecture, taciturnity being a favorite property in the general.

Chapter XXXI.

The sun had just risen on one of the loveliest vales of Caernarvonshire, as a travelling chaise and six swept up to the door of a princely mansion, so situated as to command a prospect of the fertile and extensive domains, the rental of which filled the coffers of its rich owner, having a beautiful view of the Irish channel in the distance.

Everything around this stately edifice bespoke the magnificence of its ancient possessors and the taste of its present master. It was irregular, but built of the best materials, and in the tastes of the different ages in which its various parts had been erected; and now in the nineteenth century it preserved the baronial grandeur of the thirteenth, mingled with the comforts of this later period.

The lofty turrets of its towers were tipt with the golden light of the sun, and the neighboring peasantry had commenced their daily labors, as the different attendants of the equipage we have mentioned collected around it at the great entrance to the building. The beautiful black horses, with coats as shining as the polished leather with which they were caparisoned, the elegant and fashionable finish of the vehicle, with its numerous grooms, postillions, and footmen, all wearing the livery of one master, gave evidence of wealth and rank.

In attendance there were four outriders, walking leisurely about, awaiting the appearance of those for whose comforts and pleasures they were kept to contribute; while a fifth, who, like the others, was equipped with a horse, appeared to bear a doubtful station. The form of the latter was athletic, and apparently drilled into a severer submission than could be seen in the movements of the liveried attendants: his dress was peculiar, being neither quite menial nor quite military, but partaking of both characters. His horse was heavier and better managed than those of the others, and by its side was a charger, that was prepared for the use of no common equestrian. Both were coal-black, as were all the others of the cavalcade; but the pistols of the two latter, and housings of their saddles, bore the aspect of use and elegance united.

The postillions were mounted, listlessly waiting the pleasure of their superiors; when the laughs and jokes of the menials were instantly succeeded by a respectful and profound silence, as a gentleman and lady appeared on the portico of the building. The former was a young man of commanding stature and genteel appearance; and his air, although that of one used to command, was softened by a character of benevolence and gentleness, that might be rightly supposed to give birth to the willing alacrity with which all his requests or orders were attended to.

The lady was also young, and resembled her companion both in features and expression, for both were noble, both were handsome. The former was attired for the road; the latter had thrown a shawl around her elegant form, and by her morning dress showed that a separation of the two was about to happen. Taking the hand of the gentleman with both her own, as she pressed it with fingers interlocked, the lady said, in a voice of music, and with great affection, “Then, my dear brother, I shall certainly hear from you within the week, and see you next?”

“Certainly,” replied the gentleman, as he tenderly paid his adieus; then throwing himself into the chaise, it dashed from the door, like the passage of a meteor. The horsemen followed; the unridden charger, obedient to the orders of his keeper, wheeled gracefully into his station; and in an instant they were all lost amidst the wood, through which the road to the park gates conducted.

After lingering without until the last of her brother’s followers had receded from her sight, the lady retired through ranks of liveried footmen and maids, whom curiosity or respect had collected.

The young traveller wore a gloom on his expressive features, amidst the pageantry that surrounded him, which showed the insufficiency of wealth and honors to fill the sum of human happiness. As his carriage rolled proudly up an eminence ere he had reached the confines of his extensive park, his eye rested, for a moment, on a scene in which meadows, forests, fields waving with golden corn, comfortable farm-houses surrounded with innumerable cottages, were seen, in almost endless variety. All these owned him for their lord, and one quiet smile of satisfaction beamed on his face as he gazed on the unlimited view. Could the heart of that youth have been read, it would at that moment have told a story very different from the feelings such a scene is apt to excite; it would have spoken the consciousness of well applied wealth, the gratification of contemplating meritorious deeds, and a heartfelt gratitude to the Being which had enabled him to become the dispenser of happiness to so many of his fellow-creatures.

“Which way, my lord, so early?” cried a gentleman in a phaeton, as he drew up, on his way to a watering place, to pay his own parting compliments.

“To Eltringham, Sir Owen, to attend the marriage of my kinsman, Mr. Denbigh, to one of the sisters of the marquess.”

A few more questions and answers, and the gentlemen, exchanging friendly adieus, pursued each his own course; Sir Owen Ap Rice pushing forward for Cheltenham, and the Earl of Pendennyss proceeding to act as groomsman to his cousin.

The gates of Eltringham were open to the admission of many an equipage on the following day, and the heart of the Lady Laura beat quick, as the sound of wheels, at different times, reached her ears. At last an unusual movement in the house drew her to a window of her dressing-room, and the blood rushed to her heart as she beheld the equipages which were rapidly approaching, and through the mist which stole over her eyes she saw alight from the first, the Duke of Derwent and the bridegroom. The next contained Lord Pendennyss, and the last the Bishop of —— . Lady Laura waited to see no more, but with a heart filled with terror, hope, joy, and uneasiness, she threw herself into the arms of one of her sisters.

“Ah!” exclaimed Lord Henry Stapleton, about a week after the wedding of his sister, seizing John suddenly by the arm, while the latter was taking his morning walk to the residence of the dowager Lady Chatterton, “Moseley, you dissipated youth, in town yet: you told me you should stay but a day, and here I find you at the end of a fortnight.”

John blushed a little at the consciousness of his reason for sending a written, instead of carrying a verbal report, of the result of his journey, but replied,

“Yes, my friend Chatterton unexpectedly arrived, and so — and so— “

“And so you did not go, I presume you mean,” cried Lord Henry, with a laugh.

“Yes,” said John, “and so I stayed — but where is Denbigh?”

“Where? — why with his wife, where every well-behaved man should be, especially for the first month,” rejoined the sailor, gaily.

“Wife!” echoed John, as soon as he felt able to give utterance to his words— “wife! is he married?”

“Married,” cried Lord Henry, imitating his manner, “are you yet to learn that? why did you ask for him?”

“Ask for him!” said Moseley, yet lost in astonishment; “but when — how — where did he marry — my lord?”

Lord Henry looked at him for a moment with a surprise little short of his own, as he answered more gravely:

“When? — last Tuesday; how? by special license, and the Bishop of —— ; where? — at Eltringham: — yes, my dear fellow,” continued he, with his former gaiety, “George is my brother now — and a fine fellow he is.”

“I really wish your lordship much joy,” said John, struggling to command his feelings.

“Thank you — thank you,” replied the sailor; “a jolly time we had of it, Moseley. I wish, with all my heart, you had been there; no bolting or running away as soon as spliced, but a regularly constructed, old-fashioned wedding; all my doings. I wrote Laura that time was scarce, and I had none to throw away on fooleries; so dear, good soul, she consented to let me have everything my own way. We had Derwent and Pendennyss, the marquess, Lord William, and myself, for groomsmen, and my three sisters — ah, that was bad, but there was no helping it — Lady Harriet Denbigh, and an old maid, a cousin of ours, for bridesmaids; could not help the old maid either, upon my honor, or be quite certain I would.”

How much of what he said Moseley heard, we cannot say; for had he talked an hour longer he would have been uninterrupted. Lord Henry was too much engaged with his description to notice his companion’s taciturnity or surprise, and after walking a square or two together they parted; the sailor being on the wing for his frigate at Yarmouth.

John continued his course, musing on the intelligence he had just heard. That Denbigh could forget Emily so soon, he would not believe, and he greatly feared he had been driven into a step, from despair, that he might hereafter repent of. The avoiding of himself was now fully explained; but would Lady Laura Stapleton accept a man for a husband at so short a notice? and for the first time a suspicion that something in the character of Denbigh was wrong, mingled in his reflections on his sister’s refusal of his offers.

Lord and Lady Herriefield were on the eve of their departure for the continent (for Catherine had been led to the altar the preceding week), a southern climate having been prescribed as necessary to the bridegroom’s constitution; and the dowager and Grace were about to proceed to a seat of the baron’s within a couple of miles of Bath. Chatterton himself had his own engagements, but he promised to be there in company with his friend Derwent within a fortnight; the former visit having been postponed by the marriages in their respective families.

John had been assiduous in his attentions during the season of forced gaiety which followed the nuptials of Kate; and as the dowager’s time was monopolized with the ceremonials of that event, Grace had risen greatly in his estimation. If Grace Chatterton was not more miserable than usual, at what she thought was the destruction of her sister’s happiness, it was owing to the presence and unconcealed affection of John Moseley.

The carriage of Lord Herriefield was in waiting when John rang for admittance. On opening the door and entering the drawing-room, he saw the bride and bridegroom, with their mother and sister, accoutred for an excursion amongst the shops of Bond street: for Kate was dying to find a vent for some of her surplus pin-money — her husband to show his handsome wife in the face of the world — the mother to display the triumph of her matrimonial schemes. And Grace was forced to obey her mother’s commands, in accompanying her sister as an attendant, not to be dispensed with at all in her circumstances.

The entrance of John at that instant, though nothing more than what occurred every day at that hour, deranged the whole plan: the dowager, for a moment, forgot her resolution, and forgot the necessity of Grace’s appearance, exclaiming with evident satisfaction,

“Here is Mr. Moseley come to keep you company, Grace; so, after all, you must consult your headache and stay at home. Indeed, my love, I never can consent you should go out. I not only wish, but insist you remain within this morning.”

Lord Herriefield looked at his mother-in-law in some surprise, and threw a suspicious glance on his own rib at the moment, which spoke as plainly as looks can speak,

“Is it possible I have been taken in after all!”

Grace was unused to resist her mother’s commands, and throwing off her hat and shawl, reseated herself with more composure than she would probably have done, had not the attentions of Moseley been more delicate and pointed of late than formerly.

As they passed the porter, Lady Chatterton observed to him significantly— “Nobody at home, Willis.”— “Yes, my lady,” was the laconic reply, and Lord Herriefield, as he took his seat by the side of his wife in the carriage, thought she was not as handsome as usual.

Lady Chatterton that morning unguardedly laid the foundation of years of misery for her eldest daughter; or rather the foundations were already laid in the ill-assorted, and heartless, unprincipled union she had labored with success to effect. But she, had that morning stripped the mask from her own character prematurely, and excited suspicions in the breast of her son-in-law, which time only served to confirm, and memory to brood over. Lord Herriefield had been too long in the world not to understand all the ordinary arts of match-makers and match-hunters. Like most of his own sex who have associated freely with the worst part of the other, his opinions of female excellences were by no means extravagant or romantic. Kate had pleased his eye; she was of a noble family; young, and at that moment interestingly quiet, having nothing particularly in view. She had a taste of her own, and Lord Herriefield was by no means in conformity with it; consequently, she expended none of those pretty little arts upon him which she occasionally practised, and which his experience would immediately have detected. Her disgust he had attributed to disinterestedness; and as Kate had fixed her eye on a young officer lately returned from France, and her mother on a Duke who was mourning the death of a third wife, devising means to console him with a fourth — the Viscount had got a good deal enamored with the lady, before either she or her mother took any particular notice that there was such a being in existence. His title was not the most elevated, but it was ancient. His paternal acres were not numerous, but his East-India shares were. He was not very young, but he was not very old; and as the Duke died of a fit of the gout in his stomach, and the officer ran away with a girl in her teens from a boarding-school, the dowager and her daughter, after thoroughly scanning the fashionable world, determined, for want of a better, that he would do.

It is not to be supposed that the mother and child held any open communications with each other to this effect. The delicacy and pride of both would have been greatly injured by such a suspicion; yet they arrived simultaneously at the same conclusion, as well as at another of equal importance to the completion of their schemes on the Viscount. It was simply to adhere to the same conduct which had made him a captive, as most likely to insure the victory.

There was such a general understanding between the two it can excite no surprise that they co-operated harmoniously as it were by signal.

For two people, correctly impressed with their duties and responsibilities, to arrive at the same conclusion in the government of their conduct, would be merely a matter of course; and so with those who are more or less under the dominion of the world. They will pursue their plans with a degree of concurrence amounting nearly to sympathy; and thus had Kate and her mother, until this morning, kept up the masquerade so well that the Viscount was as confiding as a country Corydon. When he first witnessed the dowager’s management with Grace and John, however, and his wife’s careless disregard of a thing which appeared too much a matter of course to be quite agreeable, his newly awakened distrust approached conviction.

Grace Chatterton both sang and played exquisitely; it was, however, seldom she could sufficiently overcome her desire, when John was an auditor, to appear to advantage.

As the party went down stairs, and Moseley had gone with them part of the way, she threw herself unconsciously in a seat, and began a beautiful song, that was fashionable at the time. Her feelings were in consonance with the words, and Grace was very happy both in execution and voice.

John had reached the back of her seat before she was at all sensible of his return, and Grace lost her self-command immediately. She rose and took a seat on a sofa, and the young man was immediately at her side.

“Ah, Grace,” said John, the lady’s heart beating high you certainly do sing as you do everything, admirably.”

“I am happy you think so, Mr. Moseley,” returned Grace looking everywhere but in his face.

John’s eyes ran over her beauties, as with palpitating bosom and varying color she sat confused at the unusual warmth of his language and manner.

Fortunately a remarkably striking likeness of the Dowager hung directly over their heads, and John taking her unresisting hand, continued,

“Dear Grace, you resemble your brother very much in features, and what is better still, in character.”

“I could wish,” said Grace, venturing to look up, “to resemble your sister Emily in the latter.”

“And why not to be her sister, dear Grace?” said he with ardor. “You are worthy to become her sister. Tell me, Grace, dear Miss Chatterton — can you — will you make me the happiest of men? may I present another inestimable daughter to my parents?”

As John paused for an answer, Grace looked up, and he waited her reply in evident anxiety; but she continued silent, now pale as death, and now of the color of the rose, and he added:

“I hope I have not offended you, dearest Grace; you are all that is desirable to me; my hopes, my happiness, are centred in you. Unless you consent to become my wife, I must be very wretched.”

Grace burst into a flood of tears, as her lover, interested deeply in their cause, gently drew her towards him. Her head sank on his shoulder, as she faintly whispered something that was inaudible, but which he did not fail to interpret into everything he most wished to hear. John was in ecstasies. Every unpleasant feeling of suspicion had left him. Of Grace’s innocence of manoeuvring he never doubted, but John did not relish the idea of being entrapped into anything, even a step which he desired. An uninterrupted communication followed; it was as confiding as their affections: and the return of the dowager and her children first recalled them to the recollection of other people.

One glance of the eye was enough for Lady Chatterton. She saw the traces of tears on the cheeks and in the eyes of Grace, and the dowager was satisfied; she knew his friends would not object; and as Grace attended her to her dressing-room, she cried on entering it, “Well, child, when is the wedding to be? You will wear me out with so much gaiety.”

Grace was shocked, but did not as formerly weep over her mother’s interference in agony and dread. John had opened his whole soul to her, observing the greatest delicacy towards her mother, and she now felt her happiness placed in the keeping of a man whose honor she believed much exceeded that of any other human being.

Chapter XXXII.

The seniors of the party at Benfield Lodge were all assembled one morning in a parlor, when its master and the baronet were occupied in the perusal of the London papers. Clara had persuaded her sisters to accompany her and Francis in an excursion as far as the village.

Jane yet continued reserved and distant to most of her friends; while Emily’s conduct would have escaped unnoticed, did not her blanched cheek and wandering looks at times speak a language not to be misunderstood. With all her relatives she maintained the affectionate intercourse she had always supported; though not even to her aunt did the name of Denbigh pass her lips. But in her most private and humble petitions to God, she never forgot to mingle with her requests for spiritual blessings on herself, fervent prayers for the conversion of the preserver of her life.

Mrs. Wilson, as she sat by the side of her sister at their needles, first discovered an unusual uneasiness in their venerable host, while he turned his paper over and over, as if unwilling or unable to comprehend some part of its contents, until he rang the bell violently, and bid the servant to send Johnson to him without a moment’s delay.

“Peter,” said Mr. Benfield doubtingly, “read that — your eyes are young, Peter; read that.”

Peter took the paper, and after having adjusted his spectacles to his satisfaction, he proceeded to obey his master’s injunctions; but the same defect of vision as suddenly seized the steward as it had affected his master. He turned the paper sideways, and appeared to be spelling the matter of the paragraph to himself. Peter would have given his three hundred a year to have had the impatient John Moseley a hand, to relieve him from his task; but the anxiety of Mr. Benfield overcoming his fear of the worst, he inquired in tremulous tone —

“Peter? hem! Peter, what do you think?”

“Why, your honor,” replied the steward, stealing a look at his master, “it does seem so indeed.”

“I remember,” said the master, “when Lord Gosford saw the marriage of the countess announced he— “

Here the old gentleman was obliged to stop, and rising with dignity, and leaning on the arm of his faithful servant, he left the room.

Mrs. Wilson immediately took up the paper, and her eye catching the paragraph at a glance, she read aloud as follows to her expecting friends:

“Married by special license, at the seat of the Most Noble the Marquess of Eltringham, in Devonshire, by the Right Rev. Lord Bishop of —— , George Denbigh Esq., Lieutenant Colonel of his Majesty’s —— regiment of dragoons, to the Right Honorable Lady Laura Stapleton, eldest sister of the Marquess. Eltringham was honored on the present happy occasion with the presence of his grace of Derwent, and the gallant Lord Pendennyss, kinsmen of the bridegroom, and Captain Lord Henry Stapleton of the Royal Navy. We understand that the happy couple proceed to Denbigh Castle immediately after the honey-moon.”

Although Mrs. Wilson had given up the expectation of ever seeing her niece the wife of Denbigh, she felt an indescribable shock as she read this paragraph. The strongest feeling was horror at the danger Emily had been in of contracting an alliance with such a man. His avoiding the ball, at which he knew Lord Henry was expected, was explained to her by this marriage; for with John, she could not believe a woman like Lady Laura Stapleton was to be won in the short space of one fortnight, or indeed less. There was too evidently a mystery yet to be developed, and she felt certain one that would not elevate his character in her opinion.

Neither Sir Edward nor Lady Moseley had given up the expectation of seeing Denbigh again, as a suitor for Emily’s hand, and to both of them this certainty of his loss was a heavy blow. The baronet took up the paper, and after perusing the article, he muttered in a low tone, as he wiped the tears from his eyes, “Heaven bless him: I sincerely hope she is worthy of him.” Worthy of him, thought Mrs. Wilson, with a feeling of indignation, as, taking up the paper, she retired to her own room, whither Emily, at that moment returned from her walk, had proceeded. As her niece must hear this news, she thought the sooner the better. The exercise, and the unreserved conversation of Francis and Clara, had restored in some degree the bloom to the cheek of Emily; and Mrs. Wilson felt it necessary to struggle with herself, before she could summon sufficient resolution to invade the returning peace of her charge. However, having already decided on her course, she proceeded to the discharge of what she thought to be a duty.

“Emily, my child,” she whispered, pressing her affectionately to her bosom, “you have been all I could wish, and more than I expected, under your arduous struggles. But one more pang, and I trust your recollections on this painful subject will be done away.”

Emily looked at her aunt in anxious expectation of what was coming, and quietly taking the paper, followed the direction of Mrs. Wilson’s finger to the article on the marriage of Denbigh.

There was a momentary struggle in Emily for self-command. She was obliged to find support in a chair. The returning richness of color, excited by her walk, vanished; but recovering herself, she pressed the hand of her anxious guardian, and, gently waving her back, proceeded to her own room.

On her return to the company, the same control of her feelings which had distinguished her conduct of late, was again visible; and, although her aunt most narrowly watched her movements, looks, and speeches, she could discern no visible alteration by this confirmation of misconduct. The truth was, that in Emily Moseley the obligations of duty were so imperative, her sense of her dependence on Providence so humbling and yet so confiding, that, as soon as she was taught to believe her lover unworthy of her esteem, that moment an insuperable barrier separated them. His marriage could add nothing to the distance between them. It was impossible they could be united; and although a secret lingering of the affections over his fallen character might and did exist, it existed without any romantic expectations of miracles in his favor, or vain wishes of reformation, in which self was the prominent feeling. She might be said to be keenly alive to all that concerned his welfare or movements, if she did not harbor the passion of love; but it showed itself in prayers for his amendment of life, and the most ardent petitions for his future and eternal happiness. She had set about, seriously and with much energy, the task of erasing from her heart sentiments which, however delightful she had found it to entertain in times past, were now in direct variance with her duty. She knew that a weak indulgence of such passions would tend to draw her mind from, and disqualify her to discharge, those various calls on her time and her exertions, which could alone enable her to assist others, or effect in her own person the great purposes of her creation. It was never lost sight of by Emily Moseley, that her existence here was preparatory to an immensely more important state hereafter. She was consequently in charity with all mankind; and if grown a little more distrustful of the intentions of her fellow-creatures, it was a mistrust bottomed in a clear view of the frailties of our nature; and self-examination was amongst the not unfrequent speculations she made on this hasty marriage of her former lover.

Mrs. Wilson saw all this, and was soon made acquainted by her niece in terms, with her views of her own condition; and although she had to, and did, deeply regret, that all her caution had not been able to guard against deception, where it was most important for her to guide aright, yet she was cheered with the reflection that her previous care, with the blessings of Providence, had admirably fitted her charge to combat and overcome the consequences of their mistaken confidence.

The gloom which this little paragraph excited, extended to every individual in the family; for all had placed Denbigh by the side of John, in their affections, ever since his weighty services to Emily.

A letter from John announcing his intention of meeting them at Bath, as well as his new relation with Grace, relieved in some measure this general depression of spirit. Mr. Benfield alone found no consolation in the approaching nuptials. John he regarded as his nephew, and Grace he thought a very good sort of young woman; but neither of them were beings of the same genus with Emily and Denbigh.

“Peter,” said he one day, after they had both been expending their ingenuity in vain efforts to discover the cause of this so-much-desired marriage’s being so unexpectedly frustrated, “have I not often told you, that fate governed these things, in order that men might be humble in this life? Now, Peter, had the Lady Juliana wedded with a mind congenial to her own, she might have been mistress of Benfield Lodge to this very hour.”

“Yes, your honor — but there’s Miss Emmy’s legacy.”

And Peter withdrew, thinking what would have been the consequences had Patty Steele been more willing, when he wished to make her Mrs. Peter Johnson — an association by no means uncommon in the mind of the steward; for if Patty had ever a rival in his affections, it was in the person of Emily Moseley, though, indeed, with very different degrees and coloring of esteem.

The excursions to the cottage had been continued by Mrs. Wilson and Emily, and as no gentleman was now in the family to interfere with their communications, a general visit to the young widow had been made by the Moseleys, including Sir Edward and Mr. Ives.

The Jarvises had gone to London to receive their children, now penitent in more senses than one; and Sir Edward learnt with pleasure that Egerton and his wife had been admitted into the family of the merchant.

Sir Edgar had died suddenly, and the entailed estates had fallen to his successor the colonel, now Sir Harry; but the bulk of his wealth, being in convertible property, he had given by will to his other nephew, a young clergyman, and a son of a younger brother. Mary, as well as her mother, were greatly disappointed, by this deprivation, of what they considered their lawful splendor; but they found great consolation in the new dignity of Lady Egerton, whose greatest wish now was to meet the Moseleys, in order that she might precede them in or out of some place where such ceremonials are observed. The sound of “Lady Egerton’s carriage stops the way,” was delightful, and it never failed to be used on all occasions, although her ladyship was mistress of only a hired vehicle.

A slight insight into the situation of things amongst them may be found in the following narrative of their views, as revealed in a discussion which took place about a fortnight after the reunion of the family under one roof.

Mrs. Jarvis was mistress of a very handsome coach, the gift of her husband for her own private use. After having satisfied herself the baronet (a dignity he had enjoyed just twenty-four hours) did not possess the ability to furnish his lady, as she termed her daughter, with such a luxury, she magnanimously determined to relinquish her own, in support of the new-found elevation of her daughter. Accordingly, a consultation on the alterations which were necessary took place between the ladies— “The arms must be altered, of course,” Lady Egerton observed, “and Sir Harry’s, with the bloody hand and six quarterings, put in their place; then the liveries, they must be changed.”

“Oh, mercy! my lady, if the arms are altered, Mr. Jarvis will be sure to notice it, and he would never forgive me; and perhaps— “

“Perhaps what?” exclaimed the new-made lady, with a disdainful toss of her head.

“Why,” replied the mother, warmly, “not give me the hundred pounds he promised, to have it new-lined and painted.”

“Fiddlesticks with the painting, Mrs, Jarvis,” cried the lady with dignity: “no carriage shall be called mine that does not bear my arms and the bloody hand.”

“Why, your ladyship is unreasonable, indeed you are,” said Mrs. Jarvis, coaxingly; and then after a moment’s thought she continued, “is it the arms or the baronetcy you want, my dear?”

“Oh, I care nothing for the arms, but I am determined, now I am a baronet’s lady, Mrs. Jarvis, to have the proper emblem of my rank.”

“Certainly, my lady, that’s true dignity: well, then, we will put the bloody hand on your father’s arms, and he will never notice it, for he never sees such things.”

The arrangement was happily completed, and for a few days the coach of Mr. Jarvis bore about the titled dame, until one unlucky day the merchant, who still went on ‘change when any great bargain in the stocks was to be made, arrived at his own door suddenly, to procure a calculation he had made on the leaf of his prayer-book the last Sunday during sermon. This he obtained after some search. In his haste he drove to his broker’s in the carriage of his wife, to save time, it happening to be in waiting at the moment, and the distance not great. Mr. Jarvis forgot to order the man to return, and for an hour the vehicle stood in one of the most public places in the city. The consequence was, that when Mr. Jarvis undertook to examine into his gains, with the account rendered of the transaction by his broker, he was astonished to read, “Sir Timothy Jarvis, Bart., in account with John Smith, Dr.” Sir Timothy examined the account in as many different ways as Mr. Benfield had examined the marriage of Denbigh, before he would believe his eyes; and when assured of the fact, he immediately caught up his hat, and went to find the man who had dared to insult him, as it were, in defiance of the formality of business. He had not proceeded one square in the city before he met a friend, who spoke to him by the title; an explanation of the mistake followed, and the quasi baronet proceeded to his stables. Here by actual examination he detected the fraud. An explanation with his consort followed; and the painter’s brush soon effaced the emblem of dignity from the panels of the coach. All this was easy but with his waggish companions on ’Change and in the city (where, notwithstanding his wife’s fashionable propensities, he loved to resort) he was Sir Timothy still.

Mr. Jarvis, though a man of much modesty, was one of great decision, and he determined to have the laugh on his side. A newly purchased borough of his sent up an address flaming with patriotism, and it was presented by his own hands. The merchant seldom kneeled to his Creator, but on this occasion he humbled himself dutifully before his prince, and left the presence with a legal right to the appellation which his old companions had affixed to him sarcastically.

The rapture of Lady Jarvis may be more easily imagined than faithfully described, the Christian name of her husband alone throwing any alloy into the enjoyment of her elevation: but by a license of speech she ordered, and addressed in her own practice, the softer and more familiar appellation of Sir Timo. Two servants were discharged the first week, because, unused to titles, they had addressed her as mistress; and her son, the captain, then at a watering-place, was made acquainted by express with the joyful intelligence.

All this time Sir Henry Egerton was but little seen amongst his new relatives. He had his own engagements and haunts, and spent most of his time at a fashionable gaming house in the West End. As, however, the town was deserted, Lady Jarvis and her daughters, having condescended to pay a round of city visits, to show off her airs and dignity to her old friends, persuaded Sir Timo that the hour for their visit to Bath had arrived, and they were soon comfortably settled in that city.

Lady Chatterton and her youngest daughter had arrived at the seat of her son, and John Moseley, as happy as the certainty of love returned and the approbation of his friends could make him, was in lodgings in the town. Sir Edward notified his son of his approaching visit to Bath, and John took proper accommodations for the family, which he occupied for a few days by himself as locum tenens.

Lord and Lady Herriefield had departed for the south of France; and Kate, removed from the scenes of her earliest enjoyments and the bosom of her own family, and under the protection of a man she neither loved nor respected, began to feel the insufficiency of a name or of a fortune to constitute felicity. Lord Herriefield was of a suspicious and harsh temper, the first propensity being greatly increased by his former associations, and the latter not being removed by the humility of his eastern dependants. But the situation of her child gave no uneasiness to the managing mother, who thought her in the high-road to happiness, and was gratified at the result of her labors. Once or twice, indeed, her habits had overcome her caution so much as to endeavor to promote, a day or two sooner than had been arranged, the wedding of Grace; but her imprudence was checked instantly by the recoiling of Moseley from her insinuations in disgust; and the absence of the young man for twenty-four hours gave her timely warning of the danger of such an interference with one of such fastidious feelings. John punished himself as much as the dowager on these occasions; but the smiling face of Grace, with her hand frankly placed in his own at his return, never failed to do away the unpleasant sensations created by her mother’s care.

The Chatterton and Jarvis families met in the rooms, soon after the arrival of the latter, when the lady of the knight, followed by both her daughters, approached the dowager with a most friendly salute of recognition. Lady Chatterton, really forgetful of the persons of her B —— acquaintance, and disliking the vulgarity of her air, drew up into an appearance of great dignity, as she hoped the lady was well. The merchant’s wife felt the consciousness of rank too much to be repulsed in this manner, and believing that the dowager had merely forgotten her face, she added, with a simpering smile, in imitation of what she had seen better bred people practise with success —

“Lady Jarvis — my lady — your ladyship don’t remember me — Lady Jarvis of the Deanery, B —— , Northamptonshire, and my daughters, Lady Egerton and Miss Jarvis.” Lady Egerton bowed stiffly to the recognising smile the dowager now condescended to bestow; but Sarah, remembering a certain handsome lord in the family, was more urbane, determining at the moment to make the promotion of her mother and sister stepping-stones to greater elevation for herself.

“I hope my lord is well,” continued the city lady. “I regret that Sir Timo, and Sir Harry, and Captain Jarvis, are not here this morning to pay their respects to your ladyship; but as we shall see naturally a good deal of each other, it must be deferred to a more fitting opportunity.”

“Certainly, madam,” replied the dowager, as, passing her compliments with those of Grace, she drew back from so open a conversation with creatures of such doubtful standing in the fashionable world.

Chapter XXXIII.

On taking leave of Mrs. Fitzgerald, Emily and her aunt settled a plan of correspondence; the deserted situation of this young woman having created great interest in the breasts of her new friends. General M’Carthy had returned to Spain without receding from his original proposal, and his niece was left to mourn her early departure from one of the most solemn duties of life.

Mr. Benfield, thwarted in one of his most favorite schemes of happiness for the residue of his life, obstinately refused to make one of the party at Bath; and Ives and Clara having returned to Bolton, the remainder of the Moseleys arrived at the lodgings of John a very few days after the interview of the preceding chapter, with hearts ill qualified to enter into the gaieties of the place, though, in obedience to the wishes of Lady Moseley, to see and to be seen once more on that great theatre of fashionable amusement.

The friends of the family who had known them in times past were numerous, and were glad to renew their acquaintance with those they had always esteemed; so that they found themselves immediately surrounded by a circle of smiling faces and dashing equipages.

Sir William Harris, the proprietor of the deanery, and a former neighbor, with his showy daughter, were amongst the first to visit them. Sir William was a man of handsome estate and unexceptionable character, but entirely governed by the whims and desires of his only child. Caroline Harris wanted neither sense nor beauty, but expecting a fortune, she had placed her views too high. She at first aimed at the peerage; and while she felt herself entitled to suit her taste as well as her ambition, had failed of her object by ill-concealed efforts to attain it. She had justly acquired the reputation of the reverse of a coquette or yet of a prude; still she had never received an offer, and at the age of twenty-six, had now begun to lower her thoughts to the commonalty. Her fortune would have easily obtained her husband here, but she was determined to pick amongst the lower supporters of the aristocracy of the nation. With the Moseleys she had been early acquainted, though some years their senior; a circumstance, however, to which she took care never to allude unnecessarily.

The meeting between Grace and the Moseleys was tender and sincere. John’s countenance glowed with delight, as he saw his future wife folded successively in the arms of those he loved, and Grace’s tears and blushes added twofold charms to her native beauty. Jane relaxed from her reserve to receive her future sister, and determined with herself to appear in the world, in order to show Sir Henry Egerton that she did not feel the blow he had inflicted as severely as the truth might have proved.

The Dowager found some little occupation, for a few days, in settling with Lady Moseley the preliminaries of the wedding; but the latter had suffered too much through her youngest daughters, to enter into these formalities with her ancient spirit. All things were, however, happily settled; and Ives making a journey for the express purpose, John and Grace were united privately at the altar of one of the principal churches in Bath. Chatterton had been summoned on the occasion; and the same paper which announced the nuptials, contained, amongst the fashionable arrivals, the names of the Duke of Derwent and his sister, the Marquess of Eltringham and sisters, amongst whom was to be found Lady Laura Denbigh. Lady Chatterton carelessly remarked, in presence of her friends, the husband of the latter was summoned to the death-bed of a relative, from whom he had great expectations. Emily’s color did certainly change as she listened to this news, but not allowing her thoughts to dwell on the subject, she was soon enabled to recall her serenity of appearance.

But Jane and Emily were delicately placed. The lover of the former, and the wives of the lovers of both, were in the way of daily, if not hourly rencounters; and it required all the energies of the young women to appear with composure before them. The elder was supported by pride, the younger by principle. The first was restless, haughty, distant, and repulsive. The last mild, humble, reserved, but eminently attractive. The one was suspected by all around her; the other was unnoticed by any, but by her nearest and dearest friends.

The first rencounter with these dreaded guests occurred at the rooms one evening, where the elder ladies had insisted on the bride’s making her appearance. The Jarvises were there before them, and at their entrance caught the eyes of the group. Lady Jarvis approached immediately, filled with exultation — her husband with respect. The latter was received with cordiality — the former politely, but with distance. The young ladies and Sir Henry bowed distantly, and the gentleman soon drew off into another part of the room: his absence alone kept Jane from fainting. The handsome figure of Egerton standing by the side of Mary Jarvis, as her acknowledged husband, was near proving too much for her pride, notwithstanding all her efforts; and he looked so like the imaginary being she had set up as the object of her worship, that her heart was also in danger of rebelling.

“Positively, Sir Edward and my lady, both Sir Timo and myself, and, I dare say, Sir Harry and Lady Egerton too, are delighted to see you comfortably at Bath among us. Mrs. Moseley, I wish you much happiness; Lady Chatterton too. I suppose your ladyship recollects me now; I am Lady Jarvis. Mr. Moseley, I regret, for your sake, that my son Captain Jarvis is not here; you were so fond of each other, and both so loved your guns.”

“Positively, my Lady Jarvis,” said Moseley, drily, “my feelings on the occasion are as strong as your own; but I presume the captain is much top good a shot for me by this time.”

“Why, yes; he improves greatly in most things he undertakes,” rejoined the smiling dame, “and I hope he will soon learn, like you, to shoot with the harrows of Cupid. I hope the Honorable Mrs. Moseley is well.”

Grace bowed mildly, as she answered to the interrogatory, and smiled at the thought of Jarvis put in competition with her husband in this species of archery, when a voice immediately behind where they sat caught the ears of the whole party; all it said was —

“Harriet, you forgot to show me Marian’s letter.”

“Yes, but I will to-morrow,” was the reply.

It was the tone of Denbigh. Emily almost fell from her seat as it first reached her, and the eyes of all but herself were immediately turned in quest of the speaker. He had approached within a very few feet of them, supporting a lady on each arm. A second look convinced the Moseleys that they were mistaken. It was not Denbigh, but a young man whose figure, face, and air resembled him strongly, and whose voice possessed the same soft melodious tones which had distinguished that of Denbigh. This party seated themselves within a very short distance of the Moseleys, and they continued their conversation.

“You heard from the Colonel to-day, too, I believe,” continued the gentleman, turning to the lady who sat next to Emily.

“Yes, he is a very punctual correspondent; I hear every other day.”

“How is his uncle, Laura?” inquired her female companion.

“Rather better; but I will thank your grace to find the Marquess and Miss Howard.”

“Bring them to us,” rejoined the other.

“Yes,” said the former lady, with a laugh, “and Eltringham will thank you too, I dare say.”

In an instant the duke returned, accompanied by a gentleman of thirty and an elderly lady, who might have been safely taken for fifty without offence to anybody but herself.

During these speeches their auditors had listened with almost breathless interest. Emily had stolen a glance which satisfied her it was not Denbigh himself and it greatly relieved her; but was startled at discovering that she was actually seated by the side of his young and lovely wife. When an opportunity offered, she dwelt on the amiable, frank countenance of her rival with melancholy satisfaction: at least, she thought, he may yet be happy, and I hope penitent.

It was a mixture of love and gratitude which prompted this wish, both sentiments not easily got rid of when once ingrafted in our better feelings. John eyed the strangers with a displeasure for which he could not account at once, and saw, in the ancient lady, the bridesmaid Lord Henry had so unwillingly admitted to that distinction.

Lady Jarvis was astounded with her vicinity to so much nobility, and she drew back to her family to study its movements to advantage; while Lady Chatterton sighed heavily, as she contemplated the fine figures of an unmarried Duke and Marquess, and she without a single child to dispose of. The remainder of the party continued to view them with curiosity, and listened with interest to what they said.

Two or three young ladies had now joined the strangers, attended by a couple of gentlemen, and the conversation became general. The ladies declined dancing entirely, but appeared willing to throw away an hour in comments on their neighbors.

“William,” said one of the young ladies, “there is your old messmate, Col. Egerton.”

“Yes, I observe him,” replied her brother, “I see him;” but, smiling significantly, he continued, “we are messmates no longer.”

“He is a sad character,” said the Marquess, with a shrug. “William, I would advise you to be cautious of his acquaintance.”

“I thank you,” replied Lord William, “but I believe I understand him thoroughly.”

Jane manifested strong emotion during these remarks, while Sir Edward and his wife averted their faces from a simultaneous feeling of self-reproach. Their eyes met, and mutual concessions were contained in the glance; yet their feelings were unnoticed by their companions, for over the fulfilment of her often repeated forewarnings of neglect and duty to our children, Mrs. Wilson had mourned in sincerity, but she had forgotten to triumph.

“When are we to see Pendennyss?” inquired the Marquess; “I hope he will be here with George — I have a mind to beat up his quarters in Wales this season — what say you, Derwent?”

“I intend it, if I can persuade Lady Harriet to quit the gaieties of Bath so soon — what say you, sister — will you be in readiness to attend me so early?”

This question was asked in an arch tone, and drew the eyes of her friends on the person to whom it was addressed.

“I am ready now, Frederick, if you wish it,” answered the sister hastily, and coloring excessively as she spoke.

“But where is Chatterton? I thought he was here — he had a sister married here last week,” inquired Lord William Stapleton, addressing no one in particular.

A slight movement in their neighbors attracted the attention of the party.

“What a lovely young woman,” whispered the duke to Lady Laura, “your neighbor is!”

The lady smiled her assent, and as Emily overheard it, she rose with glowing cheeks, and proposed a walk round the room.

Chatterton soon after entered. The young peer had acknowledged to Emily that, deprived of hope as he had been by her firm refusal of his hand, his efforts had been directed to the suppression of a passion which could never be successful; but his esteem, his respect, remained in full force. He did not touch at all on the subject of Denbigh, and she supposed that he thought his marriage was a step that required justification.

The Moseleys had commenced their promenade round the room as Chatterton came in. He paid his compliments to them as soon as he entered, and walked with their party. The noble visitors followed their example, and the two parties met. Chatterton was delighted to see them, the Duke was particularly fond of him; and, had one been present of sufficient observation, the agitation of his sister, the Lady Harriet Denbigh, would have accounted for the doubts of her brother as respects her willingness to leave Bath.

A few words of explanation passed; the duke and his friends appeared to urge something on Chatterton, who acted as their ambassador, and the consequence was, an introduction of the two parties to each other. This was conducted with the ease of the present fashion — it was general, and occurred, as it were incidentally, in the course of the evening.

Both Lady Harriet and Lady Laura Denbigh were particularly attentive to Emily. They took their seats by her, and manifested a preference for her conversation that struck Mrs. Wilson as remarkable. Could it be that the really attractive manners and beauty of her niece had caught the fancy of these ladies, or was there a deeper seated cause for the desire to draw Emily out, that both of them evinced? Mrs. Wilson had heard a rumor that Chatterton was thought attentive to Lady Harriet, and the other was the wife of Denbigh; was it possible the quondam suitors of her niece had related to their present favorites the situation they had stood in as regarded Emily? It was odd, to say no more; and the widow dwelt on the innocent countenance of the bride with pity and admiration. Emily herself was not a little abashed at the notice of her new acquaintances, especially Lady Laura’s; but as their admiration appeared sincere, as well as their desire to be on terms of intimacy with the Moseleys, they parted, on the whole, mutually pleased.

The conversation several times was embarrassing to the baronet’s family, and at moments distressingly so to their daughters.

At the close of the evening they all formed one group at a little distance from the rest of the company, and in a situation to command a view of it.

“Who is that vulgar-looking woman,” said Lady Sarah Stapleton, “seated next to Sir Henry Egerton, brother?”

“No less a personage than my Lady Jarvis,” replied the marquess, gravely, “and the mother-in-law of Sir Harry, and the wife to Sir Timo — ;” this was said, with a look of drollery that showed the marquess was a bit of a quiz.

“Married!” cried Lord William, “mercy on the woman who is Egerton’s wife. He is the greatest latitudinarian amongst the ladies, of any man in England — nothing — no, nothing would tempt me to let such a man marry a sister of mine!”

Ah, thought Mrs. Wilson, how we may be deceived in character, with the best intentions, after all! In what are the open vices of Egerton worse than the more hidden ones of Denbigh?

These freely expressed opinions on the character of Sir Henry were excessively awkward to some of the listeners, to whom they were connected with unpleasant recollections of duties neglected, and affections thrown away.

Sir Edward Moseley was not disposed to judge his fellow-creatures harshly; and it was as much owing to his philanthropy as to his indolence, that he had been so remiss in his attention to the associates of his daughters. But the veil once removed, and the consequences brought home to him through his child, no man was more alive to the necessity of caution on this important particular; and Sir Edward formed many salutary resolutions for the government of his future conduct in relation to those whom an experience nearly fatal in its results had now greatly qualified to take care of themselves But to resume our narrative — Lady Laura had maintained with Emily a conversation, which was enlivened by occasional remarks from the rest of the party, in the course of which the nerves as well as the principles of Emily were put to a severe trial.

“My brother Henry,” said Lady Laura, “who is a captain in the navy, once had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Moseley, and in some measure made me acquainted with you before we met.”

“I dined with Lord Henry at L —— , and was much indebted to his polite attentions in an excursion on the water,” replied Emily, simply.

“Oh, I am sure his attentions were exclusive,” cried the sister; “indeed, he told us that nothing but want of time prevented his being deeply in love — he had even the audacity to tell Denbigh it was fortunate for me he had never seen you, or I should have been left to lead apes.”

“And I suppose you believe him now,” cried Lord William, laughing, as he bowed to Emily.

His sister laughed in her turn, but shook her head, in the confidence of conjugal affection.

“It is all conjecture, for the Colonel said he had never enjoyed the pleasure of meeting Miss Moseley, so I will not boast of what my powers might have done; Miss Moseley,” continued Lady Laura, blushing slightly at her inclination to talk of an absent husband, so lately her lover, “I hope to have the pleasure of presenting Colonel Denbigh to you soon.”

“I think,” said Emily, with a strong horror of deception, and a mighty struggle to suppress her feelings, “Colonel Denbigh was mistaken in saying that we had never met; he was of material service to me once, and I owe him a debt of gratitude that I only wish I could properly repay.”

Lady Laura listened in surprise; but as Emily paused, she could not delicately, as his wife, remind her further of the obligation, by asking what the service was, and hesitating a moment, continued —

“Henry quite made you the subject of conversation amongst us; Lord Chatterton too, who visited us for a day, was equally warm in his eulogiums. I really thought they created a curiosity in the Duke and Pendennyss to behold their idol.”

“A curiosity that would be ill rewarded in its indulgence,” said Emily, abashed by the personality of the discourse.

“So says the modesty of Miss Moseley,” said the Duke of Derwent, in the peculiar tone which distinguished the softer keys of Denbigh’s voice. Emily’s heart beat quick as she heard them, and she was afterwards vexed to remember with how much pleasure she had listened to this opinion of the duke. Was it the sentiment, or was it the voice? She, however, gathered strength to answer, with a dignity that repressed further praises: —

“Your grace is willing to divest me of what little I possess.”

“Pendennyss is a man of a thousand,” continued Lady Laura, with the privilege of a married woman. “I do wish he would join us at Bath — is there no hope, duke?”

“I am afraid not,” replied his grace: “he keeps himself immured in Wales with his sister, who is as much of a hermit as he is himself.”

“There was a story of an inamorata in private somewhere,” cried the marquess; “why at one time it was even said he was privately married to her.”

“Scandal, my lord,” said the duke, gravely: “Pendennyss is of unexceptionable morals, and the lady you mean is the widow of Major Fitzgerald, whom you knew. Pendennyss never sees her, though by accident he was once of very great service to her.”

Mrs. Wilson breathed freely again, as she heard this explanation, and thought if the Marquess knew all, how differently would he judge Pendennyss, as well as others.

“Oh! I have the highest opinion of Lord Pendennyss,” cried the Marquess.

The Moseleys were not sorry that the usual hour of retiring put an end to the conversation and their embarrassment.

Chapter XXXIV.

During the succeeding fortnight, the intercourse between the Moseleys and their new acquaintances increased daily. It was rather awkward at first on the part of Emily; and her beating pulse and changing color too often showed the alarm of feelings not yet overcome, when any allusions were made to the absent husband of one of the ladies. Still, as her parents encouraged the acquaintance, and her aunt thought the best way to get rid of the remaining weakness with respect to Denbigh was not to shrink from even an interview with the gentleman himself, Emily succeeded in conquering her reluctance; and as the high opinion entertained by Lady Laura of her husband was expressed in a thousand artless ways, an interest was created in her that promised in time to weaken if not destroy the impression that had been made by Denbigh himself.

On the other hand, Egerton carefully avoided all collision with the Moseleys. Once, indeed, he endeavored to renew his acquaintance with John, but a haughty repulse almost produced a quarrel.

What representations Egerton had thought proper to make to his wife, we are unable to say; but she appeared to resent something, as she never approached the dwelling or persons of her quondam associates, although in her heart she was dying to be on terms of intimacy with their titled friends. Her incorrigible mother was restrained by no such or any other consideration, and contrived to fasten on the Dowager and Lady Harriet a kind of bowing acquaintance, which she made great use of at the rooms.

The Duke sought out the society of Emily wherever he could obtain it; and Mrs. Wilson thought her niece admitted his approaches with less reluctance than that of any other of the gentlemen around her. At first she was surprised, but a closer observation betrayed to her the latent cause.

Derwent resembled Denbigh greatly in person and voice, although there were distinctions easily to be made on an acquaintance. The Duke had an air of command and hauteur that was never to be seen in his cousin. But his admiration of Emily he did not attempt to conceal; and, as he ever addressed her in the respectful language and identical voice of Denbigh, the observant widow easily perceived, that it was the remains of her attachment to the one that induced her niece to listen, with such evident pleasure, to the conversation of the other.

The Duke of Derwent wanted many of the indispensable requisites of a husband, in the eyes of Mrs. Wilson; yet, as she thought Emily out of all danger at the present of any new attachment, she admitted the association, under no other restraint than the uniform propriety of all that Emily said or did.

“Your niece will one day be a Duchess, Mrs. Wilson,” whispered Lady Laura, as Derwent and Emily were running over a new poem one morning, in the lodgings of Sir Edward; the former reading a fine extract aloud so strikingly in the air and voice of Denbigh, as to call all the animation of the unconscious Emily into her expressive face.

Mrs. Wilson sighed, as she reflected on the strength of those feelings which even principles and testimony had not been able wholly to subdue, as she answered —

“Not of Derwent, I believe. But how wonderfully the Duke resembles your husband at times,” she added, entirely thrown off her guard.

Lady Laura was evidently surprised.

“Yes, at times he does; they are brothers’ children, you know: the voice in all that connexion is remarkable. Pendennyss, though a degree further off in blood, possesses it; and Lady Harriet, you perceive, has the same characteristic; there has been some syren in the family, in days past.”

Sir Edward and Lady Moseley saw the attention of the Duke with the greatest pleasure. Though not slaves to the ambition of wealth and rank, they were certainly no objections in their eyes; and a proper suitor Lady Moseley thought the most probable means of driving the recollection of Denbigh from the mind of her daughter. The latter consideration had great weight in inducing her to cultivate an acquaintance so embarrassing on many accounts.

The Colonel, however, wrote to his wife the impossibility of his quitting his uncle while he continued so unwell, and it was settled that the bride should join him, under the escort of Lord William.

The same tenderness distinguished Denbigh on this occasion that had appeared so lovely when exercised to his dying father. Yet, thought Mrs. Wilson, how insufficient are good feelings to effect what can only be the result of good principles.

Caroline Harris was frequently of the parties of pleasure, walks, rides, and dinners, which the Moseleys were compelled to join in; and as the Marquess of Eltringham had given her one day some little encouragement, she determined to make an expiring effort at the peerage, before she condescended to enter into an examination of the qualities of Capt. Jarvis, who, his mother had persuaded her, was an Apollo, that had great hopes of being one day a Lord, as both the Captain and herself had commenced laying up a certain sum quarterly for the purpose of buying a title hereafter — an ingenious expedient of Jarvis’s to get into his hands a portion of the allowance of his mother.

Eltringham was strongly addicted to the ridiculous; and without committing himself in the least, drew the lady out on divers occasions, for the amusement of himself and the Duke — who enjoyed, without practising, that species of joke.

The collisions between ill-concealed art and as ill-concealed irony had been practised with impunity by the Marquess for a fortnight, and the lady’s imagination began to revel in the delights of a triumph, when a really respectable offer was made to Miss Harris by a neighbor of her father’s in the country — one she would rejoice to have received a few days before, but which, in consequence of hopes created by the following occurrence, she haughtily rejected.

It was at the lodgings of the Baronet that Lady Laura exclaimed one day, —

“Marriage is a lottery, certainly, and neither Sir Henry nor Lady Egerton appears to have drawn a prize.”

Here Jane stole from the room.

“Never, sister,” cried the Marquess. “I will deny that. Any man can select a prize from your sex, if he only knows his own taste.”

“Taste is a poor criterion, I am afraid,” said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, “on which to found matrimonial felicity.”

“To what would you refer the decision, my dear madam?” inquired the Lady Laura.

“Judgment.”

Lady Laura shook her hear doubtingly.

“You remind me so much of Lord Pendennyss! Everything he wishes to bring under the subjection of judgment and principles.”

“And is he wrong, Lady Laura?” asked Mrs. Wilson, pleased to find such correct views existed in one of whom she thought so highly.

“Not wrong, my dear madam, only impracticable. What do you think, Marquess, of choosing a wife in conformity to your principles, and without consulting your tastes?”

Mrs. Wilson shook her head with a laugh, and disclaimed any such statement of the case; but the Marquess, who disliked one of John’s didactic conversations very much, gaily interrupted her by saying —

“Oh! taste is everything with me. The woman of my heart against the world, if she suits my fancy, and satisfies my judgment.”

“And what may this fancy of your Lordship be?” said Mrs. Wilson, willing to gratify the trifling. “What kind of a woman do you mean to choose? How tall for instance?”

“Why, madam,” cried the Marquess, rather unprepared for such a catechism, and looking around him until the outstretched neck and the eager attention of Caroline Harris caught his eye, when he added with an air of great simplicity— “about the height of Miss Harris.”

“How old?” asked Mrs. Wilson with a smile.

“Not too young, ma’am, certainly. I am thirty-two — my wife must be five or six and twenty. Am I old enough, do you think, Derwent?” he added in a whisper to the Duke.

“Within ten years,” was the reply.

Mrs. Wilson continued —

“She must read and write, I suppose?”

“Why, faith,” said the Marquess, “I am not fond of a bookish sort of a woman, and least of all a scholar.”

“You had better take Miss Howard,” whispered his brother. “She is old enough — never reads — and is just the height.”

“No, no, Will,” rejoined the brother. “Rather too old that. Now, I admire a woman who has confidence in herself. One that understands the proprieties of life, and has, if possible, been at the head of an establishment before she is to take charge of mine.”

The delighted Caroline wriggled about in her chair, and, unable to contain herself longer, inquired: —

“Noble blood of course, you would require, my Lord?”

“Why no! I rather think the best wives are to be found in a medium. I would wish to elevate my wife myself. A Baronet’s daughter for instance.”

Here Lady Jarvis, who had entered during the dialogue, and caught a clue to the topic they were engaged in, drew near, and ventured to ask if he thought a simple knight too low. The Marquess, who did not expect such an attack, was a little at a loss for an answer; but recovering himself answered gravely, under the apprehension of another design on his person, that “he did think that would be forgetting his duty to his descendants.”

Lady Jarvis sighed, and fell back in disappointment; while Miss Harris, turning to the nobleman, in a soft voice, desired him to ring for her carriage. As he handed her down, she ventured to inquire if his lordship had ever met with such a woman as he described.

“Oh, Miss Harris,” he whispered, as he handed her into the coach, “how can you ask me such a question? You are very cruel. Drive on, coachman.”

“How, cruel, my Lord?” said Miss Harris eagerly. “Stop, John. How, cruel, my Lord?” and she stretched her neck out of the window as the Marquess, kissing his hand to her, ordered the man to proceed.

“Don’t you hear your lady, sir?”

Lady Jarvis had followed them down, also with a view to catch anything which might be said, having apologized for her hasty visit; and as the Marquess handed her politely into her carriage, she also begged “he would favor Sir Timo and Sir Henry with a call;” which being promised, Eltringham returned to the room.

“When am I to salute a Marchioness of Eltringham?” cried Lady Laura to her brother, “one on the new standard set up by your Lordship.”

“Whenever Miss Harris can make up her mind to the sacrifice,” replied the brother very gravely. “Ah me! how very considerate some of your sex are, for the modesty of ours.”

“I wish you joy with all my heart, my Lord Marquess,” exclaimed John Moseley. “I was once favored with the notice of that same lady for a week or two, but a viscount saved me from capture.”

“I really think, Moseley,” said the Duke innocently, but speaking with animation, “an intriguing daughter worse than a managing mother.”

John’s gravity for a moment vanished, as he replied in a lowered key,

“Oh, much worse.”

Grace’s heart was in her throat, until, by stealing a glance at her husband, she saw the cloud passing over his fine brow; and happening to catch her affectionate smile; his face was at once lighted into a look of pleasantry.

“I would advise caution, my Lord. Caroline Harris has the advantage of experience in her trade, and was expert from the first.”

“John — John,” said Sir Edward with warmth, “Sir William is my friend, and his daughter must be respected.”

“Then, baronet,” cried the Marquess, “she has one recommendation I was ignorant of, and as such I am silent: but ought not Sir William to teach his daughter to respect herself? I view these husband-hunting ladies as pirates on the ocean of love, and lawful objects for any roving cruiser like myself to fire at. At one time I was simple enough to retire as they advanced, but you know, madam,” turning to Mrs. Wilson with a droll look, “flight only encourages pursuit, so I now give battle in self-defence.”

“And I hope successfully, my Lord,” observed the Lady. “Miss Harris, brother, does appear to have grown desperate in her attacks, which were formerly much more masked than at present. I believe it is generally the case, when a young worman throws aside the delicacy and feelings which ought to be the characteristics of her sex, and which teach her studiously to conceal her admiration, that she either becomes in time cynical and disagreeable to all around her from disappointment, or persevering in her efforts, as it were, runs a muck for a husband. Now in justice to the gentlemen, I must say, baronet, there are strong symptoms of the Malay about Caroline Harris.”

“A muck, a muck,” cried the marquess, as, in obedience to the signal of his sister, he rose to withdraw.

Jane had retired to her own room in a mortification of spirit she could ill conceal during this conversation, and she felt a degree of humiliation which almost drove her to the desperate resolution of hiding herself for ever from the world. The man she had so fondly enshrined in her heart proving to be so notoriously unworthy as to be the subject of unreserved censure in general company, was a reproach to her delicacy, her observation, her judgment, that was the more severe, from being true; and she wept in bitterness over her fallen happiness.

Emily had noticed the movement of Jane, and waited anxiously for the departure of the visitors to hasten to her room. She knocked two or three times before her sister replied to her request for admittance.

“Jane, my dear Jane,” said Emily, soothingly, “will you not admit me?”

Jane could not resist any longer the affection of her sister, and the door was opened; but as Emily endeavored to take her hand, she drew back coldly, and cried —

“I wonder you, who are so happy, will leave the gay scene below for the society of an humbled wretch like me;” and overcome with the violence of her emotion, she burst into tears.

“Happy!” repeated Emily, in a tone of anguish, “happy, did you say, Jane? Oh, little do you know my sufferings, or you would never speak so cruelly!”

Jane, in her turn, surprised at the strength of Emily’s language, considered her weeping sister with commiseration; and then her thoughts recurring to her own case, she continued with energy —

“Yes, Emily, happy; for whatever may have been the reason of Denbigh’s conduct, he is respected; and if you do or did love him, he was worthy of it. But I,” said Jane, wildly, “threw away my affections on a wretch — a mere impostor — and I am miserable for ever.”

“No, dear Jane,” rejoined Emily, having recovered her self-possession, “not miserable — nor for ever. You have many, very many sources of happiness yet within your reach, even in this world. I — I do think, even our strongest attachments may be overcome by energy and a sense of duty. And oh! how I wish I could see you make the effort.”

For a moment the voice of the youthful moralist had failed her; but anxiety in behalf of her sister overcame her feelings, and she ended the sentence with earnestness.

“Emily,” said Jane, with obstinacy, and yet in tears, “you don’t know what blighted affections are. To endure the scorn of the world, and see the man you once thought near being your husband married to another, who is showing herself in triumph before you, wherever you go!”

“Hear me, Jane, before you reproach me further, and then judge between us.” Emily paused a moment to acquire nerve to proceed, and then related to her astonished sister the little history of her own disappointments. She did not affect to conceal her attachment for Denbigh. With glowing cheeks she acknowledged, that she found a necessity for all her efforts to keep her rebellious feelings yet in subjection; and as she recounted generally his conduct to Mrs. Fitzgerald, she concluded by saying, “But, Jane, I can see enough to call forth my gratitude; and although, with yourself, I feel at this moment as if my affections were sealed for ever, I wish to make no hasty resolutions, nor act in any manner as if I were unworthy of the lot Providence has assigned me.”

“Unworthy? no! — you have no reasons for self-reproach. If Mr. Denbigh has had the art to conceal his crimes from you, he did it to the rest of the world also, and has married a woman of rank and character. But how differently are we situated! Emily — I — I have no such consolation.”

“You have the consolation, my sister, of knowing there is an interest made for you where we all require it most, and it is there I endeavor to seek my support,” said Emily, in a low and humble tone. “A review of our own errors takes away the keenness of our perception of the wrongs done us, and by placing us in charity with the rest of the world, disposes us to enjoy calmly the blessings within our reach. Besides, Jane, we have parents whose happiness is locked up in that of their children, and we should — we must overcome the feelings which disqualify us for our common duties, on their account.”

“Ah!” cried Jane, “how can I move about in the world, while I know the eyes of all are on me, in curiosity to discover how I bear my disappointments. But you, Emily, are unsuspected. It is easy for you to affect a gaiety you do not feel.”

“I neither affect nor feel any gaiety,” said her sister, mildly. “But are there not the eyes of One on us, of infinitely more power to punish or reward than what may be found in the opinions of the world? Have we no duties? For what is our wealth, our knowledge, our time given us, but to improve for our own and for the eternal welfare of those around us? Come then, my sister, we have both been deceived — let us endeavor not to be culpable.”

“I wish, from my soul, we could leave Bath,” cried Jane. “The place, the people are hateful to me!”

“Jane,” said Emily, “rather say you hate their vices, and wish for their amendment: but do not indiscriminately condemn a whole community for the wrongs you have sustained from one of its members.”

Jane allowed herself to be consoled, though by no means convinced, by this effort of her sister; and they both found a relief by thus unburdening their hearts to each other, that in future brought them more nearly together, and was of mutual assistance in supporting them in the promiscuous circles in which they were obliged to mix.

With all her fortitude and principle, one of the last things Emily would have desired was an interview with Denbigh, and she was happily relieved from the present danger of it by the departure of Lady Laura and her brother, to go to the residence of the Colonel’s sick uncle.

Both Mrs. Wilson and Emily suspected that a dread of meeting them had detained him from his intended journey to Bath; and neither was sorry to perceive, what they considered as latent signs of grace — a grace of which Egerton appeared entirely to be without.

“He may yet see his errors, and make a kind and affectionate husband,” thought Emily; and then, as the image of Denbigh rose in her imagination, surrounded with the domestic virtues, she roused herself from the dangerous reflection to the exercise of the duties in which she found a refuge from unpardonable wishes.

Chapter XXXV.

Nothing material occurred for a fortnight after the departure of Lady Laura, the Moseleys entering soberly into the amusements of the place, and Derwent and Chatterton becoming more pointed every day in their attentions — the one to Emily, and the other to Lady Harriet; when the dowager received a pressing entreaty from Catherine to hasten to her at Lisbon, where her husband had taken up his abode for a time, after much doubt and indecision as to his place of residence. Lady Herriefield stated generally in her letter, that she was miserable, and that without the support of her mother she could not exist under the present grievances; but what was the cause of those grievances, or what grounds she had for her misery, she left unexplained.

Lady Chatterton was not wanting in maternal regard, and she promptly determined to proceed to Portugal in the next packet. John felt inclined for a little excursion with his bride; and out of compassion to the baron, who was in a dilemma between his duty and his love (for Lady Harriet about that time was particularly attractive), he offered his services.

Chatterton allowed himself to be persuaded by the good-natured John, that his mother could safely cross the ocean under the protection of the latter. Accordingly, at the end of the before mentioned fortnight, the dowager, John, Grace, and Jane, commenced their journey to Falmouth.

Jane had offered to accompany Grace, as a companion in her return (it being expected Lady Chatterton would remain in the country with her daughter); and her parents appreciating her motives, permitted the excursion, with a hope it would draw her thoughts from past events.

Although Grace shed a few tears at parting with Emily and her friends, it was impossible for Mrs. Moseley to be long unhappy, with the face of John smiling by her side; and they pursued their route uninterruptedly. In due season they reached the port of embarkation.

The following morning the packet got under weigh, and a favorable breeze soon wafted them out of sight of their native shores. The ladies were too much indisposed the first day to appear on the deck; but the weather becoming calm and the sea smooth, Grace and Jane ventured out of the confinement of their state-rooms, to respire the fresh air above.

There were but few passengers, and those chiefly ladies — the wives of officers on foreign stations, on their way to join their husbands. As these had been accustomed to moving in the world, their disposition to accommodate soon removed the awkwardness of a first meeting, and our travellers began to be at home in their novel situation.

While Grace stood leaning on the arm of her husband, and clinging to his support, both from affection and a dread of the motion of the vessel, Jane ventured with one of the ladies to attempt a walk round the deck of the ship. Unaccustomed to such an uncertain foothold, the walkers were prevented falling by the kind interposition of a gentleman, who for the first time had shown himself among them at that moment. The accident, and their situation, led to a conversation which was renewed at different times during their passage, and in some measure created an intimacy between our party and the stranger. He was addressed by the commander of the vessel as Mr. Harland; and Lady Chatterton exercised her ingenuity in the investigation of his history, by which she made the following discovery:

The Rev. and Hon. Mr. Harland was the younger son of an Irish earl, who had early embraced his sacred profession in that church, in which he held a valuable living in the gift of his father’s family. His father was yet alive, and then at Lisbon with his mother and sister, in attendance on his elder brother, who had been sent there in a deep decline a couple of months before. It had been the wish of his parents to have taken all their children with them; but a sense of duty had kept the young clergyman in the exercise of his holy office, until a request of his dying brother, and the directions of his father, caused him to hasten abroad to witness the decease of the one, and to afford all the solace within his power to the others.

It may be easily imagined that the discovery of the rank of their accidental acquaintance, with the almost certainty that existed of his being the heir of his father’s honors, in no degree impaired his consequence in the eyes of the dowager; and it is certain, his visible anxiety and depressed spirits, his unaffected piety, and disinterested hopes for his brother’s recovery, no less elevated him in the opinions of her companions.

There was, at the moment, a kind of sympathy between Harland and Jane, notwithstanding the melancholy which gave rise to it proceeding from such very different causes and as the lady, although with diminished bloom, retained all her personal charms, rather heightened than otherwise by the softness of low spirits, the young clergyman sometimes relieved his apprehensions of his brother’s death by admitting the image of Jane among his more melancholy reflections.

The voyage was tedious, and some time before it was ended the dowager had given Grace an intimation of the probability there was of Jane’s becoming, at some future day, a countess. Grace sincerely hoped that whatever she became she would be as happy as she thought all allied to John deserved to be.

They entered the bay of Lisbon early in the morning; and as the ship had been expected for some days, a boat came alongside with a note for Mr. Harland, before they had anchored. It apprised him of the death of his brother. The young man threw himself precipitately into it, and was soon employed in one of the loveliest offices of his vocation, that of healing the wounds of the afflicted.

Lady Herriefield received her mother in a sort of sullen satisfaction, and her companions with an awkwardness she could ill conceal. It required no great observation in the travellers to discover, that their arrival was entirely unexpected by the viscount, if it were not equally disagreeable; indeed, one day’s residence under his roof assured them all that no great degree of domestic felicity was an inmate of the dwelling.

From the moment Lord Herriefield became suspicious that he had been the dupe of the management of Kate and her mother, he viewed every act of his wife with a prejudiced eye. It was easy, with his knowledge of human nature, to detect her selfishness and worldly-mindedness; for as these were faults she was unconscious of possessing, so she was unguarded in her exposure of them. But her designs, in a matrimonial point of view, having ended with her marriage, had the viscount treated her with any of the courtesies due her sex and station, she might, with her disposition, have been contented in the enjoyment of rank and in the possession of wealth; but their more private hours were invariably rendered unpleasant, by the overflowings of her husband’s resentment at having been deceived in his judgment of the female sex.

There is no point upon which men are more tender than their privilege of suiting themselves in a partner for life, although many of both sexes are influenced in this important selection more by the wishes and whims of others than is usually suspected; yet, as all imagine what is the result of contrivance and management is the election of free will and taste, so long as they are ignorant, they are contented. Lord Herriefield wanted this bliss of ignorance; and, with contempt for his wife, was mingled anger at his own want of foresight.

Very few people can tamely submit to self-reproach; and as the cause of this irritated state of mind was both not only constantly present, but completely within his power, the viscount seemed determined to give her as little reason to exult in the success of her plans as possible. Jealous he was, from temperament, from bad associations, and a want of confidence in the principles of his wife, the freedom of foreign manners having an additional tendency to excite this baneful passion to an unusual degree. Abridged in her pleasures, reproached with motives she was incapable of harboring, and disappointed in all those enjoyments her mother had ever led her to believe the invariable accompaniments of married life, where proper attention had been paid to the necessary qualifications of riches and rank, Kate had written to the dowager with the hope her presence might restrain, or her advice teach her, successfully to oppose the unfeeling conduct of the viscount.

Lady Chatterton never having implanted any of her favorite systems in her daughter, so much by precept as by the force of example in her own person, as well as by indirect eulogiums on certain people who were endowed with those qualities and blessings she most admired, on the present occasion Catherine did not unburden herself in terms to her mother; but by a regular gradation of complaints, aimed more at the world than at her husband, she soon let the knowing dowager see their application, and in the end completely removed the veil from her domestic grievances.

The example of John and Grace for a short time awed the peer into dissembling his disgust for his spouse; but the ice once broken, their presence soon ceased to affect either the frequency or the severity of his remarks, when under its influence.

From such exhibitions of matrimonial discord, Grace shrank timidly into the retirement of her room, and Jane, with dignity, would follow her example; while John at times became a listener, with a spirit barely curbed within the bounds of prudence, and at others, he sought in the company of his wife and sister, relief from the violence of his feelings.

John never admired nor respected Catherine, for she wanted those very qualities he chiefly loved in her sister; yet, as she was a woman, and one nearly connected with him, he found it impossible to remain a quiet spectator of the unmanly treatment she often received from her husband; he therefore made preparations for his return to England by the first packet, abridging his intended residence in Lisbon more than a month.

Lady Chatterton endeavored all within her power to heal the breach between Kate and her husband, but it greatly exceeded her abilities. It was too late to implant such principles in her daughter, as by a long course of self-denial and submission might have won the love of the viscount, had the mother been acquainted with them herself; so that having induced her child to marry with a view to obtaining precedence and a jointure, she once more set to work to undo part of her former labors, by bringing about a decent separation between the husband and wife, in such a manner as to secure to her child the possession of her wealth, and the esteem of the world. The latter, though certainly a somewhat difficult undertaking, was greatly lessened by the assistance of the former.

John and his wife determined to seize the opportunity to examine the environs of the city. In one of these daily rides, they met their fellow traveller, Mr. now Lord Harland. He was rejoiced to see them again, and hearing of their intended departure, informed them of his being about to return to England in the same vessel — his parents and sister contemplating ending the winter in Portugal.

The intercourse between the two families was kept up with a show of civilities between the noblemen, and much real good-will on the part of the juniors of the circle, until the day arrived for the sailing of the packet.

Lady Chatterton was left behind with Catherine, as yet unable to circumvent her schemes with prudence; it being deemed by the world a worse offence to separate, than to join together one’s children in the bands of wedlock.

The confinement of a vessel is very propitious to those intimacies which lead to attachments. The necessity of being agreeable is a check upon the captious, and the desire to lessen the dulness of the scene a stimulus to the lively; and though the noble divine and Jane could not possibly be ranked in either class, the effect was the same. The noble man was much enamored, and Jane unconsciously gratified. It is true, love had never entered her thoughts in its direct and unequivocal form; but admiration is so consoling to those laboring under self-condemnation, and flattery of a certain kind so very soothing to all, it is not to be wondered that she listened with increasing pleasure to the interesting conversation of Harland on all occasions, and more particularly, as often happened, when exclusively addressed to herself.

Grace had of late reflected more seriously on the subject of her eternal welfare than she had been accustomed to do in the house of her mother; and the example of Emily, with the precepts of Mrs. Wilson, had not been thrown away upon her. It is a singular fact, that more women feel a disposition to religion soon after marriage than at any other period of life; and whether it is, that having attained the most important station this life affords the sex, they are more willing to turn their thoughts to a provision for the next, or whether it be owing to any other cause, Mrs. Moseley was included in the number. She became sensibly touched with her situation, and as Harland was both devout and able as well as anxious to instruct, one of the party, at least, had cause to rejoice in the journey for the remainder of her days. But precisely as Grace increased in her own faith, so did her anxiety after the welfare of her husband receive new excitement; and John, for the first time, became the cause of sorrow to his affectionate companion.

The deep interest Harland took in the opening conviction of Mrs. Moseley, did not so entirely engross his thoughts as to prevent the too frequent contemplation of the charms of her friend for his own peace of mind; and by the time the vessel reached Falmouth, he had determined to make a tender of his hand and title to the acceptance of Miss Moseley. Jane did not love Egerton; on the contrary, she despised him; but the time had been, when all her romantic feelings, every thought of her brilliant imagination, had been filled with his image, and Jane felt it a species of indelicacy to admit the impression of another so soon, or even at all. These objections would, in time, have been overcome, as her affections became more and more enlisted on behalf of Harland, had she admitted his addresses; but there was an impediment that Jane considered insurmountable to a union with any man.

She had once communicated her passion to its object. There had been the confidence of approved love; and she had now no heart for Harland, but one that had avowedly been a slave to another. To conceal this from him would be unjust, and not reconcilable to good faith; to confess it, humiliating, and without the pale of probability. It was the misfortune of Jane to keep the world too constantly before her, and to lose sight too much of her really depraved nature, to relish the idea of humbling herself so low in the opinion of a fellow-creature. The refusal of Harland’s offer was the consequence, although she had begun to feel an esteem for him, that would no doubt have given rise to an attachment in time, far stronger and more deeply seated than her passing fancy for Colonel Egerton had been.

If the horror of imposing on the credulity of Harland a wounded heart, was creditable to Jane, and showed an elevation of character that under proper guidance would have placed her in the first ranks of her sex; the pride which condemned her to a station nature did not design her for was irreconcilable with the humility a just view of her condition could not fail to produce; and the second sad consequence of the indulgent weakness of her parents, was confirming their child in passions directly at variance with the first duties of a Christian.

We have so little right to value ourselves on anything that pride is a sentiment of very doubtful service, and one certainly, that is unable to effect any useful results which will not equally flow from good principles.

Harland was disappointed and grieved, but prudently judging that occupation and absence would remove recollections which could not be very deep, they parted at Falmouth, and our travellers proceeded on their journey for B —— , whither, during their absence, Sir Edward’s family had returned to spend a month, before they removed to town for the residue of the winter.

The meeting of the two parties was warm and tender, and as Jane had many things to recount, and John as many to laugh at, their arrival threw a gaiety around Moseley Hall to which it had for months been a stranger.

One of the first acts of Grace, after her return, was to enter strictly into the exercise of all those duties and ordinances required by her church, and the present state of her mind, and from the hands of Dr. Ives she received her first communion at the altar.

As the season had now become far advanced, and the fashionable world had been some time assembled in the metropolis, the Baronet commenced his arrangements to take possession of his town-house, after an interval of nineteen years. John proceeded to the capital first; and the necessary domestics procured, furniture supplied, and other arrangements usual to the appearance of a wealthy family in the world having been completed, he returned with the information that all was ready for their triumphal entrance.

Sir Edward, feeling that a separation for so long a time, and at such an unusual distance, in the very advanced age of Mr. Benfield, would be improper, paid him a visit, with the intention of persuading him to make one of his family for the next four months. Emily was his companion, and their solicitations were happily crowned with a success they had not anticipated. Averse to be deprived of Peter’s society, the honest steward was included in the party.

“Nephew,” said Mr. Benfield, beginning to waver in his objections to the undertaking, as the arguments pro and con were produced, “there are instances of gentlemen, not in parliament, going to town in the winter, I know. You are one yourself; and old Sir John Cowel, who never could get in, although he ran for every city in the kingdom, never missed his winter in Soho. Yes, yes — the thing is admissible — but had I known your wishes before, I would certainly have kept my borough if it were only for the appearance of the thing — besides,” continued the old man, shaking his head, “his majesty’s ministers require the aid of some more experienced members in these critical times; for what should an old man like me do in Westminster, unless it were to aid his country with his advice?”

“Make his friends happy with his company, dear uncle,” said Emily, taking his hand between both her own, and smiling affectionately on the old gentleman as she spoke.

“Ah! Emmy dear!” cried Mr. Benfield, looking on her with melancholy pleasure, “you are not to be resisted — just such another as the sister of my old friend Lord Gosford; she could always coax me out of anything. I remember now, I heard the earl tell her once he could not afford to buy a pair of diamond ear-rings; and she looked — only looked — did not speak! Emmy! — that I bought them with intent to present them to Her myself.”

“And did she take them, uncle?” asked his niece, in a little surprise.

“Oh yes! When I told her if she did not I would throw them into the river, as no one else should wear what had been intended for her; poor soul! how delicate and unwilling she was. I had to convince her they cost three hundred pounds, before she would listen to it; and then she thought it such a pity to throw away a thing of so much value. It would have been wicked, you know, Emmy, dear; and she was much opposed to wickedness and sin in any shape.”

“She must have been a very unexceptionable character indeed,” cried the Baronet, with a smile, as he proceeded to make the necessary orders for their journey. “But we must return to the party left at Bath.”

Chapter XXXVI.

The letters of Lady Laura informed her friends, that she and Colonel Denbigh had decided to remain with his uncle until the recovery of the latter was complete, and then to proceed to Denbigh Castle, to meet the Duke and his sister during the approaching holidays.

Emily was much relieved by this postponement of an interview which she would gladly have avoided for ever; and her aunt sincerely rejoiced that her niece was allowed more time to eradicate impressions, which, she saw with pain, her charge had yet a struggle to overcome.

There were so many points to admire in the character of Denbigh; his friends spoke of him with such decided partiality; Dr. Ives, in his frequent letters, alluded to him with so much affection; that Emily frequently detected herself in weighing the testimony of his guilt, and indulging the expectation that circumstances had deceived them all in their judgment of his conduct. Then his marriage would cross her mind; and with the conviction of the impropriety of admitting him to her thoughts at all, would come the mass of circumstantial testimony which had accumulated against him.

Derwent served greatly to keep alive the recollections of his person, however; and as Lady Harriet seemed to live only in the society of the Moseleys, not a day passed without giving the Duke some opportunity of indirectly preferring his suit.

Emily not only appeared, but in fact was, unconscious of his admiration; and entered into their amusements with a satisfaction that was increased by the belief that the unfortunate attachment her cousin Chatterton had once professed for herself, was forgotten in the more certain enjoyments of a successful love.

Lady Harriet was a woman of manners and character very different from Emily Moseley; yet had she in a great measure erased the impressions made by the beauty of his kinswoman from the bosom of the baron.

Chatterton, under the depression of his first disappointment, it will be remembered, had left B —— in company with Mr. Denbigh. The interest of the duke had been unaccountably exerted to procure him the place he had so long solicited in vain, and gratitude required his early acknowledgments for the favor. His manner, so very different from a successful applicant for a valuable office, had struck both Derwent and his sister as singular. Before, however, a week’s intercourse had passed between them, his own frankness had made them acquainted with the cause; and a double wish prevailed in the bosom of Lady Harriet, to know the woman who could resist the beauty of Chatterton, and to relieve him from the weight imposed on his spirits by disappointed affection.

The manners of Lady Harriet Denbigh were not in the least forward or masculine; but they had the freedom of high rank, mingled with a good deal of the ease of fashionable life. Mrs. Wilson noticed, moreover, in her conduct to Chatterton, a something exceeding the interest of ordinary communications in their situation, which might possibly have been attributed more to feeling than to manner. It is certain, one of the surest methods to drive Emily from his thoughts, was to dwell on the perfections of some other lady; and Lady Harriet was so constantly before him in his visit into Westmore land, so soothing, so evidently pleased with his presence, that the baron made rapid advances in attaining his object.

He had alluded, in his letter to Emily, to the obligation he was under to the services of Denbigh, in erasing his unfortunate partiality for her: but what those services were, we are unable to say, unless they were the usual arguments of the plainest good sense, enforced in the singularly insinuating and kind manner which distinguished that gentleman. In fact, Lord Chatterton was not formed by nature to love long, deprived of hope, or to resist long the flattery of a preference from such a woman as Harriet Denbigh.

On the other hand, Derwent was warm in his encomiums on Emily to all but herself; and Mrs. Wilson again thought it prudent to examine into the state of her feelings, in order to discover if there was any danger of his unremitted efforts drawing Emily into a connexion that neither her religion nor prudence could wholly approve.

Derwent was a man of the world — a Christian only in name; and the cautious widow determined to withdraw in season, should she find grounds for her apprehensions.

About ten days after the departure of the Dowager and her companions, Lady Harriet exclaimed, in one of her morning visits —

“Lady Moseley! I have now hopes of presenting to you soon the most polished man in the United Kingdom!”

“As a husband! Lady Harriet?” inquired the other, with a smile.

“Oh, no! only as a cousin, a second cousin! madam!” replied Lady Harriet, blushing a little, and looking in the opposite direction to the one in which Chatterton was placed.

“But his name? You forget our curiosity! What is his name?” cried Mrs. Wilson, entering into the trifling for the moment.

“Pendennyss, to be sure, my dear madam: whom else can I mean?”

“And you expect the earl at Bath?” Mrs. Wilson eagerly inquired.

“He has given us such hopes, and Derwent has written him to-day, pressing the journey.”

“You will be disappointed, I am afraid, sister,” said the duke. “Pendennyss has become so fond of Wales of late, that it is difficult to get him out of it.”

“But,” said Mrs. Wilson, “he will take his seat in parliament during the winter, my lord?”

“I hope he will, madam; though Lord Eltringham holds his proxies, in my absence, in all important questions before the house.”

“Your grace will attend, I trust,” said Sir Edward. “The pleasure of your company is among my expected enjoyments in the town.”

“You are very good, Sir Edward,” replied the duke, looking at Emily. “It will somewhat depend on circumstances, I believe.”

Lady Harriet smiled, and the speech seemed understood by all but the lady most concerned in it.

“Lord Pendennyss is a universal favorite, and deservedly so,” cried the duke. “He has set an example to the nobility, which few are equal to imitate. An only son, with an immense estate, he has devoted himself to the profession of a soldier, and gained great reputation by it in the world; nor has he neglected any of his private duties as a man — — “

“Or a Christian, I hope,” said Mrs. Wilson, delighted with the praises of the earl.

“Nor of a Christian, I believe,” continued the duke; “he appears consistent, humble, and sincere — three requisites, I believe, for that character.”

“Does not your grace know?” said Emily, with a benevolent smile.

Derwent colored slightly as he answered —

“Not as well as I ought; but” — lowering his voice for her ear alone, he added, “under proper instruction I think I might learn.”

“Then I would recommend that book to you, my lord,” rejoined Emily, with a blush, pointing to a pocket Bible which lay near her, though still ignorant of the allusion he meant to convey.

“May I ask the honor of an audience of Miss Moseley,” said Derwent, in the same low tone, “whenever her leisure will admit of her granting the favor?”

Emily was surprised; but from the previous conversation and the current of her thoughts at the moment, supposing his communication had some reference to the subject before them, she rose from her chair, and unobtrusively, but certainly with an air of perfect innocence and composure, she went into the adjoining room, the door of which was open very near them.

Caroline Harris had abandoned all ideas of a coronet with the departure of the Marquess of Eltringham and his sisters for their own seat; and as a final effort of her fading charms, had begun to calculate the capabilities of Captain Jarvis, who had at this time honored Bath with his company.

It is true, the lady would have greatly preferred her father’s neighbor, but that was an irretrievable step. He had retired, disgusted with her haughty dismissal of his hopes, and was a man who, although he greatly admired her fortune, was not to be recalled by any beck or smile which might grow out of caprice.

Lady Jarvis had, indeed, rather magnified the personal qualifications of her son; but the disposition they had manifested, to devote some of their surplus wealth to purchasing a title, had great weight, for Miss Harris would cheerfully, at any time, have sacrificed one half her own fortune to be called my lady. Jarvis would make but a shabby-looking lord, ’tis true; but then what a lord’s wife would she not make herself! His father was a merchant, to be sure, but then merchants were always immensely rich, and a few thousand pounds, properly applied, might make the merchant’s son a baron. She therefore resolved to inquire, the first opportunity, into the condition of the sinking fund of his plebeianism, and had serious thoughts of contributing her mite towards the advancement of the desired object, did she find it within the bounds of probable success.

An occasion soon offered, by the invitation of the Captain to accompany him in an excursion in the tilbury of his brother-in-law.

In this ride they passed the equipages of Lady Harriet and Mrs. Wilson, with their respective mistresses, taking an airing. In passing the latter, Jarvis bowed (for he had renewed his acquaintance at the rooms, without daring to visit at the lodgings of Sir Edward), and Miss Harris saw both parties as they dashed by them.

“You know the Moseleys, Caroline?” said Jarvis, with the freedom her manners had established between them.

“Yes,” replied the lady, drawing her head back from a view of the carriages; “what fine arms those of the Duke’s are — and the coronet, it is so noble — so rich — I am sure if I were a man,” laying great emphasis on the word— “I would be a Lord.”

“If you could, you mean,” cried the captain.

“Could — why money will buy a title, you know — only most people are fonder of their cash than of honor.”

“That’s right,” said the unreflecting captain; “money is the thing, after all. Now what do you suppose our last mess-bill came to?”

“Oh, don’t talk of eating and drinking,” cried Miss Harris, in affected aversion; “is it beneath the consideration of nobility.”

“Then any one may be a lord for me,” said Jarvis, drily “if they are not to eat and drink; why, what do they live for, but such sort of things!”

“A soldier lives to fight and gain honor and distinction” — for his wife — Miss Harris would have added, had she spoken all she thought.

“A poor way that of spending a man’s time,” said the Captain. “Now there is Captain Jones in our regiment; they say he loves fighting as much as eating: if he do, he is a bloodthirsty fellow.”

“You know how intimate I am with your dear mother,” continued the lady, bent on the principal object; “she has made me acquainted with her greatest wish.”

“Her greatest wish!” cried the Captain, in astonishment; “why, what can that be? — a new coach and horses?”

“No, I mean one much dearer to us — I should say, to her, than any such trifles: she has told me of the plan.”

“Plan!” said Jarvis, still in wonder, “what plan?”

“About the fund for the peerage, you know. Of course, the thing is sacred with me, as, indeed, I am equally interested with you all in its success.”

Jarvis eyed her with a knowing look, and as she concluded, rolling his eyes in an expression of significance, he said —

“What, serve Sir William some such way, eh?”

“I will assist a little, if it be necessary, Henry,” said the lady, tenderly, “although my mite cannot amount to a great deal.”

During this speech, the Captain was wondering what she could mean; but, having had a suspicion, from something that had fallen from his mother, that the lady was intended for him as a wife, and that she might be as great a dupe as Lady Jarvis herself, he was resolved to know the whole, and to act accordingly.

“I think it might be made to do,” he replied, evasively in order to discover the extent of his companion’s information.

“Do!”, cried Miss Harris, with fervor, “it cannot fail! How much do you suppose will be wanting to buy a barony, for instance?”

“Hem!” said Jarvis; “you mean more than we have already?”

“Certainly.”

“Why, about a thousand pounds, I think, will do it, with what we have,” said Jarvis, affecting to calculate.

“Is that all?” cried the delighted Caroline; and the captain grew in an instant, in her estimation, three inches higher; — quite noble in his air, and, in short, very tolerably handsome.

From that moment, Miss Harris, in her own mind, had fixed the fate of Captain Jarvis, and had determined to be his wife, whenever she could persuade him to offer himself; a thing she had no doubt of accomplishing with comparative ease. Not so the Captain. Like all weak men, there was nothing of which he stood more in terror than of ridicule. He had heard the manoeuvres of Miss Harris laughed at by many of the young men in Bath, and was by no means disposed to add himself to the food for mirth of these wags; and, indeed, had cultivated her acquaintance with a kind of bravado to some of his bottle companions, in order to show his ability to oppose all her arts, when most exposed to them: for it is one of the greatest difficulties to the success of this description of ladies, that their characters soon become suspected, and do them infinitely more injury than all their skill in their vocation.

With these views in the respective champions the campaign opened, and the lady, on her return, acquainted his mother with the situation of the privy purse, that was to promote her darling child to the enviable distinction of the peerage. Lady Jarvis was for purchasing a baronetcy on the spot, with what they had, under the impression that when ready for another promotion they would only have to pay the difference, as they did in the army when he received his captaincy. As, however, the son was opposed to any arrangement that might make the producing the few hundred pounds he had obtained from his mother’s folly necessary, she was obliged to postpone the wished-for day, until their united efforts could compass the means of effecting the main point. As an earnest, however, of her spirit in the cause, she gave him a fifty pound note, that morning obtained from her husband, and which the Captain lost at one throw of the dice to his brother-in-law the same evening.

During the preceding events, Egerton had either studiously avoided all collision with the Moseleys, or his engagements had confined him to such very different scenes, that they never met.

The Baronet had felt his presence a reproach, and Lady Moseley rejoiced that Egerton yet possessed sufficient shame to keep him from insulting her with his company.

It was a month after the departure of Lady Chatterton that Sir Edward returned to B —— , as related in the preceding chapter, and that the arrangements for the London winter were commenced.

The day preceding their leaving Bath, the engagement of Chatterton with Lady Harriet was made public amongst their mutual friends, and an intimation was given that their nuptials would be celebrated before the family of the Duke left his seat for the capital.

Something of the pleasure that she had for a long time been a stranger to, was felt by Emily Moseley, as the well remembered tower of the village church of B —— struck her sight on their return from their protracted excursion. More than four months had elapsed since they had commenced their travels, and in that period what changes of sentiments had she not witnessed in others; of opinions of mankind in general, and of one individual in particular, had she not experienced in her own person. The benevolent smiles, the respectful salutations they received, in passing the little group of houses which, clustered round the church, had obtained the name of “the village,” conveyed a sensation of delight that can only be felt by the deserving and virtuous; and the smiling faces, in several instances glistening with tears, which met them at the Hall, gave ample testimony to the worth of both the master and his servants.

Francis and Clara were in waiting to receive them, and a very few minutes elapsed before the rector and Mrs. Ives, having heard they had passed, drove in also. In saluting the different members of the family, Mrs. Wilson noticed the startled look of the doctor, as the change in Emily’s appearance first met his eyes. Her bloom, if not gone, was greatly diminished; and it was only when under the excitement of strong emotions, that her face possessed that radiance which had so eminently distinguished it before her late journey.

“Where did you last see my friend George?” said the Doctor to Mrs. Wilson, in the course of the first afternoon, as he took a seat by her side, apart from the rest of the family.

“At L —— ,” said Mrs. Wilson, gravely.

“L —— !” cried the doctor, in evident amazement. “Was he not at Bath then during your stay there?”

“No; I understand he was in attendance on some sick relative, which detained him from his friends,” said Mrs. Wilson, wondering why the doctor chose to introduce so delicate a topic. Of his guilt in relation to Mrs. Fitzgerald he was doubtless ignorant, but surely not of his marriage.

“It is now some time since I heard from him,” continued the doctor, regarding Mrs. Wilson expressively, but to which the lady only replied with a gentle inclination of the body; and the Rector, after pausing a moment, continued:

“You will not think me impertinent if I am bold enough to ask, has George ever expressed a wish to become connected with your niece by other ties than those of friendship?”

“He did,” answered the widow, after a little hesitation.

“He did, and— “

“Was refused,” continued Mrs. Wilson, with a slight feeling for the dignity of her sex, which for a moment caused her to lose sight of justice to Denbigh.

Dr. Ives was silent; but manifested by his dejected countenance the interest he had taken in this anticipated connexion, and as Mrs. Wilson had spoken with ill-concealed reluctance on the subject at all, the Rector did not attempt a renewal of the disagreeable.

Chapter XXXVII.

“Samvenson has returned, and I certainly must hear from Harriet,” exclaimed the sister of Pendennyss, as she stood at a window watching the return of a servant from the neighboring post-office.

“I am afraid,” rejoined the Earl, who was seated by the breakfast table, waiting the leisure of the lady to give him his cup of tea— “You find Wales very dull, sister. I sincerely hope both Derwent and Harriet will not forget their promise of visiting us this month.”

The lady slowly took her seat at the table, engrossed in her own reflections, when the man entered with his budget of news; and having deposited sundry papers and letters he respectfully withdrew. The Earl glanced his eyes over the directions of the epistles, and turning to his servants said, “Answer the bell when called.” Three or four liveried footmen deposited their silver salvers and different implements of servitude, and the peer and his sister were left to themselves.

“Here is one from the Duke to me, and one for you from his sister,” said the brother; “I propose they be read aloud for our mutual advantage.” To this proposal the lady, whose curiosity to hear the contents of Derwent’s letter greatly exceeded her interest in that of his sister, cheerfully acquiesced, and her brother first broke the seal of his own epistle, and read its contents as follow:

“Notwithstanding my promise of seeing you this month in Caernarvonshire, I remain here yet, my dear Pendennyss, unable to tear myself from the attractions I have found in this city, although the pleasure of their contemplation has been purchased at the expense of mortified feelings and unrequited affections. It is a truth (though possibly difficult to be believed), that this mercenary age has produced a female disengaged, young, and by no means very rich, who has refused a jointure of six thousand a year, with the privilege of walking at a coronation within a dozen of royalty itself.”

Here the accidental falling of a cup from the hands of the fair listener caused some little interruption to the reading of the brother; but as the lady, with a good deal of trepidation and many blushes, apologized hastily for the confusion her awkwardness had made, the Earl continued to read.

“I could almost worship her independence: for I know the wishes of both her parents were for my success. I confess to you freely, that my vanity has been a good deal hurt, as I really thought myself agreeable to her. She certainly listened to my conversation, and admitted my approaches, with more satisfaction than those of any other of the men around her; and when I ventured to hint to her this circumstance, as some justification for my presumption, she frankly acknowledged the truth of my impression, and, without explaining the reasons for her conduct, deeply regretted the construction I had been led to place upon the circumstance. Yes, my lord, I felt it necessary to apologize to Emily Moseley for presuming to aspire to the honor of possessing so much loveliness and virtue. The accidental advantages of rank and wealth lose all their importance, when opposed to her delicacy, ingenuousness, and unaffected principles.

“I have heard it intimated lately, that George Denbigh was in some way or other instrumental in saving her life once; and that to her gratitude, and to my resemblance to the colonel, am I indebted to a consideration with Miss Moseley, which, although it has been the means of buoying me up with false hopes, I can never regret, from the pleasure her society has afforded me. I have remarked, on my mentioning his name to her, that she showed unusual emotion; and as Denbigh is already a husband, and myself rejected, the field is now fairly open to you. You will enter on your enterprise with great advantage, as you have the same flattering resemblance, and, if anything, the voice, which, I am told, is our greatest recommendation with the ladies, in higher perfection than either George or your humble servant.”

Here the reader stopped of his own accord, and was so intently absorbed in his meditations, that the almost breathless curiosity of his sister was obliged to find relief by desiring him to proceed. Roused by the sound of her voice, the earl changed color sensibly, and continued:

“But to be serious on a subject of great importance to my future life (for I sometimes think her negative will make Denbigh a duke), the lovely girl did not appear happy at the time of our interview, nor do I think she enjoys at any time the spirits nature has evidently given her. Harriet is nearly as great an admirer of Miss Moseley, and takes her refusal to heart as much as myself; she even attempted to intercede with her in my behalf. But the charming girl though mild, grateful, and delicate, was firm and unequivocal, and left no grounds for the remotest expectation of success from perseverance on my part.

“As Harriet had received an intimation that both Miss Moseley and her aunt entertained extremely rigid notions on the score of religion, she took occasion to introduce the subject in her conference with the former, and was told in reply, ‘that other considerations would have determined her to decline the honor I intended her; but that, under any circumstances, a more intimate knowledge of my principles would be necessary before she could entertain a thought of accepting my hand, or, indeed, that of any other man.’ Think of that, Pendennyss! The principles of a duke! — now, a dukedom and forty thousand a year would furnish a character, with most people, for a Nero.

“I trust the important object I have had in view here is a sufficient excuse for my breach of promise to you; and I am serious when I wish you (unless the pretty Spaniard has, as I sometimes suspect, made you a captive) to see, and endeavor to bring me in some degree connected with, the charming family of Sir Edward Moseley.

“The aunt, Mrs. Wilson, often speaks of you with the greatest interest, and, from some cause or other, is strongly enlisted in your favor, and Miss Moseley hears your name mentioned with evident pleasure. Your religion or principles cannot be doubted. You can offer larger settlements, as honorable if not as elevated a title, a far more illustrious name, purchased by your own services, and personal merit greatly exceeding the pretensions of your assured friend and relative,

“DERWENT.”

Both brother and sister were occupied with their own reflections for several minutes after the letter was ended, and the silence was broken first, by the latter saying with a low tone to her brother, —

“You must endeavor to become acquainted with Mrs. Wilson; she is, I know, very anxious to see you, and your friendship for the general requires it of you.”

“I owe General Wilson much,” replied the brother, in a melancholy voice; “and when we go to Annerdale House, I wish you to make the acquaintance of the ladies of the Moseley family, should they be in town this winter; — but you have yet the letter of Harriet to read.”

After first hastily running over its contents, the lady commenced the fulfilment of her part of the engagement.

“Frederick has been so much engrossed of late with his own affairs, that he has forgotten there is such a creature in existence as his sister, or, indeed, any one else but a Miss Emily Moseley, and consequently I have been unable to fulfil my promise of making you a visit, for want of a proper escort, and — and — perhaps some other considerations, not worth mentioning in a letter I know you will read to the earl.

“Yes, my dear cousin, Frederick Denbigh has supplicated the daughter of a country baronet to become a duchess; and, hear it, ye marriage-seeking nymphs and marriage-making dames! has supplicated in vain!

“I confess to you, when the thing was first in agitation, my aristocratic blood roused itself a little at the anticipated connexion; but finding on examination that Sir Edward was of no doubtful lineage, and that the blood of the Chattertons runs in his veins, and finding the young lady everything I could wish in a sister, my scruples soon disappeared, with the folly that engendered them.

“There was no necessity for any alarm, for the lady very decidedly refused the honor offered her by Derwent, and what makes the matter worse, refused the solicitations of his sister also.

“I have fifty times been surprised at my own condescension, and to this moment am at a loss to know whether it was to the lady’s worth, my brother’s happiness, or the Chatterton blood, that I finally yielded. Heigho! this Chatterton is certainly much too handsome for a man; but I forget you have never seen him.” (Here an arch smile stole over the features of the listener, as his sister continued)— “To return to my narration, I had half a mind to send for a Miss Harris there is here, to learn the most approved fashion of a lady preferring a suit, but as fame said she was just now practising on a certain hero ycleped Captain Jarvis, heir to Sir Timo of that name, it struck me her system might be rather too abrupt, so I was fain to adopt the best plan — that of trusting to nature and my own feelings for words.

“Nobility is certainly a very pretty thing (for those who have it), but I would defy the old Margravine of —— to keep up the semblance of superiority with Emily Moseley. She is so very natural, so very beautiful, and withal at times a little arch, that one is afraid to set up any other distinctions than such as can be fairly supported.

“I commenced with hoping her determination to reject the hand of Frederick was not an unalterable one. (Yes, I called him Frederick, what I never did out of my own family before in my life.) There was a considerable tremor in the voice of Miss Moseley, as she replied, ‘I now perceive, when too late, that my indiscretion has given reason to my friends to think that I have entertained intentions towards his grace, of which I entreat you to believe me, Lady Harriet, I am innocent. Indeed — indeed, as anything more than an agreeable acquaintance I have never allowed myself to think of your brother:’ and from my soul I believe her. We continued our conversation for half an hour longer, and such was the ingenuousness, delicacy, and high religious feeling displayed by the charming girl, that if I entered the room with a spark of regret that I was compelled to solicit another to favor my brother’s love, I left it with a feeling that my efforts had been unsuccessful. Yes! thou peerless sister of the more peerless Pendennyss! I once thought of your ladyship as a wife for Derwent— “

A glass of water was necessary to enable the reader to clear her voice, which grew husky from speaking so long.

“But I now openly avow, neither your birth, your hundred thousand pounds, nor your merit, would put you on a footing, in my estimation, with my Emily. You may form some idea of her power to captivate, and of her indifference to her conquests, when I mention that she once refused — but I forget, you don’t know him, and therefore cannot be a judge. The thing is finally decided, and we shortly go into Westmoreland, and next week, the Moseleys return to Northamptonshire. I don’t know when I shall be able to visit you, and think I may now safely invite you to Denbigh Castle, although a month ago I might have hesitated. Love to the earl, and kind assurance to yourself of unalterable regard.

“HARRIET DENBIGH.”

“P.S. I believe I forgot to mention that Mrs. Moseley, a sister of Lord Chatterton, has gone to Portugal, and that the peer himself is to go into the country with us: there is, I suppose, a fellow-feeling between them just now, though I do not think Chatterton looks so very miserable as he might. Adieu.”

On ending this second epistle the same silence which had succeeded the reading of the first prevailed, until the lady with an arch expression, interrupted it by saying,

“Harriet will, I think, soon grace the peerage.”

“And happily, I trust,” replied the brother.

“Do you know Lord Chatterton?”

“I do; he is very amiable, and admirably calculated to contrast with the lively gaiety of Harriet Denbigh.”

“You believe in loving our opposites, I see,” rejoined the lady; and then affectionately stretching out her hand to him, she added, “but, Pendennyss, you must give me for a sister one as nearly like yourself as possible.”

“That might please your affections,” answered the earl with a smile, “but how would it comport with my tastes? Will you suffer me to describe the kind of man you are to select for your future lord, unless, indeed, you have decided the point already?”

The lady colored violently, and appearing anxious to change the subject, she tumbled over two or three unopened letters, as she cried eagerly —

“Here is one from the Donna Julia.” The earl instantly broke the seal and read aloud; no secrets existing between them in relation to their mutual friend.

“My Lord,

“I hasten to write you what I know it will give you pleasure to hear, concerning my future prospects in life. My uncle, General M’Carthy, has written me the cheerful tidings, that my father has consented to receive his only child, without any other sacrifice than a condition of attending the service of the Catholic Church without any professions on my side, or even an understanding that I am conforming to its peculiar tenets. This may be, in some measure, irksome at times, and possibly distressing; but the worship of God with a proper humiliation of spirit, I have learnt to consider as a privilege to us here, and I owe a duty to my earthly father of penitence and care in his later years that will justify the measure in the eyes of my heavenly One. I have, therefore, acquainted my uncle in reply, that I am willing to attend the Conde’s summons at any moment he will choose to make them; and I thought it a debt due your care and friendship to apprise your lordship of my approaching departure from this country; indeed, I have great reasons for believing that your kind and unremitted efforts to attain this object have already prepared you to expect this result.

“I feel it will be impossible to quit England without seeing you and your sister, to thank you for the many, very many favors, of both a temporal and eternal nature, you have been the agents of conferring on me. The cruel suggestions which I dreaded, and which it appears had reached the ears of my friends in Spain, have prevented my troubling your lordship of late unnecessarily with my concerns. The consideration of a friend to your character (Mrs. Wilson) has removed the necessity of applying for your advice; she and her charming niece, Miss Emily Moseley, have been, next to yourselves, the greatest solace I have had in my exile, and united you will be remembered in my prayers. I will merely mention here, deferring the explanation until I see you in London, that I have been visited by the wretch from whom you delivered me in Portugal, and that the means of ascertaining his name have fallen into my hands. You will be the best judge of the proper steps to be taken; but I wish, by all means, something may be done to prevent his attempting to see me in Spain. Should it be discovered to my relations there that he has any such intentions, it would certainly terminate in his death, and possibly in my disgrace. Wishing you and your kind sister all possible happiness, I remain,

“Your Lordship’s obliged friend,

“JULIA FITZGERALD.”

“Oh!” cried the sister as she concluded the letter, “we must certainly see her before she goes. What a wretch that persecutor of hers must be! how persevering in his villainy!”

“He does exceed my ideas of effrontery,” said the earl, in great warmth— “but he may offend too far; the laws shall interpose their power to defeat his schemes, should he ever repeat them.”

“He attempted to take your life, brother,” said the lady shuddering, “if I remember the tale aright.”

“Why, I have endeavored to free him from that imputation,” rejoined the brother, musing, “he certainly fired pistol, but the latter hit my horse at such a distance from myself, that I believe his object was to disable me and not murder. His escape has astonished me; he must have fled by himself into the woods, as Harmer was but a short distance behind me, admirably mounted, and the escort was up and in full pursuit within ten minutes. After all it may be for the best he was not taken; for I am persuaded the dragoons would have sabred him on the spot, and he may have parents of respectability, or a wife to kill by the knowledge of his misconduct.”

“This Emily Moseley must be a faultless being,” cried the sister, as she ran over the contents of Julia’s letter. “Three different letters, and each containing her praises!”

The earl made no reply, but opening the duke’s letter again, he appeared to be studying its contents. His color slightly changed as he dwelt on its passages, and turning to his sister he inquired if she had a mind to try the air of Westmoreland for a couple of weeks or a month.

“As you say, my Lord,” replied the lady, with cheeks of scarlet.

“Then I say we will go. I wish much to see Derwent and I think there will be a wedding during our visit.”

He rang the bell, and the almost untasted breakfast was removed in a few minutes. A servant announced that his horse was in readiness. The earl wished his sister a friendly good morning, and proceeded to the door, where was standing one of the noble black horses before mentioned, held by a groom, and the military-looking attendant ready mounted on another.

Throwing himself into the saddle, the young peer rode gracefully from the door, followed by his attendant horseman. During this ride, the master suffered his steed to take whatever course most pleased himself, and his follower looked up in surprise more than once, to see the careless manner in which the Earl of Pendennyss, confessedly one of the best horsemen in England, managed the noble animal. Having, however, got without the gates of his own park, and into the vicinity of numberless cottages and farm-houses, the master recovered his recollection, and the man ceased to wonder.

For three hours the equestrians pursued their course through the beautiful vale which opened gracefully opposite one of the fronts of the castle; and if faces of smiling welcome, inquiries after his own and his sister’s welfare, which evidently sprang from the heart, or the most familiar but respectful representations of their own prosperity or misfortunes, gave any testimony of the feelings entertained by the tenantry of this noble estate for their landlord, the situation of the young nobleman might be justly considered envied.

As the hour for dinner approached, they turned the heads of their horses towards home; and on entering the park, removed from the scene of industry and activity without, the earl relapsed into his fit of musing. A short distance from the house he suddenly called, “Harmer.” The man drove his spurs into the loins of his horse, and in an instant was by the side of his master, which he signified by raising his hand to his cap with the palm opening outward.

“You must prepare to go to Spain when required, in attendance on Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

The man received his order with the indifference of one used to adventures and movements, and having laconically dignified his assent, he drew his horse back again into his station in the rear.

Chapter XXXVIII.

The day succeeding the arrival of the Moseleys at the seat of their ancestors, Mrs. Wilson observed Emily silently putting on her pelisse, and walking out unattended by either of the domestics or any of the family. There was a peculiar melancholy in her air and manner, which inclined the cautious aunt to suspect that her charge was bent on the indulgence of some ill-judged weakness; more particularly, as the direction she took led to the arbor, a theatre in which Denbigh had been so conspicuous an actor. Hastily throwing a cloak over her own shoulders, Mrs. Wilson followed Emily with the double purpose of ascertaining her views, and if necessary, of interposing her own authority against the repetition of similar excursions.

As Emily approached the arbor, whither in truth she had directed her steps, its faded vegetation and chilling aspect, so different from its verdure and luxuriance when she last saw it, came over her heart as a symbol of her own blighted prospects and deadened affections. The recollection of Denbigh’s conduct on that spot, of his general benevolence and assiduity to please, being forcibly recalled to her mind at the instant, forgetful of her object in visiting the arbor, Emily yielded to her sensibilities, and sank on the seat weeping as if her heart would break.

She had not time to dry her eyes, and to collect her scattered thoughts, before Mrs. Wilson entered the arbor. Eyeing her niece for a moment with a sternness unusual for the one to adopt or the other to receive, she said,

“It is a solemn obligation we owe our religion and ourselves, to endeavor to suppress such passions as are incompatible with our duties; and there is no weakness greater than blindly adhering to the wrong, when we are convinced of our error. It is as fatal to good morals as it is unjust to ourselves to persevere, from selfish motives, in believing those innocent whom evidence has convicted as guilty. Many a weak woman has sealed her own misery by such wilful obstinacy, aided by the unpardonable vanity of believing herself able to control a man that the laws of God could not restrain.”

“Oh, dear madam, speak not so unkindly to me,” sobbed the weeping girl; “I — I am guilty of no such weakness, I assure you:” and looking up with an air of profound resignation and piety, she continued: “Here, on this spot, where he saved my life, I was about to offer up my prayers for his conviction of the error of his ways, and for the pardon of his too — too heavy transgressions.”

Mrs. Wilson, softened almost to tears herself, viewed her for a moment with a mixture of delight, and continued in a milder tone, —

“I believe you, my dear. I am certain, although you may have loved Denbigh much, that you love your Maker and his ordinances more; and I have no apprehensions that, were he a disengaged man, and you alone in the world — unsupported by anything but your sense of duty — you would ever so far forget yourself as to become his wife But does not your religion, does not your own usefulness in society, require you wholly to free your heart from the power of a man who has so unworthily usurped a dominion over it?”

To this Emily replied, in a hardly audible voice, “Certainly — and I pray constantly for it.”

“It is well, my love,” said the aunt, soothingly; “you cannot fail with such means, and your own exertions, finally to prevail over your own worst enemies, your passions. The task our sex has to sustain is, at the best, an arduous one; but so much the greater is our credit if we do it well.”

“Oh! how is an unguided girl ever to judge aright, if,— “ cried Emily, clasping her hands and speaking with great energy, and she would have said, “one like Denbigh in appearance, be so vile!” Shame, however, kept her silent.

“Few men can support such a veil of hypocrisy as that with which I sometimes think Denbigh must deceive even himself. His case is an extraordinary exception to a very sacred rule— ‘that the tree is known by its fruits,’” replied her aunt. “There is no safer way of judging of character that one’s opportunities will not admit of more closely investigating, than by examining into and duly appreciating early impressions. The man or woman who has constantly seen the practice of piety before them, from infancy to the noon of life, will seldom so far abandon the recollection of virtue as to be guilty of great enormities. Even Divine Truth has promised that his blessings or his curses shall extend to many generations. It is true, that with our most most guarded prudence we may be deceived.” Mrs. Wilson paused and sighed heavily, as her own case, connected with the loves of Denbigh and her niece, occurred strongly to her mind. “Yet,” she continued, “we may lessen the danger much by guarding against it; and it seems to me no more than what self-preservation requires in a young woman. But for a religious parent to neglect it, is a wilful abandonment of a most solemn duty.”

As Mrs. Wilson concluded, her niece, who had recovered the command of her feelings pressed her hand in silence to her lips, and showed a disposition to retire from a spot which she found recalled too many recollections of a man whose image it was her imperious duty to banish, on every consideration of propriety and religion.

Their walk into the house was silent, and their thoughts were drawn from the unpleasant topic by finding a letter from Julia, announcing her intended departure from this country, and her wish to take leave of them in London before she sailed. As she had mentioned the probable day for that event, both the ladies were delighted to find it was posterior to the time fixed by Sir Edward for their own visit to the capital.

Had Jane, instead of Emily, been the one that suffered through the agency of Mrs. Fitzgerald, however innocently on the part of the lady, her violent and uncontrolled passions would have either blindly united the innocent with the guilty in her resentments; or, if a sense of justice had vindicated the lady in her judgment, yet her pride and ill-guided delicacy would have felt her name a reproach, that would have forbidden any intercourse with her or any belonging to her.

Not so with her sister. The sufferings of Mrs. Fitzgerald had taken a strong hold on her youthful feelings, and a similarity of opinions and practices on the great object of their lives, had brought them together in a manner no misconduct in a third person could weaken. It is true, the recollection of Denbigh was intimately blended with the fate of Mrs. Fitzgerald. But Emily sought support against her feeling from a quarter that rather required an investigation of them than a desire to drown care with thought.

She never indulged in romantic reflections in which the image of Denbigh was associated. This she had hardly done in her happiest moments; and his marriage, if nothing else had interfered, now absolutely put it out of the question. But, although a Christian, and an humble and devout one, Emily Moseley was a woman, and had loved ardently, confidingly, and gratefully. Marriage is the business of life with her sex, — with all, next to a preparation for a better world, — and it cannot be supposed that a first passion in a bosom like that of our heroine was to be suddenly erased and to leave no vestiges of its existence.

Her partiality for the society of Derwent, her meditations in which she sometimes detected herself drawing a picture of what Denbigh might have been, if early care had been taken to impress him with his situation in this world, and from which she generally retired to her closet and her knees, were the remains of feelings too strong and too pure to be torn from her in a moment.

The arrival of John, with Grace and Jane, enlivened not only the family but the neighborhood. Mr. Haughton and his numerous friends poured in on the young couple with their congratulations, and a few weeks stole by insensibly, previously to the commencement of the journeys of Sir Edward and his son — the one to Benfield Lodge and the other to St. James’s Square.

On the return of the travellers, a few days before they commenced their journey to the capital, John laughingly told his uncle that, although he himself greatly admired the taste of Mr. Peter Johnson in dress, yet he doubted whether the present style of fashions in the metropolis would not be scandalized by the appearance of the honest steward.

John had in fact noticed, in their former visit to London, mob of mischievous boys eyeing Peter with indications of rebellious movements which threatened the old man, and from which he had retreated by taking a coach, and he now made the suggestion from pure good-nature, to save him any future trouble from a similar cause.

They were at dinner when Moseley made the remark, and the steward was in his place at the sideboard — for his master was his home. Drawing near at the mention of his name first, and casting an eye over his figure to see if all was decent, Peter respectfully broke silence, determined to defend his own cause.

“Why! Mr. John — Mr. John Moseley? if I might judge, for an elderly man, and a serving man,” said the steward, bowing humbly, “I am no disparagement to my friends, or even to my honored master.”

Johnson’s vindication of his wardrobe drew the eyes of the family upon him, and an involuntary smile passed from one to the other, as they admired his starched figure and drab frock, or rather doublet with sleeves and skirts. Sir Edward, being of the same opinion with his son, observed —

“I do think, Uncle Benfield, there might be an improvement in the dress of your steward without much trouble to the ingenuity of his tailor.”

“Sir Edward Moseley — honorable sir,” said the steward, beginning to grow alarmed, “if I may be so bold, you young gentlemen may like gay clothes; but as for me and his honor; we are used to such as we wear, and what we are used to we love.”

The old man spoke with earnestness, and drew the particular attention of his master to a review of his attire. After reflecting that no gentleman in the house had been attended by any servitor in such a garb, Mr. Benfield thought it time to give his sentiments on the subject.

“Why I remember that my Lord Gosford’s gentleman never wore a livery, nor can I say that he dressed exactly after the manner of Johnson. Every member had his body servant, and they were not unfrequently taken for their masters. Lady Juliana, too, after the death of her nephew, had one or two attendants out of livery, and in a different fashion from your attire. Peter, I think with John Moseley there, we must alter you a little for the sake of appearances.”

“Your honor!” stammered out Peter, in increased terror; “for Mr. John Moseley and Sir Edward, and youngerly gentlemen like, dress may do. Now, your honor, if— “ and Peter, turning to Grace, bowed nearly to the floor— “I had such a sweet, most beautiful young lady to smile on me, I might wish to change; but, sir, my day has gone by.” Peter sighed as the recollection of Patty Steele and his youthful love floated across his brain. Grace blushed and thanked him for the compliment, and gave her opinion that his gallantry merited a better costume.

“Peter,” said his master, decidedly, “I think Mrs. Moseley is right. If I should call on the viscountess (the Lady Juliana, who yet survived an ancient dowager of seventy), I shall want your attendance, and in your present garb you cannot fail to shock her delicate feelings. You remind me now I think, every time I look at you, of old Harry, the earl’s gamekeeper, one of the most cruel men T ever knew.”

This decided the matter. Peter well knew that his master’s antipathy to old Harry arose from his having pursued a poacher one day, in place of helping the Lady Juliana over a stile, in her flight from a bull that was playing his gambols in the same field; and not for the world would the faithful steward retain even a feature, if it brought unpleasant recollections to his kind master. He at one time thought of closing his innovations on his wardrobe, however, with a change of his nether garment; as after a great deal of study he could only make out the resemblance between himself and the obnoxious gamekeeper to consist in the leathern breeches. But fearful of some points escaping his memory in forty years, he tamely acquiesced in all John’s alterations, and appeared at his station three days afterwards newly decked from head to foot in a more modern suit of snuff-color.

The change once made, Peter greatly admired himself in a glass, and thought, could he have had the taste of Mr. John Moseley in his youth to direct his toilet, that the hard heart of Patty Steele would not always have continued so obdurate.

Sir Edward wished to collect his neighbors round him once more before he left them for another four months; and accordingly the rector and his wife, Francis and Clara, the Haughtons, with a few others, dined at the Hall by invitation, the last day of their stay in Northamptonshire. The company had left the table to join the ladies, when Grace came into the drawing-room with a face covered with smiles and beaming with pleasure.

“You look like the bearer of good news, Mrs. Moseley,” cried the rector, catching a glimpse of her countenance as she passed.

“Good! I sincerely hope and believe,” replied Grace. “My letters from my brother announce that his marriage took place last week, and give us hopes of seeing them all in town within the month.”

“Married!” exclaimed Mr. Haughton, casting his eyes unconsciously on Emily, “my Lord Chatterton married! May I ask the name of the bride, my dear Mrs. Moseley?”

“To Lady Harriet Denbigh — and at Denbigh Castle in Westmoreland; but very privately, as you may suppose from seeing Moseley and myself here,” answered Grace, her cheeks yet glowing with surprise and pleasure at the intelligence.

“Lady Harriet Denbigh?” echoed Mr. Haughton; “what! a kinswoman of our old friend? your friend, Miss Emily?” The recollection of the service he had performed at the arbor still-fresh in his memory.

Emily commanded herself sufficiently to reply, “Brothers’ children, I believe, sir.”

“But a lady — how came she my lady?” continued the good man, anxious to know the whole, and ignorant of any reasons for delicacy where so great a favorite as Denbigh was in the question.

“She is the daughter of the late Duke of Derwent,” said Mrs. Moseley, as willing as himself to talk of her new sister.

“How happens it that the death of old Mr. Denbigh was announced as plain Geo. Denbigh, Esq., if he was the brother of a duke?” said Jane, forgetting for a moment the presence of Dr. and Mrs. Ives, in her surviving passion for genealogy: “should he not have been called Lord George, or honorable?”

This was the first time any allusion had been made to the sudden death in the church by any of the Moseleys in the hearing of the rector’s family; and the speaker sat in breathless terror at her own inadvertency. But Dr. Ives, observing that a profound silence prevailed as soon as Jane ended, answered, mildly, though in a way to prevent any further comments —

“The late Duke’s succeeding a cousin-german in the title, was the reason, I presume, Emily, I am to hear from you by letter I hope, after you enter into the gaieties of the metropolis?”

This Emily cheerfully promised, and the conversation took another turn.

Mrs. Wilson had carefully avoided all communications with the rector concerning his youthful friend, and the Doctor appeared unwilling to commence anything which might lead to his name being mentioned. “He is disappointed in him as well as ourselves,” thought the widow, “and it must be unpleasant to have his image recalled. He saw his attentions to Emily, and he knows of his marriage to Lady Laura of course, and he loves us all, and Emily in particular, too well not to feel hurt by his conduct.”

“Sir Edward!” cried Mr. Haughton, with a laugh, “Baronets are likely to be plenty. Have you heard how near we were to have another in the neighborhood lately?” Sir Edward answered in the negative, and his neighbor continued —

“Why no less a man than Captain Jarvis, promoted to the bloody hand.”

“Captain Jarvis!” exclaimed five or six at once; “explain yourself, Mr. Haughton.”

“My near neighbor, young Walker, has been to Bath on an unusual business — his health — and for the benefit of the country he has brought back a pretty piece of scandal. It seems that Lady Jarvis, as I am told she is since she left here, wished to have her hopeful heir made a lord, and that the two united for some six months in forming a kind of savings’ bank between themselves, to enable them at some future day to bribe the minister to honor the peerage with such a prodigy. After awhile the daughter of our late acquaintance, Sir William Harris, became an accessory to the plot, and a contributor too, to the tune of a couple of hundred pounds. Some circumstances, however, at length made this latter lady suspicious, and she wished to audit the books The Captain prevaricated — the lady remonstrated, until the gentleman, with more truth than manners, told her that she was a fool — the money he had expended or lost at dice; and that he did not think the ministers quite so silly as to make him a lord, or that he himself was such a fool as to make her his wife; so the whole thing exploded.”

John listened with a delight but little short of what he had felt when Grace owned her love, and anxious to know all, eagerly inquired —

“But, is it true? how was it found out?”

“Oh, the lady complained of part, and the Captain tells all to get the laugh on his side; so that Walker says the former is the derision and the latter the contempt of all Bath.”

“Poor Sir William,” said the baronet, with feeling; “he is much to be pitied.”

“I am afraid he has nothing to blame but his own indulgence,” remarked the rector.

“You don’t know the worst of it,” replied Mr. Haughton. “We poor people are made to suffer — Lady Jarvis wept and fretted Sir Time out of his lease, which has been given up, and a new house is to be taken in another part of the kingdom, where neither Miss Harris nor the story is known.”

“Then Sir William has to procure a new tenant,” said Lady Moseley, not in the least regretting the loss of the old one.

“No! my lady!” continued Mr. Haughton, with a smile. “Walker is, you know, an attorney, and does some business occasionally for Sir William. When Jarvis gave up the lease, the baronet, who finds himself a little short of money, offered the deanery for sale, it being a useless place to him; and the very next day, while Walker was with Sir William, a gentleman called, and without higgling agreed to pay down at once his thirty thousand pounds for it.”

“And who is the purchaser?” inquired Lady Moseley, eagerly.

“The Earl of Pendennyss.”

“Lord Pendennyss!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson in rapture.

“Pendennyss!” cried the rector, eyeing the aunt and Emily with a smile.

“Pendennyss!” echoed all in the room in amazement.

“Yes,” said Mr. Haughton, “it is now the property of the earl, who says he has bought it for his sister.”

Chapter XXXIX.

Mrs. Wilson found time the ensuing day to ascertain before they left the hall, the truth of the tale related by Mr. Haughton. The deanery had certainly changed its master, and a new steward had already arrived to take possession in the name of his lord. What induced Pendennyss to make this purchase she was at a loss to conceive — most probably some arrangement between himself and Lord Bolton. But whatever might be his motive, it in some measure insured his becoming for a season their neighbor; and Mrs. Wilson felt a degree of pleasure at the circumstance that she had been a stranger to for a long time — a pleasure which was greatly heightened as she dwelt on the lovely face of the companion who occupied the other seat in her travelling chaise.

The road to London led by the gates of the deanery, and near them they passed a servant in the livery of those they had once seen following the equipage of the earl. Anxious to know anything which might hasten her acquaintance with this admired nobleman, Mrs. Wilson stopped her carriage to inquire.

“Pray, sir, whom do you serve?”

“My Lord Pendennyss, ma’am,” replied the man, respectfully taking off his hat.

“The earl is not here?” asked Mrs. Wilson, with interest.

“Oh, no, madam; I am here in waiting on his steward. My lord is in Westmoreland, with his grace and Colonel Denbigh, and the ladies.”

“Does he remain there long?” continued the anxious widow, desirous of knowing all she could learn.

“I believe not, madam; most of our people have gone to Annerdale-House, and my lord is expected in town with the duke and the colonel.”

As the servant was an elderly man, and appeared to understand the movements of his master so well, Mrs. Wilson was put in unusual spirits by this prospect of a speedy termination to her anxiety to meet Pendennyss.

“Annerdale-House is the earl’s town residence?” quietly inquired Emily.

“Yes; he got the fortune of the last duke of that title, but how I do not exactly know. I believe, however, through his mother. General Wilson did not know his family: indeed, Pendennyss bore a second title during his lifetime; but did you observe how very civil his servant was, as well as the one John spoke to before, — a sure sign their master is a gentleman?”

Emily smiled at the strong partialities of her aunt, and replied, “Your handsome chaise and attendants will draw respect from most men in his situation, dear aunt, be their masters who they may.”

The expected pleasure of meeting the earl was a topic frequently touched upon between her aunt and Emily during their journey; the former beginning to entertain hopes she would have laughed at herself for, could they have been fairly laid before her; and the latter entertaining a profound respect for his character, but chiefly governed by a wish to gratify her companion.

The third day they reached the baronet’s handsome house in St. James’s Square, and found that the forethought of John had provided everything in the best and most comfortable manner.

It was the first visit of both Jane and Emily to the metropolis; and under the protection of their almost equally curious mother, and escorted by John, they wisely determined to visit the curiosities, while their leisure yet admitted of the opportunity. For the first two weeks their time was chiefly employed in the indulgence of this unfashionable and vulgar propensity, which, if it had no other tendency, served greatly to draw the thoughts of both the young women from the recollections of the last few months.

While her sister and nieces were thus employed, Mrs. Wilson, assisted by Grace, was occupied in getting things in preparation to do credit to the baronet’s hospitality.

The second week after their arrival, Mrs. Moseley was delighted by seeing advance upon her unexpectedly through the door of the breakfast parlor, her brother, with his bride leaning on his arm. After the most sincere greetings and congratulations, Lady Chatterton cried out gaily,

“You see, my dear Lady Moseley, I am determined to banish ceremony between us, and so, instead of sending you my card, have come myself to notify you of my arrival. Chatterton would not suffer me even to swallow my breakfast, he was so impatient to show me off.”

“You are placing things exactly on the footing I wish to see ourselves with all our connexions,” replied Lady Moseley, kindly; “but what have you done with the duke? is he not in your train?”

“Oh! he is gone to Canterbury with George Denbigh, madam,” cried the lady, shaking her head reproachfully though affectionately at Emily; “his grace dislikes London just now excessively, he says, and the Colonel being obliged to leave his wife, on regimental business, Derwent was good enough to keep him company during his exile.”

“And Lady Laura, do we see her?” inquired Lady Moseley.

“She came with us. Pendennyss and his sister follow immediately; so, my dear madam, the dramatis personæ will all be on the stage soon.”

Cards and visits now began to accumulate on the Moseleys, and their time no longer admitted of that unfettered leisure which they had enjoyed at their entrance on the scene. Mrs. Wilson, for herself and charge, adopted a rule for the government of her manner of living, which was consistent with her duties. They mixed in general society sparingly; and, above all, they rigidly adhered to the obedience to the injunction which commanded them to keep the Sabbath day holy; a duty of no trifling difficulty to perform in fashionable society in the city of London, or, indeed, in any other place, where the influence of fashion has supplanted the laws of God.

Mrs. Wilson was not a bigot; but she knew and performed her duty rigidly. It was a pleasure to her to do so. It would have been misery to do otherwise. In the singleness of heart and deep piety of her niece, she had a willing pupil to her system of morals, and a rigid follower of her religious practices. As they both knew that the temptations to go astray were greater in town than in country, they kept a strict guard over the tendency to err, and in watchfulness found their greatest security.

John Moseley, next to his friends, loved his bays: indeed, if the aggregate of his affections for these and Lady Herriefield had been put in opposite scales, we strongly suspect the side of the horses would predominate.

One Sunday, soon after being domesticated, John, who had soberly attended morning service with the ladies, came into a little room where the more reflecting part of the family were assembled, in search of his wife.

Grace, we have before mentioned, had become a real member of that church in which she had been educated, and had entered, under the direction of Dr. Ives and Mrs. Wilson, into an observance of its wholesome ordinances. Grace was certainly piously inclined, if not devout. Her feelings on the subject of religion had been sensibly awakened during their voyage to Lisbon; and at the period of which we write, Mrs. Moseley was as sincerely disposed to perform her duty as her powers admitted. To the request of her husband, that she would take a seat in his phaeton while he drove her round the park once or twice, Grace gave a mild refusal, by saying,

“It is Sunday, my dear Moseley.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” cried John, gaily. “There will, be everybody there, and, the better day, the better deed.”

Now, Moseley, if he had been asked to apply this speech to the case before them, would have frankly owned his inability; but his wife did not make the trial: she was contented with saying, as she laid down her book to look on a face she so tenderly loved,

“Ah! Moseley, you should set a better example to those below you in life.”

“I wish to set an example,” returned her husband, with an affectionate smile, “to all above as well as below me, in order that they may find out the path to happiness, by exhibiting to the world a model of a wife, in yourself, dear Grace.”

As this was uttered with a sincerity which distinguished the manner of Moseley, his wife was more pleased with the compliment than she would have been willing to make known; and John spoke no more than he thought; for a desire to show his handsome wife was the ruling passion for a moment.

The husband was too pressing and the wife too fond not to yield the point; and Grace took her seat in the carriage with a kind of half-formed resolution to improve the opportunity by a discourse on serious subjects — a resolution which terminated as all others do, that postpone one duty to discharge another of less magnitude; it was forgotten.

Mrs. Wilson had listened with interest to the efforts of John to prevail on his wife to take the ride, and on her leaving the room to comply she observed to Emily, with whom she now remained alone —

“Here is a consequence of a difference in religious views between man and wife, my child: John, in place of supporting Grace in the discharge of her duties, has been the actual cause of her going astray.”

Emily felt the force of her aunt’s remark, and saw its justice; yet her love for the offender induced her to say —

“John will not lead her openly astray for he has a sincere respect for religion, and this offence is not unpardonable, dear aunt.”

“The offence is assuredly not unpardonable,” replied Mrs. Wilson, “and to infinite mercy it is hard to say what is; but it is an offence, and directly in the face of an express ordinance of the Lord; it is even throwing off the appearance of keeping the Sabbath day holy, much less observing the substance of the commandment; and as to John’s respect for holy things in this instance, it was injurious to his wife. Had he been an open deist she would have shrunk from the act in suspicion of its sinfulness. Either John must become Christian, or I am afraid Grace will fall from her under taking.”

Mrs. Wilson shook her head mournfully, while Emily offered up a silent petition that the first might speedily be the case.

Lady Laura had been early in her visit to the Moseleys; and as Denbigh had both a town residence and a seat in parliament, it appeared next to impossible to avoid meeting him or to requite the pressing civilities of his wife by harsh refusals; that might prove in the end injurious to themselves by creating a suspicion that resentment at his not choosing a partner from amongst them, governed the conduct of the Moseleys towards a man to whom they were under such a heavy obligation.

Had Sir Edward known as much as his sister and daughters he would probably have discountenanced the acquaintance altogether; but owing to the ignorance of the rest of her friends of what had passed, Mrs. Wilson and Emily had not only the assiduities of Lady Laura but the wishes of their own family to contend with, and consequently she submitted to the association with a reluctance that was in some measure counteracted by their regard for Lady Laura, and by compassion for her abused confidence.

A distant connexion of Lady Moseley’s had managed to collect in her house a few hundred of her nominal friends, and as she had been particularly attentive in calling in person on her venerable relative, Mr. Benfield, soon after his arrival in town, out of respect to her father’s cousin, or perhaps mindful of his approaching end, and remembering there were such things as codicils to wills, the old man, flattered by her notice, and yet too gallant to reject the favor of a lady, consented to accompany the remainder of the family on the occasion.

Most of their acquaintances were there, and Lady Moseley soon found herself engaged in a party at quadrille, while the young people were occupied by the usual amusements of their age in such scenes. Emily alone feeling but little desire to enter into the gaiety of general conversation with a host of gentlemen who had collected round her aunt and sisters, offered her arm to Mr. Benfield, on seeing him manifest a disposition to take a closer view of the company, and walked away with him.

They wandered from room to room, unconscious of the observation attracted by the sight of a man in the costume of Mr. Benfield, leaning on the arm of so young and lovely a woman as his niece; and many an exclamation of surprise, ridicule, admiration, and wonder had been made, unnoticed by the pair, until finding the crowd rather inconvenient to her companion, Emily gently drew him into one of the apartments where the card-tables, and the general absence of beauty, made room less difficult to be found.

“Ah! Emmy dear,” said the old gentleman, wiping his face, “times are much changed, I see, since my youth. Then you would see no such throngs assembled in so small a space; gentlemen shoving ladies, and yes, Emmy,” continued her uncle in a lower tone, as if afraid of uttering something dangerous, “the ladies themselves shouldering the men. I remember at a drum given by Lady Gosford, that although I may, without vanity, say I was one of the gallantest men in the rooms, I came in contact with but one of the ladies during the whole evening, with the exception of handing the Lady Juliana to a chair, and that,” said her uncle, stopping short and lowering his voice to a whisper, “was occasioned by a mischance in the old duchess in rising from her seat when she had taken too much strong waters, as she was at times a little troubled with a pain in the chest.”

Emily smiled at the casualty of her grace, and they proceeded slowly through the table until their passage was stopped by a party at the game of whist, which, by its incongruous mixture of ages and character, forcibly drew her attention.

The party was composed of a young man of five or six and twenty, who threw down his cards in careless indifference, and heedlessly played with the guineas which were laid on the side of the table as markers, or the fruits of a former victory: or by stealing hasty and repeated glances through the vista of the tables into the gayer scenes of the adjoining rooms, proved he was in duresse, and waited for an opportunity to make his escape from the tedium of cards and ugliness to the life of conversation and beauty.

His partner was a woman of doubtful age, and one whose countenance rather indicated that the uncertainty was likely to continue until the record of the tomb-stone divulged the so often contested circumstance to the world. Her eyes also wandered to the gayer scenes, but with an expression of censoriousness mingled with longings; nor did she neglect the progress of the game as frequently as her more heedless partner. A glance thrown on the golden pair which was placed between her and her neighbor on her right, marked the importance of the corner, and she shuffled the cards with a nervousness which plainly denoted her apprehension of the consequences of her partner’s abstraction.

Her neighbor on the right was a man of sixty, and his vestments announced him a servant of the sanctuary. His intentness on the game proceeded no doubt from his habits of reflection; his smile at success, quite possibly from charity to his neighbors; his frown in adversity from displeasure at the triumphs of the wicked, for such in his heart he had set down Miss Wigram to be; and his unconquerable gravity in the employment from a profound regard to the dignity of his holy office.

The fourth performer in this trial of memories was an ancient lady, gaily dressed, and intently eager on the game. Between her and the young man was a large pile of guineas, which appeared to be her exclusive property, from which she repeatedly, during the play, tendered one to his acceptance on the event of a hand or a trick, and to which she seldom failed from inadvertence to add his mite, contributing to accumulate the pile.

“Two double and the rub, my dear doctor,” exclaimed the senior lady, in triumph. “Sir William, you owe me ten.”

The money was paid as easily as it had been won, and the dowager proceeded to settle some bets with her female antagonist.

“Two more, I fancy, ma’am,” said she, closely scanning the contributions of the maiden.

“I believe it is right, my lady,” was the answer, with a look that said pretty plainly, that or nothing.

“I beg pardon, my dear, here are but four; and you remember two on the corner, and four on the points. Doctor, I will trouble you for a couple of guineas from Miss Wigram’s store, I am in haste to get to the Countess’s route.”

The doctor was coolly helping himself from the said store, under the watchful eyes of its owner, and secretly exulting in his own judgment in requiring the stakes, when the maiden replied in great warmth,

“Your ladyship forgets the two you lost to me at Mrs. Howard’s.”

“It must be a mistake, my dear, I always pay as I lose,” cried the dowager, with great spirit, stretching over the table and helping herself to the disputed money.

Mr. Benfield and Emily had stood silent spectators of the whole scene, the latter in astonishment to meet such manners in such society, and the former under feelings it would have been difficult to describe; for in the face of the Dowager which was inflamed partly from passion and more from high living, he recognised the remains of his Lady Juliana, now the Dowager Viscountess Haverford.

“Emmy, dear,” said the old man, with a heavy-drawn sigh, as if awaking from a long and troubled dream, “we will go.”

The phantom of forty years had vanished before the truth and the fancies of retirement, simplicity, and a diseased imagination yielded to the influence of life and common sense.

Chapter XL.

With Harriet, now closely connected with them by marriage as well as attachment, the baronet’s family maintained a most friendly intercourse; and Mrs. Wilson, and Emily, a prodigious favorite with her new cousin, consented to pass a day soberly with her during an excursion of her husband to Windsor on business connected with his station. They had, accordingly, driven round to an early breakfast; and Chatterton, after politely regretting his loss, and thanking them for their consideration for his wife, made his bow.

Lady Harriet Denbigh had brought the Baron a very substantial addition to his fortune; and as his sisters were both provided for by ample settlements, the pecuniary distresses which had existed a twelvemonth before had been entirely removed. Chatterton’s income was now large, his demands upon it small, and he kept up an establishment in proportion to the rank of both husband and wife.

“Mrs. Wilson,” cried the hostess, twirling her cup as she followed with her eyes the retreating figure of her husband at the door, “I am about to take up the trade of Miss Harris, and become a match-maker.”

“Not on your own behalf so soon, surely,” rejoined the widow.

“Oh no, my fortune is made for life, or not at all,” continued the other, gaily; “but in behalf of our little friend Emily here.”

“Me,” cried Emily, starting from a reverie, in which the prospect of happiness to Lady Laura was the subject; “you are very good, Harriet; for whom do you intend me?”

“Whom! Who is good enough for you, but my cousin Pendennyss? Ah!” she cried, laughing, as she caught Emily by the hand, “Derwent and myself both settled the matter long since, and I know you will yield when you come to know him.”

“The duke!” cried the other, with a surprise and innocence that immediately brought a blush of the brightest vermillion into her face.

“Yes, the duke,” said Lady Chatterton: “you may think it odd for a discarded lover to dispose of his mistress so soon, but both our hearts are set upon it. The earl arrived last night, and this day he and his sister dine with us in a sober way: now, my dear madam,” turning to Mrs. Wilson, “have I not prepared an agreeable surprise for you?”

“Surprise indeed,” said the widow, excessively gratified at the probable termination to her anxieties for this meeting; “but where are they from?”

“From Northamptonshire, where the earl has already purchased a residence, I understand, and in your neighborhood too; so, you perceive, he at least begins to think of the thing.”

“A certain evidence, truly,” cried Emily, “his having purchased the house. But was he without a residence that he bought the deanery?”

“Oh no! he has a palace in town, and three seats in the country; but none in Northamptonshire but this,” said the lady, with a laugh. “To own the truth he did offer to let George Denbigh have it for the next summer, but the Colonel chose to be nearer Eltringham; and I take it, it was only a ruse in the earl to cloak his own designs. You may depend upon it, we trumpeted your praises to him incessantly in Westmoreland.”

“And is Colonel Denbigh in town?” said Mrs. Wilson, stealing an anxious glance towards her niece, who, in spite of all her efforts, sensibly changed color.

“Oh, yes! and Laura is as happy — as happy — as myself,” said Lady Chatterton, with a glow on her cheeks, as she attended to the request of her housekeeper, and left the room.

Her guests sat in silence, occupied with their own reflections, while they heard a summons at the door of the house. It was opened, and footsteps approached the door of their own room. It was pushed partly open, as a voice on the other side said, speaking to a servant without, —

“Very well. Do not disturb your lady. I am in no haste.”

At the sound of its well known tones, both the ladies almost sprang from their seats. Here could be no resemblance, and a moment removed their doubts. The speaker entered. It was Denbigh.

He stood for a moment fixed as a statue: It was evident the surprise was mutual. His face was pale as death, and then instantly was succeeded by a glow of fire. Approaching them, he paid his compliments with great earnestness, and in a voice in which his softest tones preponderated.

“I am happy, very happy, to be so fortunate in again meeting with such friends, and so unexpectedly.”

Mrs. Wilson bowed in silence to his compliment, and Emily, pale as himself, sat with her eyes fastened on the carpet, without daring to trust her voice with an attempt to speak.

After struggling with his mortified feelings for a moment, Denbigh rose from the chair he had taken, and drawing near the sofa on which the ladies were placed, exclaimed with fervor,

“Tell me, dear madam, lovely, too lovely Miss Moseley, has one act of folly, of wickedness if you please, lost me your good opinion for ever? Derwent had given me hopes that you yet retained some esteem for my character, lowered, as I acknowledge it to be, in my own estimation.”

“The Duke of Derwent? Mr. Denbigh!”

“Do not; do not use a name, dear madam, almost hateful to me,” cried he, in a tone of despair.

“If,” said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, “you have made your own name disreputable, I can only regret it, but— “

“Call me by my title — oh! do not remind me of my folly; I cannot bear it, and from you.”

“Your title!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, with a cry of wonder, and Emily turned on him a face in which the flashes of color and succeeding paleness were as quick, and almost as vivid, as the glow of lightning. He caught their astonishment in equal surprise.

“How is this? some dreadful mistake, of which I am yet in ignorance,” he cried, taking the unresisting hand of Mrs. Wilson, and pressing it with warmth between both his own, as he added, “do not leave me in suspense.”

“For the sake of truth, for my sake, for the sake of this suffering innocent, say, in sincerity, who and what you are,” said Mrs. Wilson in a solemn voice, gazing on him in dread of his reply.

Still retaining her hand, he dropped on his knees before her, as he answered, —

“I am the pupil, the child of your late husband, the companion of his dangers, the sharer of his joys and griefs, and would I could add, the friend of his widow. I am the Earl of Pendennyss.”

Mrs. Wilson’s head dropped on the shoulders of the kneeling youth, her arms were thrown in fervor around his neck, and she burst into a flood of tears. For a moment, both were absorbed in their own feelings; but a cry from Pendennyss aroused the aunt to the situation of her niece.

Emily had fallen senseless on the sofa.

An hour elapsed before her engagements admitted of the return of Lady Chatterton to the breakfast parlor, where she was surprised to find the breakfast equipage yet standing, and her cousin, the earl. Looking from one to the other in surprise, she exclaimed, —

“Very sociable, upon my word; how long has your lordship honored my house with your presence, and have you taken the liberty to introduce yourself to Mrs. Wilson and Miss Moseley?”

“Sociability and ease are the fashion of the day. I have been here an hour, my dear coz, and have taken the liberty of introducing myself to Mrs. Wilson and Miss Moseley,” replied the earl gravely, although a smile of meaning lighted his handsome features as he uttered the latter part of the sentence, which was returned by Emily with a look of archness and pleasure that would have graced her happiest moments of juvenile joy.

There was such an interchange of looks, and such a visible alteration in the appearance of her guests, that it could not but attract the notice of Lady Chatterton. After listening to the conversation between them for some time in silence; and wondering what could have wrought so sudden a change below stairs, she broke forth with saying,— “Upon my word, you are an incomprehensible party to me. I left you ladies alone, and find a gentleman with you. I left you grave, if not melancholy, and find you all life and gaiety. I find you with a stranger, and you talk with him about walks, and rides, and scenes, and acquaintances. Will you, madam, or you, my lord, be so kind as to explain these seeming inconsistencies?”

“No,” cried the earl, “to punish your curiosity, I will keep you in ignorance; but Marian is in waiting for me at your neighbor’s, Mrs. Wilmot, and I must hasten to her — you will see us both by five.” Rising from his seat he took the offered hand of Mrs. Wilson and pressed it to his lips. To Emily he also extended his hand, and received hers in return, though with a face suffused with the color of the rose. Pendennyss held it to his heart for a moment with fervor, and kissing it, precipitately left the room. Emily concealed her face with her hands, and, dissolving in tears, sought the retirement of an adjoining apartment.

All these unaccountable movements filled Lady Chatterton with amazement, that would have been too painful for further endurance; and Mrs. Wilson, knowing that further concealment with so near a connexion would be impossible, if not unnecessary, entered into a brief explanation of the earl’s masquerade (although ignorant herself of its cause, or of the means of supporting it), and his present relation with her niece.

“I declare it is provoking,” cried Lady Chatterton, with a tear in her eye, “to have such ingenious plans as Derwent and I had made lost from the want of necessity in putting them in force. Your demure niece has deceived us all handsomely; and my rigid cousin, too — I will rate him soundly for his deception.”

“I believe he already repents sincerely of his having practised it,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and is sufficiently punished for his error by its consequence. A life of misery for four months is a serious penalty to a lover.”

“Yes,” said the other; “I am afraid his punishment was not confined to himself alone: he has made others suffer from his misconduct. I will rate him famously, depend upon it I will.”

If anything, the interest felt by Lady Chatterton for her friend was increased by this discovery of the affections of Pendennyss, and a few hours were passed by the three, in we will not say sober delight, for transport would be a better word. Lady Chatterton frankly declared that she would rather see Emily the wife of the earl than of her brother, for he alone was good enough for her; and Mrs. Wilson felt an exhilaration of spirits, in the completion of her most sanguine wishes, that neither her years, her philosophy, nor even her religion, could entirely restrain. The face of Emily was a continued blush, her eye sparkled with the lustre of renewed hope, and her bosom was heaving with the purest emotions of happiness.

At the appointed hour the rattling of wheels announced the approach of the earl and his sister.

Pendennyss came into the room with a young woman of great personal beauty and extremely feminine manners, leaning on his arm. He first announced her to Mrs. Wilson as his sister, Lady Marian Denbigh, who received her with a frank cordiality that made them instantly acquainted. Emily, although confiding in the fullest manner in the truth and worth of her lover, had felt an inexplicable sensation of pleasure, as she heard the earl speak of his sister by the name of Marian; love is such an unquiet, and generally such an engrossing passion, that few avoid unnecessary uneasiness while under its influence, unless so situated as to enjoy a mutual confidence.

As this once so formidable Marian approached to salute her with an extended hand, Emily rose, with a face illumined with pleasure, to receive her. Marian viewed her for a moment intently, and folding her arms around her, whispered softly as she pressed her to her heart,

“My sister, my only sister.”

Our heroine was affected to tears, and Pendennyss gently separating the two he loved best in the world, they soon became calm.

Lady Marian was extremely like her brother, and had a family resemblance to her cousin Harriet; but her manners were softer and more retiring, and she had a slight tinge of a settled melancholy. When her brother spoke she was generally silent, not in fear, but in love. She evidently regarded him amongst the first of human beings, and all her love was amply returned.

Both the aunt and niece studied the manners of the earl closely, and found several shades of distinction between what he was and what he had been. He was now the perfect man of the world, without having lost the frank sincerity which caused you to believe all he said. Had Pendennyss once told Mrs. Wilson, with his natural air and manner, “I am innocent,” she would have believed him, and an earlier investigation would have saved them months of misery; but the consciousness of his deception had oppressed him with the curse of the wicked.

Pendennyss had lost that air of embarrassment and alarm which had so often startled the aunt, even in her hours of greatest confidence, and which had their original in the awkwardness of disguise. But he retained his softness, his respect, his modest diffidence of his opinions, although somewhat corrected now by his acknowledged experience and acquaintance with man.

Mrs. Wilson thought these decided trifling alterations in manner were improvements; but it required some days and a few tender speeches to reconcile Emily to any change in the appearance of Denbigh.

Lady Marian had ordered her carriage early, as she had not anticipated the pleasure she found, and was engaged to accompany her cousin, Lady Laura, to a fashionable rout that evening. Unwilling to be torn from ins newly found friends, the earl proposed that the three ladies should accompany his sister to Annerdale House, and then accept himself as an escort to their own residence. To this Harriet assented, and leaving a message for Chatterton, they entered the coach of Marian, and Pendennyss, mounting the dickey, drove off.

Annerdale House was amongst the best edifices of London. It had been erected in the preceding century, and Emily for a moment felt, as she went through its splendid apartments, that it threw a chill around her domestic affections; but the figure of Pendennyss by her side reconciled her to a magnificence she had been unused to, which looked the lord indeed; but with so much modesty and softness, and so much attention to herself, that before she left the house, Emily began to think it very possible to enjoy happiness even in the lap of splendor.

The names of Colonel Denbigh and Lady Laura were soon announced, and this formidable gentleman made his appearance, He resembled Pendennyss more than even the duke, and appeared about the same age.

Mrs. Wilson soon saw that she had no grounds for pitying Lady Laura. The colonel was a polished, elegant man, of evident good sense and knowledge of the world, and apparently devoted to his wife. He was called George frequently by all his relatives, and he, not unfrequently, used the same term himself in speaking to the earl. Something was said of a much admired bust, and the doors of a large library were opened to view it. Emily was running over the backs of a case of books, until her eye rested on one; and half smiling and blushing she turned to Pendennyss, who watched every movement, as she said, playfully,

“Pity me, my lord, and lend me this volume.”

“What is it you read?” he asked, as he bowed his cheerful assent.

But Emily hid the book in her handkerchief. Pendennyss noticing an unwillingness, though an extremely playful one, to let him into the secret, examined the case, and perceiving her motive, smiled, as he took down another volume and said —

“I am not an Irish, but an English peer, Emily. You have the wrong volume.”

Emily laughed, with deeper blushes, when she found her wishes detected, while the earl, opening the volume he held — the first of Debrett’s Peerage — pointed with his finger to the article concerning his own family, and said to Mrs. Wilson, who had joined them at the instant —

“To-morrow, dear madam, I shall beg your attention to a melancholy tale, and which may, in some slight degree, extenuate the offence I was guilty of in assuming, or rather in maintaining an accidental disguise.”

As he ended, he went to the others, to draw off their attention, while Emily and her aunt examined the paragraph. It was as follows:

“George Denbigh — Earl of Pendennyss — and Baron Lumley, of Lumley Castle — Baron Pendennyss — Beaumaris, and Fitzwalter, born —— , of —— , in the year of —— ; a bachelor.” The list of earls and nobles occupied several pages, but the closing article was as follows:

“George, the 21st earl, succeeded his mother Marian, late Countess of Pendennyss, in her own right, being born of her marriage with George Denbigh, Esq., a cousin-german to Frederick, the 9th Duke of Derwent.”

“Heir apparent. The titles being to heirs general, will descend to his lordship’s sister, Lady Marian Denbigh, should the present earl die without lawful issue.”

As much of the explanation of the mystery of our tales, involved in the foregoing paragraphs, we may be allowed to relate in our own language, what Pendennyss made his friends acquainted with at different times, and in a manner suitable to the subject and his situation.

Chapter XLI.

It was at the close of that war which lost this country the wealthiest and most populous of her American colonies, that a fleet of ships were returning from their service amongst the islands of the New World, to seek for their worn out and battered hulks, and equally weakened crews, the repairs and comforts of England and home.

The latter word, to the mariner the most endearing of all sounds, had, as it were, drawn together by instinct a group of sailors on the forecastle of the proudest ship of the squadron, who gazed with varied emotions on the land which gave them birth, but with one common feeling of joy that the day of attaining it was at length arrived.

The water curled from the bows of this castle of the ocean, in increasing waves and growing murmurs, that at times drew the attention of the veteran tar to their quickening progress, and having cheered his heart with the sight, he cast his experienced eye in silence on the swelling sails, to see if nothing more could be done to shorten the distance between him and his country.

Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the land of their birth, and hundreds of hearts were beating in that one vessel with the awakening delights of domestic love and renewed affections; but no tongue broke the disciplined silence of the ship into sounds that overcame the propitious ripple of the water.

On the highest summit of their towering mast floated a small blue flag, the symbol of authority, and beneath it paced a man to and fro the deck, who was abandoned by his inferiors to his more elevated rank. His square-built form and careworn features, which had lost the brilliancy of an English complexion, and hair whitened prematurely, spoke of bodily vigor, and arduous services which had put that vigor to the severest trials.

At each turn of his walk, as he faced the land of his nativity, a lurking smile stole over his sun-burnt features, and then a glance of his eye would scan the progress of the far-stretched squadron which obeyed his orders, and which he was now returning to his superiors, undiminished in numbers, and proud with victory.

By himself stood an officer in a uniform differing from all around him. His figure was small, his eye restless, quick, and piercing, and bent on those shores to which he was unwillingly advancing, with a look of anxiety and mortification, that showed him the late commander of those vessels around them, which, by displaying their double flags, manifested to the eye of the seaman a recent change of masters.

Occasionally the conqueror would stop, and by some effort of well meant, but rather uncouth civility, endeavor to soften the hours of captivity; efforts which were received with the courtesy of the most punctilious etiquette, but a restraint which showed that they were unwelcome.

It was, perhaps, the most unlucky moment that had occurred within the two months of their association, for an exchange of their better feelings. The honest heart of the English tar dilated with ill-concealed delight at his approach to the termination of labors performed with credit and honor, and his smiles and good humor, which partly proceeded from the feelings of a father and a friend, were daggers to the heart of his discomfited rival.

A third personage now appeared from the cabin of the vessel, and approached the spot where the adverse admirals at the moment were engaged in one of these constrained conferences.

The appearance and dress of this gentleman differed widely from the two just described. He was tall, graceful, and dignified; he was a soldier, and clearly of high rank. His carefully dressed hair concealed the ravages of time and on the quarter-deck of a first-rate his attire and manners were suited to a field-day in the park.

“I really insist, monsieur,” cried the admiral, good-naturedly, “that you shall take part of my chaise to London. You are a stranger, and it will help to keep up your spirits by the way.”

“You are very good, Monsieur Howell,” replied the Frenchman, with a polite bow and forced smile, misconstruing ill-judged benevolence into a wish for his person to grace a triumph— “but I have accepted the offer Monsieur le General Denbigh was so good as to make me.”

“The comte is engaged to me, Howell,” said the general, with a courtly smile, “and, indeed, you must leave the ship to night, or as soon as we anchor. — But I shall take daylight and to-morrow.”

“Well — well — Denbigh,” exclaimed the other, rubbing his hands with pleasure as he viewed the increasing power of the wind, “only make yourselves happy, and I am contented.”

A few hours intervened before they reached the Bay of Plymouth, and round the table, after their dinner, were seated the general and English admiral. The comte, under the pretence of preparing his things for a removal, had retired to his apartment to conceal his feelings; — and the captain of the ship was above, superintending the approach of the vessel to her anchorage. Two or three well emptied bottles of wine yet remained; but as the healths of all the branches of the House of Brunswick had been propitiated from their contents, with a polite remembrance of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette from General Denbigh, neither of the superiors was much inclined for action.

“Is the Thunderer in her station?” said the admiral to the signal lieutenant, who at that moment came below with a report.

“Yes, sir, and has answered.”

“Very well; make the signal to prepare to anchor.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And here, Bennet,” to the retiring lieutenant— “call the transports all in shore of us.”

“Three hundred and eighty-four, sir,” said the officer, looking at his signal-book.

The admiral cast his eye at the book, and nodded an assent.

“And let the Mermaid — Flora — Weasel — Bruiser, and all the sloops lie well off, until we have landed the soldiers: the pilot says the channel is full of luggers, and Jonathan has grown very saucy.”

The lieutenant made a complying bow, and was retiring to execute these orders, as Admiral Howell, taking up a bottle not yet entirely deserted by its former tenant, cried stoutly— “Here, Bennet — I forgot — take a glass of wine; drink success to ourselves, and defeat to the French all over the world.”

The general pointed significantly to the adjoining cabin of the French admiral, as he pressed his hand on his lips for silence.

“Oh!” cried Admiral Howell, recollecting himself, continuing in a whisper, “you can drink it in your heart, notwithstanding.”

The signal officer nodded, and drank the liquor. As he smacked his lips while going on deck, he thought to himself, these nabobs drink famous good wine.

Although the feelings of General Denbigh were under much more command and disciplined obedience than those of his friend, yet was he too unusually elated with his return to home and expected honors. If the admiral had captured a fleet, he had taken an island; — and hand in hand they had co-operated in unusual harmony through the difficulties of an arduous campaign. This rather singular circumstance was owing to their personal friendship. From their youth they had been companions, and although of very different characters and habits, chance had cemented their intimacy in more advanced life. While in subordinate stations, they had been associated together in service; and the general and admiral, in command of an army and fleet, had once before returned to England with less renown, as a colonel and a captain of a frigate. The great family influence of the soldier, with the known circumstance of their harmony, had procured them this later command, and home, with its comforts and rewards, was close before them. Pouring out a glass of Madeira, the general, who always calculated what he said, exclaimed,

“Peter — we have been friends from boys.”

“To be sure we have,” said the admiral, looking up in a little surprise at this unexpected commencement— “and it will not be my fault if we do not die such, Frederick.”

Dying was a subject the general did not much delight in although of conspicuous courage in the field; and he proceeded to his more important purpose— “I could never find, although I have looked over our family tree so often, that we are in any manner related, Howell.”

“I believe it is too late to mend that matter now,” said the admiral, musing.

“Why no — hem — I think not, Howell; take a glass of this Burgundy.”

The admiral shook his head with a stubborn resolution to taste nothing French, but he helped himself to a bountiful stock of Madeira, as he replied —

“I should like to know how you can bring it about this time of day, Denbigh.”

“How much money will you be able to give that girl of yours, Peter?” said his friend, evading the point.

“Forty thousand down, my good fellow, and as much more when I die,” cried the open-hearted sailor, with a nod of exultation.

“George, my youngest son, will not be rich — but Francis will be a duke, and have a noble estate; yet,” said the general; meditating, “he is so unhappy in his disposition and uncouth in his manners, I cannot think of offering him to your daughter as a husband.”

“Isabel shall marry a good-natured man, like myself, or not at all,” said the admiral, positively, but not in the least suspecting the drift of his friend, who was influenced by anything but a regard for the lady’s happiness.

Francis, his first born, was, in truth, as he had described; but his governing wish was to provide for his favorite George. Dukes could never want wives, but unportioned captains in the guards might.

“George is one of the best tempers in the world,” said his father, with strong feeling, “and the delight of us all. I could wish he had been the heir to the family honors.”

“That it is certainly too late to help,” cried the admiral, wondering if the ingenuity of his friend could devise a remedy for this evil too.

“Too late, indeed,” said the other, with a heavy sigh, “but Howell, what say you to matching Isabel with my favorite George?”

“Denbigh,” cried the sailor, eyeing him keenly, “Isabel is my only child, and a dutiful, good girl; one that will obey orders if she breaks owners, as we sailors say. Now I did think of marrying her to a seaman, when a proper man came athwart my course; yet your son is a soldier, and that is next to being in the navy: if-so-be you had made him come aboard me, when I wanted you to, there would have been no objection at all: however, when occasion offers. I will overhaul the lad, and if I find him staunch he may turn in with Bell and welcome.”

This was uttered in perfect simplicity, and with no intention of giving offence, partaking partly of the nature of a soliloquy; so the general, greatly encouraged, was about to push the point, when a gun was fired from their own ship.

“There’s some of them lubberly transports won’t mind our signals; they have had these soldiers so long on board, they get as clumsy as the red-coats themselves,” muttered the admiral, hastening on deck to enforce his commands.

A shot or two, sent significantly in the direction of the wanderers, but so as not to hit them, restored order; and within an hour forty line of battle ships and a hundred transports were disposed in the best manner for convenience and safety.

On their presentation to their sovereign, both veterans were embellished with the riband of the Bath; and as their exploits filled the mouths of the newsmongers, and the columns of the public prints of the day, the new knights began to think more seriously of building a monument to their victories, in a union between their children. The admiral, however, determined to do nothing with his eyes shut, and he demanded a scrutiny.

“Where is the boy who is to be a duke?” exclaimed he, one day, when his friend had introduced the point with a view to a final arrangement. “Bell has good blood in her veins — is a tight built little vessel — clean heel’d and trim, and would make as good a duchess as the best of them; so Denbigh, I will begin by taking a survey of the senior.” To this the general had no objection, as he well knew that Francis would be wide of pleasing the tastes of an open-hearted, simple man, like the sailor. They met, accordingly, for what the general facetiously called the review, and what the admiral innocently termed his survey, at the house of the former, when the young gentlemen were submitted to his inspection.

Francis Denbigh was about four and twenty, of a feeble body, and with a face marked with the small-pox, to approaching deformity; his eye was brilliant and piercing, but unsettled, and at times wild — his manner awkward, constrained, and timid. There would be seen, it is true, an intelligence and animation, which occasionally lighted his countenance into gleams of sunshine, that caused you to overlook the lesser accompaniments of complexion and features in the expression; but they were transient, and inevitably vanished whenever his father spoke or in any manner mingled in his pursuits.

An observer close as Mrs. Wilson, would have said that the feelings of the father and son were not such as ought to exist between parent and child.

But the admiral, who regarded model and rigging a good deal, satisfied himself with muttering, as he turned his eye on the junior —

“He may do for a duke — but I would not have him for a cockswain.”

George was a year younger than Francis; in form, stature, and personal grace, the counterpart of his father; his eye was less keen but more attractive than that of his brother; his air open, polished, and manly.

“Ah!” thought the sailor, as he ended a satisfactory survey of the youth, “what a thousand pities Denbigh did not send him to sea!”

The thing was soon settled, and George was to be the happy man. Sir Peter concluded to dine with his friend, in order to settle preliminaries over the bottle by themselves; the young men and their mother being engaged to their uncle the duke.

“Well, Denbigh,” cried the admiral, as the last servant withdrew, “when do you mean to have the young couple spliced?”

“Why,” replied the wary soldier, who knew he could not calculate on obedience to his mandate with as great a certainty as his friend— “the better way is to bring the young people together, in order that they may become acquainted, you know.”

“Acquainted — together— “ cried his companion, in a little surprise, “what better way is there to bring them together, than to have them up before a priest, or to make them acquainted by letting them swing in the same hammock?”

“It might answer the end, indeed,” said the general, with a smile, “but somehow or other, it is always the best method to bring young folks together, to let them have their own way in the affair for a time.”

“Own way!” rejoined Sir Peter, bluntly, “did you ever find it answer to let a woman have her own way, Sir Frederick?”

“Not common women certainly, my good friend,” said the general, “but such a girl as my intended daughter is an exception.”

“I don’t know that,” cried the sailor; “Bell is a good girl, but she has her quirks and whims like all the sex.”

“You have had no trouble with her as yet, I believe, Howell,” said Sir Frederick cavalierly, throwing an inquiring glance on his friend at the same time.

“No, not yet — nor do I think she will ever dare to mutiny; but there has been one wishing to take her in tow already since we got in.”

“How!” said the other in alarm, “who — what is he? some officer in the navy, I suppose.”

“No, he was a kind of chaplain, one Parson Ives, a good sort of a youth enough, and a prodigious favorite with my sister, Lady Hawker.”

“Well, what did you answer, Peter?” said his companion in increasing uneasiness; “did you put him off?”

“Off! to be sure I did — do you think I wanted a barber’s clerk for a son-in-law? No, no, Denbigh; a soldier is bad enough, without having a preacher.”

The general compressed his lips at this direct attack on a profession that he thought the most honorable of any in the world, in some resentment; but remembering the eighty thousand pounds, and accustomed to the ways of the other, he curbed his temper, and inquired —

“But Miss Howell — your daughter — how did she stand affected to this priest?”

“How — why — how? — why I never asked her.”

“Never asked her?”

“No, never asked her: she is my daughter, you know, and bound to obey my orders, and I did not choose she should marry a parson; but, once for all, when is the wedding to take place?”

General Denbigh had indulged his younger son too blindly and too fondly to expect that implicit obedience the admiral calculated to a certainty on, and with every prospect of not being disappointed, from his daughter. Isabel Howell was pretty, mild, and timid, and unused to oppose any of her father’s commands; but George Denbigh was haughty, positive, and self-willed, and unless the affair could be so managed as to make him a willing assistant in the courtship, his father knew it might be abandoned at once. He thought his son might be led, but not driven; and, relying on his own powers for managing, the general saw his only safety in executing the scheme was in postponing his advances for a regular siege to the lady’s heart.

Sir Peter chafed and swore at this circumlocution: the thing could be done as well in a week as in a year; and the veterans, who, for a miracle, had agreed in their rival stations, and in doubtful moments of success, were near splitting on the point of marrying a girl of nineteen.

As Sir Peter both loved his friend, and had taken a prodigious fancy to the youth, he however was fain to submit to a short probation.

“You are always for going a round-about way to do a thing,” said the admiral, as he yielded the point. “Now, when you took that battery, had you gone up in front, as I advised you, you would have taken it in ten minutes, instead of five hours.”

“Yes,” said the other, with a friendly shake of the hand at parting, “and lost fifty men in place of one by the step.”

Chapter XLII.

The Honorable General Denbigh was the youngest of three sons. His seniors, Francis and George, were yet bachelors. The death of a cousin had made Francis a duke while yet a child, and both he and his favorite brother George, had decided on lives of inactivity and sluggishness.

“When I die, brother,” the oldest would say, “you will succeed me, and Frederick can provide heirs for the name hereafter.”

This arrangement had been closely adhered to, and the two elder brothers reached the ages of fifty-five and fifty-six, without altering their condition. In the mean time, Frederick married a young woman of rank and fortune; the fruits of their union being the two young candidates for the hand of Isabel Howell.

Francis Denbigh, the eldest son of the general, was naturally diffident, and, in addition, it was his misfortune to be the reverse of captivating in external appearance. The small-pox sealed his doom; — ignorance, and the violence of the attack, left him indelibly impressed with the ravages of that dreadful disorder. Oh the other hand, his brother escaped without any vestiges of the complaint; and his spotless skin and fine open countenance, met the gaze of his mother, after the recovery of the two, in striking contrast to the deformed lineaments of his elder brother. Such an occurrence is sure to excite one of two feelings in the breast of every beholder — pity or disgust; and, unhappily for Francis, maternal tenderness, in his case, was unable to counteract the latter sensation. George become a favorite, and Francis a neutral. The effect was easy to be seen, and it was rapid, as it was indelible.

The feelings of Francis were sensitive to an extreme. He had more quickness, more sensibility, more real talent than George; which enabled him to perceive, and caused him to feel more acutely, the partiality of his mother.

As yet, the engagements and duties of the general had kept his children and, their improvements out of his sight; but at the ages of eleven and twelve, the feelings of a father, began, to take pride in the possession of his sons.

On his return from a foreign station, after an absence of two years, his children were ordered from school to meet him. Francis had improved in stature, but not in beauty; George had flourished in both.

The natural diffidence of the former was increased, by perceiving that he was no favorite, and the effect began to show itself on manners at no time engaging. He met his father with doubt, and he saw with anguish, that the embrace received by his brother much exceeded in warmth that which had been bestowed on himself.

“Lady Margaret,” said the general to his wife, as he followed the boys as they retired from the dinner table, with his eyes, “it is a thousand pities George had not been the elder. He would have graced a dukedom or a throne. Frank is only fit for a parson.”

This ill-judged speech was uttered sufficiently loud to be overheard by both the sons: on the younger, it made a pleasurable sensation for the moment. His father — his dear father, had thought him fit to be a king; and his father must be a judge, whispered his native vanity; but all this time the connexion between the speech and his brother’s rights did not present themselves to his mind. George loved this brother too well, too sincerely, to have injured him even in thought; and so far as Francis was concerned, his vanity was as blameless as it was natural.

The effect produced on the mind of Francis was different both in substance and in degree. It mortified his pride, alarmed his delicacy, and wounded his already morbid sensibility to such an extent, as to make him entertain the romantic notion of withdrawing from the world, and of yielding a birthright to one so every way more deserving of it than himself.

From this period might be dated an opinion of Francis’s, which never afterwards left him; he fancied he was doing injustice to another, and that other, a brother whom he ardently loved, by continuing to exist. Had he met with fondness in his parents, or sociability in his playfellows, these fancies would have left him as he grew into life. But the affections of his parents were settled on his more promising brother; and his manners daily increasing in their repulsive traits, drove his companions to the society of others, more agreeable to their own buoyancy and joy.

Had Francis Denbigh, at this age, met with a guardian clear-sighted enough to fathom his real character, and competent to direct his onward course, he would yet have become an ornament to his name and country, and a useful member of society. But no such guide existed. His natural guardians, in his particular case, were his worst enemies; and the boys left school for college four years afterwards, each advanced in his respective properties of attraction and repulsion.

Irreligion is hardly a worse evil in a family than favoritism. When once allowed to exist, in the breast of the parent, though hid apparently from all other eyes, its sad consequences begin to show themselves. Effects are produced, and we look in vain for the cause. The awakened sympathies of reciprocal caresses and fondness are mistaken for uncommon feelings, and the forbidding aspect of deadened affections is miscalled native sensibility.

In this manner the evil increases itself, until manners are formed, and characters created, that must descend with their possessor to the tomb.

In the peculiar formation of the mind of Francis Denbigh, the evil was doubly injurious. His feelings required sympathy and softness, and they met only with coldness and disgust. George alone was an exception to the rule. He did love his brother; but even his gaiety and spirits finally tired of the dull uniformity of the diseased habits of his senior.

The only refuge Francis found in his solitude, amidst the hundreds of the university, was in his muse and in the powers of melody. The voice of his family has been frequently mentioned in these pages; and if, as Lady Laura had intimated, there had ever been a siren in the race, it was a male one. He wrote prettily, and would sing these efforts of his muse to music of his own, drawing crowds around his windows, in the stillness of the night, to listen to sounds as melodious as they were mournful. His poetical efforts partook of the distinctive character of the man, being melancholy, wild, and sometimes pious.

George was always amongst the most admiring of his brother’s auditors, and would feel a yearning of his heart towards him, at such moments, that was painful. But George was too young and too heedless, to supply the place of a monitor, or to draw his thoughts into a more salutary train. This was the duty of his parents, and should have been their task. But the world, his rising honors, and his professional engagements, occupied the time of the father; and fashion, parties, and pleasure, killed the time of his mother. When they did think of their children, it was of George; the painful image of Francis being seldom admitted to disturb their serenity.

George Denbigh was open-hearted without suspicion, and a favorite. The first quality taxed his generosity, the second subjected him to fraud, and the third supplied him with the means. But these means sometimes failed. The fortune of the general, though handsome, was not more than competent to support his style of living. He expected to be a duke himself one day, and was anxious to maintain an appearance now that would not disgrace his future elevation. A system of strict but liberal economy had been adopted in the case of his sons. They had, for the sake of appearances, a stated and equal allowance.

The duke had offered to educate the heir himself, and under his own eye. But to this Lady Margaret had found some ingenious excuse, and one that seemed to herself and the world honorable to her natural feeling; but had the offer been made to George, these reasons would have vanished in the desire to advance his interests, or to gratify his propensities. Such decisions are by no means uncommon; parents having once decided on the merits and abilities of their children, frequently decline the interference of third persons, since the improvement of their denounced offspring might bring their own judgment into question, if it did not convey an indirect censure on their justice.

The heedlessness of George brought his purse to a state of emptiness. His last guinea was gone, and two months were wanting to the end of the quarter. George had played and been cheated. He had ventured to apply to his mother for small sums, when his dress or some trifling indulgence required an advance; and always with success. But here were sixty guineas gone at a blow, and pride, candor, forbade his concealing the manner of his loss, if he made the application. This was dreadful; his own conscience reproached him, and he had so often witnessed the violence of his mother’s resentments against Francis, for faults which appeared to him very trivial, not to stand in the utmost dread of her more just displeasure in the present case.

Entering the apartment of his brother, in this disturbed condition, George threw himself into a chair, and with his face concealed between his hands, sat brooding over his forlorn situation.

“George!” said his brother, soothingly, “you are in distress; can I relieve you in any way?”

“Oh no — no — no — Frank; it is entirely out of your power.”

“Perhaps not, my dear brother,” continued the other, endeavoring to draw his hand into his own.

“Entirely! entirely!” said George. Then springing up in despair, he exclaimed, “But I must live — I cannot die.”

“Live! die!” cried Francis, recoiling in horror. “What do you mean by such language? Tell me, George, am I not your brother? Your only brother and best friend?”

Francis felt he had no friend if George was not that friend, and his face grew pale while the tears flowed rapidly down his cheeks.

George could not resist such an appeal. He caught the hand of his brother and made him acquainted with his losses and his wants.

Francis mused some little time over his narration, ere he broke silence.

“It was all you had?”

“The last shilling,” cried George, beating his head with his hand.

“How much will you require to make out the quarter?”

“Oh I must have at least fifty guineas, or how can I live at all?”

The ideas of life in George were connected a good deal with the manner it was to be enjoyed. His brother appeared struggling with himself, and then turning to the other, continued,

“But surely, under present circumstances, you could make less do.”

“Less, never — hardly that” — interrupted George, vehemently. “If Lady Margaret did not inclose me a note now and then, how could we get along at all? don’t you find it so yourself, brother?”

“I don’t know,” said Francis, turning pale —

“Don’t know!” cried George, catching a view of his altered countenance— “you get the money, though?”

“I do not remember it,” said the other, sighing heavily.

“Francis,” cried George, comprehending the truth, “you shall share every shilling I receive in future — you shall — indeed you shall.”

“Well, then,” rejoined Francis with a smile, “it is a bargain; and you will receive from me a supply in your present necessities.”

Without waiting for an answer, Francis withdrew into an inner apartment, and brought out the required sum for his brother’s subsistence for two months. George remonstrated, but Francis was positive; he had been saving, and his stock was ample for his simple habits without it.

“Besides, you forget we are partners, and in the end I shall be a gainer.”

George yielded to his wants and his brother’s entreaties, and he gave him great credit for the disinterestedness of the act. Several weeks passed without any further allusion to this disagreeable subject, which had at least the favorable result of making George more guarded and a better student.

The brothers, from this period, advanced gradually in those distinctive qualities which were to mark the future men; George daily improving in grace and attraction, Francis, in an equal ratio, receding from those very attainments which it was his too great desire to possess. In the education of his sons, General Denbigh had preserved the appearance of impartiality; his allowance to each was the same: they were at the same college, they had been at the same school; and if Frank did not improve as much as his younger brother, it was unquestionably his own obstinacy and stupidity, and surely not want of opportunity or favor.

Such, then, were the artificial and accidental causes, which kept a noble, a proud, an acute but a diseased mind, in acquirements much below another every way its inferior, excepting in the happy circumstance of wanting those very excellences, the excess and indiscreet management of which proved the ruin instead of the blessing of their possessor.

The duke would occasionally rouse himself from his lethargy, and complain to the father, that the heir of his honors was far inferior to his younger brother in acquirements, and remonstrate against the course which produced such an unfortunate inequality. On these occasions a superficial statement of his system from the general met the objection; they cost the same money, and he was sure he not only wished but did everything an indulgent parent could, to render Francis worthy of his future honors. Another evil of the admission of feelings of partiality, in the favor of one child, to the prejudice of another, is that the malady is contagious as well as lasting: it exists without our own knowledge, and it seldom fails to affect those around us. The uncle soon learnt to distinguish George as the hope of the family, yet Francis must be the heir of its honors, and consequently of its wealth.

The duke and his brother were not much addicted to action, hardly to reflection; but if anything could rouse them to either, it was the reputation of the house of Denbigh. Their ideas of reputation, it is true, were of their own forming.

The hour at length drew near when George expected a supply from the ill-judged generosity of his mother; it came, and with a heart beating with pleasure, the youth flew to the room of Francis with a determination to force the whole of his twenty pounds on his acceptance. On throwing open his door, he saw his brother evidently striving to conceal something behind his books. It was at the hour of breakfast, and George had intended for a novelty to share his brother’s morning repast. They always met at dinner, but the other meals were made in their own rooms. George looked in vain for the usual equipage of the table; suspicion flashed upon him; he threw aside the books, and a crust of bread and a glass of water met his eye; the truth now flashed upon him in all its force.

“Francis, my brother, to what has my extravagance reduced you!” exclaimed the contrite George with a heart nearly ready to burst. Francis endeavored to explain, but a sacred regard to the truth held him tongue-tied, until dropping his head on the shoulder of George, he sobbed out —

“It is a trifle; nothing to what I would do for you, my brother.”

George felt all the horrors of remorse, and was much too generous to conceal his error any longer; he wrote a circumstantial account of the whole transaction to Lady Margaret.

Francis for a few days was a new being. He had acted nobly, his conscience approved of his motives, and of his delicate concealment of them; he in fact began to think there were in himself the seeds of usefulness, as his brother, who from this moment began to understand his character better, attached himself more closely to him.

The eye of Francis met that of George with the look of acknowledged affection, his mind became less moody, and his face was sometimes embellished with a smile.

The reply of their mother to the communication of George threw a damp on the revived hopes of the senior, and drove him back into himself with tenfold humility.

“I am shocked, my child, to find that you have lowered yourself, and forgot the family you belong to, so much as to frequent those gambling-houses, which ought not to be suffered in the neighborhood of the universities: when at a proper age and in proper company, your occasional indulgence at cards I could not object to, as both your father and myself sometimes resort to it as an amusement, but never in low company. The consequence of mingling in such society is, that you were cheated, and such will always be your lot unless you confine yourself to associates more becoming your rank and illustrious name.

“As to Francis, I see every reason to condemn the course he has taken. Being the senior by a year, he should have taken the means to prevent your falling into such company; and he should have acquainted me immediately with your loss, in place of wounding your pride by subjecting you to the mortification of receiving a pecuniary obligation from one so little older than yourself, and exposing his own health by a diet on bread and water, as you wrote me, for a whole month. Both the general and myself are seriously displeased with him, and think of separating you, as you thus connive at each other’s follies.”

George was too indignant to conceal this letter and the reflections of Francis were dreadful.

For a short time he actually meditated suicide, as the only method of removing himself from before the advancement of George. Had not George been more attentive and affectionate than formerly, the awful expedient might have been resorted to.

From college the young men went, one into the army and the other to the mansion of his uncle. George became an elegant, gay, open-hearted, admired captain in the guards; and Francis stalked through the halls of his ancestors, their acknowledged future lord, but a misanthrope; hateful to himself and disagreeable to all around him.

This picture may be highly wrought, but the effects, in the case of Francis, were increased by the peculiar tone of his diseased state of mind. The indulgence of favoritism, nevertheless, always brings its own sad consequences, in a greater or less degree, while it seldom fails to give sorrow and penitence to the bosom of the parents.

Chapter XLIII.

No little art and management had been necessary to make the admiral auxiliary to the indirect plan proposed by his friend to bring George and Isabel together. This, however, effected, the general turned his whole strategy to the impression to be made on the heart of the young gentleman.

Sir Frederick Denbigh had the same idea of the virtue of management as the Dowager Lady Chatterton, but he understood human nature better.

Like a prudent officer, his attacks were all masked, and, like a great officer, they seldom failed of success.

The young couple were thrown in each other’s way, and as Isabel was extremely attractive, somewhat the opposite to himself in ardor of temperament and vivacity, modest, and sensible, it cannot be expected that the association was maintained by the youth with perfect impunity. Within a couple of months he fancied himself desperately in love with Isabel Howell; and, in truth, he had some reason for the supposition.

The general watched every movement of his son with a wary and vigilant eye — occasionally adding fuel to the flame, by drawing his attention to projects of matrimony in other quarters, until George began to think he was soon to undergo a trial of his constancy, and in consequence he armed himself with a double portion of admiration for his Isabel, in order to enable himself to endure the persecution; while the admiral several times endangered the success of the whole enterprise by volunteer contributions to the hopes of the young man, which only escaped producing an opposite effect to that which was intended, by being mistaken for the overflowings of good nature and friendship.

After suffering his son to get, as he thought, sufficiently entangled in the snares of Cupid, Sir Frederick determined to fire a volley from one of his masked batteries, which he rightly judged would bring on a general engagement. They were sitting at the table after dinner, alone, when the general took the advantage of the name of Miss Howell being accidentally mentioned, to say —

“By the by, George, my friend the admiral said something yesterday on the subject of your being so much with his daughter. I wish you to be cautious, and not to give the old sailor offence in any way, for he is my particular friend.”

“He need be under no violent apprehensions,” cried George, coloring highly with shame and pride, “I am sure a Denbigh is no unworthy match for a daughter of Sir Peter Howell.”

“Oh! to be sure not, boy, we are as old a house as there is in the kingdom, and as noble too; but the admiral has queer notions, and, perhaps, he has some cub of a sailor in his eye for a son-in-law. Be prudent, my boy, be prudent; that is all I ask of you.”

The general, satisfied with the effect he had produced, carelessly arose from his seat, and joined Lady Margaret in her drawing-room.

George remained for several minutes musing on his father’s singular request, as well as the admiral’s caution, when he sprang from his seat, caught up his hat and sword, and in ten minutes rang at Sir Peter’s door in Grosvenor Square. He was admitted, and ascending to the drawing-room, he met the admiral on his way out. Nothing was further from the thoughts of the veteran than a finesse like the general’s; and, delighted to see George on the battle-ground, he pointed significantly over his shoulder towards the door of the room Isabel was in, and exclaimed, with a good-natured smile,

“There she is, my hearty; lay her aside, and hang me if she don’t strike. I say, George, faint heart never won fair lady: remember that, my boy; no, nor a French ship.”

George would have been at some loss to have reconciled this speech to his father’s caution, if time had been allowed him to think at all; but the door being open he entered, and found Isabel endeavoring to hide her tears.

The admiral, dissatisfied from the beginning with the tardy method of despatching things, thought he might be of use in breaking the ice for George, by trumpeting his praises on divers occasions to his daughter. Under all circumstances, he thought she might be learning to love the man, as he was to be her husband; and speeches like the following had been frequent of late from the parent to the child:

“There’s that youngster, George Denbigh: now, Bell, is he not a fine looking lad? Then I know he is brave. His father before him, was good stuff and a true Englishman. What a proper husband he would make for a young woman, he loves his king and country so; none of your new-fangled notions about religion and government, but a sober, religious churchman; that is, as much so, girl, as you can expect in the guards. No Methodist, to be sure; — it’s a great pity he wasn’t sent to sea, don’t you think so? But cheer up, girl, one of these days he may be taking a liking to you yet.”

Isabel, whose fears taught her the meaning of these eloquent praises of Captain Denbigh, listened to these harangues in silence, and often meditated on their import by herself in tears.

George approached the sofa on which the lady was seated before she had time to conceal the traces of her sorrow, and in a voice softened by emotion, he took her hand gently as he said, —

“What can have occasioned this distress to Miss Howell. If anything in my power to remove, or which a life devoted to her service can mitigate, she has only to command me to find a cheerful obedience.”

“The trifling causes of sorrow in a young woman,” replied Isabel, endeavoring to smile, “will hardly require such serious services to remove them.”

But the lady was extremely interesting at the moment. George was goaded by his father’s caution, and urged on by his own feelings, with great sincerity, and certainly much eloquence, he therefore proffered his love and hand to the acceptance of his mistress.

Isabel heard him in painful silence. She respected him, and dreaded his power over her father; but, unwilling to abandon hopes to which she yet clung as to her spring of existence, with a violent effort she determined to throw herself on the generosity of her lover.

During her father’s late absence Isabel had, as usual, since the death of her mother, been left with his sister, and had formed an attachment for a young clergyman, a younger son of a baronet, and the present Dr. Ives. The inclination had been mutual; and as Lady Hawker knew her brother to be perfectly indifferent to money, she could see no possible objection to its indulgence.

On his return, Ives made his proposals, as related; and although warmly backed by the recommendations of the aunt, he was refused. Out of delicacy the wishes of Isabel had not been mentioned by her clerical lover, and the admiral supposed he had only complied with his agreement with the general, without in any manner affecting the happiness of his daughter by his answer. But the feelings which prompted the request still remained in full vigor in the lovers; and Isabel now, with many blushes and some hesitation of utterance, made George fully acquainted with the state of her heart, giving him at the same time to understand that he was the only obstacle to her happiness.

It cannot be supposed that George heard her without pain or mortification. The struggle with self-love was a severe one, but his better feelings prevailed, and he assured the anxious Isabel that from his importunities she had nothing to apprehend in future. The grateful girl overwhelmed him with thanks, and George had to fly ere he repented of his own generosity.

Miss Howell intimated, in the course of her narrative, that a better understanding existed between their parents than the caution of the general had discovered to his unsuspecting child, and George was determined to know the worst at once.

At supper he mentioned, as if in remembrance of his father’s injunction, that he had been to take his leave of Miss Howell, since he found his visits gave uneasiness to her friends. “On the whole,” he added, endeavoring to yawn carelessly, “I believe I shall visit there no more.”

“Nay, nay,” returned Sir Frederick, a little displeased at his son’s obedience, “I meant no such thing. Neither the admiral nor myself, has the least objection to your visiting in moderation; indeed, you may marry the girl with all our hearts, if you can agree.”

“But we can’t agree, I take it,” said George, looking up at the wall.

“Why not? what hinders?’ cried his father unguardedly.

“Only — only I don’t like her,” said the son, tossing off a glass of wine, which nearly strangled him.

“You don’t,” cried the general with great warmth, thrown entirely off his guard by this unexpected declaration “and may I presume to ask the reason why you do not like Miss Howell, sir?”

“Oh! you know, one never pretends to give a reason for this sort of feeling, my dear sir.”

“Then,” cried his father with increasing heat, “you must allow me to say, my dear sir, that the sooner you get rid of these sort of feelings the better. I choose you shall not only like, but love Miss Howell; and this I have promised her father.”

“I thought that the admiral was displeased with my coming to his house so much — or did I not understand you this morning?”

“I know nothing of his displeasure, and care less. He has agreed that Isabel shall be your wife, and I have passed my word to the engagement; and if, sir, you wish to be considered as my son, you will prepare to comply.”

George was expecting to discover some management on the part of his father, but by no means so settled an arrangement, and his anger was in proportion to the deception.

To annoy Isabel any further was out of the question; to betray her, base; and the next morning he sought an audience with the Duke. To him he mentioned his wish for actual service, but hinted that the maternal fondness of Lady Margaret was averse to his seeking it. This was true, and George now pressed his uncle to assist him in effecting an exchange.

The boroughs of the Duke of Derwent were represented by loyal members of parliament, his two brothers being contemporary with Mr. Benfield in that honor; and a request from a man who sent six members to the Commons, besides having a seat in the Lords in his own person, must be listened to.

Within the week George ceased to be a captain in the guards, and became lieutenant-colonel of a regiment under orders for America.

Sir Frederick soon became sensible of the error his warmth had led him into, and endeavored, by soothing and indulgence, to gain the ground he had so unguardedly lost. But terrible was his anger, and bitter his denunciations, when his son acquainted him with his approaching embarkation with his new regiment for America. They quarrelled; and as the favorite child had never, until now, been thwarted or spoken harshly to, they parted in mutual disgust. With his mother George was more tender; and as Lady Margaret never thought the match such as the descendant of two lines of dukes was entitled to form, she almost pardoned the offence in the cause.

“What’s this here?” cried Sir Peter Howell, as he ran over a morning paper at the breakfast table: “Captain Denbigh, late of the guards, has been promoted to the Lieutenant-Colonelcy of the —— Foot, and sails to-morrow to join that regiment, now on its way to America.”

“It’s a lie, Bell! — it’s all a lie! not but what he ought to be there, too, serving his king and country; but he never would serve you so.”

“Me?” said Isabel, with a heart throbbing with the contending feelings of admiration for George’s generosity, and delight at her own deliverance. “What have I to do with the movements of Mr. Denbigh?”

“What!” cried her father in astonishment; “a’n’t you to be his wife, a’n’t it all agreed upon — that is, between Sir Frederick and me, which is the same thing, you know— “

Here he was interrupted by the sudden appearance of the general himself, who had just learnt the departure of his son and hastened, with the double purpose of breaking the intelligence to his friend, and of making his own peace.

“See here, Denbigh,” exclaimed the admiral, pointing to the paragraph, “what do you say to that?”

“Too true — too true, my dear friend,” replied the general shaking his head mournfully.

“Hark ye, Sir Frederick Denbigh,” cried the admiral fiercely; “did you not say that your son George was to marry my daughter?”

“I certainly did, Sir Peter, and am sorry to say that, in defiance of my entreaties and commands, he has deserted his’ home, and, in consequence, I have discarded him for ever.”

“Now, Denbigh,” said the admiral, a good deal mollified by this declaration, “have I not always told you, that in the army you know nothing of discipline? Why, sir, if he was a son of mine, he should marry blindfolded, if I chose to order it. I wish, now, Bell had an offer, and dared to refuse it.”

“There is the barber’s clerk, you know,” said the general, a good deal irritated by the contemptuous manner of his friend.

“And what of that, Sir Frederick?” said the sailor sternly; “if I choose her to marry a quill-driver, she shall comply.”

“Ah! my good friend,” said the general, willing to drop the disagreeable subject, “I am afraid we shall both find it more difficult to control the affections of our children than we at first imagined.”

“You do, General Denbigh?” said the admiral, with a curl of contempt on his lip; and ringing the bell violently, he bid the servant send his young lady to him.

On the appearance of Isabel, her father inquired with an air of settled meaning where young Mr. Ives resided. It was only in the next street, and a messenger was sent to him, with Sir Peter Howell’s compliments, and a request to see him without a moment’s delay.

“We’ll see, we’ll see, my old friend, who keeps the best discipline,” muttered the admiral, as he paced up and down the room, in eager expectation of the return of his messenger.

The wondering general gazed on his friend, to ascertain if he was out of his senses. He knew he was quick to decide, and excessively obstinate, but he did not think him so crazy as to throw away his daughter in a fit of spleen. It never occurred to Sir Frederick, however, that the engagement with himself was an act of equal injustice and folly, because it was done with more form and deliberation, which, to the eye of sober reason, would rather make the matter worse. Isabel sat in trembling suspense for the issue of the scene, and Ives in a few minutes made his appearance in no little alarm.

On entering, the admiral addressed him abruptly, by inquiring if he still wished to marry that girl, pointing to his daughter. The reply was an eager affirmative. Sir Peter beckoned to Isabel, who approached, covered with blushes; and her father having placed her hand in that of her lover, with an air of great solemnity he gave them his blessing. The young people withdrew to another room at Sir Peter’s request, when he turned to his friend, delighted with his own decision and authority, and exclaimed,

“There, Fred. Denbigh, that is what I call being minded.”

The general had penetration enough to see that the result was agreeable to both the young people, a thing he had long apprehended; and being glad to get rid of the affair in any way that did not involve him in a quarrel with his old comrade, he gravely congratulated the admiral on his good fortune and retired.

“Yes, yes,” said Sir Peter to himself, as he paced up and down his room, “Denbigh is mortified enough, with his joy, and felicity, and grand-children. I never had any opinion of their manner of discipline at all; too much bowing and scraping. I’m sorry, though, he is a priest; not but what a priest may be as good a man as another, but let him behave ever so well, he can only get to be a bishop at the most. Heaven forbid he should ever get to be a Pope! After all, his boys may be admirals if they behave themselves;” and he went to seek his daughter, having in imagination manned her nursery with vice and rear admirals in embryo by the half dozen.

Sir Peter Howell survived the marriage of his daughter but eighteen months; yet that was sufficient time to become attached to his invaluable son-in-law. Mr. Ives insensibly led the admiral, during his long indisposition, to a more correct view of sacred things, than he had been wont to entertain; and the old man breathed his last, blessing both his children for their kindness, and with an humble hope of future happiness. Some time before his death, Isabel, whose conscience had always reproached her with the deception practised on her father, and with the banishment of George from his country and home, threw herself at the feet of Sir Peter and acknowledged her transgression.

The admiral heard her in astonishment, but not in anger. His opinions of life had sensibly changed, and his great cause of satisfaction with his new son removed all motives for regret for anything but for the fate of poor George. With the noble forbearance and tenderness of the young man to his daughter, the hardy veteran was sensibly touched; and his entreaties with Sir Frederick made his peace with a father already longing for the return of his only hope.

The admiral left Colonel Denbigh his blessing, and his favorite pistols, as a remembrance of his esteem; but he did not live to see the reunion with his family.

George had soon learnt, deprived of hope and in the midst of novelty, to forget a passion which could no longer be prosperous; and two years from his departure returned to England, glowing in health, and improved in person and manners by a more extensive knowledge of the world and mankind.

Chapter XLIV.

During the time occupied by the foregoing events, Francis continued a gloomy inmate of his uncle’s house. The duke and his brother George were too indolent and inactive in their minds to pierce the cloud that mortification and deadened affections had drawn around the real character of their nephew; and although he was tolerated as the heir, he was but little loved as a man.

In losing his brother, Francis lost the only human being with whom he possessed any sympathies in common; and he daily drew more and more into himself, in gloomy meditation on his forlorn situation, in the midst of wealth and expected honors. The attentions he received were paid to his rank, and Francis had penetration enough to perceive it. His visits to his parents were visits of ceremony, and in time all parties came to look to their termination with pleasure, as to the discontinuance of heartless and forced civilities.

Affection, even in the young man, could not endure, repulsed as his feelings were, for ever; and in the course of three years, if his attachments were not alienated from his parents, his ardor had become much abated.

It is a dreadful truth, that the bonds of natural affection can be broken by injustice and contumely; and it is yet more to be deplored, that when from such causes we loosen the ties habit and education have drawn around us, a reaction in our feelings commences; we seldom cease to love, but we begin to hate. Against such awful consequences it is one of the most solemn duties of the parent to provide in season; and what surer safeguard is there, than to inculcate those feelings which teach the mind to love God, and in so doing induce love to the whole human family?

Sir Frederick and Lady Margaret attended the church regularly, repeated the responses with much decency, toasted the church next to the king, even appeared at the altars of their God, and continued sinners. From such sowings, no good fruit could be expected to flourish: yet Francis was not without his hours of devotion; but his religion was, like himself, reserved, superstitious, ascetic, and gloomy. He never entered into social worship: if he prayed it was with an ill-concealed wish to end this life of care. If he returned thanks, it was with a bitterness that mocked the throne before which he was prostrate. Such pictures are revolting; but their originals have and do exist; for what enormity is there of which human frailty, unchecked by divine assistance, may not be guilty?

Francis received an invitation to visit a brother of his mother’s at his seat in the country, about the time of the expected return of George from America; and in compliance with the wishes of his uncles he accepted it. The house was thronged with visitors, and many of them were ladies. To these, the arrival of the unmarried heir of the house of Derwent was a subject of no little interest. His character had, however, preceded him, and a few days of his awkward and, as they conceived, sullen deportment, drove them back to their former beaux, with the exception of one; and she was not only amongst the fairest of the throng, but decidedly of the highest pretensions on the score of birth and fortune.

Marian Lumley was the only surviving child of the last Duke of Annerdale, with whom had expired the higher honors of his house. But the Earldom of Pendennyss, with numerous ancient baronies, were titles in fee; and together with his princely estates had descended to his daughter as heir-general of the family. A peeress in her own right, with an income far exceeding her utmost means of expenditure, the lovely Countess of Pendennyss was a prize aimed at by all the young nobles of the empire.

Educated in the midst of flatterers and dependants she had become haughty, vain, and supercilious; still she was lovely, and no one knew better how to practise the most winning arts of her sex, when whim or interest prompted her to the trial.

Her host was her guardian and relative; and through his agency she had rejected, at the age of twenty, numerous suitors for her hand. Her eyes were fixed on the ducal coronet; and unfortunately for Francis Denbigh, he was, at the time, the only man of the proper age who could elevate her to that enviable distinction in the kingdom; and an indirect measure of her own had been the means of his invitation to the country.

Like the rest of her young companions, Marian was greatly disappointed on the view of her intended captive, and for a day or two she abandoned him to his melancholy and himself. But ambition was her idol; and to its powerful rival, love, she was yet a stranger. After a few struggles with her inclinations the consideration that their united fortunes and family alliances would make one of the wealthiest and most powerful houses in the kingdom, prevailed. Such early sacrifices of the inclinations in a woman of her beauty, youth and accomplishments, may excite surprise; but where the mind is left uncultivated by the hand of care, the soul untouched by the love of goodness, the human heart seldom fails to set up an idol of its own to worship. In the Countess of Pendennyss this idol was pride.

The remainder of the ladies, from ceasing to wonder at the manners of Francis, had made them the subject of their mirth; and nettled at his apparent indifference to their society, which they erroneously attributed to his sense of his importance, they overstepped the bounds of good-breeding in manifesting their displeasure.

“Mr. Denbigh,” cried one of the most thoughtless and pretty of the gay tribe to him one day, as Francis sat in a corner abstracted from the scene around him, “when do you mean to favor the world with your brilliant ideas in the shape of a book?”

“Oh! no doubt soon,” said a second; “and I expect they will be homilies, or another volume to the Whole Duty of Man.”

“Rather,” cried a third, with bitter irony, “another canto to the Rape of the Lock, his ideas are so vivid and full of imagery.”

“Or, what do you think,” said a fourth, speaking in a voice of harmony, and tones of the most soothing tenderness, “of pity and compassion, for the follies of those inferior minds, who cannot enjoy the reflections of a good sense and modesty peculiarly his own?”

This might also be irony; and Francis thought it so; but the tones were so soft and conciliating, that with a face pale with his emotions, he ventured to look up and met the eye of Marian, fixed on him in an expression that changed his death-like hue into the color of vermillion.

He thought of this speech; he reasoned on it; he dreamt on it. But for the looks which accompanied it, like the rest of the party, he would have thought it the cruellest cut of them all. But that look, those eyes, that voice, what a commentary on her language did they not afford!

Francis was not long in suspense; the next morning an excursion was proposed, which included all but himself in its arrangements. He was either too reserved or too proud to offer services which were not required.

Several gentlemen had contended for the honor of driving the countess in a beautiful phaeton of her own. They grew earnest in their claims: one had been promised by its mistress with an opportunity of trying the ease of the carriage; another was delighted with the excellent training of her horses; in short, all had some particular claim to the distinction, which was urged with a warmth and pertinacity proportionate to the value of the prize to be obtained. Marian heard the several claimants with an ease and indifference natural to her situation, and ended the dispute by saying —

“Gentlemen, as I have made so many promises from the dread of giving offence, I must throw myself on the mercy of Mr. Denbigh, who alone, with the best claims, does not urge them; to you then,” continued she, approaching him with the whip which was to be given the victor, “I adjudge the prize, if you will condescend to accept it.”

This was uttered with one of her most attractive smiles, and Francis received the whip with an emotion that he with difficulty could control.

The gentlemen were glad to have the contest decided by adjudging the prize to one so little dangerous, and the ladies sneered at her choice as they left the house.

There was something so soothing in the manners of Lady Pendennyss, she listened to the little he said with such a respectful attention, was so anxious to have him give his opinions, that the unction of flattery, thus sweetly applied, and for the first time, could not fail of its wonted effects.

The communications thus commenced were continued. It was so easy to be attentive, by being simply polite to one unused to notice of any kind, that Marian found the fate of the young man in her hands almost as soon as she attempted to control it.

A new existence opened upon Francis, as day after day she insensibly led him to a display of powers he was unconscious until now of possessing himself. His self-respect began to increase, his limited pleasures to multiply, and he could now look around him with a sense of participation in the delights of life, as he perceived himself of consequence to this much admired woman.

Trifling incidents, managed on her part with consummate art, had led him to the daring inference that he was not entirely indifferent to her; and Francis returned the incipient affection of his mistress with a feeling but little removed from adoration. Week flew by after week, and still he lingered at the residence of his kinsman, unable to tear himself from the society of one so worshipped, and yet afraid to take a step by making a distinct declaration which might involve him in disgrace or ridicule.

The condescension of the countess increased, and she had indirectly given him the most flattering assurances of his success, when George, just arrived from America, having first paid his greetings to his reconciled parents, and the happy couple of his generosity, flew to the arms of his brother in Suffolk.

Francis was overjoyed to see George, and George delighted in the visible improvement of his brother. Still Francis was far, very far behind his junior in graces of mind and body; indeed, few men in England were more adapted by nature and education for female society than was Colonel Denbigh at the period of which we write.

Marian witnessed all his attractions, and deeply felt their influence; for the first time she felt the emotions of the gentle passion; and after having sported in the gay world, and trifled with the feelings of others for years, the countess in her turn became an unwilling victim to its power. George met her flame with a corresponding ardor, and the struggle between ambition and love became severe; the brothers unconsciously were rivals.

Had George for a moment suspected the situation of the feelings of Francis, his very superiority in the contest would have induced him to retreat from the unnatural rivalry. Had the elder dreamt of the views of his junior, he would have abandoned his dearest hopes in utter despair. Francis had so long been accustomed to consider George as his superior in everything, that a competition with him would have appeared desperate. Marian contrived to keep both in hopes, undecided herself which to choose, and perhaps ready to yield to the first applicant. A sudden event, however, removed all doubts, and decided the fate of the three.

The Duke of Derwent and his bachelor brother became so dissatisfied with the character of their future heir, that they as coolly set about providing themselves with wives as they had performed any other ordinary transaction of life, They married cousins, and on the same day the choice of the ladies was assigned between them by lots; and if his grace got the prettier, his brother certainly got the richest; under the circumstances a very tolerable distribution of fortune’s favors.

These double marriages dissolved the charm of Francis, and Lady Pendennyss determined to consult her wishes; a little pointed encouragement brought out the declaration of George, and he was accepted.

Francis, who had never communicated his feelings to any one but the lady, and that only indirectly, was crushed by the blow. He continued in public until the day of their union; was present, composed and silent; but it was the silence of a mountain whose volcanic contents had not reached the surface. The same day he disappeared, and every inquiry after him proved fruitless; search was baffled, and for seven years it was not known what had become of the general’s eldest son.

George on marrying resigned his commission, at the earnest entreaties of his wife, and retired to one of her seats, to the enjoyment of ease and domestic love. The countess was enthusiastically attached to him; and as motives for the indulgence of coquetry were wanting, her character became gradually improved by the contemplation of the excellent qualities of her generous husband.

A lurking suspicion of the cause of Francis’s sudden disappearance rendered her uneasy at times; but Marian was too much beloved, too happy, in the enjoyment of too many honors, and of too great wealth, to be open to the convictions of conscience. It is in our hours of pain and privation that we begin to feel its sting: if we are prosperous, we fancy we reap the fruits of our own merit; but if we are unfortunate, the voice of truth seldom fails to remind us that we are deserving of our fate: — a blessed provision of Providence that often makes the saddest hours of our earthly career the morn of a day that is to endure for ever.

General Denbigh and Lady Margaret both died within five years of the marriage of their favorite child, although both lived to see their descendant, in the person of the infant Lord Lumley.

The duke and his brother George were each blessed with offspring, and in these several descendants of the different branches of the family of Denbigh may be seen the different personages of our history. On the birth of her youngest child, the Lady Marian, the Countess of Pendennyss sustained a shock in her health from which she never wholly recovered: she became nervous, and lost most of her energy both of mind and body. Her husband was her solace; his tenderness remaining unextinguished, while his attentions increased.

As the fortune of Ives and Isabel put the necessity of a living out of the question, and no cure offering for the acceptance of the first, he was happy to avail himself of an offer to become domestic chaplain to his now intimate friend, Mr. Denbigh. For the first six years they were inmates of Pendennyss Castle. The rector of the parish was infirm, and averse to a regular assistant; but the unobtrusive services of Mr. Ives were not less welcome to the pastor than to his parishioners.

Employed in the duties which of right fell to the incumbent, and intrusted with the spiritual guardianship of the dependants of the castle, our young clergyman had ample occupation for all his time, if not a sufficient theatre for his usefulness. Isabel and himself remained the year round in Wales, and the first dawnings of education received by Lord Lumley were those he acquired conjointly with Francis from the care of the latter’s father. They formed, with the interval of the time spent by Mr. Denbigh and Lady Pendennyss in town in winter, but one family. To the gentleman, the attachment of the grateful Ives was as strong as it was lasting. Mrs. Ives never ceased to consider him as a self-devoted victim to her happiness; and although a far more brilliant lot had awaited him by the change, yet her own husband could not think it a more happy one.

The birth of Lady Marian had already, in its consequences, begun, to throw a gloom round the domestic comforts of Denbigh, when he was to sustain another misfortune in a separation from his friends.

Mr., now Dr. Ives, had early announced his firm intention, whenever an opportunity was afforded him, to enter into the fullest functions of his ministry, as a matter of duty. Such an opportunity now offered at B —— , and the doctor became its rector about the period Sir Edward became possessor of his paternal estate.

Denbigh tried every inducement within his power to keep the doctor in his own society. If as many thousands as his living would give him hundreds could effect it, they would have been at his service; but Denbigh understood the character of the divine too well to offer such an inducement: he however urged the claims of friendship to the utmost, but without success. The doctor acknowledged the hold both himself and family had gained upon his affections, but he added —

“Consider, my dear Mr. Denbigh, what we would have thought of one of the earlier followers of our Saviour, who from motives of convenience or worldly-mindedness could have deserted his sacred calling. Although the changes in the times may have rendered the modes of conducting them different, necessarily the duties remain the same. The minister of our holy religion who has once submitted to the call of his divine Master, must allow nothing but ungovernable necessity to turn him from the path he has entered on; and should he so far forget himself, I greatly fear he would plead, when too late to remedy the evil, his worldly duties, his cares, or even his misfortunes, in vain. Solemn and arduous are his obligations to labor, but when faithfully he has discharged these duties, oh! how glorious must be his reward.”

Before such opinions every barrier must fall, and the doctor entered into the cure of his parish without further opposition, though not without unceasing regret on the part of his friend. Their intercourse was, however, maintained by letter, and they also frequently met at Lumley Castle, a seat of the countess’s, within two days’ ride of the doctor’s parish, until her increasing indisposition rendered journeying impossible; then, indeed, the doctor extended his rides into Wales, but with longer intervals between his visits, though with the happiest effects to the objects of his journey.

Mr. Denbigh, worn down with watching and blasted hopes, under the direction of the spiritual watchfulness of the rector of B —— , became an humble, sincere, and pious Christian.

Chapter XLV.

It has been already mentioned, that the health of Lady Pendennyss suffered a severe shock, in giving birth to a daughter. Change of scene was prescribed as a remedy for her disorder, and Denbigh and his wife were on their return from a fruitless excursion amongst the northern lakes, in pursuit of amusement and relief for the latter when they were compelled to seek shelter from the fury of a sudden gust in the first building that offered. It was a farm-house of the better sort; and the attendants, carriages, and appearance of their guests, caused no little confusion to its simple inmates. A fire was lighted in the best parlor, and every effort was made by the inhabitants to contribute to the comforts of the travellers.

The countess and her husband were sitting in that kind of listless melancholy which had been too much the companion of their later hours, when in the interval of the storm, a male voice in an adjoining room commenced singing the following ballad, the notes being low, monotonous, but unusually sweet, and the enunciation so distinct, as to rende every syllable intelligible:

Oh! I have lived in endless pain,
And I have lived, alas! in vain,
For none regard my woe —
No father’s care conveyed the truth,
No mother’s fondness blessed my youth,
Ah! joys too great to know —

And Marian’s love, and Marian’s pride,
Have crushed the heart that would have died.
To save my Marian’s tears —
A brother’s hand has struck the blow
Oh! may that brother never know
Such madly sorrowing years!

But hush my griefs — and hush my song,
I’ve mourned in vain — I’ve mourned too long;
When none have come to soothe —
And dark’s the path, that lies before,
And dark have been the days of yore,
And all was dark in youth.

The maids employed around the person of their comfortless mistress, the valet of Denbigh engaged in arranging a dry coat for his master — all suspended their employments to listen in breathless silence to the mournful melody of the song.

But Denbigh himself had started from his seat at the first notes, and he continued until the voice ceased, gazing in vacant horror in the direction of the sounds. A door opened from the parlor to the room of the musician; he rushed through it, and there, in a kind of shed to the building, which hardly sheltered him from the fury of the tempest, clad in the garments of the extremest poverty, with an eye roving in madness, and a body rocking to and fro from mental inquietude, he beheld seated on a stone the remains of his long lost brother, Francis.

The language of the song was too plain to be misunderstood. The truth glared around George with a violence that dazzled his brain; but he saw it all, he felt it all, and rushing to the feet of his brother, he exclaimed in horror, pressing his hands between his own, —

“Francis — my own brother — do you not know me?”

The maniac regarded him with a vacant gaze, but the voice and the person recalled the compositions of his more reasonable moments to his recollection; pushing back the hair of George, so as to expose his fine forehead to view, he contemplated him for a few moments, and then continued to sing, in a voice still rendered sweeter than before by his faint impressions:

His raven locks, that richly curled,
His eye, that proud defiance hurled.
Have stol’n my Marian’s love!
Had I been blest by nature’s grace,
With such a form, with such a face,
Could I so treacherous prove?

And what is man — and what is care —
That he should let such passions tear
The bases of the soul!
Oh! you should do, as I have done —
And having pleasure’s summit won,
Each bursting sob control!

On ending the last stanza, the maniac released his brother, and broke into the wildest laugh of madness.

“Francis! — Oh! Francis, my brother,” cried George, in bitterness. A piercing shriek drew his eye to the door he had passed through — on its threshold lay the senseless body of his wife. The distracted husband forgot everything in the situation of his Marian, and raising her in his arms, he exclaimed, —

“Marian — my Marian, revive — look up — know me.”

Francis had followed him, and now stood by his side, gazing intently on the lifeless body; his looks became more soft — his eye glanced less wildly — he too cried, —

“Marian — My Marian.”

There was a mighty effort; nature could endure no more, he broke a blood-vessel and fell at the feet of George. They flew to his assistance, giving the countess to her women; but he was dead.

For seventeen years Lady Pendennyss survived this shock: but having reached her own abode, during that long period she never left her room.

In the confidence of his surviving hopes, Doctor Ives and his wife were made acquainted with the real cause of the grief of their friend, but the truth went no further. Denbigh was the guardian of his three young cousins, the duke, his sister, and young George Denbigh; these, with his son, Lord Lumley, and daughter, Lady Marian, were removed from the melancholy of the Castle to scenes better adapted to their opening prospects in life. Yet Lumley was fond of the society of his father, and finding him a youth endowed beyond his years, the care of his parent was early turned to the most important of his duties in that sacred office; and when he yielded to his wishes to go into the army, he knew he went a youth of sixteen, possessed of principles and self-denial that would become a man of five-and-twenty.

General Wilson completed the work which the father had begun; and Lord Lumley formed a singular exception to the character of most of his companions.

At the close of the Spanish war, he returned home, and was just in time to receive the parting breath of his mother.

A few days before her death, the countess requested that her children might be made acquainted with her history and misconduct; and she placed in the hands of her son a letter; with directions for him to open it after her decease. It was addressed to both children, and after recapitulating generally the principal events of her life, continued:

“Thus, my children, you perceive the consequences of indulgence and hardness of heart, which made me insensible to the sufferings of others, and regardless of the plainest dictates of justice. Self was my idol. The love of admiration, which was natural to me, was increased by the flatterers who surrounded me; and had the customs of our country suffered royalty to descend in their unions to a grade in life below their own, your uncle would have escaped the fangs of my baneful coquetry.

“Oh! Marian, my child, never descend so low as to practise those arts which have degraded your unhappy mother. I would impress on you, as a memorial of my parting affection, these simple truths — that coquetry stands next to the want of chastity in the scale of female vices; it is in fact a kind of mental prostitution; it is ruinous to all that delicacy of feeling which gives added lustre to female charms; it is almost destructive to modesty itself. A woman who has been addicted to its practice, may strive long and in vain to regain that singleness of heart, which can bind her up so closely in her husband and children as to make her a good wife or a mother; and if it should have degenerated into habit, it may lead to the awful result of infidelity to her marriage vows.

“It is vain for a coquette to pretend to religion; its practice involves hypocrisy, falsehood, and deception — everything that is mean — everything that is debasing. In short, as it is bottomed on selfishness and pride, where it has once possessed the mind, it will only yield to the truth-displaying banners of the cross. This, and this only, can remove the evil; for without it she, whom the charms of youth and beauty have enabled to act the coquette, will descend into the vale of life, altered, it is true, but not amended. She will find the world, with its allurements, clinging around her parting years, in vain regrets for days that are flown, and in mercenary views for her descendants. Heaven bless you, my children, console and esteem your inestimable father while he yet remains with you; and place your reliance on that Heavenly Parent who will never desert those who seek him in sincerity and love. Your dying mother,

“M. PENDENNYSS.”

This letter, evidently written under the excitement of deep remorse, made a great impression on both her children. In Lady Marian it was pity, regret, and abhorrence of the fault which had been the principal cause of the wreck of her mother’s peace of mind; but in her brother, now Earl of Pendennyss, these feelings were united with a jealous dread of his own probable lot in the chances of matrimony.

His uncle had been the supposed heir to a more elevated title than his own, but he was now the actual possessor of as honorable a name, and of much larger revenues. The great wealth of his maternal grandfather, and the considerable estate of his own father, were, or would soon be, centred in himself; and if a woman as amiable, as faultless, as affection had taught him to believe his mother to be, could yield in her situation to the lure of worldly honors, had he not great reason to dread, that a hand might be bestowed at some day upon himself, when the heart would point out some other destination, if the real wishes of its owner were consulted?

Pendennyss was modest by nature, and humble from principle, though by no means distrustful; yet the shock of discovering his mother’s fault, the gloom occasioned by her death and his father’s declining health, sometimes led him into a train of reflections which, at others, he would have fervently deprecated.

A short time after the decease of the countess, Mr. Denbigh, finding his constitution fast giving way, under the wasting of a decline he had been in for a year, resolved to finish his days in the abode of his Christian friend, Doctor Ives. For several years they had not met; increasing duties and infirmities on both sides having interrupted their visits.

By easy stages he left the residence of his son in Wales, and accompanied by both his children he reached Lumley Castle much exhausted; here he took a solemn and final leave of Marian, unwilling that she should so soon witness again the death of another parent, and dismissing the earl’s. equipage and attendants a short day’s ride from B —— , they proceeded alone to the rectory.

A letter had been forwarded acquainting the doctor of his approaching visit, wishing it to be perfectly private, but not alluding to its object, and naming a day, a week later than the one on which he arrived. This plan was altered on perceiving the torch of life more rapidly approaching the socket than he had at first supposed. His unexpected appearance and reception are known. Denbigh’s death and the departure of his son followed; Francis having been Pendennyss’s companion to the tomb of his ancestors in Westmoreland.

The earl had a shrinking delicacy, under the knowledge of his family history, that made him anxious to draw all eyes from the contemplation of his mother’s conduct; how far the knowledge of it had extended in society he could not know, but he wished it buried with her in the tomb. The peculiar manner of his father’s death would attract notice, and might recall attention to the prime cause of his disorder; as yet all was veiled, and he wished the doctor’s family to let it remain so. It was, however, impossible that the death of a man of Mr. Denbigh’s rank should be unnoticed in the prints, and the care of Francis dictated the simple truth without comments, as it appeared. As regarded the Moseleys, what was more natural than that the son of Mr. Denbigh should also be Mr. Denbigh?

In the presence of the rector’s family no allusions were made to their friends, and the villagers and the neighborhood spoke of them as old and young Mr. Denbigh.

The name of Lord Lumley, now Earl of Pendennyss, was known to the whole British nation; but the long retirement of his father and mother had driven them almost from the recollection of their friends. Even Mrs. Wilson supposed her favorite hero a Lumley. Pendennyss Castle had been for centuries the proud residence of that family; and the change of name in its possessor was forgotten with the circumstances that had led to it.

When, therefore, Emily met the earl so unexpectedly the second time at the rectory, she, of course, with all her companions, spoke of him as Mr. Denbigh. On that occasion, Pendennyss had called in person, in expectation of meeting his kinsman, Lord Bolton; but, finding him absent, he could not resist his desire to visit the rectory. Accordingly, he sent his carriage and servants on to London, leaving them at a convenient spot, and arrived on foot at the house of Dr. Ives. From the same motives which had influenced him before — a wish to indulge, undisturbed by useless ceremony, his melancholy reflections — he desired that his name might not be mentioned.

This was an easy task. Both Doctor and Mrs. Ives had called him, when a child, George or Lumley, and were unused to his new appellation of Pendennyss; indeed, it rather recalled painful recollections to them all.

It may be remembered that circumstances removed the necessity of any introduction to Mrs. Wilson and her party; and the difficulty in that instance was happily got rid of.

The earl had often heard Emily Moseley spoken of by his friends, and in their letters they frequently mentioned her name as connected with their pleasures and employments, and always with an affection Pendennyss thought exceeding that which they manifested for their son’s wife; and Mrs Ives, the evening before, to remove unpleasant thoughts, had given him a lively description of her person and character. The earl’s curiosity had been a little excited to see this paragon of female beauty and virtue; and, unlike most curiosity on such subjects, he was agreeably disappointed by the examination. He wished to know more, and made interest with the doctor to assist him to continue the incognito with which accident had favored him.

The doctor objected on the ground of principle, and the earl desisted; but the beauty of Emily, aided by her character, had made an impression not to be easily shaken off, and Pendennyss returned to the charge.

His former jealousies were awakened in proportion to his admiration; and, after some time, he threw himself on the mercy of the divine, by declaring his new motive, but without mentioning his parents. The doctor pitied him, for he scanned his feelings thoroughly, and consented to keep silent, but laughingly declared it was bad enough for a divine to be accessory to, much less aiding in a deception; and that he knew if Emily and Mrs. Wilson learnt his imposition, he would lose ground in their favor by the discovery.

“Surely, George,” said the doctor with a laugh, “you don’t mean to marry the young lady as Mr. Denbigh?”

“Oh, no! it is too soon to think of marrying her at all,” replied the earl with a smile; “but, somehow, I should like to see what my reception in the world will be as plain Mr. Denbigh, unprovided for and unknown.”

“No doubt, my lord,” said the rector archly, “in proportion to your merits, very unfavorably indeed; but then your humility will be finally elevated by the occasional praises I have heard Mrs. Wilson lavish on your proper character of late.”

“I am much indebted to her partiality,” continued the earl mournfully; then throwing off his gloomy thoughts he added, “I wonder, my dear doctor, your goodness did not set her right in the latter particular.”

“Why, she has hardly given me an opportunity; delicacy and my own feelings have kept me very silent on the subject of your family to any of that connexion. They think, I believe, I was a rector in Wales, instead of your father’s chaplain; and somehow,” continued the doctor, smiling on his wife, “the association with your late parents was so connected in my mind with my most romantic feelings, that although I have delighted in it, I have seldom alluded to it in conversation at all. Mrs. Wilson has spoken of you but twice in my hearing, and that since she has expected to meet you; your name has doubtless recalled the remembrance of her husband.”

“I have many, many reasons to remember the general with gratitude,” cried the earl with fervor; “but doctor, do not forget my incognito: only call me George; I ask no more.”

The plan of Pendennyss was put in execution. Day after day he lingered in Northamptonshire, until his principles and character had grown upon the esteem of the Moseleys in the manner we have mentioned.

His frequent embarrassments were from the dread and shame of a detection. With Sir Herbert Nicholson he had a narrow escape, and Mrs. Fitzgerald and Lord Henry Stapleton he of course avoided; for having gone so far, he was determined to persevere to the end. Egerton he thought knew him, and he disliked his character and manners.

When Chatterton appeared most attentive to Emily, the candor and good opinion of that young nobleman made the earl acquainted with his wishes and his situation. Pendennyss was too generous not to meet his rival on fair grounds. His cousin and the duke were requested to use their united influence secretly to obtain the desired station for the baron. The result is known, and Pendennyss trusted his secret to Chatterton; he took him to London, gave him in charge to Derwent, and returned to prosecute his own suit. His note from Bolton Castle was a ruse to conceal his character, as he knew the departure of the baronet’s family to an hour, and had so timed his visit to the earl as not to come in collision with the Moseleys.

“Indeed, my lord,” cried the doctor to him one day, “your scheme goes on swimmingly, and I am only afraid when your mistress discovers the imposition, you will find your rank producing a different effect from what you have apprehended.”

Chapter XLVI.

But Dr. Ives was mistaken. Had he seen the sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks of Miss Moseley, the smile of satisfaction and happiness which played on the usually thoughtful face of Mrs. Wilson, when the earl handed them into his own carriage, as they left his house on the evening of the discovery, the doctor would have gladly acknowledged the failure of his prognostics. In truth, there was no possible event that, under the circumstances, could have given both aunt and niece such heartfelt pleasure, as the knowledge that Denbigh and the earl were the same person.

Pendennyss stood holding the door of the carriage in his hand, irresolute how to act, when Mrs. Wilson said —

“Surely, my lord, you sup with us.”

“A thousand thanks, my dear madam, for the privilege,” cried the earl, as he sprang into the coach; the door was closed, and they drove off.

“After the explanations of this morning, my lord,” said Mrs. Wilson, willing to remove all doubts between him and Emily, and perhaps anxious to satisfy her own curiosity, “it will be fastidious to conceal our desire to know more of your movements. How came your pocket-book in the possession of Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald!” cried Pendennyss, in astonishment “I lost the book in one of the rooms of the Lodge, and supposed it had fallen into your hands, and betrayed my disguise by Emily’s rejection of me, and your own altered eye. Was I mistaken then in both?”

Mrs. Wilson now, for the first time, explained their real grounds for refusing his offers, which, in the morning, she had loosely mentioned as owing to a misapprehension of his just character, and recounted the manner of the book falling into the hands of Mrs. Fitzgerald.

The earl listened in amazement, and after musing with himself, exclaimed —

“I remember taking it from my pocket, to show Colonel Egerton some singular plants I had gathered, and think I first missed it when returning to the place where I had then laid it; in some of the side-pockets were letters from Marian, addressed to me, properly; and I naturally thought they had met your eye.”

Mrs. Wilson and Emily immediately thought Egerton the real villain, who had caused both themselves and Mrs. Fitzgerald so much uneasiness, and the former mentioned her suspicions to the earl.

“Nothing more probable, dear madam,” cried he, “and this explains to me his startled looks when we first met, and his evident dislike to my society, for he must have seen my person, though the carriage hid him from my sight.”

That Egerton was the wretch, and that through his agency the pocket-book had been carried to the cottage, they all now agreed, and turned to more pleasant subjects.

“Master! — here — master,” said Peter Johnson, as he stood at a window of Mr. Benfield’s room, stirring a gruel for the old gentleman’s supper, and stretching his neck and straining his eyes to distinguish objects by the light of the lamps— “I do think there is Mr. Denbigh, handing Miss Emmy from a coach, covered with gold, and two footmen, all dizened with pride like.”

The spoon fell from the hands of Mr. Benfield. He rose briskly from his seat, and adjusting his dress, took the arm of the steward, and proceeded to the drawing-room. While these several movements were in operation, which consumed some time, the old bachelor relieved the tedium of Peter’s impatience by the following speech: —

“Mr. Denbigh! — what, back? — I thought he never could let that rascal John shoot him and forsake Emmy after all; (here the old gentleman suddenly recollected Denbigh’s marriage) but now, Peter, it can do no good either. — I remember, that when my friend the Earl of Gosford “ — (and again he was checked by the image of the card-table and the viscountess) “but, Peter,” he said with great warmth, “we can go down and see him, notwithstanding.”

“Mr. Denbigh!” exclaimed Sir Edward, in astonishment, when he saw the companion of his sister and child enter the drawing-room, “you are welcome once more to your old friends: your sudden retreat from us gave us much pain; but we suppose Lady Laura had too many attractions to allow us to keep you any longer in Norfolk.”

The good Baronet sighed, as he held out his hand to the man whom he had once hoped to receive as a son.

“Neither Lady Laura nor any other lady, my dear Sir Edward,” cried the earl, as he took the baronet’s hand, “drove me from you, but the frowns of your own fair daughter; and here she is, ready to acknowledge her offence, and, I hope, to atone for it.”

John, who knew of the refusal of his sister, and was not a little displeased with the cavalier treatment he had received at Denbigh’s hands, felt indignant at such improper levity in a married man, and approached with —

“Your servant, Mr. Denbigh — I hope my Lady Laura is well.”

Pendennyss understood his look, and replied very gravely —

“Your servant, Mr. John Moseley — my Lady Laura is, or certainly ought to be, very well, as she has this moment gone to a rout, accompanied by her husband.”

The quick eye of John glanced from the earl to his aunt, to Emily; a lurking smile was on all their features. The heightened color of his sister, the flashing eyes of the young nobleman, the face of his aunt, all told him that something uncommon was about to be explained; and, yielding to his feelings, he caught the hand which Pendennyss extended to him, and cried,

“Denbigh, I see — I feel — there is some unaccountable mistake — we are— “

“Brothers!” said the earl, emphatically. “Sir Edward — dear Lady Moseley, I throw myself on your mercy. I am an impostor: when your hospitality received me into your house, it is true you admitted George Denbigh, but he is better known as the Earl of Pendennyss.”

“The Earl of Pendennyss!” exclaimed Lady Moseley, in a glow of delight, as she saw at once through some juvenile folly a deception which promised both happiness and rank to one of her children. “Is it possible, my dear Charlotte, that this is your unknown friend?”

“The very same, Anne,” replied the smiling widow, “and guilty of a folly that, at all events, removes the distance between us a little, by showing that he is subject to the failings of mortality. But the masquerade is ended, and I hope you and Edward will not only treat him as an earl, but receive him as a son.”

“Most willingly — most willingly,” cried the baronet, with great energy; “be he prince, peer, or beggar, he is the preserver of my child, and as such he is always welcome.”

The door now slowly opened, and the venerable bachelor appeared on its threshold.

Pendennyss, who had never forgotten the good will manifested to him by Mr. Benfield, met him with a look of pleasure, as he expressed his happiness at seeing him again in London.

“I never have forgotten your goodness in sending honest Peter such a distance from home, on the object of his visit. I now regret that a feeling of shame occasioned my answering your kindness so laconically:” turning to Mrs. Wilson, he added, “for a time I knew not how to write a letter even, being afraid to sign my proper appellation, and ashamed to use my adopted.”

“Mr. Denbigh, I am happy to see you. I did send Peter, it is true, to London, on a message to you — but it is all over now,” the old man sighed— “Peter, however, escaped the snares of this wicked place; and if you are happy, I am content. I remember when the Earl of— “

“Pendennyss!” exclaimed the other, “imposed on the hospitality of a worthy man, under an assumed appellation, in order to pry into the character of a lovely female, who was only too good for him, and who now is willing to forget his follies, and make him not only the happiest of men, but the nephew of Mr. Benfield.”

During this speech, the countenance of Mr. Benfield had manifested evident emotion: he looked from one to another, until he saw Mrs. Wilson smiling near him. Pointing to the earl with his finger, he stood unable to speak, as she answered simply, —

“Lord Pendennyss.”

“And Emmy dear — will you — will you marry him?” cried Mr. Benfield, suppressing his feelings, to give utterance to his question.

Emily felt for her uncle, and blushing deeply, with great frankness she put her hand in that of the earl, who pressed it with rapture again and again to his lips.

Mr. Benfield sank into a chair, and with a heart softened by emotion, burst into, tears.

“Peter,” he cried, struggling with his feelings, “I am now ready to depart in peace — I shall see my darling Emmy happy, and to her care I shall commit you.”

Emily, deeply affected with his love, threw herself into his arms, in a torrent of tears, and was removed from them by Pendennyss, in consideration for the feelings of both.

Jane felt no emotions of envy for her sister’s happiness; on the contrary, she rejoiced in common with the rest of their friends in her brightening prospects, and they all took their seats at the supper table, as happy a group as was contained in the wide circle of the metropolis. A few more particulars served to explain the mystery sufficiently, until a more fitting opportunity made them acquainted with the whole of the earl’s proceedings.

“My Lord Pendennyss,” said Sir Edward, pouring out a glass of wine, and passing the bottle to his neighbor: “I drink your health — and happiness to yourself and my darling child.”

The toast was drunk by all the family, and the earl replied to the compliments with his thanks and smiles, while Emily could only notice them with her blushes and tears.

But this was an opportunity not to be lost by the honest steward, who, from affection and long services, had been indulged in familiarities exceeding any other of his master’s establishment. He very deliberately helped himself to a glass of wine, and drawing near the seat of the bride-elect, with an humble reverence, commenced his speech as follows:

“My dear Miss Emmy: — Here’s hoping you’ll live to be a comfort to your honored father, and your honored mother, and my dear honored master, and yourself, and Madam Wilson.” The steward paused to clear his voice, and profited by the delay to cast his eye round the table to collect the names; “and Mr. John Moseley, and sweet Mrs. Moseley, and pretty Miss Jane” (Peter had lived too long in the world to compliment one handsome woman in the presence of another, without the qualifying his speech a little); “and Mr. Lord Denbigh — earl like, as they say he now is, and” — Peter stopped a moment to deliberate, and then making another reference, he put the glass to his lips; but before he had got half through its contents, recollected himself, and replenishing it to the brim, with a smile acknowledging his forgetfulness, continued, “and the Rev. Mr. Francis Ives, and the Rev. Mrs. Francis Ives.”

Here the unrestrained laugh of John interrupted him; and considering with himself that he had included the whole family, he finished his bumper. Whether it was pleasure at his own eloquence in venturing on so long a speech, or the unusual allowance, that affected the steward, he was evidently much satisfied with himself, and stepped back behind his master’s chair, in great good humor.

Emily, as she thanked him, noticed a tear in the eye of the old man, as he concluded his oration, that would have excused a thousand breaches of fastidious ceremony. But Pendennyss rose from his seat, and took him kindly by the hand, and returned his own thanks for his good wishes.

“I owe you much good will, Mr. Johnson, for, your two journeys in my behalf, and trust I never shall forget the manner in which you executed your last mission in particular. We are friends, I trust, for life.”

“Thank you — thank your honor’s lordship,” said the steward, almost unable to utter; “I hope you may live long, to make dear little Miss Emmy as happy — as I know she ought to be.”

“But really, my lord,” cried John, observing that the steward’s affection for his sister had affected her to tears, “it was a singular circumstance, the meeting of the four passengers of the stage so soon at your hotel.”

Moseley explained his meaning to the rest of the company.

“Not so much so as you imagine,” said the earl in reply; “yourself and Johnson were in quest of me. Lord Henry Stapleton was under an engagement to meet me that evening at the hotel, as we were both going to his sister’s wedding — I having arranged the thing with him by letter previously; and General M’Carthy was also in search of me, on business relating to his niece, the Donna Julia. He had been to Annerdale House, and, through my servants, heard I was at an hotel. It was the first interview between us, and not quite as amicable a one as has since been had in Wales. During my service in Spain, I saw the Conde, but not the general. The letter he gave me was from the Spanish ambassador, claiming a right to require Mrs. Fitzgerald from our government, and deprecating my using an influence to counteract his exertions” —

“Which you refused,” said Emily, eagerly.

“Not refused,” answered the earl, smiling at her warmth, while he admired her friendly zeal, “for it was unnecessary: there is no such power vested in the ministry. But I explicitly told the general, I would oppose any violent measures to restore her to her country and a convent. From the courts, I apprehended nothing for my fair friend.”

“Your honor — my lord,” said Peter, who had been listening with great attention, “if I may presume just to ask two questions, without offence.”

“Say on, my good friend,” said Pendennyss, with an encouraging smile.

“Only” continued the steward — hemming, to give proper utterance to his thoughts— “I wish to know, whether you stayed in that same street after you left the hotel — for Mr. John Moseley and I had a slight difference in opinion about it.”

The earl smiled, having caught the arch expression of John, and replied —

“I believe I owe you an apology, Moseley, for my cavalier treatment; but guilt makes us all cowards. I found you were ignorant of my incognito, and I was equally ashamed to continue it, or to become the relater of my own folly. Indeed,” he continued, smiling on Emily as he spoke, “I thought your sister had pronounced the opinion of all reflecting people on my conduct. I went out of town, Johnson, at day-break. What is the other query?”

“Why, my lord,” said Peter, a little disappointed at finding his first surmise untrue, “that outlandish tongue your honor used— “

“Was Spanish,” cried the earl.

“And not Greek, Peter,” said his master, gravely. “I thought, from the words you endeavored to repeat to me, that you had made a mistake. You need not be disconcerted, however, for I know several members of the parliament of this realm who could not talk the Greek language, that is, fluently. So it can be no disgrace to a serving-man to be ignorant of it.”

Somewhat consoled to find himself as well off as the representatives of his country, Peter resumed his station in silence, when the carriages began to announce the return from the opera. The earl took his leave, and the party retired to rest.

The thanksgivings of Emily that night, ere she laid her head on her pillow, were the purest offering of mortal innocence. The prospect before her was unsullied by a cloud and she poured out her heart in the fullest confidence of pious love and heartfelt gratitude.

As early on the succeeding morning as good-breeding would allow, and much earlier than the hour sanctioned by fashion, the earl and Lady Marian stopped in the carriage of the latter at the door of Sir Edward Moseley. Their reception was the most flattering that could be offered to people of their stamp; sincere, cordial, and, with a trifling exception in Lady Moseley, unfettered with any useless ceremonies.

Emily felt herself drawn to her new acquaintance with a fondness which doubtless grew out of her situation with her brother; which soon found reasons enough in the soft, lady-like, and sincere manners of Lady Marian, to, justify her attachment on her own account.

There was a very handsome suite of drawing-rooms in Sir Edward’s house, and the communicating doors were carelessly open. Curiosity to view the furniture, or some such trifling reasons, induced the earl to find his way into the one adjoining that in which the family were seated. It was unquestionably a dread of being lost in a strange house, that induced him to whisper a request to the blushing Emily, to be his companion; and lastly, it must have been nothing but a knowledge that a vacant room was easier viewed than one filled with company, that prevented any one from following them. John smiled archly at Grace, doubtless in approbation of the comfortable time his friend was likely to enjoy, in his musings on the taste of their mother. How the door became shut, we have ever been at a loss to imagine.

The company without were too good-natured and well satisfied with each other to miss the absentees, until the figure of the earl appeared at the reopened door, beckoning, with a face of rapture, to Lady Moseley and Mrs. Wilson. Sir Edward next disappeared, then Jane, then Grace — then Marian; until John began to think a tête-à-tête with Mr. Benfield was to be his morning’s amusement.

The lovely countenance of his wife, however, soon relieved his ennui, and John’s curiosity was gratified by an order to prepare for his sister’s wedding the following week.

Emily might have blushed more than common during this interview, but it is certain she did not smile less; and the earl, Lady Marian assured Sir Edward, was so very different a creature from what he had recently been, that she could hardly think it was the same sombre gentleman with whom she had passed the last few months in Wales and Westmoreland.

A messenger was dispatched for Dr. Ives and their friends at B —— , to be witnesses to the approaching nuptials; and Lady Moseley at length found an opportunity of indulging her taste for splendor on this joyful occasion.

Money was no consideration; and Mr. Benfield absolutely pined at the thought that the great wealth of the earl put it out of his power to contribute in any manner to the comfort of his Emmy. However, a fifteenth codicil was framed by the ingenuity of Peter and his master, and if it did not contain the name of George Denbigh, it did that of his expected second son, Roderick Benfield Denbigh, to the qualifying circumstance of twenty thousand pounds, as a bribe for the name.

“And a very pretty child, I dare say, it will be,” said the steward, as he placed the paper in its repository. “I don’t know that I ever saw, your honor, a couple that I thought would make a handsomer pair like, except— “ Peter’s mind dwelt on his own youthful form coupled with the smiling graces of Patty Steele.

“Yes! they are as handsome as they are good!” replied his master. “I remember now, when our Speaker took his third wife, the world said that they were as pretty a couple as there was at court. But my Emma and the earl will be a much finer pair. Oh! Peter Johnson; they are young, and rich, and beloved; but, after all, it avails but little if they be not good.”

“Good!” cried the steward in astonishment; “they are as good as angels.”

The master’s ideas of human excellence had suffered a heavy blow in the view of his viscountess, but he answered mildly,

“As good as mankind can well be.”

Chapter XLVII.

The warm weather had now commenced; and Sir Edward, unwilling to be shut up in London at a time the appearance of vegetation gave the country a new interest, and accustomed for many years of his life to devote an hour in his garden each morn, had taken a little ready furnished cottage a short ride from his residence, with the intention of frequenting it until after the birthday. Thither then Pendennyss took his bride from the altar, and a few days were passed by the newly married pair in this little asylum.

Doctor Ives, with Francis, Clara, and their mother, had obeyed the summons with an alacrity in proportion to the joy they felt on receiving it, and the former had the happiness of officiating on the occasion. It would have been easy for the wealth of the earl to procure a license to enable them to marry in the drawing-room; the permission was obtained, but neither Emily nor himself felt a wish to utter their vows in any other spot than at the altar, and in the house of their Maker.

If there was a single heart that felt the least emotion of regret or uneasiness, it was Lady Moseley, who little relished the retirement of the cottage on so joyful an occasion; but Pendennyss silenced her objections by good-humoredly replying —

“The fates have been so kind to me, in giving me castles and seats, you ought to allow me, my dear Lady Moseley, the only opportunity I shall probably ever have of enjoying love in a cottage.”

A few days, however, removed the uneasiness of the good matron, who had the felicity within the week of seeing her daughter initiated mistress of Annerdale House.

The morning of their return to this noble mansion the earl presented himself in St. James’s Square, with the intelligence of their arrival, and smiling as he bowed to Mrs. Wilson, he continued —

“And to escort you, dear madam, to your new abode.”

Mrs. Wilson started with surprise, and with a heart beating quick with emotion, she required an explanation of his words.

“Surely, dearest Mrs. Wilson — more than aunt — my mother — you cannot mean, after having trained my Emily through infancy to maturity in the paths of duty, to desert her in the moment of her greatest trial. I am the pupil of your husband,” he continued, taking her hands in his own with reverence and affection; “we are the children of your joint care, and one home, as there is but one heart, must in future contain us.”

Mrs. Wilson had wished for, but hardly dared to expect this invitation. It was now urged from the right quarter, and in a manner that was as sincere as it was gratifying. Unable to conceal her tears, the good widow pressed the hand of Pendennyss to her lips as she murmured out her thanks. Sir Edward was prepared also to lose his sister; but unwilling to relinquish the pleasure of her society, he urged her making a common residence between the two families.

“Pendennyss has spoken truth, my dear brother,” cried she, recovering her voice; “Emily is the child of my care and my love — the two beings I love best in this world are now united — but,” she added, pressing Lady Moseley to her bosom, “my heart is large enough for you all; you are of my blood, and my gratitude for your affection is boundless. There shall be but one large family of us; and although our duties may separate us for a time, we will, I trust, ever meet in tenderness and love, though with George and Emily I will take up my abode.”

“I hope your house in Northamptonshire is not to be vacant always,” said Lady Moseley to the earl, anxiously.

“I have no house there, my dear madam,” he replied; “when I thought myself about to succeed in my suit before, I directed a lawyer at Bath, where Sir William Harris resided most of his time, to endeavor to purchase the deanery, whenever a good opportunity offered: in my discomfiture,” he added, smiling, “I forgot to countermand the order, and he purchased it immediately on its being advertised. For a short time it was an incumbrance to me, but it is now applied to its original purpose. It is the sole property of the Countess of Pendennyss, and I doubt not you will see it often and agreeably tenanted.”

This intelligence gave great satisfaction to his friends, and the expected summer restored to even Jane a gleam of her former pleasure.

If there be bliss in this life, approaching in any degree to the happiness of the blessed, it is the fruition of long and ardent love, where youth, innocence, piety, and family concord, smile upon the union. And all these were united in the case of the new-married pair; but happiness in this world cannot or does not, in any situation, exist without alloy.

The peace of mind and fortitude of Emily were fated to receive a blow, as unlooked for to herself as it was unexpected to the world. Bonaparte appeared in France, and Europe became in motion.

From the moment the earl heard the intelligence his own course was decided. His regiment was the pride of the army, and that it would be ordered to join the duke he did not entertain a doubt.

Emily was, therefore, in some little measure prepared for the blow. It is at such moments as our own acts, or events affecting us, get to be without our control, that faith in the justice and benevolence of God is the most serviceable to the Christian. When others spend their time in useless regrets he is piously resigned: it even so happens, that when others mourn he can rejoice.

The sound of the bugle, wildly winding its notes, broke on the stillness of the morning in the little village in which was situated the cottage tenanted by Sir Edward Moseley. Almost concealed by the shrubbery which surrounded its piazza, stood the forms of the Countess of Pendennyss and her sister Lady Marian, watching eagerly the appearance of those whose approach was thus announced.

The carriage of the ladies, with its idle attendants, was in waiting at a short distance; and the pale face but composed resignation of its mistress, indicated a struggle between conflicting duties.

File after file of heavy horse passed them in military pomp, and the wistful gaze of the two females had scanned them in vain for the well known, much-beloved countenance of the leader. At length a single horseman approached them, riding deliberately and musing: their forms met his eye, and in an instant Emily was pressed to the bosom of her husband.

“It is the doom of a soldier,” said the earl, dashing a tear from his eye; “I had hoped that the peace of the world would not again be assailed for years, and that ambition and jealousy would yield a respite to our bloody profession; but cheer up, my love — hope for the best — your trust is not in the things of this life, and your happiness is without the power of man.”

“Ah! Pendennyss — my husband,” sobbed Emily, sinking on his bosom, “take with you my prayers — my love — everything that can console you — everything that may profit you. I will not tell you to be careful of your life; your duty teaches you that. As a soldier, expose it; as a husband guard it; and return to me as you leave me, a lover, the dearest of men, and a Christian.”

Unwilling to prolong the pain of parting, the earl gave his wife a last embrace, held Marian affectionately to his bosom, and mounting his horse, was out of sight in an instant.

Within a few days of the departure of Pendennyss, Chatterton was surprised with the entrance of his mother and Catharine. His reception of them was that of a respectful child, and his wife exerted herself to be kind to connexions she could not love, in order to give pleasure to a husband she adored. Their tale was soon told. Lord and Lady Herriefield were separated; and the dowager, alive to the dangers of a young woman in Catharine’s situation, and without a single principle on which to rest the assurance of her blameless conduct in future, had brought her to England, in order to keep off disgrace, by residing with her child herself.

There was nothing in his wife to answer the expectations with which Lord Herriefield married. She had beauty, but with that he was already sated; her simplicity, which, by having her attention drawn elsewhere, had at first charmed him, was succeeded by the knowing conduct of a determined follower of the fashions, and a decided woman of the world.

It had never struck the viscount as impossible that an artless and innocent girl would fall in love with his faded and bilious face, but the moment Catharine betrayed the arts of a manager, he saw at once the artifice that had been practised; of course he ceased to love her.

Men are flattered for a season with notice that has been unsought, but it never fails to injure the woman who practises it in the opinion of the other sex, in time. Without a single feeling in common, without a regard to anything but self, in either husband or wife, it could not but happen that a separation must follow, or their days be spent in wrangling and misery. Catharine willingly left her husband; her husband more willingly got rid of her.

During all these movements the dowager had a difficult game to play. It was unbecoming her to encourage the strife, and it was against her wishes to suppress it; she therefore moralized with the peer, and frowned upon her daughter.

The viscount listened to her truisms with the attention of a boy who is told by a drunken father how wicked it is to love liquor, and heeded them about as much; while Kate, mistress at all events of two thousand a year, minded her mother’s frowns as little as she regarded her smiles; both were indifferent to her.

A few days after the ladies left Lisbon, the viscount proceeded to Italy in company with the repudiated wife of a British naval officer; and if Kate was not guilty of an offence of equal magnitude, it was more owing to her mother’s present vigilance than to her previous care.

The presence of Mrs. Wilson was a great source of consolation to Emily in the absence of her husband; and as their longer abode in town was useless, the countess declining to be presented without the earl, the whole family decided upon a return into Northamptonshire.

The deanery had been furnished by order of Pendennyss immediately on his marriage; and its mistress hastened to take possession of her new dwelling. The amusement and occupation of this movement, the planning of little improvements, her various duties under her increased responsibilities, kept Emily from dwelling unduly upon the danger of her husband. She sought out amongst the first objects of her bounty the venerable peasant whose loss had been formerly supplied by Pendennyss on his first visit to B —— , after the death of his father. There might not have been the usual discrimination and temporal usefulness in this instance which generally accompanied her benevolent acts; but it was associated with the image of her husband, and it could excite no surprise in Mrs. Wilson, although it did in Marian, to see her sister driving two or three times a week to relieve the necessities of a man who appeared actually to be in want of nothing.

Sir Edward was again amongst those he loved, and his hospitable board was once more surrounded with the faces of his friends and neighbors. The good-natured Mr. Haughton was always a welcome guest at the hall, and met, soon after their return, the collected family of the baronet, at a dinner given by the latter to his children and one or two of his most intimate neighbors —

“My Lady Pendennyss,” cried Mr. Haughton, in the course of the afternoon, “I have news from the earl, which I know it will do your heart good to hear.”

Emily smiled at the prospect of hearing in any manner of her husband, although she internally questioned the probability of Mr. Haughton’s knowing anything of his movements, of which her daily letters did not apprise her.

“Will you favor me with the particulars of your intelligence, sir?” said the countess.

“He has arrived safe with his regiment near Brussels; heard it from a neighbor’s son who saw him enter the house occupied by Wellington, while he was standing in the crowd without, waiting to get a peep at the duke.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Wilson with a laugh, “Emily knew that ten days ago. Could your friend tell us anything of Bonaparte? We are much interested in his movements just now.”

Mr. Haughton, a good deal mortified to find his news stale, mused a moment, as if in doubt to proceed or not; but liking of all things to act the part of a newspaper, he continued —

“Nothing more than you see in the prints; but I suppose your ladyship has heard about Captain Jarvis too?”

“Why, no,” said Emily, laughing; “the movements of Captain Jarvis are not quite as interesting to me as those of Lord Pendennyss — has the duke made him an aide-de-camp?”

“Oh! no,” cried the other, exulting at his having something new: “as soon as he heard of the return of Boney, he threw up his commission and got married.”

“Married!” cried John; “not to Miss Harris, surely.”

“No; to a silly girl he met in Cornwall, who was fool enough to be caught with his gold lace. He married one day, and the next told his disconsolate wife and panic-stricken mother that the honor of the Jarvises must sleep until the supporters of the name became sufficiently numerous to risk them in the field of battle.”

“And how did Mrs. Jarvis and Sir Timo’s lady relish the news?” inquired John, expecting something ridiculous.

“Not at all,” rejoined Mr. Haughton; “the former sobbed, and said she had only married him for his bravery and red coat, and the lady exclaimed against the destruction of his budding honors.”

“How did it terminate?” asked Mrs. Wilson.

“Why, it seems while they were quarrelling about it, the War-Office cut the matter short by accepting his resignation, I suppose the commander-in-chief had learned his character; but the matter was warmly contested: they even drove the captain to a declaration of his principles.”

“And what kind of ones might they have been, Haughton?” said Sir Edward, drily.

“Republican.”

“Republican!” exclaimed two or three in surprise.

“Yes, liberty and equality, he contended, were his idols, and he could not find it in his heart to fight against Bonaparte.”

“A somewhat singular conclusion,” said Mr. Benfield, musing. “I remember when I sat in the House, there was a party who were fond of the cry of this said liberty; but when they got the power they did not seem to me to suffer people to go more at large than they went before; but I suppose they were diffident of telling the world their minds after they were put in such responsible stations, for fear of the effect of example.”

“Most people like liberty as servants but not as masters, uncle,” cried John, with a sneer.

“Captain Jarvis, it seems, liked it as a preservative against danger,” continued Mr. Haughton; “to avoid ridicule in his new neighborhood, he has consented to his father’s wishes, and turned merchant in the city again.”

“Where I sincerely hope he will remain,” cried John, who since the accident of the arbor, could not tolerate the unfortunate youth.

“Amen!” said Emily, in an under tone, heard only by her brother.

“But Sir Timo — what has become of Sir Timo — the good, honest merchant?” asked John.

“He has dropt the title, insists on being called plain Mr. Jarvis, and lives entirely in Cornwall. His hopeful son-in-law has gone with his regiment to Flanders; and Lady Egerton, being unable to live without her father’s assistance, is obliged to hide her consequence in the west also.”

The subject became now disagreeable to Lady Moseley, and it was changed. Such conversations made Jane more reserved and dissatisfied than ever. She had no one respectable excuse to offer for her partiality to her former lover, and when her conscience told her the mortifying fact, was apt to think that others remembered it too.

The letters from the continent now teemed with preparations for the approaching contest; and the apprehensions of our heroine and her friends increased, in proportion to the nearness of the struggle, on which hung not only the fates of thousands of individuals, but of adverse princes and mighty empires. In this confusion of interests, and of jarring of passions, there were offered prayers almost hourly for the safety of Pendennyss, which were as pure and ardent as the love which prompted them.

Chapter XLVIII.

Napoleon had commenced those daring and rapid movements, which for a time threw the peace of the world into the scale of fortune, and which nothing but the interposition of a ruling Providence could avert from their threatened success. As the the —— th dragoons wheeled into a field already deluged with English blood, on the heights of Quatre Bras, the eye of its gallant colonel saw a friendly battalion falling beneath the sabres of the enemy’s cuirassiers. The word was passed, the column opens, the sounds of the quivering bugle were heard for a moment above the roar of the cannon and the shouts of the combatants; the charge, sweeping like a whirlwind, fell heavily on those treacherous Frenchmen, who to-day had sworn fidelity to Louis, and to-morrow intended lifting their hands in allegiance to his rival.

“Spare my life in mercy,” cried an officer, already dreadfully wounded, who stood shrinking from the impending blow of an enraged Frenchman. An English dragoon dashed at the cuirassier, and with one blow severed his arm from his body.

“Thank God,” sighed the wounded officer, sinking beneath the horse’s feet.

His rescuer threw himself from the saddle, and raising the fallen man inquired into his wounds. It was Pendennyss, and it was Egerton. The wounded man groaned aloud, as he saw the face of him who had averted the fatal blow; but it was not the hour for explanations or confessions, other than those with which the dying soldiers endeavored to make their tardy peace with their God.

Sir Henry was given in charge to two slightly wounded British soldiers, and the earl remounted: the scattered troops were rallied at the sound of the trumpet, and again and again, led by their dauntless colonel, were seen in the thickest of the fray, with sabres drenched in blood, and voices hoarse with the shouts of victory.

The period between the battles of Quatre Bras and Waterloo was a trying one to the discipline and courage of the British army. The discomfited Prussians on their flank had been routed and compelled to retire, and in their front was an enemy, brave, skilful, and victorious, led by the greatest captain of the age. The prudent commander of the English forces fell back with dignity and reluctance to the field of Waterloo; here the mighty struggle was to terminate, and the eye of every experienced soldier looked on those eminences as on the future graves for thousands.

During this solemn interval of comparative inactivity the mind of Pendennyss dwelt on the affection, the innocence, the beauty and worth of his Emily, until the curdling blood, as he thought on her lot should his life be the purchase of the coming victory, warned him to quit the gloomy subject, for the consolations of that religion which only could yield him the solace his wounded feelings required. In his former campaigns the earl had been sensible of the mighty changes of death, and had ever kept in view the preparations necessary to meet it with hope and joy; but the world clung around him now, in the best affections of his nature, and it was only as he could picture the happy reunion with his Emily in a future life, that he could look on a separation in this without despair.

The vicinity of the enemy admitted of no relaxation in the strictest watchfulness in the British lines: and the comfortless night of the seventeenth was passed by the earl, and his Lieutenant Colonel, George Denbigh, on the same cloak, and under the open canopy of Heaven.

As the opening cannon of the enemy gave the signal for the commencing conflict, Pendennyss mounted his charger with a last thought on his distant wife. With a mighty struggle he tore her as it were from his bosom, and gave the remainder of the day to duty.

Who has not heard of the events of that fearful hour, on which the fate of Europe hung as it were suspended in the scale? On one side supported by the efforts of desperate resolution, guided by the most consummate art; and on the other defended by a discipline and enduring courage almost without a parallel.

The indefatigable Blucher arrived, and the star of Napoleon sank.

Pendennyss threw himself from his horse, on the night of the eighteenth of June, as he gave way by orders, in the pursuit, to the fresher battalions of the Prussians, with the languor that fellows unusual excitement, and mental thanksgivings that this bloody work was at length ended. The image of his Emily again broke over the sterner feelings of the battle, like the first glimmerings of light which succeed the awful darkness of the eclipse of the sun: and he again breathed freely, in the consciousness of the happiness which would await his speedy return.

“I am sent for the colonel of the —— th dragoons,” said a courier in broken English to a soldier, near where the earl lay on the ground, waiting the preparations of his attendants “have I found the right regiment, my friend?”

“To be sure you have,” answered the man, without looking up from his toil on his favorite animal, “you might have tracked us by the dead Frenchmen, I should think. So you want my lord, my lad, do you? do we move again to-night?” suspending his labor for a moment in expectation of a reply.

“Not to my knowledge,” rejoined the courier; “my message is to your colonel, from a dying man. Will you point out his station?”

The soldier complied, the message was soon delivered, and Pendennyss prepared to obey its summons immediately. Preceded by the messenger as a guide, and followed by Harmer, the earl retraced his steps over that ground on which he had but a few hours before been engaged in the deadly strife of man to man, hand to hand.

How different is the contemplation of a field of battle during and after the conflict! The excitement, suspended success, shouts, uproar, and confusion of the former, prevent any contemplation of the nicer parts of this confused mass of movements, charges, and retreats; or if a brilliant advance is made, a masterly retreat effected, the imagination is chained by the splendor and glory of the act, without resting for a moment on the sacrifice of individual happiness with which it is purchased. A battle-ground from which the whirlwind of the combat has passed, presents a different sight; it offers the very consummation of human misery.

There may occasionally be an individual, who from station, distempered mind, or the encouragement of chimerical ideas of glory, quits the theatre of life with at least the appearance of pleasure in his triumphs. If such there be in reality, if this rapture of departing glory be anything more than the deception of a distempered excitement, the subject of its exhibition is to be greatly pitied. To the Christian, dying in peace with both God and man, can it alone be ceded in the eye of reason, to pour out his existence with a smile on his quivering lip.

And the warrior, who falls in the very arms of victory, after passing a life devoted to the world; even, if he sees kingdoms hang suspended on his success, may smile indeed, may utter sentiments full of loyalty and zeal, may be the admiration of the world, and what is his reward? a deathless name, and an existence of misery, which knows no termination.

Christianity alone can make us good soldiers in any cause, for he who knows how to live, is always the least afraid to die.

Pendennyss and his companions pushed their way over the ground occupied before the battle by the enemy; descended into and through that little valley, in which yet lay, in undistinguished confusion, masses of the dead and dying of either side; and again over the ridge, on which could be marked the situation of those gallant squares which had so long resisted the efforts of the horse and artillery by the groups of bodies, fallen where they had bravely stood, until even the callous Harmer sickened with the sight of a waste of life that he had but a few hours before exultingly contributed to increase.

Appeals to their feelings as they rode through the field had been frequent, and their progress was much retarded by attempts to contribute to the ease of a wounded or a dying man; but as the courier constantly urged speed, as the only means of securing the object of their ride, these halts were reluctantly abandoned.

It was ten o’clock before they reached the farm-house, where, in the midst of hundreds of his countrymen, lay the former lover of Jane.

As the subject of his confession must be anticipated by the reader, we will give a short relation of his life, and of those acts which more materially affect our history.

Henry Egerton had been turned early on the world, hundreds of his countrymen, without any principle to counteract the arts of infidelity, or resist the temptations of life. His father held a situation under government, and was devoted to his rise in the diplomatic line. His mother was a woman of fashion, who lived for effect and idle competition with her sisters in weakness and folly. All he learnt in his father’s house was selfishness, from the example of one, and a love of high life and its extravagance from the other.

He entered the army young, and from choice. The splendor and reputation of the service caught his fancy; and, by pride and constitution, he was indifferent to personal danger. Yet he loved London and its amusements better than glory; and the money of his uncle, Sir Edgar, whose heir he was reputed to be, raised him to the rank of lieutenant colonel, without his spending an hour in the field.

Egerton had some abilities, and a good deal of ardor of temperament, by nature. The former, from indulgence and example, degenerated into acquiring the art to please in mixed society; and the latter, from want of employment, expended itself at the card table.

The association between the vices is intimate. There really appears to be a kind of modesty in sin that makes it ashamed of good company. If we are unable to reconcile a favorite propensity to our principles, we are apt to abandon the unpleasant restraint on our actions, rather than admit the incongruous mixture. Freed entirely from the fetters of our morals, what is there that our vices will not prompt us to commit? Egerton, like thousands of others, went on from step to step, until he found himself in the world; free to follow all his inclinations, so he violated none of the decencies of life.

When in Spain, in his only campaign, he was accidentally, as has been mentioned, thrown in the way of the Donna Julia, and brought her off the ground under the influence of natural sympathy and national feeling; a kind of merit that makes vice only more dangerous, by making it sometimes amiable. He had not seen his dependant long before her beauty, situation, and his passions decided, him to effect her ruin.

This was an occupation that his figure, manners, and propensities had made him an adept in, and nothing was further from his thoughts than the commission of any other than the crime that, according to his code, a gentleman, might be guilty of with impunity.

It is, however, the misfortune of sin, that from being our slave it becomes a tyrant; and Egerton attempted what in other countries, and where the laws ruled, might have cost him his life.

The conjecture of Pendennyss was true. He saw the face of the officer who interposed between him and his villanous attempt, but was hid himself from view. He aimed not at his life, but at his own escape. Happily his first shot succeeded, for the earl would have been sacrificed to preserve the character of a man of honor; though no one was more regardless of the estimation he was held in by the virtuous than Colonel Egerton.

In pursuance of his plans on Mrs. Fitzgerald, the colonel had sedulously avoided admitting any of his companions into the secret of his having a female in his care.

When he left the army to return home, he remained until a movement of the troops to a distant part of the country enabled him to effect his own purposes, without incurring their ridicule; and when he found himself obliged to abandon his vehicle for a refuge in the woods, the fear of detection made him alter his course; and under the pretence of wishing to be in a battle about to be fought, he secretly rejoined the army, and the gallantry of Colonel Egerton was mentioned in the next despatches.

Sir Herbert Nicholson commanded the advanced guard, at which the earl arrived with the Donna Julia; and like every other brave man (unless guilty himself) was indignant at the villany of the fugitive. The confusion and enormities daily practised in the theatre of the war prevented any close inquiries into the subject, and circumstances had so enveloped Egerton in mystery, that nothing but an interview with the lady herself was likely to expose him.

With Sir Herbert Nicholson, he had been in habits of intimacy, and on that gentleman’s alluding in a conversation in the barracks at F —— to the lady brought into his quarters before Lisbon, he accidentally emitted mentioning the name of her rescuer. Egerton had never before heard the transaction spoken of, and as he had of course never mentioned the subject himself, was ignorant who had interfered between him and his views; also of the fate of Donna Julia; indeed, he thought it probable that it had not much improved by a change of guardians.

In coming into Northamptonshire he had several views; he wanted a temporary retreat from his creditors. Jarvis had an infant fondness for play, without an adequate skill, and the money of the young ladies, in his necessities, was becoming of importance; but the daughters of Sir Edward Moseley were of a description more suited to his taste, and their portions were as ample as the others. He had become in some degree attached to Jane; and as her imprudent parents, satisfied with his possessing the exterior and requisite; recommendations of a gentleman admitted his visits freely, he determined to make her his wife.

When he met Denbigh the first time, he saw that chance had thrown him in the way of a man who might hold his character in his power. He had never seen him as Pendennyss, and, it will be remembered, was ignorant of the name of Julia’s friend: he now learnt for the first time that it was Denbigh. Uneasy at he knew not what, fearful of some exposure he knew not how, when Sir Herbert alluded to the occurrence, with a view to rebut the charge, if Denbigh should choose to make one, and with the near-sightedness of guilt, he pretended to know the occurrence, and under the promise of secresy, mentioned that the name of the officer was Denbigh. He had noticed Denbigh avoiding Sir Herbert at the ball; and judging others from himself, thought it was a wish to avoid any allusions to the lady he had brought into the other’s quarters that induced the measure; for he was in hopes that if Denbigh was not as guilty as himself, he was sufficiently so to wish to keep the transaction from the eyes of Emily. He was, however, prepared for an explosion or an alliance with him, when the sudden departure of Sir Herbert removed the danger of a collision. Believing at last that they were to be brothers-in-law, and mistaking the earl for his cousin, whose name he bore, Egerton became reconciled to the association; while Pendennyss, having in his absence heard, on inquiring, some of the vices of the colonel, was debating with himself whether he should expose them to Sir Edward or not.

It was in their occasional interchange of civilities that Pendennyss placed his pocket-book upon a table, while he exhibited the plants to the colonel: the figure of Emily passing the window drew him from the room, and Egerton having ended his examination, observing the book, put it in his own pocket, to return it to its owner when they next met.

The situation, name, and history of Mrs. Fitzgerald were never mentioned by the Moseleys in public; but Jane, in the confidence of her affections, had told her lover who the inmate of the cottage was. The idea of her being kept there by Denbigh immediately occurred to him, and although he was surprised at the audacity of the thing, he was determined to profit by the occasion.

To pay this visit, he stayed away from the excursion on the water, as Pendennyss had done to avoid his friend, Lord Henry Stapleton. An excuse of business, which served for his apology, kept the colonel from seeing Denbigh to return the book, until after his visit to the cottage. His rhapsody of love, and offers to desert his intended wife, were nothing but the common-place talk of his purposes; and his presumption in alluding to his situation with Miss Moseley, proceeded from his impressions as to Julia’s real character. In the struggle for the bell, the pocket-book of Denbigh accidentally fell from his coat, and the retreat of the colonel was too precipitate to enable him to recover it.

Mrs. Fitzgerald was too much alarmed to distinguish nicely, and Egerton proceeded to the ball-room with the indifference of a hardened offender. When the arrival of Miss Jarvis, to whom he had committed himself, prompted him to a speedy declaration, and the unlucky conversation of Mr. Holt brought about a probable detection of his gaming propensities, the colonel determined to get rid of his awkward situation and his debts by a coup-de-main. He accordingly eloped with Miss Jarvis.

What portion of the foregoing narrative made the dying confession of Egerton to the man he had so lately discovered to be the Earl of Pendennyss, the reader can easily imagine.

Chapter XLIX.

The harvest had been gathered, and the beautiful vales of Pendennyss were shooting forth a second crop of verdure. The husbandman was turning his prudent forethought to the promises of the coming year, while the castle itself exhibited to the gaze of the wondering peasant a sight of cheerfulness and animation which had not been seen in it since the days of the good duke. Its numerous windows were opened to the light of the sun, its halls teemed with the faces of its happy inmates. Servants in various liveries were seen gliding through its magnificent apartments and multiplied passages. Horses, grooms, and carriages, with varied costumes and different armorial bearings, crowded its spacious stables and offices. Everything spoke society, splendor, and activity without; everything denoted order, propriety, and happiness within.

In a long range of spacious apartments were grouped in the pursuit of their morning employments, or in arranging their duties and pleasures of the day, the guests and owners of the princely abode.

In one room was John Moseley, carefully examining the properties of some flints which were submitted to his examination by his attending servant; while Grace, sitting at his side, playfully snatches the stones from his hand, as she cries half reproachfully, half tenderly —

“You must not devote yourself to your gun so incessantly, Moseley; it is cruel to kill inoffensive birds for your amusement only.”

“Ask Emily’s cook, and Mr. Haughton’s appetite,” said John, coolly extending his hand towards her for the flint— “whether no one is gratified but myself. I tell you, Grace, I seldom fire in vain.”

“That only makes the matter worse; the slaughter you commit is dreadful.”

“Oh!” cried John, with a laugh, “the ci-devant Captain Jarvis is a sportsman to your mind. He would shoot a month without moving a feather; he was a great friend to,” throwing an arch look to his solitary sister, who sat on a sofa at a distance perusing a book, “Jane’s feathered songsters.”

“But now, Mosely,” said Grace, yielding the flints, but gently retaining the hand that took them, “Pendenyss and Chatterton intend driving their wives, like good husbands, to see the beautiful waterfall in the mountains; and what am I to do this long tedious morning?”

John stole an enquiring glance, to see if his wife was very anxious to join the party — cast one look of regret on a beautiful agate that he had selected, and inquired —

“Do you wish to go very much, Mrs. Mosely?”

“Indeed — indeed I do,” said the other, eagerly, “if— “

“If what?”

“You will drive me?” continued she, with a cheek slightly tinged with color.

“Well, then,” answered John, with deliberation, and regarding his wife with affection “I will go on one condition.”

“Name it!” cried Grace, with still increasing color.

“That you will not expose your health again in going to the church on a Sunday, if it rains.”

“The carriage is so close, Mosely,” answered Grace, with a paler cheek than beforehand eyes fixed on the carpet, “it is impossible I can take cold: you see the earl, and countess, and aunt Wilson never miss public worship, when possibly within their power.”

“The earl goes with his wife; but what becomes of poor me at such times!” said John, taking her hand and pressing it kindly. “I like; to hear a good sermon, but not in bad weather. You must consent to oblige me, who only live in your presence.”

Grace smiled faintly, as John, pursuing the point, said— “What do you say to my condition?”

“Well then, if you wish,” replied Graces without the look of gaiety her hopes had first inspired, “I will not go if it rain.”

John ordered his phaeton, and his wife went to her room to prepare for the trip, and to regret her own resolution.

In, the recess of a window, in which bloomed a profusion of exotics, stood the figure of Lady Marian Denbigh, playing with a half-blown rose of the richest colors; and before her, leaning against the angle of the wall, stood her kinsman the Duke of Derwent.

“You heard the plan at the breakfast table,” said his Grace, “to visit the little falls in the hills. But I suppose you have seen them too often to undergo the fatigue?”

“Oh no! I love that ride dearly, and should wish to accompany the countess in her first visit to it. I had half a mind to ask George to take me in his phaeton.”

“My curricle would be honored with the presence of Lady Marian Denbigh,” cried the duke with animation, “if, she would accept me for her knight on the occasion.”

Marian bowed an assent, in evident satisfaction, as the duke proceeded —

“But if you take me as your knight I should wear your ladyship’s colors;” and he held out his hand towards the budding rose. Lady Marian hesitated a moment — looked out at the prospeet — up at the wall — turned, and wondered where her brother was; and still finding the hand of the duke extended, while his eye rested on her in admiration, she gave him the boon with a cheek that vied with the richest tints of the flower. They separated to prepare, and it was on their return from the falls that the duke seemed uncommonly gay and amusing, and the lady silent with her tongue, though her eyes danced in every direction but towards her cousin.

“Really, my dear Lady Mosely,” said the dowager, as, seated by the side of her companion, her eyes roved over the magnificence within, and widely extended domains without— “Emily is well established indeed — better even than my Grace.”

“Grace has an affectionate husband,” replied the other, gravely, “and one that I hope will make her happy.”

“Oh! no doubt happy!” said Lady Chatterton, hastily: “but they say Emily has a jointure of twelve thousand a year — by-the-by,” she added, in a low tone, though no one was near enough to hear what she said, “could not the earl have settled Lumley: Castle on her instead of the deanery?”

“Upon my word I never think of such gloomy subjects as provisions for widowhood,” cried Lady Mosely: “you have been in Annerdale House — is it not a princely mansion?”

“Princely, indeed,” rejoined the dowager, sighing: “don’t the earl intend increasing the rents of this estate as the leases fall in? I am told they are very low now!”

“I believe not,” said the other. “He has enough, and is willing others, should prosper. But there is Clara, with her little boy — is he not a lovely child?” cried the grandmother, rising to take the infant in her arms.

“Oh! excessively beautiful!” said the dowager, looking the other way, and observing Catharine making a movement towards Lord Henry Stapleton, she called to her. “Lady Herriefield — come this way, my dear — I wish to speak to you.”

Kate obeyed with a sullen pout of her pretty lip, and entered into some idle discussion about a cap, though her eyes wandered round the rooms in listless vacancy.

The dowager had the curse of bad impressions in youth to contend with, and labored infinitely harder now to make her daughter act right, than formerly she had ever done to make her act wrong.

“Here! uncle Benfield,” cried Emily, with a face glowing with health and animation, as she approached his seat with a glass in her hands. “Here is the negus you wished; I have made it myself, and you will praise it of course.”

“Oh! my dear Lady Pendennyss,” said the old gentleman, rising politely from his seat to receive the beverage: “you are putting yourself to a great deal of trouble for an old bachelor like me; too much indeed, too much.”

“Old bachelors are sometimes more esteemed than young one,” cried the earl gaily, joining them in time to hear this speech. “Here is my friend, Mr. Peter Johnson; who knows when we may dance at his wedding?”

“My lord, and my lady, and my honored master,” said Peter gravely, in reply, bowing respectfully where he stood, waiting to take his master’s glass— “I am past the age to think of a wife: I am seventy-three coming next ‘lammas, counting by the old style.”

“What do you intend to do with your three hundred a year,” said Emily with a smile, “unless you bestow it on some good woman, for making the evening of your life comfortable?’

“My lady — hem — my lady,” said the steward, blushing, “I had a little thought, with your kind ladyship’s consent, as I have no-relations, chick or child in the world, what to do with it.”

“I should be happy to hear your plan,” said the countess, observing that the steward was anxious to communicate something.

“Why, my lady, if my lord and my honored master’s agreeable, I did think of making another codicil to master’s will in order to dispose of it.”

“Your master’s will,” said the earl laughing; “why not to your own, good Peter?”

“My honored lord,” said the steward, with great humility, “it don’t become a poor serving-man like me to make a will.”

“But how will you prove it?” said the earl, kindly, willing to convince him of his error; “you must be both dead to prove it.”

“Our wills,” said Peter, gulping his words, “will be proved on the same day.”

His master looked round at him with great affection, and both the earl and Emily were too much struck to say anything. Peter had, however, the subject too much at heart to abandon it, just as he had broken the ice. He anxiously wished for the countess’s consent to the scheme, for he would not affront her, even after he was dead.

“My lady — Miss Emmy,” said Johnson, eagerly, “my plan is, if my honored master’s agreeable — to make a codicil, and give my mite to a little — Lady Emily Denbigh.”

“Oh! Peter, you and uncle Benfield are both too good,” cried Emily, laughing and blushing, as she hastened to Clara and her mother.

“Thank you, thank you,” cried the delighted earl, following his wife with his eyes, and shaking the steward cordially by the hand; “and, if no better expedient be adopted by us, you have full permission to do as you please with your money.

“Peter,” said his master to him in a low tone, “you should never speak of such things prematurely; now I remember when the Earl of Pendennyss, my nephew, was first presented to me, I was struck with the delicacy and propriety of his demeanor, and the Lady Pendennyss, my niece, too; you never see any thing forward, or — Ah! Emmy, dear,” said the old man, tenderly interrupting himself, “you are too good to remember your old uncle,” taking one of the fine peaches she handed him from a plate.

“My lord,” said Mr. Haughton to the earl, “Mrs. Ives and myself have had a contest about the comforts of matrimony; she insists she may be quite as happy at Bolton Parsonage as in this noble castle, and with this rich prospect in view.”

“I hope,” said Francis, “you are not teaching my wife to be discontented with her humble lot — if so, both hers and your visit will be an unhappy one.”

“It would be no easy task, if our good friend intended any such thing by his jests,” said Clara, smiling. “I know my true interests, I trust, too well, to wish to change my fortune.”

“You are right,” said Pendennyss; “it is wonderful how little our happiness depends on a temporal condition. When here, or at Lumley Castle, surrounded by my tenantry, there are, I confess, moments of weakness, in which the loss of my wealth or rank would be missed greatly; but when on service, subjected to great privations, and surrounded by men superior to me in military rank, who say unto me — go, and I go — come, and I come — I find my enjoyments intrinsically the same.”

“That,” said Francis, “may be owing to your Lordship’s tempered feelings, which have taught you to look beyond this world for pleasures and consolation.”

“It has, doubtless, an effect,” said the earl, “but there is no truth of which I am more fully persuaded, than that our happiness here does not depend upon our lot in life, so we are not suffering for necessaries — even changes bring less real misery than they are supposed to do.”

“Doubtless,” cried Mr. Haughton, “under the circumstances, I would not wish to change even with your lordship — unless, indeed,” he continued, with a smile and bow to the countess, “it were the temptation of your lovely wife.”

“You are quite polite,” said Emily laughing, “but I have no desire to deprive Mrs. Haughton of a companion she has made out so well with these twenty years past.”

“Thirty, my lady, if you please.”

“And thirty more, I hope,” continued Emily, as a servant announced the several carriages at the door. The younger part of the company now hastened to their different engagements, and Chatterton handed Harriet; John, Grace; and Pendennyss, Emily, into their respective carriages; the duke and Lady Marian following, but at some little distance from the rest of the party.

As the earl drove from the door, the countess looked up to a window, at which were standing her aunt and Doctor Ives. She kissed her hand to them, with a face, in which glowed the mingled expression of innocence, love, and joy.

Before leaving the Park, the party passed Sir Edward; with his wife leaning on one arm and Jane on the other, pursuing their daily walk. The baronet followed the carriages with his eyes, and exchanged looks of the fondest love with his children, as they drove slowly and respectfully by him; and if the glance which followed on Jane, did not speak equal pleasure, it surely denoted its proper proportion of paternal love.

“You have much reason to congratulate yourself on the happy termination of your labors,” said the doctor, with a smile, to the widow; “Emily is placed, so far as human foresight can judge, in the happiest of all stations a female can be in: she is the pious wife of a pious husband, beloved, and deserving of it.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wilson, drawing back from following the phaeton with her eyes, “they are as happy as this world will admit, and, what is better, they are well prepared to meet any reverse of fortune which may occur, as well as to discharge the duties on which they have entered. I do not think,” continued she, musing, “that Pendennyss can ever doubt the affections of such a woman as Emily.”

“I should think not” said the doctor, “but what can excite such a thought in your breast, and one so much to the prejudice of George?”

“The only unpleasant thing I have ever observed in him,” said Mrs. Wilson gravely, “is the suspicion which induced him to adopt the disguise in which he entered our family.”

“He did not adopt it, madam — chance and circumstances drew it around him accidentally; and when you consider the peculiar state of his mind from the discovery of his mother’s misconduct — his own great wealth and rank — it is not so surprising that he should yield to a deception, rather harmless than injurious.”

“Dr. Ives,” said Mrs. Wilson, “is not wont to defend deceit.”

“Nor do I now, madam;” replied the doctor with a smile; “I acknowledge the offence of George, myself, wife, and son. I remonstrated at the time upon principle; I said the end would not justify the means; that a departure from ordinary rules of propriety was at all times dangerous, and seldom practised with impunity.”

“And you failed to convince your hearers,” cried Mrs. Wilson, gaily; “a novelty in your case, my good rector.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” said the doctor; “I did convince them as to the truth of the principle, but the earl contended that his case might make an innocent exception. He had the vanity to think, I believe, that by concealing his real name, he injured himself more than any one else, and got rid of the charge in some such way. He is however, thoroughly convinced of the truth of the position, by practice; his sufferings, growing out of the mistake of his real character, and which could not have happened had he appeared in proper person, having been greater than he is ready to acknowledge.”

“If they study the fate of the Donna Julia, and his own weakness,” said the widow, “they will have a salutary moral always at hand, to teach them the importance of two cardinal virtues at least — obedience and truth.”

“Julia has suffered much,” replied the doctor; “and although she has returned to her father, the consequences of her imprudence are likely to continue. When once the bonds of mutual confidence and respect are broken, they may be partially restored, it is true, but never with a warmth and reliance such as existed previously. To return, however, to yourself, do you not feel a sensation of delight at the prosperous end of your exertions in behalf of Emily?”

“It is certainly pleasant to think we have discharged our duties, and the task is much easier than we are apt to suppose,” said Mrs. Wilson; “it is only to commence the foundation, so that it will be able to support the superstructure. I have endeavored to make Emily a Christian. I have endeavored to form such a taste and principles in her, that she would not be apt to admire an improper suitor and I have labored to prepare her to discharge her continued duties through life, in such a manner and with such a faith, as under the providence of God will result in happiness far exceeding anything she now enjoys. In all these, by the blessing of Heaven, I have succeeded, and had occasion offered, I would have assisted her inexperience through the more delicate decisions of her sex, though in no instance would I attempt to control them.”

“You are right, my dear madam,” said the doctor, taking her kindly by the hand, “and had I a daughter, I would follow a similar course. Give her delicacy, religion, and a proper taste, aided by the unseen influence of a prudent parent’s care, and the chances of a woman for happiness would be much greater than they are; and I am entirely of your opinion— ‘That prevention is at all times better than cure.’”

THE END

THE SPY

A TALE OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND

The second of Cooper’s novels appeared in 1821. It established the historical American setting characteristic of his better-known writing and was an immediate popular success. Inspired by the ‘Waverley’ novels, The Spy commences a body of work that achieved for recent American history what Sir Walter Scott’s novels had accomplished for the history of Scotland and England – dramatising central dilemmas facing characters that find themselves caught up in the momentous events that have helped to shape the national story. Thus, while Scott is credited with the invention of the historical novel, The Spy is often cited as one of the founding texts of American literature.

Set mainly in 1780 at the height of the American Revolution, the story centres on the activities of the American spy Harvey Birch, whose forays into the ‘neutral ground’ of Westchester County, New York, see him caught up in the confused allegiances of the Wharton family. Although honoured by George Washington himself, the fact that Birch’s brave and patriotic actions are too politically sensitive to be widely revealed is offered as proof of his noble and selfless devotion to the revolutionary cause. This is despite the fact that his pretence of being a British spy makes him a traitor in the eyes of his countrymen.

Title page of an early British edition

CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

Illustration for the novel by Felix Darley

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

The author has often been asked if there were any foundation in real life for the delineation of the principal character in this book. He can give no clearer answer to the question than by laying before his readers a simple statement of the facts connected with its original publication.

Many years since, the writer of this volume was at the residence of an illustrious man, who had been employed in various situations of high trust during the darkest days of the American Revolution. The discourse turned upon the effects which great political excitement produces on character, and the purifying consequences of a love of country, when that sentiment is powerfully and generally awakened in a people. He who, from his years, his services, and his knowledge of men, was best qualified to take the lead in such a conversation, was the principal speaker. After dwelling on the marked manner in which the great struggle of the nation, during the war of 1775, had given a new and honorable direction to the thoughts and practices of multitudes whose time had formerly been engrossed by the most vulgar concerns of life, he illustrated his opinions by relating an anecdote, the truth of which he could attest as a personal witness.

The dispute between England and the United States of America, though not strictly a family quarrel, had many of the features of a civil war. The people of the latter were never properly and constitutionally subject to the people of the former, but the inhabitants of both countries owed allegiance to a common king. The Americans, as a nation, disavowed this allegiance, and the English choosing to support their sovereign in the attempt to regain his power, most of the feelings of an internal struggle were involved in the conflict. A large proportion of the emigrants from Europe, then established in the colonies, took part with the crown; and there were many districts in which their influence, united to that of the Americans who refused to lay aside their allegiance, gave a decided preponderance to the royal cause. America was then too young, and too much in need of every heart and hand, to regard these partial divisions, small as they were in actual amount, with indifference. The evil was greatly increased by the activity of the English in profiting by these internal dissensions; and it became doubly serious when it was found that attempts were made to raise various corps of provincial troops, who were to be banded with those from Europe, to reduce the young republic to subjection. Congress named an especial and a secret committee, therefore, for the express purpose of defeating this object. Of this committee Mr. —— , the narrator of the anecdote, was chairman.

In the discharge of the novel duties which now devolved on him, Mr. —— had occasion to employ an agent whose services differed but little from those of a common spy. This man, as will easily be understood, belonged to a condition in life which rendered him the least reluctant to appear in so equivocal a character. He was poor, ignorant, so far as the usual instruction was concerned; but cool, shrewd, and fearless by nature. It was his office to learn in what part of the country the agents of the crown were making their efforts to embody men, to repair to the place, enlist, appear zealous in the cause he affected to serve, and otherwise to get possession of as many of the secrets of the enemy as possible. The last he of course communicated to his employers, who took all the means in their power to counteract the plans of the English, and frequently with success.

It will readily be conceived that a service like this was attended with great personal hazard. In addition to the danger of discovery, there was the daily risk of falling into the hands of the Americans themselves, who invariably visited sins of this nature more severely on the natives of the country than on the Europeans who fell into their hands. In fact, the agent of Mr. —— was several times arrested by the local authorities; and, in one instance, he was actually condemned by his exasperated countrymen to the gallows. Speedy and private orders to the jailer alone saved him from an ignominious death. He was permitted to escape; and this seeming and indeed actual peril was of great aid in supporting his assumed character among the English. By the Americans, in his little sphere, he was denounced as a bold and inveterate Tory. In this manner he continued to serve his country in secret during the early years of the struggle, hourly environed by danger, and the constant subject of unmerited opprobrium.

In the year — , Mr. —— was named to a high and honorable employment at a European court. Before vacating his seat in Congress, he reported to that body an outline of the circumstances related, necessarily suppressing the name of his agent, and demanding an appropriation in behalf of a man who had been of so much use, at so great risk. A suitable sum was voted; and its delivery was confided to the chairman of the secret committee.

Mr. —— took the necessary means to summon his agent to a personal interview. They met in a wood at midnight. Here Mr. —— complimented his companion on his fidelity and adroitness; explained the necessity of their communications being closed; and finally tendered the money. The other drew back, and declined receiving it. “The country has need of all its means,” he said; “as for myself, I can work, or gain a livelihood in various ways.” Persuasion was useless, for patriotism was uppermost in the heart of this remarkable individual; and Mr. —— departed, bearing with him the gold he had brought, and a deep respect for the man who had so long hazarded his life, unrequited, for the cause they served in common.

The writer is under an impression that, at a later day, the agent of Mr. —— consented to receive a remuneration for what he had done; but it was not until his country was entirely in a condition to bestow it.

It is scarcely necessary to add, that an anecdote like this, simply but forcibly told by one of its principal actors, made a deep impression on all who heard it. Many years later, circumstances, which it is unnecessary to relate, and of an entirely adventitious nature, induced the writer to publish a novel, which proved to be, what he little foresaw at the time, the first of a tolerably long series. The same adventitious causes which gave birth to the book determined its scene and its general character. The former was laid in a foreign country; and the latter embraced a crude effort to describe foreign manners. When this tale was published, it became matter of reproach among the author’s friends, that he, an American in heart as in birth, should give to the world a work which aided perhaps, in some slight degree, to feed the imaginations of the young and unpracticed among his own countrymen, by pictures drawn from a state of society so different from that to which he belonged. The writer, while he knew how much of what he had done was purely accidental, felt the reproach to be one that, in a measure, was just. As the only atonement in his power, he determined to inflict a second book, whose subject should admit of no cavil, not only on the world, but on himself. He chose patriotism for his theme; and to those who read this introduction and the book itself, it is scarcely necessary to add, that he took the hero of the anecdote just related as the best illustration of his subject.

Since the original publication of The Spy, there have appeared several accounts of different persons who are supposed to have been in the author’s mind while writing the book. As Mr. —— did not mention the name of his agent, the writer never knew any more of his identity with this or that individual, than has been here explained. Both Washington and Sir Henry Clinton had an unusual number of secret emissaries; in a war that partook so much of a domestic character, and in which the contending parties were people of the same blood and language, it could scarcely be otherwise.

The style of the book has been revised by the author in this edition. In this respect, he has endeavored to make it more worthy of the favor with which it has been received; though he is compelled to admit there are faults so interwoven with the structure of the tale that, as in the case of a decayed edifice, it would cost perhaps less to reconstruct than to repair. Five-and-twenty years have been as ages with most things connected with America. Among other advantages, that of her literature has not been the least. So little was expected from the publication of an original work of this description, at the time it was written, that the first volume of The Spy was actually printed several months, before the author felt a sufficient inducement to write a line of the second. The efforts expended on a hopeless task are rarely worthy of him who makes them, however low it may be necessary to rate the standard of his general merit.

One other anecdote connected with the history of this book may give the reader some idea of the hopes of an American author, in the first quarter of the present century. As the second volume was slowly printing, from manuscript that was barely dry when it went into the compositor’s hands, the publisher intimated that the work might grow to a length that would consume the profits. To set his mind at rest, the last chapter was actually written, printed, and paged, several weeks before the chapters which precede it were even thought of. This circumstance, while it cannot excuse, may serve to explain the manner in which the actors are hurried off the scene.

A great change has come over the country since this book was originally written. The nation is passing from the gristle into the bone, and the common mind is beginning to keep even pace with the growth of the body politic. The march from Vera Cruz to Mexico was made under the orders of that gallant soldier who, a quarter of a century before, was mentioned with honor, in the last chapter of this very book. Glorious as was that march, and brilliant as were its results in a military point of view, a stride was then made by the nation, in a moral sense, that has hastened it by an age, in its progress toward real independence and high political influence. The guns that filled the valley of the Aztecs with their thunder, have been heard in echoes on the other side of the Atlantic, producing equally hope or apprehension.

There is now no enemy to fear, but the one that resides within. By accustoming ourselves to regard even the people as erring beings, and by using the restraints that wisdom has adduced from experience, there is much reason to hope that the same Providence which has so well aided us in our infancy, may continue to smile on our manhood.

COOPERSTOWN, March 29, 1849.

CHAPTER I

And though amidst the calm of thought entire,
Some high and haughty features might betray
A soul impetuous once— ’twas earthly fire
That fled composure’s intellectual ray,
As Etna’s fires grow dim before the rising day.
— Gertrude of Wyoming.

It was near the close of the year 1780 that a solitary traveler was seen pursuing his way through one of the numerous little valleys of Westchester. [Footnote: As each state of the American Union has its own counties, it often happens that there are several which bear the same name. The scene of this tale is in New York, whose county of Westchester is the nearest adjoining to the city.] The easterly wind, with its chilling dampness and increasing violence, gave unerring notice of the approach of a storm, which, as usual, might be expected to continue for several days; and the experienced eye of the traveler was turned in vain, through the darkness of the evening, in quest of some convenient shelter, in which, for the term of his confinement by the rain that already began to mix with the atmosphere in a thick mist, he might obtain such accommodations as his purposes required. Nothing whatever offered but the small and inconvenient tenements of the lower order of the inhabitants, with whom, in that immediate neighborhood, he did not think it either safe or politic to trust himself.

The county of Westchester, after the British had obtained possession of the island of New York, [Footnote: The city of New York is situated on an island called Manhattan: but it is at one point separated from the county of Westchester by a creek of only a few feet in width. The bridge at this spot is called King’s Bridge. It was the scene of many skirmishes during the war, and is alluded to in this tale. Every Manhattanese knows the difference between “Manhattan Island” and the “island of Manhattan.” The first is applied to a small District in the vicinity of Corlaer’s Hook, while the last embraces the Whole island; or the city and county of New York as it is termed in the laws.] became common ground, in which both parties continued to act for the remainder of the war of the Revolution. A large proportion of its inhabitants, either restrained by their attachments, or influenced by their fears, affected a neutrality they did not feel. The lower towns were, of course, more particularly under the dominion of the crown, while the upper, finding a security from the vicinity of the continental troops, were bold in asserting their revolutionary opinions, and their right to govern themselves. Great numbers, however, wore masks, which even to this day have not been thrown aside; and many an individual has gone down to the tomb, stigmatized as a foe to the rights of his countrymen, while, in secret, he has been the useful agent of the leaders of the Revolution; and, on the other hand, could the hidden repositories of divers flaming patriots have been opened to the light of day, royal protections would have been discovered concealed under piles of British gold.

At the sound of the tread of the noble horse ridden by the traveler, the mistress of the farmhouse he was passing at the time might be seen cautiously opening the door of the building to examine the stranger; and perhaps, with an averted face communicating the result of her observations to her husband, who, in the rear of the building, was prepared to seek, if necessary, his ordinary place of concealment in the adjacent woods. The valley was situated about midway in the length of the county, and was sufficiently near to both armies to make the restitution of stolen goods no uncommon occurrence in that vicinity. It is true, the same articles were not always regained; but a summary substitute was generally resorted to, in the absence of legal justice, which restored to the loser the amount of his loss, and frequently with no inconsiderable addition for the temporary use of his property. In short, the law was momentarily extinct in that particular district, and justice was administered subject to the bias of personal interests and the passions of the strongest.

The passage of a stranger, with an appearance of somewhat doubtful character, and mounted on an animal which, although unfurnished with any of the ordinary trappings of war, partook largely of the bold and upright carriage that distinguished his rider, gave rise to many surmises among the gazing inmates of the different habitations; and in some instances, where conscience was more than ordinarily awake, to no little alarm.

Tired with the exercise of a day of unusual fatigue, and anxious to obtain a speedy shelter from the increasing violence of the storm, that now began to change its character to large drops of driving rain, the traveler determined, as a matter of necessity, to make an application for admission to the next dwelling that offered. An opportunity was not long wanting; and, riding through a pair of neglected bars, he knocked loudly at the outer door of a building of a very humble exterior, without quitting his saddle. A female of middle age, with an outward bearing but little more prepossessing than that of her dwelling, appeared to answer the summons. The startled woman half closed her door again in affright, as she saw, by the glare of a large wood fire, a mounted man so unexpectedly near its threshold; and an expression of terror mingled with her natural curiosity, as she required his pleasure.

Although the door was too nearly closed to admit of a minute scrutiny of the accommodations within, enough had been seen to cause the horseman to endeavor, once more, to penetrate the gloom, with longing eyes, in search of a more promising roof, before, with an ill-concealed reluctance, he stated his necessities and wishes. His request was listened to with evident unwillingness, and, while yet unfinished, it was eagerly interrupted by the reply:

“I can’t say I like to give lodgings to a stranger in these ticklish times,” said the female, in a pert, sharp key. “I’m nothing but a forlorn lone body; or, what’s the same thing, there’s nobody but the old gentleman at home; but a half mile farther up the road is a house where you can get entertainment, and that for nothing. I am sure ‘twill be much convenienter to them, and more agreeable to me — because, as I said before, Harvey is away; I wish he’d take advice, and leave off wandering; he’s well to do in the world by this time; and he ought to leave off his uncertain courses, and settle himself, handsomely, in life, like other men of his years and property. But Harvey Birch will have his own way, and die vagabond after all!”

The horseman did not wait to hear more than the advice to pursue his course up the road; but he had slowly turned his horse towards the bars, and was gathering the folds of an ample cloak around his manly form, preparatory to facing the storm again, when something in the speech of the female suddenly arrested the movement.

“Is this, then, the dwelling of Harvey Birch?” he inquired, in an involuntary manner, apparently checking himself, as he was about to utter more.

“Why, one can hardly say it is his dwelling,” replied the other, drawing a hurried breath, like one eager to answer; “he is never in it, or so seldom, that I hardly remember his face, when he does think it worth his while to show it to his poor old father and me. But it matters little to me, I’m sure, if he ever comes back again, or not; — turn in the first gate on your left; — no, I care but little, for my part, whether Harvey ever shows his face again or not — not I” — and she closed the door abruptly on the horseman, who gladly extended his ride a half mile farther, to obtain lodgings which promised both more comfort and greater security.

Sufficient light yet remained to enable the traveler to distinguish the improvements [Footnote: Improvements is used by the Americans to express every degree of change in converting land from its state of wilderness to that of cultivation. In this meaning of the word, it is an improvement to fell the trees; and it is valued precisely by the supposed amount of the cost.] which had been made in the cultivation, and in the general appearance of the grounds around the building to which he was now approaching. The house was of stone, long, low, and with a small wing at each extremity. A piazza, extending along the front, with neatly turned pillars of wood, together with the good order and preservation of the fences and outbuildings, gave the place an air altogether superior to the common farmhouses of the country. After leading his horse behind an angle of the wall, where it was in some degree protected from the wind and rain, the traveler threw his valise over his arm, and knocked loudly at the entrance of the building for admission. An aged black soon appeared; and without seeming to think it necessary, under the circumstances, to consult his superiors, — first taking one prying look at the applicant, by the light of the candle in his hand, — he acceded to the request for accommodations. The traveler was shown into an extremely neat parlor, where a fire had been lighted to cheer the dullness of an easterly storm and an October evening. After giving the valise into the keeping of his civil attendant, and politely repeating his request to the old gentleman, who arose to receive him, and paying his compliments to the three ladies who were seated at work with their needles, the stranger commenced laying aside some of the outer garments which he had worn in his ride.

On taking an extra handkerchief from his neck, and removing a cloak of blue cloth, with a surtout of the same material, he exhibited to the scrutiny of the observant family party, a tall and extremely graceful person, of apparently fifty years of age. His countenance evinced a settled composure and dignity; his nose was straight, and approaching to Grecian; his eye, of a gray color, was quiet, thoughtful, and rather melancholy; the mouth and lower part of his face being expressive of decision and much character. His dress, being suited to the road, was simple and plain, but such as was worn by the higher class of his countrymen; he wore his own hair, dressed in a manner that gave a military air to his appearance, and which was rather heightened by his erect and conspicuously graceful carriage. His whole appearance was so impressive and so decidedly that of a gentleman, that as he finished laying aside the garments, the ladies arose from their seats, and, together with the master of the house, they received anew, and returned the complimentary greetings which were again offered.

The host was by several years the senior of the traveler, and by his manner, dress, and everything around him, showed he had seen much of life and the best society. The ladies were, a maiden of forty, and two much younger, who did not seem, indeed, to have reached half those years. The bloom of the elder of these ladies had vanished, but her eyes and fine hair gave an extremely agreeable expression to her countenance; and there was a softness and an affability in her deportment, that added a charm many more juvenile faces do not possess. The sisters, for such the resemblance between the younger females denoted them to be, were in all the pride of youth, and the roses, so eminently the property of the Westchester fair, glowed on their cheeks, and lighted their deep blue eyes with that luster which gives so much pleasure to the beholder, and which indicates so much internal innocence and peace. There was much of that feminine delicacy in the appearance of the three, which distinguishes the sex in this country; and, like the gentleman, their demeanor proved them to be women of the higher order of life.

After handing a glass of excellent Madeira to his guest, Mr. Wharton, for so was the owner of this retired estate called, resumed his seat by the fire, with another in his own hand. For a moment he paused, as if debating with his politeness, but at length threw an inquiring glance on the stranger, as he inquired, —

“To whose health am I to have the honor of drinking?”

The traveler had also seated himself, and he sat unconsciously gazing on the fire, while Mr. Wharton spoke; turning his eyes slowly on his host with a look of close observation, he replied, while a faint tinge gathered on his features, —

“Mr. Harper.”

“Mr. Harper,” resumed the other, with the formal precision of that day, “I have the honor to drink your health, and to hope you will sustain no injury from the rain to which you have been exposed.”

Mr. Harper bowed in silence to the compliment, and he soon resumed the meditations from which he had been interrupted, and for which the long ride he had that day made, in the wind, might seem a very natural apology.

The young ladies had again taken their seats beside the workstand, while their aunt, Miss Jeanette Peyton, withdrew to superintend the preparations necessary to appease the hunger of their unexpected visitor. A short silence prevailed, during which Mr. Harper was apparently enjoying the change in his situation, when Mr. Wharton again broke it, by inquiring whether smoke was disagreeable to his companion; to which, receiving an answer in the negative, he immediately resumed the pipe which had been laid aside at the entrance of the traveler.

There was an evident desire on the part of the host to enter into conversation, but either from an apprehension of treading on dangerous ground, or an unwillingness to intrude upon the rather studied taciturnity of his guest, he several times hesitated, before he could venture to make any further remark. At length, a movement from Mr. Harper, as he raised his eyes to the party in the room, encouraged him to proceed.

“I find it very difficult,” said Mr. Wharton, cautiously avoiding at first, such subjects as he wished to introduce, “to procure that quality of tobacco for my evenings’ amusement to which I have been accustomed.”

“I should think the shops in New York might furnish the best in the country,” calmly rejoined the other.

“Why — yes,” returned the host in rather a hesitating manner, lifting his eyes to the face of Harper, and lowering them quickly under his steady look, “there must be plenty in town; but the war has made communication with the city, however innocent, too dangerous to be risked for so trifling an article as tobacco.”

The box from which Mr. Wharton had just taken a supply for his pipe was lying open, within a few inches of the elbow of Harper, who took a small quantity from its contents, and applied it to his tongue, in a manner perfectly natural, but one that filled his companion with alarm. Without, however, observing that the quality was of the most approved kind, the traveler relieved his host by relapsing again into his meditations. Mr. Wharton now felt unwilling to lose the advantage he had gained, and, making an effort of more than usual vigor, he continued, —

“I wish from the bottom of my heart, this unnatural struggle was over, that we might again meet our friends and relatives in peace and love.”

“It is much to be desired,” said Harper, emphatically, again raising his eyes to the countenance of his host.

“I hear of no movement of consequence, since the arrival of our new allies,” said Mr. Wharton, shaking the ashes from his pipe, and turning his back to the other under the pretense of receiving a coal from his youngest daughter.

“None have yet reached the public, I believe.”

“Is it thought any important steps are about to be taken?” continued Mr. Wharton, still occupied with his daughter, yet suspending his employment, in expectation of a reply.

“Is it intimated any are in agitation?”

“Oh! nothing in particular; but it is natural to expect some new enterprise from so powerful a force as that under Rochambeau.”

Harper made an assenting inclination with his head, but no other reply, to this remark; while Mr. Wharton, after lighting his pipe, resumed the subject.

“They appear more active in the south; Gates and Cornwallis seem willing to bring the war to an issue there.”

The brow of Harper contracted, and a deeper shade of melancholy crossed his features; his eye kindled with a transient beam of fire, that spoke a latent source of deep feeling. The admiring gaze of the younger of the sisters had barely time to read its expression, before it passed away, leaving in its room the acquired composure which marked the countenance of the stranger, and that impressive dignity which so conspicuously denotes the empire of reason.

The elder sister made one or two movements in her chair, before she ventured to say, in a tone which partook in no small measure of triumph, —

“General Gates has been less fortunate with the earl, than with General
Burgoyne.”

“But General Gates is an Englishman, Sarah,” cried the younger lady, with quickness; then, coloring to the eyes at her own boldness, she employed herself in tumbling over the contents of her work basket, silently hoping the remark would be unnoticed.

The traveler had turned his face from one sister to the other, as they had spoken in succession, and an almost imperceptible movement of the muscles of his mouth betrayed a new emotion, as he playfully inquired of the younger, —

“May I venture to ask what inference you would draw from that fact?”

Frances blushed yet deeper at this direct appeal to her opinions upon a subject on which she had incautiously spoken in the presence of a stranger; but finding an answer necessary, after some little hesitation, and with a good deal of stammering in her manner, she replied, —

“Only — only — sir — my sister and myself sometimes differ in our opinions of the prowess of the British.” A smile of much meaning played on a face of infantile innocency, as she concluded.

“On what particular points of their prowess do you differ?” continued Harper, meeting her look of animation with a smile of almost paternal softness.

“Sarah thinks the British are never beaten, while I do not put so much faith in their invincibility.”

The traveler listened to her with that pleased indulgence, with which virtuous age loves to contemplate the ardor of youthful innocence; but making no reply, he turned to the fire, and continued for some time gazing on its embers, in silence.

Mr. Wharton had in vain endeavored to pierce the disguise of his guest’s political feelings; but, while there was nothing forbidding in his countenance, there was nothing communicative; on the contrary it was strikingly reserved; and the master of the house arose, in profound ignorance of what, in those days, was the most material point in the character of his guest, to lead the way into another room, and to the supper table. Mr. Harper offered his hand to Sarah Wharton, and they entered the room together; while Frances followed, greatly at a loss to know whether she had not wounded the feelings of her father’s inmate.

The storm began to rage with great violence without; and the dashing rain on the sides of the building awakened that silent sense of enjoyment, which is excited by such sounds in a room of quiet comfort and warmth, when a loud summons at the outer door again called the faithful black to the portal. In a minute the servant returned, and informed his master that another traveler, overtaken by the storm, desired to be admitted to the house for a shelter through the night.

At the first sounds of the impatient summons of this new applicant, Mr. Wharton had risen from his seat in evident uneasiness; and with eyes glancing with quickness from his guest to the door of the room, he seemed to be expecting something to proceed from this second interruption, connected with the stranger who had occasioned the first. He scarcely had time to bid the black, with a faint voice, to show this second comer in, before the door was thrown hastily open, and the stranger himself entered the apartment. He paused a moment, as the person of Harper met his view, and then, in a more formal manner, repeated the request he had before made through the servant. Mr. Wharton and his family disliked the appearance of this new visitor excessively; but the inclemency of the weather, and the uncertainty of the consequences, if he were refused the desired lodgings, compelled the old gentleman to give a reluctant acquiescence.

Some of the dishes were replaced by the orders of Miss Peyton, and the weather-beaten intruder was invited to partake of the remains of the repast, from which the party had just risen. Throwing aside a rough greatcoat, he very composedly took the offered chair, and unceremoniously proceeded to allay the cravings of an appetite which appeared by no means delicate. But at every mouthful he would turn an unquiet eye on Harper, who studied his appearance with a closeness of investigation that was very embarrassing to its subject. At length, pouring out a glass of wine, the newcomer nodded significantly to his examiner, previously to swallowing the liquor, and said, with something of bitterness in his manner, —

“I drink to our better acquaintance, sir; I believe this is the first time we have met, though your attention would seem to say otherwise.”

The quality of the wine seemed greatly to his fancy, for, on replacing the glass upon the table, he gave his lips a smack, that resounded through the room; and, taking up the bottle, he held it between himself and the light, for a moment, in silent contemplation of its clear and brilliant color.

“I think we have never met before, sir,” replied Harper with a slight smile on his features, as he observed the move ments of the other; but appearing satisfied with his scrutiny, he turned to Sarah Wharton, who sat next him, and carelessly remarked, —

“You doubtless find your present abode solitary, after being accustomed to the gayeties of the city.”

“Oh! excessively so,” said Sarah hastily. “I do wish, with my father, that this cruel war was at an end, that we might return to our friends once more.”

“And you, Miss Frances, do you long as ardently for peace as your sister?”

“On many accounts I certainly do,” returned the other, venturing to steal a timid glance at her interrogator; and, meeting the same benevolent expression of feeling as before, she continued, as her own face lighted into one of its animated and bright smiles of intelligence, “but not at the expense of the rights of my countrymen.”

“Rights!” repeated her sister, impatiently; “whose rights can be stronger than those of a sovereign: and what duty is clearer, than to obey those who have a natural right to command?”

“None, certainly,” said Frances, laughing with great pleasantry; and, taking the hand of her sister affectionately within both of her own, she added, with a smile directed towards Harper, —

“I gave you to understand that my sister and myself differed in our political opinions; but we have an impartial umpire in my father, who loves his own countrymen, and he loves the British, — so he takes sides with neither.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wharton, in a little alarm, eying first one guest, and then the other; “I have near friends in both armies, and I dread a victory by either, as a source of certain private misfortune.”

“I take it, you have little reason to apprehend much from the Yankees, in that way,” interrupted the guest at the table, coolly helping himself to another glass, from the bottle he had admired.

“His majesty may have more experienced troops than the continentals,” answered the host fearfully, “but the Americans have met with distinguished success.”

Harper disregarded the observations of both; and, rising, he desired to be shown to his place of rest. A small boy was directed to guide him to his room; and wishing a courteous good-night to the whole party, the traveler withdrew. The knife and fork fell from the hands of the unwelcome intruder, as the door closed on the retiring figure of Harper; he arose slowly from his seat; listening attentively, he approached the door of the room — opened it — seemed to attend to the retreating footsteps of the other — and, amidst the panic and astonishment of his companions, he closed it again. In an instant, the red wig which concealed his black locks, the large patch which hid half his face from observation, the stoop that had made him appear fifty years of age, disappeared.

“My father!-my dear father!” — cried the handsome young man; “and you, my dearest sisters and aunt! — have I at last met you again?”

“Heaven bless you, my Henry, my son!” exclaimed the astonished but delighted parent; while his sisters sank on his shoulders, dissolved in tears.

The faithful old black, who had been reared from infancy in the house of his master, and who, as if in mockery of his degraded state, had been complimented with the name of Caesar, was the only other witness of this unexpected discovery of the son of Mr. Wharton. After receiving the extended hand of his young master, and imprinting on it a fervent kiss, Caesar withdrew. The boy did not reenter the room; and the black himself, after some time, returned, just as the young British captain was exclaiming, —

“But who is this Mr. Harper? — is he likely to betray me?”

“No, no, no, Massa Harry,” cried the negro, shaking his gray head confidently; “I been to see — Massa Harper on he knee — pray to God — no gemman who pray to God tell of good son, come to see old fader — Skinner do that — no Christian!”

This poor opinion of the Skinners was not confined to Mr. Caesar Thompson, as he called himself — but Caesar Wharton, as he was styled by the little world to which he was known. The convenience, and perhaps the necessities, of the leaders of the American arms, in the neighborhood of New York, had induced them to employ certain subordinate agents, of extremely irregular habits, in executing their lesser plans of annoying the enemy. It was not a moment for fastidious inquiries into abuses of any description, and oppression and injustice were the natural consequences of the possession of a military power that was uncurbed by the restraints of civil authority. In time, a distinct order of the community was formed, whose sole occupation appears to have been that of relieving their fellow citizens from any little excess of temporal prosperity they might be thought to enjoy, under the pretense of patriotism and the love of liberty.

Occasionally, the aid of military authority was not wanting, in enforcing these arbitrary distributions of worldly goods; and a petty holder of a commission in the state militia was to be seen giving the sanction of something like legality to acts of the most unlicensed robbery, and, not infrequently, of bloodshed.

On the part of the British, the stimulus of loyalty was by no means suffered to sleep, where so fruitful a field offered on which it might be expended. But their freebooters were enrolled, and their efforts more systematized. Long experience had taught their leaders the efficacy of concentrated force; and, unless tradition does great injustice to their exploits, the result did no little credit to their foresight. The corps — we presume, from their known affection to that useful animal — had received the quaint appellation of “Cowboys.”

Caesar was, however, far too loyal to associate men who held the commission of George III, with the irregular warriors, whose excesses he had so often witnessed, and from whose rapacity, neither his poverty nor his bondage had suffered even him to escape uninjured. The Cowboys, therefore, did not receive their proper portion of the black’s censure, when he said, no Christian, nothing but a “Skinner,” could betray a pious child, while honoring his father with a visit so full of peril.

CHAPTER II

And many a halcyon day he lived to see
Unbroken, but by one misfortune dire,
When fate had reft his mutual heart — but she
Was gone-and Gertrude climbed a widowed father’s knee.
— Gertrude of Wyoming.

The father of Mr. Wharton was a native of England, and of a family whose parliamentary interest had enabled them to provide for a younger son in the colony of New York. The young man, like hundreds of others in this situation, had settled permanently in the country. He married; and the sole issue of his connection had been sent early in life to receive the benefits of the English schools. After taking his degrees at one of the universities of the mother country, the youth had been suffered to acquire a knowledge of life with the advantages of European society. But the death of his father recalled him, after passing two years in this manner, to the possession of an honorable name, and a very ample estate.

It was much the fashion of that day to place the youth of certain families in the army and navy of England, as the regular stepping-stones to preferment. Most of the higher offices in the colonies were filled by men who had made arms their profession; and it was even no uncommon sight to see a veteran warrior laying aside the sword to assume the ermine on the benches of the highest judicial authority.

In conformity with this system, the senior Mr. Wharton had intended his son for a soldier; but a natural imbecility of character in his child interfered with his wishes.

A twelvemonth had been spent by the young man in weighing the comparative advantages of the different classes of troops, when the death of his father occurred. The ease of his situation, and the attentions lavished upon a youth in the actual enjoyment of one of the largest estates in the colonies, interfered greatly with his ambitious projects. Love decided the matter; and Mr. Wharton, in becoming a husband, ceased to think of becoming a soldier. For many years he continued happy in his family, and sufficiently respected by his countrymen, as a man of integrity and consequence, when all his enjoyments vanished, as it were, at a blow. His only son, the youth introduced in the preceding chapter, had entered the army, and had arrived in his native country, but a short time before the commencement of hostilities, with the reinforcements the ministry had thought it prudent to throw into the disaffected parts of North America. His daughters were just growing into life, and their education required all the advantages the city could afford. His wife had been for some years in declining health, and had barely time to fold her son to her bosom, and rejoice in the reunion of her family, before the Revolution burst forth, in a continued blaze, from Georgia to Massachusetts. The shock was too much for the feeble condition of the mother, who saw her child called to the field to combat against the members of her own family in the South, and she sank under the blow.

There was no part of the continent where the manners of England and its aristocratical notions of blood and alliances, prevailed with more force than in a certain circle immediately around the metropolis of New York. The customs of the early Dutch inhabitants had, indeed, blended in some measures, with the English manners; but still the latter prevailed. This attachment to Great Britain was increased by the frequent intermarriages of the officers of the mother country with the wealthier and most powerful families of the vicinity, until, at the commencement of hostilities, their united influence had very nearly thrown the colony into the scale on the side of the crown. A few, however, of the leading families espoused the cause of the people; and a sufficient stand was made against the efforts of the ministerial party, to organize, and, aided by the army of the confederation, to maintain an independent republican form of government.

The city of New York and the adjacent territory were alone exempted from the rule of the new commonwealth; while the royal authority extended no further than its dignity could be supported by the presence of an army. In this condition of things, the loyalists of influence adopted such measures as best accorded with their different characters and situations. Many bore arms in support of the crown, and, by their bravery and exertions, endeavored to secure what they deemed to be the rights of their prince, and their own estates from the effects of the law of attainder. Others left the country; seeking in that place they emphatically called home, an asylum, as they fondly hoped, for a season only, against the confusion and dangers of war. A third, and a more wary portion, remained in the place of their nativity, with a prudent regard to their ample possessions, and, perhaps, influenced by their attachments to the scenes of their youth. Mr. Wharton was of this description. After making a provision against future contingencies, by secretly transmitting the whole of his money to the British funds, this gentleman determined to continue in the theater of strife, and to maintain so strict a neutrality as to insure the safety of his large estate, whichever party succeeded. He was apparently engrossed in the education of his daughters, when a relation, high in office in the new state, intimated that a residence in what was now a British camp differed but little, in the eyes of his countrymen, from a residence in the British capital. Mr. Wharton soon saw this was an unpardonable offense in the existing state of things, and he instantly determined to remove the difficulty, by retiring to the country. He possessed a residence in the county of Westchester; and having been for many years in the habit of withdrawing thither during the heats of the summer months, it was kept furnished and ready for his accommodation. His eldest daughter was already admitted into the society of women; but Frances, the younger, required a year or two more of the usual cultivation, to appear with proper éclat; at least so thought Miss Jeanette Peyton; and as this lady, a younger sister of their deceased mother, had left her paternal home, in the colony of Virginia, with the devotedness and affection peculiar to her sex, to superintend the welfare of her orphan nieces, Mr. Wharton felt that her opinions were entitled to respect. In conformity to her advice, therefore, the feelings of the parent were made to yield to the welfare of his children.

Mr. Wharton withdrew to the Locusts, with a heart rent with the pain of separating from all that was left him of a wife he had adored, but in obedience to a constitutional prudence that pleaded loudly in behalf of his worldly goods. His handsome town residence was inhabited, in the meanwhile, by his daughters and their aunt. The regiment to which Captain Wharton belonged formed part of the permanent garrison of the city; and the knowledge of the presence of his son was no little relief to the father, in his unceasing meditations on his absent daughters. But Captain Wharton was a young man and a soldier; his estimate of character was not always the wisest; and his propensities led him to imagine that a red coat never concealed a dishonorable heart.

The house of Mr. Wharton became a fashionable lounge to the officers of the royal army, as did that of every other family that was thought worthy of their notice. The consequences of this association were, to some few of the visited, fortunate; to more, injurious, by exciting expectations which were never to be realized, and, unhappily, to no small number ruinous. The known wealth of the father and, possibly, the presence of a high-spirited brother, forbade any apprehension of the latter danger to the young ladies: but it was impossible that all the admiration bestowed on the fine figure and lovely face of Sarah Wharton should be thrown away. Her person was formed with the early maturity of the climate, and a strict cultivation of the graces had made her decidedly the belle of the city. No one promised to dispute with her this female sovereignty, unless it might be her younger sister. Frances, however, wanted some months to the charmed age of sixteen; and the idea of competition was far from the minds of either of the affectionate girls. Indeed, next to the conversation of Colonel Wellmere, the greatest pleasure of Sarah was in contemplating the budding beauties of the little Hebe, who played around her with all the innocency of youth, with all the enthusiasm of her ardent temper, and with no little of the archness of her native humor. Whether or not it was owing to the fact that Frances received none of the compliments which fell to the lot of her elder sister, in the often repeated discussions on the merits of the war, between the military beaux who frequented the house, it is certain their effects on the sisters were exactly opposite. It was much the fashion then for the British officers to speak slightingly of their enemies; and Sarah took all the idle vaporing of her danglers to be truths. The first political opinions which reached the ears of Frances were coupled with sneers on the conduct of her countrymen. At first she believed them; but there was occasionally a general, who was obliged to do justice to his enemy in order to obtain justice for himself; and Frances became somewhat skeptical on the subject of the inefficiency of her countrymen. Colonel Wellmere was among those who delighted most in expending his wit on the unfortunate Americans; and, in time, Frances began to listen to his eloquence with great suspicion, and sometimes with resentment.

It was on a hot, sultry day that the three were in the parlor of Mr. Wharton’s house, the colonel and Sarah seated on a sofa, engaged in a combat of the eyes, aided by the usual flow of small talk, and Frances was occupied at her tambouring frame in an opposite corner of the room, when the gentleman suddenly exclaimed, —

“How gay the arrival of the army under General Burgoyne will make the city, Miss Wharton!”

“Oh! how pleasant it must be,” said the thoughtless Sarah, in reply; “I am told there are many charming women with that army; as you say, it will make us all life and gayety.”

Frances shook back the abundance of her golden hair, and raised her eyes, dancing with the ardor of national feeling; then laughing, with a concealed humor, she asked, —

“Is it so certain that General Burgoyne will be permitted to reach the city?”

“Permitted!” echoed the colonel. “Who is there to prevent it, my pretty
Miss Fanny?”

Frances was precisely at that age when young people are most jealous of their station in society; neither quite a woman, nor yet a child. The “pretty Miss Fanny” was too familiar to be relished, and she dropped her eyes on her work again with cheeks that glowed like crimson.

“General Stark took the Germans into custody,” she answered, compressing her lip; “may not General Gates think the British too dangerous to go at large?”

“Oh! they were Germans, as you say,” cried the colonel, excessively vexed at the necessity of explaining at all; “mere mercenary troops; but when the really British regiments come in question, you will see a very different result.”

“Of that there is no doubt,” cried Sarah, without in the least partaking of the resentment of the colonel to her sister, but hailing already in her heart the triumph of the British.

“Pray, Colonel Wellmere,” said Frances, recovering her good humor, and raising her joyous eyes once more to the face of the gentleman, “was the Lord Percy of Lexington a kinsman of him who fought at Chevy Chase?”

“Why, Miss Fanny, you are becoming a rebel,” said the colonel, endeavoring to laugh away the anger he felt; “what you are pleased to insinuate was a chase at Lexington, was nothing more than a judicious retreat — a — kind of— “

“Running fight,” interrupted the good-humored girl, laying a great emphasis on the first word.

“Positively, young lady” — Colonel Wellmere was interrupted by a laugh from a person who had hitherto been unnoticed.

There was a small family apartment adjoining the room occupied by the trio, and the air had blown open the door communicating between the two. A fine young man was now seen sitting near the entrance, who, by his smiling countenance, was evidently a pleased listener to the conversation. He rose instantly, and coming through the door, with his hat in his hand, appeared a tall, graceful youth, of dark complexion, and sparkling eyes of black, from which the mirth had not entirely vanished, as he made his bow to the ladies.

“Mr. Dunwoodie!” cried Sarah, in surprise; “I was ignorant of your being in the house; you will find a cooler seat in this room.”

“I thank you,” replied the young man, “but I must go and seek your brother, who placed me there in ambuscade, as he called it, with a promise of returning an hour ago.” Without making any further explanation, the youth bowed politely to the young women, distantly and with hauteur to the gentleman, and withdrew. Frances followed him into the hall, and blushing richly, inquired, in a hurried voice, —

“But why — why do you leave us, Mr. Dunwoodie? Henry must soon return.”

The gentleman caught one of her hands in his own, and the stern expression of his countenance gave place to a look of admiration as he replied, —

“You managed him famously, my dear little kinswoman; never — no, never, forget the land of your birth; remember, if you are the granddaughter of an Englishman, you are, also, the granddaughter of a Peyton.”

“Oh!” returned the laughing girl, “it would be difficult to forget that, with the constant lectures on genealogy before us, with which we are favored by Aunt Jeanette; but why do you go?”

“I am on the wing for Virginia, and have much to do.” He pressed her hand as he spoke, and looking back, while in the act of closing the door, exclaimed, “Be true to your country — be American.” The ardent girl kissed her hand to him as he retired, and then instantly applying it with its beautiful fellow to her burning cheeks, ran into her own apartment to hide her confusion.

Between the open sarcasm of Frances, and the ill-concealed disdain of the young man, Colonel Wellmere had felt himself placed in an awkward predicament; but ashamed to resent such trifles in the presence of his mistress, he satisfied himself with observing, superciliously, as Dunwoodie left the room, —

“Quite a liberty for a youth in his situation; a shop boy with a bundle,
I fancy.”

The idea of picturing the graceful Peyton Dunwoodie as a shop boy could never enter the mind of Sarah, and she looked around her in surprise, when the colonel continued, —

“This Mr. Dun — Dun— “

“Dunwoodie! Oh, no — he is a relation of my aunt,” cried the young lady, “and an intimate friend of my brother; they were at school together, and only separated in England, when one went into the army, and the other to a French military academy.”

“His money appears to have been thrown away,” observed the colonel, betraying the spleen he was unsuccessfully striving to conceal.

“We ought to hope so,” added Sarah, with a smile, “for it is said he intends joining the rebel army. He was brought in here in a French ship, and has just been exchanged; you may soon meet him in arms.”

“Well, let him — I wish Washington plenty of such heroes;” and he turned to a more pleasant subject, by changing the discourse to themselves.

A few weeks after this scene occurred, the army of Burgoyne laid down their arms. Mr. Wharton, beginning to think the result of the contest doubtful, resolved to conciliate his countrymen, and gratify himself, by calling his daughters into his own abode. Miss Peyton consented to be their companion; and from that time, until the period at which we commenced our narrative, they had formed one family.

Whenever the main army made any movements, Captain Wharton had, of course, accompanied it; and once or twice, under the protection of strong parties, acting in the neighborhood of the Locusts, he had enjoyed rapid and stolen interviews with his friends. A twelvemonth had, however, passed without his seeing them, and the impatient Henry had adopted the disguise we have mentioned, and unfortunately arrived on the very evening that an unknown and rather suspicious guest was an inmate of the house, which seldom contained any other than its regular inhabitants.

“But do you think he suspects me?” asked the captain, with anxiety, after pausing to listen to Caesar’s opinion of the Skinners.

“How should he?” cried Sarah, “when your sisters and father could not penetrate your disguise.”

“There is something mysterious in his manner; his looks are too prying for an indifferent observer,” continued young Wharton thoughtfully, “and his face seems familiar to me. The recent fate of André has created much irritation on both sides. Sir Henry threatens retaliation for his death; and Washington is as firm as if half the world were at his command. The rebels would think me a fit subject for their plans just now, should I be so unlucky as to fall into their hands.”

“But my son,” cried his father, in great alarm, “you are not a spy; you are not within the rebel — that is, the American lines; there is nothing here to spy.”

“That might be disputed,” rejoined the young man, musing. “Their pickets were as low as the White Plains when I passed through in disguise. It is true my purposes are innocent; but how is it to appear? My visit to you would seem a cloak to other designs. Remember, sir, the treatment you received not a year since, for sending me a supply of fruit for the winter.”

“That proceeded from the misrepresentations of my kind neighbors,” said Mr. Wharton, “who hoped, by getting my estate confiscated, to purchase good farms at low prices. Peyton Dunwoodie, however, soon obtained our discharge; we were detained but a month.”

“We!” repeated the son, in amazement; “did they take my sisters, also?
Fanny, you wrote me nothing of this.”

“I believe,” said Frances, coloring highly, “I mentioned the kind treatment we received from your old friend, Major Dunwoodie; and that he procured my father’s release.”

“True; but were you with him in the rebel camp?”

“Yes,” said the father, kindly; “Fanny would not suffer me to go alone. Jeanette and Sarah took charge of the Locusts, and this little girl was my companion, in captivity.”

“And Fanny returned from such a scene a greater rebel than ever,” cried Sarah, indignantly; “one would think the hardships her father suffered would have cured her of such whims.”

“What say you to the charge, my pretty sister?” cried the captain gayly; “did Peyton strive to make you hate your king, more than he does himself?”

“Peyton Dunwoodie hates no one,” said Frances, quickly; then, blushing at her own ardor, she added immediately, “he loves you, Henry, I know; for he has told me so again and again.”

Young Wharton tapped his sister on the cheek, with a smile, as he asked her, in an affected whisper, “Did he tell you also that he loved my little sister Fanny?”

“Nonsense!” said Frances; and the remnants of the supper-table soon disappeared under her superintendence.

CHAPTER III

’Twas when the fields were swept of Autumn’s store,
And growing winds the fading foliage tore
Behind the Lowmon hill, the short-lived light,
Descending slowly, ushered in the night;
When from the noisy town, with mournful look,
His lonely way the meager peddler took.
— WILSON.

A storm below the highlands of the Hudson, if it be introduced with an easterly wind, seldom lasts less than two days. Accordingly, as the inmates of the Locusts assembled, on the following morning, around their early breakfast, the driving rain was seen to strike in nearly horizontal lines against the windows of the building, and forbade the idea of exposing either man or beast to the tempest. Harper was the last to appear; after taking a view of the state of the weather, he apologized to Mr. Wharton for the necessity that existed for his trespassing on his goodness for a longer time. To appearances, the reply was as courteous as the excuse; yet Harper wore a resignation in his deportment that was widely different from the uneasy manner of the father. Henry Wharton had resumed his disguise with a reluctance amounting to disgust, but in obedience to the commands of his parent. No communications passed between him and the stranger, after the first salutations of the morning had been paid by Harper to him, in common with the rest of the family. Frances had, indeed, thought there was something like a smile passing over the features of the traveler, when, on entering the room, he first confronted her brother; but it was confined to the eyes, seeming to want power to affect the muscles of the face, and was soon lost in the settled and benevolent expression which reigned in his countenance, with a sway but seldom interrupted. The eyes of the affectionate sister were turned in anxiety, for a moment, on her brother, and glancing again on their unknown guest, met his look, as he offered her, with marked attention, one of the little civilities of the table; and the heart of the girl, which had begun to throb with violence, regained a pulsation as tempered as youth, health, and buoyant spirits could allow. While yet seated at the table, Caesar entered, and laying a small parcel in silence by the side of his master, modestly retired behind his chair, where, placing one hand on its back, he continued in an attitude half familiar, half respectful, a listener.

“What is this, Caesar?” inquired Mr. Wharton, turning the bundle over to examine its envelope, and eying it rather suspiciously.

“The ‘baccy, sir; Harvey Birch, he got home, and he bring you a little good ‘baccy from York.”

“Harvey Birch!” rejoined the master with great deliberation, stealing a look at his guest. “I do not remember desiring him to purchase any tobacco for me; but as he has brought it, he must be paid for his trouble.”

For an instant only, as the negro spoke, did Harper suspend his silent meal; his eye moved slowly from the servant to the master, and again all remained in impenetrable reserve.

To Sarah Wharton, this intelligence gave unexpected pleasure; rising from her seat with impatience, she bade the black show Birch into the apartment; when, suddenly recollecting herself, she turned to the traveler with an apologizing look, and added, “If Mr. Harper will excuse the presence of a peddler.”

The indulgent benevolence expressed in the countenance of the stranger, as he bowed a silent acquiescence, spoke more eloquently than the nicest framed period, and the young lady repeated her order, with a confidence in its truth that removed all embarrassment.

In the deep recesses of the windows of the cottage were seats of paneled work; and the rich damask curtains, that had ornamented the parlor in Queen Street, [Footnote: The Americans changed the names of many towns and streets at the Revolution, as has since been done in France. Thus, in the city of New York, Crown Street has become Liberty Street; King Street, Pine Street; and Queen Street, then one of the most fashionable quarters of the town, Pearl Street. Pearl Street is now chiefly occupied by the auction dealers, and the wholesale drygoods merchants, for warehouses and counting-rooms.] had been transferred to the Locusts, and gave to the room that indescribable air of comfort, which so gratefully announces the approach of a domestic winter. Into one of these recesses Captain Wharton now threw himself, drawing the curtain before him in such a manner as to conceal most of his person from observation; while his younger sister, losing her natural frankness of manner, in an air of artificial constraint, silently took possession of the other.

Harvey Birch had been a peddler from his youth; at least so he frequently asserted, and his skill in the occupation went far to prove the truth of the declaration. He was a native of one of the eastern colonies; and, from something of superior intelligence which belonged to his father, it was thought they had known better fortune in the land of their nativity. Harvey possessed, however, the common manners of the country, and was in no way distinguished from men of his class, but by his acuteness, and the mystery which enveloped his movements. Ten years before, they had arrived together in the vale, and, purchasing the humble dwelling at which Harper had made his unsuccessful application, continued ever since peaceful inhabitants, but little noticed and but little known. Until age and infirmities had prevented, the father devoted himself to the cultivation of the small spot of ground belonging to his purchase, while the son pursued with avidity his humble barter. Their orderly quietude had soon given them so much consideration in the neighborhood, as to induce a maiden of five-and-thirty to forget the punctilio of her sex, and to accept the office of presiding over their domestic comforts. The roses had long before vanished from the cheeks of Katy Haynes, and she had seen in succession, both her male and female acquaintances forming the union so desirable to her sex, with but little or no hope left for herself, when, with views of her own, she entered the family of the Birches. Necessity is a hard master, and, for the want of a better companion, the father and son were induced to accept her services; but still Katy was not wanting in some qualities which made her a very tolerable housekeeper. On the one hand, she was neat, industrious, honest, and a good manager. On the other, she was talkative, selfish, superstitious, and inquisitive. By dint of using the latter quality with consummate industry, she had not lived in the family five years when she triumphantly declared that she had heard, or rather overheard, sufficient to enable her to say what had been the former fate of her associates. Could Katy have possessed enough of divination to pronounce upon their future lot, her task would have been accomplished. From the private conversations of the parent and child, she learned that a fire had reduced them from competence to poverty, and at the same time diminished the number of their family to two. There was a tremulousness in the voice of the father, as he touched lightly on the event, which affected even the heart of Katy; but no barrier is sufficient to repel vulgar curiosity. She persevered, until a very direct intimation from Harvey, by threatening to supply her place with a female a few years younger than herself, gave her awful warning that there were bounds beyond which she was not to pass. From that period the curiosity of the housekeeper had been held in such salutary restraint, that, although no opportunity of listening was ever neglected, she had been able to add but little to her stock of knowledge. There was, however, one piece of intelligence, and that of no little interest to herself, which she had succeeded in obtaining; and from the moment of its acquisition, she directed her energies to the accomplishment of one object, aided by the double stimulus of love and avarice.

Harvey was in the frequent habit of paying mysterious visits in the depth of the night, to the fireplace of the apartment that served for both kitchen and parlor. Here he was observed by Katy; and availing herself of his absence and the occupations of the father, by removing one of the hearthstones, she discovered an iron pot, glittering with a metal that seldom fails to soften the hardest heart. Katy succeeded in replacing the stone without discovery, and never dared to trust herself with another visit. From that moment, however, the heart of the virgin lost its obduracy, and nothing interposed between Harvey and his happiness, but his own want of observation.

The war did not interfere with the traffic of the peddler, who seized on the golden opportunity which the interruption of the regular trade afforded, and appeared absorbed in the one grand object of amassing money. For a year or two his employment was uninterrupted, and his success proportionate; but, at length, dark and threatening hints began to throw suspicion around his movements, and the civil authority thought it incumbent on them to examine narrowly into his mode of life. His imprisonments, though frequent, were not long; and his escapes from the guardians of the law easy, compared to what he endured from the persecution of the military. Still Birch survived, and still he continued his trade, though compelled to be very guarded in his movements, especially whenever he approached the northern boundaries of the county; or in other words, the neighborhood of the American lines. His visits to the Locusts had become less frequent, and his appearance at his own abode so seldom, as to draw forth from the disappointed Katy, in the fullness of her heart, the complaint we have related, in her reply to Harper. Nothing, however, seemed to interfere with the pursuits of this indefatigable trader, who, with a view to dispose of certain articles for which he could only find purchasers in the very wealthiest families of the county, had now braved the fury of the tempest, and ventured to cross the half mile between his own residence and the house of Mr. Wharton.

In a few minutes after receiving the commands of his young mistress, Caesar reappeared, ushering into the apartment the subject of the foregoing digression. In person, the peddler was a man above the middle height, spare, but full of bone and muscle. At first sight, his strength seemed unequal to manage the unwieldy burden of his pack; yet he threw it on and off with great dexterity, and with as much apparent ease as if it had been filled with feathers. His eyes were gray, sunken, restless, and, for the flitting moments that they dwelt on the countenance of those with whom he conversed, they seemed to read the very soul. They possessed, however, two distinct expressions, which, in a great measure, characterized the whole man. When engaged in traffic, the intelligence of his face appeared lively, active, and flexible, though uncommonly acute; if the conversation turned on the ordinary transactions of life, his air became abstracted and restless; but if, by chance, the Revolution and the country were the topic, his whole system seemed altered — all his faculties were concentrated: he would listen for a great length of time, without speaking, and then would break silence by some light and jocular remark, that was too much at variance with his former manner, not to be affectation. But of the war, and of his father, he seldom spoke and always from some very obvious necessity.

To a superficial observer, avarice would seem his ruling passion — and, all things considered, he was as unfit a subject for the plans of Katy Haynes as can be readily imagined. On entering the room, the peddler relieved himself from his burden, which, as it stood on the floor, reached nearly to his shoulders, and saluted the family with modest civility. To Harper he made a silent bow, without lifting his eyes from the carpet; but the curtain prevented any notice of the presence of Captain Wharton. Sarah gave but little time for the usual salutations, before she commenced her survey of the contents of the pack; and, for several minutes, the two were engaged in bringing to light the various articles it contained. The tables, chairs, and floor were soon covered with silks, crapes, gloves, muslins, and all the stock of an itinerant trader. Caesar was employed to hold open the mouth of the pack, as its hoards were discharged, and occasionally he aided his young lady, by directing her admiration to some article of finery, which, from its deeper contrast in colors, he thought more worthy of her notice. At length, Sarah, having selected several articles, and satisfactorily arranged the prices, observed in a cheerful voice, —

“But, Harvey, you have told us no news. Has Lord Cornwallis beaten the rebels again?”

The question could not have been heard; for the peddler, burying his body in the pack, brought forth a quantity of lace of exquisite fineness, and, holding it up to view, he required the admiration of the young lady. Miss Peyton dropped the cup she was engaged in washing, from her hand; and Frances exhibited the whole of that lovely face, which had hitherto only suffered one of its joyous eyes to be seen, beaming with a color that shamed the damask which enviously concealed her figure.

The aunt quitted her employment; and Birch soon disposed of a large portion of his valuable article. The praises of the ladies had drawn the whole person of the younger sister into view; and Frances was slowly rising from the window, as Sarah repeated her question, with an exultation in her voice, that proceeded more from pleasure in her purchase, than her political feelings. The younger sister resumed her seat, apparently examining the state of the clouds, while the peddler, finding a reply was expected, answered, —

“There is some talk, below, about Tarleton having defeated General
Sumter, on the Tiger River.”

Captain Wharton now involuntarily thrust his head between the opening of the curtains into the room; and Frances, turning her ear in breathless silence, noticed the quiet eyes of Harper looking at the peddler, over the book he was affecting to read, with an expression that denoted him to be a listener of no ordinary interest.

“Indeed!” cried the exulting Sarah; “Sumter — Sumter — who is he? I’ll not buy even a pin, until you tell me all the news,” she continued, laughing and throwing down a muslin she had been examining.

For a moment the peddler hesitated; his eye glanced towards Harper, who was yet gazing at him with settled meaning, and the whole manner of Birch was altered. Approaching the fire, he took from his mouth a large allowance of the Virginian weed, and depositing it, with the superabundance of its juices, without mercy to Miss Peyton’s shining andirons, he returned to his goods.

“He lives somewhere among the niggers to the south,” answered the peddler, abruptly.

“No more nigger than be yourself, Mister Birch,” interrupted Caesar tartly, dropping at the same time the covering of the goods in high displeasure.

“Hush, Caesar — hush; never mind it now,” said Sarah Wharton soothingly, impatient to hear further.

“A black man so good as white, Miss Sally,” continued the offended negro, “so long as he behave heself.”

“And frequently he is much better,” rejoined his mistress. “But, Harvey, who is this Mr. Sumter?”

A slight indication of humor showed itself on the face of the peddler, but it disappeared, and he continued as if the discourse had met with no interruption from the sensitiveness of the domestic.

“As I was saying, he lives among the colored people in the south” — Caesar resumed his occupation— “and he has lately had a scrimmage with this Colonel Tarleton— “

“Who defeated him, of course?” cried Sarah, with confidence.

“So say the troops at Morrisania.”

“But what do you say?” Mr. Wharton ventured to inquire, yet speaking in a low tone.

“I repeat but what I hear,” said Birch, offering a piece of cloth to the inspection of Sarah, who rejected it in silence, evidently determined to hear more before she made another purchase.

“They say, however, at the Plains,” the peddler continued, first throwing his eyes again around the room, and letting them rest for an instant on Harper, “that Sumter and one or two more were all that were hurt, and that the rig’lars were all cut to pieces, for the militia were fixed snugly in a log barn.”

“Not very probable,” said Sarah, contemptuously, “though I make no doubt the rebels got behind the logs.”

“I think,” said the peddler coolly, again offering the silk, “it’s quite ingenious to get a log between one and a gun, instead of getting between a gun and a log.”

The eyes of Harper dropped quietly on the pages of the volume in his hand, while Frances, rising, came forward with a smile in her face, as she inquired, in a tone of affability that the peddler had never witnessed from her, —

“Have you more of the lace, Mr. Birch?”

The desired article was immediately produced, and Frances became a purchaser also. By her order a glass of liquor was offered to the trader, who took it with thanks, and having paid his compliments to the master of the house and the ladies, drank the beverage.

“So, it is thought that Colonel Tarleton has worsted General Sumter?” said Mr. Wharton, affecting to be employed in mending the cup that was broken by the eagerness of his sister-in-law.

“I believe they think so at Morrisania,” said Birch, dryly.

“Have you any other news, friend?” asked Captain Wharton, venturing to thrust his face without the curtains.

“Have you heard that Major Andre has been hanged?”

Captain Wharton started, and for a moment glances of great significance were exchanged between him and the trader, when he observed, with affected indifference, “That must have been some weeks ago.”

“Does his execution make much noise?” asked the father, striving to make the broken china unite.

“People will talk, you know, ‘squire.”

“Is there any probability of movements below, my friend, that will make traveling dangerous?” asked Harper, looking steadily at the other, in expectation of his reply.

Some bunches of ribbons fell from the hands of Birch; his countenance changed instantly, losing its keen expression in intent meaning, as he answered slowly, “It is some time since the rig’lar cavalry were out, and I saw some of De Lancey’s men cleaning their arms, as I passed their quarters; it would be no wonder if they took the scent soon, for the Virginia horse are low in the county.”

“Are they in much force?” asked Mr. Wharton, suspending all employment in anxiety.

“I did not count them.”

Frances was the only observer of the change in the manner of Birch, and, on turning to Harper, he had resumed his book in silence. She took some of the ribbons in her hand — laid them down again — and, bending over the goods, so that her hair, falling in rich curls, shaded her face, she observed, blushing with a color that suffused her neck, —

“I thought the Southern horse had marched towards the Delaware.”

“It may be so,” said Birch; “I passed the troops at a distance.”

Caesar had now selected a piece of calico, in which the gaudy colors of yellow and red were contrasted on a white ground, and, after admiring it for several minutes, he laid it down with a sigh, as he exclaimed, “Berry pretty calico.”

“That,” said Sarah; “yes, that would make a proper gown for your wife,
Caesar.”

“Yes, Miss Sally,” cried the delighted black, “it make old Dinah heart leap for joy — so berry genteel.”

“Yes,” added the peddler, quaintly, “that is only wanting to make Dinah look like a rainbow.”

Caesar eyed his young mistress eagerly, until she inquired of Harvey the price of the article.

“Why, much as I light of chaps,” said the peddler.

“How much?” demanded Sarah in surprise.

“According to my luck in finding purchasers; for my friend Dinah, you may have it at four shillings.”

“It is too much,” said Sarah, turning to some goods for herself.

“Monstrous price for coarse calico, Mister Birch,” grumbled Caesar, dropping the opening of the pack again.

“We will say three, then,” added the peddler, “if you like that better.”

“Be sure he like ‘em better,” said Caesar, smiling good-humoredly, and reopening the pack; “Miss Sally like a t’ree shilling when she give, and a four shilling when she take.”

The bargain was immediately concluded; but in measuring, the cloth wanted a little of the well-known ten yards required by the dimensions of Dinah. By dint of a strong arm, however, it grew to the desired length, under the experienced eye of the peddler, who conscientiously added a ribbon of corresponding brilliancy with the calico; and Caesar hastily withdrew, to communicate the joyful intelligence to his aged partner.

During the movements created by the conclusion of the purchase, Captain Wharton had ventured to draw aside the curtain, so as to admit a view of his person, and he now inquired of the peddler, who had begun to collect the scattered goods, at what time he had left the city.

“At early twilight,” was the answer.

“So lately!” cried the other in surprise: then correcting his manner, by assuming a more guarded air, he continued, “Could you pass the pickets at so late an hour?”

“I did,” was the laconic reply.

“You must be well known by this time, Harvey, to the officers of the
British army,” cried Sarah, smiling knowingly on the peddler.

“I know some of them by sight,” said Birch, glancing his eyes round the apartment, taking in their course Captain Wharton, and resting for an instant on the countenance of Harper.

Mr. Wharton had listened intently to each speaker, in succession, and had so far lost the affectation of indifference, as to be crushing in his hand the pieces of china on which he had expended so much labor in endeavoring to mend it; when, observing the peddler tying the last knot in his pack, he asked abruptly,

“Are we about to be disturbed again with the enemy?”

“Who do you call the enemy?” said the peddler, raising himself erect, and giving the other a look, before which the eyes of Mr. Wharton sank in instant confusion.

“All are enemies who disturb our peace,” said Miss Peyton, observing that her brother was unable to speak. “But are the royal troops out from below?”

“’Tis quite likely they soon may be,” returned Birch, raising his pack from the floor, and preparing to leave the room.

“And the continentals,” continued Miss Peyton mildly, “are the continentals in the county?”

Harvey was about to utter something in reply, when the door opened, and
Caesar made his appearance, attended by his delighted spouse.

The race of blacks of which Caesar was a favorable specimen is becoming very rare. The old family servant who, born and reared in the dwelling of his master, identified himself with the welfare of those whom it was his lot to serve, is giving place in every direction to that vagrant class which has sprung up within the last thirty years, and whose members roam through the country unfettered by principles, and uninfluenced by attachments. For it is one of the curses of slavery, that its victims become incompetent to the attributes of a freeman. The short curly hair of Caesar had acquired from age a coloring of gray, that added greatly to the venerable cast of his appearance. Long and indefatigable applications of the comb had straightened the close curls of his forehead, until they stood erect in a stiff and formal brush, that gave at least two inches to his stature. The shining black of his youth had lost its glistening hue, and it had been succeeded by a dingy brown. His eyes, which stood at a most formidable distance from each other, were small, and characterized by an expression of good feeling, occasionally interrupted by the petulance of an indulged servant; they, however, now danced with inward delight. His nose possessed, in an eminent manner, all the requisites for smelling, but with the most modest unobtrusiveness; the nostrils being abundantly capacious, without thrusting themselves in the way of their neighbors. His mouth was capacious to a fault, and was only tolerated on account of the double row of pearls it contained. In person Caesar was short, and we should say square, had not all the angles and curves of his figure bid defiance to anything like mathematical symmetry. His arms were long and muscular, and terminated by two bony hands, that exhibited on one side a coloring of blackish gray, and on the other, a faded pink. But it was in his legs that nature had indulged her most capricious humor. There was an abundance of material injudiciously used. The calves were neither before nor behind, but rather on the outer side of the limb, inclining forward, and so close to the knee as to render the free use of that joint a subject of doubt. In the foot, considering it as a base on which the body was to rest, Caesar had no cause of complaint, unless, indeed, it might be that the leg was placed so near the center, as to make it sometimes a matter of dispute, whether he was not walking backwards. But whatever might be the faults a statuary could discover in his person, the heart of Caesar Thompson was in the right place, and, we doubt not, of very just dimensions.

Accompanied by his ancient companion, Caesar now advanced, and paid his tribute of gratitude in words. Sarah received them with great complacency, and made a few compliments to the taste of the husband, and the probable appearance of the wife. Frances, with a face beaming with a look of pleasure that corresponded to the smiling countenances of the blacks, offered the service of her needle in fitting the admired calico to its future uses. The offer was humbly and gratefully accepted.

As Caesar followed his wife and the peddler from the apartment, and was in the act of closing the door, he indulged himself in a grateful soliloquy, by saying aloud, —

“Good little lady — Miss Fanny — take care of he fader — love to make a gown for old Dinah, too.” What else his feelings might have induced him to utter is unknown, but the sound of his voice was heard some time after the distance rendered his words indistinct.

Harper had dropped his book, and he sat an admiring witness of the scene; and Frances enjoyed a double satisfaction, as she received an approving smile from a face which concealed, under the traces of deep thought and engrossing care, the benevolent expression which characterizes all the best feelings of the human heart.

CHAPTER IV

“It is the form, the eye, the word,
The bearing of that stranger lord,
His stature, manly, bold, and tall,
Built like a castle’s battled wall,
Yet molded in such just degrees
His giant strength seems lightsome ease.
Weather and war their rougher trace
Have left on that majestic face;
But ’tis his dignity of eye!
There, if a suppliant, would I fly,
Secure, ‘mid danger, wrongs, and grief,
Of sympathy, redress, relief —
That glance, if guilty, would I dread
More than the doom that spoke me dead.”
“Enough, enough!” the princess cried,
“’Tis Scotland’s hope, her joy, her pride!”
— WALTER SCOTT.

The party sat in silence for many minutes after the peddler had withdrawn. Mr. Wharton had heard enough to increase his uneasiness, without in the least removing his apprehensions on behalf of his son. The captain was impatiently wishing Harper in any other place than the one foe occupied with such apparent composure, while Miss Peyton completed the disposal of her breakfast equipage, with the mild complacency of her nature, aided a little by an inward satisfaction at possessing so large a portion of the trader’s lace; Sarah was busily occupied in arranging her purchases, and Frances was kindly assisting in the occupation, disregarding her own neglected bargains, when the stranger suddenly broke the silence by saying, —

“If any apprehensions of me induce Captain Wharton to maintain his disguise, I wish him to be undeceived; had I motives for betraying him, they could not operate under present circumstances.”

The younger sister sank into her seat colorless and astonished. Miss Peyton dropped the tea tray she was lifting from the table, and Sarah sat with her purchases unheeded in her lap, in speechless surprise. Mr. Wharton was stupefied; but the captain, hesitating a moment from astonishment, sprang into the middle of the room, and exclaimed, as he tore off the instruments of his disguise, —

“I believe you from my soul, and this tiresome imposition shall continue no longer. Yet I am at a loss to conceive in what manner you should know me.”

“You really look so much better in your proper person, Captain Wharton,” said Harper, with a slight smile, “I would advise you never to conceal it in future. There is enough to betray you, if other sources of detection were wanting.” As he spoke, he pointed to a picture suspended over the mantel piece, which exhibited the British officer in his regimentals.

“I had flattered myself,” cried young Wharton, with a laugh, “that I looked better on the canvas than in a masquerade. You must be a close observer, sir.”

“Necessity has made me one,” said Harper, rising from his seat.

Frances met him as he was about to withdraw, and, taking his hand between both her own, said with earnestness, her cheeks mantling with their richest vermilion, “You cannot — you will not betray my brother.”

For an instant Harper paused in silent admiration of the lovely pleader, and then, folding her hands on his breast, he replied solemnly, “I cannot, and I will not.” He released her hands, and laying his own on her head gently, continued, “If the blessing of a stranger can profit you, receive it.” He turned, and, bowing low, retired, with a delicacy that was duly appreciated by those he quitted, to his own apartment.

The whole party were deeply impressed with the ingenuous and solemn manner of the traveler, and all but the father found immediate relief in his declaration. Some of the cast-off clothes of the captain, which had been removed with the goods from the city, were produced; and young Wharton, released from the uneasiness of his disguise, began at last to enjoy a visit which had been undertaken at so much personal risk to himself. Mr. Wharton retiring to his apartment, in pursuance of his regular engagements, the ladies, with the young man, were left to an uninterrupted communication on such subjects as were most agreeable. Even Miss Peyton was affected with the spirits of her young relatives; and they sat for an hour enjoying, in heedless confidence, the pleasures of an unrestrained conversation, without reflecting on any danger which might be impending over them. The city and their acquaintances were not long neglected; for Miss Peyton, who had never forgotten the many agreeable hours of her residence within its boundaries, soon inquired, among others, after their old acquaintance, Colonel Wellmere.

“Oh!” cried the captain, gayly, “he yet continues there, as handsome and as gallant as ever.”

Although a woman be not actually in love, she seldom hears without a blush the name of a man whom she might love, and who has been connected with herself by idle gossips, in the amatory rumor of the day. Such had been the case with Sarah, and she dropped her eyes on the carpet with a smile, that, aided by the blush which suffused her cheek, in no degree detracted from her native charms.

Captain Wharton, without heeding this display of interest in his sister, immediately continued, “At times he is melancholy — we tell him it must be love.” Sarah raised her eyes to the face of her brother, and was consciously turning them on the rest of the party, when she met those of her sister laughing with good humor and high spirits, as she cried, “Poor man! does he despair?”

“Why, no — one would think he could not; the eldest son of a man of wealth, so handsome, and a colonel.”

“Strong reasons, indeed, why he should prevail,” said Sarah, endeavoring to laugh; “more particularly the latter.”

“Let me tell you,” replied the captain, gravely, “a lieutenant colonelcy in the Guards is a very pretty thing.”

“And Colonel Wellmere a very pretty man,” added Frances.

“Nay, Frances,” returned her sister, “Colonel Wellmere was never a favorite of yours; he is too loyal to his king to be agreeable to your taste.”

Frances quickly answered, “And is not Henry loyal to his king?”

“Come, come,” said Miss Peyton, “no difference of opinion about the colonel — he is a favorite of mine.”

“Fanny likes majors better,” cried the brother, pulling her upon his knee.

“Nonsense!” said the blushing girl, as she endeavored to extricate herself from the grasp of her laughing brother.

“It surprises me,” continued the captain, “that Peyton, when he procured the release of my father, did not endeavor to detain my sister in the rebel camp.”

“That might have endangered his own liberty,” said the smiling girl, resuming her seat. “You know it is liberty for which Major Dunwoodie is fighting.”

“Liberty!” exclaimed Sarah; “very pretty liberty which exchanges one master for fifty.”

“The privilege of changing masters at all is a liberty.”

“And one you ladies would sometimes be glad to exercise,” cried the captain.

“We like, I believe, to have the liberty of choosing who they shall be in the first place,” said the laughing girl. “Don’t we, Aunt Jeanette?”

“Me!” cried Miss Peyton, starting; “what do I know of such things, child? You must ask someone else, if you wish to learn such matters.”

“Ah! you would have us think you were never young! But what am I to believe of all the tales I have heard about the handsome Miss Jeanette Peyton?”

“Nonsense, my dear, nonsense,” said the aunt, endeavoring to suppress a smile; “it is very silly to believe all you hear.”

“Nonsense, do you call it?” cried the captain, gayly. “To this hour
General Montrose toasts Miss Peyton; I heard him within the week, at Sir
Henry’s table.”

“Why, Henry, you are as saucy as your sister; and to break in upon your folly, I must take you to see my new home-made manufactures, which I will be bold enough to put in contrast with the finery of Birch.”

The young people rose to follow their aunt, in perfect good humor with each other and the world. On ascending the stairs to the place of deposit for Miss Peyton’s articles of domestic economy, she availed herself, however, of an opportunity to inquire of her nephew, whether General Montrose suffered as much from the gout as he had done when she knew him.

It is a painful discovery we make, as we advance in life, that even those we most love are not exempt from its frailties. When the heart is fresh, and the view of the future unsullied by the blemishes which have been gathered from the experience of the past, our feelings are most holy: we love to identify with the persons of our natural friends all those qualities to which we ourselves aspire, and all those virtues we have been taught to revere. The confidence with which we esteem seems a part of our nature; and there is a purity thrown around the affections which tie us to our kindred that after life can seldom hope to see uninjured. The family of Mr. Wharton continued to enjoy, for the remainder of the day, a happiness to which they had long been strangers; and one that sprang, in its younger members, from the delights of the most confident affection, and the exchange of the most disinterested endearments.

Harper appeared only at the dinner table, and he retired with the cloth, under the pretense of some engagement in his own room. Notwithstanding the confidence created by his manner, the family felt his absence a relief; for the visit of Captain Wharton was necessarily to be confined to a very few days, both from the limitation of his leave of absence, and the danger of a discovery.

All dread of consequences, however, was lost in the pleasure of the meeting. Once or twice during the day, Mr. Wharton had suggested a doubt as to the character of his unknown guest, and the possibility of the detection of his son proceeding in some manner from his information; but the idea was earnestly opposed by all his children; even Sarah uniting with her brother and sister in pleading warmly in favor of the sincerity expressed in the outward appearance of the traveler.

“Such appearances, my children,” replied the desponding parent, “are but too often deceitful; when men like Major Andre lend themselves to the purposes of fraud, it is idle to reason from qualities, much less externals.”

“Fraud!” cried his son quickly. “Surely, sir, you forget that Major Andre was serving his king, and that the usages of war justified the measure.”

“And did not the usages of war justify his death, Henry?” inquired Frances, speaking in a low voice, unwilling to abandon what she thought the cause of her country, and yet unable to suppress her feelings for the man.

“Never!” exclaimed the young man, springing from his seat, and pacing the floor rapidly. “Frances, you shock me; suppose it should be my fate, even now, to fall into the power of the rebels; you would vindicate my execution — perhaps exult in the cruelty of Washington.”

“Henry!” said Frances, solemnly, quivering with emotion, and with a face pale as death, “you little know my heart.”

“Pardon me, my sister — my little Fanny,” cried the repentant youth, pressing her to his bosom, and kissing off the tears which had burst, spite of her resolution, from her eyes.

“It is very foolish to regard your hasty words, I know,” said Frances, extricating herself from his arms, and raising her yet humid eyes to his face with a smile; “but reproach from those we love is most severe, Henry; particularly — where we — we think — we know” — her paleness gradually gave place to the color of the rose, as she concluded in a low voice, with her eyes directed to the carpet, “we are undeserving of it.”

Miss Peyton moved from her own seat to the one next her niece, and, kindly taking her hand, observed, “You should not suffer the impetuosity of your brother to affect you so much; boys, you know, are proverbially ungovernable.”

“And, from my conduct, you might add cruel,” said the captain, seating himself on the other side of his sister. “But on the subject of the death of Andre we are all of us uncommonly sensitive. You did not know him: he was all that was brave — that was accomplished — that was estimable.” Frances smiled faintly, and shook her head, but made no reply. Her brother, observing the marks of incredulity in her countenance, continued, “You doubt it, and justify his death?”

“I do not doubt his worth,” replied the maid, mildly, “nor his being deserving of a more happy fate; but I cannot doubt the propriety of Washington’s conduct. I know but little of the customs of war, and wish to know less; but with what hopes of success could the Americans contend, if they yielded all the principles which long usage had established, to the exclusive purposes of the British?”

“Why contend at all?” cried Sarah, impatiently. “Besides, being rebels, all their acts are illegal.”

“Women are but mirrors, which reflect the images before them,” cried the captain, good-naturedly. “In Frances I see the picture of Major Dunwoodie, and in Sarah— “

“Colonel Wellmere,” interrupted the younger sister, laughing, and blushing crimson. “I must confess I am indebted to the major for my reasoning — am I not, Aunt Jeanette?”

“I believe it is something like his logic, indeed, child.”

“I plead guilty; and you. Sarah, have not forgotten the learned discussions of Colonel Wellmere.”

“I trust I never forget the right,” said Sarah, emulating her sister in color, and rising, under the pretense of avoiding the heat of the fire.

Nothing occurred of any moment during the rest of the day; but in the evening Caesar reported that he had overheard voices in the room of Harper, conversing in a low tone. The apartment occupied by the traveler was the wing at the extremity of the building, opposite to the parlor in which the family ordinarily assembled; and it seems that Caesar had established a regular system of espionage, with a view to the safety of his young master. This intelligence gave some uneasiness to all the members of the family; but the entrance of Harper himself, with the air of benevolence and sincerity which shone through his reserve, soon removed the doubts from the breast of all but Mr. Wharton. His children and sister believed Caesar to have been mistaken, and the evening passed off without any additional alarm.

On the afternoon of the succeeding day, the party were assembled in the parlor around the tea table of Miss Peyton, when a change in the weather occurred. The thin scud, that apparently floated but a short distance above the tops of the hills, began to drive from the west towards the east in astonishing rapidity. The rain yet continued to beat against the eastern windows of the house with fury; in that direction the heavens were dark and gloomy. Frances was gazing at the scene with the desire of youth to escape from the tedium of confinement, when, as if by magic, all was still. The rushing winds had ceased, the pelting of the storm was over, and, springing to the window, with delight pictured in her face, she saw a glorious ray of sunshine lighting the opposite wood. The foliage glittered with the checkered beauties of the October leaf, reflecting back from the moistened boughs the richest luster of an American autumn. In an instant, the piazza, which opened to the south, was thronged with the inmates of the cottage. The air was mild, balmy, and refreshing; in the east, clouds, which might be likened to the retreating masses of a discomfited army, hung around the horizon in awful and increasing darkness. At a little elevation above the cottage, the thin vapor was still rushing towards the east with amazing velocity; while in the west the sun had broken forth and shed his parting radiance on the scene below, aided by the fullest richness of a clear atmosphere and a freshened herbage. Such moments belong only to the climate of America, and are enjoyed in a degree proportioned to the suddenness of the contrast, and the pleasure we experience in escaping from the turbulence of the elements to the quiet of a peaceful evening, and an air still as the softest mornings in June.

“What a magnificent scene!” said Harper, in a low tone. “How grand! how awfully sublime! — may such a quiet speedily await the struggle in which my country is engaged, and such a glorious evening follow the day of her adversity!”

Frances, who stood next to him, alone heard the voice. Turning in amazement from the view to the speaker, she saw him standing bareheaded, erect, and with his eyes lifted to heaven. There was no longer the quiet which had seemed their characteristic, but they were lighted into something like enthusiasm, and a slight flush passed over his features.

There can be no danger apprehended from such a man, thought Frances; such feelings belong only to the virtuous.

The musings of the party were now interrupted by the sudden appearance of the peddler. He had taken advantage of the first gleam of sunshine to hasten to the cottage. Heedless of wet or dry as it lay in his path, with arms swinging to and fro, and with his head bent forward of his body several inches, Harvey Birch approached the piazza, with a gait peculiarly his own. It was the quick, lengthened pace of an itinerant vender of goods.

“Fine evening,” said the peddler, saluting the party, without raising his eyes; “quite warm and agreeable for the season.”

Mr. Wharton assented to the remark, and inquired kindly after the health of his father. Harvey heard him, and continued standing for some time in moody silence; but the question being repeated, he answered with a slight tremor in his voice, —

“He fails fast; old age and hardships will do their work.” The peddler turned his face from the view of most of the family; but Frances noticed his glistening eyes and quivering lip, and, for the second time, Harvey rose in her estimation.

The valley in which the residence of Mr. Wharton stood ran in a direction from northwest to southeast, and the house was placed on the side of a hill which terminated its length in the former direction. A small opening, occasioned by the receding of the opposite hill, and the fall of the land to the level of the tide water, afforded a view of the Sound [Footnote: An island more than forty leagues in length lies opposite the coasts of New York and Connecticut. The arm of the sea which separates it from the main is technically called a sound, and in that part of the country par excellence, the Sound. This sheet of water varies in its breadth from five to thirty miles.] over the tops of the distant woods on its margin. The surface of the water which had so lately been lashing the shores with boisterous fury, was already losing its ruffled darkness in the long and regular undulations that succeeded a tempest, while the light air from the southwest was gently touching their summits, lending its feeble aid in stilling the waters. Some dark spots were now to be distinguished, occasionally rising into view, and again sinking behind the lengthened waves which interposed themselves to the sight. They were unnoticed by all but the peddler. He had seated himself on the piazza, at a distance from Harper, and appeared to have forgotten the object of his visit. His roving eye, however, soon caught a glimpse of these new objects in the view, and he sprang up with alacrity, gazing intently towards the water. He changed his place, glanced his eye with marked uneasiness on Harper, and then said with great emphasis —

“The rig’lars must be out from below.”

“Why do you think so?” inquired Captain Wharton, eagerly. “God send it may be true; I want their escort in again.”

“Them ten whaleboats would not move so fast unless they were better manned than common.”

“Perhaps,” cried Mr. Wharton in alarm, “they are — they are continentals returning from the island.”

“They look like rig’lars,” said the peddler, with meaning.

“Look!” repeated the captain, “there is nothing but spots to be seen.”

Harvey disregarded his observation, but seemed to be soliloquizing, as he said in an undertone, “They came out before the gale — have laid on the island these two days — horse are on the road — there will soon be fighting near us.” During this speech, Birch several times glanced his eye towards Harper, with evident uneasiness, but no corresponding emotion betrayed any interest of that gentleman in the scene. He stood in silent contemplation of the view, and seemed enjoying the change in the air. As Birch concluded, however, Harper turned to his host, and mentioned that his business would not admit of unnecessary delay; he would, therefore, avail himself of the fine evening to ride a few miles on his journey. Mr. Wharton made many professions of regret at losing so agreeable an inmate; but was too mindful of his duty not to speed the parting guest, and orders were instantly given to that effect.

The uneasiness of the peddler increased in a manner for which nothing apparent could account; his eye was constantly wandering towards the lower end of the vale as if in expectation of some interruption from that quarter. At length Caesar appeared, leading the noble beast which was to bear the weight of the traveler. The peddler officiously assisted to tighten the girths, and fasten the blue cloak and valise to the mailstraps.

Every precaution being completed, Harper proceeded to take his leave. To Sarah and her aunt he paid his compliments with ease and kindness; but when he came to Frances, he paused a moment, while his face assumed an expression of more than ordinary benignity. His eye repeated the blessing which had before fallen from his lips, and the girl felt her cheeks glow, and her heart beat with a quicker pulsation, as he spoke his adieus. There was a mutual exchange of polite courtesy between the host and his parting guest; but as Harper frankly offered his hand to Captain Wharton, he remarked, in a manner of great solemnity, —

“The step you have undertaken is one of much danger, and disagreeable consequences to yourself may result from it; in such a case, I may have it in my power to prove the gratitude I owe your family for its kindness.”

“Surely, sir,” cried the father, losing sight of delicacy in apprehension for his child, “you will keep secret the discovery which your being in my house has enabled you to make?”

Harper turned quickly to the speaker, and then, losing the sternness which had begun to gather on his countenance, he answered mildly, “I have learned nothing in your family, sir, of which I was ignorant before; but your son is safer from my knowledge of his visit than he would be without it.”

He bowed to the whole party, and without taking any notice of the peddler, other than by simply thanking him for his attentions, mounted his horse, and, riding steadily and gracefully through the little gate, was soon lost behind the hill which sheltered the valley to the northward.

The eyes of the peddler followed the retiring figure of the horseman so long as it continued within view, and as it disappeared from his sight, he drew a long and heavy sigh, as if relieved from a load of apprehension. The Whartons had meditated in silence on the character and visit of their unknown guest for the same period, when the father approached Birch and observed,

“I am yet your debtor, Harvey, for the tobacco you were so kind as to bring me from the city.”

“If it should not prove so good as the first,” replied the peddler, fixing a last and lingering look in the direction of Harper’s route, “it is owing to the scarcity of the article.”

“I like it much,” continued the other; “but you have forgotten to name the price.”

The countenance of the trader changed, and, losing its expression of deep care in a natural acuteness, he answered, —

“It is hard to say what ought to be the price; I believe I must leave it to your own generosity.”

Mr. Wharton had taken a hand well filled with the images of Carolus III from his pocket, and now extended it towards Birch with three of the pieces between his finger and thumb. Harvey’s eyes twinkled as he contemplated the reward; and rolling over in his mouth a large quantity of the article in question, coolly stretched forth his hand, into which the dollars fell with a most agreeable sound: but not satisfied with the transient music of their fall, the peddler gave each piece in succession a ring on the stepping-stone of the piazza, before he consigned it to the safekeeping of a huge deerskin purse, which vanished from the sight of the spectators so dexterously, that not one of them could have told about what part of his person it was secreted.

This very material point in his business so satisfactorily completed, the peddler rose from his seat on the floor of the piazza, and approached to where Captain Wharton stood, supporting his sisters on either arm, as they listened with the lively interest of affection to his conversation.

The agitation of the preceding incidents had caused such an expenditure of the juices which had become necessary to the mouth of the peddler, that a new supply of the weed was required before he could turn his attention to business of lesser moment. This done, he asked abruptly, —

“Captain Wharton, do you go in to-night?”

“No!” said the captain, laconically, and looking at his lovely burdens with great affection. “Mr. Birch, would you have me leave such company so soon, when I may never enjoy it again?”

“Brother!” said Frances, “jesting on such a subject is cruel.”

“I rather guess,” continued the peddler, coolly, “now the storm is over, the Skinners may be moving; you had better shorten your visit, Captain Wharton.”

“Oh!” cried the British officer, “a few guineas will buy off those rascals at any time, should I meet them. No, no, Mr. Birch, here I stay until morning.”

“Money could not liberate Major Andre,” said the peddler, dryly.

Both the sisters now turned to the captain in alarm, and the elder observed, —

“You had better take the advice of Harvey; rest assured, his opinion in such matters ought not to be disregarded.”

“Yes,” added the younger, “if, as I suspect, Mr. Birch assisted you to come here, your safety, our happiness, dear Henry, requires you to listen to him now.”

“I brought myself out, and can take myself in,” said the captain positively. “Our bargain went no further than to procure my disguise, and to let me know when the coast was clear; and in the latter particular, you were mistaken, Mr. Birch.”

“I was,” said the peddler, with some interest, “and the greater is the reason why you should get back to-night; the pass I gave you will serve but once.”

“Cannot you forge another?”

The pale cheek of the trader showed an unusual color, but he continued silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground, until the young man added, with great positiveness, “Here I stay this night, come what will.”

“Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, with great deliberation and marked emphasis, “beware a tall Virginian, with huge whiskers; he is below you, to my knowledge; the devil can’t deceive him; I never could but once.”

“Let him beware of me,” said Wharton, haughtily. “But, Mr. Birch, I exonerate you from further responsibility.”

“Will you give me that in writing?” asked the cautious Birch.

“Oh! cheerfully,” cried the captain, with a laugh. “Caesar! pen, ink, and paper, while I write a discharge for my trusty attendant, Harvey Birch, peddler, etc., etc.”

The implements for writing were produced, and the captain, with great gayety, wrote the desired acknowledgment in language of his own; which the peddler took, and carefully depositing it by the side of the image of his Catholic Majesty, made a sweeping bow to the whole family, and departed as he had approached. He was soon seen at a distance, stealing into the door of his own humble dwelling.

The father and sisters of the captain were too much rejoiced in retaining the young man to express, or even entertain, the apprehensions his situation might reasonably excite; but on retiring to their evening repast, a cooler reflection induced the captain to think of changing his mind. Unwilling to trust himself out of the protection of his father’s domains, the young man dispatched Caesar to desire another interview with Harvey. The black soon returned with the unwelcome intelligence that it was now too late. Katy had told him that Harvey must be miles on his road to the northward, “having left home at early candlelight with his pack.” Nothing now remained to the captain but patience, until the morning should afford further opportunity of deciding on the best course for him to pursue.

“This Harvey Birch, with his knowing looks and portentous warnings, gives me more uneasiness than I am willing to own,” said Captain Wharton, rousing himself from a fit of musing in which the danger of his situation made no small part of his meditations.

“How is it that he is able to travel to and fro in these difficult times, without molestation?” inquired Miss Peyton.

“Why the rebels suffer him to escape so easily, is more than I can answer,” returned the other; “but Sir Henry would not permit a hair of his head to be injured.”

“Indeed!” cried Frances, with interest. “Is he then known to Sir Henry
Clinton?”

“At least he ought to be.”

“Do you think, my son,” asked Mr. Wharton, “there is no danger of his betraying you?”

“Why — no; I reflected on that before I trusted myself to his power,” said the captain, thoughtfully. “He seems to be faithful in matters of business. The danger to himself, should he return to the city, would prevent such an act of villainy.”

“I think,” said Frances, adopting the manner of her brother, “Harvey Birch is not without good feelings; at least, he has the appearance of them at times.”

“Oh!” cried his sister, exulting, “he has loyalty, and that with me is a cardinal virtue.”

“I am afraid,” said her brother, laughing, “love of money is a stronger passion than love of his king.”

“Then,” said the father, “you cannot be safe while in his power — for no love will withstand the temptations of money, when offered to avarice.”

“Surely, sir,” cried the youth, recovering his gayety, “there must be one love that can resist anything — is there not, Fanny?”

“Here is your candle; you keep your father up beyond his usual hour.”

CHAPTER V

Through Solway sands, through Taross moss,
Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross:
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy’s best bloodhounds.
In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them, one by one;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December’s snow or July’s pride;
Alike to him was tide or time,
Moonless midnight or matin prime.
— WALTER SCOTT.

All the members of the Wharton family laid their heads on their pillows that night, with a foreboding of some interruption to their ordinary quiet. Uneasiness kept the sisters from enjoying their usual repose, and they rose from their beds, on the following morning, unrefreshed, and almost without having closed their eyes.

On taking an eager and hasty survey of the valley from the windows of their room, nothing, however, but its usual serenity was to be seen. It was glittering with the opening brilliancy of one of those lovely, mild days, which occur about the time of the falling of the leaf; and which, by their frequency, class the American autumn with the most delightful seasons of other countries. We have no spring; vegetation seems to leap into existence, instead of creeping, as in the same latitudes of the Old World; but how gracefully it retires! September, October, even November and December, compose the season for enjoyment in the open air; they have their storms, but they are distinct, and not of long continuance, leaving a clear atmosphere and a cloudless sky.

As nothing could be seen likely to interrupt the enjoyments and harmony of such a day, the sisters descended to the parlor, with a returning confidence in their brother’s security, and their own happiness.

The family were early in assembling around the breakfast table; and Miss Peyton, with a little of that minute precision which creeps into the habits of single life, had pleasantly insisted that the absence of her nephew should in no manner interfere with the regular hours she had established; consequently, the party were already seated when the captain made his appearance; though the untasted coffee sufficiently proved that by none of his relatives was his absence disregarded.

“I think I did much better,” he cried, taking a chair between his sisters, and receiving their offered salutes, “to secure a good bed and such a plentiful breakfast, instead of trusting to the hospitality of that renowned corps, the Cowboys.”

“If you could sleep,” said Sarah, “you were more fortunate than Frances and myself; every murmur of the night air sounded to me like the approach of the rebel army.”

“Why,” said the captain, laughing, “I do acknowledge a little inquietude myself — but how was it with you?” turning to his younger and evidently favorite sister, and tapping her cheek. “Did you see banners in the clouds, and mistake Miss Peyton’s Aeolian harp for rebellious music?”

“Nay, Henry,” rejoined the maid, looking at him affectionately, “much as I love my own country, the approach of her troops just now would give me great pain.”

The brother made no reply; but returning the fondness expressed in her eye by a look of fraternal tenderness, he gently pressed her hand in silence; when Caesar, who had participated largely in the anxiety of the family, and who had risen with the dawn, and kept a vigilant watch on the surrounding objects, as he stood gazing from one of the windows, exclaimed with a face that approached to something like the hues of a white man, —

“Run — Massa Harry — run — if he love old Caesar, run — here come a rebel horse.”

“Run!” repeated the British officer, gathering himself up in military pride. “No, Mr. Caesar, running is not my trade.” While speaking, he walked deliberately to the window, where the family were already collected in the greatest consternation.

At the distance of more than a mile, about fifty dragoons were to be seen, winding down one of the lateral entrances of the valley. In advance, with an officer, was a man attired in the dress of a countryman, who pointed in the direction of the cottage. A small party now left the main body, and moved rapidly towards the object of their destination.

On reaching the road which led through the bottom of the valley, they turned their horses’ heads to the north.

The Whartons continued chained in breathless silence to the spot, watching their movements, when the party, having reached the dwelling of Birch, made a rapid circle around his grounds, and in an instant his house was surrounded by a dozen sentinels.

Two or three of the dragoons now dismounted and disappeared; in a few minutes, however, they returned to the yard, followed by Katy, from whose violent gesticulations, it was evident that matters of no trifling concern were on the carpet. A short communication with the loquacious housekeeper followed the arrival of the main body of the troop, and the advance party remounting, the whole moved towards the Locusts with great speed.

As yet none of the family had sufficient presence of mind to devise any means of security for Captain Wharton; but the danger now became too pressing to admit of longer delay, and various means of secreting him were hastily proposed; but they were all haughtily rejected by the young man, as unworthy of his character. It was too late to retreat to the woods in the rear of the cottage, for he would unavoidably be seen, and, followed by a troop of horse, as inevitably taken.

At length his sisters, with trembling hands, replaced his original disguise, the instruments of which had been carefully kept at hand by Caesar, in expectation of some sudden emergency.

This arrangement was hastily and imperfectly completed, as the dragoons entered the lawn and orchard of the Locusts, riding with the rapidity of the wind; and in their turn the Whartons were surrounded.

Nothing remained now, but to meet the impending examination with as much indifference as the family could assume. The leader of the horse dismounted, and, followed by a couple of his men, he approached the outer door of the building, which was slowly and reluctantly opened for his admission by Caesar. The heavy tread of the trooper, as he followed the black to the door of the parlor, rang in the ears of the females as it approached nearer and nearer, and drove the blood from their faces to their hearts, with a chill that nearly annihilated feeling.

A man, whose colossal stature manifested the possession of vast strength, entered the room, and removing his cap, he saluted the family with a mildness his appearance did not indicate as belonging to his nature. His dark hair hung around his brow in profusion, though stained with powder which was worn at that day, and his face was nearly hid in the whiskers by which it was disfigured. Still, the expression of his eye, though piercing, was not bad, and his voice, though deep and powerful, was far from unpleasant. Frances ventured to throw a timid glance at his figure as he entered, and saw at once the man from whose scrutiny Harvey Birch had warned them there was so much to be apprehended.

“You have no cause for alarm, ladies,” said the officer, pausing a moment, and contemplating the pale faces around him. “My business will be confined to a few questions, which, if freely answered, will instantly remove us from your dwelling.”

“And what may they be, sir?” stammered Mr. Wharton, rising from his chair and waiting anxiously for the reply.

“Has there been a strange gentleman staying with you during the storm?” continued the dragoon, speaking with interest, and in some degree sharing in the evident anxiety of the father.

“This gentleman — here — favored us with his company during the rain, and has not yet departed.”

“This gentleman!” repeated the other, turning to Captain Wharton, and contemplating his figure for a moment until the anxiety of his countenance gave place to a lurking smile. He approached the youth with an air of comic gravity, and with a low bow, continued, “I am sorry for the severe cold you have in your head, sir.”

“I!” exclaimed the captain, in surprise; “I have no cold in my head.”

“I fancied it then, from seeing you had covered such handsome black locks with that ugly old wig. It was my mistake; you will please to pardon it.”

Mr. Wharton groaned aloud; but the ladies, ignorant of the extent of their visitor’s knowledge, remained in trembling yet rigid silence. The captain himself moved his hand involuntarily to his head, and discovered that the trepidation of his sisters had left some of his natural hair exposed. The dragoon watched the movement with a continued smile, when, seeming to recollect himself, turning to the father, he proceeded, —

“Then, sir, I am to understand there has not been a Mr. Harper here, within the week?”

“Mr. Harper,” echoed the other, feeling a load removed from his heart, “yes, I had forgotten; but he is gone; and if there be anything wrong in his character, we are in entire ignorance of it; to me he was a total stranger.”

“You have but little to apprehend from his character,” answered the dragoon dryly. “But he is gone — how — when — and whither?”

“He departed as he arrived,” said Mr. Wharton, gathering renewed confidence from the manner of the trooper; “on horseback, last evening, and he took the northern road.”

The officer listened to him with intense interest, his countenance gradually lighting into a smile of pleasure, and the instant Mr. Wharton concluded his laconic reply he turned on his heel and left the apartment. The Whartons, judging from his manner, thought he was about to proceed in quest of the object of his inquiries. They observed the dragoon, on gaining the lawn, in earnest and apparently pleased conversation with his two subalterns. In a few moments orders were given to some of the troops, and horsemen left the valley, at full speed, by its various roads.

The suspense of the party within, who were all highly interested witnesses of this scene, was shortly terminated: for the heavy tread of the dragoon soon announced his second approach. He bowed again politely as he reentered the room, and walking up to Captain Wharton, said, with comic gravity, —

“Now, sir, my principal business being done, may I beg to examine the quality of that wig?”

The British officer imitated the manner of the other, as he deliberately uncovered his head, and handing him the wig, observed, “I hope, sir, it is to your liking.”

“I cannot, without violating the truth, say it is,” returned the dragoon. “I prefer your ebony hair, from which you seem to have combed the powder with great industry. But that must have been a sad hurt you have received under this enormous black patch.”

“You appear so close an observer of things, I should like your opinion of it, sir,” said Henry, removing the silk, and exhibiting the cheek free from blemish.

“Upon my word, you improve most rapidly in externals,” added the trooper, preserving his muscles in inflexible gravity. “If I could but persuade you to exchange this old surtout for that handsome blue coat by your side, I think I never could witness a more agreeable metamorphosis, since I was changed myself from a lieutenant to a captain.”

Young Wharton very composedly did as was required and stood an extremely handsome, well-dressed young man. The dragoon looked at him for a minute with the drollery that characterized his manner, and then continued, —

“This is a newcomer in the scene; it is usual, you know, for strangers to be introduced; I am Captain Lawton, of the Virginia horse.”

“And I, sir, am Captain Wharton, of his Majesty’s 60th regiment of foot,” returned Henry, bowing stiffly, and recovering his natural manner.

The countenance of Lawton changed instantly, and his assumed quaintness vanished. He viewed the figure of Captain Wharton, as he stood proudly swelling with a pride that disdained further concealment, and exclaimed with great earnestness, —

“Captain Wharton, from my soul I pity you!”

“Oh! then,” cried the father in agony, “if you pity him, dear sir, why molest him? He is not a spy; nothing but a desire to see his friends prompted him to venture so far from the regular army in disguise. Leave him with us; there is no reward, no sum, which I will not cheerfully pay.”

“Sir, your anxiety for your friend excuses your language,” said Lawton, haughtily; “but you forget I am a Virginian, and a gentleman.” Turning to the young man, he continued, “Were you ignorant, Captain Wharton, that our pickets have been below you for several days?”

“I did not know it until I reached them, and it was then too late to retreat,” said Wharton sullenly. “I came out, as my father has mentioned, to see my friends, understanding your parties to be at Peekskill, and near the Highlands, or surely I would not have ventured.”

“All this may be very true; but the affair of Andre has made us on the alert. When treason reaches the grade of general officers, Captain Wharton, it behooves the friends of liberty to be vigilant.”

Henry bowed to this remark in distant silence, but Sarah ventured to urge something in behalf of her brother. The dragoon heard her politely, and apparently with commiseration; but willing to avoid useless and embarrassing petitions, he answered mildly, —

“I am not the commander of the party, madam; Major Dunwoodie will decide what must be done with your brother; at all events he will receive nothing but kind and gentle treatment.”

“Dunwoodie!” exclaimed Frances, with a face in which the roses contended for the mastery with the paleness of apprehension. “Thank God! then Henry is safe!”

Lawton regarded her with a mingled expression of pity and admiration; then shaking his head doubtingly, he continued, —

“I hope so; and with your permission, we will leave the matter for his decision.”

The color of Frances changed from the paleness of fear to the glow of hope. Her dread on behalf of her brother was certainly greatly diminished; yet her form shook, her breathing became short and irregular, and her whole frame gave tokens of extraordinary agitation. Her eyes rose from the floor to the dragoon, and were again fixed immovably on the carpet — she evidently wished to utter something but was unequal to the effort. Miss Peyton was a close observer of these movements of her niece, and advancing with an air of feminine dignity, inquired, —

“Then, sir, we may expect the pleasure of Major Dunwoodie’s company shortly?”

“Immediately, madam,” answered the dragoon, withdrawing his admiring gaze from the person of Frances. “Expresses are already on the road to announce to him our situation, and the intelligence will speedily bring him to this valley; unless, indeed, some private reasons may exist to make a visit particularly unpleasant.”

“We shall always be happy to see Major Dunwoodie.”

“Oh! doubtless; he is a general favorite, May I presume on it so far as to ask leave to dismount and refresh my men, who compose a part of his squadron?”

There was a manner about the trooper that would have made the omission of such a request easily forgiven by Mr. Wharton, but he was fairly entrapped by his own eagerness to conciliate, and it was useless to withhold a consent which he thought would probably be extorted; he therefore made the most of necessity, and gave such orders as would facilitate the wishes of Captain Lawton.

The officers were invited to take their morning’s repast at the family breakfast table, and having made their arrangements without, the invitation was frankly accepted. None of the watchfulness, which was so necessary to their situation, was neglected by the wary partisan. Patrols were seen on the distant hills, taking their protecting circuit around their comrades, who were enjoying, in the midst of danger, a security that can only spring from the watchfulness of discipline and the indifference of habit.

The addition to the party at Mr. Wharton’s table was only three, and they were all of them men who, under the rough exterior induced by actual and arduous service, concealed the manners of gentlemen. Consequently, the interruption to the domestic privacy of the family was marked by the observance of strict decorum. The ladies left the table to their guests, who proceeded, without much superfluous diffidence, to do proper honors to the hospitality of Mr. Wharton.

At length Captain Lawton suspended for a moment his violent attacks on the buckwheat cakes, to inquire of the master of the house, if there was not a peddler of the name of Birch who lived in the valley at times.

“At times only, I believe, sir,” replied Mr. Wharton, cautiously. “He is seldom here; I may say I never see him.”

“That is strange, too,” said the trooper, looking at the disconcerted host intently, “considering he is your next neighbor; he must be quite domestic, sir; and to the ladies it must be somewhat inconvenient. I doubt not that that muslin in the window seat cost twice as much as he would have asked them for it.”

Mr. Wharton turned in consternation, and saw some of the recent purchases scattered about the room.

The two subalterns struggled to conceal their smiles; but the captain resumed his breakfast with an eagerness that created a doubt, whether he ever expected to enjoy another. The necessity of a supply from the dominion of Dinah soon, however, afforded another respite, of which Lawton availed himself.

“I had a wish to break this Mr. Birch of his unsocial habits, and gave him a call this morning,” he said. “Had I found him within, I should have placed him where he would enjoy life in the midst of society, for a short time at least.”

“And where might that be, sir?” asked Mr. Wharton, conceiving it necessary to say something.

“The guardroom,” said the trooper, dryly.

“What is the offense of poor Birch?” asked Miss Peyton, handing the dragoon a fourth dish of coffee.

“Poor!” cried the captain. “If he is poor, King George is a bad paymaster.”

“Yes, indeed,” said one of the subalterns, “his Majesty owes him a dukedom.”

“And congress a halter,” continued the commanding officer commencing anew on a fresh supply of the cakes.

“I am sorry,” said Mr. Wharton, “that any neighbor of mine should incur the displeasure of our rulers.”

“If I catch him,” cried the dragoon, while buttering another cake, “he will dangle from the limbs of one of his namesakes.”

“He would make no bad ornament, suspended from one of those locusts before his own door,” added the lieutenant.

“Never mind,” continued the captain; “I will have him yet before I’m a major.”

As the language of the officers appeared to be sincere, and such as disappointed men in their rough occupations are but too apt to use, the Whartons thought it prudent to discontinue the subject. It was no new intelligence to any of the family, that Harvey Birch was distrusted and greatly harassed by the American army. His escapes from their hands, no less than his imprisonments, had been the conversation of the country in too many instances, and under circumstances of too great mystery, to be easily forgotten. In fact, no small part of the bitterness expressed by Captain Lawton against the peddler, arose from the unaccountable disappearance of the latter, when intrusted to the custody of two of his most faithful dragoons.

A twelvemonth had not yet elapsed, since Birch had been seen lingering near the headquarters of the commander in chief, and at a time when important movements were expected hourly to occur. So soon as the information of this fact was communicated to the officer whose duty it was to guard the avenues of the American camp, he dispatched Captain Lawton in pursuit of the peddler.

Acquainted with all the passes of the hills, and indefatigable in the discharge of his duty, the trooper had, with much trouble and toil, succeeded in effecting his object. The party had halted at a farmhouse for the purposes of refreshment, and the prisoner was placed in a room by himself, but under the keeping of the two men before mentioned; all that was known subsequently is, that a woman was seen busily engaged in the employments of the household near the sentinels, and was particularly attentive to the wants of the captain, until he was deeply engaged in the employments of the supper table.

Afterwards, neither woman nor peddler was to be found. The pack, indeed, was discovered open, and nearly empty, and a small door, communicating with a room adjoining to the one in which the peddler had been secured, was ajar.

Captain Lawton never could forgive the deception; his antipathies to his enemies were not very moderate, but this was adding an insult to his penetration that rankled deeply. He sat in portentous silence, brooding over the exploit of his prisoner, yet mechanically pursuing the business before him, until, after sufficient time had passed to make a very comfortable meal, a trumpet suddenly broke on the ears of the party, sending its martial tones up the valley, in startling melody. The trooper rose instantly from the table, exclaiming, —

“Quick, gentlemen, to your horses; there comes Dunwoodie,” and, followed by his officers, he precipitately left the room.

With the exception of the sentinels left to guard Captain Wharton, the dragoons mounted, and marched out to meet their comrades.

None of the watchfulness necessary in a war, in which similarity of language, appearance, and customs rendered prudence doubly necessary, was omitted by the cautious leader. On getting sufficiently near, however, to a body of horse of more than double his own number, to distinguish countenances, Lawton plunged his rowels into his charger, and in a moment he was by the side of his commander.

The ground in front of the cottage was again occupied by the horse; and observing the same precautions as before, the newly arrived troops hastened to participate in the cheer prepared for their comrades.

CHAPTER VI

And let conquerors boast
Their fields of fame — he who in virtue arms
A young warm spirit against beauty’s charms,
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall,
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.

— MOORE.

The ladies of the Wharton family had collected about a window, deeply interested in the scene we have related.

Sarah viewed the approach of her countrymen with a smile of contemptuous indifference; for she even undervalued the personal appearance of men whom she thought arrayed in the unholy cause of rebellion. Miss Peyton looked on the gallant show with an exulting pride, which arose in the reflection that the warriors before her were the chosen troops of her native colony; while Frances gazed with a singleness of interest that absorbed all other considerations.

The two parties had not yet joined, before her quick eye distinguished one horseman in particular from those around him. To her it appeared that even the steed of this youthful soldier seemed to be conscious that he sustained the weight of no common man: his hoofs but lightly touched the earth, and his airy tread was the curbed motion of a blooded charger.

The dragoon sat in the saddle, with a firmness and ease that showed him master of himself and horse, — his figure uniting the just proportions of strength and activity, being tall, round, and muscular. To this officer Lawton made his report, and, side by side, they rode into the field opposite to the cottage.

The heart of Frances beat with a pulsation nearly stifling, as he paused for a moment, and took a survey of the building, with an eye whose dark and sparkling glance could be seen, notwithstanding the distance. Her color changed, and for an instant, as she saw the youth throw himself from the saddle, she was compelled to seek relief for her trembling limbs in a chair.

The officer gave a few hasty orders to his second in command, walked rapidly into the lawn, and approached the cottage. Frances rose from her seat, and vanished from the apartment. The dragoon ascended the steps of the piazza, and had barely time to touch the outer door, when it opened to his admission.

The youth of Frances, when she left the city, had prevented her sacrificing, in conformity to the customs of that day, all her native beauties on the altar of fashion. Her hair, which was of a golden richness of color, was left, untortured, to fall in the natural ringlets of infancy, and it shaded a face which was glowing with the united charms of health, youth, and artlessness; her eyes spoke volumes, but her tongue was silent; her hands were interlocked before her, and, aided by her taper form, bending forward in an attitude of expectation, gave a loveliness and an interest to her appearance, that for a moment chained her lover in silence to the spot.

Frances silently led the way into a vacant parlor, opposite to the one in which the family were assembled, and turning to the soldier frankly, placing both her hands in his own, exclaimed, —

“Ah, Dunwoodie! how happy, on many accounts, I am to see you! I have brought you in here, to prepare you to meet an unexpected friend in the opposite room.”

“To whatever cause it may be owing,” cried the youth, pressing her hands to his lips, “I, too, am happy in being able to see you alone. Frances, the probation you have decreed is cruel; war and distance may separate us forever.”

“We must submit to the necessity which governs us. But it is not love speeches I would hear now; I have other and more important matter for your attention.”

“What can be of more importance than to make you mine by a tie that will be indissoluble! Frances, you are cold to me — me — from whose mind, days of service and nights of alarm have never been able to banish your image for a single moment.”

“Dear Dunwoodie,” said Frances, softening nearly to tears, and again extending her hand to him, as the richness of her color gradually returned, “you know my sentiments — this war once ended, and you may take that hand forever — but I can never consent to tie myself to you by any closer union than already exists, so long as you are arrayed in arms against my only brother. Even now, that brother is awaiting your decision to restore him to liberty, or to conduct him to a probable death.”

“Your brother!” cried Dunwoodie, starting and turning pale; “your brother! explain yourself — what dreadful meaning is concealed in your words?”

“Has not Captain Lawton told you of the arrest of Henry by himself this very morning?” continued Frances, in a voice barely audible, and fixing on her lover a look of the deepest concern.

“He told me of arresting a captain of the 60th in disguise, but without mentioning where or whom,” replied the major in a similar tone; and dropping his head between his hands, he endeavored to conceal his feelings from his companion.

“Dunwoodie! Dunwoodie!” exclaimed Frances, losing all her former confidence in the most fearful apprehensions, “what means this agitation?” As the major slowly raised his face, in which was pictured the most expressive concern, she continued, “Surely, surely, you will not betray your friend — my brother — your brother — to an ignominious death.”

“Frances!” exclaimed the young man in agony, “what can I do?”

“Do!” she repeated, gazing at him wildly. “Would Major Dunwoodie yield his friend to his enemies — the brother of his betrothed wife?”

“Oh, speak not so unkindly to me, dearest Miss Wharton — my own Frances. I would this moment die for you — for Henry — but I cannot forget my duty — cannot forfeit my honor; you yourself would be the first to despise me if I did.”

“Peyton Dunwoodie!” said Frances, solemnly, and with a face of ashy paleness, “you have told me — you have sworn, that you love me — — “

“I do,” interrupted the soldier, with fervor; but motioning for silence she continued, in a voice that trembled with her fears, —

“Do you think I can throw myself into the arms of a man whose hands are stained with the blood of my only brother!”

“Frances, you wring my very heart!” Then pausing, to struggle with his feelings, he endeavored to force a smile, as he added, “But, after all, we may be torturing ourselves with unnecessary fears, and Henry, when I know the circumstances, may be nothing more than a prisoner of war; in which case, I can liberate him on parole.”

There is no more delusive passion than hope; and it seems to be the happy privilege of youth to cull all the pleasures that can be gathered from its indulgence. It is when we are most worthy of confidence ourselves, that we are least apt to distrust others; and what we think ought to be, we are prone to think will be.

The half-formed expectations of the young soldier were communicated to the desponding sister, more by the eye than the voice, and the blood rushed again to her cheek, as she cried, —

“Oh, there can be no just grounds to doubt it. I know — I knew — Dunwoodie, you would never desert us in the hour of our greatest need!” The violence of her feelings prevailed, and the agitated girl found relief in a flood of tears.

The office of consoling those we love is one of the dearest prerogatives of affection; and Major Dunwoodie, although but little encouraged by his own momentary suggestion of relief, could not undeceive the lovely girl, who leaned on his shoulder, as he wiped the traces of her feeling from her face, with a trembling, but reviving confidence in the safety of her brother, and the protection of her lover.

Frances, having sufficiently recovered her recollection to command herself, now eagerly led the way to the opposite room, to communicate to her family the pleasing intelligence which she already conceived so certain,

Dunwoodie followed her reluctantly, and with forebodings of the result; but a few moments brought him into the presence of his relatives, and he summoned all his resolution to meet the trial with firmness.

The salutations of the young men were cordial and frank, and, on the part of Henry Wharton, as collected as if nothing had occurred to disturb his self-possession.

The abhorrence of being, in any manner, auxiliary to the arrest of his friend; the danger to the life of Captain Wharton; and the heart-breaking declarations of Frances, had, however, created an uneasiness in the bosom of Major Dunwoodie, which all his efforts could not conceal. His reception by the rest of the family was kind and sincere, both from old regard, and a remembrance of former obligations, heightened by the anticipations they could not fail to read in the expressive eyes of the blushing girl by his side. After exchanging greetings with every member of the family, Major Dunwoodie beckoned to the sentinel, whom the wary prudence of Captain Lawton had left in charge of the prisoner, to leave the room. Turning to Captain Wharton, he inquired mildly, —

“Tell me, Henry, the circumstances of this disguise, in which Captain
Lawton reports you to have been found, and remember — remember — Captain
Wharton — your answers are entirely voluntary.”

“The disguise was used by me, Major Dunwoodie,” replied the English officer, gravely, “to enable me to visit my friends, without incurring the danger of becoming a prisoner of war.”

“But you did not wear it, until you saw the troop of Lawton approaching?”

“Oh! no,” interrupted Frances, eagerly, forgetting all the circumstances in her anxiety for her brother. “Sarah and myself placed them on him when the dragoons appeared; and it was our awkwardness that has led to the discovery.”

The countenance of Dunwoodie brightened, as turning his eyes in fondness on the speaker, he listened to her explanation.

“Probably some articles of your own,” he continued, “which were at hand, and were used on the spur of the moment.”

“No,” said Wharton, with dignity, “the clothes were worn by me from the city; they were procured for the purpose to which they were applied, and I intended to use them in my return this very day.”

The appalled Frances shrank back from between her brother and lover, where her ardent feelings had carried her, as the whole truth glanced over her mind, and she sank into a seat, gazing wildly on the young men.

“But the pickets — the party at the Plains?” added Dunwoodie, turning pale.

“I passed them, too, in disguise. I made use of this pass, for which I paid; and, as it bears the name of Washington, I presume it is forged.”

Dunwoodie caught the paper from his hand, eagerly, and stood gazing on the signature for some time in silence, during which the soldier gradually prevailed over the man; when he turned to the prisoner, with a searching look, as he asked, —

“Captain Wharton, whence did you procure this paper?”

“This is a question, I conceive, Major Dunwoodie has no right to ask.”

“Your pardon, sir; my feelings may have led me into an impropriety.”

Mr. Wharton, who had been a deeply interested auditor, now so far conquered his feelings as to say, “Surely, Major Dunwoodie, the paper cannot be material; such artifices are used daily in war.”

“This name is no counterfeit,” said the dragoon, studying the characters, and speaking in a low voice; “is treason yet among us undiscovered? The confidence of Washington has been abused, for the fictitious name is in a different hand from the pass. Captain Wharton, my duty will not suffer me to grant you a parole; you must accompany me to the Highlands.”

“I did not expect otherwise, Major Dunwoodie.”

Dunwoodie turned slowly towards the sisters, when the figure of Frances once more arrested his gaze. She had risen from her seat, and stood again with her hands clasped before him in an attitude of petition; feeling himself unable to contend longer with his feelings, he made a hurried excuse for a temporary absence, and left the room. Frances followed him, and, obedient to the direction of her eye, the soldier reentered the apartment in which had been their first interview.

“Major Dunwoodie,” said Frances, in a voice barely audible, as she beckoned to him to be seated; her cheek, which had been of a chilling whiteness, was flushed with a suffusion that crimsoned her whole countenance. She struggled with herself for a moment, and continued, “I have already acknowledged to you my esteem; even now, when you most painfully distress me, I wish not to conceal it. Believe me, Henry is innocent of everything but imprudence. Our country can sustain no wrong.” Again she paused, and almost gasped for breath; her color changed rapidly from red to white, until the blood rushed into her face, covering her features with the brightest vermilion; and she added hastily, in an undertone, “I have promised, Dunwoodie, when peace shall be restored to our country, to become your wife. Give to my brother his liberty on parole, and I will this day go with you to the altar, follow you to the camp, and, in becoming a soldier’s bride, learn to endure a soldier’s privations.”

Dunwoodie seized the hand which the blushing girl, in her ardor, had extended towards him, and pressed it for a moment to his bosom; then rising from his seat, he paced the room in excessive agitation.

“Frances, say no more, I conjure you, unless you wish to break my heart.”

“You then reject my offered hand?” she said, rising with dignity, though her pale cheek and quivering lip plainly showed the conflicting passions within.

“Reject it! Have I not sought it with entreaties — with tears? Has it not been the goal of all my earthly wishes? But to take it under such conditions would be to dishonor both. We will hope for better things. Henry must be acquitted; perhaps not tried. No intercession of mine shall be wanting, you must well know; and believe me, Frances, I am not without favor with Washington.”

“That very paper, that abuse of his confidence, to which you alluded, will steel him to my brother’s case. If threats or entreaties could move his stern sense of justice, would Andre have suffered?” As Frances uttered these words she fled from the room in despair.

Dunwoodie remained for a minute nearly stupefied; and then he followed with a view to vindicate himself, and to relieve her apprehensions. On entering the hall that divided the two parlors, he was met by a small ragged boy, who looked one moment at his dress, and placing a piece of paper in his hands, immediately vanished through the outer door of the building. The bewildered state of his mind, and the suddenness of the occurrence, gave the major barely time to observe the messenger to be a country lad, meanly attired, and that he held in his hand one of those toys which are to be bought in cities, and which he now apparently contemplated with the conscious pleasure of having fairly purchased, by the performance of the service required. The soldier turned his eyes to the subject of the note. It was written on a piece of torn and soiled paper, and in a hand barely legible, but after some little labor, he was able to make out as follows —

“The rig’lars are at hand, horse and foot.” [Footnote: There died a few years since, in Bedford, Westchester, a yeoman named Elisha H — This person was employed by Washington as one of his most confidential spies. By the conditions of their bargain, H — was never to be required to deal with third parties, since his risks were too imminent. He was allowed to enter also into the service of Sir Henry Clinton, and so much confidence had Washington in his love of country and discretion, that he was often intrusted with the minor military movements, in order that he might enhance his value with the English general, by communicating them. In this manner H — had continued to serve for a long period, when chance brought him into the city (then held by the British) at a moment when an expedition was about to quit it, to go against a small post established at Bedford, his native village, where the Americans had a depot of provisions. H — easily ascertained the force and destination of the detachment ordered on this service, but he was at a loss in what manner to communicate his information to the officer in command at Bedford, without betraying his own true character to a third person. There was not time to reach Washington, and under the circumstances, he finally resolved to hazard a short note to the American commandant, stating the danger, and naming the time when the attack might be expected. To this note he even ventured to affix his own initials, E H, though he had disguised the hand, under a belief that, as he knew himself to be suspected by his countrymen, it might serve to give more weight to his warning. His family being at Bedford, the note was transmitted with facility and arrived in good season, H — himself remaining in New York. The American commandant did what every sensible officer, in a similar case, would have done. He sent a courier with the note to Washington, demanding orders, while he prepared his little party to make the best defense in his power. The headquarters of the American army were, at that time, in the Highlands. Fortunately, the express met Washington, on a tour of observation, near their entrance. The note was given to him, and he read it in the saddle, adding, in pencil, “Believe all that E H tells you. George Washington” He returned it to the courier, with an injunction to ride for life or death. The courier reached Bedford after the British had made their attack. The commandant read the reply, and put it in his pocket. The Americans were defeated, and their leader killed. The note of H — , with the line written on it by Washington, was found on his person. The following day H — was summoned to the presence of Sir Henry Clinton. After the latter had put several general questions, he suddenly gave the note to the spy, and asked if he knew the handwriting, and demanded who the E H was “It is Elijah Hadden, the spy you hanged yesterday at Powles Hook.” The readiness of this answer, connected with the fact that a spy having the same initials had been executed the day before, and the coolness of H —— , saved him. Sir Henry Clinton allowed him to quit his presence, and he never saw him afterwards.]

Dunwoodie started; and, forgetting everything but the duties of a soldier, he precipitately left the house. While walking rapidly towards the troops, he noticed on a distant hill a vidette riding with speed. Several pistols were fired in quick succession; and the next instant the trumpets of the corps rang in his ears with the enlivening strain of “To arms!” By the time he had reached the ground occupied by his squadron, the major saw that every man was in active motion. Lawton was already in the saddle, eying the opposite extremity of the valley with the eagerness of expectation, and crying to the musicians, in tones but little lower than their own, —

“Sound away, my lads, and let these Englishmen know that the Virginia horse are between them and the end of their journey.”

The videttes and patrols now came pouring in, each making in succession his hasty report to the commanding officer, who gave his orders coolly, and with a promptitude that made obedience certain. Once only, as he wheeled his horse to ride over the ground in front, did Dunwoodie trust himself with a look at the cottage, and his heart beat with unusual rapidity as he saw a female figure standing, with clasped hands, at a window of the room in which he had met Frances. The distance was too great to distinguish her features, but the soldier could not doubt that it was his mistress. The paleness of his cheek and the languor of his eye endured but for a moment longer. As he rode towards the intended battle ground, a flush of ardor began to show itself on his sunburnt features; and his dragoons, who studied the face of their leader, as the best index to their own fate, saw again the wonted flashing of the eyes, and the cheerful animation, which they had so often witnessed on the eve of battle. By the additions of the videttes and parties that had been out, and which now had all joined, the whole number of the horse was increased to nearly two hundred. There was also a small body of men, whose ordinary duties were those of guides, but who, in cases of emergency, were embodied and did duty as foot soldiers; these were dismounted, and proceeded, by the order of Dunwoodie, to level the few fences which might interfere with the intended movements of the cavalry. The neglect of husbandry, which had been occasioned by the war, left this task comparatively easy. Those long lines of heavy and durable walls, which now sweep through every part of the country, forty years ago were unknown. The slight and tottering fences of stone were then used more to clear the land for the purposes of cultivation than as permanent barriers, and required the constant attention of the husbandman, to preserve them against the fury of the tempests and the frosts of winter. Some few of them had been built with more care immediately around the dwelling of Mr. Wharton; but those which had intersected the vale below were now generally a pile of ruins, over which the horses of the Virginians would bound with the fleetness of the wind. Occasionally a short line yet preserved its erect appearance; but as none of those crossed the ground on which Dunwoodie intended to act, there remained only the slighter fences of rails to be thrown down. Their duty was hastily but effectually performed; and the guides withdrew to the post assigned to them for the approaching fight.

Major Dunwoodie had received from his scouts all the intelligence concerning his foe, which was necessary to enable him to make his arrangements. The bottom of the valley was an even plain, that fell with a slight inclination from the foot of the hills on either side, to the level of a natural meadow that wound through the country on the banks of a small stream, by whose waters it was often inundated and fertilized. This brook was easily forded in any part of its course; and the only impediment it offered to the movements of the horse, was in a place where it changed its bed from the western to the eastern side of the valley, and where its banks were more steep and difficult of access than common. Here the highway crossed it by a rough wooden bridge, as it did again at the distance of half a mile above the Locusts.

The hills on the eastern side of the valley were abrupt, and frequently obtruded themselves in rocky prominences into its bosom, lessening the width to half the usual dimensions. One of these projections was but a short distance in the rear of the squadron of dragoons, and Dunwoodie directed Captain Lawton to withdraw, with two troops, behind its cover. The officer obeyed with a kind of surly reluctance, that was, however, somewhat lessened by the anticipations of the effect his sudden appearance would make on the enemy. Dunwoodie knew his man, and had selected the captain for this service, both because he feared his precipitation in the field, and knew, when needed, his support would never fail to appear. It was only in front of the enemy that Captain Lawton was hasty; at all other times his discernment and self-possession were consummately preserved; but he sometimes forgot them in his eagerness to engage. On the left of the ground on which Dunwoodie intended to meet his foe, was a close wood, which skirted that side of the valley for the distance of a mile. Into this, then, the guides retired, and took their station near its edge, in such a manner as would enable them to maintain a scattering, but effectual fire, on the advancing column of the enemy.

It cannot be supposed that all these preparations were made unheeded by the inmates of the cottage; on the contrary, every feeling which can agitate the human breast, in witnessing such a scene, was actively alive. Mr. Wharton alone saw no hopes to himself in the termination of the conflict. If the British should prevail, his son would be liberated; but what would then be his own fate! He had hitherto preserved his neutral character in the midst of trying circumstances. The fact of his having a son in the royal, or, as it was called, the regular army, had very nearly brought his estates to the hammer. Nothing had obviated this result, but the powerful interest of the relation who held a high political rank in the state, and his own vigilant prudence. In his heart, he was a devoted loyalist; and when the blushing Frances had communicated to him the wishes of her lover, on their return from the American camp the preceding spring, the consent he had given, to her future union with a rebel, was as much extracted by the increasing necessity which existed for his obtaining republican support, as by any considerations for the happiness of his child. Should his son now be rescued, he would, in the public mind, be united with him as a plotter against the freedom of the States; and should he remain a captive and undergo the impending trial, the consequences might be still more dreadful. Much as he loved his wealth, Mr. Wharton loved his children better; and he sat gazing on the movements without, with a listless vacancy in his countenance, that fully denoted his imbecility of character. Far different were the feelings of the son. Captain Wharton had been left in the keeping of two dragoons, one of whom marched to and fro on the piazza with a measured tread, and the other had been directed to continue in the same apartment with his prisoner. The young man had witnessed all the movements of Dunwoodie with admiration mingled with fearful anticipations of the consequences to friends. He particularly disliked the ambush of the detachment under Lawton, who could be distinctly seen from the windows of the cottage, cooling his impatience, by pacing on foot the ground in front of his men. Henry Wharton threw several hasty and inquiring glances around, to see if no means of liberation would offer, but invariably found the eyes of his sentinel fixed on him with the watchfulness of an Argus. He longed, with the ardor of youth, to join in the glorious fray, but was compelled to remain a dissatisfied spectator of a scene in which he would so cheerfully have been an actor. Miss Peyton and Sarah continued gazing on the preparations with varied emotions, in which concern for the fate of the captain formed the most prominent feeling, until the moment of shedding of blood seemed approaching, when, with the timidity of their sex, they sought the retirement of an inner room. Not so Frances; she returned to the apartment where she had left Dunwoodie, and, from one of its windows, had been a deeply interested spectator of all his movements. The wheelings of the troops, the deadly preparations, had all been unnoticed; she saw her lover only, and with mingled emotions of admiration and dread that nearly chilled her. At one moment the blood rushed to her heart, as she saw the young warrior riding through his ranks, giving life and courage to all whom he addressed; and the next, it curdled with the thought that the very gallantry she so much valued might prove the means of placing the grave between her and the object of her regard. Frances gazed until she could look no longer.

In a field on the left of the cottage, and at a short distance in the rear of the troops, was a small group, whose occupation seemed to differ from that of all around them. They were in number only three, being two men and a mulatto boy. The principal personage of this party was a man, whose leanness made his really tall stature appear excessive. He wore spectacles — was unarmed, had dismounted, and seemed to be dividing his attention between a cigar, a book, and the incidents of the field before him. To this party Frances determined to send a note, directed to Dunwoodie. She wrote hastily, with a pencil, “Come to me, Peyton, if it be but for a moment”; and Caesar emerged from the cellar kitchen, taking the precaution to go by the rear of the building, to avoid the sentinel on the piazza, who had very cavalierly ordered all the family to remain housed. The black delivered the note to the gentleman, with a request that it might be forwarded to Major Dunwoodie. It was the surgeon of the horse to whom Caesar addressed himself; and the teeth of the African chattered, as he saw displayed upon the ground the several instruments which were in preparation for the anticipated operations. The doctor himself seemed to view the arrangement with great satisfaction, as he deliberately raised his eyes from his book to order the boy to convey the note to his commanding officer, and then dropping them quietly on the page he continued his occupation. Caesar was slowly retiring, as the third personage, who by his dress might be an inferior assistant of the surgical department, coolly inquired “if he would have a leg taken off?” This question seemed to remind the black of the existence of those limbs, for he made such use of them as to reach the piazza at the same instant that Major Dunwoodie rode up, at half speed. The brawny sentinel squared himself, and poised his sword with military precision as he stood on his post, while his officer passed; but no sooner had the door closed, than, turning to the negro, he said, sharply, —

“Harkee, blackee, if you quit the house again without my knowledge, I shall turn barber, and shave off one of those ebony ears with this razor.”

Thus assailed in another member, Caesar hastily retreated into his kitchen, muttering something, in which the words “Skinner,” and “rebel rascal,” formed a principal part of speech.

“Major Dunwoodie,” said Frances to her lover as he entered, “I may have done you injustice; if I have appeared harsh— “

The emotions of the agitated girl prevailed, and she burst into tears.

“Frances,” cried the soldier with warmth, “you are never harsh, never unjust, but when you doubt my love.”

“Ah! Dunwoodie,” added the sobbing girl, “you are about to risk your life in battle; remember that there is one heart whose happiness is built on your safety; brave I know you are: be prudent— “

“For your sake?” inquired the delighted youth.

“For my sake,” replied Frances, in a voice barely audible, and dropping on his bosom.

Dunwoodie folded her to his heart, and was about to speak, as a trumpet sounded in the southern end of the vale. Imprinting one long kiss of affection on her unresisting lips, the soldier tore himself from his mistress, and hastened to the scene of strife.

Frances threw herself on a sofa, buried her head under its cushion, and with her shawl drawn over her face, to exclude as much of sound as possible, continued there until the shouts of the combatants, the rattling of the firearms, and the thundering tread of the horses had ceased.

CHAPTER VII

The game’s afoot;
Follow your spirit.

— SHAKESPEARE.

The rough and unimproved face of the country, the frequency of covers, together with the great distance from their own country, and the facilities afforded them for rapid movements to the different points of the war, by the undisputed command of the ocean, had united to deter the English from employing a heavy force in cavalry, in their early efforts to subdue the revolted colonies.

Only one regiment of regular horse was sent from the mother country, during the struggle. But legions and independent corps were formed in different places, as it best accorded with the views of the royal commanders, or suited the exigency of the times. These were not unfrequently composed of men raised in the colonies, and at other times drafts were had from the regiments of the line, and the soldiers were made to lay aside the musket and bayonet, and taught to wield the saber and carbine. One particular body of the subsidiary troops was included in this arrange ment, and the Hessian yagers were transformed into a corps of heavy and inactive horse.

Opposed to them were the hardiest spirits of America. Most of the cavalry regiments of the continental army were led and officered by gentlemen from the South. The high and haughty courage of the commanders had communicated itself to the privates, who were men selected with care and great attention to the service they were intended to perform.

While the British were confined to their empty conquests in the possession of a few of the larger towns, or marched through counties that were swept of everything like military supplies, the light troops of their enemies had the range of the whole interior.

The sufferings of the line of the American army were great beyond example; but possessing the power, and feeling themselves engaged in a cause which justified severity, the cavalry officers were vigilant in providing for their wants, and the horse were well mounted, well fed, and consequently eminently effective. Perhaps the world could not furnish more brave, enterprising, and resistless corps of light cavalry, than a few that were in the continental service at the time of which we write.

Dunwoodie’s men had often tried their prowess against the enemy, and they now sat panting to be led once more against foes whom they seldom charged in vain. Their wishes were soon to be gratified; for their commander had scarcely time to regain his seat in the saddle, before a body of the enemy came sweeping round the base of the hill, which intersected the view to the south. A few minutes enabled the major to distinguish their character. In one troop he saw the green coats of the Cowboys, and in the other the leathern helmets and wooden saddles of the yagers. Their numbers were about equal to the body under his immediate orders.

On reaching the open space near the cottage of Harvey Birch, the enemy halted and drew up his men in line, evi dently making preparations for a charge. At this moment a column of foot appeared in the vale, and pressed forward to the bank of the brook we have already mentioned.

Major Dunwoodie was not less distinguished by coolness and judgment, than, where occasion offered, by his dauntless intrepidity. He at once saw his advantage, and determined to profit by it. The column he led began slowly to retire from the field, when the youthful German, who commanded the enemy’s horse, fearful of missing an easy conquest, gave the word to charge. Few troops were more hardy than the Cowboys; they sprang eagerly forward in the pursuit, with a confidence created by the retiring foe and the column in their rear; the Hessians followed more slowly, but in better order. The trumpets of the Virginians now sounded long and lively; they were answered by a strain from the party in ambush that went to the hearts of their enemies. The column of Dunwoodie wheeled in perfect order, opened, and, as the word to charge was given, the troops of Lawton emerged from their cover, with their leader in advance, waving his saber over his head, and shouting, in a voice that was heard above the clangor of the martial music.

The charge threatened too much for the refugee troop. They scattered in every direction, flying from the field as fast as their horses, the chosen beasts of Westchester, could carry them. Only a few were hurt; but such as did meet the arms of their avenging countrymen never survived the blow, to tell who struck it. It was upon the poor vassals of the German tyrant that the shock fell. Disciplined to the most exact obedience, these ill-fated men met the charge bravely, but they were swept before the mettled horses and nervous arms of their antagonists like chaff before the wind. Many of them were literally ridden down, and Dunwoodie soon saw the field without an opposing foe. The proximity of the infantry prevented pursuit, and behind its column the few Hessians who escaped unhurt sought protection.

The more cunning refugees dispersed in small bands, taking various and devious routes back to their old station in front of Harlem. Many was the sufferer, in cattle, furniture, and person, that was created by this rout; for the dispersion of a troop of Cowboys was only the extension of an evil.

Such a scene could not be expected to be acted so near them, and the inmates of the cottage take no interest in the result. In truth, the feelings it excited pervaded every bosom, from the kitchen to the parlor. Terror and horror had prevented the ladies from being spectators, but they did not feel the less. Frances continued lying in the posture we have mentioned, offering up fervent and incoherent petitions for the safety of her countrymen, although in her inmost heart she had personified her nation by the graceful image of Peyton Dunwoodie. Her aunt and sister were less exclusive in their devotions; but Sarah began to feel, as the horrors of war were thus brought home to her senses, less pleasure in her anticipated triumphs.

The inmates of Mr. Wharton’s kitchen were four, namely, Caesar and his spouse, their granddaughter, a jet-black damsel of twenty, and the boy before alluded to. The blacks were the remnants of a race of negroes which had been entailed on his estate from Mr. Wharton’s maternal ancestors, who were descended from the early Dutch colonists. Time, depravity, and death had reduced them to this small number; and the boy, who was white, had been added by Miss Peyton to the establishment, as an assistant, to perform the ordinary services of a footman. Caesar, after first using the precaution to place himself under the cover of an angle in the wall, for a screen against any roving bullet which might be traversing the air, became an amused spectator of the skirmish. The sentinel on the piazza was at the distance of but a few feet from him, and he entered into the spirit of the chase with all the ardor of a tried bloodhound. He noticed the approach of the black, and his judicious position, with a smile of contempt, as he squared himself towards the enemy, offering his unprotected breast to any dangers which might come.

After considering the arrangement of Caesar, for a moment, with ineffable disdain, the dragoon said, with great coolness, —

“You seem very careful of that beautiful person of yours, Mr. Blueskin.”

“A bullet hurt a colored man as much as a white,” muttered the black, surlily, casting a glance of much satisfaction at his rampart.

“Suppose I make the experiment,” returned the sentinel. As he spoke, he deliberately drew a pistol from his belt, and leveled it at the black. Caesar’s teeth chattered at the appearance of the dragoon, although he believed nothing serious was intended. At this moment the column of Dunwoodie began to retire, and the royal cavalry commenced their charge.

“There, Mister Light-Horseman,” said Caesar eagerly, who believed the Americans were retiring in earnest; “why you rebels don’t fight — see — see how King George’s men make Major Dunwoodie run! Good gentleman, too, but he don’t like to fight a rig’lar.”

“Damn your regulars,” cried the other, fiercely. “Wait a minute, blackey, and you’ll see Captain Jack Lawton come out from behind yonder hill, and scatter these Cowboys like wild geese who’ve lost their leader.”

Caesar supposed the party under Lawton to have sought the shelter of the hill from motives similar to that which had induced him to place the wall between himself and the battle ground; but the fact soon verified the trooper’s prophecy, and the black witnessed with consternation the total rout of the royal horse.

The sentinel manifested his exultation at the success of his comrades with loud shouts, which soon brought his companion, who had been left in the more immediate charge of Henry Wharton, to the open window of the parlor.

“See, Tom, see,” cried the delighted trooper, “how Captain Lawton makes that Hessian’s leather cap fly; and now the major has killed the officer’s horse — zounds, why didn’t he kill the Dutchman and save the horse?”

A few pistols were discharged at the flying Cowboys, and a spent bullet broke a pane of glass within a few feet of Caesar. Imitating the posture of the great tempter of our race, the black sought the protection of the inside of the building, and immediately ascended to the parlor.

The lawn in front of the Locusts was hidden from the view of the road by a close line of shrubbery, and the horses of the two dragoons had been left, linked together, under its shelter, to await the movements of their masters.

At this moment two Cowboys, who had been cut off from a retreat to their own party, rode furiously through the gate, with an intention of escaping to the open wood in the rear of the cottage.

The victorious Americans pressed the retreating Germans until they had driven them under the protection of the fire of the infantry; and feeling themselves, in the privacy of the lawn, relieved from any immediate danger, the predatory warriors yielded to a temptation that few of the corps were ever known to resist — opportunity and horseflesh. With a hardihood and presence of mind that could only exist from long practice in similar scenes, they made towards their intended prizes, by an almost spontaneous movement. They were busily engaged in separating the fastenings of the horses, when the trooper on the piazza discharged his pistols, and rushed, sword in hand, to the rescue.

The entrance of Caesar into the parlor had induced the wary dragoon within to turn his attention more closely on his prisoner; but this new interruption drew him again to the window. He threw his body out of the building, and with dreadful imprecations endeavored, by his threats and appearance, to frighten the marauders from their prey. The moment was enticing. Three hundred of his comrades were within a mile of the cottage; unridden horses were running at large in every direction, and Henry Wharton seized the unconscious sentinel by his legs, and threw him headlong into the lawn. Caesar vanished from the room, and drew a bolt of the outer door.

The fall of the soldier was not great, and recovering his feet, he turned his fury for a moment on his prisoner. To scale the window in the face of such an enemy, was, however, impossible, and on trial he found the main entrance barred.

His comrade now called loudly upon him for aid, and forgetful of everything else, the discomfited trooper rushed to his assistance. One horse was instantly liberated, but the other was already fastened to the saddle of a Cowboy, and the four retired behind the building, cutting furiously at each other with their sabers, and making the air resound with their imprecations. Caesar threw the outer door open, and pointing to the remaining horse, that was quietly biting the faded herbage of the lawn, he exclaimed, —

“Run — now — run — Massa Harry, run.”

“Yes,” cried the youth as he vaulted into the saddle, “now, indeed, my honest fellow, is the time to run.” He beckoned hastily to his father, who stood at the window in speechless anxiety, with his hands extended towards his child in the attitude of benediction, and adding, “God bless you, Caesar, salute the girls,” he dashed through the gate with the rapidity of lightning.

The African watched him with anxiety as he gained the highway, saw him incline to the right, and riding furiously under the brow of some rocks, which on that side rose perpendicularly, disappear behind a projection, which soon hid him from view.

The delighted Caesar closed the door, pushing bolt after bolt, and turning the key until it would turn no more, soliloquizing the whole time on the happy escape of his young master.

“How well he ride — teach him good deal myself — salute a young lady — Miss Fanny wouldn’t let old colored man kiss a red cheek.”

When the fortune of the day was decided, and the time arrived for the burial of the dead, two Cowboys and a Virginian were found in the rear of the Locusts, to be included in the number.

Happily for Henry Wharton, the searching eyes of his captors were examining, through a pocket glass, the column of infantry that still held its position on the bank of the stream, while the remnants of the Hessian yagers were seeking its friendly protection. His horse was of the best blood of Virginia, and carried him with the swiftness of the wind along the Valley; and the heart of the youth was already beating tumultuously with pleasure at his deliverance, when a well-known voice reached his startled ear, crying aloud, —

“Bravely done, captain! Don’t spare the whip, and turn to your left before you cross the brook.”

Wharton turned his head in surprise, and saw, sitting on the point of a jutting rock that commanded a bird’s-eye view of the valley, his former guide, Harvey Birch. His pack, much diminished in size, lay at the feet of the peddler, who waved his hat to the youth, exultingly, as the latter flew by him. The English captain took the advice of this mysterious being, and finding a good road, which led to the highway, that intersected the valley, turned down its direction, and was soon opposite to his friends. The next minute he crossed the bridge, and stopped his charger before his old acquaintance, Colonel Wellmere.

“Captain Wharton!” exclaimed the astonished commander of the English troops, “dressed in mohair, and mounted on a rebel dragoon horse! Are you from the clouds in this attire, and in such a style?”

“Thank God!” cried the youth, recovering his breath, “I am safe, and have escaped from the hands of my enemies; but five minutes since and I was a prisoner, and threatened with the gallows.”

“The gallows, Captain Wharton! surely those traitors to the king would never dare to commit another murder in cold blood; is it not enough that they took the life of Andre? Wherefore did they threaten you with a similar fate?”

“Under the pretense of a similar offense,” said the captain, briefly explaining to the group of listeners the manner of his capture, the grounds of his personal apprehensions, and the method of his escape. By the time he had concluded his narration, the fugitive Germans were collected in the rear of the column of infantry, and Colonel Wellmere cried aloud, —

“From my soul I congratulate you, my brave friend; mercy is a quality with which these traitors are unacquainted, and you are doubly fortunate in escaping from their hands uninjured. Prepare yourself to grant me your assistance and I will soon afford you a noble revenge.”

“I do not think there was danger of personal outrage to any man, Colonel Wellmere, from a party that Major Dunwoodie commands,” returned young Wharton, with a slight glow on his face. “His character is above the imputation of such an offense; neither do I think it altogether prudent to cross this brook into the open plain, in the face of those Virginian horse, flushed as they must be with the success they have just obtained.”

“Do you call the rout of those irregulars and these sluggish Hessians a deed to boast of?” said the other with a contemptuous smile. “You speak of the affair, Captain Wharton, as if your boasted Mr. Dunwoodie, for major he is none, had discomfited the bodyguards of your king.”

“And I must be allowed to say, Colonel Wellmere, that if the bodyguards of my king were in yon field, they would meet a foe that it would be dangerous to despise. Sir, my boasted Mr. Dunwoodie is the pride of Washington’s army as a cavalry officer,” cried Henry with warmth.

“Dunwoodie, Dunwoodie!” repeated the colonel slowly, “surely I have met the gentleman before.”

“I have been told you once saw him for a moment, at the town residence of my sisters,” replied Wharton, with a lurking smile.

“Ah! I do remember me of such a youth; and does the most potent congress of these rebellious colonies intrust their soldiers to the leading of such a warrior!”

“Ask the commander of yon Hessian horse, whether he thinks Major
Dunwoodie worthy of the confidence.”

Colonel Wellmere was far from wanting that kind of pride which makes a man bear himself bravely in the presence of his enemies. He had served in America a long time, without ever meeting with any but new raised levies, or the militia of the country. These would sometimes fight, and that fearlessly, but they as often chose to run away without pulling a trigger. He was too apt to judge from externals, and thought it impossible for men whose gaiters were so clean, whose tread so regular, and who wheeled with so much accuracy, to be beaten. In addition to all these, they were Englishmen, and their success was certain. Colonel Wellmere had never been kept much in the field, or these notions, which he had brought with him from home, and which had been greatly increased by the vaporing of a garrisoned town, would have long since vanished. He listened to the warm reply of Captain Wharton with a supercilious smile, and then inquired, —

“You would not have us retire, sir, before these boasted horsemen, without doing something that may deprive them of part of the glory which you appear to think they have gained!”

“I would have you advised, Colonel Wellmere, of the danger you are about to encounter.”

“Danger is but an unseemly word for a soldier,” continued the British commander with a sneer.

“And one as little dreaded by the 60th, as any corps who wear the royal livery,” cried Henry Wharton, fiercely. “Give but the word to charge, and let our actions speak.”

“Now again I know my young friend,” cried Wellmere, soothingly; “but if you have anything to say before we fight, that can in any manner help us in our attack, we’ll listen. You know the force of the rebels; are there more of them in ambush?”

“Yes,” replied the youth, chafing still under the other’s sneers, “in the skirt of this wood on our right are a small party of foot; their horse are all before you.”

“Where they will not continue long,” cried Wellmere, turning to the few officers around him. “Gentlemen, we will cross the stream in column, and deploy on the plain beyond, or else we shall not be able to entice these valiant Yankees within the reach of our muskets. Captain Wharton, I claim your assistance as an aid-de-camp.”

The youth shook his head in disapprobation of a movement which his good sense taught him was rash, but prepared with alacrity to perform his duty in the impending trial.

During this conversation, which was held at a small distance in advance of the British column, and in full view of the Americans, Dunwoodie had been collecting his scattered troops, securing his few prisoners, and retiring to the ground where he had been posted at the first appearance of his enemy. Satisfied with the success he had already obtained, and believing the English too wary to give him an opportunity of harassing them further, he was about to withdraw the guides; and, leaving a strong party on the ground to watch the movements of the regulars, to fall back a few miles, to a favorable place for taking up his quarters for the night. Captain Lawton was reluctantly listening to the reasoning of his commander, and had brought out his favorite glass, to see if no opening could be found for an advantageous attack, when he suddenly exclaimed, —

“How’s this! a bluecoat among those scarlet gentry? As I hope to live to see old Virginia, it is my masquerading friend of the 6oth, the handsome Captain Wharton, escaped from two of my best men!”

He had not done speaking when the survivor of these heroes joined his troop, bringing with him his own horse and those of the Cowboys; he reported the death of his comrade, and the escape of his prisoner. As the deceased was the immediate sentinel over the person of young Wharton, and the other was not to be blamed for defending the horses, which were more particularly under his care, his captain heard him with uneasiness but without anger.

This intelligence made an entire change in the views of Major Dunwoodie. He saw at once that his own reputation was involved in the escape of his prisoner. The order to recall the guides was countermanded, and he now joined his second in command, watching as eagerly as the impetuous Lawton himself, for some opening to assail his foe to advantage.

But two hours before, and Dunwoodie had felt the chance which made Henry Wharton his captive, as the severest blow he had ever sustained. Now he panted for an opportunity in which, by risking his own life, he might recapture his friend. All other considerations were lost in the goadings of a wounded spirit, and he might have soon emulated Lawton in hardihood, had not Wellmere and his troops at this moment crossed the brook into the open plain.

“There,” cried the delighted captain, as he pointed out the movement with his finger, “there comes John Bull into the mousetrap, and with eyes wide open.”

“Surely,” said Dunwoodie eagerly, “he will not deploy his column on that flat. Wharton must tell him of the ambush. But if he does— “

“We will not leave him a dozen sound skins in his battalion,” interrupted the other, springing into his saddle.

The truth was soon apparent; for the English column, after advancing for a short distance on the level land, deployed with an accuracy that would have done them honor on a field day in their own Hyde Park.

“Prepare to mount-mount!” cried Dunwoodie; the last word being repeated by Lawton in a tone that rang in the ears of Caesar, who stood at the open window of the cottage. The black recoiled in dismay, having lost all his confidence in Captain Lawton’s timidity; for he thought he yet saw him emerging from his cover and waving his sword on high.

As the British line advanced slowly and in exact order, the guides opened a galling fire. It began to annoy that part of the royal troops which was nearest to them. Wellmere listened to the advice of the veteran, who was next to him in rank, and ordered two companies to dislodge the American foot from their hiding place. The movement created a slight confusion; and Dunwoodie seized the opportunity to charge. No ground could be more favorable for the maneuvers of horse, and the attack of the Virginians was irresistible. It was aimed chiefly at the bank opposite to the wood, in order to clear the Americans from the fire of their friends who were concealed; and it was completely successful. Wellmere, who was on the left of his line, was overthrown by the impetuous fury of his assailants. Dunwoodie was in time to save him from the impending blow of one of his men, and raised him from the ground, had him placed on a horse, and delivered to the custody of his orderly. The officer who had suggested the attack upon the guides had been intrusted with its execution, but the menace was sufficient for these irregulars. In fact, their duty was performed, and they retired along the skirt of the wood, with intent to regain their horses, which had been left under a guard at the upper end of the valley.

The left of the British line was outflanked by the Americans, who doubled in their rear, and thus made the rout in that quarter total. But the second in command, perceiving how the battle went, promptly wheeled his party, and threw in a heavy fire on the dragoons, as they passed him to the charge; with this party was Henry Wharton, who had volunteered to assist in dispersing the guides. A ball struck his bridle arm, and compelled him to change hands. As the dragoons dashed by them, rending the air with their shouts, and with trumpets sounding a lively strain, the charger ridden by the youth became ungovernable — he plunged, reared, and his rider being unable with his wounded arm, to manage the impatient animal, Henry Wharton found himself, in less than a minute, unwillingly riding by the side of Captain Lawton. The dragoon comprehended at a glance the ludicrous situation of his new comrade, but had only time to cry aloud, before they plunged into the English line, —

“The horse knows the righteous cause better than his rider. Captain
Wharton, you are welcome to the ranks of freedom.”

No time was lost, however, by Lawton, after the charge was completed, in securing his prisoner again; and perceiving him to be hurt, he directed him to be conveyed to the rear.

The Virginian troopers dealt out their favors, with no gentle hands, on that part of the royal foot who were thus left in a great measure at their mercy. Dunwoodie, observing that the remnant of the Hessians had again ventured on the plain, led on in pursuit, and easily overtaking their light and half-fed horses, soon destroyed the remainder of the detachment.

In the meanwhile, great numbers of the English, taking advantage of the smoke and confusion in the field, were enabled to get in the rear of the body of their countrymen, which still preserved its order in a line parallel to the wood, but which had been obliged to hold its fire, from the fear of injuring friends as well as foes. The fugitives were directed to form a second line within the wood itself, and under cover of the trees. This arrangement was not yet completed, when Captain Lawton called to a youth, who commanded the other troop left with that part of the force which remained on the ground, and proposed charging the unbroken line of the British. The proposal was as promptly accepted as it had been made, and the troops were arrayed for the purpose. The eagerness of their leader prevented the preparations necessary to insure success, and the horse, receiving a destructive fire as they advanced, were thrown into additional confusion. Both Lawton and his more juvenile comrade fell at this discharge. Fortunately for the credit of the Virginians, Major Dunwoodie reentered the field at this critical instant; he saw his troops in disorder; at his feet lay weltering in blood George Singleton, a youth endeared to him by numberless virtues, and Lawton was unhorsed and stretched on the plain. The eye of the youthful warrior flashed fire. Riding between this squadron and the enemy, in a voice that reached the hearts of his dragoons, he recalled them to their duty. His presence and word acted like magic. The clamor of voices ceased; the line was formed promptly and with exactitude; the charge sounded; and, led on by their commander, the Virginians swept across the plain with an impetuosity that nothing could withstand, and the field was instantly cleared of the enemy; those who were not destroyed sought a shelter in the woods. Dunwoodie slowly withdrew from the fire of the English who were covered by the trees, and commenced the painful duty of collecting his dead and wounded.

The sergeant charged with conducting Henry Wharton to a place where he might procure surgical aid, set about performing his duty with alacrity, in order to return as soon as possible to the scene of strife. They had not reached the middle of the plain, before the captain noticed a man whose appearance and occupation forcibly arrested his attention. His head was bald and bare, but a well-powdered wig was to be seen, half-concealed, in the pocket of his breeches. His coat was off, and his arms were naked to the elbow; blood had disfigured much of his dress, and his hands, and even face, bore this mark of his profession; in his mouth was a cigar; in his right hand some instruments of strange formation, and in his left the remnants of an apple, with which he occasionally relieved the duty of the before-mentioned cigar. He was standing, lost in the contemplation of a Hessian, who lay breathless before him. At a little distance were three or four of the guides, leaning on their muskets, and straining their eyes in the direction of the combatants, and at his elbow stood a man who, from the implements in his hand, seemed an assistant.

“There, sir, is the doctor,” said the attendant of Henry very coolly. “He will patch up your arm in the twinkling of an eye”; and beckoning to the guides to approach, he whispered and pointed to his prisoner, and then galloped furiously towards his comrades.

Wharton advanced to the side of this strange figure, and observing himself to be unnoticed, was about to request his assistance, when the other broke silence in a soliloquy: —

“Now, I know this man to have been killed by Captain Lawton, as well as if I had seen him strike the blow. How often have I strove to teach him the manner in which he can disable his adversary, without destroying life! It is cruel thus unnecessarily to cut off the human race, and furthermore, such blows as these render professional assistance unnecessary; it is in a measure treating the lights of science with disrespect.”

“If, sir, your leisure will admit,” said Henry Wharton, “I must beg your attention to a slight hurt.”

“Ah!” cried the other, starting, and examining him from head to foot, “you are from the field below. Is there much business there, sir?”

“Indeed,” answered Henry, accepting the offer of the surgeon to assist in removing his coat, “’tis a stirring time.”

“Stirring!” repeated the surgeon, busily employed with his dressings; “you give me great pleasure, sir; for so long as they can stir there must be life; and while there is life, you know, there is hope; but here my art is of no use. I did put in the brains of one patient, but I rather think the man must have been dead before I saw him. It is a curious case, sir; I will take you to see it — only across the fence there, where you may perceive so many bodies together. Ah! the ball has glanced around the bone without shattering it; you are fortunate in falling into the hands of an old practitioner, or you might have lost this limb.”

“Indeed!” said Henry, with a slight uneasiness. “I did not apprehend the injury to be so serious.”

“Oh, the hurt is not bad, but you have such a pretty arm for an operation; the pleasure of the thing might have tempted a novice.”

“The devil!” cried the captain. “Can there be any pleasure in mutilating a fellow creature?”

“Sir,” said the surgeon, with gravity, “a scientific amputation is a very pretty operation, and doubtless might tempt a younger man, in the hurry of business, to overlook all the particulars of the case.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the appearance of the dragoons, slowly marching towards their former halting place, and new applications from the slightly wounded soldiers, who now came riding in, making hasty demands on the skill of the doctor.

The guides took charge of Wharton, and, with a heavy heart, the young man retraced his steps to his father’s cottage.

The English had lost in the several charges about one third of their foot, but the remainder were rallied in the wood; and Dunwoodie, perceiving them to be too strongly posted to assail, had left a strong party with Captain Lawton, with orders to watch their motions, and to seize every opportunity to harass them before they reëmbarked.

Intelligence had reached the major of another party being out, by the way of the Hudson, and his duty required that he should hold himself in readiness to defeat the intentions of these also. Captain Lawton received his orders with strong injunctions to make no assault on the foe, unless a favorable chance should offer.

The injury received by this officer was in the head, being stunned by a glancing bullet; and parting with a laughing declaration from the major, that if he again forgot himself, they should all think him more materially hurt, each took his own course.

The British were a light party without baggage, that had been sent out to destroy certain stores, understood to be collecting for the use of the American army. They now retired through the woods to the heights, and, keeping the route along their summits, in places unassailable by cavalry, commenced a retreat to their boats.

CHAPTER VIII

With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born infant, died;
But things like these, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
— SOUTHEY.

The last sounds of the combat died on the ears of the anxious listeners in the cottage, and were succeeded by the stillness of suspense. Frances had continued by herself, striving to exclude the uproar, and vainly endeavoring to summon resolution to meet the dreaded result. The ground where the charge on the foot had taken place was but a short mile from the Locusts, and, in the intervals of the musketry, the cries of the soldiers had even reached the ears of its inhabitants. After witnessing the escape of his son, Mr. Wharton had joined his sister and eldest daughter in their retreat, and the three continued fearfully waiting for news from the field. Unable longer to remain under the painful uncertainty of her situation, Frances soon added herself to the uneasy group, and Caesar was directed to examine into the state of things without, and report on whose banners victory had alighted. The father now briefly related to his astonished children the circumstance and manner of their brother’s escape. They were yet in the freshness of their surprise, when the door opened, and Captain Wharton, attended by a couple of the guides, and followed by the black, stood before them.

“Henry — my son, my son,” cried the agitated parent, stretching out his arms, yet unable to rise from his seat; “what is it I see; are you again a captive, and in danger of your life?”

“The better fortune of these rebels has prevailed,” said the youth, endeavoring to force a cheerful smile, and taking a hand of each of his distressed sisters. “I strove nobly for my liberty; but the perverse spirit of rebellion has even lighted on their horses. The steed I mounted carried me, greatly against my will, I acknowledge, into the very center of Dunwoodie’s men.”

“And you were again captured,” continued the father, casting a fearful glance on the armed attendants who had entered the room.

“That, sir, you may safely say; this Mr. Lawton, who sees so far, had me in custody again immediately.”

“Why you no hold ‘em in, Massa Henry?” cried Caesar, pettishly.

“That,” said Wharton, smiling, “was a thing easier said than done, Mr. Caesar, especially as these gentlemen” (glancing his eyes at the guides) “had seen proper to deprive me of the use of my better arm.”

“Wounded!” exclaimed both sisters in a breath.

“A mere scratch, but disabling me at a most critical moment,” continued the brother, kindly, and stretching out the injured limb to manifest the truth of his declaration. Caesar threw a look of bitter animosity on the irregular warriors who were thought to have had an agency in the deed, and left the room. A few more words sufficed to explain all that Captain Wharton knew relative to the fortune of the day. The result he thought yet doubtful, for when he left the ground, the Virginians were retiring from the field of battle.

“They had treed the squirrel,” said one of the sentinels abruptly, “and didn’t quit the ground without leaving a good hound for the chase when he comes down.”

“Aye,” added his comrade dryly, “I’m thinking Captain Lawton will count the noses of what are left before they see their whaleboats.”

Frances had stood supporting herself, by the back of a chair, during this dialogue, catching, in breathless anxiety, every syllable as it was uttered; her color changed rapidly; her limbs shook under her; until, with desperate resolution, she inquired, —

“Is any officer hurt on — the — on either side?”

“Yes,” answered the man, cavalierly, “these Southern youths are so full of mettle, that it’s seldom we fight but one or two gets knocked over; one of the wounded, who came up before the troops, told me that Captain Singleton was killed, and Major Dunwoodie— “

Frances heard no more, but fell lifeless in the chair behind her. The attention of her friends soon revived her when the captain, turning to the man, said fearfully, —

“Surely Major Dunwoodie is unhurt?”

“Never fear him,” added the guide, disregarding the agitation of the family. “They say a man who is born to be hanged will never be drowned; if a bullet could kill the major, he would have been dead long ago. I was going to say, that the major is in a sad taking because of the captain’s being killed; but had I known how much store the lady set by him, I wouldn’t have been so plain-spoken.”

Frances now rose quickly from her seat, with cheeks glowing with confusion, and, leaning on her aunt, was about to retire, when Dunwoodie himself appeared. The first emotion of the agitated girl was unalloyed happiness; in the next instant she shrank back appalled from the unusual expression that reigned in his countenance. The sternness of battle yet sat on his brow; his eye was fixed and severe. The smile of affection that used to lighten his dark features on meeting his mistress, was supplanted by the lowering look of care; his whole soul seemed to be absorbed in one engrossing emotion, and he proceeded at once to his object.

“Mr. Wharton,” he earnestly began, “in times like these, we need not stand on idle ceremony: one of my officers, I am afraid, is hurt mortally; and, presuming on your hospitality, I have brought him to your door.”

“I am happy, sir, that you have done so,” said Mr. Wharton, at once perceiving the importance of conciliating the American troops. “The necessitous are always welcome, and doubly so, in being the friend of Major Dunwoodie.”

“Sir, I thank you for myself, and in behalf of him who is unable to render you his thanks,” returned the other, hastily. “If you please, we will have him conducted where the surgeon may see and report upon his case without delay.” To this there could be no objection; and Frances felt a chill at her heart, as her lover withdrew, without casting a solitary look on herself.

There is a devotedness in female love that admits of no rivalry. All the tenderness of the heart, all the powers of the imagination, are enlisted in behalf of the tyrant passion; and where all is given, much is looked for in return. Frances had spent hours of anguish, of torture, on account of Dunwoodie, and he now met her without a smile, and left her without a greeting. The ardor of her feelings was unabated, but the elasticity of her hopes was weakened. As the supporters of the nearly lifeless body of Dunwoodie’s friend passed her, in their way to the apartment prepared for his reception, she caught a view of this seeming rival.

His pale and ghastly countenance, sunken eye, and difficult breathing, gave her a glimpse of death in its most fearful form. Dunwoodie was by his side and held his hand, giving frequent and stern injunctions to the men to proceed with care, and, in short, manifesting all the solicitude that the most tender friendship could, on such an occasion, inspire. Frances moved lightly before them, and, with an averted face, she held open the door for their passage to the bed; it was only as the major touched her garments, on entering the room, that she ventured to raise her mild blue eyes to his face. But the glance was unreturned, and Frances unconsciously sighed as she sought the solitude of her own apartment.

Captain Wharton voluntarily gave a pledge to his keepers not to attempt again escaping, and then proceeded to execute those duties on behalf of his father, which were thought necessary in a host. On entering the passage for that purpose, he met the operator who had so dexterously dressed his arm, advancing to the room of the wounded officer.

“Ah!” cried the disciple of Aesculapius, “I see you are doing well; but stop; have you a pin? No! here, I have one; you must keep the cold air from your hurt, or some of the youngsters will be at work at you yet.”

“God forbid,” muttered the captain, in an undertone, attentively adjusting the bandages, when Dunwoodie appeared at the door, impatiently crying aloud, —

“Hasten, Sitgreaves, hasten; or George Singleton will die from loss of blood.”

“What! Singleton! God forbid! Bless me — is it George — poor little George?” exclaimed the surgeon, as he quickened his pace with evident concern, and hastened to the side of the bed. “He is alive, though, and while there is life there is hope. This is the first serious case I have had to-day, where the patient was not already dead. Captain Lawton teaches his men to strike with so little discretion — poor George — bless me, it is a musket bullet.”

The youthful sufferer turned his eyes on the man of science, and with a faint smile endeavored to stretch forth his hand. There was an appeal in the look and action that touched the heart of the operator. The surgeon removed his spectacles to wipe an unusual moisture from his eyes, and proceeded carefully to the discharge of his duty. While the previous arrangements were, however, making, he gave vent in some measure to his feelings, by saying, —

“When it is only a bullet, I have always some hopes; there is a chance that it hits nothing vital. But, bless me, Captain Lawton’s men cut so at random — generally sever the jugular or the carotid artery, or let out the brains, and all are so difficult to remedy — the patient mostly dying before one can get at him. I never had success but once in replacing a man’s brains, although I have tried three this very day. It is easy to tell where Lawton’s troops charge in a battle, they cut so at random.”

The group around the bed of Captain Singleton were too much accustomed to the manner of their surgeon to regard or to reply to his soliloquy; but they quietly awaited the moment when he was to commence his examination. This now took place, and Dunwoodie stood looking the operator in the face, with an expression that seemed to read his soul. The patient shrank from the application of the probe, and a smile stole over the features of the surgeon, as he muttered, —

“There has been nothing before it in that quarter.” He now applied himself in earnest to his work, took off his spectacles, and threw aside his wig. All this time Dunwoodie stood in feverish silence, holding one of the hands of the sufferer in both his own, watching the countenance of Doctor Sitgreaves. At length Singleton gave a slight groan, and the surgeon rose with alacrity, and said aloud, —

“Ah! there is some pleasure in following a bullet; it may be said to meander through the human body, injuring nothing vital; but as for Captain Lawton’s men— “

“Speak,” interrupted Dunwoodie; “is there hope? — can you find the ball?”

“It’s no difficult matter to find that which one has in his hand, Major Dunwoodie,” replied the surgeon, coolly, preparing his dressings. “It took what that literal fellow, Captain Lawton, calls a circumbendibus, a route never taken by the swords of his men, notwithstanding the multiplied pains I have been at to teach him how to cut scientifically. Now, I saw a horse this day with his head half severed from his body.”

“That,” said Dunwoodie, as the blood rushed to his cheeks again, and his dark eyes sparkled with the rays of hope, “was some of my handiwork; I killed that horse myself.”

“You!” exclaimed the surgeon, dropping his dressings in surprise, “you!
But you knew it was a horse!”

“I had such suspicions, I own,” said the major, smiling, and holding a beverage to the lips of his friend.

“Such blows alighting on the human frame are fatal,” continued the doctor, pursuing his business. “They set at naught the benefits which flow from the lights of science; they are useless in a battle, for disabling your foe is all that is required. I have sat, Major Dunwoodie, many a cold hour, while Captain Lawton has been engaged, and after all my expectation, not a single case worth recording has occurred — all scratches or death wounds. Ah! the saber is a sad weapon in unskillful hands! Yes, Major Dunwoodie, many are the hours I have thrown away in endeavoring to impress this truth on Captain John Lawton.”

The impatient major pointed silently to his friend, and the surgeon quickened his movements.

“Ah! poor George, it is a narrow chance; but” — he was interrupted by a messenger requiring the presence of the commanding officer in the field. Dunwoodie pressed the hand of his friend, and beckoned the doctor to follow him, as he withdrew.

“What think you?” he whispered, on reaching the passage. “Will he live?”

“He will.”

“Thank God!” cried the youth, hastening below.

Dunwoodie for a moment joined the family, who were now collecting in the ordinary parlor. His face was no longer wanting in smiles, and his salutations, though hasty, were cordial. He took no notice of the escape and capture of Henry Wharton, but seemed to think the young man had continued where he had left him before the encounter. On the ground they had not met. The English officer withdrew in haughty silence to a window, leaving the major uninterrupted to make his communications.

The excitement produced by the events of the day in the youthful feelings of the sisters, had been succeeded by a languor that kept them both silent, and Dunwoodie held his discourse with Miss Peyton.

“Is there any hope, my cousin, that your friend can survive his wound?” said the lady, advancing towards her kinsman, with a smile of benevolent regard.

“Everything, my dear madam, everything,” answered the soldier cheerfully. “Sitgreaves says he will live, and he has never deceived me.”

“Your pleasure is not much greater than my own at this intelligence. One so dear to Major Dunwoodie cannot fail to excite an interest in the bosom of his friends.”

“Say one so deservedly dear, madam,” returned the major, with warmth. “He is the beneficent spirit of the corps, equally beloved by us all; so mild, so equal, so just, so generous, with the meekness of a lamb and the fondness of a dove — it is only in the hour of battle that Singleton is a lion.”

“You speak of him as if he were your mistress, Major Dunwoodie,” observed the smiling spinster, glancing her eye at her niece, who sat pale and listening, in a corner of the room.

“I love him as one,” cried the excited youth. “But he requires care and nursing; all now depends on the attention he receives.”

“Trust me, sir, he will want for nothing under this roof.”

“Pardon me, dear madam; you are all that is benevolent, but Singleton requires a care which many men would feel to be irksome. It is at moments like these, and in sufferings like this, that the soldier most finds the want of female tenderness.” As he spoke, he turned his eyes on Frances with an expression that again thrilled to the heart of his mistress; she rose from her seat with burning cheeks, and said, —

“All the attention that can with propriety be given to a stranger, will be cheerfully bestowed on your friend.”

“Ah!” cried the major, shaking his head, “that cold word propriety will kill him; he must be fostered, cherished, soothed.”

“These are offices for a sister or a wife.”

“A sister!” repeated the soldier, the blood rushing to his own face tumultuously; “a sister! He has a sister; and one that might be here with to-morrow’s sun.” He paused, mused in silence, glanced his eyes uneasily at Frances, and muttered in an undertone, “Singleton requires it, and it must be done.”

The ladies had watched his varying countenance in some surprise, and
Miss Peyton now observed that, —

“If there were a sister of Captain Singleton near them, her presence would be gladly requested both by herself and nieces.”

“It must be, madam; it cannot well be otherwise,” replied Dunwoodie, with a hesitation that but ill agreed with his former declarations. “She shall be sent for express this very night.” And then, as if willing to change the subject, he approached Captain Wharton, and continued, mildly, —

“Henry Wharton, to me honor is dearer than life; but in your hands I know it can safely be confided. Remain here unwatched until we leave the county, which will not be for some days.”

The distance in the manner of the English officer vanished, and taking the offered hand of the other, he replied with warmth, “Your generous confidence, Peyton, will not be abused, even though the gibbet on which your Washington hung Andre be ready for my own execution.”

“Henry, Henry Wharton,” said Dunwoodie reproachfully, “you little know the man who leads our armies, or you would have spared him that reproach; but duty calls me without. I leave you where I could wish to stay myself, and where you cannot be wholly unhappy.”

In passing Frances, she received another of those smiling looks of affection she so much prized, and for a season the impression made by his appearance after the battle was forgotten.

Among the veterans that had been impelled by the times to abandon the quiet of age for the service of their country, was Colonel Singleton. He was a native of Georgia, and had been for the earlier years of his life a soldier by profession. When the struggle for liberty commenced, he offered his services to his country, and from respect to his character they had been accepted. His years and health had, however, prevented his discharging the active duties of the field, and he had been kept in command of different posts of trust, where his country might receive the benefits of his vigilance and fidelity without inconvenience to himself. For the last year he had been intrusted with the passes into the Highlands, and was now quartered, with his daughter, but a short day’s march above the valley where Dunwoodie had met the enemy. His only other child was the wounded officer we have mentioned. Thither, then, the major prepared to dispatch a messenger with the unhappy news of the captain’s situation, and charged with such an invitation from the ladies as he did not doubt would speedily bring the sister to the couch of her brother.

This duty performed, though with an unwillingness that only could make his former anxiety more perplexing, Dunwoodie proceeded to the field where his troops had halted. The remnant of the English were already to be seen, over the tops of the trees, marching along the heights towards their boats, in compact order and with great watchfulness. The detachment of the dragoons under Lawton were a short distance on their flank, eagerly awaiting a favorable moment to strike a blow. In this manner both parties were soon lost to view.

A short distance above the Locusts was a small hamlet where several roads intersected each other, and from which, consequently, access to the surrounding country was easy. It was a favorite halting place of the horse, and frequently held by the light parties of the American army during their excursions below. Dunwoodie had been the first to discover its advantages, and as it was necessary for him to remain in the county until further orders from above, it cannot be supposed he overlooked them now. To this place the troops were directed to retire, carrying with them their wounded; parties were already employed in the sad duty of interring the dead. In making these arrangements, a new object of embarrassment presented itself to our young soldier. In moving through the field, he was struck with the appearance of Colonel Wellmere, seated by himself, brooding over his misfortunes, uninterrupted by anything but the passing civilities of the American officers. His anxiety on behalf of Singleton had hitherto banished the recollection of his captive from the mind of Dunwoodie, and he now approached him with apologies for his neglect. The Englishman received his courtesies with coolness, and complained of being injured by what he affected to think was the accidental stumbling of his horse. Dunwoodie, who had seen one of his own men ride him down, and that with very little ceremony, slightly smiled, as he offered him surgical assistance. This could only be procured at the cottage, and thither they both proceeded.

“Colonel Wellmere!” cried young Wharton in astonishment as they entered, “has the fortune of war been thus cruel to you also? But you are welcome to the house of my father, although I could wish the introduction to have taken place under more happy circumstances.”

Mr. Wharton received this new guest with the guarded caution that distinguished his manner, and Dunwoodie left the room to seek the bedside of his friend. Everything here looked propitious, and he acquainted the surgeon that another patient waited his skill in the room below. The sound of the word was enough to set the doctor in motion, and seizing his implements of office, he went in quest of this new applicant. At the door of the parlor he was met by the ladies, who were retiring. Miss Peyton detained him for a moment, to inquire into the welfare of Captain Singleton. Frances smiled with something of natural archness of manner, as she contemplated the grotesque appearance of the bald-headed practitioner; but Sarah was too much agitated, with the surprise of the unexpected interview with the British colonel, to observe him. It has already been intimated that Colonel Wellmere was an old acquaintance of the family. Sarah had been so long absent from the city, that she had in some measure been banished from the remembrance of the gentleman; but the recollections of Sarah were more vivid. There is a period in the life of every woman when she may be said to be predisposed to love; it is at the happy age when infancy is lost in opening maturity — when the guileless heart beats with those anticipations of life which the truth can never realize — and when the imagination forms images of perfection that are copied after its own unsullied visions. At this happy age Sarah left the city, and she had brought with her a picture of futurity, faintly impressed, it is true, but which gained durability from her solitude, and in which Wellmere had been placed in the foreground. The surprise of the meeting had in some measure overpowered her, and after receiving the salutations of the colonel, she had risen, in compliance with a signal from her observant aunt, to withdraw.

“Then, sir,” observed Miss Peyton, after listening to the surgeon’s account of his young patient, “we may be flattered with the expectation that he will recover.”

“’Tis certain, madam,” returned the doctor, endeavoring, out of respect to the ladies, to replace his wig; “’tis certain, with care and good nursing.”

“In those he shall not be wanting,” said the spinster, mildly. “Everything we have he can command, and Major Dunwoodie has dispatched an express for his sister.”

“His sister!” echoed the practitioner, with a meaning look. “If the major has sent for her, she will come.”

“Her brother’s danger would induce her, one would imagine.”

“No doubt, madam,” continued the doctor, laconically, bowing low, and giving room to the ladies to pass. The words and the manner were not lost on the younger sister, in whose presence the name of Dunwoodie was never mentioned unheeded.

“Sir,” cried Dr. Sitgreaves, on entering the parlor, addressing himself to the only coat of scarlet in the room, “I am advised you are in want of my aid. God send ’tis not Captain Lawton with whom you came in contact, in which case I may be too late.”

“There must be some mistake, sir,” said Wellmere, haughtily. “It was a surgeon that Major Dunwoodie was to send me, and not an old woman.”

“’Tis Dr. Sitgreaves,” said Henry Wharton, quickly, though with difficulty suppressing a laugh. “The multitude of his engagements, to-day, has prevented his usual attention to his attire.”

“Your pardon, sir,” added Wellmere, very ungraciously proceeding to lay aside his coat, and exhibit what he called a wounded arm.

“If, sir,” said the surgeon dryly, “the degrees of Edinburgh — walking your London hospitals — amputating some hundreds of limbs — operating on the human frame in every shape that is warranted by the lights of science, a clear conscience, and the commission of the Continental Congress, can make a surgeon, I am one.”

“Your pardon, sir,” repeated the colonel stiffly. “Captain Wharton has accounted for my error.”

“For which I thank Captain Wharton,” said the surgeon, proceeding coolly to arrange his amputating instruments, with a formality that made the colonel’s blood run cold. “Where are you hurt, sir? What! is it then this scratch in your shoulder? In what manner might you have received this wound, sir?”

“From the sword of a rebel dragoon,” said the colonel, with emphasis.

“Never. Even the gentle George Singleton would not have breathed on you so harmlessly.” He took a piece of sticking plaster from his pocket, and applied it to the part. “There, sir; that will answer your purpose, and I am certain it is all that is required of me.”

“What do you take to be my purpose, then, sir?”

“To report yourself wounded in your dispatches,” replied the doctor, with great steadiness; “and you may say that an old woman dressed your hurts — for if one did not, one easily might!”

“Very extraordinary language,” muttered the Englishman.

Here Captain Wharton interfered; and, by explaining the mistake of Colonel Wellmere to proceed from his irritated mind and pain of body, he in part succeeded in mollifying the insulted practitioner, who consented to look further into the hurts of the other. They were chiefly bruises from his fall, to which Sitgreaves made some hasty applications, and withdrew.

The horse, having taken their required refreshment, prepared to fall back to their intended position, and it became incumbent on Dunwoodie to arrange the disposal of his prisoners. Sitgreaves he determined to leave in the cottage of Mr. Wharton, in attendance on Captain Singleton. Henry came to him with a request that Colonel Wellmere might also be left behind, under his parole, until the troops marched higher into the country. To this the major cheerfully assented; and as all the rest of the prisoners were of the vulgar herd, they were speedily collected, and, under the care of a strong guard, ordered to the interior. The dragoons soon after marched; and the guides, separating in small parties, accompanied by patrols from the horse, spread themselves across the country, in such a manner as to make a chain of sentinels from the waters of the Sound to those of the Hudson. [Footnote: The scene of this tale is between these two waters, which are but a few miles from each other.]

Dunwoodie had lingered in front of the cottage, after he paid his parting compliments, with an unwillingness to return, that he thought proceeded from his solicitude for his wounded friends. The heart which has not become callous, soon sickens with the glory that has been purchased with a waste of human life. Peyton Dunwoodie, left to himself, and no longer excited by the visions which youthful ardor had kept before him throughout the day, began to feel there were other ties than those which bound the soldier within the rigid rules of honor. He did not waver in his duty, yet he felt how strong was the temptation. His blood had ceased to flow with the impulse created by the battle. The stern expression of his eye gradually gave place to a look of softness; and his reflections on the victory brought with them no satisfaction that compensated for the sacrifices by which it had been purchased. While turning his last lingering gaze on the Locusts, he remembered only that it contained all that he most valued. The friend of his youth was a prisoner, under circumstances that endangered both life and honor. The gentle companion of his toils, who could throw around the rude enjoyments of a soldier the graceful mildness of peace, lay a bleeding victim to his success. The image of the maid who had held, during the day, a disputed sovereignty in his bosom, again rose to his view with a loveliness that banished her rival, glory, from his mind.

The last lagging trooper of the corps had already disappeared behind the northern hill, and the major unwillingly turned his horse in the same direction. Frances, impelled by a restless inquietude, now timidly ventured on the piazza of the cottage. The day had been mild and clear, and the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. The tumult, which so lately disturbed the valley, was succeeded by the stillness of death, and the fair scene before her looked as if it had never been marred by the passions of men. One solitary cloud, the collected smoke of the contest, hung over the field; and this was gradually dispersing, leaving no vestige of the conflict above the peaceful graves of its victims. All the conflicting feelings, all the tumultuous circumstances of the eventful day, appeared like the deceptions of a troubled vision. Frances turned, and caught a glimpse of the retreating figure of him who had been so conspicuous an actor in the scene, and the illusion vanished. She recognized her lover, and, with the truth, came other recollections that drove her to the room, with a heart as sad as that which Dunwoodie himself bore from the valley.

CHAPTER IX

A moment gazed adown the dale,
A moment snuffed the tainted gale,
A moment listened to the cry,
That thickened as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foe appeared,
With one brave bound the copse he cleared,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
— Lady of the Lake.

The party under Captain Lawton had watched the retiring foe to his boats with the most unremitting vigilance, without finding any fit opening for a charge. The experienced successor of Colonel Wellmere knew too well the power of his enemy to leave the uneven surface of the heights, until compelled to descend to the level of the water. Before he attempted this hazardous movement, he threw his men into a compact square, with its outer edges bristling with bayonets. In this position, the impatient trooper well understood that brave men could never be assailed by cavalry with success, and he was reluctantly obliged to hover near them, without seeing any opportunity of stopping their slow but steady march to the beach. A small schooner, which had been their convoy from the city, lay with her guns bearing on the place of embarkation. Against this combination of force and discipline, Lawton had sufficient prudence to see it would be folly to contend, and the English were suffered to embark without molestation. The dragoons lingered on the shore till the last moment, and then they reluctantly commenced their own retreat back to the main body of the corps.

The gathering mists of the evening had begun to darken the valley, as the detachment of Lawton made its reappearance, at its southern extremity. The march of the troops was slow, and their line extended for the benefit of ease. In the front rode the captain, side by side with his senior subaltern, apparently engaged in close conference, while the rear was brought up by a young cornet, humming an air, and thinking of the sweets of a straw bed after the fatigues of a hard day’s duty.

“Then it struck you too?” said the captain. “The instant I placed my eyes on her I remembered the face; it is one not easily forgotten. By my faith, Tom, the girl does no discredit to the major’s taste.”

“She would do honor to the corps,” replied the lieutenant, with some warmth. “Those blue eyes might easily win a man to gentler employments than this trade of ours. In sober truth, I can easily imagine such a girl might tempt even me to quit the broadsword and saddle, for a darning-needle and pillion.”

“Mutiny, sir, mutiny,” cried the other, laughing. “What, you, Tom Mason, dare to rival the gay, admired, and withal rich, Major Dunwoodie in his love! You, a lieutenant of cavalry, with but one horse, and he none of the best! whose captain is as tough as a pepperidge log, and has as many lives as a cat!”

“Faith,” said the subaltern, smiling in his turn, “the log may yet be split, and grimalkin lose his lives, if you often charge as madly as you did this morning. What think you of many raps from such a beetle as laid you on your back to-day?”

“Ah! don’t mention it, my good Tom; the thought makes my head ache,” replied the other, shrugging up his shoulders. “It is what I call forestalling night.”

“The night of death?”

“No, sir, the night that follows day. I saw myriads of stars, things which should hide their faces in the presence of the lordly sun. I do think nothing but this thick cap saved me for your comfort a little longer, mauger the cat’s lives.”

“I have much reason to be obliged to the cap,” said Mason dryly. “That or the skull must have had a reasonable portion of thickness, I admit.”

“Come, come, Tom, you are a licensed joker, so I’ll not feign anger with you,” returned the captain, good-humoredly. “But Singleton’s lieutenant, I am fearful, will fare better than yourself for this day’s service.”

“I believe both of us will be spared the pain of receiving promotion purchased by the death of a comrade and friend,” observed Mason kindly. “It was reported that Sitgreaves said he would live.”

“From my soul I hope so,” exclaimed Lawton. “For a beardless face, that boy carries the stoutest heart I have ever met with. It surprises me, however, that as we both fell at the same instant, the men behaved so well.”

“For the compliment, I might thank you,” cried the lieutenant with a laugh; “but modesty forbids. I did my best to stop them, but without success.”

“Stop them!” roared the captain. “Would you stop men in the middle of a charge?”

“I thought they were going the wrong way,” answered the subaltern.

“Ah! our fall drove them to the right about?”

“It was either your fall, or apprehensions of their own; until the major rallied us, we were in admirable disorder.”

“Dunwoodie! the major was on the crupper of the Dutchman.”

“Ah! but he managed to get off the crupper of the Dutchman. He came in, at half speed, with the other two troops, and riding between us and the enemy, with that imperative way he has when roused, brought us in line in the twinkling of an eye. Then it was,” added the lieutenant, with animation, “that we sent John Bull to the bushes. Oh! it was a sweet charge — heads and tails, until we were upon them.”

“The devil! What a sight I missed!”

“You slept through it all.”

“Yes,” returned the other, with a sigh; “it was all lost to me and poor George Singleton. But, Tom, what will George’s sister say to this fair-haired maiden, in yonder white building?”

“Hang herself in her garters,” said the subaltern. “I owe a proper respect to my superiors, but two such angels are more than justly falls to the share of one man, unless he be a Turk or a Hindoo.”

“Yes, yes,” said the captain, quickly, “the major is ever preaching morality to the youngsters, but he is a sly fellow in the main. Do you observe how fond he is of the cross roads above this valley? Now, if I were to halt the troops twice in the same place, you would all swear there was a petticoat in the wind.”

“You are well known to the corps.”

“Well, Tom, a slanderous propensity is incurable — but,” stretching forward his body in the direction he was gazing, as if to aid him in distinguishing objects through the darkness, “what animal is moving through the field on our right?”

“’Tis a man,” said Mason, looking intently at the suspicious object.

“By his hump ’tis a dromedary!” added the captain, eying it keenly.
Wheeling his horse suddenly from the highway he exclaimed, “Harvey
Birch! — take him, dead or alive!”

Mason and a few of the leading dragoons only understood the sudden cry, but it was heard throughout the line. A dozen of the men, with the lieutenant at their head, followed the impetuous Lawton, and their speed threatened the pursued with a sudden termination of the race.

Birch prudently kept his position on the rock, where he had been seen by the passing glance of Henry Wharton, until evening had begun to shroud the surrounding objects in darkness. From this height he had seen all the events of the day, as they occurred. He had watched with a beating heart the departure of the troops under Dunwoodie, and with difficulty had curbed his impatience until the obscurity of night should render his moving free from danger. He had not, however, completed a fourth of his way to his own residence, when his quick ear distinguished the tread of the approaching horse. Trusting to the increasing darkness, he determined to persevere. By crouching and moving quickly along the surface of the ground, he hoped yet to escape unseen. Captain Lawton was too much engrossed with the foregoing conversation to suffer his eyes to indulge in their usual wandering; and the peddler, perceiving by the voices that the enemy he most feared had passed, yielded to his impatience, and stood erect, in order to make greater progress. The moment his body arose above the shadow of the ground, it was seen, and the chase commenced. For a single instant, Birch was helpless, his blood curdling in his veins at the imminence of the danger, and his legs refusing their natural and necessary office. But it was only for a moment. Casting his pack where he stood, and instinctively tightening the belt he wore, the peddler betook himself to flight. He knew that by bringing himself in a line with his pursuers and the wood, his form would be lost to sight. This he soon effected, and he was straining every nerve to gain the wood itself, when several horsemen rode by him but a short distance on his left, and cut him off from this place of refuge. The peddler threw himself on the ground as they came near him, and was passed unseen. But delay now became too dangerous for him to remain in that position. He accordingly rose, and still keeping in the shadow of the wood, along the skirts of which he heard voices crying to each other to be watchful, he ran with incredible speed in a parallel line, but in an opposite direction, to the march of the dragoons.

The confusion of the chase had been heard by the whole of the men, though none distinctly understood the order of Lawton but those who followed. The remainder were lost in doubt as to the duty that was required of them; and the aforesaid cornet was making eager inquiries of the trooper near him on the subject, when a man, at a short distance in his rear, crossed the road at a single bound. At the same instant, the stentorian voice of Lawton rang through the valley, shouting, —

“Harvey Birch — take him, dead or alive!”

Fifty pistols lighted the scene, and the bullets whistled in every direction round the head of the devoted peddler. A feeling of despair seized his heart, and in the bitterness of that moment he exclaimed, —

“Hunted like a beast of the forest!”

He felt life and its accompaniments to be a burden, and was about to yield himself to his enemies. Nature, however, prevailed. If taken, there was great reason to apprehend that he would not be honored with the forms of a trial, but that most probably the morning sun would witness his ignominious execution; for he had already been condemned to death, and had only escaped that fate by stratagem. These considerations, with the approaching footsteps of his pursuers, roused him to new exertions. He again fled before them. A fragment of a wall, that had withstood the ravages made by war in the adjoining fences of wood, fortunately crossed his path. He hardly had time to throw his exhausted limbs over this barrier, before twenty of his enemies reached its opposite side. Their horses refused to take the leap in the dark, and amid the confusion of the rearing chargers, and the execrations of their riders, Birch was enabled to gain a sight of the base of the hill, on whose summit was a place of perfect security. The heart of the peddler now beat high with hope, when the voice of Captain Lawton again rang in his ears, shouting to his men to make room. The order was obeyed, and the fearless trooper rode at the wall at the top of his horse’s speed, plunged the rowels in his charger, and flew over the obstacle in safety. The triumphant hurrahs of the men, and the thundering tread of the horse, too plainly assured the peddler of the emergency of his danger. He was nearly exhausted, and his fate no longer seemed doubtful.

“Stop, or die!” was uttered above his head, and in fearful proximity to his ears.

Harvey stole a glance over his shoulder, and saw, within a bound of him, the man he most dreaded. By the light of the stars he beheld the uplifted arm and the threatening saber. Fear, exhaustion, and despair seized his heart, and the intended victim fell at the feet of the dragoon. The horse of Lawton struck the prostrate peddler, and both steed and rider came violently to the earth.

As quick as thought, Birch was on his feet again, with the sword of the discomfited dragoon in his hand. Vengeance seems but too natural to human passions. There are few who have not felt the seductive pleasure of making our injuries recoil on their authors; and yet there are some who know how much sweeter it is to return good for evil.

All the wrongs of the peddler shone on his brain with a dazzling brightness. For a moment the demon within him prevailed, and Birch brandished the powerful weapon in the air; in the next, it fell harmless on the reviving but helpless trooper. The peddler vanished up the side of the friendly rock.

“Help Captain Lawton, there!” cried Mason, as he rode up, followed by a dozen of his men; “and some of you dismount with me, and search these rocks; the villain lies here concealed.”

“Hold!” roared the discomfited captain, raising himself with difficulty on his feet. “If one of you dismount, he dies. Tom, my good fellow, you will help me to straddle Roanoke again.”

The astonished subaltern complied in silence, while the wondering dragoons remained as fixed in their saddles, as if they composed part of the animals they rode.

“You are much hurt, I fear,” said Mason, with something of condolence in his manner, as they reentered the highway, biting off the end of a cigar for the want of a better quality of tobacco.

“Something so, I do believe,” replied the captain, catching his breath, and speaking with difficulty. “I wish our bonesetter was at hand, to examine into the state of my ribs.”

“Sitgreaves is left in attendance on Captain Singleton, at the house of
Mr. Wharton.”

“Then there I halt for the night, Tom. These rude times must abridge ceremony; besides, you may remember the old gentleman professed a kinsman’s regard for the corps. I can never think of passing so good a friend without a halt.”

“And I will lead the troop to the Four Corners; if we all halt there, we shall breed a famine in the land.”

“A condition I never desire to be placed in. The idea of that graceful spinster’s cakes is no bad solace for twenty-four hours in the hospital.”

“Oh! you won’t die if you can think of eating,” said Mason, with a laugh.

“I should surely die if I could not,” observed the captain, gravely.

“Captain Lawton,” said the orderly of his troop, riding to the side of his commanding officer, “we are now passing the house of the peddler spy; is it your pleasure that we burn it?”

“No!” roared the captain, in a voice that startled the disappointed sergeant. “Are you an incendiary? Would you burn a house in cold blood? Let but a spark approach, and the hand that carries it will never light another.”

“Zounds!” muttered the sleepy cornet in the rear, as he was nodding on his horse, “there is life in the captain, notwithstanding his tumble.”

Lawton and Mason rode on in silence, the latter ruminating on the wonderful change produced in his commander by his fall, when they arrived opposite to the gate before the residence of Mr. Wharton. The troop continued its march; but the captain and his lieutenant dismounted, and, followed by the servant of the former, they proceeded slowly to the door of the cottage.

Colonel Wellmere had already sought a retreat in his own room; Mr. Wharton and his son were closeted by themselves; and the ladies were administering the refreshments of the tea table to the surgeon of the dragoons, who had seen one of his patients in his bed, and the other happily enjoying the comforts of a sweet sleep. A few natural inquiries from Miss Peyton had opened the soul of the doctor, who knew every individual of her extensive family connection in Virginia, and who even thought it possible that he had seen the lady herself. The amiable spinster smiled as she felt it to be improbable that she should ever have met her new acquaintance before, and not remember his singularities. It however greatly relieved the embarrassment of their situation, and something like a discourse was maintained between them; the nieces were only listeners, nor could the aunt be said to be much more.

“As I was observing, Miss Peyton, it was merely the noxious vapors of the lowlands that rendered the plantation of your brother an unfit residence for man; but quadrupeds were— “

“Bless me, what’s that?” said Miss Peyton, turning pale at the report of the pistols fired at Birch.

“It sounds prodigiously like the concussion on the atmosphere made by the explosion of firearms,” said the surgeon, sipping his tea with great indifference. “I should imagine it to be the troop of Captain Lawton returning, did I not know the captain never uses the pistol, and that he dreadfully abuses the saber.”

“Merciful providence!” exclaimed the agitated maiden, “he would not injure one with it, certainly.”

“Injure!” repeated the other quickly. “It is certain death, madam; the most random blows imaginable; all that I can say to him will have no effect.”

“But Captain Lawton is the officer we saw this morning, and is surely your friend,” said Frances, hastily, observing her aunt to be seriously alarmed.

“I find no fault with his want of friendship; the man is well enough if he would learn to cut scientifically. All trades, madam, ought to be allowed to live; but what is to become of a surgeon, if his patients are dead before he sees them!”

The doctor continued haranguing on the probability and improbability of its being the returning troop, until a loud knock at the door gave new alarm to the ladies. Instinctively laying his hand on a small saw, that had been his companion for the whole day, in the vain expectation of an amputation, the surgeon, coolly assuring the ladies that he would stand between them and danger, proceeded in person to answer the summons.

“Captain Lawton!” exclaimed the surgeon, as he beheld the trooper leaning on the arm of his subaltern, and with difficulty crossing the threshold.

“Ah! my dear bonesetter, is it you? You are here very fortunately to inspect my carcass; but do lay aside that rascally saw!”

A few words from Mason explained the nature and manner of his captain’s hurts, and Miss Peyton cheerfully accorded the required accommodations. While the room intended for the trooper was getting ready, and the doctor was giving certain portentous orders, the captain was invited to rest himself in the parlor. On the table was a dish of more substantial food than ordinarily adorned the afternoon’s repast, and it soon caught the attention of the dragoons. Miss Peyton, recollecting that they had probably made their only meal that day at her own table, kindly invited them to close it with another. The offer required no pressing, and in a few minutes the two were comfortably seated, and engaged in an employment that was only interrupted by an occasional wry face from the captain, who moved his body in evident pain. These interruptions, however, interfered but little with the principal business in hand; and the captain had got happily through with this important duty, before the surgeon returned to announce all things ready for his accommodation in the room above stairs.

“Eating!” cried the astonished physician. “Captain Lawton, do you wish to die?”

“I have no particular ambition that way,” said the trooper, rising, and bowing good night to the ladies, “and, therefore, have been providing materials necessary to preserve life.”

The surgeon muttered his dissatisfaction, while he followed Mason and the captain from the apartment.

Every house in America had, at that day, what was emphatically called its best room, and this had been allotted, by the unseen influence of Sarah, to Colonel Wellmere. The down counterpane, which a clear frosty night would render extremely grateful over bruised limbs, decked the English officer’s bed. A massive silver tankard, richly embossed with the Wharton arms, held the beverage he was to drink during the night; while beautiful vessels of china performed the same office for the two American captains. Sarah was certainly unconscious of the silent preference she had been giving to the English officer; and it is equally certain, that but for his hurts, bed, tankard, and everything but the beverage would have been matters of indifference to Captain Lawton, half of whose nights were spent in his clothes, and not a few of them in the saddle. After taking possession, however, of a small but very comfortable room, Doctor Sitgreaves proceeded to inquire into the state of his injuries. He had begun to pass his hand over the body of his patient, when the latter cried impatiently, —

“Sitgreaves, do me the favor to lay that rascally saw aside, or I shall have recourse to my saber in self-defense; the sight of it makes my blood cold.”

“Captain Lawton, for a man who has so often exposed life and limb, you are unaccountably afraid of a very useful instrument.”

“Heaven keep me from its use,” said the trooper, with a shrug.

“You would not despise the lights of science, nor refuse surgical aid, because this saw might be necessary?”

“I would.”

“You would!”

“Yes; you shall never joint me like a quarter of beef, while I have life to defend myself,” cried the resolute dragoon. “But I grow sleepy; are any of my ribs broken?”

“No.”

“Any of my bones?”

“No.”

“Tom, I’ll thank you for that pitcher.” As he ended his draft, he very deliberately turned his back on his companions, and good-naturedly cried, “Good night, Mason; good night, Galen.”

Captain Lawton entertained a profound respect for the surgical abilities of his comrade, but he was very skeptical on the subject of administering internally for the ailings of the human frame. With a full stomach, a stout heart, and a clear conscience, he often maintained that a man might bid defiance to the world and its vicissitudes. Nature provided him with the second, and, to say the truth, he strove manfully himself to keep up the other two requisites in his creed. It was a favorite maxim with him, that the last thing death assailed was the eyes, and next to the last, the jaws. This he interpreted to be a clear expression of the intention of nature, that every man might regulate, by his own volition, whatever was to be admitted into the sanctuary of his mouth; consequently, if the guest proved unpalatable, he had no one to blame but himself. The surgeon, who was well acquainted with these views of his patient, beheld him, as he cavalierly turned his back on Mason and himself, with a commiserating contempt, replaced in their leathern repository the phials he had exhibited, with a species of care that was allied to veneration, gave the saw, as he concluded, a whirl of triumph, and departed, without condescending to notice the compliment of the trooper. Mason, finding, by the breathing of the captain, that his own good night would be unheard, hastened to pay his respects to the ladies — after which he mounted and followed the troop at the top of his horse’s speed.

CHAPTER X

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires,
E’en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
— GRAY.

The possessions of Mr. Wharton extended to some distance on each side of the house in which he dwelt, and most of his land was unoccupied. A few scattered dwellings were to be seen in different parts of his domains, but they were fast falling to decay, and were untenanted. The proximity of the country to the contending armies had nearly banished the pursuits of agriculture from the land. It was useless for the husbandman to devote his time and the labor of his hands, to obtain overflowing garners, that the first foraging party would empty. None tilled the earth with any other view than to provide the scanty means of subsistence, except those who were placed so near to one of the adverse parties as to be safe from the inroads of the light troops of the other. To these the war offered a golden harvest, more especially to such as enjoyed the benefits of an access to the royal army. Mr. Wharton did not require the use of his lands for the purposes of subsistence; and he willingly adopted the guarded practice of the day, limiting his attention to such articles as were soon to be consumed within his own walls, or could be easily secreted from the prying eyes of the foragers. In consequence, the ground on which the action was fought had not a single inhabited building, besides the one belonging to the father of Harvey Birch. This house stood between the place where the cavalry had met, and that where the charge had been made on the party of Wellmere.

To Katy Haynes it had been a day fruitful of incidents. The prudent housekeeper had kept her political feelings in a state of rigid neutrality; her own friends had espoused the cause of the country, but the maiden herself never lost sight of that important moment, when, like females of more illustrious hopes, she might be required to sacrifice her love of country on the altar of domestic harmony. And yet, notwithstanding all her sagacity, there were moments when the good woman had grievous doubts into which scale she ought to throw the weight of her eloquence, in order to be certain of supporting the cause favored by the peddler. There was so much that was equivocal in his movements and manner, that often, when, in the privacy of their household, she was about to offer a philippic on Washington and his followers, discretion sealed her mouth, and distrust beset her mind. In short, the whole conduct of the mysterious being she studied was of a character to distract the opinions of one who took a more enlarged view of men and life than came within the competency of his housekeeper.

The battle of the Plains had taught the cautious Washington the advantages his enemy possessed in organization, arms, and discipline. These were difficulties to be mastered by his own vigilance and care. Drawing off his troops to the heights, in the northern part of the county, he had bidden defiance to the attacks of the royal army, and Sir William Howe fell back to the enjoyment of his barren conquest — a deserted city. Never afterwards did the opposing armies make the trial of strength within the limits of Westchester; yet hardly a day passed, that the partisans did not make their inroads; or a sun rise, that the inhabitants were spared the relation of excesses which the preceding darkness had served to conceal. Most of the movements of the peddler were made at the hours which others allotted to repose. The evening sun would frequently leave him at one extremity of the county, and the morning find him at the other. His pack was his never-failing companion; and there were those who closely studied him, in his moments of traffic, and thought his only purpose was the accumulation of gold. He would be often seen near the Highlands, with a body bending under its load; and again near the Harlem River, traveling with lighter steps, with his face towards the setting sun. But these glances at him were uncertain and fleeting. The intermediate time no eye could penetrate. For months he disappeared, and no traces of his course were ever known.

Strong parties held the heights of Harlem, and the northern end of Manhattan Island was bristling with the bayonets of the English sentinels, yet the peddler glided among them unnoticed and uninjured. His approaches to the American lines were also frequent; but generally so conducted as to baffle pursuit. Many a sentinel, placed in the gorges of the mountains, spoke of a strange figure that had been seen gliding by them in the mists of the evening. These stories reached the ears of the officers, and, as we have related, in two instances the trader had fallen into the hands of the Americans. The first time he had escaped from Lawton, shortly after his arrest; but the second he was condemned to die. On the morning of his intended execution, the cage was opened, but the bird had flown. This extraordinary escape had been made from the custody of a favorite officer of Washington, and sentinels who had been thought worthy to guard the person of the commander in chief. Bribery and treason could not be imputed to men so well esteemed, and the opinion gained ground among the common soldiery, that the peddler had dealings with the dark one. Katy, however, always repelled this opinion with indignation; for within the recesses of her own bosom, the housekeeper, in ruminating on the events, concluded that the evil spirit did not pay in gold. Nor, continued the wary spinster in her cogitations, does Washington; paper and promises were all that the leader of the American troops could dispense to his servants. After the alliance with France, when silver became more abundant in the country, although the scrutinizing eyes of Katy never let any opportunity of examining into the deerskin purse pass unimproved, she was never able to detect the image of Louis intruding into the presence of the well-known countenance of George III. In short, the secret hoard of Harvey sufficiently showed in its contents that all its contributions had been received from the British.

The house of Birch had been watched at different times by the Americans, with a view to his arrest, but never with success; the reputed spy possessing a secret means of intelligence, that invariably defeated their schemes. Once, when a strong body of the continental army held the Four Corners for a whole summer, orders had been received from Washington himself, never to leave the door of Harvey Birch unwatched. The command was rigidly obeyed, and during this long period the peddler was unseen; the detachment was withdrawn, and the following night Birch reentered his dwelling. The father of Harvey had been greatly molested, in consequence of the suspicious character of the son. But, notwithstanding the most minute scrutiny into the conduct of the old man, no fact could be substantiated against him to his injury, and his property was too small to keep alive the zeal of patriots by profession. Its confiscation and purchase would not have rewarded their trouble. Age and sorrow were now about to spare him further molestation, for the lamp of life had been drained of its oil. The recent separation of the father and son had been painful, but they had submitted in obedience to what both thought a duty. The old man had kept his dying situation a secret from the neighborhood, in the hope that he might still have the company of his child in his last moments. The confusion of the day, and his increasing dread that Harvey might be too late, helped to hasten the event he would fain arrest for a little while. As night set in, his illness increased to such a degree, that the dismayed housekeeper sent a truant boy, who had shut up himself with them during the combat, to the Locusts, in quest of a companion to cheer her solitude. Caesar, alone, could be spared, and, loaded with eatables and cordials by the kind-hearted Miss Peyton, the black had been dispatched on his duty. The dying man was past the use of medicines, and his chief anxiety seemed to center in a meeting with his child. The noise of the chase had been heard by the group in the house, but its cause was not understood; and as both the black and Katy were apprised of the detachment of American horse being below them, they supposed it to proceed from the return of that party. They heard the dragoons, as they moved slowly by the building; but in compliance with the prudent injunction of the black, the housekeeper forbore to indulge her curiosity. The old man had closed his eyes, and his attendants believed him to be asleep. The house contained two large rooms and as many small ones. One of the former served for kitchen and sitting room; in the other lay the father of Birch; of the latter, one was the sanctuary of the vestal, and the other contained the stock of provisions. A huge chimney of stone rose in the center, serving, of itself, for a partition between the larger rooms; and fireplaces of corresponding dimensions were in each apartment. A bright flame was burning in that of the common room, and within the very jambs of its monstrous jaws sat Caesar and Katy, at the time of which we write. The African was impressing his caution on the housekeeper, and commenting on the general danger of indulging an idle curiosity.

“Best nebber tempt a Satan,” said Caesar, rolling up his eyes till the whites glistened by the glare of the fire. “I berry like heself to lose an ear for carrying a little bit of a letter; dere much mischief come of curiosity. If dere had nebber been a man curious to see Africa, dere would be no color people out of dere own country; but I wish Harvey get back.”

“It is very disregardful in him to be away at such a time,” said Katy, imposingly. “Suppose now his father wanted to make his last will in the testament, who is there to do so solemn and awful an act for him? Harvey is a very wasteful and very disregardful man!”

“Perhap he make him afore?”

“It would not be a wonderment if he had,” returned the housekeeper; “he is whole days looking into the Bible.”

“Then he read a berry good book,” said the black solemnly. “Miss Fanny read in him to Dinah now and den.”

“You are right, Caesar. The Bible is the best of books, and one that reads it as often as Harvey’s father should have the best of reasons for so doing. This is no more than common sense.”

She rose from her seat, and stealing softly to a chest of drawers in the room of the sick man, she took from it a large Bible, heavily bound, and secured with strong clasps of brass, with which she returned to the negro. The volume was eagerly opened, and they proceeded instantly to examine its pages. Katy was far from an expert scholar, and to Caesar the characters were absolutely strangers. For some time the housekeeper was occupied in finding out the word Matthew, in which she had no sooner succeeded than she pointed out the word, with great complacency, to the attentive Caesar.

“Berry well, now look him t’rough,” said the black, peeping over the housekeeper’s shoulder, as he held a long lank candle of yellow tallow, in such a manner as to throw its feeble light on the volume.

“Yes, but I must begin with the very beginning of the book,” replied the other, turning the leaves carefully back, until, moving two at once, she lighted upon a page covered with writing. “Here,” said the housekeeper, shaking with the eagerness of expectation, “here are the very words themselves; now I would give the world itself to know whom he has left the big silver shoe buckles to.”

“Read ‘em,” said Caesar, laconically.

“And the black walnut drawers; for Harvey could never want furniture of that quality, as long as he is a bachelor!”

“Why he no want ‘em as well as he fader?”

“And the six silver tablespoons; Harvey always uses the iron!”

“P’r’ap he say, without so much talk,” returned the sententious black, pointing one of his crooked and dingy fingers at the open volume.

Thus repeatedly advised, and impelled by her own curiosity, Katy began to read. Anxious to come to the part which most interested herself, she dipped at once into the center of the subject.

“Chester Birch, born September 1st, 1755,” — read the spinster, with a deliberation that did no great honor to her scholarship.

“Well, what he gib him?”

“Abigail Birch, born July 12th, 1757,” continued the housekeeper, in the same tone.

“I t’ink he ought to gib her ‘e spoon.”

“June 1st, 1760. On this awful day, the judgment of an offended God lighted on my house.” A heavy groan from the adjoining room made the spinster instinctively close the volume, and Caesar, for a moment, shook with fear. Neither possessed sufficient resolution to go and examine the condition of the sufferer, but his heavy breathing continued as usual. Katy dared not, however, reopen the Bible, and carefully securing its clasps, it was laid on the table in silence. Caesar took his chair again, and after looking timidly round the room, remarked, —

“I t’ought he time war’ come!”

“No,” said Katy, solemnly, “he will live till the tide is out, or the first cock crows in the morning.”

“Poor man!” continued the black, nestling still farther into the chimney corner, “I hope he lay quiet after he die.”

“‘Twould be no astonishment to me if he didn’t; for they say an unquiet life makes an uneasy grave.”

“Johnny Birch a berry good man in he way. All mankind can’t be a minister; for if he do, who would be a congregation?”

“Ah! Caesar, he is good only who does good. Can you tell me why honestly gotten gold should be hidden in the bowels of the earth?”

“Grach! — I t’ink it must be to keep t’e Skinner from findin’ him; if he know where he be, why don’t he dig him up?”

“There may be reasons not comprehensible to you,” said Katy, moving her chair so that her clothes covered the charmed stone, underneath which lay the secret treasures of the peddler, unable to refrain from speaking of what she would have been very unwilling to reveal; “but a rough outside often holds a smooth inside.” Caesar stared around the building, unable to fathom the hidden meaning of his companion, when his roving eyes suddenly became fixed, and his teeth chattered with affright. The change in the countenance of the black was instantly perceived by Katy, and turning her face, she saw the peddler himself, standing within the door of the room.

“Is he alive?” asked Birch, tremulously, and seemingly afraid to receive the answer.

“Surely,” said Katy, rising hastily, and officiously offering her chair.
“He must live till day, or till the tide is down.”

Disregarding all but the fact that his father still lived, the peddler stole gently into the room of his dying parent. The tie which bound the father and son was of no ordinary kind. In the wide world they were all to each other. Had Katy but read a few lines further in the record, she would have seen the sad tale of their misfortunes. At one blow competence and kindred had been swept from them, and from that day to the present hour, persecution and distress had followed their wandering steps. Approaching the bedside, Harvey leaned his body forward, and, in a voice nearly choked by his feelings, he whispered near the ear of the sick, —

“Father, do you know me?”

The parent slowly opened his eyes, and a smile of satisfaction passed over his pallid features, leaving behind it the impression of death, more awful by the contrast. The peddler gave a restorative he had brought with him to the parched lips of the sick man, and for a few minutes new vigor seemed imparted to his frame. He spoke, but slowly, and with difficulty. Curiosity kept Katy silent; awe had the same effect on Caesar; and Harvey seemed hardly to breathe, as he listened to the language of the departing spirit.

“My son,” said the father in a hollow voice, “God is as merciful as He is just; if I threw the cup of salvation from my lips when a youth, He graciously offers it to me in mine age. He has chastised to purify, and I go to join the spirits of our lost family. In a little while, my child, you will be alone. I know you too well not to foresee you will be a pilgrim through life. The bruised reed may endure, but it will never rise. You have that within you, Harvey, that will guide you aright; persevere as you have begun, for the duties of life are never to be neglected and” — a noise in the adjoining room interrupted the dying man, and the impatient peddler hastened to learn the cause, followed by Katy and the black. The first glance of his eye on the figure in the doorway told the trader but too well his errand, and the fate that probably awaited himself. The intruder was a man still young in years, but his lineaments bespoke a mind long agitated by evil passions. His dress was of the meanest materials, and so ragged and unseemly, as to give him the appearance of studied poverty. His hair was prematurely whitened, and his sunken, lowering eye avoided the bold, forward look of innocence. There was a restlessness in his movements, and an agitation in his manner, that proceeded from the workings of the foul spirit within him, and which was not less offensive to others than distressing to himself. This man was a well-known leader of one of those gangs of marauders who infested the county with a semblance of patriotism, and who were guilty of every grade of offense, from simple theft up to murder. Behind him stood several other figures clad in a similar manner, but whose countenances expressed nothing more than the indifference of brutal insensibility. They were well armed with muskets and bayonets, and provided with the usual implements of foot soldiers. Harvey knew resistance to be vain, and quietly submitted to their directions. In the twinkling of an eye both he and Caesar were stripped of their decent garments, and made to exchange clothes with two of the filthiest of the band. They were then placed in separate corners of the room, and, under the muzzles of the muskets, required faithfully to answer such interrogatories as were put to them.

“Where is your pack?” was the first question to the peddler.

“Hear me,” said Birch, trembling with agitation; “in the next room is my father, now in the agonies of death. Let me go to him, receive his blessing, and close his eyes, and you shall have all — aye, all.”

“Answer me as I put the questions, or this musket shall send you to keep the old driveler company: where is your pack?”

“I will tell you nothing, unless you let me go to my father,” said the peddler, resolutely.

His persecutor raised his arm with a malicious sneer, and was about to execute his threat, when one of his companions checked him.

“What would you do?” he said. “You surely forget the reward. Tell us where are your goods, and you shall go to your father.”

Birch complied instantly, and a man was dispatched in quest of the booty; he soon returned, throwing the bundle on the floor, swearing it was as light as feathers.

“Aye,” cried the leader, “there must be gold somewhere for what it did contain. Give us your gold, Mr. Birch; we know you have it; you will not take continental, not you.”

“You break your faith,” said Harvey.

“Give us your gold,” exclaimed the other, furiously, pricking the
peddler with his bayonet until the blood followed his pushes in streams.
At this instant a slight movement was heard in the adjoining room, and
Harvey cried, —

“Let me — let me go to my father, and you shall have all.”

“I swear you shall go then,” said the Skinner.

“Here, take the trash,” cried Birch, as he threw aside the purse, which he had contrived to conceal, notwithstanding the change in his garments.

The robber raised it from the floor with a hellish laugh.

“Aye, but it shall be to your father in heaven.”

“Monster! have you no feeling, no faith, no honesty?”

“To hear him, one would think there was not a rope around his neck already,” said the other, laughing. “There is no necessity for your being uneasy, Mr. Birch; if the old man gets a few hours the start of you in the journey, you will be sure to follow him before noon to-morrow.”

This unfeeling communication had no effect on the peddler, who listened with gasping breath to every sound from the room of his parent until he heard his own name spoken in the hollow, sepulchral tones of death. Birch could endure no more, but shrieking out, —

“Father! hush — father! I come — I come!” he darted by his keeper and was the next moment pinned to the wall by the bayonet of another of the band. Fortunately, his quick motion had caused him to escape a thrust aimed at his life, and it was by his clothes only that he was confined.

“No, Mr. Birch,” said the Skinner, “we know you too well to trust you out of sight — your gold, your gold!”

“You have it,” said the peddler, writhing with agony.

“Aye, we have the purse, but you have more purses. King George is a prompt paymaster, and you have done him many a piece of good service. Where is your hoard? Without it you will never see your father.”

“Remove the stone underneath the woman,” cried the peddler, eagerly— “remove the stone.”

“He raves! he raves!” said Katy, instinctively moving her position to a different stone from the one on which she had been standing. In a moment it was torn from its bed, and nothing but earth was seen beneath.

“He raves! You have driven him from his right mind,” continued the trembling spinster. “Would any man in his senses keep gold under a hearth?”

“Peace, babbling fool!” cried Harvey. “Lift the corner stone, and you will find that which will make you rich, and me a beggar.”

“And then you will be despisable,” said the housekeeper bitterly. “A peddler without goods and without money is sure to be despisable.”

“There will be enough left to pay for his halter,” cried the Skinner, who was not slow to follow the instructions of Harvey, soon lighting upon a store of English guineas. The money was quickly transferred to a bag, notwithstanding the declarations of the spinster, that her dues were unsatisfied, and that, of right, ten of the guineas were her property.

Delighted with a prize that greatly exceeded their expectations, the band prepared to depart, intending to take the peddler with them, in order to give him up to the American troops above, and to claim the reward offered for his apprehension. Everything was ready, and they were about to lift Birch in their arms, for he resolutely refused to move an inch, when a form appeared in their midst, which appalled the stoutest heart among them. The father had arisen from his bed, and he tottered forth at the cries of his son. Around his body was thrown the sheet of the bed, and his fixed eye and haggard face gave him the appearance of a being from another world. Even Katy and Caesar thought it was the spirit of the elder Birch, and they fled the house, followed by the alarmed Skinners in a body.

The excitement which had given the sick man strength, soon vanished, and the peddler, lifting him in his arms, reconveyed him to his bed. The reaction of the system which followed hastened to close the scene.

The glazed eye of the father was fixed upon the son; his lips moved, but his voice was unheard. Harvey bent down, and, with the parting breath of his parent, received his dying benediction. A life of privation, and of wrongs, embittered most of the future hours of the peddler. But under no sufferings, in no misfortunes, the subject of poverty and obloquy, the remembrance of that blessing never left him; it constantly gleamed over the images of the past, shedding a holy radiance around his saddest hours of despondency; it cheered the prospect of the future with the prayers of a pious spirit; and it brought the sweet assurance of having faithfully discharged the sacred offices of filial love.

The retreat of Caesar and the spinster had been too precipitate to admit of much calculation; yet they themselves instinctively separated from the Skinners. After fleeing a short distance they paused, and the maiden commenced in a solemn voice, —

“Oh! Caesar, was it not dreadful to walk before he had been laid in his grave! It must have been the money that disturbed him; they say Captain Kidd walks near the spot where he buried gold in the old war.”

“I never t’ink Johnny Birch hab such a big eye!” said the African, his teeth yet chattering with the fright.

“I’m sure ‘twould be a botherment to a living soul to lose so much money. Harvey will be nothing but an utterly despisable, poverty-stricken wretch. I wonder who he thinks would even be his housekeeper!”

“Maybe a spook take away Harvey, too,” observed Caesar, moving still nearer to the side of the maiden. But a new idea had seized the imagination of the spinster. She thought it not improbable that the prize had been forsaken in the confusion of the retreat; and after deliberating and reasoning for some time with Caesar, they determined to venture back, and ascertain this important fact, and, if possible, learn what had been the fate of the peddler. Much time was spent in cautiously approaching the dreaded spot; and as the spinster had sagaciously placed herself in the line of the retreat of the Skinners, every stone was examined in the progress in search of abandoned gold. But although the suddenness of the alarm and the cry of Caesar had impelled the freebooters to so hasty a retreat, they grasped the hoard with a hold that death itself would not have loosened. Perceiving everything to be quiet within, Katy at length mustered resolution to enter the dwelling, where she found the peddler, with a heavy heart, performing the last sad offices for the dead. A few words sufficed to explain to Katy the nature of her mistake; but Caesar continued to his dying day to astonish the sable inmates of the kitchen with learned dissertations on spooks, and to relate how direful was the appearance of that of Johnny Birch.

The danger compelled the peddler to abridge even the short period that American custom leaves the deceased with us; and, aided by the black and Katy, his painful task was soon ended. Caesar volunteered to walk a couple of miles with orders to a carpenter; and, the body being habited in its ordinary attire, was left, with a sheet thrown decently over it, to await the return of the messenger.

The Skinners had fled precipitately to the wood, which was but a short distance from the house of Birch, and once safely sheltered within its shades, they halted, and mustered their panic-stricken forces.

“What in the name of fury seized your coward hearts?” cried their dissatisfied leader, drawing his breath heavily.

“The same question might be asked of yourself,” returned one of the band, sullenly.

“From your fright, I thought a party of De Lancey’s men were upon us.
Oh! you are brave gentlemen at a race!”

“We follow our captain.”

“Then follow me back, and let us secure the scoundrel, and receive the reward.”

“Yes; and by the time we reach the house, that black rascal will have the mad Virginian upon us. By my soul I would rather meet fifty Cowboys than that single man.”

“Fool,” cried the enraged leader, “don’t you know Dunwoodie’s horse are at the Corners, full two miles from here?”

“I care not where the dragoons are, but I will swear that I saw Captain Lawton enter the house of old Wharton, while I lay watching an opportunity of getting the British colonel’s horse from the stable.”

“And if he should come, won’t a bullet silence a dragoon from the South as well as from old England?”

“Aye, but I don’t choose a hornet’s nest about my ears; rase the skin of one of that corps, and you will never see another peaceable night’s foraging again.”

“Well,” muttered the leader, as they retired deeper into the wood, “this sottish peddler will stay to see the old devil buried; and though we cannot touch him at the funeral (for that would raise every old woman and priest in America against us), he’ll wait to look after the movables, and to-morrow night shall wind up his concerns.”

With this threat they withdrew to one of their usual places of resort, until darkness should again give them an opportunity of marauding on the community without danger of detection.

CHAPTER XI

O wo! O woful, woful, woful day!
Most lamentable day; most woful day,
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this;
O woful day! O woful day!
— SHAKESPEARE.

The family at the Locusts had slept, or watched, through all the disturbances at the cottage of Birch, in perfect ignorance of their occurrence. The attacks of the Skinners were always made with so much privacy as to exclude the sufferers, not only from succor, but frequently, through a dread of future depredations, from the commiseration of their neighbors also. Additional duties had drawn the ladies from their pillows at an hour somewhat earlier than usual; and Captain Lawton, notwithstanding the sufferings of his body, had risen in compliance with a rule from which he never departed, of sleeping but six hours at a time. This was one of the few points, in which the care of the human frame was involved, on which the trooper and the surgeon of horse were ever known to agree. The doctor had watched, during the night, by the side of the bed of Captain Singleton, without once closing his eyes. Occasionally he would pay a visit to the wounded Englishman, who, being more hurt in the spirit than in the flesh, tolerated the interruptions with a very ill grace; and once, for an instant, he ventured to steal softly to the bed of his obstinate comrade, and was near succeeding in obtaining a touch of his pulse, when a terrible oath, sworn by the trooper in a dream, startled the prudent surgeon, and warned him of a trite saying in the corps, “that Captain Lawton always slept with one eye open.” This group had assembled in one of the parlors as the sun made its appearance over the eastern hill, dispersing the columns of fog which had enveloped the lowland.

Miss Peyton was looking from a window in the direction of the tenement of the peddler, and was expressing a kind anxiety after the welfare of the sick man, when the person of Katy suddenly emerged from the dense covering of an earthly cloud, whose mists were scattering before the cheering rays of the sun, and was seen making hasty steps towards the Locusts. There was that in the air of the housekeeper which bespoke distress of an unusual nature, and the kind-hearted mistress of the Locusts opened the door of the room, with the benevolent intention of soothing a grief that seemed so overwhelming. A nearer view of the disturbed features of the visitor confirmed Miss Peyton in her belief; and, with the shock that gentle feelings ever experience at a sudden and endless separation from even the meanest of their associates, she said hastily, —

“Katy, is he gone?”

“No, ma’am,” replied the disturbed damsel, with great bitterness, “he is not yet gone, but he may go as soon as he pleases now, for the worst is done. I do verily believe, Miss Peyton, they haven’t so much as left him money enough to buy him another suit of clothes to cover his nakedness, and those he has on are none of the best, I can tell you.”

“How!” exclaimed the other, astonished, “could anyone have the heart to plunder a man in such distress?”

“Hearts,” repeated Katy, catching her breath. “Men like them have no bowels” at all. Plunder and distress, indeed! Why, ma’am, there were in the iron pot, in plain sight, fifty-four guineas of gold, besides what lay underneath, which I couldn’t count without handling; and I didn’t like to touch it, for they say that another’s gold is apt to stick — so, judging from that in sight, there wasn’t less than two hundred guineas, besides what might have been in the deerskin purse. But Harvey is little better now than a beggar; and a beggar, Miss Jeanette, is the most awfully despisable of all earthly creatures.”

“Poverty is to be pitied, and not despised,” said the lady, still unable to comprehend the extent of the misfortune that had befallen her neighbor during the night. “But how is the old man? And does this loss affect him much?”

The countenance of Katy changed, from the natural expression of concern, to the set form of melancholy, as she answered, —

“He is happily removed from the cares of the world; the chinking of the money made him get out of his bed, and the poor soul found the shock too great for him. He died about two hours and ten minutes before the cock crowed, as near as we can say.” She was interrupted by the physician, who, approaching, inquired, with much interest, the nature of the disorder. Glancing her eye over the figure of this new acquaintance, Katy instinctively adjusting her dress, replied, —

“’Twas the troubles of the times, and the loss of property, that brought him down; he wasted from day to day, and all my care and anxiety were lost; for now Harvey is no better than a beggar, and who is there to pay me for what I have done?”

“God will reward you for all the good you have done,” said Miss Peyton, mildly.

“Yes,” interrupted the spinster hastily, and with an air of reverence that was instantly succeeded by an expression that denoted more of worldly care; “but then I have left my wages for three years past in the hands of Harvey, and how am I to get them? My brothers told me, again and again, to ask for my money; but I always thought accounts between relations were easily settled.”

“Were you related, then, to Birch?” asked Miss Peyton, observing her to pause.

“Why,” returned the housekeeper, hesitating a little, “I thought we were as good as so. I wonder if I have no claim on the house and garden; though they say, now it is Harvey’s, it will surely be confiscated.” Turning to Lawton, who had been sitting in one posture, with his piercing eyes lowering at her through his thick brows, in silence, “Perhaps this gentleman knows — he seems to take an interest in my story.”

“Madam,” said the trooper, bowing very low, “both you and the tale are extremely interesting” — Katy smiled involuntarily— “but my humble knowledge is limited to the setting of a squadron in the field, and using it when there. I beg leave to refer you to Dr. Archibald Sitgreaves, a gentleman of universal attainments and unbounded philanthropy; the very milk of human sympathies, and a mortal foe to all indiscriminate cutting.”

The surgeon drew up, and employed himself in whistling a low air, as he looked over some phials on a table; but the housekeeper, turning to him with an inclination of the head, continued, —

“I suppose, sir, a woman has no dower in her husband’s property, unless they be actually married.”

It was a maxim with Dr. Sitgreaves, that no species of knowledge was to be despised; and, consequently, he was an empiric in everything but his profession. At first, indignation at the irony of his comrade kept him silent; but, suddenly changing his purpose, he answered the applicant with a good-natured smile, —

“I judge not. If death has anticipated your nuptials, I am fearful you have no remedy against his stern decrees.”

To Katy this sounded well, although she understood nothing of its meaning, but “death” and “nuptials.” To this part of his speech, then, she directed her reply.

“I did think he only waited the death of the old gentleman before he married,” said the housekeeper, looking on the carpet. “But now he is nothing more than despisable, or, what’s the same thing, a peddler without house, pack, or money. It might be hard for a man to get a wife at all in such a predicary — don’t you think it would, Miss Peyton?”

“I seldom trouble myself with such things,” said the lady gravely.

During this dialogue Captain Lawton had been studying the countenance and manner of the housekeeper, with a most ludicrous gravity; and, fearful the conversation would cease, he inquired, with an appearance of great interest, —

“You think it was age and debility that removed the old gentleman at last?”

“And the troublesome times. Trouble is a heavy pull down to a sick bed; but I suppose his time had come, and when that happens, it matters but little what doctor’s stuff we take.”

“Let me set you right in that particular,” interrupted the surgeon. “We must all die, it is true, but it is permitted us to use the lights of science, in arresting dangers as they occur, until— “

“We can die secundem artem,” cried the trooper.

To this observation the physician did not deign to reply; but, deeming it necessary to his professional dignity that the conversation should continue, he added, —

“Perhaps, in this instance, judicious treatment might have prolonged the life of the patient. Who administered to the case?”

“No one yet,” said the housekeeper, with quickness. “I expect he has made his last will and testament.”

The surgeon disregarded the smile of the ladies, and pursued his inquiries.

“It is doubtless wise to be prepared for death. But under whose care was the sick man during his indisposition?”

“Under mine,” answered Katy, with an air of a little importance. “And care thrown away I may well call it; for Harvey is quite too despisable to be any sort of compensation at present.”

The mutual ignorance of each other’s meaning made very little interruption to the dialogue, for both took a good deal for granted, and Sitgreaves pursued the subject.

“And how did you treat him?”

“Kindly, you may be certain,” said Katy, rather tartly.

“The doctor means medically, madam,” observed Captain Lawton, with a face that would have honored the funeral of the deceased.

“I doctored him mostly with yarbs,” said the housekeeper, smiling, as if conscious of error.

“With simples,” returned the surgeon. “They are safer in the hands of the unlettered than more powerful remedies; but why had you no regular attendant?”

“I’m sure Harvey has suffered enough already from having so much concerns with the rig’lars,” replied the housekeeper. “He has lost his all, and made himself a vagabond through the land; and I have reason to rue the day I ever crossed the threshold of his house.”

“Dr. Sitgreaves does not mean a rig’lar soldier, but a regular physician, madam,” said the trooper.

“Oh!” cried the maiden, again correcting herself, “for the best of all reasons; there was none to be had, so I took care of him myself. If there had been a doctor at hand, I am sure we would gladly have had him; for my part, I am clear for doctoring, though Harvey says I am killing myself with medicines; but I am sure it will make but little difference to him, whether I live or die.”

“Therein you show your sense,” said the surgeon, approaching the spinster, who sat holding the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet to the genial heat of a fine fire, making the most of comfort amid all her troubles. “You appear to be a sensible, discreet woman, and some who have had opportunities of acquiring more correct views might envy you your respect for knowledge and the lights of science.”

Although the housekeeper did not altogether comprehend the other’s meaning, she knew he used a compliment, and as such was highly pleased with what he said. With increased animation, therefore, she cried, “It was always said of me, that I wanted nothing but opportunity to make quite a physician myself; so long as before I came to live with Harvey’s father, they called me the petticoat doctor.”

“More true than civil, I dare say,” returned the surgeon, losing sight of the woman’s character in his admiration of her respect for the healing art. “In the absence of more enlightened counselors, the experience of a discreet matron is frequently of great efficacy in checking the progress of disease; under such circumstances, madam, it is dreadful to have to contend with ignorance and obstinacy.”

“Bad enough, as I well know from experience,” cried Katy, in triumph. “Harvey is as obstinate about such things as a dumb beast; one would think the care I took of his bedridden father might learn him better than to despise good nursing. But some day he may know what it is to want a careful woman in his house, though now I am sure he is too despisable himself to have a house.”

“Indeed, I can easily comprehend the mortification you must have felt in having one so self-willed to deal with,” returned the surgeon, glancing his eyes reproachfully at his comrade. “But you should rise superior to such opinions, and pity the ignorance by which they are engendered.”

The housekeeper hesitated a moment, at a loss to comprehend all that the surgeon expressed, yet she felt it was both complimentary and kind; therefore, suppressing her natural flow of language a little, she replied, —

“I tell Harvey his conduct is often condemnable, and last night he made my words good; but the opinions of such unbelievers is not very consequential; yet it is dreadful to think how he behaves at times: now, when he threw away the needle— “

“What!” said the surgeon, interrupting her, “does he affect to despise the needle? But it is my lot to meet with men, daily, who are equally perverse, and who show a still more culpable disrespect for the information that flows from the lights of science.”

The doctor turned his face towards Captain Lawton while speaking, but the elevation of the head prevented his eyes from resting on the grave countenance maintained by the trooper. Katy listened with admiring attention, and when the other had done, she added, —

“Then Harvey is a disbeliever in the tides.”

“Not believe in the tides!” repeated the healer of bodies in astonishment. “Does the man distrust his senses? But perhaps it is the influence of the moon that he doubts.”

“That he does!” exclaimed Katy, shaking with delight at meeting with a man of learning, who could support her opinions. “If you was to hear him talk, you would think he didn’t believe there was such a thing as a moon at all.”

“It is the misfortune of ignorance and incredulity, madam, that they feed themselves. The mind, once rejecting useful information, insensibly leans to superstition and conclusions on the order of nature, that are not less prejudicial to the cause of truth, than they are at variance with the first principles of human knowledge.”

The spinster was too much awe-struck to venture an undigested reply to this speech; and the surgeon, after pausing a moment in a kind of philosophical disdain, continued, —

“That any man in his senses can doubt of the flux of the tides is more than I could have thought possible; yet obstinacy is a dangerous inmate to harbor, and may lead us into any error, however gross.”

“You think, then, they have an effect on the flux?” said the housekeeper, inquiringly.

Miss Peyton rose and beckoned her nieces to give her their assistance in the adjoining pantry, while for a moment the dark visage of the attentive Lawton was lighted by an animation that vanished by an effort, as powerful and as sudden, as the one that drew it into being.

After reflecting whether he rightly understood the meaning of the other, the surgeon, making due allowance for the love of learning, acting upon a want of education, replied, —

“The moon, you mean; many philosophers have doubted how far it affects the tides; but I think it is willfully rejecting the lights of science not to believe it causes both the flux and reflux.”

As reflux was a disorder with which Katy was not acquainted, she thought it prudent to be silent; yet burning with curiosity to know the meaning of certain portentous lights to which the other so often alluded, she ventured to ask, —

“If them lights he spoke of were what was called northern lights in these parts?”

In charity to her ignorance, the surgeon would have entered into an elaborate explanation of his meaning, had he not been interrupted by the mirth of Lawton. The trooper had listened so far with great composure; but now he laughed until his aching bones reminded him of his fall, and the tears rolled over his cheeks in larger drops than had ever been seen there before. At length the offended physician seized an opportunity of a pause to say, —

“To you, Captain Lawton, it may be a source of triumph, that an uneducated woman should make a mistake in a subject on which men of science have long been at variance; but yet you find this respectable matron does not reject the lights — does not reject the use of proper instruments in repairing injuries sustained by the human frame. You may possibly remember, sir, her allusion to the use of the needle.”

“Aye,” cried the delighted trooper, “to mend the peddler’s breeches.”

Katy drew up in evident displeasure, and prompt to vindicate her character for more lofty acquirements, she said, —

“’Twas not a common use that I put that needle to — but one of much greater virtue.”

“Explain yourself, madam,” said the surgeon impatiently, “that this gentleman may see how little reason he has for exultation.”

Thus solicited, Katy paused to collect sufficient eloquence to garnish her narrative. The substance of her tale was, that a child who had been placed by the guardians of the poor in the keeping of Harvey, had, in the absence of its master, injured itself badly in the foot by a large needle. The offending instrument had been carefully greased, wrapped in woolen, and placed in a certain charmed nook of the chimney; while the foot, from a fear of weakening the incantation, was left in a state of nature. The arrival of the peddler had altered the whole of this admirable treatment; and the consequences were expressed by Katy, as she concluded her narrative, by saying, —

“’Twas no wonder the boy died of a lockjaw!”

Doctor Sitgreaves looked out of the window in admiration of the brilliant morning, striving all he could to avoid the basilisk’s eyes of his comrade. He was impelled, by a feeling that he could not conquer, however, to look Captain Lawton in the face. The trooper had arranged every muscle of his countenance to express sympathy for the fate of the poor child; but the exultation of his eyes cut the astounded man of science to the quick; he muttered something concerning the condition of his patients, and retreated with precipitation.

Miss Peyton entered into the situation of things at the house of the peddler, with all the interest of her excellent feelings; she listened patiently while Katy recounted, more particularly, the circumstances of the past night as they had occurred. The spinster did not forget to dwell on the magnitude of the pecuniary loss sustained by Harvey, and in no manner spared her invectives, at his betraying a secret which might so easily have been kept.

“For, Miss Peyton,” continued the housekeeper, after a pause to take breath, “I would have given up life before I would have given up that secret. At the most, they could only have killed him, and now a body may say that they have slain both soul and body; or, what’s the same thing, they have made him a despisable vagabond. I wonder who he thinks would be his wife, or who would keep his house, For my part, my good name is too precious to be living with a lone man; though, for the matter of that, he is never there. I am resolved to tell him this day, that stay there a single woman, I will not an hour after the funeral; and marry him I don’t think I will, unless he becomes steadier and more of a home body.”

The mild mistress of the Locusts suffered the exuberance of the housekeeper’s feelings to expend itself, and then, by one or two judicious questions, that denoted a more intimate knowledge of the windings of the human heart in matters of Cupid than might fairly be supposed to belong to a spinster, she extracted enough from Katy to discover the improbability of Harvey’s ever presuming to offer himself, with his broken fortunes, to the acceptance of Katharine Haynes. She therefore mentioned her own want of assistance in the present state of her household, and expressed a wish that Katy would change her residence to the Locusts, in case the peddler had no further use for her services. After a few preliminary conditions on the part of the wary housekeeper, the arrangement was concluded; and making a few more piteous lamentations on the weight of her own losses and the stupidity of Harvey, united with some curiosity to know the future fate of the peddler, Katy withdrew to make the necessary preparations for the approaching funeral, which was to take place that day.

During the interview between the two females, Lawton, through delicacy, had withdrawn. Anxiety took him to the room of Captain Singleton. The character of this youth, it has already been shown, endeared him in a peculiar manner to every officer in the corps. The singularly mild deportment of the young dragoon had on so many occasions been proved not to proceed from want of resolution that his almost feminine softness of manner and appearance had failed to bring him into disrepute, even in that band of partisan warriors.

To the major he was as dear as a brother, and his easy submission to the directions of his surgeon had made him a marked favorite with Dr. Sitgreaves. The rough usage the corps often received in its daring attacks had brought each of its officers, in succession, under the temporary keeping of the surgeon. To Captain Singleton the man of science had decreed the palm of docility, on such occasions, and Captain Lawton he had fairly blackballed. He frequently declared, with unconquerable simplicity and earnestness of manner, that it gave him more pleasure to see the former brought in wounded than any officer in the squadron, and that the latter afforded him the least; a compliment and condemnation that were usually received by the first of the parties with a quiet smile of good nature, and by the last with a grave bow of thanks. On the present occasion, the mortified surgeon and exulting trooper met in the room of Captain Singleton, as a place where they could act on common ground. Some time was occupied in joint attentions to the comfort of the wounded officer, and the doctor retired to an apartment prepared for his own accommodation; here, within a few minutes, he was surprised by the entrance of Lawton. The triumph of the trooper had been so complete, that he felt he could afford to be generous, and commencing by voluntarily throwing aside his coat, he cried carelessly, —

“Sitgreaves, administer a little of the aid of the lights of science to my body, if you please.”

The surgeon was beginning to feel this was a subject that was intolerable, but venturing a glance towards his comrade, he saw with surprise the preparations he had made, and an air of sincerity about him, that was unusual to his manner when making such a request. Changing his intended burst of resentment to a tone of civil inquiry, he said, —

“Does Captain Lawton want anything at my hands?”

“Look for yourself, my dear sir,” said the trooper mildly. “Here seem to be most of the colors of the rainbow, on this shoulder.”

“You have reason for saying so,” said the other, handling the part with great tenderness and consummate skill. “But happily nothing is broken. It is wonderful how well you escaped!”

“I have been a tumbler from my youth, and I am past minding a few falls from a horse; but, Sitgreaves,” he added with affection, and pointing to a scar on his body, “do you remember this bit of work?”

“Perfectly well, Jack; it was bravely obtained, and neatly extracted; but don’t you think I had better apply an oil to these bruises?”

“Certainly,” said Lawton, with unexpected condescension.

“Now, my dear boy,” cried the doctor, exultantly, as he busied himself in applying the remedy to the hurts, “do you not think it would have been better to have done all this last night?”

“Quite probable.”

“Yes, Jack, but if you had let me perform the operation of phlebotomy n when I first saw you, it would have been of infinite service.”

“No phlebotomy,” said the other, positively.

“It is now too late; but a dose of oil would carry off the humors famously.”

To this the captain made no reply, but grated his teeth, in a way that showed the fortress of his mouth was not to be assailed without a resolute resistance; and the experienced physician changed the subject by saying, —

“It is a pity, John, that you did not catch the rascal, after the danger and trouble you incurred.”

The captain of dragoons made no reply; and, while placing some bandages on the wounded shoulder, the surgeon continued, —

“If I have any wish at all to destroy human life, it is to have the pleasure of seeing that traitor hanged.”

“I thought your business was to cure, and not to slay,” said the trooper, dryly.

“Aye! but he has caused us such heavy losses by his information, that I sometimes feel a very unsophistical temper towards that spy.”

“You should not encourage such feelings of animosity to any of your fellow creatures,” returned Lawton, in a tone that caused the operator to drop a pin he was arranging in the bandages from his hand. He looked the patient in the face to remove all doubts of his identity; finding, however, it was his old comrade, Captain John Lawton, who had spoken, he rallied his astonished faculties, and proceeded by saying, —

“Your doctrine is just, and in general I subscribe to it. But, John, my dear fellow, is the bandage easy?”

“Quite.”

“I agree with you as a whole; but as matter is infinitely divisible, so no case exists without an exception. Lawton, do you feel easy?”

“Very.”

“It is not only cruel to the sufferer, but sometimes unjust to others, to take human life where a less punishment would answer the purpose. Now, Jack, if you were only — move your arm a little — if you were only — I hope you feel easier, my dear friend?”

“Much.”

“If, my dear John, you would teach your men to cut with more discretion, it would answer you the same purpose — and give me great pleasure.”

The doctor drew a heavy sigh, as he was enabled to get rid of what was nearest to the heart; and the dragoon coolly replaced his coat, saying with great deliberation as he retired, —

“I know no troop that cut more judiciously; they generally shave from the crown to the jaw.”

The disappointed operator collected his instruments, and with a heavy heart proceeded to pay a visit to the room of Colonel Wellmere.

CHAPTER XII

This fairy form contains a soul as mighty,
As that which lives within a giant’s frame;
These slender limbs, that tremble like the aspen
At summer evening’s sigh, uphold a spirit,
Which, roused, can tower to the height of heaven,
And light those shining windows of the face
With much of heaven’s own radiance.

— Duo.

The number and character of her guests had greatly added to the cares of Miss Jeanette Peyton. The morning found them all restored, in some measure, to their former ease of body, with the exception of the youthful captain of dragoons, who had been so deeply regretted by Dunwoodie. The wound of this officer was severe, though the surgeon persevered in saying that it was without danger. His comrade, we have shown, had deserted his couch; and Henry Wharton awoke from a sleep that had been undisturbed by anything but a dream of suffering amputation under the hands of a surgical novice. As it proved, however, to be nothing but a dream, the youth found himself much refreshed by his slumbers; and Dr. Sitgreaves removed all further apprehensions by confidently pronouncing that he would be a well man within a fortnight.

During all this time Colonel Wellmere did not make his appearance; he breakfasted in his own room, and, notwithstanding certain significant smiles of the man of science, declared himself too much injured to rise from his bed. Leaving him, therefore, endeavoring to conceal his chagrin in the solitude of his chamber, the surgeon proceeded to the more grateful task of sitting an hour by the bedside of George Singleton. A slight flush was on the face of the patient as the doctor entered the room, and the latter advanced promptly and laid his fingers on the pulse of the youth, beckoning to him to be silent, while he muttered, —

“Growing symptoms of a febrile pulse — no, no, my dear George, you must remain quiet and dumb; though your eyes look better, and your skin has even a moisture.”

“Nay, my dear Sitgreaves,” said the youth, taking his hand, “you see there is no fever about me; look, is there any of Jack Lawton’s hoarfrost on my tongue?”

“No, indeed,” said the surgeon, clapping a spoon in the mouth of the other, forcing it open, and looking down his throat as if disposed to visit the interior in person. “The tongue is well, and the pulse begins to lower again. Ah! the bleeding did you good. Phlebotomy is a sovereign specific for southern constitutions. But that madcap Lawton absolutely refused to be blooded for a fall he had from his horse last night. Why, George, your case is becoming singular,” continued the doctor, instinctively throwing aside his wig. “Your pulse even and soft, your skin moist, but your eye fiery, and cheek flushed. Oh! I must examine more closely into these symptoms.”

“Softly, my good friend, softly,” said the youth, falling back on his pillow, and losing some of that color which alarmed his companion. “I believe, in extracting the ball, you did for me all that is required. I am free from pain and only weak, I do assure you.”

“Captain Singleton,” said the surgeon, with heat, “it is presumptuous in you to pretend to tell your medical attendant when you are free from pain. If it be not to enable us to decide in such matters, of what avail the lights of science? For shame, George, for shame! Even that perverse fellow, John Lawton, could not behave with more obstinacy.”

His patient smiled, as he gently repulsed his physician in an attempt to undo the bandages, and with a returning glow to his cheeks, inquired, —

“Do, Archibald,” — a term of endearment that seldom failed to soften the operator’s heart,— “tell me what spirit from heaven has been gliding around my apartment, while I lay pretending to sleep?”

“If anyone interferes with my patients,” cried the doctor, hastily, “I will teach them, spirit or no spirit, what it is to meddle with another man’s concerns.”

“Tut — my dear fellow, there was no interference made, nor any intended. See,” exhibiting the bandages, “everything is as you left it, — but it glided about the room with the grace of a fairy and the tenderness of an angel.”

The surgeon, having satisfied himself that everything was as he had left it, very deliberately resumed his seat and replaced his wig, as he inquired, with a brevity that would have honored Lieutenant Mason, —

“Had it petticoats, George?”

“I saw nothing but its heavenly eyes — its bloom — its majestic step — its grace,” replied the young man, with rather more ardor than his surgeon thought consistent with his debilitated condition; and he laid his hand on his mouth to stop him, saying himself, —

“It must have been Miss Jeanette Peyton — a lady of fine accomplishments, with — hem — with something of the kind of step you speak of — a very complacent eye; and as to the bloom, I dare say offices of charity can summon as fine a color to her cheeks, as glows in the faces of her more youthful nieces.”

“Nieces? Has she nieces, then? The angel I saw may be a daughter, a sister, or a niece, — but never an aunt.”

“Hush, George, hush; your talking has brought your pulse up again. You must observe quiet, and prepare for a meeting with your own sister, who will be here within an hour.”

“What, Isabella! And who sent for her?”

“The major.”

“Considerate Dunwoodie!” murmured the exhausted youth, sinking again on his pillow, where the commands of his attendant compelled him to remain silent.

Even Captain Lawton had been received with many and courteous inquiries after the state of his health, from all the members of the family, when he made his morning entrance; but an invisible spirit presided over the comforts of the English colonel. Sarah had shrunk with consciousness from entering the room; yet she knew the position of every glass, and had, with her own hands, supplied the contents of every bowl, that stood on his table.

At the time of our tale, we were a divided people, and Sarah thought it was no more than her duty to cherish the institutions of that country to which she yet clung as the land of her forefathers; but there were other and more cogent reasons for the silent preference she was giving to the Englishman. His image had first filled the void in her youthful fancy, and it was an image that was distinguished by many of those attractions that can enchain a female heart. It is true, he wanted the personal excellence of Peyton Dunwoodie, but his pretensions were far from contemptible. Sarah had moved about the house during the morning, casting frequent and longing glances at the door of Wellmere’s apartment, anxious to learn the condition of his wounds, and yet ashamed to inquire; conscious interest kept her tongue tied, until her sister, with the frankness of innocence, had put the desired question to Dr. Sitgreaves.

“Colonel Wellmere,” said the operator, gravely, “is in what I call a state of free will, madam. He is ill, or he is well, as he pleases. His case, young lady, exceeds my art to heal; and I take it Sir Henry Clinton is the best adviser he can apply to; though Major Dunwoodie has made the communication with his leech rather difficult.”

Frances smiled, but averted her face, while Sarah moved, with the grace of an offended Juno, from the apartment. Her own room, however, afforded her but little relief, and in passing through the long gallery that communicated with each of the chambers of the building, she noticed the door of Singleton’s room to be open. The wounded youth seemed sleeping, and was alone. She had ventured lightly into the apartment, and busied herself for a few minutes in arranging the tables, and the nourishment provided for the patient, hardly conscious of what she was doing, and possibly dreaming that these little feminine offices were performed for another. Her natural bloom was heightened by the insinuation of the surgeon, nor was the luster of her eye in any degree diminished. The sound of the approaching footsteps of Sitgreaves hastened her retreat down a private stairway, to the side of her sister. The sisters then sought the fresh air on the piazza; and as they pursued their walk, arm in arm, the following dialogue took place: —

“There is something disagreeable about this surgeon of Dunwoodie,” said
Sarah, “that causes me to wish him away most heartily.”

Frances fixed her laughing eyes on her sister; but forbearing to speak, the other readily construed their expression, and hastily added, “But I forget he is one of your renowned corps of Virginians, and must be spoken of reverently.”

“As respectfully as you please, my dear sister; there is but little danger of exceeding the truth.”

“Not in your opinion,” said the elder, with a little warmth. “But I think Mr. Dunwoodie has taken a liberty that exceeds the rights of consanguinity; he has made our father’s house a hospital.”

“We ought to be grateful that none of the patients it contains are dearer to us.”

“Your brother is one.”

“True, true,” interrupted Frances, blushing to the eyes; “but he leaves his room, and thinks his wound lightly purchased by the pleasure of being with his friends. If,” she added, with a tremulous lip, “this dreadful suspicion that is affixed to his visit were removed, I could consider his wound of little moment.”

“You now have the fruits of rebellion brought home to you; a brother wounded and a prisoner, and perhaps a victim; your father distressed, his privacy interrupted, and not improbably his estates torn from him, on account of his loyalty to his king.”

Frances continued her walk in silence. While facing the northern entrance to the vale, her eyes were uniformly fastened on the point where the road was suddenly lost by the intervention of a hill; and at each turn, as she lost sight of the spot, she lingered until an impatient movement of her sister quickened her pace to an even motion with that of her own. At length, a single horse chaise was seen making its way carefully among the stones which lay scattered over the country road that wound through the valley, and approached the cottage. The color of Frances changed as the vehicle gradually drew nearer; and when she was enabled to see a female form in it by the side of a black in livery, her limbs shook with an agitation that compelled her to lean on Sarah for support. In a few minutes the travelers approached the gate. It was thrown open by a dragoon who followed the carriage, and who had been the messenger dispatched by Dunwoodie to the father of Captain Singleton. Miss Peyton advanced to receive their guest, and the sisters united in giving her the kindest welcome; still Frances could with difficulty withdraw her truant eyes from the countenance of their visitor. She was young, and of a light and fragile form, but of exquisite proportions. Her eyes were large, full, black, piercing, and at times a little wild. Her hair was luxuriant, and as it was without the powder it was then the fashion to wear, it fell in raven blackness. A few of its locks had fallen on her cheek, giving its chilling whiteness by the contrast a more deadly character. Dr. Sitgreaves supported her from the chaise; and when she gained the floor of the piazza, she turned an expressive look on the face of the practitioner.

“Your brother is out of danger and wishes to see you, Miss Singleton,” said the surgeon.

The lady burst into a flood of tears. Frances had stood contemplating the action and face of Isabella with a kind of uneasy admiration, but she now sprang to her side with the ardor of a sister, and kindly drawing her arm within her own, led the way to a retired room. The movement was so ingenuous, so considerate, and so delicate, that even Miss Peyton withheld her interference, following the youthful pair with only her eyes and a smile of complacency. The feeling was communicated to all the spectators, and they dispersed in pursuit of their usual avocations. Isabella yielded to the gentle influence of Frances without resistance; and, having gained the room where the latter conducted her, wept in silence on the shoulder of the observant and soothing girl, until Frances thought her tears exceeded the emotion natural to the occasion. The sobs of Miss Singleton for a time were violent and uncontrollable, until, with an evident exertion, she yielded to a kind observation of her companion, and succeeded in suppressing her tears. Raising her face to the eyes of Frances, she rose, while a smile of beautiful radiance passed over her features; and making a hasty apology for the excess of her emotion, she desired to be conducted to the room of the invalid.

The meeting between the brother and sister was warm, but, by an effort on the part of the lady, more composed than her previous agitation had given reason to expect. Isabella found her brother looking better, and in less danger than her sensitive imagination had led her to suppose. Her spirits rose in proportion; from despondency, she passed to something like gayety; her beautiful eyes sparkled with renovated brilliancy; and her face was lighted with smiles so fascinating, that Frances, who, in compliance with her earnest entreaties, had accompanied her to the sick chamber, sat gazing on a countenance that possessed so wonderful variability, impelled by a charm that was beyond her control. The youth had thrown an earnest look at Frances, as soon as his sister raised herself from his arms, and perhaps it was the first glance at the lovely lineaments of our heroine, when the gazer turned his eyes from the view in disappointment. He seemed bewildered, rubbed his forehead like a man awaking from a dream, and mused.

“Where is Dunwoodie, Isabella?” he said. “The excellent fellow is never weary of kind actions. After a day of such service as that of yesterday, he has spent the night in bringing me a nurse, whose presence alone is able to raise me from my couch.”

The expression of the lady’s countenance changed; her eye roved around the apartment with a character of wildness in it that repelled the anxious Frances, who studied her movements with unabated interest.

“Dunwoodie! Is he then not here? I thought to have met him by the side of my brother’s bed.”

“He has duties that require his presence elsewhere; the English are said to be out by the way of the Hudson, and they give us light troops but little rest. Surely nothing else could have kept him so long from a wounded friend. But, Isabella, the meeting has been too much for you; you tremble.”

Isabella made no reply; she stretched her hand towards the table which held the nourishment of the captain, and the attentive Frances comprehended her wishes in a moment. A glass of water in some measure revived the sister, who was enabled to say, —

“Doubtless it is his duty. ’Twas said above, a royal party was moving on the river; though I passed the troops but two miles from this spot.” The latter part of the sentence was hardly audible, and it was spoken more in the manner of a soliloquy, than as if for the ears of her companions.

“On the march, Isabella?” eagerly inquired her brother.

“No, dismounted, and seemingly at rest,” was the reply.

The wondering dragoon turned his gaze on the countenance of his sister, who sat with her eye bent on the carpet in unconscious absence, but found no explanation. His look was changed to the face of Frances, who, startled by the earnestness of his expression, arose, and hastily inquired if he would have any assistance.

“If you can pardon the rudeness,” said the wounded officer, making a feeble effort to raise his body, “I would request to have Captain Lawton’s company for a moment.”

Frances hastened instantly to communicate his wish to that gentleman, and impelled by an interest she could not control, she returned again to her seat by the side of Miss Singleton.

“Lawton,” said the youth, impatiently, as the trooper entered, “hear you from the major?”

The eye of the sister was now bent on the face of the trooper, who made his salutations to the lady with ease, blended with the frankness of a soldier.

“His man has been here twice,” he said, “to inquire how we fared in the lazaretto.”

“And why not himself?”

“That is a question the major can answer best; but you know the redcoats are abroad, and Dunwoodie commands in the county; these English must be looked to.”

“True,” said Singleton, slowly, as if struck with the other’s reasons.
“But how is it that you are idle, when there is work to do?”

“My sword arm is not in the best condition, and Roanoke has but a shambling gait this morning; besides, there is another reason I could mention, if it were not that Miss Wharton would never forgive me.”

“Speak, I beg, without dread of my displeasure,” said Frances, returning the good-humored smile of the trooper, with the archness natural to her own sweet face.

“The odors of your kitchen, then,” cried Lawton bluntly, “forbid my quitting the domains, until I qualify myself to speak with more certainty concerning the fatness of the land.”

“Oh! Aunt Jeanette is exerting herself to do credit to my father’s hospitality,” said the laughing girl, “and I am a truant from her labors, as I shall be a stranger to her favor, unless I proffer my assistance.”

Frances withdrew to seek her aunt, musing deeply on the character and extreme sensibility of the new acquaintance chance had brought to the cottage.

The wounded officer followed her with his eyes, as she moved, with infantile grace, through the door of his apartment, and as she vanished from his view, he observed, —

“Such an aunt and niece are seldom to be met with, Jack; this seems a fairy, but the aunt is angelic.”

“You are doing well, I see; your enthusiasm for the sex holds its own.”

“I should be ungrateful as well as insensible, did I not bear testimony to the loveliness of Miss Peyton.”

“A good motherly lady, but as to love, that is a matter of taste. A few years younger, with deference to her prudence and experience, would accord better with my fancy.”

“She must be under twenty,” said the other, quickly.

“It depends on the way you count. If you begin at the heel of life, well; but if you reckon downward, as is most common, I think she is nearer forty.”

“You have mistaken an elder sister for the aunt,” said Isabella, laying her fair hand on the mouth of the invalid. “You must be silent! Your feelings are beginning to affect your frame.”

The entrance of Dr. Sitgreaves, who, in some alarm, noticed the increase of feverish symptoms in his patient, enforced this mandate; and the trooper withdrew to pay a visit of condolence to Roanoke, who had been an equal sufferer with himself in their last night’s somersault. To his great joy, his man pronounced the steed to be equally convalescent with the master; and Lawton found that by dint of rubbing the animal’s limbs several hours without ceasing, he was enabled to place his feet in what he called systematic motion. Orders were accordingly given to be in readiness to rejoin the troop at the Four Corners, as soon as his master had shared in the bounty of the approaching banquet.

In the meantime, Henry Wharton entered the apartment of Wellmere, and by his sympathy succeeded in restoring the colonel to his own good graces. The latter was consequently enabled to rise, and prepared to meet a rival of whom he had spoken so lightly, and, as the result had proved, with so little reason. Wharton knew that their misfortune, as they both termed their defeat, was owing to the other’s rashness; but he forbore to speak of anything except the unfortunate accident which had deprived the English of their leader, and to which he good-naturedly ascribed their subsequent discomfiture.

“In short, Wharton,” said the colonel, putting one leg out of bed, “it may be called a combination of untoward events; your own ungovernable horse prevented my orders from being carried to the major, in season to flank the rebels.”

“Very true,” replied the captain, kicking a slipper towards the bed. “Had we succeeded in getting a few good fires upon them in flank, we should have sent these brave Virginians to the right about.”

“Aye, and that in double-quick time,” cried the colonel, making the other leg follow its companion. “Then it was necessary to rout the guides, you know, and the movement gave them the best possible opportunity to charge.”

“Yes,” said the other, sending the second slipper after the first, “and this Major Dunwoodie never overlooks an advantage.”

“I think if we had the thing to do over again,” continued the colonel, raising himself on his feet, “we might alter the case very materially, though the chief thing the rebels have now to boast of is my capture; they were repulsed, you saw, in their attempt to drive us from the wood.”

“At least they would have been, had they made an attack,” said the captain, throwing the rest of his clothes within reach of the colonel.

“Why, that is the same thing,” returned Wellmere, beginning to dress himself. “To assume such an attitude as to intimidate your enemy, is the chief art of war.”

“Doubtless, then, you may remember in one of their charges they were completely routed.”

“True — true,” cried the colonel, with animation. “Had I been there to have improved that advantage, we might have turned the table on the Yankees”; saying which he displayed still greater animation in completing his toilet; and he was soon prepared to make his appearance, fully restored to his own good opinion, and fairly persuaded that his capture was owing to casualties absolutely beyond the control of man.

The knowledge that Colonel Wellmere was to be a guest at the table in no degree diminished the preparations which were already making for the banquet; and Sarah, after receiving the compliments of the gentleman, and making many kind inquiries after the state of his wounds, proceeded in person to lend her counsel and taste to one of those labored entertainments, which, at that day, were so frequent in country life, and which are not entirely banished from our domestic economy at the present moment.

CHAPTER XIII

I will stand to and feed,
Although my last.

— Tempest.

The savor of preparation which had been noticed by Captain Lawton began to increase within the walls of the cottage; certain sweet-smelling odors, that arose from the subterranean territories of Caesar, gave to the trooper the most pleasing assurances that his olfactory nerves, which on such occasions were as acute as his eyes on others, had faithfully performed their duty; and for the benefit of enjoying the passing sweets as they arose, the dragoon so placed himself at a window of the building, that not a vapor charged with the spices of the East could exhale on its passage to the clouds, without first giving its incense to his nose. Lawton, however, by no means indulged himself in this comfortable arrangement, without first making such preparations to do meet honor to the feast, as his scanty wardrobe would allow. The uniform of his corps was always a passport to the best tables, and this, though somewhat tarnished by faithful service and unceremonious usage, was properly brushed and decked out for the occasion. His head, which nature had ornamented with the blackness of a crow, now shone with the whiteness of snow; and his bony hand, that so well became the saber, peered from beneath a ruffle with something like maiden coyness. The improvements of the dragoon went no further, excepting that his boots shone with more than holiday splendor, and his spurs glittered in the rays of the sun, as became the pure ore of which they were composed.

Caesar moved through the apartments with a face charged with an importance exceeding even that which had accompanied him in his melancholy task of the morning. The black had early returned from the errand on which he had been dispatched by the peddler, and, obedient to the commands of his mistress, promptly appeared to give his services where his allegiance was due; so serious, indeed, was his duty now becoming, that it was only at odd moments he was enabled to impart to his sable brother, who had been sent in attendance on Miss Singleton to the Locusts, any portion of the wonderful incidents of the momentous night he had so lately passed. By ingeniously using, however, such occasions as accidentally offered, Caesar communicated so many of the heads of his tale, as served to open the eyes of his visitor to their fullest width. The gusto for the marvelous was innate in these sable worthies; and Miss Peyton found it necessary to interpose her authority, in order to postpone the residue of the history to a more befitting opportunity.

“Ah! Miss Jinnett,” said Caesar, shaking his head, and looking all that he expressed, “’twas awful to see Johnny Birch walk on a feet when he lie dead!”

This concluded the conversation; though the black promised himself the satisfaction, and did not fail to enjoy it, of having many a gossip on the subject at a future period.

The ghost thus happily laid, the department of Miss Peyton flourished; and by the time the afternoon’s sun had traveled a two hours’ journey from the meridian, the formal procession from the kitchen to the parlor commenced, under the auspices of Caesar, who led the van, supporting a turkey on the palms of his withered hands, with the dexterity of a balance master.

Next followed the servant of Captain Lawton, bearing, as he marched stiffly, and walking wide, as if allowing room for his steed, a ham of true Virginian flavor; a present from the spinster’s brother in Accomac. The supporter of this savory dish kept his eye on his trust with military precision; and by the time he reached his destination, it might be difficult to say which contained the most juice, his own mouth or the Accomac bacon.

Third in the line was to be seen the valet of Colonel Wellmere, who carried in either hand chickens fricasseed and oyster patties.

After him marched the attendant of Dr. Sitgreaves, who had instinctively seized an enormous tureen, as most resembling matters he understood, and followed on in place, until the steams of the soup so completely bedimmed the spectacles he wore, as a badge of office, that, on arriving at the scene of action, he was compelled to deposit his freight on the floor, until, by removing the glasses, he could see his way through the piles of reserved china and plate warmers.

Next followed another trooper, whose duty it was to attend on Captain Singleton; and, as if apportioning his appetite to the feeble state of his master, he had contented himself with conveying a pair of ducks, roasted, until their tempting fragrance began to make him repent his having so lately demolished a breakfast that had been provided for his master’s sister, with another prepared for himself.

The white boy, who belonged to the house, brought up the rear, groaning under a load of sundry dishes of vegetables, that the cook, by way of climax, had unwittingly heaped on him.

But this was far from all of the preparations for that day’s feast; Caesar had no sooner deposited his bird, which, but the week before, had been flying amongst the highlands of Dutchess, little dreaming of so soon heading such a goodly assemblage, than he turned mechanically on his heel, and took up his line of march again for the kitchen. In this evolution the black was imitated by his companions in succession, and another procession to the parlor followed in the same order. By this admirable arrangement, whole flocks of pigeons, certain bevies of quails, shoals of flatfish, bass, and sundry woodcock, found their way into the presence of the company.

A third attack brought suitable quantities of potatoes, onions, beets, coldslaw, rice, and all the other minutiae of a goodly dinner.

The board now fairly groaned with American profusion, and Caesar, glancing his eye over the show with a most approving conscience, after readjusting every dish that had not been placed on the table with his own hands, proceeded to acquaint the mistress of the revels that his task was happily accomplished.

Some half hour before the culinary array just recorded took place, all the ladies disappeared, much in the same unaccountable manner that swallows flee the approach of winter. But the springtime of their return had arrived, and the whole party were collected in an apartment that, in consequence of its containing no side table, and being furnished with a chintz coverlet settee, was termed a withdrawing-room.

The kind-hearted spinster had deemed the occasion worthy, not only of extraordinary preparations in the culinary department, but had seen proper to deck her own person in garments suited to the guests whom it was now her happiness to entertain.

On her head Miss Peyton wore a cap of exquisite lawn, which was ornamented in front with a broad border of lace, that spread from the face in such a manner as to admit of a display of artificial flowers, clustered in a group on the summit of her fine forehead.

The color of her hair was lost in the profusion of powder with which it was covered; but a slight curling of the extremities in some degree relieved the formality of its arrangement, and gave a look of feminine softness to the features.

Her dress was a rich, heavy silk, of violet color, cut low around the bust, with a stomacher of the same material, that fitted close to the figure, and exhibited the form, from the shoulders to the waist in its true proportions. Below, the dress was full, and sufficiently showed that parsimony in attire was not a foible of the day. A small loop displayed the beauty of the fabric to advantage, and aided in giving majesty to the figure.

The tall stature of the lady was heightened by shoes of the same material with the dress, whose heels added more than an inch to the liberality of nature.

The sleeves were short, and close to the limb, until they fell off at the elbows in large ruffles, that hung in rich profusion from the arm when extended; and duplicates and triplicates of lawn, trimmed with Dresden lace, lent their aid in giving delicacy to a hand and arm that yet retained their whiteness and symmetry. A treble row of large pearls closely encircled her throat; and a handkerchief of lace partially concealed that part of the person that the silk had left exposed, but which the experience of forty years had warned Miss Peyton should now be veiled.

Thus attired, and standing erect with the lofty grace that distinguished the manners of that day, the maiden would have looked into nothingness a bevy of modern belles.

The taste of Sarah had kept even pace with the decorations of her aunt; and a dress, differing in no respect from the one just described, but in material and tints, exhibited her imposing form to equal advantage. The satin of her robe was of a pale bluish color. Twenty years did not, however, require the screen that was prudent in forty, and nothing but an envious border of exquisite lace hid, in some measure, what the satin left exposed to view. The upper part of the bust, and the fine fall of the shoulders, were blazing in all their native beauty, and, like the aunt, the throat was ornamented by a treble row of pearls, to correspond with which were rings of the same quality in the ears. The head was without a cap, and the hair drawn up from the countenance so as to give to the eye all the loveliness of a forehead as polished as marble and as white as snow. A few straggling curls fell gracefully on the neck, and a bouquet of artificial flowers was also placed, like a coronet, over her brow.

Miss Singleton had resigned her brother to the advice of Dr. Sitgreaves, who had succeeded in getting his patient into a deep sleep after quieting certain feverish symptoms that followed the agitation of the interview. The sister was persuaded, by the observant mistress of the mansion, to make one of the party, and she sat by the side of Sarah, differing but little in appearance from that lady, except in refusing the use of powder on her raven locks, and that her unusually high forehead and large, brilliant eyes gave an expression of thoughtfulness to her features, that was possibly heightened by the paleness of her cheek.

Last and least, but not the most unlovely, in this display of female charms, was the youngest daughter of Mr. Wharton. Frances, we have already mentioned, left the city before she had attained to the age of fashionable womanhood. A few adventurous spirits were already beginning to make inroads in those customs which had so long invaded the comforts of the fair sex; and the youthful girl had ventured to trust her beauty to the height which nature had bestowed. This was but little, but that little was a masterpiece. Frances several times had determined, in the course of the morning, to bestow more than usual pains in the decoration of her person. Each time in succession, as she formed this resolution, she spent a few minutes in looking earnestly towards the north, and then she as invariably changed it.

At the appointed hour, our heroine appeared in the drawing-room, clothed in a robe of pale blue silk, of a cut and fashion much like that worn by her sister. Her hair was left to the wild curls of nature, its exuberance being confined to the crown of her head by a long, low comb, made of light tortoise shell; a color barely distinguishable in the golden hue of her tresses. Her dress was without a plait or a wrinkle, and fitted the form with an exactitude that might lead one to imagine the arch girl more than suspected the beauties it displayed. A tucker of rich Dresden lace softened the contour of the figure. Her head was without ornament; but around her throat was a necklace of gold clasped in front with a rich cornelian.

Once, and once only, as they moved towards the repast, did Lawton see a foot thrust itself from beneath the folds of her robe, and exhibit its little beauties encased in a slipper of blue silk, clasped close to the shape by a buckle of brilliants. The trooper caught himself sighing as he thought, though it was good for nothing in the stirrup, how enchantingly it would grace a minuet.

As the black appeared on the threshold of the room, making a low reverence, which has been interpreted for some centuries into “dinner waits,” Mr. Wharton, clad in a dress of drab, bedecked with enormous buttons, advanced formally to Miss Singleton, and bending his powdered head nearly to the level of the hand he extended, received hers in return.

Dr. Sitgreaves offered the same homage to Miss Peyton, and met with equal favor; the lady first pausing to draw on her gloves.

Colonel Wellmere was honored with a smile from Sarah, while performing a similar duty; and Frances gave the ends of her taper fingers to Captain Lawton with maiden bashfulness.

Much time, and some trouble were expended before the whole party were, to the great joy of Caesar, comfortably arranged around the table, with proper attention to all points of etiquette and precedence. The black well knew the viands were not improving; and though abundantly able to comprehend the disadvantage of eating a cold dinner, it greatly exceeded his powers of philosophy to weigh all the latent consequences to society which depend on social order.

For the first ten minutes all but the captain of dragoons found themselves in a situation much to their liking. Even Lawton would have been perfectly happy, had not excess of civility on the part of his host and Miss Jeanette Peyton kept him from the more agreeable occupation of tasting dishes he did want, in order to decline those he did not. At length, however, the repast was fairly commenced, and a devoted application to the viands was more eloquent than a thousand words in favor of Dinah’s skill.

Next came drinking with the ladies; but as the wine was excellent, and the glasses ample, the trooper bore this interruption with consummate good nature. Nay, so fearful was he of giving offense, and of omitting any of the nicer points of punctilio, that having commenced this courtesy with the lady who sat next him, he persevered until not one of his fair companions could, with justice, reproach him with partiality in this particular.

Long abstemiousness from anything like generous wine might plead the excuse of Captain Lawton, especially when exposed to so strong a temptation as that now before him. Mr. Wharton had been one of a set of politicians in New York, whose principal exploits before the war had been to assemble, and pass sage opinions on the signs of the times, under the inspiration of certain liquor made from a grape that grew on the south side of the island of Madeira, and which found its way into the colonies of North America through the medium of the West Indies, sojourning awhile in the Western Archipelago, by way of proving the virtues of the climate. A large supply of this cordial had been drawn from his storehouse in the city, and some of it now sparkled in a bottle before the captain, blushing in the rays of the sun, which were passing obliquely through it, like amber.

Though the meat and vegetables had made their entrance with perfect order and propriety, their exeunt was effected much in the manner of a retreat of militia. The point was to clear the board something after the fabled practice of the harpies, and by dint of scrambling, tossing, breaking, and spilling, the remnants of the overflowing repast disappeared. And now another series of processions commenced, by virtue of which a goodly display of pastry, with its usual accompaniments, garnished the table.

Mr. Wharton poured out a glass of wine for the lady who sat on his right hand, and, pushing the bottle to a guest, said with a low bow, —

“We are to be honored with a toast from Miss Singleton.”

Although there was nothing more in this movement than occurred every day on such occasions, yet the lady trembled, colored, and grew pale again, seemingly endeavoring to rally her thoughts, until, by her agitation, she had excited the interest of the whole party; when by an effort, and in a manner as if she had striven in vain to think of another, Isabella said, faintly, —

“Major Dunwoodie.”

The health was drunk cheerfully by all but Colonel Wellmere, who wet his lips, and drew figures on the table with some of the liquor he had spilled.

At length Colonel Wellmere broke silence by saying aloud to Captain
Lawton, —

“I suppose, sir, this Mr. Dunwoodie will receive promotion in the rebel army, for the advantage my misfortune gave him over my command.”

The trooper had supplied the wants of nature to his perfect satisfaction; and, perhaps, with the exception of Washington and his immediate commander, there was no mortal whose displeasure he regarded a tittle. First helping himself, therefore, to a little of his favorite bottle, he replied with admirable coolness, —

“Colonel Wellmere, your pardon; Major Dunwoodie owes his allegiance to the confederated states of North America, and where he owes it he pays it. Such a man is no rebel. Promoted I hope he may be, both because he deserves it, and because I am next in rank in the corps; and I know not what you call a misfortune, unless you deem meeting the Virginia horse as such.”

“We will not differ about terms, sir,” said the colonel, haughtily. “I spoke as duty to my sovereign prompted; but do you not call the loss of a commander a misfortune to a party?”

“It certainly may be so,” said the trooper, with emphasis.

“Miss Peyton, will you favor us with a toast?” cried the master of the house, anxious to stop this dialogue.

The lady bowed her head with dignity, as she named “General Montrose”; and the long-absent bloom stole lightly over her features.

“There is no term more doubtful than that word misfortune,” said the surgeon, regardless of the nice maneuvers of the host. “Some deem one thing a misfortune, others its opposite; misfortune begets misfortune. Life is a misfortune, for it may be the means of enduring misfortune; and death is a misfortune, as it abridges the enjoyments of life.”

“It is a misfortune that our mess has no such wine as this,” interrupted the trooper.

“We will pledge you a sentiment in it, sir, as it seems to suit your taste,” said Mr. Wharton.

Lawton filled to the brim, and drank, “A speedy peace, or a stirring war.”

“I drink your toast, Captain Lawton, though I greatly distrust your construction of activity,” said the surgeon. “In my poor judgment, cavalry should be kept in the rear to improve a victory, and not sent in front to gain it. Such may be said to be their natural occupation, if the term can be used in reference to so artificial a body; for all history shows that the horse have done most when held in reserve.”

This dissertation, uttered in a sufficiently didactic manner, was a hint that Miss Peyton did not neglect. She arose and retired, followed by her juniors.

Nearly at the same moment, Mr. Wharton and his son made an apology for their absence, which was required on account of the death of a near neighbor, and withdrew.

The retreat of the ladies was the signal for the appearance of the surgeon’s cigar, which, being established in a corner of his mouth, in a certain knowing way, caused not the slightest interruption to his discourse.

“If anything can sweeten captivity and wounds, it must be the happiness of suffering in the society of the ladies who have left us,” gallantly observed the colonel, as he resumed his seat after closing the door.

“Sympathy and kindness have their influence on the human system,” returned the surgeon, knocking the ashes from his cigar, with the tip of a little finger, in the manner of an adept. “The connection is intimate between the moral and physical feelings; but still, to accomplish a cure, and restore nature to the healthy tone it has lost from disease or accident, requires more than can flow from unguided sympathies. In such cases, the lights— “ the surgeon accidentally caught the eye of the trooper and he paused. Taking two or three hasty puffs, he essayed to finish the sentence, “In such cases, the knowledge that flows from the lights— “

“You were saying, sir,” said Colonel Wellmere, sipping his wine, —

“The purport of my remark went to say,” continued Sitgreaves, turning his back on Lawton, “that a bread poultice would not set a broken arm.”

“More is the pity,” cried the trooper, “for next to eating, the nourishment could not be more innocently applied.”

“To you, Colonel Wellmere,” said the surgeon, “as a man of education, I can with safety appeal.” The colonel bowed. “You must have observed the dreadful havoc made in your ranks by the men who were led by this gentleman”; the colonel looked grave, again; “how, when blows lighted on their frames, life was invariably extinguished, beyond all hope of scientific reparation; how certain yawning wounds were inflicted, that must set at defiance the art of the most experienced practitioner; now, sir, to you I triumphantly appeal, therefore, to know whether your detachment would not have been as effectually defeated, if the men had all lost a right arm, for instance, as if they had all lost their heads.”

“The triumph of your appeal is somewhat hasty, sir,” said Wellmere.

“Is the cause of liberty advanced a step by such injudicious harshness in the field?” continued the surgeon, bent on the favorite principle of his life.

“I am yet to learn that the cause of liberty is in any manner advanced by the services of any gentleman in the rebel army,” rejoined the colonel.

“Not liberty! Good God, for what then are we contending?”

“Slavery, sir; yes, even slavery; you are putting the tyranny of a mob on the throne of a kind and lenient prince. Where is the consistency of your boasted liberty?”

“Consistency!” repeated the surgeon, looking about him a little wildly, at hearing such sweeping charges against a cause he had so long thought holy.

“Aye, sir, your consistency. Your congress of sages have published a manifesto, wherein they set forth the equality of political rights.”

“’Tis true, and it is done most ably.”

“I say nothing of its ability; but if true, why not set your slaves at liberty?” This argument, which is thought by most of the colonel’s countrymen a triumphant answer to a thousand eloquent facts, lost none of its weight by the manner in which it was uttered.

Every American feels humbled at the necessity of vindicating his country from the apparent inconsistency and injustice of the laws alluded to. His feelings are much like those of an honorable man who is compelled to exonerate himself from a disgraceful charge, although he may know the accusation to be false. At the bottom, Sitgreaves had much good sense, and thus called on, he took up the cudgels of argument in downright earnest.

“We deem it a liberty to have the deciding voice in the councils by which we are governed. We think it a hardship to be ruled by the king of a people who live at a distance of three thousand miles, and who cannot, and who do not, feel a single political interest in common with ourselves. I say nothing of oppression; the child was of age, and was entitled to the privileges of majority. In such cases, there is but one tribunal to which to appeal for a nation’s rights — it is power, and we now make the appeal.”

“Such doctrines may suit your present purposes,” said Wellmere, with a sneer; “but I apprehend it is opposed to all the opinions and practices of civilized nations.”

“It is in conformity with the practices of all nations,” said the surgeon, returning the nod and smile of Lawton, who enjoyed the good sense of his comrade as much as he disliked what he called “his medical talk.” “Who would be ruled when he can rule? The only rational ground to take is, that every community has a right to govern itself, so that in no manner it violates the laws of God.”

“And is holding your fellow creatures in bondage in conformity to those laws?” asked the colonel, impressively.

The surgeon took another glass, and hemming once, returned to the combat.

“Sir,” said he, “slavery is of very ancient origin, and it seems to have been confined to no particular religion or form of government; every nation of civilized Europe does, or has held their fellow creatures in this kind of duresse.”

“You will except Great Britain,” cried the colonel, proudly.

“No, sir,” continued the surgeon, confidently, feeling that he was now carrying the war out of his own country, “I cannot except Great Britain. It was her children, her ships, and her laws, that first introduced the practice into these states; and on her institutions the judgment must fall. There is not a foot of ground belonging to England, in which a negro would be useful, that has not its slave. England herself has none, but England is overflowing with physical force, a part of which she is obliged to maintain in the shape of paupers. The same is true of France, and most other European countries. So long as we were content to remain colonies, nothing was said of our system of domestic slavery; but now, when we are resolute to obtain as much freedom as the vicious system of metropolitan rule has left us, that which is England’s gift has become our reproach. Will your master liberate the slaves of his subjects should he succeed in subduing the new states, or will he condemn the whites to the same servitude as that in which he has been so long content to see the blacks? It is true, we continue the practice; but we must come gradually to the remedy, or create an evil greater than that which we endure at present. Doubtless, as we advance, the manumission of our slaves will accompany us, until happily these fair regions shall exist, without a single image of the Creator that is held in a state which disqualifies him to judge of that Creator’s goodness.”

It will be remembered that Doctor Sitgreaves spoke forty years ago, and
Wellmere was unable to contradict his prophetic assertion.

Finding the subject getting to be knotty, the Englishman retired to the apartment in which the ladies had assembled; and, seated by the side of Sarah, he found a more pleasing employment in relating the events of fashionable life in the metropolis, and in recalling the thousand little anecdotes of their former associates. Miss Peyton was a pleased listener, as she dispensed the bounties of the tea table, and Sarah frequently bowed her blushing countenance to her needlework, as her face glowed at the flattering remarks of her companion.

The dialogue we have related established a perfect truce between the surgeon and his comrade; and the former having paid a visit to Singleton, they took their leave of the ladies, and mounted; the former to visit the wounded at the encampment, and the latter to rejoin his troop. But their movements were arrested at the gate by an occurrence that we shall relate in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XIV

I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honored head:
No more that meek, that suppliant look in prayer,
Nor that pure faith that gave it force, are there:
But he is blest, and I lament no more,
A wise good man, contented to be poor.
— CRABBE.

We have already said that the customs of America leave the dead but a short time in sight of the mourners; and the necessity of providing for his own safety had compelled the peddler to abridge even this brief space. In the confusion and agitation produced by the events we have recorded, the death of the elder Birch had occurred unnoticed; but a sufficient number of the immediate neighbors were hastily collected, and the ordinary rites of sepulture were now about to be paid to the deceased. It was the approach of this humble procession that arrested the movements of the trooper and his comrade. Four men supported the body on a rude bier; and four others walked in advance, ready to relieve their friends from their burden. The peddler walked next the coffin, and by his side moved Katy Haynes, with a most determined aspect of woe, and next to the mourners came Mr. Wharton and the English captain. Two or three old men and women, with a few straggling boys, brought up the rear. Captain Lawton sat in his saddle, in rigid silence, until the bearers came opposite to his position, and then, for the first time, Harvey raised his eyes from the ground, and saw the enemy that he dreaded so near him. The first impulse of the peddler was certainly flight; but recovering his recollection, he fixed his eye on the coffin of his parent, and passed the dragoon with a firm step but swelling heart. The trooper slowly lifted his cap, and continued uncovered until Mr. Wharton and his son had moved by, when, accompanied by the surgeon, he rode leisurely in the rear, maintaining an inflexible silence.

Caesar emerged from the cellar kitchen of the cottage, and with a face of settled solemnity, added himself to the number of the followers of the funeral, though with a humble mien and at a most respectful distance from the horsemen. The old negro had placed around his arm, a little above the elbow, a napkin of unsullied whiteness, it being the only time since his departure from the city that he had enjoyed an opportunity of exhibiting himself in the garniture of servile mourning. He was a great lover of propriety, and had been a little stimulated to this display by a desire to show his sable friend from Georgia all the decencies of a New York funeral; and the ebullition of his zeal went off very well, producing no other result than a mild lecture from Miss Peyton at his return, on the fitness of things. The attendance of the black was thought well enough in itself; but the napkin was deemed a superfluous exhibition of ceremony, at the funeral of a man who had performed all the menial offices in his own person.

The graveyard was an inclosure on the grounds of Mr. Wharton, which had been fenced with stone and set apart for the purpose, by that gentleman, some years before. It was not, however, intended as a burial place for any of his own family. Until the fire, which raged as the British troops took possession of New York, had laid Trinity in ashes, a goodly gilded tablet on its walls proclaimed the virtues of his deceased parents, and beneath a flag of marble, in one of the aisles of the church, their bones were left to molder in aristocratical repose. Captain Lawton made a movement as if he was disposed to follow the procession, when it left the highway, to enter the field which contained the graves of the humble dead, but he was recalled to recollection by a hint from his companion that he was taking the wrong road.

“Of all the various methods which have been adopted by man for the disposal of his earthly remains, which do you prefer, Captain Lawton?” said the surgeon, as they separated from the little procession. “In some countries the body is exposed to be devoured by wild beasts; in others it is suspended in the air to exhale its substance in the manner of decomposition; in other regions it is consumed on the funeral pile, and, again, it is inhumed in the bowels of the earth; every people have their own particular fashion, and to which do you give the preference?”

“All are agreeable,” said the trooper, following the group they had left with his eyes; “though the speediest interments give the cleanest fields. Of which are you an admirer?”

“The last, as practiced by ourselves, for the other three are destructive of all the opportunities for dissection; whereas, in the last, the coffin can lie in peaceful decency, while the remains are made to subserve the useful purposes of science. Ah! Captain Lawton, I enjoy comparatively but few opportunities of such a nature, to what I expected on entering the army.”

“To what may these pleasures numerically amount in a year?” said the captain, withdrawing his gaze from the graveyard.

“Within a dozen, upon my honor; my best picking is when the corps is detached; for when we are with the main army, there are so many boys to be satisfied, that I seldom get a good subject. Those youngsters are as wasteful as prodigals, and as greedy as vultures.”

“A dozen!” echoed the trooper, in surprise. “Why, I furnish you that number with my own hands.”

“Ah! Jack,” returned the doctor, approaching the subject with great tenderness of manner, “it is seldom I can do anything with your patients; you disfigure them woefully. Believe me, John, when I tell you as a friend that your system is all wrong; you unnecessarily destroy life, and then you injure the body so that it is unfit for the only use that can be made of a dead man.”

The trooper maintained a silence, which he thought would be the most probable means of preserving peace between them; and the surgeon, turning his head from taking a last look at the burial, as they rode around the foot of the hill that shut the valley from their sight, continued with a suppressed sigh, —

“One might get a natural death from that graveyard to-night, if there was but time and opportunity! The patient must be the father of the lady we saw this morning.”

“The petticoat doctor! — she with the aurora borealis complexion,” said the trooper, with a smile, that began to cause uneasiness to his companion. “But the lady was not the gentleman’s daughter, only his medico-petticoat attendant; and the Harvey, whose name was made to rime with every word in her song, is the renowned peddler spy.”

“What? He who unhorsed you?”

“No man ever unhorsed me, Dr. Sitgreaves,” said the dragoon, gravely. “I fell by mischance of Roanoke; rider and beast kissed the earth together.”

“A warm embrace, from the love spots it left on your cuticle; ’tis a thousand pities that you cannot find where the tattling rascal lies hid.”

“He followed his father’s body.”

“And you let him pass!” cried the surgeon, checking his horse. “Let us return immediately, and take him; to-morrow you shall have him hanged, Jack, — and, damn him, I’ll dissect him!”

“Softly, softly, my dear Archibald. Would you arrest a man while paying the last offices to a dead father? Leave him to me, and I pledge myself he shall have justice.”

The doctor muttered his dissatisfaction at any postponement of vengeance, but he was compelled to acquiesce, from a regard to his reputation for propriety; and they continued their ride to the quarters of the corps, engaged in various discussions concerning the welfare of the human body.

Birch supported the grave and collected manner that was thought becoming in a male mourner, on such occasions, and to Katy was left the part of exhibiting the tenderness of the softer sex. There are some people, whose feelings are of such nature that they cannot weep unless it be in proper company, and the spinster was a good deal addicted to this congregational virtue. After casting her eyes around the small assemblage, the housekeeper found the countenances of the few females, who were present, fixed on her in solemn expectation, and the effect was instantaneous; the maiden really wept, and she gained no inconsiderable sympathy, and some reputation for a tender heart, from the spectators. The muscles of the peddler’s face were seen to move, and as the first clod of earth fell on the tenement of his father, sending up that dull, hollow sound that speaks so eloquently the mortality of man, his whole frame was for an instant convulsed. He bent his body down, as if in pain, his fingers worked while the hands hung lifeless by his side, and there was an expression in his countenance that seemed to announce a writhing of the soul; but it was not unresisted, and it was transient. He stood erect, drew a long breath, and looked around him with an elevated face, that even seemed to smile with a consciousness of having obtained the mastery. The grave was soon filled; a rough stone, placed at either extremity, marked its position, and the turf, whose faded vegetation was adapted to the fortunes of the deceased, covered the little hillock with the last office of seemliness. This office ended, the neighbors, who had officiously pressed forward to offer their services in performing their solemn duty, paused, and lifting their hats, stood looking towards the mourner, who now felt himself to be really alone in the world. Uncovering his head also, the peddler hesitated a moment, to gather energy, and spoke.

“My friends and neighbors,” he said, “I thank you for assisting me to bury my dead out of my sight.”

A solemn pause succeeded the customary address, and the group dispersed in silence, some few walking with the mourners back to their own habitation, but respectfully leaving them at its entrance. The peddler and Katy were followed into the building by one man, however, who was well known to the surrounding country by the significant term of “a speculator.” Katy saw him enter, with a heart that palpitated with dreadful forebodings, but Harvey civilly handed him a chair, and evidently was prepared for the visit.

The peddler went to the door, and, taking a cautious glance about the valley, quickly returned, and commenced the following dialogue: —

“The sun has just left the top of the eastern hill; my time presses me: here is the deed for the house and lot; everything is done according to law.”

The other took the paper, and conned its contents with a deliberation that proceeded partly from his caution, and partly from the unlucky circumstance of his education having been much neglected when a youth. The time occupied in this tedious examination was employed by Harvey in gathering together certain articles which he intended to include in the stores that were to leave the habitation with himself. Katy had already inquired of the peddler whether the deceased had left a will; and she saw the Bible placed in the bottom of a new pack, which she had made for his accommodation, with a most stoical indifference; but as the six silver spoons were laid carefully by its side, a sudden twinge of her conscience objected to such a palpable waste of property, and she broke silence.

“When you marry, Harvey, you may miss those spoons.”

“I never shall marry.”

“Well, if you don’t there’s no occasion to make rash promises, even to yourself. One never knows what one may do, in such a case. I should like to know, of what use so many spoons can be to a single man; for my part, I think it is a duty for every man who is well provided, to have a wife and family to maintain.”

At the time when Katy expressed this sentiment, the fortune of women in her class of life consisted of a cow, a bed, the labors of their own hands in the shape of divers pillowcases, blankets, and sheets, with, where fortune was unusually kind, a half dozen silver spoons. The spinster herself had obtained all the other necessaries by her own industry and prudence, and it can easily be imagined that she saw the articles she had long counted her own vanish in the enormous pack, with a dissatisfaction that was in no degree diminished by the declaration that had preceded the act. Harvey, however, disregarded her opinions and feelings, and continued his employment of filling the pack, which soon grew to something like the ordinary size of the peddler’s burden.

“I’m rather timersome about this conveyance,” said the purchaser, having at length waded through the covenants of the deed.

“Why so?”

“I’m afraid it won’t stand good in law. I know that two of the neighbors leave home to-morrow morning, to have the place entered for confiscation; and if I should give forty pounds, and lose it all, ‘twould be a dead pull back to me.”

“They can only take my right,” said the peddler. “Pay me two hundred dollars, and the house is yours; you are a well-known Whig, and you at least they won’t trouble.” As Harvey spoke, there was a strange bitterness of manner, mingled with the shrewd care he expressed concerning the sale of his property.

“Say one hundred, and it is a bargain,” returned the man, with a grin that he meant for a good-natured smile.

“A bargain!” echoed the peddler, in surprise. “I thought the bargain already made.”

“Nothing is a bargain,” said the purchaser, with a chuckle, “until papers are delivered, and the money paid in hand.”

“You have the paper.”

“Aye, and will keep it, if you will excuse the money. Come, say one hundred and fifty, and I won’t be hard; here — here is just the money.”

The peddler looked from the window, and saw with dismay that the evening was fast advancing, and knew well that he endangered his life by remaining in the dwelling after dark; yet he could not tolerate the idea of being defrauded in this manner, in a bargain that had already been fairly made; he hesitated.

“Well,” said the purchaser, rising, “mayhap you can find another man to trade with between this and morning, but if you don’t, your title won’t be worth much afterwards.”

“Take it, Harvey,” said Katy, who felt it impossible to resist a tender like the one before her; for the purchase money was in English guineas. Her voice roused the peddler, and a new idea seemed to strike him.

“I agree to the price,” he said; and, turning to the spinster, he placed part of the money in her hand, as he continued, “Had I other means to pay you, I would have lost all, rather than suffer myself to be defrauded of part.”

“You may lose all yet,” muttered the stranger, with a sneer, as he rose and left the building.

“Yes,” said Katy, following him with her eyes, “he knows your failing, Harvey; he thinks with me, now the old gentleman is gone, you will want a careful body to take care of your concerns.”

The peddler was busied in making arrangements for his departure, and he took no notice of this insinuation, while the spinster returned again to the attack. She had lived so many years in expectation of a termination to her hopes, so different from that which now seemed likely to occur, that the idea of separation began to give her more uneasiness than she had thought herself capable of feeling, about a man so destitute and friendless.

“Have you another house to go to?” inquired Katy.

“Providence will provide me with a home.”

“Yes,” said the housekeeper, “but maybe ‘twill not be to your liking.”

“The poor must not be difficult.”

“I’m sure I’m anything but a difficult body,” cried the spinster, very hastily; “but I love to see things becoming, and in their places; yet I wouldn’t be hard to persuade to leave this place myself. I can’t say I altogether like the ways of the people hereabouts.”

“The valley is lovely,” said the peddler, with fervor, “and the people like all the race of man. But to me it matters nothing; all places are now alike, and all faces equally strange.” As he spoke he dropped the article he was packing from his hand, and seated himself on a chest, with a look of vacant misery.

“Not so, not so,” said Katy, shoving her chair nearer to the place where the peddler sat. “Not so, Harvey, you must know me at least; my face cannot be strange to you.”

Birch turned his eyes slowly on her countenance, which exhibited more of feeling, and less of self, than he had ever seen there before; he took her hand kindly, and his own features lost some of their painful expression, as he said, —

“Yes, good woman, you, at least, are not a stranger to me; you may do me partial justice; when others revile me possibly your feelings may lead you to say something in my defense.”

“That I will; that I would!” said Katy, eagerly. “I will defend you, Harvey, to the last drop; let me hear them that dare to revile you! You say true, Harvey, I am partial and just to you; what if you do like the king? I have often heard it said he was at the bottom a good man; but there’s no religion in the old country, for everybody allows the ministers are desperate bad!”

The peddler paced the floor in evident distress of mind; his eyes had a look of wildness that Katy had never witnessed before, and his step was measured, with a dignity that appalled the housekeeper.

“While my father lived,” murmured Harvey, unable to smother his feelings, “there was one who read my heart, and oh! what a consolation to return from my secret marches of danger, and the insults and wrongs that I suffered, to receive his blessing and his praise; but he is gone,” he continued, stopping and gazing wildly towards the corner that used to hold the figure of his parent, “and who is there to do me justice?”

“Why, Harvey! Harvey!”

“Yes, there is one who will, who must know me before I die! Oh! it is dreadful to die, and leave such a name behind me.”

“Don’t talk of dying, Harvey,” said the spinster, glancing her eye around the room, and pushing the wood in the fire to obtain a light from the blaze.

The ebullition of feeling in the peddler was over. It had been excited by the events of the past day, and a vivid perception of his sufferings. It was not long, however, that passion maintained an ascendency ever the reason of this singular man; and perceiving that the night had already thrown an obscurity around objects without doors, he hastily threw his pack over his shoulders, and taking Katy kindly by the hand, in leavetaking, —

“It is painful to part with even you, good woman,” he said, “but the hour has come, and I must go. What is left in the house is yours; to me it could be of no use, and it may serve to make you more comfortable. Farewell — we shall meet hereafter.”

“In the regions of darkness!” cried a voice that caused the peddler to sink on the chest from which he had risen, in despair.

“What! another pack, Mr. Birch, and so well stuffed so soon!”

“Have you not done evil enough?” cried the peddler, regaining his firmness, and springing on his feet with energy. “Is it not enough to harass the last moments of a dying man — to impoverish me; what more would you have?”

“Your blood!” said the Skinner, with cool malignity.

“And for money,” cried Harvey, bitterly. “Like the ancient Judas, you would grow rich with the price of blood!”

“Aye, and a fair price it is, my gentleman; fifty guineas; nearly the weight of that carcass of yours in gold.”

“Here,” said Katy, promptly, “here are fifteen guineas, and these drawers and this bed are all mine; if you will give Harvey but one hour’s start from the door, they shall be yours.”

“One hour?” said the Skinner, showing his teeth, and looking with a longing eye at the money.

“But a single hour; here, take the money.”

“Hold!” cried Harvey. “Put no faith in the miscreant.”

“She may do what she pleases with her faith,” said the Skinner, with malignant pleasure, “but I have the money in good keeping; as for you, Mr. Birch, we will bear your insolence, for the fifty guineas that are to pay for your gallows.”

“Go on,” said the peddler, proudly; “take me to Major Dunwoodie; he, at least, may be kind, although just.”

“I can do better than by marching so far in such disgraceful company; this Mr. Dunwoodie has let one or two Tories go at large; but the troop of Captain Lawton is quartered some half mile nearer, and his receipt will get me the reward as soon as his major’s. How relish you the idea of supping with Captain Lawton, this evening, Mr. Birch?”

“Give me my money, or set Harvey free,” cried the spinster in alarm.

“Your bribe was not enough, good woman, unless there is money in this bed.” Thrusting his bayonet through the ticking and ripping it for some distance, he took a malicious satisfaction in scattering its contents about the room.

“If,” cried the housekeeper, losing sight of her personal danger in care for her newly-acquired property, “there is law in the land, I will be righted!”

“The law of the neutral ground is the law of the strongest; but your tongue is not as long as my bayonet; you had, therefore, best not set them at loggerheads, or you might be the loser.”

A figure stood in the shadow of the door, as if afraid to be seen in the group of Skinners; but a blaze of light, raised by some articles thrown in the fire by his persecutors, showed the peddler the face of the purchaser of his little domain. Occasionally there was some whispering between this man and the Skinner nearest him, that induced Harvey to suspect he had been the dupe of a contrivance in which that wretch had participated. It was, however, too late to repine; and he followed the party from the house with a firm and collected tread, as if marching to a triumph, and not to a gallows. In passing through the yard, the leader of the band fell over a billet of wood, and received a momentary hurt from the fall; exasperated at the incident, the fellow sprang on his feet, filling the air with execrations.

“The curse of heaven light on the log!” he exclaimed. “The night is too dark for us to move in; throw that brand of fire in yon pile of tow, to light up the scene.”

“Hold!” roared the speculator; “you’ll fire the house.”

“And see the farther,” said the other, hurling the brand in the midst of the combustibles. In an instant the building was in flames. “Come on; let us move towards the heights while we have light to pick our road.”

“Villain!” cried the exasperated purchaser, “is this your friendship — this my reward for kidnapping the peddler?”

“‘Twould be wise to move more from the light, if you mean to entertain us with abuse, or we may see too well to miss our mark,” cried the leader of the gang. The next instant he was as good as his threat, but happily missed the terrified speculator and equally appalled spinster, who saw herself again reduced from comparative wealth to poverty, by the blow. Prudence dictated to the pair a speedy retreat; and the next morning, the only remains of the dwelling of the peddler was the huge chimney we have already mentioned.

CHAPTER XV

Trifles, light as air,
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.

— Othello.

The weather, which had been mild and clear since the storm, now changed with the suddenness of the American climate. Towards evening the cold blasts poured down from the mountains, and flurries of snow plainly indicated that the month of November had arrived; a season whose temperature varies from the heats of summer to the cold of winter. Frances had stood at the window of her own apartment, watching the slow progress of the funeral procession, with a melancholy that was too deep to be excited by the spectacle. There was something in the sad office that was in unison with her feelings. As she gazed around, she saw the trees bending to the force of the wind, that swept through the valley with an impetuosity that shook even the buildings; and the forest, that had so lately glittered in the sun with its variegated hues, was fast losing its loveliness, as the leaves were torn from the branches, and were driving irregularly before the eddies of the blast. A few of the Southern dragoons, who were patrolling the passes which led to the encampment of the corps, could be distinguished at a distance on the heights, bending to their pommels as they faced the keen air which had so lately traversed the great fresh-water lakes, and drawing their watch coats about them in tighter folds.

Frances witnessed the disappearance of the wooden tenement of the deceased, as it was slowly lowered from the light of day; and the sight added to the chilling dreariness of the view. Captain Singleton was sleeping under the care of his own man, while his sister had been persuaded to take possession of her room, for the purpose of obtaining the repose of which her last night’s journeying had robbed her. The apartment of Miss Singleton communicated with the room occupied by the sisters, through a private door, as well as through the ordinary passage of the house; this door was partly open, and Frances moved towards it, with the benevolent intention of ascertaining the situation of her guest, when the surprised girl saw her whom she had thought to be sleeping, not only awake, but employed in a manner that banished all probability of present repose. The black tresses, that during the dinner had been drawn in close folds over the crown of the head, were now loosened, and fell in profusion over her shoulders and bosom, imparting a slight degree of wildness to her countenance; the chilling white of her complexion was strongly contrasted with eyes of the deepest black, that were fixed in rooted attention on a picture she held in her hand. Frances hardly breathed, as she was enabled, by a movement of Isabella, to see that it was the figure of a man in the well-known dress of the Southern horse; but she gasped for breath, and instinctively laid her hand on her heart to quell its throbbings, as she thought she recognized the lineaments that were so deeply seated in her own imagination. Frances felt she was improperly prying into the sacred privacy of another; but her emotions were too powerful to permit her to speak, and she drew back to a chair, where she still retained a view of the stranger, from whose countenance she felt it to be impossible to withdraw her eyes. Isabella was too much engrossed by her own feelings to discover the trembling figure of the witness to her actions, and she pressed the inanimate image to her lips, with an enthusiasm that denoted the most intense passion. The expression of the countenance of the fair stranger was so changeable, and the transitions were so rapid, that Frances had scarcely time to distinguish the character of the emotion, before it was succeeded by another, equally powerful and equally attractive. Admiration and sorrow were however the preponderating passions; the latter was indicated by large drops that fell from her eyes on the picture, and which followed each other over her cheek at such intervals, as seemed to pronounce the grief too heavy to admit of the ordinary demonstrations of sorrow. Every movement of Isabella was marked by an enthusiasm that was peculiar to her nature, and every passion in its turn triumphed in her breast. The fury of the wind, as it whistled round the angles of the building, was in consonance with those feelings, and she rose and moved to a window of her apartment. Her figure was now hid from the view of Frances, who was about to rise and approach her guest, when tones of a thrilling melody chained her in breathless silence to the spot. The notes were wild, and the voice not powerful, but the execution exceeded anything that Frances had ever heard; and she stood, endeavoring to stifle the sounds of her own gentle breathing, until the following song was concluded: —

Cold blow the blasts o’er the tops of the mountain,
And bare is the oak on the hill;
Slowly the vapors exhale from the fountain,
And bright gleams the ice-bordered rill;
All nature is seeking its annual rest,
But the slumbers of peace have deserted my breast.

Long has the storm poured its weight on my nation,
And long have her braves stood the shock;
Long has her chieftain ennobled his station,
A bulwark on liberty’s rock;
Unlicensed ambition relaxes its toil,
Yet blighted affection represses my smile.

Abroad the wild fury of winter is lowering,
And leafless and drear is the tree;
But the vertical sun of the south appears pouring
Its fierce, killing heats upon me:
Without, all the season’s chill symptoms begin —
But the fire of passion is raging within.

Frances abandoned her whole soul to the suppressed melody of the music, though the language of the song expressed a meaning, which, united with certain events of that and the preceding day, left a sensation of uneasiness in the bosom of the warm-hearted girl, to which she had hitherto been a stranger. Isabella moved from the window as her last tones melted on the ear of her admiring listener, and, for the first time, her eye rested on the pallid face of the intruder. A glow of fire lighted the countenance of both at the same instant, and the blue eye of Frances met the brilliant black one of her guest for a single moment, and both fell in abashed confusion on the carpet; they advanced, however, until they met, and had taken each other’s hand, before either ventured again to look her companion in the face.

“This sudden change in the weather, and perhaps the situation of my brother, have united to make me melancholy, Miss Wharton,” said Isabella, in a low tone, and in a voice that trembled as she spoke.

“’Tis thought you have little to apprehend for your brother,” said Frances, in the same embarrassed manner. “Had you seen him when he was brought in by Major Dunwoodie— “

Frances paused, with a feeling of conscious shame, for which she could not account; and, in raising her eyes, she saw Isabella studying her countenance with an earnestness that again drove the blood tumultuously to her temples.

“You were speaking of Major Dunwoodie,” said Isabella, faintly.

“He was with Captain Singleton.”

“Do you know Dunwoodie? Have you seen him often?”

Once more Frances ventured to look her guest in the face, and again she met the piercing eyes bent on her, as if to search her inmost heart. “Speak, Miss Wharton; is Major Dunwoodie known to you?”

“He is my relative,” said Frances, appalled at the manner of the other.

“A relative!” echoed Miss Singleton; “in what degree? — speak, Miss
Wharton, I conjure you to speak.”

“Our parents were cousins,” faintly replied Frances.

“And he is to be your husband?” said the stranger, impetuously.

Frances felt shocked, and all her pride awakened, by this direct attack upon her feelings, and she raised her eyes from the floor to her interrogator a little proudly, when the pale cheek and quivering lip of Isabella removed her resentment in a moment.

“It is true! My conjecture is true! Speak to me, Miss Wharton; I conjure you, in mercy to my feelings, to tell me — do you love Dunwoodie?” There was a plaintive earnestness in the voice of Miss Singleton that disarmed Frances of all resentment, and the only answer she could make was to hide her burning face between her hands, as she sank back in a chair to conceal her confusion.

Isabella paced the floor in silence for several minutes, until she had succeeded in conquering the violence of her feelings, when she approached the place where Frances yet sat, endeavoring to exclude the eyes of her companion from reading the shame expressed in her countenance, and, taking the hand of the other, she spoke with an evident effort at composure.

“Pardon me, Miss Wharton, if my ungovernable feelings have led me into impropriety; the powerful motive — the cruel reason” — she hesitated. Frances now raised her face, and their eyes once more met; they fell in each other’s arms, and laid their burning cheeks together. The embrace was long — was ardent and sincere — but neither spoke; and on separating, Frances retired to her own room without further explanation.

While this extraordinary scene was acting in the room of Miss Singleton, matters of great importance were agitated in the drawing-room. The disposition of the fragments of such a dinner as the one we have recorded was a task that required no little exertion and calculation. Notwithstanding several of the small game had nestled in the pocket of Captain Lawton’s man, and even the assistant of Dr. Sitgreaves had calculated the uncertainty of his remaining long in such good quarters, still there was more left unconsumed than the prudent Miss Peyton knew how to dispose of to advantage. Caesar and his mistress had, therefore, a long and confidential communication on this important business; and the consequence was, that Colonel Wellmere was left to the hospitality of Sarah Wharton. All the ordinary topics of conversation were exhausted, when the colonel, with a little of the uneasiness that is in some degree inseparable from conscious error, touched lightly on the transactions of the preceding day.

“We little thought, Miss Wharton, when I first saw this Mr. Dunwoodie in your house in Queen Street, that he was to be the renowned warrior he has proved himself,” said Wellmere, endeavoring to smile away his chagrin.

“Renowned, when we consider the enemy he overcame,” said Sarah, with consideration for her companion’s feelings. “’Twas unfortunate, indeed, in every respect, that you met with the accident, or doubtless the royal arms would have triumphed in their usual manner.”

“And yet the pleasure of such society as this accident has introduced me to, would more than repay the pain of a mortified spirit and wounded body,” added the colonel, in a manner of peculiar softness.

“I hope the latter is but trifling,” said Sarah, stooping to hide her blushes under the pretext of biting a thread from the work on her knee.

“Trifling, indeed, compared to the former,” returned the colonel, in the same manner. “Ah! Miss Wharton, it is in such moments that we feel the full value of friendship and sympathy.”

Those who have never tried it cannot easily imagine what a rapid progress a warm-hearted female can make in love, in the short space of half an hour, particularly where there is a predisposition to the distemper. Sarah found the conversation, when it began to touch on friendship and sympathy, too interesting to venture her voice with a reply. She, however, turned her eyes on the colonel, and saw him gazing at her fine face with an admiration that was quite as manifest, and much more soothing, than any words could make it.

Their tête-à-tête was uninterrupted for an hour; and although nothing that would be called decided, by an experienced matron, was said by the gentleman, he uttered a thousand things that delighted his companion, who retired to her rest with a lighter heart than she had felt since the arrest of her brother by the Americans.

CHAPTER XVI

And let me the canakin clink, clink,
And let me the canakin clink.
A soldier’s a man;
A life’s but a span;
Why, then, let a soldier drink.
— Othello.

The position held by the corps of dragoons, we have already said, was a favorite place of halting with their commander. A cluster of some half dozen small and dilapidated buildings formed what, from the circumstance of two roads intersecting each other at right angles, was called the village of the Four Corners. As usual, one of the most imposing of these edifices had been termed, in the language of the day, “a house of entertainment for man and beast.” On a rough board suspended from the gallows-looking post that had supported the ancient sign, was, however, written in red chalk, “Elizabeth Flanagan, her hotel,” an ebullition of the wit of some of the idle wags of the corps. The matron, whose name had thus been exalted to an office of such unexpected dignity, ordinarily discharged the duties of a female sutler, washerwoman, and, to use the language of Katy Haynes, petticoat doctor to the troops. She was the widow of a soldier who had been killed in the service, and who, like herself, was a native of a distant island, and had early tried his fortune in the colonies of North America. She constantly migrated with the troops; and it was seldom that they became stationary for two days at a time but the little cart of the bustling woman was seen driving into the encampment loaded with such articles as she conceived would make her presence most welcome. With a celerity that seemed almost supernatural, Betty took up her ground and commenced her occupation. Sometimes the cart itself was her shop; at others the soldiers made her a rude shelter of such materials as offered; but on the present occasion she had seized on a vacant building, and, by dint of stuffing the dirty breeches and half-dried linen of the troopers into the broken windows, to exclude the cold, which had now become severe, she formed what she herself had pronounced to be “most illigant lodgings.” The men were quartered in the adjacent barns, and the officers collected in the “Hotel Flanagan,” as they facetiously called headquarters. Betty was well known to every trooper in the corps, could call each by his Christian or nickname, as best suited her fancy; and, although absolutely intolerable to all whom habit had not made familiar with her virtues, was a general favorite with these partisan warriors. Her faults were, a trifling love of liquor, excessive filthiness, and a total disregard of all the decencies of language; her virtues, an unbounded love for her adopted country, perfect honesty when dealing on certain known principles with the soldiery, and great good nature. Added to these, Betty had the merit of being the inventor of that beverage which is so well known, at the present hour, to all the patriots who make a winter’s march between the commercial and political capitals of this great state, and which is distinguished by the name of “cocktail.” Elizabeth Flanagan was peculiarly well qualified, by education and circumstances, to perfect this improvement in liquors, having been literally brought up on its principal ingredient, and having acquired from her Virginian customers the use of mint, from its flavor in a julep to its height of renown in the article in question. Such, then, was the mistress of the mansion, who, reckless of the cold northern blasts, showed her blooming face from the door of the building to welcome the arrival of her favorite, Captain Lawton, and his companion, her master in matters of surgery.

“Ah! by my hopes of promotion, my gentle Elizabeth, but you are welcome!” cried the trooper, as he threw himself from his saddle. “This villainous fresh-water gas from the Canadas has been whistling among my bones till they ache with the cold, but the sight of your fiery countenance is as cheery as a Christmas fire.”

“Now sure, Captain Jack, ye’s always full of your complimentaries,” replied the sutler, taking the bridle of her customer. “But hurry in for the life of you, darling; the fences hereabouts are not so strong as in the Highlands, and there’s that within will warm both sowl and body.”

“So you have been laying the rails under contribution, I see. Well, that may do for the body,” said the captain coolly; “but I have had a pull at a bottle of cut glass with a silver stand, and I doubt my relish for your whisky for a month to come.”

“If it’s silver or goold that ye’re thinking of, it’s but little I have, though I’ve a trifling bit of the continental,” said Betty, with a look of humor; “but there’s that within that’s fit to be put in vissils of di’monds.”

“What can she mean, Archibald?” asked Lawton. “The animal looks as if it meant more than it says!”

“’Tis probably a wandering of the reasoning powers, created by the frequency of intoxicating drafts,” observed the surgeon, as he deliberately threw his left leg over the pommel of the saddle, and slid down on the right side of his horse.

“Faith, my dear jewel of a doctor, but it was this side I was expicting you; the whole corps come down on this side but yeerself,” said Betty, winking at the trooper; “but I’ve been feeding the wounded, in yeer absence, with the fat of the land.”

“Barbarous stupidity!” cried the panic-stricken physician, “to feed men laboring under the excitement of fever with powerful nutriment. Woman, woman, you are enough to defeat the skill of Hippocrates!”

“Pooh!” said Betty, with infinite composure, “what a botheration ye make about a little whisky; there was but a gallon betwixt a good dozen of them, and I gave it to the boys to make them sleep asy; sure, jist as slumbering drops.”

Lawton and his companion now entered the building, and the first objects which met their eyes explained the hidden meaning of Betty’s comfortable declaration. A long table, made of boards torn from the side of an outbuilding, was stretched through the middle of the largest apartment, or the barroom, and on it was a very scanty display of crockery ware. The steams of cookery arose from an adjoining kitchen, but the principal attraction was in a demijohn of fair proportions, which had been ostentatiously placed on high by Betty as the object most worthy of notice. Lawton soon learned that it was teeming with the real amber-colored juice of the grape, and had been sent from the Locusts, as an offering to Major Dunwoodie, from his friend Captain Wharton of the royal army.

“And a royal gift it is,” said the grinning subaltern, who made the explanation. “The major gives us an entertainment in honor of our victory, and you see the principal expense is borne as it should be, by the enemy. Zounds! I am thinking that after we have primed with such stuff, we could charge through Sir Henry’s headquarters, and carry off the knight himself.”

The captain of dragoons was in no manner displeased at the prospect of terminating so pleasantly a day that had been so agreeably commenced. He was soon surrounded by his comrades, who made many eager inquiries concerning his adventures, while the surgeon proceeded, with certain quakings of the heart, to examine into the state of his wounded. Enormous fires were snapping in the chimneys of the house, superseding the necessity of candles, by the bright light which was thrown from the blazing piles. The group within were all young men and tried soldiers; in number they were rather more than a dozen, and their manners and conversation were a strange mixture of the bluntness of the partisan with the manners of gentlemen. Their dresses were neat, though plain; and a never-failing topic amongst them was the performance and quality of their horses. Some were endeavoring to sleep on the benches which lined the walls, some were walking the apartments, and others were seated in earnest discussion on subjects connected with the business of their lives. Occasionally, as the door of the kitchen opened, the hissing sounds of the frying pans and the inviting savor of the food created a stagnation in all other employments; even the sleepers, at such moments, would open their eyes, and raise their heads, to reconnoiter the state of the preparations. All this time Dunwoodie sat by himself, gazing at the fire, and lost in reflections which none of his officers presumed to disturb. He had made earnest inquiries of Sitgreaves after the condition of Singleton, during which a profound and respectful silence was maintained in the room; but as soon as he had ended, and resumed his seat, the usual ease and freedom prevailed.

The arrangement of the table was a matter of but little concern to Mrs. Flanagan; and Caesar would have been sadly scandalized at witnessing the informality with which various dishes, each bearing a wonderful resemblance to the others, were placed before so many gentlemen of consideration. In taking their places at the board, the strictest attention was paid to precedency; for, notwithstanding the freedom of manners which prevailed in the corps, the points of military etiquette were at all times observed, with something approaching to religious veneration. Most of the guests had been fasting too long to be in any degree fastidious in their appetites; but the case was different with Captain Lawton; he felt an unaccountable loathing at the exhibition of Betty’s food, and could not refrain from making a few passing comments on the condition of the knives, and the clouded aspect of the plates. The good nature and the personal affection of Betty for the offender, restrained her, for some time, from answering his innuendoes, until Lawton, having ventured to admit a piece of the black meat into his mouth, inquired, with the affectation of a spoiled child, —

“What kind of animal might this have been when living, Mrs. Flanagan?”

“Sure, captain, and wasn’t it the ould cow?” replied the sutler, with a warmth that proceeded partly from dissatisfaction at the complaints of her favorite, and partly from grief at the loss of the deceased.

“What!” roared the trooper, stopping short as he was about to swallow his morsel, “ancient Jenny!”

“The devil!” cried another, dropping his knife and fork, “she who made the campaign of the Jerseys with us?”

“The very same,” replied the mistress of the hotel, with a piteous aspect of woe; “a gentle baste, and one that could and did live on less than air, at need. Sure, gentlemen, ’tis awful to have to eat sitch an ould friend.”

“And has she sunk to this?” said Lawton, pointing with his knife, to the remnants on the table.

“Nay, captain,” said Betty, with spirit, “I sould two of her quarters to some of your troop; but divil the word did I tell the boys what an ould frind it was they had bought, for fear it might damage their appetites.”

“Fury!” cried the trooper, with affected anger, “I shall have my fellows as limber as supple-jacks on such fare; afraid of an Englishman as a Virginian negro is of his driver.”

“Well,” said Lieutenant Mason, dropping his knife and fork in a kind of despair, “my jaws have more sympathy than many men’s hearts. They absolutely decline making any impression on the relics of their old acquaintance.”

“Try a drop of the gift,” said Betty, soothingly, pouring a large allowance of the wine into a bowl, and drinking it off as taster to the corps. “Faith, ’tis but a wishy-washy sort of stuff after all!”

The ice once broken, however, a clear glass of wine was handed to Dunwoodie, who, bowing to his companions, drank the liquor in the midst of a profound silence. For a few glasses there was much formality observed, and sundry patriotic toasts and sentiments were duly noticed by the company. The liquor, however, performed its wonted office; and before the second sentinel at the door had been relieved, all recollection of the dinner and their cares was lost in the present festivity. Dr. Sitgreaves did not return in season to partake of Jenny, but he was in time to receive his fair proportion of Captain Wharton’s present.

“A song, a song from Captain Lawton!” cried two or three of the party in a breath, on observing the failure of some of the points of good-fellowship in the trooper. “Silence, for the song of Captain Lawton.”

“Gentlemen,” returned Lawton, his dark eyes swimming with the bumpers he had finished, though his head was as impenetrable as a post; “I am not much of a nightingale, but, under the favor of your good wishes, I consent to comply with the demand.”

“Now, Jack,” said Sitgreaves, nodding on his seat, “remember the air I taught you, and — stop, I have a copy of the words in my pocket.”

“Forbear, forbear, good doctor,” said the trooper, filling his glass with great deliberation; “I never could wheel round those hard names. Gentlemen, I will give you a humble attempt of my own.”

“Silence, for Captain Lawton’s song!” roared five or six at once; when the trooper proceeded, in a fine, full tone, to sing the following words to a well-known bacchanalian air, several of his comrades helping him through the chorus with a fervor that shook the crazy edifice they were in: —

Now push the mug, my jolly boys,
And live, while live we can;
To-morrow’s sun may end your joys,
For brief’s the hour of man.
And he who bravely meets the foe
His lease of life can never know.
Old mother Flanagan
Come and fill the can again!
For you can fill, and we can swill,
Good Betty Flanagan.

If love of life pervades your breast,
Or love of ease your frame,
Quit honor’s path for peaceful rest,
And bear a coward’s name;
For soon and late, we danger know,
And fearless on the saddle go.
Old mother, etc.

When foreign foes invade the land,
And wives and sweethearts call,
In freedom’s cause we’ll bravely stand
Or will as bravely fall;
In this fair home the fates have given
We’ll live as lords, or live in heaven.
Old mother, etc.

At each appeal made to herself, by the united voices of the choir, Betty invariably advanced and complied literally with the request contained in the chorus, to the infinite delight of the singers, and with no small participation in the satisfaction on her account. The hostess was provided with a beverage more suited to the high seasoning to which she had accustomed her palate, than the tasteless present of Captain Wharton; by which means Betty had managed, with tolerable facility, to keep even pace with the exhilaraton of her guests. The applause received by Captain Lawton was general, with the exception of the surgeon, who rose from the bench during the first chorus, and paced the floor, in a flow of classical indignation. The bravos and bravissimos drowned all other noises for a short time; but as they gradually ceased, the doctor turned to the musician, and exclaimed with heat, —

“Captain Lawton, I marvel that a gentleman, and a gallant officer, can find no other subject for his muse, in these times of trial, than in such beastly invocations to that notorious follower of the camp, the filthy Elizabeth Flanagan. Methinks the goddess of Liberty could furnish a more noble inspiration, and the sufferings of your country a more befitting theme.”

“Heyday!” shouted the hostess, advancing towards him in a threatening attitude; “and who is it that calls me filthy? Master Squirt! Master Popgun— “

“Peace!” said Dunwoodie, in a voice that was exerted but a little more than common, but which was succeeded by the stillness of death. “Woman, leave the room. Dr. Sitgreaves, I call you to your seat, to wait the order of the revels.”

“Proceed, proceed,” said the surgeon, drawing himself up in an attitude of dignified composure. “I trust, Major Dunwoodie, I am not unacquainted with the rules of decorum, nor ignorant of the by-laws of good-fellowship.” Betty made a hasty but somewhat devious retreat to her own dominions, being unaccustomed to dispute the orders of the commanding officer.

“Major Dunwoodie will honor us with a sentimental song,” said Lawton, bowing to his leader, with the collected manner he so well knew how to assume.

The major hesitated a moment, and then sang, with fine execution, the following words: —

Some love the heats of southern suns,
Where’s life’s warm current maddening runs,
In one quick circling stream;
But dearer far’s the mellow light
Which trembling shines, reflected bright
In Luna’s milder beam.

Some love the tulip’s gaudier dyes,
Where deepening blue with yellow vies,
And gorgeous beauty glows;
But happier he, whose bridal wreath,
By love entwined, is found to breathe
The sweetness of the rose.

The voice of Dunwoodie never lost its authority with his inferiors; and the applause which followed his song, though by no means so riotous as that which succeeded the effort of the captain, was much more flattering.

“If, sir,” said the doctor, after joining in the plaudits of his companions, “you would but learn to unite classical allusions with your delicate imagination you would become a pretty amateur poet.”

“He who criticizes ought to be able to perform,” said Dunwoodie with a smile. “I call on Dr. Sitgreaves for a specimen of the style he admires.”

“Dr. Sitgreaves’ song! Dr. Sitgreaves’ song!” echoed all at the table with delight; “a classical ode from Dr. Sitgreaves!”

The surgeon made a complacent bow, took the remnant of his glass, and gave a few preliminary hems, that served hugely to delight three or four young cornets at the foot of the table. He then commenced singing, in a cracked voice, and to anything but a tune, the following ditty: —

Hast thou ever felt love’s dart, dearest,
Or breathed his trembling sigh —
Thought him, afar, was ever nearest,
Before that sparkling eye?
Then hast thou known what ’tis to feel
The pain that Galen could not heal.

“Hurrah!” shouted Lawton. “Archibald eclipses the Muses themselves; his words flow like the sylvan stream by moonlight, and his melody is a crossbreed of the nightingale and the owl.”

“Captain Lawton,” cried the exasperated operator, “it is one thing to despise the lights of classical learning, and another to be despised for your own ignorance!”

A loud summons at the door of the building created a dead halt in the uproar, and the dragoons instinctively caught up their arms, to be prepared for the worst. The door was opened, and the Skinners entered, dragging in the peddler, bending beneath the load of his pack.

“Which is Captain Lawton?” said the leader of the gang, gazing around him in some little astonishment.

“He waits your pleasure,” said the trooper dryly.

“Then here I deliver to your hands a condemned traitor. This is Harvey
Birch, the peddler spy.”

Lawton started as he looked his old acquaintance in the face, and, turning to the Skinner with a lowering look, he asked, —

“And who are you, sir, that speak so freely of your neighbors? But,” bowing to Dunwoodie, “your pardon, sir; here is the commanding officer; to him you will please address yourself.”

“No,” said the man, sullenly, “it is to you I deliver the peddler, and from you I claim my reward.”

“Are you Harvey Birch?” said Dunwoodie, advancing with an air of authority that instantly drove the Skinner to a corner of the room.

“I am,” said Birch, proudly.

“And a traitor to your country,” continued the major, with sternness. “Do you know that I should be justified in ordering your execution this night?”

“’Tis not the will of God to call a soul so hastily to His presence,” said the peddler with solemnity.

“You speak truth,” said Dunwoodie; “and a few brief hours shall be added to your life. But as your offense is most odious to a soldier, so it will be sure to meet with the soldier’s vengeance. You die to-morrow.”

“’Tis as God wills.”

“I have spent many a good hour to entrap the villain,” said the Skinner, advancing a little from his corner, “and I hope you will give me a certificate that will entitle us to the reward; ’twas promised to be paid in gold.”

“Major Dunwoodie,” said the officer of the day, entering the room, “the patrols report a house to be burned near yesterday’s battle ground.”

“’Twas the hut of the peddler,” muttered the leader of the gang. “We have not left him a shingle for shelter; I should have burned it months ago, but I wanted his shed for a trap to catch the sly fox in.”

“You seem a most ingenious patriot,” said Lawton. “Major Dunwoodie, I second the request of this worthy gentleman, and crave the office of bestowing the reward on him and his fellows.”

“Take it; and you, miserable man, prepare for that fate which will surely befall you before the setting of to-morrow’s sun.”

“Life offers but little to tempt me with,” said Harvey, slowly raising his eyes, and gazing wildly at the strange faces in the apartment.

“Come, worthy children of America!” said Lawton, “follow, and receive your reward.”

The gang eagerly accepted the invitation, and followed the captain towards the quarters assigned to his troop. Dunwoodie paused a moment, from reluctance to triumph over a fallen foe, before he proceeded.

“You have already been tried, Harvey Birch; and the truth has proved you to be an enemy too dangerous to the liberties of America to be suffered to live.”

“The truth!” echoed the peddler, starting, and raising himself in a manner that disregarded the weight of his pack.

“Aye! the truth; you are charged with loitering near the continental army, to gain intelligence of its movements, and, by communicating them to the enemy, to enable him to frustrate the intentions of Washington.”

“Will Washington say so, think you?”

“Doubtless he would; even the justice of Washington condemns you.”

“No, no, no,” cried the peddler, in a voice and with a manner that startled Dunwoodie. “Washington can see beyond the hollow views of pretended patriots. Has he not risked his all on the cast of a die? If a gallows is ready for me, was there not one for him also? No, no, no, no — Washington would never say, ‘Lead him to a gallows.’”

“Have you anything, wretched man, to urge to the commander in chief why you should not die?” said the major, recovering from the surprise created by the manner of the other.

Birch trembled, for violent emotions were contending in his bosom. His face assumed the ghastly paleness of death, and his hand drew a box of tin from the folds of his shirt; he opened it, showing by the act that it contained a small piece of paper. On this document his eye was for an instant fixed — he had already held it towards Dunwoodie, when suddenly withdrawing his hand he exclaimed, —

“No — it dies with me. I know the conditions of my service, and will not purchase life with their forfeiture — it dies with me.”

“Deliver that paper, and you may possibly find favor,” cried Dunwoodie, expecting a discovery of importance to the cause.

“It dies with me,” repeated Birch, a flush passing over his pallid features, and lighting them with extraordinary brilliancy.

“Seize the traitor!” cried the major, “and wrest the secret from his hands.”

The order was immediately obeyed; but the movements of the peddler were too quick; in an instant he swallowed the paper. The officers paused in astonishment; but the surgeon cried eagerly, —

“Hold him, while I administer an emetic.”

“Forbear!” said Dunwoodie, beckoning him back with his hand. “If his crime is great, so will his punishment be heavy.”

“Lead on,” cried the peddler, dropping his pack from his shoulders, and advancing towards the door with a manner of incomprehensible dignity.

“Whither?” asked Dunwoodie, in amazement.

“To the gallows.”

“No,” said the major, recoiling in horror at his own justice. “My duty requires that I order you to be executed, but surely not so hastily; take until nine to-morrow to prepare for the awful change.”

Dunwoodie whispered his orders in the ear of a subaltern, and motioned to the peddler to withdraw. The interruption caused by this scene prevented further enjoyment around the table, and the officers dispersed to their several places of rest. In a short time the only noise to be heard was the heavy tread of the sentinel, as he paced the frozen ground in front of the Hotel Flanagan.

CHAPTER XVII

There are, whose changing lineaments
Express each guileless passion of the breast;
Where Love, and Hope, and tender-hearted Pity
Are seen reflected, as from a mirror’s face;
But cold experience can veil these hues
With looks, invented shrewdly to encompass
The cunning purposes of base deceit.

— Duo.

The officer to whose keeping Dunwoodie had committed the peddler transferred his charge to the custody of the regular sergeant of the guard. The gift of Captain Wharton had not been lost on the youthful lieutenant; and a certain dancing motion that had taken possession of objects before his eyes, gave him warning of the necessity of recruiting nature by sleep. After admonishing the noncommissioned guardian of Harvey to omit no watchfulness in securing the prisoner, the youth wrapped himself in his cloak, and, stretched on a bench before a fire, soon found the repose he needed. A rude shed extended the whole length of the rear of the building, and from off one of its ends had been partitioned a small apartment, that was intended as a repository for many of the lesser implements of husbandry. The lawless times had, however, occasioned its being stripped of everything of value; and the searching eyes of Betty Flanagan selected this spot, on her arrival, as the storehouse for her movables and a sanctuary for her person. The spare arms and baggage of the corps had also been deposited here; and the united treasures were placed under the eye of the sentinel who paraded the shed as a guardian of the rear of the headquarters. A second soldier, who was stationed near the house to protect the horses of the officers, could command a view of the outside of the apartment; and, as it was without window or outlet of any kind, excepting its door, the considerate sergeant thought this the most befitting place in which to deposit his prisoner until the moment of his execution. Several inducements urged Sergeant Hollister to this determination, among which was the absence of the washerwoman, who lay before the kitchen fire, dreaming that the corps was attacking a party of the enemy, and mistaking the noise that proceeded from her own nose for the bugles of the Virginians sounding the charge. Another was the peculiar opinions that the veteran entertained of life and death, and by which he was distinguished in the corps as a man of most exemplary piety and holiness of life. The sergeant was more than fifty years of age, and for half that period he had borne arms. The constant recurrence of sudden deaths before his eyes had produced an effect on him differing greatly from that which was the usual moral consequence of such scenes; and he had become not only the most steady, but the most trustworthy soldier in his troop. Captain Lawton had rewarded his fidelity by making him its orderly.

Followed by Birch, the sergeant proceeded in silence to the door of the intended prison, and, throwing it open with one hand, he held a lantern with the other to light the peddler to his prison. Seating himself on a cask, that contained some of Betty’s favorite beverage, the sergeant motioned to Birch to occupy another, in the same manner. The lantern was placed on the floor, when the dragoon, after looking his prisoner steadily in the face, observed, —

“You look as if you would meet death like a man; and I have brought you to a spot where you can tranquilly arrange your thoughts, and be quiet and undisturbed.”

“’Tis a fearful place to prepare for the last change in,” said Harvey, gazing around his little prison with a vacant eye.

“Why, for the matter of that,” returned the veteran, “it can reckon but little in the great account, where a man parades his thoughts for the last review, so that he finds them fit to pass the muster of another world. I have a small book here, which I make it a point to read a little in, whenever we are about to engage, and I find it a great strengthener in time of need.” While speaking, he took a Bible from his pocket, and offered it to the peddler. Birch received the volume with habitual reverence; but there was an abstracted air about him, and a wandering of the eye, that induced his companion to think that alarm was getting the mastery of the peddler’s feelings; accordingly, he proceeded in what he conceived to be the offices of consolation.

“If anything lies heavy on your mind, now is the best time to get rid of it — if you have done any wrong to anyone, I promise you, on the word of an honest dragoon, to lend you a helping hand to see them righted.”

“There are few who have not done so,” said the peddler, turning his vacant gaze once more on his companion.

“True— ’tis natural to sin; but it sometimes happens that a man does what at other times he may be sorry for. One would not wish to die with any very heavy sin on his conscience, after all.”

Harvey had by this time thoroughly examined the place in which he was to pass the night, and saw no means of escape. But as hope is ever the last feeling to desert the human breast, the peddler gave the dragoon more of his attention, fixing on his sunburned features such searching looks, that Sergeant Hollister lowered his eyes before the wild expression which he met in the gaze of his prisoner.

“I have been taught to lay the burden of my sins at the feet of my
Savior,” replied the peddler.

“Why, yes — all that is well enough,” returned the other. “But justice should be done while there is opportunity. There have been stirring times in this country since the war began, and many have been deprived of their rightful goods I oftentimes find it hard to reconcile even my lawful plunder to a tender conscience.”

“These hands,” said the peddler, stretching forth his meager, bony fingers, “have spent years in toil, but not a moment in pilfering.”

“It is well that it is so,” said the honest-hearted soldier, “and, no doubt, you now feel it a great consolation. There are three great sins, that, if a man can keep his conscience clear of, why, by the mercy of God, he may hope to pass muster with the saints in heaven: they are stealing, murdering, and desertion.”

“Thank God!” said Birch, with fervor, “I have never yet taken the life of a fellow creature.”

“As to killing a man in lawful battle, that is no more than doing one’s duty. If the cause is wrong, the sin of such a deed, you know, falls on the nation, and a man receives his punishment here with the rest of the people; but murdering in cold blood stands next to desertion as a crime in the eye of God.”

“I never was a soldier, therefore never could desert,” said the peddler, resting his face on his hand in a melancholy attitude.

“Why, desertion consists of more than quitting your colors, though that is certainly the worst kind; a man may desert his country in the hour of need.”

Birch buried his face in both his hands, and his whole frame shook; the sergeant regarded him closely, but good feelings soon got the better of his antipathies, and he continued more mildly, —

“But still that is a sin which I think may be forgiven, if sincerely repented of; and it matters but little when or how a man dies, so that he dies like a Christian and a man. I recommend you to say your prayers, and then to get some rest, in order that you may do both. There is no hope of your being pardoned; for Colonel Singleton has sent down the most positive orders to take your life whenever we met you. No, no — nothing can save you.”

“You say the truth,” cried Birch. “It is now too late — I have destroyed my only safeguard. But he will do my memory justice at least.”

“What safeguard?” asked the sergeant, with awakened curiosity.

“’Tis nothing,” replied the peddler, recovering his natural manner, and lowering his face to avoid the earnest looks of his companion.

“And who is he?”

“No one,” added Harvey, anxious to say no more.

“Nothing and no one can avail but little now,” said the sergeant, rising to go. “Lay yourself on the blanket of Mrs. Flanagan, and get a little sleep; I will call you betimes in the morning; and from the bottom of my soul I wish I could be of some service to you, for I dislike greatly to see a man hung up like a dog.”

“Then you might save me from this ignominious death,” said Birch, springing to his feet, and catching the dragoon by the arm. “And, oh! what will I not give you in reward!”

“In what manner?” asked the sergeant, looking at him in surprise.

“See,” said the peddler, producing several guineas from his person; “these are nothing to what I will give you, if you will assist me to escape.”

“Were you the man whose picture is on the gold, I would not listen to such a crime,” said the trooper, throwing the money on the floor with contempt. “Go — go, poor wretch, and make your peace with God; for it is He only that can be of service to you now.”

The sergeant took up the lantern, and, with some indignation in his manner, he left the peddler to sorrowful meditations on his approaching fate. Birch sank, in momentary despair, on the pallet of Betty, while his guardian proceeded to give the necessary instructions to the sentinels for his safe-keeping.

Hollister concluded his injunctions to the man in the shed, by saying, “Your life will depend on his not escaping. Let none enter or quit the room till morning.”

“But,” said the trooper, “my orders are, to let the washerwoman pass in and out, as she pleases.”

“Well, let her then; but be careful that this wily peddler does not get out in the folds of her petticoats.” He then continued his walk, giving similar orders to each of the sentinels near the spot.

For some time after the departure of the sergeant, silence prevailed within the solitary prison of the peddler, until the dragoon at his door heard his loud breathings, which soon rose into the regular cadence of one in a deep sleep. The man continued walking his post, musing on an indifference to life which could allow nature its customary rest, even on the threshold of the grave. Harvey Birch had, however, been a name too long held in detestation by every man in the corps, to suffer any feelings of commiseration to mingle with these reflections of the sentinel; for, notwithstanding the consideration and kindness manifested by the sergeant, there probably was not another man of his rank in the whole party who would have discovered equal benevolence to the prisoner, or who would not have imitated the veteran in rejecting the bribe, although probably from a less worthy motive. There was something of disappointed vengeance in the feelings of the man who watched the door of the room on finding his prisoner enjoying a sleep of which he himself was deprived, and at his exhibiting such obvious indifference to the utmost penalty that military rigor could inflict on all his treason to the cause of liberty and America. More than once he felt prompted to disturb the repose of the peddler by taunts and revilings; but the discipline he was under, and a secret sense of shame at the brutality of the act, held him in subjection.

His meditations were, however, soon interrupted by the appearance of the washerwoman, who came staggering through the door that communicated with the kitchen, muttering execrations against the servants of the officers, who, by their waggery, had disturbed her slumbers before the fire. The sentinel understood enough of her maledictions to comprehend the case; but all his efforts to enter into conversation with the enraged woman were useless, and he suffered her to enter her room without explaining that it contained another inmate. The noise of her huge frame falling on the bed was succeeded by a silence that was soon interrupted by the renewed respiration of the peddler, and within a few minutes Harvey continued to breathe aloud, as if no interruption had occurred. The relief arrived at this moment.

The sentinel, who felt nettled at the contempt of the peddler, after communicating his orders, while he was retiring, exclaimed to his successor, —

“You may keep yourself warm by dancing, John; the peddler spy has tuned his fiddle, you hear, and it will not be long before Betty will strike up, in her turn.”

The joke was followed by a general laugh from the party, who marched on in performance of their duty. At this instant the door of the prison was opened, and Betty reappeared, staggering back again toward her former quarters.

“Stop,” said the sentinel, catching her by her clothes; “are you sure the spy is not in your pocket?”

“Can’t you hear the rascal snoring in my room, you dirty blackguard?” sputtered Betty, her whole frame shaking with rage. “And is it so ye would sarve a dacent famale, that a man must be put to sleep in the room wid her, ye rapscallion?”

“Pooh! Do you mind a fellow who’s to be hanged in the morning? You see he sleeps already; to-morrow he’ll take a longer nap.”

“Hands off, ye villain,” cried the washerwoman, relinquishing a small bottle that the trooper had succeeded in wresting from her. “But I’ll go to Captain Jack, and know if it’s orders to put a hang-gallows spy in my room; aye, even in my widowed bed, you tief!”

“Silence, old Jezebel!” said the fellow with a laugh, taking the bottle from his mouth to breathe, “or you will wake the gentleman. Would you disturb a man in his last sleep?”

“I’ll awake Captain Jack, you reprobate villain, and bring him here to see me righted; he will punish ye all, for imposing on a dacent widowed body, you marauder!”

With these words, which only extorted a laugh from the sentinel, Betty staggered round the end of the building, and made the best of her way towards the quarters of her favorite, Captain John Lawton, in search of redress. Neither the officer nor the woman, however, appeared during the night, and nothing further occurred to disturb the repose of the peddler, who, to the astonishment of the different sentinels, continued by his breathing to manifest how little the gallows could affect his slumbers.

CHAPTER XVIII

A Daniel come to judgment; yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how I do honor thee!

— Merchant of Venice.

The Skinners followed Captain Lawton with alacrity, towards the quarters occupied by the troop of that gentleman. The captain of dragoons had on all occasions manifested so much zeal for the cause in which he was engaged, was so regardless of personal danger when opposed to the enemy, and his stature and stern countenance contributed so much to render him terrific, that these qualities had, in some measure, procured him a reputation distinct from the corps in which he served. His intrepidity was mistaken for ferocity; and his hasty zeal, for the natural love of cruelty. On the other hand, a few acts of clemency, or, more properly speaking, of discriminating justice, had, with one portion of the community, acquired for Dunwoodie the character of undue forbearance. It is seldom that either popular condemnation or popular applause falls, exactly in the quantities earned, where it is merited.

While in the presence of the major the leader of the gang had felt himself under that restraint which vice must ever experience in the company of acknowledged virtue; but having left the house, he at once conceived that he was under the protection of a congenial spirit. There was a gravity in the manner of Lawton that deceived most of those who did not know him intimately; and it was a common saying in his troop, that “when the captain laughed, he was sure to punish.” Drawing near his conductor, therefore, the leader commenced a confidential dialogue.

“’Tis always well for a man to know his friends from his enemies,” said the half-licensed freebooter.

To this prefatory observation the captain made no other reply than a sound which the other interpreted into assent.

“I suppose Major Dunwoodie has the good opinion of Washington?” continued the Skinner, in a tone that rather expressed a doubt than asked a question.

“There are some who think so.”

“Many of the friends of Congress in this county,” the man proceeded, “wish the horse was led by some other officer. For my part, if I could only be covered by a troop now and then, I could do many an important piece of service to the cause, to which this capture of the peddler would be a trifle.”

“Indeed! such as what?”

“For the matter of that, it could be made as profitable to the officer as it would be to us who did it,” said the Skinner, with a look of the most significant meaning.

“But how?” asked Lawton, a little impatiently, and quickening his step to get out of the hearing of the rest of the party.

“Why, near the royal lines, even under the very guns of the heights, might be good picking if we had a force to guard us from De Lancey’s [Footnote: The partisan corps called Cowboys in the parlance of the country, was commanded by Colonel De Lancey. This gentleman, for such he was by birth and education, rendered himself very odious to the Americans by his fancied cruelty, though there is no evidence of his being guilty of any acts unusual in this species of warfare. Colonel De Lancey belonged to a family of the highest consequence in the American colonies, his uncle having died in the administration of the government of that of New York. He should not be confounded with other gentlemen of his name and family, many of whom served in the royal army. His cousin, Colonel Oliver De Lancey, was, at the time of our tale, adjutant general of the British forces in America, having succeeded to the unfortunate Andre. The Cowboys were sometimes called Refugees, in consequence of their having taken refuge under the protection of the crown.] men, and to cover our retreat from being cut off by the way of King’s Bridge.”

“I thought the Refugees took all that game to themselves.”

“They do a little at it; but they are obliged to be sparing among their own people. I have been down twice, under an agreement with them: the first time they acted with honor; but the second they came upon us and drove us off, and took the plunder to themselves.”

“That was a very dishonorable act, indeed; I wonder that an honorable man will associate with such rascals.”

“It is necessary to have an understanding with some of them, or we might be taken; but a man without honor is worse than a brute. Do you think Major Dunwoodie is to be trusted?”

“You mean on honorable principles?”

“Certainly; you know Arnold was thought well of until the royal major was taken.”

“Why, I do not believe Dunwoodie would sell his command as Arnold wished to do; neither do I think him exactly trustworthy in a delicate business like this of yours.”

“That’s just my notion,” rejoined the Skinner, with a self-approving manner that showed how much he was satisfied with his own estimate of character.

By this time they had arrived at a better sort of farmhouse, the very extensive outbuildings of which were in tolerable repair, for the times. The barns were occupied by the men of the troop, while the horses were arranged under the long sheds which protected the yard from the cold north wind. The latter were quietly eating, with saddles on their backs and bridles thrown on their necks, ready to be bitted and mounted at the shortest warning. Lawton excused himself for a moment, and entered his quarters. He soon returned, holding in his hand one of the common, stable lanterns, and led the way towards a large orchard that surrounded the buildings on three sides. The gang followed the trooper in silence, believing his object to be facility of communicating further on this interesting topic, without the danger of being overheard.

Approaching the captain, the Skinner renewed the discourse, with a view of establishing further confidence, and of giving his companion a more favorable opinion of his own intellects.

“Do you think the colonies will finally get the better of the king?” he inquired, with a little of the importance of a politician.

“Get the better!” echoed the captain with impetuosity. Then checking himself, he continued, “No doubt they will. If the French will give us arms and money, we will drive out the royal troops in six months.”

“Well, so I hope we shall soon; and then we shall have a free government, and we, who fight for it, will get our reward.”

“Oh!” cried Lawton, “your claims will be indisputable; while all these vile Tories who live at home peaceably, to take care of their farms, will be held in the contempt they merit. You have no farm, I suppose?”

“Not yet — but it will go hard if I do not find one before the peace is made.”

“Right; study your own interests, and you study the interests of your country; press the point of your own services, and rail at the Tories, and I’ll bet my spurs against a rusty nail that you get to be a county clerk at least.”

“Don’t you think Paulding’s [Footnote: The author must have intended some allusion to an individual, which is too local to be understood by the general reader. Andre, as is well known, was arrested by three countrymen, who were on the lookout for predatory parties of the enemy; the principal man of this party was named Paulding. The disinterested manner in which they refused the offers of their captive is matter of history.] party were fools in not letting the royal adjutant general escape?” said the man, thrown off his guard by the freedom of the captain’s manner.

“Fools!” cried Lawton, with a bitter laugh. “Aye, fools indeed; King George would have paid them better, for he is richer. He would have made them gentlemen for their losses. But, thank God! there is a pervading spirit in the people that seems miraculous. Men who have nothing, act as if the wealth of the Indies depended on their fidelity; all are not villains like yourself, or we should have been slaves to England years ago.”

“How!” exclaimed the Skinner, starting back, and dropping his musket to the level of the other’s breast; “am I betrayed, and are you my enemy?”

“Miscreant!” shouted Lawton, his saber ringing in its steel scabbard, as he struck the musket of the fellow from his hands, “offer but again to point your gun at me, and I’ll cleave you to the middle.”

“And you will not pay us, then, Captain Lawton?” said the Skinner, trembling in every joint, for just then he saw a party of mounted dragoons silently encircling the whole party.

“Oh! pay you — yes, you shall have the full measure of your reward. There is the money that Colonel Singleton sent down for the captors of the spy,” throwing a bag of guineas with disdain at the other’s feet. “But ground your arms, you rascals, and see that the money is truly told.”

The intimidated band did as they were ordered; and while they were eagerly employed in this pleasing avocation, a few of Lawton’s men privately knocked the flints out of their muskets.

“Well,” cried the impatient captain, “is it right? Have you the promised reward?”

“There is just the money,” said the leader; “and we will now go to our homes, with your permission.”

“Hold! so much to redeem our promise — now for justice; we pay you for taking a spy, but we punish you for burning, robbing, and murdering. Seize them, my lads, and give each of them the law of Moses — forty save one.”

This command was given to no unwilling listeners; and in the twinkling of an eye the Skinners were stripped and fastened, by the halters of the party, to as many of the apple trees as were necessary to furnish one to each of the gang. Swords were quickly drawn, and fifty branches were cut from the trees, like magic; from these were selected a few of the most supple of the twigs, and a willing dragoon was soon found to wield each of the weapons. Captain Lawton gave the word, humanely cautioning his men not to exceed the discipline prescribed by the Mosaic law, and the uproar of Babel “ commenced in the orchard. The cries of the leader were easily to be distinguished above those of his men; a circumstance which might be accounted for, by Captain Lawton’s reminding his corrector that he had to deal with an officer, and he should remember and pay him unusual honor. The flagellation was executed with great neatness and dispatch, and it was distinguished by no irregularity, excepting that none of the disciplinarians began to count until they had tried their whips by a dozen or more blows, by the way, as they said themselves, of finding out the proper places to strike. As soon as this summary operation was satisfactorily completed, Lawton directed his men to leave the Skinners to replace their own clothes, and to mount their horses; for they were a party who had been detached for the purpose of patrolling lower down in the county.

“You see, my friend,” said the captain to the leader of the Skinners, after he had prepared himself to depart, “I can cover you to some purpose, when necessary. If we meet often, you will be covered with scars, which, if not very honorable, will at least be merited.”

The fellow made no reply. He was busy with his musket, and hastening his comrades to march; when, everything being ready, they proceeded sullenly towards some rocks at no great distance, which were overhung by a deep wood. The moon was just rising, and the group of dragoons could easily be distinguished where they had been left. Suddenly turning, the whole gang leveled their pieces and drew the triggers. The action was noticed, and the snapping of the locks was heard by the soldiers, who returned their futile attempt with a laugh of derision, the captain crying aloud, —

“Ah! rascals, I knew you, and have taken away your flints.”

“You should have taken away that in my pouch, too,” shouted the leader, firing his gun in the next instant. The bullet grazed the ear of Lawton, who laughed as he shook his head, saying, “A miss was as good as a mile.” One of the dragoons had seen the preparations of the Skinner — who had been left alone by the rest of his gang, as soon as they had made their abortive attempt at revenge — and was in the act of plunging his spurs into his horse as the fellow fired. The distance to the rocks was but small, yet the speed of the horse compelled the leader to abandon both money and musket, to effect his escape. The soldier returned with his prizes, and offered them to the acceptance of his captain; but Lawton rejected them, telling the man to retain them himself, until the rascal appeared in person to claim his property. It would have been a business of no small difficulty for any tribunal then existing in the new states to have enforced a restitution of the money; for it was shortly after most equitably distributed, by the hands of Sergeant Hollister, among a troop of horse. The patrol departed, and the captain slowly returned to his quarters, with an intention of retiring to rest. A figure moving rapidly among the trees, in the direction of the wood whither the Skinners had retired, caught his eye, and, wheeling on his heel, the cautious partisan approached it, and, to his astonishment, saw the washerwoman at that hour of the night, and in such a place.

“What, Betty! Walking in your sleep, or dreaming while awake?” cried the trooper. “Are you not afraid of meeting with the ghost of ancient Jenny in this her favorite pasture?”

“Ah, sure, Captain Jack,” returned the sutler in her native accent, and reeling in a manner that made it difficult for her to raise her head, “it’s not Jenny, or her ghost, that I’m saaking, but some yarbs for the wounded. And it’s the vartue of the rising moon, as it jist touches them, that I want. They grow under yon rocks, and I must hasten, or the charm will lose its power.”

“Fool, you are fitter for your pallet than for wandering among those rocks; a fall from one of them would break your bones; besides, the Skinners have fled to those heights, and should you fall in with them, they would revenge on you a sound flogging they have just received from me. Better return, old woman, and finish your nap; we march in the morning.”

Betty disregarded his advice, and continued her devious route to the hillside. For an instant, as Lawton mentioned the Skinners, she had paused, but immediately resuming her course, she was soon out of sight, among the trees.

As the captain entered his quarters, the sentinel at the door inquired if he had met Mrs. Flanagan, and added that she had passed there, filling the air with threats against her tormentors at the “Hotel,” and inquiring for the captain in search of redress. Lawton heard the man in astonishment — appeared struck with a new idea — walked several yards towards the orchard, and returned again; for several minutes he paced rapidly to and fro before the door of the house, and then hastily entering it, he threw himself on a bed in his clothes, and was soon in a profound sleep.

In the meantime, the gang of marauders had successfully gained the summit of the rocks, and, scattering in every direction, they buried themselves in the depths of the wood. Finding, however, there was no pursuit, which indeed would have been impracticable for horse, the leader ventured to call his band together with a whistle, and in a short time he succeeded in collecting his discomfited party, at a point where they had but little to apprehend from any enemy.

“Well,” said one of the fellows, while a fire was lighting to protect them against the air, which was becoming severely cold, “there is an end to our business in Westchester. The Virginia horse will make the county too hot to hold us.”

“I’ll have his blood,” muttered the leader, “if I die for it the next instant.”

“Oh, you are very valiant here, in the wood,” cried the other, with a savage laugh. “Why did you, who boast so much of your aim, miss your man, at thirty yards?”

“’Twas the horseman that disturbed me, or I would have ended this Captain Lawton on the spot; besides, the cold had set me a-shivering, and I had no longer a steady hand.”

“Say it was fear, and you will tell no lie,” said his comrade with a sneer. “For my part, I think I shall never be cold again; my back burns as if a thousand gridirons were laid on it.”

“And you would tamely submit to such usage, and kiss the rod that beat you?”

“As for kissing the rod, it would be no easy matter. Mine was broken into so small pieces, on my own shoulders, that it would be difficult to find one big enough to kiss; but I would rather submit to lose half my skin, than to lose the whole of it, with my ears in the bargain. And such will be our fates, if we tempt this mad Virginian again. God willing, I would at any time give him enough of my hide to make a pair of jack boots, to get out of his hands with the remainder. If you had known when you were well off, you would have stuck to Major Dunwoodie, who don’t know half so much of our evil doings.”

“Silence, you talking fool!” shouted the enraged leader; “your prating is sufficient to drive a man mad. Is it not enough to be robbed and beaten, but we must be tormented with your folly? Help to get out the provisions, if any is left in the wallet, and try and stop your mouth with food.”

This injunction was obeyed, and the whole party, amidst sundry groans and contortions, excited by the disordered state of their backs, made their arrangements for a scanty meal. A large fire of dry wood was burning in the cleft of a rock, and at length they began to recover from the confusion of their flight, and to collect their scattered senses. Their hunger being appeased, and many of their garments thrown aside for the better opportunity of dressing their wounds, the gang began to plot measures of revenge. An hour was spent in this manner, and various expedients were proposed; but as they all depended on personal prowess for their success, and were attended by great danger, they were of course rejected. There was no possibility of approaching the troops by surprise, their vigilance being ever on the watch; and the hope of meeting Captain Lawton away from his men, was equally forlorn, for the trooper was constantly engaged in his duty, and his movements were so rapid, that any opportunity of meeting with him, at all, must depend greatly on accident. Besides, it was by no means certain that such an interview would result happily for themselves. The cunning of the trooper was notorious; and rough and broken as was Westchester, the fearless partisan was known to take desperate leaps, and stone walls were but slight impediments to the charges of the Southern horse. Gradually, the conversation took another direction, until the gang determined on a plan which should both revenge themselves, and at the same time offer some additional stimulus to their exertions. The whole business was accurately discussed, the time fixed, and the manner adopted; in short, nothing was wanting to the previous arrangement for this deed of villainy, when they were aroused by a voice calling aloud, —

“This way, Captain Jack — here are the rascals ‘ating by a fire — this way, and murder the t’ieves where they sit — quick, l’ave your horses and shoot your pistols!”

This terrific summons was enough to disturb all the philosophy of the gang. Springing on their feet, they rushed deeper into the wood, and having already agreed upon a place of rendezvous previously to their intended expedition, they dispersed towards the four quarters of the heavens. Certain sounds and different voices were heard calling on each other, but as the marauders were well trained to speed of foot, they were soon lost in the distance.

It was not long before Betty Flanagan emerged from the darkness, and very coolly took possession of what the Skinners had left behind them; namely, food and divers articles of dress. The washerwoman deliberately seated herself, and made a meal with great apparent satisfaction. For an hour, she sat with her head upon her hand, in deep musing; then she gathered together such articles of the clothes, as seemed to suit her fancy, and retired into the wood, leaving the fire to throw its glimmering light on the adjacent rocks, until its last brand died away, and the place was abandoned to solitude and darkness.

CHAPTER XIX

No longer then perplex the breast —
When thoughts torment, the first are best;
’Tis mad to go, ’tis death to stay!
Away, to Orra, haste away.
— Lapland Love Song.

While his comrades were sleeping, in perfect forgetfulness of their hardships and dangers, the slumbers of Dunwoodie were broken and unquiet. After spending a night of restlessness, he arose, unrefreshed, from the rude bed where he had thrown himself in his clothes, and, without awaking any of the group around him, he wandered into the open air in search of relief. The soft rays of the moon were just passing away in the more distinct light of the morning; the wind had fallen, and the rising mists gave the promise of another of those autumnal days, which, in this unstable climate, succeed a tempest with the rapid transitions of magic. The hour had not yet arrived when he intended moving from his present position; and, willing to allow his warriors all the refreshment that circumstances would permit, he strolled towards the scene of the Skinners’ punishment, musing upon the embarrassments of his situation, and uncertain how he should reconcile his sense of duty with his love. Although Dunwoodie himself placed the most implicit reliance on the captain’s purity of intention, he was by no means assured that a board of officers would be equally credulous; and, independently of all feelings of private regard, he felt certain that with the execution of Henry would be destroyed all hopes of a union with his sister. He had dispatched an officer, the preceding evening, to Colonel Singleton, who was in command of the advance posts, reporting the capture of the British captain, and, after giving his own opinion of his innocence, requesting orders as to the manner in which he was to dispose of his prisoner. These orders might be expected every hour, and his uneasiness increased, in proportion as the moment approached when his friend might be removed from his protection. In this disturbed state of mind, the major wandered through the orchard, and was stopped in his walk by arriving at the base of those rocks which had protected the Skinners in their flight, before he was conscious whither his steps had carried him. He was about to turn, and retrace his path to his quarters, when he was startled by a voice, bidding him, —

“Stand or die!”

Dunwoodie turned in amazement, and beheld the figure of a man placed at a little distance above him on a shelving rock, with a musket leveled at himself. The light was not yet sufficiently powerful to reach the recesses of that gloomy spot, and a second look was necessary before he discovered, to his astonishment, that the peddler stood before him. Comprehending, in an instant, the danger of his situation, and disdaining to implore mercy or to retreat, had the latter been possible, the youth cried firmly, —

“If I am to be murdered, fire! I will never become your prisoner.”

“No, Major Dunwoodie,” said Birch, lowering his musket, “it is neither my intention to capture nor to slay.”

“What then would you have, mysterious being?” said Dunwoodie, hardly able to persuade himself that the form he saw was not a creature of the imagination.

“Your good opinion,” answered the peddler, with emotion. “I would wish all good men to judge me with lenity.”

“To you it must be indifferent what may be the judgment of men; for you seem to be beyond the reach of their sentence.”

“God spares the lives of His servants to His own time,” said the peddler, solemnly. “A few hours ago I was your prisoner, and threatened with the gallows; now you are mine; but, Major Dunwoodie, you are free. There are men abroad who would treat you less kindly. Of what service would that sword be to you against my weapon and a steady hand? Take the advice of one who has never harmed you, and who never will. Do not trust yourself in the skirts of any wood, unless in company and mounted.”

“And have you comrades, who have assisted you to escape, and who are less generous than yourself?”

“No — no, I am alone truly — none know me but my God and him.”

“And who?” asked the major, with an interest he could not control.

“None,” continued the peddler, recovering his composure. “But such is not your case, Major Dunwoodie; you are young and happy; there are those that are dear to you, and such are not far away — danger is near them you love most — danger within and without — double your watchfulness — strengthen your patrols — and be silent. With your opinion of me, should I tell you more, you would suspect an ambush. But remember and guard them you love best.”

The peddler discharged the musket in the air, and threw it at the feet of his astonished auditor. When surprise and the smoke allowed Dunwoodie to look again on the rock where he had stood, the spot was vacant.

The youth was aroused from the stupor, which had been created by this strange scene, by the trampling of horses, and the sound of the bugles. A patrol was drawn to the spot by the report of the musket, and the alarm had been given to the corps. Without entering into any explanation with his men, the major returned quickly to his quarters, where he found the whole squadron under arms, in battle array, impatiently awaiting the appearance of their leader. The officer whose duty it was to superintend such matters, had directed a party to lower the sign of the Hotel Flanagan, and the post was already arranged for the execution of the spy. On hearing from the major that the musket was discharged by himself, and was probably one of those dropped by the Skinners (for by this time Dunwoodie had learned the punishment inflicted by Lawton, but chose to conceal his own interview with Birch), his officers suggested the propriety of executing their prisoner before they marched. Unable to believe that all he had seen was not a dream, Dunwoodie, followed by many of his officers, and preceded by Sergeant Hollister, went to the place which was supposed to contain the peddler.

“Well, sir,” said the major to the sentinel who guarded the door, “I trust you have your prisoner in safety.”

“He is yet asleep,” replied the man, “and he makes such a noise, I could hardly hear the bugles sound the alarm.”

“Open the door and bring him forth.”

The order was obeyed; but to the utter amazement of the honest veteran who entered the prison, he found the room in no little disorder — the coat of the peddler where his body ought to have been, and part of the wardrobe of Betty scattered in disorder on the floor. The washerwoman herself occupied the pallet, in profound mental oblivion, clad as when last seen, excepting a little black bonnet, which she so constantly wore, that it was commonly thought she made it perform the double duty of both day and night cap. The noise of their entrance, and the exclamations of their party, awoke the woman.

“Is it the breakfast that’s wanting?” said Betty, rubbing her eyes. “Faith, ye look as if ye would ate myself — but patience, a little, darlings, and ye’ll see sich a fry as never was.”

“Fry!” echoed the sergeant, forgetful of his religious philosophy, and the presence of his officers. “We’ll have you roasted, Jezebel! — you’ve helped that damned peddler to escape.”

“Jezebel back ag’in in your own teeth, and damned piddler too, Mr. Sargeant!” cried Betty, who was easily roused. “What have I to do with piddlers, or escapes? I might have been a piddler’s lady, and wore my silks, if I’d had Sawny M’Twill, instead of tagging at the heels of a parcel of dragooning rapscallions, who don’t know how to trate a lone body with dacency.”

“The fellow has left my Bible,” said the veteran, taking he book from the floor. “Instead of spending his time in reading it to prepare for his end like a good Christian, he has been busy in laboring to escape.”

“And who would stay and be hanged like a dog?” cried Betty, beginning to comprehend the case. “’Tisn’t everyone that’s born to meet with sich an ind — like yourself, Mr. Hollister.”

“Silence!” said Dunwoodie. “This must be inquired into closely, gentlemen; there is no outlet but the door, and there he could not pass, unless the sentinel connived at his escape, or was asleep at his post. Call up the guard.”

As these men were not paraded, curiosity had already drawn them to the place, and they one and all, with the exception of him before mentioned, denied that any person had passed out. The individual in question acknowledged that Betty had gone by him, but pleaded his orders in justification.

“You lie, you t’ief — you lie!” shouted Betty, who had impatiently listened to his exculpation. “Would ye slanderize a lone woman, by saying she walks a camp at midnight? Here have I been slaping the long night, swaatly as the sucking babe.”

“Here, sir,” said the sergeant, turning respectfully to Dunwoodie, “is something written in my Bible that was not in it before; for having no family to record, I would not suffer any scribbling in the sacred book.”

One of the officers read aloud: “These certify, that if suffered to get free, it is by God’s help alone, to whose divine aid I humbly riccommind myself. I’m forced to take the woman’s clothes, but in her pocket is a ricompinse. Witness my hand — Harvey Birch.”

“What!” roared Betty, “has the t’ief robbed a lone woman of her all! Hang him — catch him and hang him, major; if there’s law or justice in the land.”

“Examine your pocket,” said one of the youngsters, who was enjoying the scene, careless of the consequences.

“Ah! faith,” cried the washerwoman, producing a guinea, “but he is a jewel of a piddler! Long life and a brisk trade to him, say I; he is wilcome to the duds — and if he is ever hanged, many a bigger rogue will go free.”

Dunwoodie turned to leave the apartment, and he saw Captain Lawton standing with folded arms, contemplating the scene with profound silence. His manner, so different from his usual impetuosity and zeal, struck his commander as singular. Their eyes met, and they walked together for a few minutes in close conversation, when Dunwoodie returned, and dismissed the guard to their place of rendezvous. Sergeant Hollister, however, continued along with Betty, who, having found none of her vestments disturbed but such as the guinea more than paid for, was in high good humor. The washerwoman had for a long time looked on the veteran with the eyes of affection; and she had determined within herself to remove certain delicate objections which had long embarrassed her peculiar situation, as respected the corps, by making the sergeant the successor of her late husband. For some time past the trooper had seemed to flatter this preference; and Betty, conceiving that her violence might have mortified her suitor, was determined to make him all the amends in her power. Besides, rough and uncouth as she was, the washerwoman had still enough of her sex to know that the moments of reconciliation were the moments of power. She therefore poured out a glass of her morning beverage, and handed it to her companion as a peace offering.

“A few warm words between fri’nds are a trifle, ye must be knowing, sargeant,” said the washerwoman. “It was Michael Flanagan that I ever calumn’ated the most when I was loving him the best.”

“Michael was a good soldier and a brave man,” said the trooper, finishing the glass. “Our troop was covering the flank of his regiment when he fell, and I rode over his body myself during the day. Poor fellow! he lay on his back, and looked as composed as if he had died a natural death after a year’s consumption.”

“Oh! Michael was a great consumer, and be sartin; two such as us make dreadful inroads in the stock, sargeant. But ye’re a sober, discrate man, Mister Hollister, and would be a helpmate indeed.”

“Why, Mrs. Flanagan, I’ve tarried to speak on a subject that lies heavy at my heart, and I will now open my mind, if you’ve leisure to listen.”

“Is it listen?” cried the impatient woman; “and I’d listen to you, sargeant, if the officers never ate another mouthful. But take a second drop, dear; ‘twill encourage you to spake freely.”

“I am already bold enough in so good a cause,” returned the veteran, rejecting her bounty. “Betty, do you think it was really the peddler spy that I placed in this room the last night?”

“And who should it be else, darling?”

“The evil one.”

“What, the divil?”

“Aye, even Beelzebub, disguised as the peddler; and them fellows we thought to be Skinners were his imps.”

“Well sure, sargeant dear, ye’re but little out this time, anyway; for if the divil’s imps go at large in the county Westchester, sure it is the Skinners, themselves.”

“Mrs. Flanagan, I mean in their incarnate spirits; the evil one knew there was no one we would arrest sooner than the peddler Birch, and he took on his appearance to gain admission to your room.”

“And what should the divil be wanting of me?” cried Betty, tartly. “And isn’t there divils enough in the corps already, without one’s coming from the bottomless pit to frighten a lone body?”

“’Twas in mercy to you, Betty, that he was permitted to come. You see he vanished through the door in your form, which is a symbol of your fate, unless you mend your life. Oh! I noticed how he trembled when I gave him the good book. Would any Christian, think you, my dear Betty, write in a Bible in this way; unless it might be the matter of births and deaths, and such lawful chronicles?”

The washerwoman was pleased with the softness of her lover’s manner, but dreadfully scandalized at his insinuation. She, however, preserved her temper, and with the quickness of her own country’s people, rejoined, “And would the divil have paid for the clothes, think ye? — aye, and overpaid.”

“Doubtless the money is base,” said the sergeant, a little staggered at such an evidence of honesty in one of whom, as to generals, he thought so meanly. “He tempted me with his glittering coin, but the Lord gave me strength to resist.”

“The goold looks well; but I’ll change it, anyway, with Captain Jack, the day. He is niver a bit afeard of any divil of them all!”

“Betty, Betty,” said her companion, “do not speak so disreverently of the evil spirit; he is ever at hand, and will owe you a grudge, for your language.”

“Pooh! if he has any bowels at all, he won’t mind a fillip or two from a poor lone woman; I’m sure no other Christian would.”

“But the dark one has no bowels, except to devour the children of men,” said the sergeant, looking around him in horror; “and it’s best to make friends everywhere, for there is no telling what may happen till it comes. But, Betty, no man could have got out of this place, and passed all the sentinels, without being known. Take awful warning from the visit therefore— “

Here the dialogue was interrupted by a peremptory summons to the sutler to prepare the morning’s repast, and they were obliged to separate; the woman secretly hoping that the interest the sergeant manifested was more earthly than he imagined; and the man, bent on saving a soul from the fangs of the dark spirit that was prowling through their camp in quest of victims.

During the breakfast several expresses arrived, one of which brought intelligence of the actual force and destination of the enemy’s expedition that was out on the Hudson; and another, orders to send Captain Wharton to the first post above, under the escort of a body of dragoons. These last instructions, or rather commands, for they admitted of no departure from their letter, completed the sum of Dunwoodie’s uneasiness. The despair and misery of Frances were constantly before his eyes, and fifty times he was tempted to throw himself on his horse and gallop to the Locusts; but an uncontrollable feeling prevented. In obedience to the commands of his superior, an officer, with a small party, was sent to the cottage to conduct Henry Wharton to the place directed; and the gentleman who was intrusted with the execution of the order was charged with a letter from Dunwoodie to his friend, containing the most cheering assurances of his safety, as well as the strongest pledges of his own unceasing exertions in his favor. Lawton was left with part of his own troop, in charge of the few wounded; and as soon as the men were refreshed, the encampment broke up, the main body marching towards the Hudson. Dunwoodie repeated his injunctions to Captain Lawton again and again — dwelt on every word that had fallen from the peddler, and canvassed, in every possible manner that his ingenuity could devise, the probable meaning of his mysterious warnings, until no excuse remained for delaying his own departure. Suddenly recollecting, however, that no directions had been given for the disposal of Colonel Wellmere, instead of following the rear of the column, the major yielded to his desires, and turned down the road which led to the Locusts. The horse of Dunwoodie was fleet as the wind, and scarcely a minute seemed to have passed before he gained sight, from an eminence, of the lonely vale, and as he was plunging into the bottom lands that formed its surface, he caught a glimpse of Henry Wharton and his escort, at a distance, defiling through a pass which led to the posts above. This sight added to the speed of the anxious youth, who now turned the angle of the hill that opened to the valley, and came suddenly on the object of his search. Frances had followed the party which guarded her brother, at a distance; and as they vanished from her sight, she felt deserted by all that she most prized in this world. The unaccountable absence of Dunwoodie, with the shock of parting from Henry under such circumstances, had entirely subdued her fortitude, and she had sunk on a stone by the roadside, sobbing as if her heart would break. Dunwoodie sprang from his charger, threw the reins over the neck of the animal, and in a moment he was by the side of the weeping girl.

“Frances — my own Frances!” he exclaimed, “why this distress? Let not the situation of your brother create any alarm. As soon as the duty I am now on is completed, I will hasten to the feet of Washington, and beg his release. The Father of his Country will never deny such a boon to one of his favorite pupils.”

“Major Dunwoodie, for your interest in behalf of my poor brother, I thank you,” said the trembling girl, drying her eyes, and rising with dignity; “but such language addressed to me, surely, is improper.”

“Improper! are you not mine — by the consent of your father — your aunt — your brother — nay, by your own consent, my sweet Frances?”

“I wish not, Major Dunwoodie, to interfere with the prior claims that any other lady may have to your affections,” said Frances, struggling to speak with firmness.

“None other, I swear by Heaven, none other has any claim on me!” cried
Dunwoodie, with fervor. “You alone are mistress of my inmost soul.”

“You have practiced so much, and so successfully, Major Dunwoodie, that it is no wonder you excel in deceiving the credulity of my sex,” returned Frances, attempting a smile, which the tremulousness of her muscles smothered at birth.

“Am I a villain, Miss Wharton, that you receive me with such language? When have I ever deceived you, Frances? Who has practiced in this manner on your purity of heart?”

“Why has not Major Dunwoodie honored the dwelling of his intended father with his presence lately? Did he forget it contained one friend on a bed of sickness, and another in deep distress? Has it escaped his memory that it held his intended wife? Or is he fearful of meeting more than one that can lay a claim to that title? Oh, Peyton — Peyton, how have I been deceived in you! With the foolish credulity of my youth, I thought you all that was brave, noble, generous, and loyal.”

“Frances, I see how you have deceived yourself,” cried Dunwoodie, his face in a glow of fire. “You do me injustice; I swear by all that is most dear to me, that you do me injustice.”

“Swear not, Major Dunwoodie,” interrupted Frances, her fine countenance lighting with the luster of womanly pride. “The time is gone by for me to credit oaths.”

“Miss Wharton, would you have me a coxcomb — make me contemptible in my own eyes, by boasting with the hope of raising myself in your estimation?”

“Flatter not yourself that the task is so easy, sir,” returned Frances, moving towards the cottage. “We converse together in private for the last time; but — possibly — my father would welcome my mother’s kinsman.”

“No, Miss Wharton, I cannot enter his dwelling now; I should act in a manner unworthy of myself. You drive me from you, Frances, in despair. I am going on desperate service, and may not live to return. Should fortune prove severe, at least do my memory justice; remember that the last breathings of my soul will be for your happiness.” So saying, he had already placed his foot in the stirrup, but his youthful mistress, turning on him an eye that pierced his soul, arrested the action.

“Peyton — Major Dunwoodie,” she said, “can you ever forget the sacred cause in which you are enlisted? Duty both to your God and to your country forbids your doing anything rashly. The latter has need of your services; besides” — but her voice became choked, and she was unable to proceed.

“Besides what?” echoed the youth, springing to her side, and offering to take her hand in his own. Frances having, however, recovered herself, coldly repulsed him, and continued her walk homeward.

“Is this our parting!” cried Dunwoodie, in agony. “Am I a wretch, that you treat me so cruelly? You have never loved me, and wish to conceal your own fickleness by accusations that you will not explain.”

Frances stopped short in her walk, and turned on him a look of so much purity and feeling, that, heart-stricken, Dunwoodie would have knelt at her feet for pardon; but motioning him for silence, she once more spoke: —

“Hear me, Major Dunwoodie, for the last time: it is a bitter knowledge when we first discover our own inferiority; but it is a truth that I have lately learned. Against you I bring no charges — make no accusations; no, not willingly in my thoughts. Were my claims to your heart just, I am not worthy of you. It is not a feeble, timid girl, like me, that could make you happy. No, Peyton, you are formed for great and glorious actions, deeds of daring and renown, and should be united to a soul like your own; one that can rise above the weakness of her sex. I should be a weight to drag you to the dust; but with a different spirit in your companion, you might soar to the very pinnacle of earthly glory. To such a one, therefore, I resign you freely, if not cheerfully; and pray, oh, how fervently do I pray! that with such a one you may be happy.”

“Lovely enthusiast!” cried Dunwoodie, “you know not yourself, nor me. It is a woman, mild, gentle, and dependent as yourself, that my very nature loves; deceive not yourself with visionary ideas of generosity, which will only make me miserable.”

“Farewell, Major Dunwoodie,” said the agitated girl, pausing for a moment to gasp for breath; “forget that you ever knew me — remember the claims of your bleeding country; and be happy.”

“Happy!” repeated the youthful soldier, bitterly, as he saw her light form gliding through the gate of the lawn, and disappearing behind its shrubbery, “Yes, I am happy, indeed!”

Throwing himself into the saddle, he plunged his spurs into his horse, and soon overtook his squadron, which was marching slowly over the hilly roads of the county, to gain the banks of the Hudson.

But painful as were the feelings of Dunwoodie at this unexpected termination of the interview with his mistress, they were but light compared with those which were experienced by the fond girl herself. Frances had, with the keen eye of jealous love, easily detected the attachment of Isabella Singleton to Dunwoodie. Delicate and retiring herself, it never could present itself to her mind that this love had been unsought. Ardent in her own affections, and artless in their exhibition, she had early caught the eye of the young soldier; but it required all the manly frankness of Dunwoodie to court her favor, and the most pointed devotion to obtain his conquest. This done, his power was durable, entire, and engrossing. But the unusual occurrences of the few preceding days, the altered mien of her lover during those events, his unwonted indifference to herself, and chiefly the romantic idolatry of Isabella, had aroused new sensations in her bosom. With a dread of her lover’s integrity had been awakened the never-failing concomitant of the purest affection, a distrust of her own merits. In the moment of enthusiasm, the task of resigning her lover to another, who might be more worthy of him, seemed easy; but it is in vain that the imagination attempts to deceive the heart. Dunwoodie had no sooner disappeared, than our heroine felt all the misery of her situation; and if the youth found some relief in the cares of his command, Frances was less fortunate in the performance of a duty imposed on her by filial piety. The removal of his son had nearly destroyed the little energy of Mr. Wharton, who required all the tenderness of his remaining children to convince him that he was able to perform the ordinary functions of life.

CHAPTER XX

Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces,
Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces,
That man who hath a tongue I say is no man,
If with that tongue he cannot win a woman.
— Two Gentlemen of Verona.

In making the arrangements by which Captain Lawton had been left, with Sergeant Hollister and twelve men, as a guard over the wounded, and heavy baggage of the corps, Dunwoodie had consulted not only the information which had been conveyed in the letter of Colonel Singleton, but the bruises of his comrade’s body. In vain Lawton declared himself fit for any duty that man could perform, or plainly intimated that his men would never follow Tom Mason to a charge with the alacrity and confidence with which they followed himself; his commander was firm, and the reluctant captain was compelled to comply with as good a grace as he could assume. Before parting, Dunwoodie repeated his caution to keep a watchful eye on the inmates of the cottage; and especially enjoined him, if any movements of a particularly suspicious nature were seen in the neighborhood, to break up from his present quarters, and to move down with his party, and take possession of the domains of Mr. Wharton. A vague suspicion of danger to the family had been awakened in the breast of the major, by the language of the peddler, although he was unable to refer it to any particular source, or to understand why it was to be apprehended.

For some time after the departure of the troops, the captain was walking before the door of the “Hotel,” inwardly cursing his fate, that condemned him to an inglorious idleness, at a moment when a meeting with the enemy might be expected, and replying to the occasional queries of Betty, who, from the interior of the building, ever and anon demanded, in a high tone of voice, an explanation of various passages in the peddler’s escape, which as yet she could not comprehend. At this instant he was joined by the surgeon, who had hitherto been engaged among his patients in a distant building, and was profoundly ignorant of everything that had occurred, even to the departure of the troops.

“Where are all the sentinels, John?” he inquired, as he gazed around with a look of curiosity, “and why are you here alone?”

“Off — all off, with Dunwoodie, to the river. You and I are left here to take care of a few sick men and some women.”

“I am glad, however,” said the surgeon, “that Major Dunwoodie had consideration enough not to move the wounded. Here, you Mrs. Elizabeth Flanagan, hasten with some food, that I may appease my appetite. I have a dead body to dissect and am in haste.”

“And here, you Mister Doctor Archibald Sitgreaves,” echoed Betty, showing her blooming countenance from a broken window of the kitchen, “you are ever a-coming too late; here is nothing to ate but the skin of Jenny, and the body ye’re mentioning.”

“Woman!” said the surgeon, in anger, “do you take me for a cannibal, that you address your filthy discourse to me, in this manner? I bid you hasten with such food as may be proper to be received into the stomach fasting.”

“And I’m sure it’s for a popgun that I should be taking you sooner than for a cannon ball,” said Betty, winking at the captain; “and I tell ye that it’s fasting you must be, unless ye’ll let me cook ye a steak from the skin of Jenny. The boys have ate me up intirely.”

Lawton now interfered to preserve the peace, and assured the surgeon that he had already dispatched the proper persons in quest of food for the party. A little mollified with this explanation, the operator soon forgot his hunger, and declared his intention of proceeding to business at once.

“And where is your subject?” asked Lawton.

“The peddler,” said the other, glancing a look at the signpost. “I made Hollister put a stage so high that the neck would not be dislocated by the fall, and I intend making as handsome a skeleton of him as there is in the states of North America; the fellow has good points, and his bones are well knit. I will make a perfect beauty of him. I have long been wanting something of this sort to send as a present to my old aunt in Virginia, who was so kind to me when a boy.”

“The devil!” cried Lawton. “Would you send the old woman a dead man’s bones?”

“Why not?” said the surgeon. “What nobler object is there in nature than the figure of a man — and the skeleton may be called his elementary parts. But what has been done with the body?”

“Off too.”

“Off! And who has dared to interfere with my perquisites?”

“Sure, jist the divil,” said Betty; “and who’ll be taking yeerself away some of these times too, without asking yeer lave.”

“Silence, you witch!” said Lawton, with difficulty suppressing a laugh.
“Is this the manner in which to address an officer?”

“Who called me the filthy Elizabeth Flanagan?” cried the washerwoman, snapping her fingers contemptuously. “I can remimber a frind for a year and don’t forgit an inimy for a month.”

But the friendship or enmity of Mrs. Flanagan was alike indifferent to the surgeon, who could think of nothing but his loss; and Lawton was obliged to explain to his friend the apparent manner in which it had happened.

“And a lucky escape it was for ye, my jewel of a doctor,” cried Betty, as the captain concluded. “Sargeant Hollister, who saw him face to face, as it might be, says it’s Beelzeboob, and no piddler, unless it may be in a small matter of lies and thefts, and sich wickedness. Now a pretty figure ye would have been in cutting up Beelzeboob, if the major had hanged him. I don’t think it’s very ‘asy he would have been under yeer knife.”

Thus doubly disappointed in his meal and his business, Sitgreaves suddenly declared his intention of visiting the Locusts, and inquiring into the state of Captain Singleton. Lawton was ready for the excursion; and mounting, they were soon on the road, though the surgeon was obliged to submit to a few more jokes from the washerwoman, before he could get out of hearing. For some time the two rode in silence, when Lawton, perceiving that his companion’s temper was somewhat ruffled by his disappointments and Betty’s attack, made an effort to restore the tranquillity of his feelings.

“That was a charming song, Archibald, that you commenced last evening, when we were interrupted by the party that brought in the peddler,” he said. “The allusion to Galen was much to the purpose.”

“I knew you would like it, Jack, when you had got the fumes of the wine out of your head. Poetry is a respectable art, though it wants the precision of the exact sciences, and the natural beneficence of the physical. Considered in reference to the wants of life, I should define poetry as an emollient, rather than as a succulent.”

“And yet your ode was full of the meat of wit.”

“Ode is by no means a proper term for the composition; I should term it a classical ballad.”

“Very probably,” said the trooper. “Hearing only one verse, it was difficult to class the composition.”

The surgeon involuntarily hemmed, and began to clear his throat, although scarcely conscious himself to what the preparation tended. But the captain, rolling his dark eyes towards his companion, and observing him to be sitting with great uneasiness on his horse, continued, —

“The air is still, and the road solitary — why not give the remainder? It is never too late to repair a loss.”

“My dear John, if I thought it would correct the errors you have imbibed, from habit and indulgence, nothing could give me more pleasure.”

“We are fast approaching some rocks on our left; the echo will double my satisfaction.”

Thus encouraged, and somewhat impelled by the opinion that he both sang and wrote with taste, the surgeon set about complying with the request in sober earnest. Some little time was lost in clearing his throat, and getting the proper pitch of his voice; but no sooner were these two points achieved, than Lawton had the secret delight of hearing his friend commence —

“‘Hast thou ever’” —

“Hush!” interrupted the trooper. “What rustling noise is that among the rocks?”

“It must have been the rushing of the melody. A powerful voice is like the breathing of the winds.

“‘Hast thou ever’” —

“Listen!” said Lawton, stopping his horse. He had not done speaking, when a stone fell at his feet, and rolled harmlessly across the path.

“A friendly shot, that,” cried the trooper. “Neither the weapon, nor its force, implies much ill will.”

“Blows from stones seldom produce more than contusions,” said the operator, bending his gaze in every direction in vain, in quest of the hand from which the missile had been hurled. “It must be meteoric; there is no living being in sight, except ourselves.”

“It would be easy to hide a regiment behind those rocks,” returned the trooper, dismounting, and taking the stone in his hand. “Oh! here is the explanation along with the mystery.” So saying, he tore a piece of paper that had been ingeniously fastened to the small fragment of rock which had thus singularly fallen before him; and opening it, the captain read the following words, written in no very legible hand: “A musket bullet will go farther than a stone, and things more dangerous than yarbs for wounded men lie hid in the rocks of Westchester. The horse may be good, but can he mount a precipice?”

“Thou sayest the truth, strange man,” said Lawton. “Courage and activity would avail but little against assassination and these rugged passes.” Remounting his horse, he cried aloud, “Thanks, unknown friend; your caution will be remembered.”

A meager hand was extended for an instant over a rock, in the air, and afterwards nothing further was seen, or heard, in that quarter, by the soldiers.

“Quite an extraordinary interruption,” said the astonished Sitgreaves, “and a letter of very mysterious meaning.”

“Oh! ’tis nothing but the wit of some bumpkin, who thinks to frighten two of the Virginians by an artifice of this kind,” said the trooper, placing the billet in his pocket. “But let me tell you, Mr. Archibald Sitgreaves, you were wanting to dissect, just now, a damned honest fellow.”

“It was the peddler — one of the most notorious spies in the enemy’s service; and I must say that I think it would be an honor to such a man to be devoted to the uses of science.”

“He may be a spy — he must be one,” said Lawton, musing; “but he has a heart above enmity, and a soul that would honor a soldier.”

The surgeon turned a vacant eye on his companion as he uttered this soliloquy, while the penetrating looks of the trooper had already discovered another pile of rocks, which, jutting forward, nearly obstructed the highway that wound directly around its base.

“What the steed cannot mount, the foot of man can overcome,” exclaimed the wary partisan. Throwing himself again from his saddle, and leaping a wall of stone, he began to ascend the hill at a pace which would soon have given him a bird’s-eye view of the rocks in question, together with all their crevices. This movement was no sooner made, than Lawton caught a glimpse of the figure of a man stealing rapidly from his approach, and disappearing on the opposite side of the precipice.

“Spur, Sitgreaves — spur,” shouted the trooper, dashing over every impediment in pursuit, “and murder the villain as he flies.”

The former part of the request was promptly complied with, and a few moments brought the surgeon in full view of a man armed with a musket, who was crossing the road, and evidently seeking the protection of the thick wood on its opposite side.

“Stop, my friend — stop until Captain Lawton comes up, if you please,” cried the surgeon, observing him to flee with a rapidity that baffled his horsemanship. But as if the invitation contained new terrors, the footman redoubled his efforts, nor paused even to breathe, until he had reached his goal, when, turning on his heel, he discharged his musket towards the surgeon, and was out of sight in an instant. To gain the highway, and throw himself into his saddle, detained Lawton but a moment, and he rode to the side of his comrade just as the figure disappeared.

“Which way has he fled?” cried the trooper.

“John,” said the surgeon, “am I not a noncombatant?”

“Whither has the rascal fled?” cried Lawton, impatiently.

“Where you cannot follow — into that wood. But I repeat, John, am I not a noncombatant?”

The disappointed trooper, perceiving that his enemy had escaped him, now turned his eyes, which were flashing with anger, upon his comrade, and gradually his muscles lost their rigid compression, his brow relaxed, and his look changed from its fierce expression, to the covert laughter which so often distinguished his countenance. The surgeon sat in dignified composure on his horse; his thin body erect, and his head elevated with the indignation of one conscious of having been unjustly treated.

“Why did you suffer the villain to escape?” demanded the captain. “Once within reach of my saber, and I would have given you a subject for the dissecting table.”

“’Twas impossible to prevent it,” said the surgeon, pointing to the bars, before which he had stopped his horse. “The rogue threw himself on the other side of this fence, and left me where you see; nor would the man in the least attend to my remonstrances, or to an intimation that you wished to hold discourse with him.”

“He was truly a discourteous rascal; but why did you not leap the fence, and compel him to a halt? You see but three of the bars are up, and Betty Flanagan could clear them on her cow.”

The surgeon, for the first time, withdrew his eyes from the place where the fugitive had disappeared, and turned his look on his comrade. His head, however, was not permitted to lower itself in the least, as he replied, —

“I humbly conceive, Captain Lawton, that neither Mrs. Elizabeth Flanagan, nor her cow, is an example to be emulated by Doctor Archibald Sitgreaves. It would be but a sorry compliment to science, to say that a doctor of medicine had fractured both his legs by injudiciously striking them against a pair of barposts.” While speaking, the surgeon raised the limbs in question to a nearly horizontal position, an attitude which really appeared to bid defiance to anything like a passage for himself through the defile; but the trooper, disregarding this ocular proof of the impossibility of the movement, cried hastily, —

“Here was nothing to stop you, man; I could leap a platoon through, boot and thigh, without pricking with a single spur. Pshaw! I have often charged upon the bayonets of infantry, over greater difficulties than this.”

“You will please to remember, Captain John Lawton, that I am not the riding master of the regiment — nor a drill sergeant — nor a crazy cornet; no, sir — and I speak it with a due respect for the commission of the Continental Congress — nor an inconsiderate captain, who regards his own life as little as that of his enemies. I am only, sir, a poor humble man of letters, a mere doctor of medicine, an unworthy graduate of Edinburgh, and a surgeon of dragoons; nothing more, I do assure you, Captain John Lawton.” So saying, he turned his horse’s head towards the cottage, and recommenced his ride.

“Aye, you speak the truth,” muttered the dragoon. “Had I but the meanest rider of my troop with me, I should have taken the scoundrel, and given at least one victim to the laws. But, Archibald, no man can ride well who straddles in this manner like the Colossus of Rhodes. You should depend less on your stirrup, and keep your seat by the power of the knee.”

“With proper deference to your experience, Captain Lawton,” returned the surgeon, “I conceive myself to be no incompetent judge of muscular action, whether in the knee, or in any other part of the human frame. And although but humbly educated, I am not now to learn that the wider the base, the more firm is the superstructure.”

“Would you fill a highway, in this manner, with one pair of legs, when half a dozen might pass together in comfort, stretching them abroad like the scythes of the ancient chariot wheels?”

The allusion to the practice of the ancients somewhat softened the indignation of the surgeon, and he replied, with rather less hauteur, —

“You should speak with reverence of the usages of those who have gone before us, and who, however ignorant they were in matters of science, and particularly that of surgery, yet furnished many brilliant hints to our own improvements. Now, sir, I have no doubt that Galen has operated on wounds occasioned by these very scythes that you mention, although we can find no evidence of the fact in contemporary writers. Ah! they must have given dreadful injuries, and, I doubt not, caused great uneasiness to the medical gentlemen of that day.”

“Occasionally a body must have been left in two pieces, to puzzle the ingenuity of those gentry to unite. Yet, venerable and learned as they were, I doubt not they did it.”

“What! unite two parts of the human body, that have been severed by an edged instrument, to any of the purposes of animal life?”

“That have been rent asunder by a scythe, and are united to do military duty,” said Lawton.

“’Tis impossible — quite impossible,” cried the surgeon. “It is in vain, Captain Lawton, that human ingenuity endeavors to baffle the efforts of nature. Think, my dear sir; in this case you separate all the arteries — injure all of the intestines — sever all of the nerves and sinews, and, what is of more consequence, you— “

“You have said enough, Dr. Sitgreaves, to convince a member of a rival school. Nothing shall ever tempt me willingly to submit to be divided in this irretrievable manner.”

“Certes, there is little pleasure in a wound which, from its nature, is incurable.”

“I should think so,” said Lawton, dryly.

“What do you think is the greatest pleasure in life?” asked the operator suddenly.

“That must greatly depend on taste.”

“Not at all,” cried the surgeon; “it is in witnessing, or rather feeling, the ravages of disease repaired by the lights of science cooperating with nature. I once broke my little finger intentionally, in order that I might reduce the fracture and watch the cure: it was only on a small scale, you know, dear John; still the thrilling sensation excited by the knitting of the bone, aided by the contemplation of the art of man thus acting in unison with nature, exceeded any other enjoyment that I have ever experienced. Now, had it been one of the more important members, such as the leg, or arm, how much greater must the pleasure have been!”

“Or the neck,” said the trooper; but their desultory discourse was interrupted by their arrival at the cottage of Mr. Wharton. No one appearing to usher them into an apartment, the captain proceeded to the door of the parlor, where he knew visitors were commonly received. On opening it, he paused for a moment, in admiration at the scene within. The person of Colonel Wellmere first met his eye, bending towards the figure of the blushing Sarah, with an earnestness of manner that prevented the noise of Lawton’s entrance from being heard by either of the parties. Certain significant signs which were embraced at a glance by the prying gaze of the trooper, at once made him a master of their secret; and he was about to retire as silently as he had advanced, when his companion, pushing himself through the passage, abruptly entered the room. Advancing instantly to the chair of Wellmere, the surgeon instinctively laid hold of his arm, and exclaimed, —

“Bless me! — a quick and irregular pulse — flushed cheek and fiery eye — strong febrile symptoms, and such as must be attended to.” While speaking, the doctor, who was much addicted to practicing in a summary way, — a weakness of most medical men in military practice, — had already produced his lancet, and was making certain other indications of his intentions to proceed at once to business. But Colonel Wellmere, recovering from the confusion of the surprise, arose from his seat haughtily, and said, —

“Sir, it is the warmth of the room that lends me the color, and I am already too much indebted to your skill to give you any further trouble. Miss Wharton knows that I am quite well, and I do assure you that I never felt better or happier in my life.”

There was a peculiar emphasis on the latter part of this speech, that, however it might gratify the feelings of Sarah, brought the color to her cheeks again; and Sitgreaves, as his eye followed the direction of those of his patient, did not fail to observe it.

“Your arm, if you please, madam,” said the surgeon, advancing with a bow. “Anxiety and watching have done their work on your delicate frame, and there are symptoms about you that must not be neglected.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Sarah, recovering herself with womanly pride; “the heat is oppressive, and I will retire and acquaint Miss Peyton with your presence.”

There was but little difficulty in practicing on the abstracted simplicity of the surgeon; but it was necessary for Sarah to raise her eyes to return the salutation of Lawton, as he bowed his head nearly to a level with the hand that held open the door for her passage. One look was sufficient; she was able to control her steps sufficiently to retire with dignity; but no sooner was she relieved from the presence of all observers, than she fell into a chair and abandoned herself to a feeling of mingled shame and pleasure.

A little nettled at the contumacious deportment of the British colonel, Sitgreaves, after once more tendering services that were again rejected, withdrew to the chamber of young Singleton, whither Lawton had already preceded him.

CHAPTER XXI

Oh! Henry, when thou deign’st to sue,
Can I thy suit withstand?
When thou, loved youth, hast won my heart,
Can I refuse my hand?
— Hermit of Warkevorth.

The graduate of Edinburgh found his patient rapidly improving in health, and entirely free from fever. His sister, with a cheek that was, if possible, paler than on her arrival, watched around his couch with tender care; and the ladies of the cottage had not, in the midst of their sorrows and varied emotions, forgotten to discharge the duties of hospitality. Frances felt herself impelled towards their disconsolate guest, with an interest for which she could not account, and with a force that she could not control. She had unconsciously connected the fates of Dunwoodie and Isabella in her imagination, and she felt, with the romantic ardor of a generous mind, that she was serving her former lover most by exhibiting kindness to her he loved best. Isabella received her attentions with gratitude, but neither of them indulged in any allusions to the latent source of their uneasiness. The observation of Miss Peyton seldom penetrated beyond things that were visible, and to her the situation of Henry Wharton seemed to furnish an awful excuse for the fading cheeks and tearful eyes of her niece. If Sarah manifested less of care than her sister, still the unpracticed aunt was not at a loss to comprehend the reason. Love is a holy feeling with the virtuous of the female sex, and it hallows all that come within its influence. Although Miss Peyton mourned with sincerity over the danger which threatened her nephew, she well knew that an active campaign was not favorable to love, and the moments that were thus accidentally granted were not to be thrown away.

Several days now passed without any interruption of the usual avocations of the inhabitants of the cottage, or the party at the Four Corners. The former were supporting their fortitude with the certainty of Henry’s innocence, and a strong reliance on Dunwoodie’s exertions in his behalf, and the latter waiting with impatience the intelligence, that was hourly expected, of a conflict, and their orders to depart. Captain Lawton, however, waited for both these events in vain. Letters from the major announced that the enemy, finding that the party which was to coöperate with them had been defeated, and was withdrawn, had retired also behind the works of Fort Washington, where they continued inactive, threatening constantly to strike a blow in revenge for their disgrace. The trooper was enjoined to vigilance, and the letter concluded with a compliment to his honor, zeal, and undoubted bravery.

“Extremely flattering, Major Dunwoodie,” muttered the dragoon, as he threw down this epistle, and stalked across the floor to quiet his impatience. “A proper guard have you selected for this service: let me see — I have to watch over the interests of a crazy, irresolute old man, who does not know whether he belongs to us or to the enemy; four women, three of whom are well enough in themselves, but who are not immensely flattered by my society; and the fourth, who, good as she is, is on the wrong side of forty; some two or three blacks; a talkative housekeeper, that does nothing but chatter about gold and despisables, and signs and omens; and poor George Singleton. Well, a comrade in suffering has a claim on a man, — so I’ll make the best of it.”

As he concluded this soliloquy, the trooper took a seat and began to whistle, to convince himself how little he cared about the matter, when, by throwing his booted leg carelessly round, he upset the canteen that held his whole stock of brandy. The accident was soon repaired, but in replacing the wooden vessel, he observed a billet lying on the bench, on which the liquor had been placed. It was soon opened, and he read: “The moon will not rise till after midnight — a fit time for deeds of darkness.” There was no mistaking the hand; it was clearly the same that had given him the timely warning against assassination, and the trooper continued, for a long time, musing on the nature of these two notices, and the motives that could induce the peddler to favor an implacable enemy in the manner that he had latterly done. That he was a spy of the enemy, Lawton knew; for the fact of his conveying intelligence to the English commander in chief, of a party of Americans that were exposed to the enemy was proved most clearly against him on the trial for his life. The consequences of his treason had been avoided, it is true, by a lucky order from Washington, which withdrew the regiment a short time before the British appeared to cut it off, but still the crime was the same. “Perhaps,” thought the partisan, “he wishes to make a friend of me against the event of another capture; but, at all events, he spared my life on one occasion, and saved it on another. I will endeavor to be as generous as himself, and pray that my duty may never interfere with my feelings.”

Whether the danger, intimated in the present note, threatened the cottage or his own party, the captain was uncertain; but he inclined to the latter opinion, and determined to beware how he rode abroad in the dark. To a man in a peaceable country, and in times of quiet and order, the indifference with which the partisan regarded the impending danger would be inconceivable. His reflections on the subject were more directed towards devising means to entrap his enemies, than to escape their machinations. But the arrival of the surgeon, who had been to pay his daily visit to the Locusts, interrupted his meditations. Sitgreaves brought an invitation from the mistress of the mansion to Captain Lawton, desiring that the cottage might be honored with his presence at an early hour on that evening.

“Ha!” cried the trooper; “then they have received a letter also.”

“I think nothing more probable,” said the surgeon. “There is a chaplain at the cottage from the royal army, who has come out to exchange the British wounded, and who has an order from Colonel Singleton for their delivery. But a more mad project than to remove them now was never adopted.”

“A priest, say you! — is he a hard drinker — a real camp-idler — a fellow to breed a famine in a regiment? Or does he seem a man who is earnest in his trade?”

“A very respectable and orderly gentleman, and not unreasonably given to intemperance, judging from the outward symptoms,” returned the surgeon; “and a man who really says grace in a very regular and appropriate manner.”

“And does he stay the night?”

“Certainly, he waits for his cartel; but hasten, John, we have but little time to waste. I will just step up and bleed two or three of the Englishmen who are to move in the morning, in order to anticipate inflammation, and be with you immediately.”

The gala suit of Captain Lawton was easily adjusted to his huge frame, and his companion being ready, they once more took their route towards the cottage. Roanoke had been as much benefited by a few days’ rest as his master; and Lawton ardently wished, as he curbed his gallant steed, on passing the well-remembered rocks, that his treacherous enemy stood before him, mounted and armed as himself. But no enemy, nor any disturbance whatever, interfered with their progress, and they reached the Locusts just as the sun was throwing his setting rays on the valley, and tingeing the tops of the leafless trees with gold. It never required more than a single look to acquaint the trooper with the particulars of every scene that was not uncommonly veiled, and the first survey that he took on entering the house told him more than the observations of a day had put into the possession of Doctor Sitgreaves. Miss Peyton accosted him with a smiling welcome, that exceeded the bounds of ordinary courtesy and which evidently flowed more from feelings that were connected with the heart, than from manner. Frances glided about, tearful and agitated, while Mr. Wharton stood ready to receive them, decked in a suit of velvet that would have been conspicuous in the gayest drawing-room. Colonel Wellmere was in the uniform of an officer of the household troops of his prince, and Isabella Singleton sat in the parlor, clad in the habiliments of joy, but with a countenance that belied her appearance; while her brother by her side looked, with a cheek of flitting color, and an eye of intense interest, like anything but an invalid. As it was the third day that he had left his room, Dr. Sitgreaves, who began to stare about him in stupid wonder, forgot to reprove his patient for imprudence. Into this scene Captain Lawton moved with all the composure and gravity of a man whose nerves were not easily discomposed by novelties. His compliments were received as graciously as they were offered, and after exchanging a few words with the different individuals present, he approached the surgeon, who had withdrawn, in a kind of confused astonishment, to rally his senses.

“John,” whispered the surgeon, with awakened curiosity, “what means this festival?”

“That your wig and my black head would look the better for a little of Betty Flanagan’s flour; but it is too late now, and we must fight the battle armed as you see.”

“Observe, here comes the army chaplain in his full robes, as a Doctor
Divinitatis; what can it mean?”

“An exchange,” said the trooper. “The wounded of Cupid are to meet and settle their accounts with the god, in the way of plighting faith to suffer from his archery no more.”

The surgeon laid a finger on the side of his nose, and he began to comprehend the case.

“Is it not a crying shame, that a sunshine hero, and an enemy, should thus be suffered to steal away one of the fairest plants that grow in our soil,” muttered Lawton; “a flower fit to be placed in the bosom of any man!”

“If he be not more accommodating as a husband than as a patient, John, I fear me that the lady will lead a troubled life.”

“Let her,” said the trooper, indignantly; “she has chosen from her country’s enemies, and may she meet with a foreigner’s virtues in her choice.”

Further conversation was interrupted by Miss Peyton, who, advancing, acquainted them that they had been invited to grace the nuptials of her eldest niece and Colonel Wellmere. The gentlemen bowed; and the good aunt, with an inherent love of propriety, went on to add, that the acquaintance was of an old date, and the attachment by no means a sudden thing. To this Lawton merely bowed still more ceremoniously; but the surgeon, who loved to hold converse with the virgin, replied, —

“That the human mind was differently constituted in different individuals. In some, impressions are vivid and transitory; in others, more deep and lasting: indeed, there are some philosophers who pretend to trace a connection between the physical and mental powers of the animal; but, for my part, madam, I believe that the one is much influenced by habit and association, and the other subject altogether to the peculiar laws of matter.”

Miss Peyton, in her turn, bowed her silent assent to this remark, and retired with dignity, to usher the intended bride into the presence of the company. The hour had arrived when American custom has decreed that the vows of wedlock must be exchanged; and Sarah, blushing with a variety of emotions, followed her aunt to the drawing-room. Wellmere sprang to receive the hand that, with an averted face, she extended towards him, and, for the first time, the English colonel appeared fully conscious of the important part that he was to act in the approaching ceremony. Hitherto his air had been abstracted, and his manner uneasy; but everything, excepting the certainty of his bliss, seemed to vanish at the blaze of loveliness that now burst on his sight. All arose from their seats, and the reverend gentleman had already opened the sacred volume, when the absence of Frances was noticed! Miss Peyton withdrew in search of her youngest niece, whom she found in her own apartment, and in tears.

“Come, my love, the ceremony waits but for us,” said the aunt, affectionately entwining her arm in that of her niece. “Endeavor to compose yourself, that proper honor may be done to the choice of your sister.”

“Is he — can he be, worthy of her?”

“Can he be otherwise?” returned Miss Peyton. “Is he not a gentleman? — a gallant soldier, though an unfortunate one? and certainly, my love, one who appears every way qualified to make any woman happy.”

Frances had given vent to her feelings, and, with an effort, she collected sufficient resolution to venture to join the party below. But to relieve the embarrassment of this delay, the clergyman had put sundry questions to the bridegroom; one of which was by no means answered to his satisfaction. Wellmere was compelled to acknowledge that he was unprovided with a ring; and to perform the marriage ceremony without one, the divine pronounced to be canonically impossible. His appeal to Mr. Wharton, for the propriety of this decision, was answered affirmatively, as it would have been negatively, had the question been put in a manner to lead to such a result. The owner of the Locusts had lost the little energy he possessed, by the blow recently received through his son, and his assent to the objection of the clergyman was as easily obtained as had been his consent to the premature proposals of Wellmere. In this stage of the dilemma, Miss Peyton and Frances appeared. The surgeon of dragoons approached the former, and as he handed her to a chair, observed, —

“It appears, madam, that untoward circumstances have prevented Colonel Wellmere from providing all of the decorations that custom, antiquity, and the canons of the church have prescribed, as indispensable to enter into the honorable state of wedlock.”

Miss Peyton glanced her quiet eye at the uneasy bridegroom, and perceiving him to be adorned with what she thought sufficient splendor, allowing for the time and the suddenness of the occasion, she turned her look on the speaker, as if to demand an explanation.

The surgeon understood her wishes, and proceeded at once to gratify them.

“There is,” he observed, “an opinion prevalent, that the heart lies on the left side of the body, and that the connection between the members of that side and what may be called the seat of life is more intimate than that which exists with their opposites. But this is an error which grows out of an ignorance of the organic arrangement of the human frame. In obedience to this opinion, the fourth finger of the left hand is thought to contain a virtue that belongs to no other branch of that digitated member; and it is ordinarily encircled, during the solemnization of wedlock, with a cincture or ring, as if to chain that affection to the marriage state, which is best secured by the graces of the female character.” While speaking, the operator laid his hand expressively on his heart, and he bowed nearly to the floor when he had concluded.

“I know not, sir, that I rightly understand your meaning,” said Miss
Peyton, whose want of comprehension was sufficiently excusable.

“A ring, madam — a ring is wanting for the ceremony.”

The instant that the surgeon spoke explicitly, the awkwardness of the situation was understood. She glanced her eyes at her nieces, and in the younger she read a secret exultation that somewhat displeased her; but the countenance of Sarah was suffused with a shame that the considerate aunt well understood. Not for the world would she violate any of the observances of female etiquette. It suggested itself to all the females, at the same moment, that the wedding ring of the late mother and sister was reposing peacefully amid the rest of her jewelry in a secret receptacle, that had been provided at an early day, to secure the valuables against the predatory inroads of the marauders who roamed through the county. Into this hidden vault, the plate, and whatever was most prized, made a nightly retreat, and there the ring in question had long lain, forgotten until at this moment. But it was the business of the bridegroom, from time immemorial, to furnish this indispensable to wedlock, and on no account would Miss Peyton do anything that transcended the usual reserve of the sex on this solemn occasion; certainly not until sufficient expiation for the offense had been made, by a due portion of trouble and disquiet. This material fact, therefore, was not disclosed by either; the aunt consulting female propriety; the bride yielding to shame; and Frances rejoicing that an embarrassment, proceeding from almost any cause, should delay her sister’s vow. It was reserved for Doctor Sitgreaves to interrupt the awkward silence.

“If, madam, a plain ring, that once belonged to a sister of my own— “ He paused and hemmed— “If, madam, a ring of that description might be admitted to this honor, I have one that could be easily produced from my quarters at the Corners, and I doubt not it would fit the finger for which it is desired. There is a strong resemblance between — hem — between my late sister and Miss Wharton in stature and anatomical figure; and, in all eligible subjects, the proportions are apt to be observed throughout the whole animal economy.”

A glance of Miss Peyton’s eye recalled Colonel Wellmere to a sense of his duty, and springing from his chair, he assured the surgeon that in no way could he confer a greater obligation on himself than by sending for that very ring. The operator bowed a little haughtily, and withdrew to fulfill his promise, by dispatching a messenger on the errand. The aunt suffered him to retire; but unwillingness to admit a stranger into the privacy of their domestic arrangements induced her to follow and tender the services of Caesar, instead of those of Sitgreaves’ man, who had volunteered for this duty. Katy Haynes was accordingly directed to summon the black to the vacant parlor, and thither Miss Peyton and the surgeon repaired, to give their several instructions.

The consent to this sudden union of Sarah and Wellmere, and especially at a time when the life of a member of the family was in such imminent jeopardy, was given from a conviction that the unsettled state of the country would probably prevent another opportunity to the lovers of meeting, and a secret dread on the part of Mr. Wharton, that the death of his son might, by hastening his own, leave his remaining children without a protector. But notwithstanding Miss Peyton had complied with her brother’s wish to profit by the accidental visit of a divine, she had not thought it necessary to blazon the intended nuptials of her niece to the neighborhood, had even time been allowed; she thought, therefore, that she was now communicating a profound secret to the negro, and her housekeeper.

“Caesar,” she commenced, with a smile, “you are now to learn that your young mistress, Miss Sarah, is to be united to Colonel Wellmere this evening.”

“I t’ink I see him afore,” said Caesar, chuckling. “Old black man can tell when a young lady make up he mind.”

“Really, Caesar, I find I have never given you credit for half the observation that you deserve; but as you already know on what emergency your services are required, listen to the directions of this gentleman, and observe them.”

The black turned in quiet submission to the surgeon, who commenced as follows: —

“Caesar, your mistress has already acquainted you with the important event about to be solemnized within this habitation; but a cincture or ring is wanting to encircle the finger of the bride; a custom derived from the ancients, and which has been continued in the marriage forms of several branches of the Christian church, and which is even, by a species of typical wedlock, used in the installation of prelates, as you doubtless understand.”

“P’r’aps Massa Doctor will say him over ag’in,” interrupted the old negro, whose memory began to fail him, just as the other made so confident an allusion to his powers of comprehension. “I t’ink I get him by heart dis time.”

“It is impossible to gather honey from a rock, Caesar, and therefore I will abridge the little I have to say. Ride to the Four Corners, and present this note to Sergeant Hollister, or to Mrs. Elizabeth Flanagan, either of whom will furnish the necessary pledge of connubial affection; and return forthwith.”

The letter which the surgeon put into the hands of his messenger, as he ceased, was conceived in the following terms: —

“If the fever has left Kinder, give him nourishment. Take three ounces more of blood from Watson. Have a search made that the woman Flanagan has left none of her jugs of alcohol in the hospital. Renew the dressings of Johnson, and dismiss Smith to duty. Send the ring, which is pendent from the chain of the watch, that I left with you to time the doses, by the bearer.

“ARCHIBALD SITGREAVES, M. D.”, “Surgeon of Dragoons.”

“Caesar,” said Katy, when she was alone with the black, “put the ring, when you get it, in your left pocket, for that is nearest your heart; and by no means endeavor to try it on your finger, for it is unlucky.”

“Try um on he finger?” interrupted the negro, stretching forth his bony knuckles. “T’ink a Miss Sally’s ring go on old Caesar finger?”

“’Tis not consequential whether it goes on or not,” said the housekeeper; “but it is an evil omen to place a marriage ring on the finger of another after wedlock, and of course it may be dangerous before.”

“I tell you, Katy, I neber t’ink to put um on a finger.”

“Go, then, Caesar, and do not forget the left pocket; be careful to take off your hat as you pass the graveyard, and be expeditious; for nothing, I am certain, can be more trying to the patience, than thus to be waiting for the ceremony, when a body has fully made up her mind to marry.”

With this injunction Caesar quitted the house, and he was soon firmly fixed in the saddle. From his youth, the black, like all of his race, had been a hard rider; but, bending under the weight of sixty winters, his African blood had lost some of its native heat. The night was dark, and the wind whistled through the vale with the dreariness of November. When Caesar reached the graveyard, he uncovered his grizzled head with superstitious awe, and threw around him many a fearful glance, in momentary expectation of seeing something superhuman. There was sufficient light to discern a being of earthly mold stealing from among the graves, apparently with a design to enter the highway. It is in vain that philosophy and reason contend with early impressions, and poor Caesar was even without the support of either of these frail allies. He was, however, well mounted on a coach horse of Mr. Wharton’s and, clinging to the back of the animal with instinctive skill, he abandoned the rein to the beast. Hillocks, woods, rocks, fences, and houses flew by him with the rapidity of lightning, and the black had just begun to think whither and on what business he was riding in this headlong manner, when he reached the place where the roads met, and the “Hotel Flanagan” stood before him in its dilapidated simplicity. The sight of a cheerful fire first told the negro that he had reached the habitation of man, and with it came all his dread of the bloody Virginians; his duty must, however, be done, and, dismounting, he fastened the foaming animal to a fence, and approached the window with cautious steps, to reconnoiter.

Before a blazing fire sat Sergeant Hollister and Betty Flanagan, enjoying themselves over a liberal potation.

“I tell ye, sargeant dear,” said Betty, removing the mug from her mouth, “’tis no r’asonable to think it was more than the piddler himself; sure now, where was the smell of sulphur, and the wings, and the tail, and the cloven foot? Besides, sargeant, it’s no dacent to tell a lone famale that she had Beelzeboob for a bedfellow.”

“It matters but little, Mrs. Flanagan, provided you escape his talons and fangs hereafter,” returned the veteran, following the remark by a heavy draft.

Caesar heard enough to convince him that little danger from this pair was to be apprehended. His teeth already began to chatter, and the cold without and the comfort within stimulated him greatly to enter. He made his approaches with proper caution, and knocked with extreme humility. The appearance of Hollister with a drawn sword, roughly demanding who was without, contributed in no degree to the restoration of his faculties; but fear itself lent him power to explain his errand.

“Advance,” said the sergeant, throwing a look of close scrutiny on the black, as he brought him to the light; “advance, and deliver your dispatches. Have you the countersign?”

“I don’t t’ink he know what dat be,” said the black, shaking in his shoes, “dough massa dat sent me gib me many t’ings to carry, dat he little understand.”

“Who ordered you on this duty, did you say?”

“Well, it war he doctor, heself, so he come up on a gallop, as he always do on a doctor’s errand.”

“’Twas Doctor Sitgreaves; he never knows the countersign himself. Now, blackey, had it been Captain Lawton he would not have sent you here, close to a sentinel, without the countersign; for you might get a pistol bullet through your head, and that would be cruel to you; for although you be black, I am none of them who thinks niggers have no souls.”

“Sure a nagur has as much sowl as a white,” said Betty. “Come hither, ould man, and warm that shivering carcass of yeers by the blaze of this fire. I’m sure a Guinea nagur loves hate as much as a soldier loves his drop.”

Caesar obeyed in silence, and a mulatto boy who was sleeping on a bench in the room, was bidden to convey the note of the surgeon to the building where the wounded were quartered.

“Here,” said the washerwoman, tendering to Caesar a taste of the article that most delighted herself, “try a drop, smooty, ‘twill warm the black sowl within your crazy body, and be giving you spirits as you are going homeward.”

“I tell you, Elizabeth,” said the sergeant, “that the souls of niggers are the same as our own; how often have I heard the good Mr. Whitefield say that there was no distinction of color in heaven. Therefore it is reasonable to believe that the soul of this here black is as white as my own, or even Major Dunwoodie’s.”

“Be sure he be,” cried Caesar, a little tartly, whose courage had revived by tasting the drop of Mrs. Flanagan.

“It’s a good sowl that the major is, anyway,” returned the washerwoman; “and a kind sowl — aye, and a brave sowl too; and ye’ll say all that yeerself, sargeant, I’m thinking.”

“For the matter of that,” returned the veteran, “there is One above even Washington, to judge of souls; but this I will say, that Major Dunwoodie is a gentleman who never says, Go, boys — but always says, Come, boys; and if a poor fellow is in want of a spur or a martingale, and the leather-whack is gone, there is never wanting the real silver to make up the loss, and that from his own pocket too.”

“Why, then, are you here idle when all that he holds most dear are in danger?” cried a voice with startling abruptness. “Mount, mount, and follow your captain; arm and mount, and that instantly, or you will be too late!”

This unexpected interruption produced an instantaneous confusion amongst the tipplers. Caesar fled instinctively into the fireplace, where he maintained his position in defiance of a heat that would have roasted a white man. Sergeant Hollister turned promptly on his heel, and seizing big saber, the steel was glittering by the firelight, in the twinkling of an eye; but perceiving the intruder to be the peddler, who stood near the open door that led to the lean-to in the rear, he began to fall back towards the position of the black, with a military intuition that taught him to concentrate his forces. Betty alone stood her ground, by the side of the temporary table. Replenishing the mug with a large addition of the article known to the soldiery by the name of “choke-dog,” she held it towards the peddler. The eyes of the washerwoman had for some time been swimming with love and liquor, and turning them good-naturedly on Birch, she cried, —

“Faith, but ye’re wilcome, Mister Piddler, or Mister Birch, or Mister Beelzeboob, or what’s yeer name. Ye’re an honest divil anyway, and I’m hoping that you found the pitticoats convanient. Come forward, dear, and fale the fire; Sergeant Hollister won’t be hurting you, for the fear of an ill turn you may be doing him hereafter — will ye, sargeant dear?”

“Depart, ungodly man!” cried the veteran, edging still nearer to Caesar, but lifting his legs alternately as they scorched with the heat. “Depart in peace! There is none here for thy service, and you seek the woman in vain. There is a tender mercy that will save her from thy talons.” The sergeant ceased to utter aloud, but the motion of his lips continued, and a few scattering words of prayer were alone audible.

The brain of the washerwoman was in such a state of confusion that she did not clearly comprehend the meaning of her suitor, but a new idea struck her imagination, and she broke forth, —

“If it’s me the man saaks, where’s the matter, pray? Am I not a widowed body, and my own property? And you talk of tinderness, sargeant, but it’s little I see of it, anyway. Who knows but Mr. Beelzeboob here is free to speak his mind? I’m sure it is willing to hear I am.”

“Woman,” said the peddler, “be silent; and you, foolish man, mount — arm and mount, and fly to the rescue of your officer, if you are worthy of the cause in which you serve, and would not disgrace the coat you wear.” The peddler vanished from the sight of the bewildered trio, with a rapidity that left them uncertain whither he had fled.

On hearing the voice of an old friend, Caesar emerged from his corner, and fearlessly advanced to the spot where Betty had resolutely maintained her ground, though in a state of utter mental confusion.

“I wish Harvey stop,” said the black. “If he ride down a road, I should like he company; I don’t t’ink Johnny Birch hurt he own son.”

“Poor, ignorant wretch!” exclaimed the veteran, recovering his voice with a long-drawn breath; “think you that figure was made of flesh and blood?”

“Harvey ain’t fleshy,” replied the black, “but he berry clebber man.”

“Pooh! sargeant dear,” exclaimed the washerwoman, “talk r’ason for once, and mind what the knowing one tells ye; call out the boys and ride a bit after Captain Jack; remimber, darling, that he told ye, the day, to be in readiness to mount at a moment’s warning.”

“Aye, but not at a summons from the foul fiend. Let Captain Lawton, or Lieutenant Mason, or Cornet Skipwith, say the word, and who is quicker in the saddle than I?”

“Well, sargeant, how often is it that ye’ve boasted to myself that the corps wasn’t a bit afeard to face the divil?”

“No more are we, in battle array, and by daylight; but it’s foolhardy and irreverent to tempt Satan, and on such a night as this. Listen how the wind whistles through the trees; and hark! there is the howling of evil spirits abroad.”

“I see him,” said Caesar, opening his eyes to a width that might have embraced more than an ideal form.

“Where?” interrupted the sergeant, instinctively laying his hand on the hilt of his saber.

“No, no,” said the black, “I see a Johnny Birch come out of he grave — Johnny walk afore he buried.”

“Ah! then he must have led an evil life indeed,” said Hollister. “The blessed in spirit lie quiet until the general muster, but wickedness disturbs the soul in this life as well as in that which is to come.”

“And what is to come of Captain Jack?” cried Betty, angrily. “Is it yeer orders that ye won’t mind, nor a warning given? I’ll jist git my cart, and ride down and tell him that ye’re afeard of a dead man and Beelzeboob; and it isn’t succor he may be expicting from ye. I wonder who’ll be the orderly of the troop the morrow, then? — his name won’t be Hollister, anyway.”

“Nay, Betty, nay,” said the sergeant, laying his hand familiarly on her shoulder; “if there must be riding to-night, let it be by him whose duty it is to call out the men and set an example. The Lord have mercy, and send us enemies of flesh and blood!”

Another glass confirmed the veteran in a resolution that was only excited by a dread of his captain’s displeasure, and he proceeded to summon the dozen men who had been left under his command. The boy arriving with the ring, Caesar placed it carefully in the pocket of his waistcoat next his heart, and, mounting, shut his eyes, seized his charger by the mane, and continued in a state of comparative insensibility, until the animal stopped at the door of the warm stable whence he had started.

The movements of the dragoons, being timed to the order of a march, were much slower, for they were made with a watchfulness that was intended to guard against surprise from the evil one himself.

CHAPTER XXII

Be not your tongue thy own shame’s orator,
Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty,
Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger.
— Comedy of Errors.

The situation of the party in Mr. Wharton’s dwelling was sufficiently awkward, during the hour of Caesar’s absence; for such was the astonishing rapidity displayed by his courser, that the four miles of road was gone over, and the events we have recorded had occurred, somewhat within that period of time. Of course, the gentlemen strove to make the irksome moments fly as swiftly as possible; but premeditated happiness is certainly of the least joyous kind. The bride and bridegroom are immemorially privileged to be dull, and but few of their friends seemed disposed, on the present occasion, to dishonor their example. The English colonel exhibited a proper portion of uneasiness at this unexpected interruption of his felicity, and he sat with a varying countenance by the side of Sarah, who seemed to be profiting by the delay to gather fortitude for the solemn ceremony. In the midst of this embarrassing silence, Doctor Sitgreaves addressed himself to Miss Peyton, by whose side he had contrived to procure a chair. “Marriage, madam, is pronounced to be honorable in the sight of God and man; and it may be said to be reduced, in the present age, to the laws of nature and reason. The ancients, in sanctioning polygamy, lost sight of the provisions of nature, and condemned thousands to misery; but with the increase of science have grown the wise ordinances of society, which ordain that man should be the husband of but one woman.”

Wellmere glanced a fierce expression of disgust at the surgeon, that indicated his sense of the tediousness of the other’s remarks; while Miss Peyton, with a slight hesitation, as if fearful of touching on forbidden subjects, replied, —

“I had thought, sir, that we were indebted to the Christian religion for our morals on this subject.”

“True, madam, it is somewhere provided in the prescriptions of the apostles, that the sexes should henceforth be on an equality in this particular. But in what degree could polygamy affect holiness of life? It was probably a wise arrangement of Paul, who was much of a scholar, and probably had frequent conferences, on this important subject, with Luke, whom we all know to have been bred to the practice of medicine— “

There is no telling how far the discursive fancy of Sitgreaves might have led him, on this subject, had he not been interrupted. But Lawton, who had been a close though silent observer of all that passed, profited by the hint to ask abruptly, —

“Pray, Colonel Wellmere, in what manner is bigamy punished in England?”

The bridegroom started, and his lip blanched. Recovering himself, however, on the instant, he answered with a suavity that became so happy a man, —

“Death! — as such an offense merits,” he said.

“Death and dissection,” continued the operator. “It is seldom that law loses sight of eventual utility in a malefactor. Bigamy, in a man, is a heinous offense!”

“More so than celibacy?” asked Lawton.

“More so,” returned the surgeon, with undisturbed simplicity. “One who remains in a single state may devote his life to science and the extension of knowledge, if not of his species; but the wretch who profits by the constitutional tendency of the female sex to credulity and tenderness, incurs the wickedness of a positive sin, heightened by the baseness of deception.”

“Really, sir, the ladies are infinitely obliged to you, for attributing folly to them as part of their nature.”

“Captain Lawton, in man the animal is more nobly formed than in woman. The nerves are endowed with less sensi bility; the whole frame is less pliable and yielding; is it therefore surprising, that a tendency to rely on the faith of her partner is more natural to woman than to the other sex?”

Wellmere, as if unable to listen with any degree of patience to so ill-timed a dialogue, sprang from his seat and paced the floor in disorder. Pitying his situation, the reverend gentleman, who was patiently awaiting the return of Caesar, changed the discourse, and a few minutes brought the black himself. The billet was handed to Dr. Sitgreaves; for Miss Peyton had expressly enjoined Caesar not to implicate her, in any manner, in the errand on which he was dispatched. The note contained a summary statement of the several subjects of the surgeon’s directions, and referred him to the black for the ring. The latter was instantly demanded, and promptly delivered. A transient look of melancholy clouded the brow of the surgeon, as he stood a moment, and gazed silently on the bauble; nor did he remember the place, or the occasion, while he mournfully soliloquized as follows: —

“Poor Anna! gay as innocence and youth could make thee was thy heart, when this cincture was formed to grace thy nuptials; but ere the hour had come, God had taken thee to Himself. Years have passed, my sister, but never have I forgotten the companion of my infancy!” He advanced to Sarah, and, unconscious of observation, placing the ring on her finger, continued, “She for whom it was intended has long been in her grave, and the youth who bestowed the gift soon followed her sainted spirit; take it, madam, and God grant that it may be an instrument in making you as happy as you deserve!”

Sarah felt a chill at her heart, as this burst of feeling escaped the surgeon; but Wellmere offering his hand, she was led before the divine, and the ceremony began. The first words of this imposing office produced a dead stillness in the apartment; and the minister of God proceeded to the solemn exhortation, and witnessed the plighted troth of the parties, when the investiture was to follow. The ring had been left, from inadvertency and the agitation of the moment, on the finger where Sitgreaves had placed it; the slight interruption occasioned by the circumstance was over, and the clergyman was about to proceed, when a figure gliding into the midst of the party, at once put a stop to the ceremony. It was the peddler. His look was bitter and ironical, while a finger, raised towards the divine, seemed to forbid the ceremony to go any further.

“Can Colonel Wellmere waste the precious moments here, when his wife has crossed the ocean to meet him? The nights are long, and the moon bright; a few hours will take him to the city.”

Aghast at the suddenness of this extraordinary address, Wellmere for a moment lost the command of his faculties. To Sarah, the countenance of Birch, expressive as it was, produced no terror; but the instant she recovered from the surprise of his interruption, she turned her anxious gaze on the features of the man to whom she had just pledged her troth. They afforded the most terrible confirmation of all that the peddler affirmed; the room whirled round, and she fell lifeless into the arms of her aunt. There is an instinctive delicacy in woman, that seems to conquer all other emotions; and the insensible bride was immediately conveyed from sight, leaving the room to the sole possession of the other sex.

The confusion enabled the peddler to retreat with a rapidity that would have baffled pursuit, had any been attempted, and Wellmere stood with every eye fixed on him, in ominous silence.

“’Tis false— ’tis false as hell!” he cried, striking his forehead. “I have ever denied her claim; nor will the laws of my country compel me to acknowledge it.”

“But what will conscience and the laws of God do?” asked Lawton.

“’Tis well, sir,” said Wellmere, haughtily, and retreating towards the door, “my situation protects you now; but a time may come— “

He had reached the entry, when a slight tap on his shoulder caused him to turn his head; it was Captain Lawton, who, with a smile of peculiar meaning, beckoned him to follow. The state of Wellmere’s mind was such, that he would gladly have gone anywhere to avoid the gaze of horror and detestation that glared from every eye he met. They reached the stables before the trooper spoke, when he cried aloud, —

“Bring out Roanoke!”

His man appeared with the steed caparisoned for its master. Lawton, coolly throwing the bridle on the neck of the animal, took his pistols from the holsters, and continued, “Here are weapons that have seen good service before to-day — aye, and in honorable hands, sir. These were the pistols of my father, Colonel Wellmere; he used them with credit in the wars with France, and gave them to me to fight the battles of my country with. In what better way can I serve her than in exterminating a wretch who would have blasted one of her fairest daughters?”

“This injurious treatment shall meet with its reward,” cried the other, seizing the offered weapon. “The blood lie on the head of him who sought it!”

“Amen! but hold a moment, sir. You are now free, and the passports of Washington are in your pocket; I give you the fire; if I fall, there is a steed that will outstrip pursuit; and I would advise you to reteat without much delay, for even Archibald Sitgreaves would fight in such a cause — nor will the guard above be very apt to give quarter.”

“Are you ready?” asked Wellmere, gnashing his teeth with rage.

“Stand forward, Tom, with the lights; fire!”

Wellmere fired, and the bullion flew from the epaulet of the trooper.

“Now the turn is mine,” said Lawton, deliberately leveling his pistol.

“And mine!” shouted a voice, as the weapon was struck from his hand. “By all the devils in hell, ’tis the mad Virginian! — fall on, my boys, and take him; this is a prize not hoped for!”

Unarmed, and surprised as he was, Lawton’s presence of mind did not desert him; he felt that he was in the hands of those from whom he was to expect no mercy; and, as four of the Skinners fell upon him at once, he used his gigantic strength to the utmost. Three of the band grasped him by the neck and arms, with an intent to clog his efforts, and pinion him with ropes. The first of these he threw from him, with a violence that sent him against the building, where he lay stunned with the blow. But the fourth seized his legs; and, unable to contend with such odds, the trooper came to the earth, bringing with him all of his assailants. The struggle on the ground was short but terrific; curses and the most dreadful imprecations were uttered by the Skinners, who in vain called on more of their band, who were gazing on the combat in nerveless horror, to assist. A difficulty of breathing, from one of the combatants, was heard, accompanied by the stifled moanings of a strangled man; and directly one of the group arose on his feet, shaking himself free from the wild grasp of the others. Both Wellmere and the servant of Lawton had fled: the former to the stables, and the latter to give the alarm, leaving all in darkness. The figure that stood erect sprang into the saddle of the unheeded charger; sparks of fire, issuing from the armed feet of the horse, gave a momentary light by which the captain was seen dashing like the wind towards the highway.

“By hell, he’s off!” cried the leader, hoarse with rage and exhaustion.
“Fire! — bring him down — fire, or you’ll be too late.”

The order was obeyed, and one moment of suspense followed, in the vain hope of hearing the huge frame of Lawton tumbling from his steed.

“He would not fall if you had killed him,” muttered one. “I’ve known these Virginians sit their horses with two or three balls through them; aye, even after they were dead.”

A freshening of the wind wafted the tread of a horse down the valley, which, by its speed, gave assurance of a rider governing its motion.

“These trained horses always stop when the rider falls,” observed one of the gang.

“Then,” cried the leader, striking his musket on the ground in a rage, “the fellow is safe! — to your business at once. A short half hour will bring down that canting sergeant and the guard upon us. ‘Twill be lucky if the guns don’t turn them out. Quick, to your posts, and fire the house in the chambers; smoking ruins are good to cover evil deeds.”

“What is to be done with this lump of earth?” cried another, pushing the body that yet lay insensible, where it had been hurled by the arm of Lawton; “a little rubbing would bring him to.”

“Let him lie,” said the leader, fiercely. “Had he been half a man, that dragooning rascal would have been in my power; enter the house, I say, and fire the chambers. We can’t go amiss here; there is plate and money enough to make you all gentlemen — and revenge too.”

The idea of silver in any way was not to be resisted; and, leaving their companion, who began to show faint signs of life, they rushed tumultuously towards the dwelling. Wellmere availed himself of the opportunity, and, stealing from the stable with his own charger, he was able to gain the highway unnoticed. For an instant he hesitated, whether to ride towards the point where he knew the guard was stationed, and endeavor to rescue the family, or, profiting by his liberty and the exchange that had been effected by the divine, to seek the royal army. Shame, and a consciousness of guilt, determined him to take the latter course, and he rode towards New York, stung with the reflection of his own baseness, and harassed with the apprehension of meeting with an enraged woman, that he had married during his late visit to England, but whose claims, as soon as his passion was sated, he had resolved never willingly to admit. In the tumult and agitation of the moment, the retreat of Lawton and Wellmere was but little noticed; the condition of Mr. Wharton demanding the care and consolation of both the surgeon and the divine. The report of the firearms at first roused the family to the sense of a new danger, and but a moment elapsed before the leader, and one more of the gang, entered the room.

“Surrender! you servants of King George,” shouted the leader, presenting his musket to the breast of Sitgreaves, “or I will let a little tory blood from your veins.”

“Gently — gently, my friend,” said the surgeon. “You are doubtless more expert in inflicting wounds than in healing them; the weapon that you hold so indiscreetly is extremely dangerous to animal life.”

“Yield, or take its contents.”

“Why and wherefore should I yield? — I am a noncombatant. The articles of capitulation must be arranged with Captain John Lawton; though yielding, I believe, is not a subject on which you will find him particularly complying.”

The fellow had by this time taken such a survey of the group, as convinced him that little danger was to be apprehended from resistance, and, eager to seize his share of the plunder, he dropped his musket, and was soon busy with the assistance of his men, in arranging divers articles of plate in bags. The cottage now presented a singular spectacle. The ladies were gathered around Sarah, who yet continued insensible, in one of the rooms that had escaped the notice of the marauders. Mr. Wharton sat in a state of perfect imbecility, listening to, but not profiting by, the meaning words of comfort that fell from the lips of the clergyman. Singleton was lying on a sofa, shaking with debility, and inattentive to surrounding objects; while the surgeon was administering restoratives, and looking at the dressings, with a coolness that mocked the tumult. Caesar and the attendant of Captain Singleton, had retreated to the wood in the rear of the cottage, and Katy Haynes was flying about the building, busily employed in forming a bundle of valuables, from which, with the most scrupulous honesty, she rejected every article that was not really and truly her own.

But to return to the party at the Four Corners. When the veteran had got his men mounted and under arms, a restless desire to participate in the glory and dangers of the expedition came over the washerwoman. Whether she was impelled to the undertaking by a dread of remaining alone, or a wish to hasten in person to the relief of her favorite, we will not venture to assert but, as Hollister was giving the orders to wheel and march, the voice of Betty was heard, exclaiming, —

“Stop a bit, sargeant dear, till two of the boys get out the cart, and I’ll jist ride wid ye; ’tis like there’ll be wounded, and it will be mighty convanient to bring them home in.”

Although inwardly much pleased with any cause of delay to a service that he so little relished, Hollister affected some displeasure at the detention.

“Nothing but a cannon ball can take one of my lads from his charger,” he said; “and it’s not very likely that we shall have as fair fighting as cannon and musketry, in a business of the evil one’s inventing; so, Elizabeth, you may go if you will, but the cart will not be wanting.”

“Now, sargeant dear, you lie, anyway,” said Betty, who was somewhat unduly governed by her potations. “And wasn’t Captain Singleton shot off his horse but tin days gone by? Aye, and Captain Jack himself too; and didn’t he lie on the ground, face uppermost and back downwards, looking grim? And didn’t the boys t’ink him dead, and turn and l’ave the rig’lars the day?”

“You lie back again,” cried the sergeant, fiercely; “and so does anyone who says that we didn’t gain the day.”

“For a bit or so — only I mane for a bit or so,” said the washerwoman; “but Major Dunwoodie turned you, and so you licked the rig’lars. But the captain it was that fell, and I’m thinking that there’s no better rider going; so, sargeant, it’s the cart will be convanient. Here, two of you, jist hitch the mare to the tills, and it’s no whisky that ye’ll be wanting the morrow; and put the piece of Jenny’s hide under the pad; the baste is never the better for the rough ways of the county Westchester.” The consent of the sergeant being obtained, the equipage of Mrs. Flanagan was soon in readiness to receive its burden.

“As it is quite uncertain whether we shall be attacked in front, or in rear,” said Hollister, “five of you shall march in advance, and the remainder shall cover our retreat towards the barrack, should we be pressed. ’Tis an awful moment to a man of little learning, Elizabeth, to command in such a service; for my part, I wish devoutly that one of the officers were here; but my trust is in the Lord.”

“Pooh! man, away wid ye,” said the washerwoman, who had got herself comfortably seated. “The divil a bit of an inimy is there near. March on, hurry-skurry, and let the mare trot, or it’s but little that Captain Jack will thank ye for the help.”

“Although unlearned in matters of communicating with spirits, or laying the dead, Mrs. Flanagan,” said the veteran, “I have not served through the old war, and five years in this, not to know how to guard the baggage. Doesn’t Washington always cover the baggage? I am not to be told my duty by a camp follower. Fall in as you are ordered, and dress, men.”

“Well, march, anyway,” cried the impatient washerwoman. “The black is there already, and it’s tardy the captain will think ye.”

“Are you sure that it was really a black man that brought the order?” said the sergeant, dropping in between the platoons, where he could converse with Betty, and be at hand, to lead on an emergency, either on an advance or on a retreat.

“Nay — and I’m sure of nothing, dear. But why don’t the boys prick their horses and jog a trot? The mare is mighty un’asy, and it’s no warm in this cursed valley, riding as much like a funeral party as old rags is to continental.” [Footnote: The paper money issued by congress was familiarly called continental money. This term “continental” was applied to the army, the congress, the ships of war, and in short, to almost everything of interest which belonged to the new government. It would seem to have been invented as the opposite of the insular position of the mother country.] “Fairly and softly, aye, and prudently, Mrs. Flanagan; it’s not rashness that makes the good officer. If we have to encounter a spirit, it’s more than likely he’ll make his attack by surprise; horses are not very powerful in the dark, and I have a character to lose, good woman.”

“Caractur! and isn’t it caractur and life too that Captain Jack has to lose!”

“Halt!” cried the sergeant. “What is that lurking near the foot of the rock, on the left?”

“Sure, it’s nothing, unless it be a matter of Captain Jack’s sowl that’s come to haunt ye, for not being brisker on the march.”

“Betty, your levity makes you an unfit comrade for such an expedition. Advance, one of you, and reconnoiter the spot; draw swords! — rear rank, close to the front!”

“Pshaw!” shouted Betty, “is it a big fool or a big coward that ye are? Jist wheel from the road, boys, and I’ll shove the mare down upon it in the twinkling of an eye — and it’s no ghost that I fear.”

By this time one of the men had returned, and declared there was nothing to prevent their advancing, and the party continued their march, but with great deliberation and caution.

“Courage and prudence are the jewels of a soldier, Mrs. Flanagan,” said the sergeant; “without the one, the other may be said to be good for nothing.”

“Prudence without courage: is it that you mane? — and it’s so that I’m thinking myself, sargeant. This baste pulls tight on the reins, any way.”

“Be patient, good woman; hark! what is that?” said Hollister, pricking up his ears at the report of Wellmere’s pistol. “I’ll swear that was a human pistol, and one from our regiment. Rear rank, close to the front! — Mrs. Flanagan, I must leave you.” So saying, having recovered all his faculties, by hearing a sound that he understood, he placed himself at the head of his men with an air of military pride, that the darkness prevented the washerwoman from beholding. A volley of musketry now rattled in the night wind, and the sergeant exclaimed, —

“March! — quick time!”

The next instant the trampling of a horse was heard coming up the road, at a rate that announced a matter of life or death; and Hollister again halted his party, riding a short distance in front himself, to meet the rider.

“Stand! — who goes there?” shouted Hollister.

“Ha! Hollister, is it you?” cried Lawton, “ever ready and at your post; but where is the guard?”

“At hand, sir, and ready to follow you through thick and thin,” said the veteran, relieved at once from responsibility, and as eager as a boy to be led against his enemy.

“’Tis well!” said the trooper, riding up to his men; then, speaking a few words of encouragement, he led them down the valley at a rate but little less rapid than his approach. The miserable horse of the sutler was soon distanced, and Betty, thus thrown out in the chase, turned to the side of the road, and observed, —

“There — it’s no difficult to tell that Captain Jack is wid ‘em, anyway; and away they go like so many nagur boys to a husking-frolic; well, I’ll jist hitch the mare to this bit of a fence, and walk down and see the sport afoot — it’s no r’asonable to expose the baste to be hurted.”

Led on by Lawton, the men followed, destitute alike of fear and reflection. Whether it was a party of the refugees, or a detachment from the royal army, that they were to assail, they were profoundly ignorant; but they knew that the officer in advance was distinguished for courage and personal prowess; and these are virtues that are sure to captivate the thoughtless soldiery. On arriving near the gates of the Locusts, the trooper halted his party, and made his arrangements for the assault. Dismounting, he ordered eight of his men to follow his example, and turning to Hollister, said, —

“Stand you here, and guard the horses; if anything attempt to pass, stop it, or cut it down, and— “

The flames at this moment burst through the dormer windows and cedar roof of the cottage, and a bright light glared on the darkness of the night. “On!” shouted the trooper “on! — give quarter when you have done justice!”

There was a startling fierceness in the voice of the trooper that reached to the heart, even amid the horrors of the cottage. The leader of the Skinners dropped his plunder, and, for a moment, he stood in nerveless dread; then rushing to a window, he threw up the sash; at this instant Lawton entered, saber in hand, into the apartment.

“Die, miscreant!” cried the trooper, cleaving a marauder to the jaw; but the leader sprang into the lawn, and escaped his vengeance. The shrieks of the females restored Lawton to his presence of mind, and the earnest entreaty of the divine induced him to attend to the safety of the family. One more of the gang fell in with the dragoons, and met his death; but the remainder had taken the alarm in season. Occupied with Sarah, neither Miss Singleton, nor the ladies of the house, had discovered the entrance of the Skinners, though the flames were raging around them with a fury that threatened the building with rapid destruction. The shrieks of Katy and the terrified consort of Caesar, together with the noise and uproar in the adjacent apartment, first roused Miss Peyton and Isabella to a sense of their danger.

“Merciful Providence!” exclaimed the alarmed aunt; “there is a dreadful confusion in the house, and there will be blood shed in consequence of this affair.”

“There are none to fight,” returned Isabella, with a face paler than that of the other. “Dr. Sitgreaves is very peaceable in his disposition, and surely Captain Lawton would not forget himself so far.”

“The Southern temper is quick and fiery,” continued Miss Peyton; “and your brother, feeble and weak as he is, has looked the whole afternoon flushed and angry.”

“Good heaven!” cried Isabella, with difficulty supporting herself on the couch of Sarah; “he is gentle as the lamb by nature, though the lion is not his equal when roused.”

“We must interfere: our presence will quell the tumult, and possibly save the life of a fellow creature.”

Miss Peyton, excited to attempt what she conceived a duty worthy of her sex and nature, advanced with the dignity of injured female feeling, to the door, followed by Isabella. The apartment to which Sarah had been conveyed was in one of the wings of the building, and it communicated with the principal hall of the cottage by a long and dark passage. This was now light, and across its termination several figures were seen rushing with an impetuosity that prevented an examination of their employment.

“Let us advance,” said Miss Peyton, with a firmness her face belied; “they must respect our sex.”

“They shall,” cried Isabella, taking the lead in the enterprise. Frances was left alone with her sister. A few minutes were passed in silence, when a loud crash, in the upper apartments, was succeeded by a bright light that glared through the open door, and made objects as distinct to the eye as if they were placed under a noonday sun. Sarah raised herself on her bed, and staring wildly around, pressed both her hands on her forehead, endeavoring to recollect herself.

“This, then, is heaven — and you are one of its bright spirits. Oh! how glorious is its radiance! I had thought the happiness I have lately experienced was too much for earth. But we shall meet again; yes — yes — we shall meet again.”

“Sarah! Sarah!” cried Frances, in terror; “my sister — my only sister — Oh! do not smile so horridly; know me, or you will break my heart.”

“Hush,” said Sarah raising her hand for silence; “you may disturb his rest — surely, he will follow me to the grave. Think you there can be two wives in the grave? No — no — no; one — one — one — only one.”

Frances dropped her head into the lap of her sister, and wept in agony.

“Do you shed tears, sweet angel?” continued Sarah, soothingly. “Then heaven is not exempt from grief. But where is Henry? He was executed, and he must be here too; perhaps they will come together. Oh! how joyful will be the meeting!”

Frances sprang on her feet, and paced the apartment. The eye of Sarah followed her in childish admiration of her beauty.

“You look like my sister; but all good and lovely spirits are alike. Tell me, were you ever married? Did you ever let a stranger steal your affections from father, and brother, and sister? If not, poor wretch, I pity you, although you may be in heaven.”

“Sarah — peace, peace — I implore you to be silent,” shrieked Frances, rushing to her bed, “or you will kill me at your feet.”

Another dreadful crash shook the building to its center. It was the falling of the roof, and the flames threw their light abroad, so as to make objects visible around the cottage, through the windows of the room. Frances flew to one of them, and saw the confused group that was collected on the lawn. Among them were her aunt and Isabella, pointing with distraction to the fiery edifice, and apparently urging the dragoons to enter it. For the first time she comprehended their danger; and uttering a wild shriek, she flew through the passage without consideration, or object.

A dense and suffocating column of smoke opposed her progress. She paused to breathe, when a man caught her in his arms, and bore her, in a state of insensibility, through the falling embers and darkness, to the open air. The instant that Frances recovered her recollection, she perceived that she owed her life Lo Lawton, and throwing herself on her knees, she cried, —

“Sarah! Sarah! Sarah! save my sister, and may the blessing of God await you!”

Her strength failed, and she sank on the grass, in insensibility. The trooper pointed to her figure, motioned to Katy for assistance, and advanced once more to the building. The fire had already communicated to the woodwork of the piazzas and windows, and the whole exterior of the cottage was covered with smoke. The only entrance was through these dangers, and even the hardy and impetuous Lawton paused to consider. It was for a moment only, when he dashed into the heat and darkness, where, missing the entrance, he wandered for a minute, and precipitated himself back, again, upon the lawn. Drawing a single breath of pure air, he renewed the effort, and was again unsuccessful. On a third trial, he met a man staggering under the load of a human body. It was neither the place, nor was there time, to question, or to make distinctions; seizing both in his arms, with gigantic strength, he bore them through the smoke. He soon perceived, to his astonishment, that it was the surgeon, and the body of one of the Skinners, that he had saved.

“Archibald!” he exclaimed, “why, in the name of justice, did you bring this miscreant to light again? His deeds are rank to heaven!”

The surgeon, who had been in imminent peril, was too much bewildered to reply instantly, but wiping the moisture from his forehead, and clearing his lungs from the vapor he had inhaled, he said piteously, —

“Ah! it is all over! Had I been in time to have stopped the effusion from the jugular, he might have been saved; but the heat was conducive to hemorrhage; life is extinct indeed. Well, are there any more wounded?”

His question was put to the air, for Frances had been removed to the opposite side of the building, where her friends were collected, and Lawton had once more disappeared in the smoke.

By this time the flames had dispersed much of the suffocating vapor, so that the trooper was able to find the door, and in its very entrance he was met by a man supporting the insensible Sarah. There was but barely time to reach the lawn again, before the fire broke through the windows, and wrapped the whole building in a sheet of flame.

“God be praised!” ejaculated the preserver of Sarah. “It would have been a dreadful death to die.”

The trooper turned from gazing at the edifice, to the speaker, and to his astonishment, instead of one of his own men, he beheld the peddler.

“Ha! the spy,” he exclaimed; “by heavens, you cross me like a specter.”

“Captain Lawton,” said Birch, leaning in momentary exhaustion against the fence, to which they had retired from the heat, “I am again in your power, for I can neither flee, nor resist.”

“The cause of America is dear to me as life,” said the trooper, “but she cannot require her children to forget gratitude and honor. Fly, unhappy man, while yet you are unseen, or it will exceed my power to save you.”

“May God prosper you, and make you victorious over your enemies,” said Birch, grasping the hand of the dragoon with an iron strength that his meager figure did not indicate.

“Hold!” said Lawton. “But a word — are you what you seem? — can you — are you— “

“A royal spy,” interrupted Birch, averting his face, and endeavoring to release his hand.

“Then go, miserable wretch,” said the trooper, relinquishing his grasp.
“Either avarice or delusion has led a noble heart astray!”

The bright light from the flames reached a great distance around the ruins, but the words were hardly past the lips of Lawton, before the gaunt form of the peddler had glided over the visible space, and plunged into the darkness beyond.

The eye of Lawton rested for a moment on the spot where he had last seen this inexplicable man, and then turning to the yet insensible Sarah, he lifted her in his arms, and bore her, like a sleeping infant, to the care of her friends.

CHAPTER XXIII

And now her charms are fading fast,
Her spirits now no more are gay:
Alas! that beauty cannot last!
That flowers so sweet so soon decay!
How sad appears
The vale of years,
How changed from youth’s too flattering scene!
Where are her fond admirers gone?
Alas! and shall there then be none
On whom her soul may lean?
— Cynthia’s Grave.

The walls of the cottage were all that was left of the building; and these, blackened by smoke, and stripped of their piazzas and ornaments, were but dreary memorials of the content and security that had so lately reigned within. The roof, together with the rest of the woodwork, had tumbled into the cellars, and a pale and flitting light, ascending from their embers, shone faintly through the windows. The early flight of the Skinners left the dragoons at liberty to exert themselves in saving much of the furniture, which lay scattered in heaps on the lawn, giving the finishing touch of desolation to the scene. Whenever a stronger ray of light than common shot upwards, the composed figures of Sergeant Hollister and his associates, sitting on their horses in rigid discipline, were to be seen in the background of the picture, together with the beast of Mrs. Flanagan, which, having slipped its bridle, was quietly grazing by the highway. Betty herself had advanced to the spot where the sergeant was posted, and, with an incredible degree of composure, witnessed the whole of the events as they occurred. More than once she suggested to her companion, that, as the fighting seemed to be over, the proper time for plunder had arrived, but the veteran acquainted her with his orders, and remained inflexible and immovable; until the washerwoman, observing Lawton come round the wing of the building with Sarah, ventured amongst the warriors. The captain, after placing Sarah on a sofa that had been hurled from the building by two of his men, retired, that the ladies might succeed him in his care. Miss Peyton and her niece flew, with a rapture that was blessed with a momentary forgetfulness of all but her preservation, to receive Sarah from the trooper; but the vacant eye and flushed cheek restored them instantly to their recollection.

“Sarah, my child, my beloved niece,” said the former, folding the unconscious bride in her arms, “you are saved, and may the blessing of God await him who has been the instrument.”

“See,” said Sarah, gently pushing her aunt aside, and pointing to the
glimmering ruins, “the windows are illuminated in honor of my arrival.
They always receive a bride thus — he told me they would do no less.
Listen, and you will hear the bells.”

“Here is no bride, no rejoicing, nothing but woe!” cried Frances, in a manner but little less frantic than that of her sister. “Oh! may heaven restore you to us — to yourself!”

“Peace, foolish young woman,” said Sarah, with a smile of affected pity; “all cannot be happy at the same moment; perhaps you have no brother, or husband, to console you. You look beautiful, and you will yet find one; but,” she continued, dropping her voice to a whisper, “see that he has no other wife— ’tis dreadful to think what might happen, should he be twice married.”

“The shock has destroyed her mind,” cried Miss Peyton; “my child, my beauteous Sarah is a maniac!”

“No, no, no,” cried Frances, “it is fever; she is lightheaded — she must recover — she shall recover.”

The aunt caught joyfully at the hope conveyed in this suggestion, and dispatched Katy to request the immediate aid and advice of Dr. Sitgreaves. The surgeon was found inquiring among the men for professional employment, and inquisitively examining every bruise and scratch that he could induce the sturdy warriors to acknowledge they had received. A summons, of the sort conveyed by Katy, was instantly obeyed, and not a minute elapsed before he was by the side of Miss Peyton.

“This is a melancholy termination to so joyful a commencement of the night, madam,” he observed, in a soothing manner. “But war must bring its attendant miseries; though doubtless it often supports the cause of liberty, and improves the knowledge of surgical science.”

Miss Peyton could make no reply, but pointed to her niece.

“’Tis fever,” answered Frances; “see how glassy is her eye, and look at her cheek, how flushed.”

The surgeon stood for a moment, deeply studying the outward symptoms of his patient, and then he silently took her hand in his own. It was seldom that the hard and abstracted features of Sitgreaves discovered any violent emotion; all his passions seemed schooled, and his countenance did not often betray what, indeed, his heart frequently felt. In the present instance, however, the eager gaze of the aunt and sister quickly detected his emotions. After laying his fingers for a minute on the beautiful arm, which, bared to the elbow and glittering with jewels, Sarah suffered him to retain, he dropped it, and dashing a hand over his eyes, turned sorrowfully away.

“Here is no fever to excite— ’tis a case, my dear madam, for time and care only; these, with the blessing of God, may effect a cure.”

“And where is the wretch who has caused this ruin?” exclaimed Singleton, rejecting the support of his man, and making an effort to rise from the chair to which he had been driven by debility. “It is in vain that we overcome our enemies, if, conquered, they can inflict such wounds as this.”

“Dost think, foolish boy,” said Lawton, with a bitter smile, “that hearts can feel in a colony? What is America but a satellite of England — to move as she moves, follow where she wists, and shine, that the mother country may become more splendid by her radiance? Surely you forget that it is honor enough for a colonist to receive ruin from the hand of a child of Britain.”

“I forget not that I wear a sword,” said Singleton, falling back exhausted; “but was there no willing arm ready to avenge that lovely sufferer — to appease the wrongs of this hoary father?”

“Neither arms nor hearts are wanting, sir, in such a cause,” said the trooper, fiercely; “but chance oftentimes helps the wicked. By heavens, I’d give Roanoke himself, for a clear field with the miscreant!”

“Nay! captain dear, no be parting with the horse, anyway,” said Betty. “It is no trifle that can be had by jist asking of the right person, if ye’re in need of silver; and the baste is sure of foot, and jumps like a squirrel.”

“Woman, fifty horses, aye, the best that were ever reared on the banks of the Potomac, would be but a paltry price, for one blow at a villain.”

“Come,” said the surgeon, “the night air can do no service to George, or these ladies, and it is incumbent on us to remove them where they can find surgical attendance and refreshment. Here is nothing but smoking ruins and the miasma of the swamps.”

To this rational proposition no objection could be raised, and the necessary orders were issued by Lawton to remove the whole party to the Four Corners.

America furnished but few and very indifferent carriage-makers at the period of which we write, and every vehicle, that in the least aspired to that dignity, was the manufacture of a London mechanic. When Mr. Wharton left the city, he was one of the very few who maintained the state of a carriage; and, at the time Miss Peyton and his daughters joined him in his retirement, they had been conveyed to the cottage in the heavy chariot that had once so imposingly rolled through the windings of Queen Street, or emerged, with somber dignity, into the more spacious drive of Broadway. This vehicle stood, undisturbed, where it had been placed on its arrival, and the age of the horses alone had protected the favorites of Caesar from sequestration by the contending forces in their neighborhood. With a heavy heart, the black, assisted by a few of the dragoons, proceeded to prepare it for the reception of the ladies. It was a cumbrous vehicle, whose faded linings and tarnished hammer-cloth, together with its panels of changing color, denoted the want of that art which had once given it luster and beauty. The “lion couchant” of the Wharton arms was reposing on the reviving splendor of a blazonry that told the armorial bearings of a prince of the church; and the miter, that began to shine through its American mask, was a symbol of the rank of its original owner. The chaise which conveyed Miss Singleton was also safe, for the stable and outbuildings had entirely escaped the flames; it certainly had been no part of the plan of the marauders to leave so well-appointed a stud behind them, but the suddenness of the attack by Lawton, not only disconcerted their arrangements on this point, but on many others also. A guard was left on the ground, under the command of Hollister, who, having discovered that his enemy was of mortal mold, took his position with admirable coolness and no little skill, to guard against surprise. He drew off his small party to such a distance from the ruins, that it was effectually concealed in the darkness, while at the same time the light continued sufficiently power ful to discover anyone who might approach the lawn with an intent to plunder.

Satisfied with this judicious arrangement, Captain Lawton made his dispositions for the march. Miss Peyton, her two nieces, and Isabella were placed in the chariot, while the cart of Mrs. Flanagan, amply supplied with blankets and a bed, was honored with the person of Captain Singleton. Dr. Sitgreaves took charge of the chaise and Mr. Wharton. What became of the rest of the family during that eventful night is unknown, for Caesar alone, of the domestics, was to be found, if we except the housekeeper. Having disposed of the whole party in this manner, Lawton gave the word to march. He remained himself, for a few minutes, alone on the lawn, secreting various pieces of plate and other valuables, that he was fearful might tempt the cupidity of his own men; when, perceiving nothing more that he conceived likely to overcome their honesty, he threw himself into the saddle with the soldierly intention of bringing up the rear.

“Stop, stop,” cried a female voice. “Will you leave me alone to be murdered? The spoon is melted, I believe, and I’ll have compensation, if there’s law or justice in this unhappy land.”

Lawton turned an eye in the direction of the sound, and perceived a female emerging from the ruins, loaded with a bundle that vied in size with the renowned pack of the peddler.

“Whom have we here,” said the trooper, “rising like a phoenix from the flames? Oh! by the soul of Hippocrates, but it is the identical she-doctor, of famous needle reputation. Well, good woman, what means this outcry?”

“Outcry!” echoed Katy, panting for breath. “Is it not disparagement enough to lose a silver spoon, but I must be left alone in this lonesome place, to be robbed, and perhaps murdered? Harvey would not serve me so; when I lived with Harvey, I was always treated with respect at least, if he was a little close with his secrets, and wasteful of his money.”

“Then, madam, you once formed part of the household of Mr. Harvey
Birch?”

“You may say I was the whole of his household,” returned the other; “there was nobody but I, and he, and the old gentleman. You didn’t know the old gentleman, perhaps?”

“That happiness was denied me. How long did you live in the family of
Mr. Birch?”

“I disremember the precise time, but it must have been hard on upon nine years; and what better am I for it all?”

“Sure enough; I can see but little benefit that you have derived from the association, truly. But is there not something unusual in the movements and character of this Mr. Birch?”

“Unusual is an easy word for such unaccountables!” replied Katy, lowering her voice and looking around her. “He was a wonderful disregardful man, and minded a guinea no more than I do a kernel of corn. But help me to some way of joining Miss Jinitt, and I will tell you prodigies of what Harvey has done, first and last.”

“You will!” exclaimed the trooper, musing. “Here, give me leave to feel your arm above the elbow. There — you are not deficient in bone, let the blood be as it may.” So saying, he gave the spinster a sudden whirl, that effectually confused all her faculties, until she found herself safely, if not comfortably, seated on the crupper of Lawton’s steed.

“Now, madam, you have the consolation of knowing that you are as well mounted as Washington. The nag is sure of foot, and will leap like a panther.”

“Let me get down,” cried Katy, struggling to release herself from his iron grasp, and yet afraid of falling. “This is no way to put a woman on a horse; besides, I can’t ride without a pillion.”

“Softly, good madam,” said Lawton; “for although Roanoke never falls before, he sometimes rises behind. He is far from being accustomed to a pair of heels beating upon his flanks like a drum major on a field day; a single touch of the spur will serve him for a fortnight, and it is by no means wise to be kicking in this manner, for he is a horse that but little likes to be outdone.”

“Let me down, I say,” screamed Katy; “I shall fall and be killed.
Besides, I have nothing to hold on with; my arms are full of valuables.”

“True,” returned the trooper, observing that he had brought bundle and all from the ground. “I perceive that you belong to the baggage guard; but my sword belt will encircle your little waist, as well as my own.”

Katy was too much pleased with this compliment to make any resistance, while he buckled her close to his own herculean frame, and, driving a spur into his charger, they flew from the lawn with a rapidity that defied further denial. After proceeding for some time, at a rate that a good deal discomposed the spinster, they overtook the cart of the washerwoman driving slowly over the stones, with a proper consideration for the wounds of Captain Singleton. The occurrences of that eventful night had produced an excitement in the young soldier, that was followed by the ordinary lassitude of reaction and he lay carefully enveloped in blankets, and supported by his man, but little able to converse, though deeply brooding over the past. The dialogue between Lawton and his companion ceased with the commencement of their motions, but a footpace being more favorable to speech, the trooper began anew:

“Then, you have been an inmate in the same house with Harvey Birch?”

“For more than nine years,” said Katy, drawing her breath, and rejoicing greatly that their speed was abated.

The deep tones of the trooper’s voice were no sooner conveyed to the ears of the washerwoman, than, turning her head, where she sat directing the movements of the mare, she put into the discourse at the first pause.

“Belike, then, good woman, ye’re knowing whether or no he’s akin to Beelzeboob,” said Betty. “It’s Sargeant Hollister who’s saying the same, and no fool is the sargeant, anyway.”

“It’s a scandalous disparagement” cried Katy, vehemently, “no kinder soul than Harvey carries a pack; and for a gownd or a tidy apron, he will never take a king’s farthing from a friend. Beelzebub, indeed! For what would he read the Bible, if he had dealings with the evil spirit?”

“He’s an honest divil, anyway; as I was saying before, the guinea was pure. But then the sargeant thinks him amiss, and it’s no want of l’arning that Mister Hollister has.”

“He’s a fool!” said Katy tartly. “Harvey might be a man of substance, were he not so disregardful. How often have I told him, that if he did nothing but peddle, and would put his gains to use, and get married, so that things at home could be kept within doors, and leave off his dealings with the rig’lars, and all incumberments, that he would soon become an excellent liver. Sergeant Hollister would be glad to hold a candle to him, indeed!”

“Pooh!” said Betty, in her philosophical way; “ye’re no thinking that Mister Hollister is an officer, and stands next the cornet, in the troop. But this piddler gave warning of the brush the night, and it’s no sure that Captain Jack would have got the day, but for the reënforcement.”

“How say you, Betty,” cried the trooper, bending forward on his saddle, “had you notice of our danger from Birch?”

“The very same, darling; and it’s hurry I was till the boys was in motion; not but I knew ye’re enough for the Cowboys any time. But wid the divil on your side, I was sure of the day. I’m only wondering there’s so little plunder, in a business of Beelzeboob’s contriving.”

“I’m obliged to you for the rescue, and equally indebted to the motive.”

“Is it the plunder? But little did I t’ink of it till I saw the movables on the ground, some burnt, and some broke, and other some as good as new. It would be convanient to have one feather bed in the corps, anyway.”

“By heavens, ’twas timely succor! Had not Roanoke been swifter than their bullets, I must have fallen. The animal is worth his weight in gold.”

“It’s continental, you mane, darling. Goold weighs heavy, and is no plenty in the states. If the nagur hadn’t been staying and frighting the sargeant with his copper-colored looks, and a matter of blarney ‘bout ghosts, we should have been in time to have killed all the dogs, and taken the rest prisoners.”

“It is very well as it is, Betty,” said Lawton. “A day will yet come, I trust, when these miscreants shall be rewarded, if not in judgments upon their persons, at least in the opinions of their fellow citizens. The time must arrive when America will distinguish between a patriot and a robber.”

“Speak low,” said Katy; “there’s some who think much of themselves, that have doings with the Skinners.”

“It’s more they are thinking of themselves, then, than other people thinks of them,” cried Betty. “A t’ief’s a t’ief, anyway; whether he stales for King George or for Congress.”

“I know’d that evil would soon happen,” said Katy. “The sun set to-night behind a black cloud, and the house dog whined, although I gave him his supper with my own hands; besides, it’s not a week sin’ I dreamed the dream about the thousand lighted candles, and the cakes burnt in the oven.”

“Well,” said Betty, “it’s but little I drame, anyway. Jist keep an ‘asy conscience and a plenty of the stuff in ye, and ye’ll sleep like an infant. The last drame I had was when the boys put the thistle tops in the blankets, and then I was thinking that Captain Jack’s man was currying me down, for the matter of Roanoke, but it’s no trifle I mind either in skin or stomach.”

“I’m sure,” said Katy, with a stiff erectness that drew Lawton back in his saddle, “no man shall ever dare to lay hands on bed of mine; it’s undecent and despisable conduct.”

“Pooh! pooh!” cried Betty; “if you tag after a troop of horse, a small bit of a joke must be borne. What would become of the states and liberty, if the boys had never a clane shirt, or a drop to comfort them? Ask Captain Jack, there, if they’d fight, Mrs. Beelzeboob, and they no clane linen to keep the victory in.”

“I’m a single woman, and my name is Haynes,” said Katy, “and I’d thank you to use no disparaging terms when speaking to me.”

“You must tolerate a little license in the tongue of Mrs. Flanagan, madam,” said the trooper. “The drop she speaks of is often of an extraordinary size, and then she has acquired the freedom of a soldier’s manner.”

“Pooh! captain, darling,” cried Betty, “why do you bother the woman? Talk like yeerself, dear, and it’s no fool of a tongue that ye’ve got in yeer own head. But jist here-away that sargeant made a halt, thinking there might be more divils than one stirring, the night. The clouds are as black as Arnold’s heart, and deuce the star is there twinkling among them. Well, the mare is used to a march after nightfall, and is smelling out the road like a pointer slut.”

“It wants but little to the rising moon,” observed the trooper. He called a dragoon, who was riding in advance, issued a few orders and cautions relative to the comfort and safety of Singleton, and speaking a consoling word to his friend himself, gave Roanoke the spur, and dashed by the car, at a rate that again put to flight all the philosophy of Katharine Haynes.

“Good luck to ye, for a free rider and a bold!” shouted the washerwoman, as he passed. “If ye’re meeting Mister Beelzeboob, jist back the baste up to him, and show him his consort that ye’ve got on the crupper. I’m thinking it’s no long he’d tarry to chat. Well, well, it’s his life that we saved, he was saying so himself — though the plunder is nothing to signify.”

The cries of Betty Flanagan were too familiar to the ears of Captain Lawton to elicit a reply. Notwithstanding the unusual burden that Roanoke sustained, he got over the ground with great rapidity, and the distance between the cart of Mrs. Flanagan and the chariot of Miss Peyton was passed in a manner that, however it answered the intentions of the trooper, in no degree contributed to the comfort of his companion. The meeting occurred but a short distance from the quarters of Lawton, and at the same instant the moon broke from a mass of clouds, and threw its light on objects.

Compared with the simple elegance and substantial comfort of the Locusts, the “Hotel Flanagan” presented but a dreary spectacle. In the place of carpeted floors and curtained windows, were the yawning cracks of a rudely-constructed dwelling, and boards and paper were ingeniously applied to supply the place of the green glass in more than half the lights. The care of Lawton had anticipated every improvement that their situation would allow, and blazing fires were made before the party arrived. The dragoons, who had been charged with this duty, had conveyed a few necessary articles of furniture, and Miss Peyton and her companions, on alighting, found something like habitable apartments prepared for their reception. The mind of Sarah had continued to wander during the ride, and, with the ingenuity of the insane, she accommodated every circumstance to the feelings that were uppermost in her own bosom.

“It is impossible to minister to a mind that has sustained such a blow,” said Lawton to Isabella Singleton. “Time and God’s mercy can alone cure it, but something more may be done towards the bodily comfort of all. You are a soldier’s daughter, and used to scenes like this; help me to exclude some of the cold air from these windows.”

Miss Singleton acceded to his request, and while Lawton was endeavoring, from without, to remedy the defect of broken panes, Isabella was arranging a substitute for a curtain within.

“I hear the cart,” said the trooper, in reply to one of her interrogatories. “Betty is tender-hearted in the main; believe me, poor George will not only be safe, but comfortable.”

“God bless her, for her care, and bless you all,” said Isabella, fervently. “Dr. Sitgreaves has gone down the road to meet him, I know. What is that glittering in the moon?”

Directly opposite the window where they stood, were the outbuildings of the farm, and the quick eye of Lawton caught at a glance the object to which she alluded.

“’Tis the glare of firearms,” said the trooper, springing from the window towards his charger, which yet remained caparisoned at the door. His movement was quick as thought, but a flash of fire was followed by the whistling of a bullet, before he had proceeded a step. A loud shriek burst from the dwelling, and the captain sprang into his saddle; the whole was the business of but a moment.

“Mount — mount, and follow!” shouted the trooper; and before his astonished men could understand the cause of alarm, Roanoke had carried him in safety over the fence which lay between him and his foe. The chase was for life or death, but the distance to the rocks was again too short, and the disappointed trooper saw his intended victim vanish in their clefts, where he could not follow.

“By the life of Washington,” muttered Lawton, as he sheathed his saber, “I would have made two halves of him, had he not been so nimble on the foot — but a time will come!” So saying, he returned to his quarters, with the indifference of a man who knew his life was at any moment to be offered a sacrifice to his country. An extraordinary tumult in the house induced him to quicken his speed, and on arriving at the door, the panic-stricken Katy informed him that the bullet aimed at his own life had taken effect in the bosom of Miss Singleton.

CHAPTER XXIV

Hushed were his Gertrude’s lips; but still their bland
And beautiful expression seemed to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
— Gertrude of Wyoming.

The brief arrangements of the dragoons had prepared two apartments for the reception of the ladies, the one being intended as a sleeping room, and situated within the other. Into the latter Isabella was immediately conveyed, at her own request, and placed on a rude bed by the side of the unconscious Sarah. When Miss Peyton and Frances flew to her assistance, they found her with a smile on her pallid lip, and a composure in her countenance, that induced them to think her uninjured.

“God be praised!” exclaimed the trembling aunt. “The report of firearms, and your fall, had led me into error. Surely, surely, there was enough horror before; but this has been spared us.”

Isabella pressed her hand upon her bosom, still smiling, but with a ghastliness that curdled the blood of Frances.

“Is George far distant?” she asked. “Let him know — hasten him, that I may see my brother once again.”

“It is as I apprehended!” shrieked Miss Peyton. “But you smile — surely you are not hurt!”

“Quite well — quite happy,” murmured Isabella; “here is a remedy for every pain.”

Sarah arose from the reclining posture she had taken, and gazed wildly at her companion. She stretched forth her own hand, and raised that of Isabella from her bosom. It was dyed in blood.

“See,” said Sarah, “but will it not wash away love? Marry, young woman, and then no one can expel him from your heart, unless,” — she added, whispering, and bending over the other,— “you find another there before you; then die, and go to heaven — there are no wives in heaven.”

The lovely maniac hid her face under the clothes, and continued silent during the remainder of the night. At this moment Lawton entered. Inured as he was to danger in all its forms, and accustomed to the horrors of a partisan war, the trooper could not behold the ruin before him unmoved. He bent over the fragile form of Isabella, and his gloomy eye betrayed the workings of his soul.

“Isabella,” he at length uttered, “I know you to possess a courage beyond the strength of women.”

“Speak,” she said, earnestly; “if you have anything to say, speak fearlessly.”

The trooper averted his face as he replied, “None ever receive a ball there, and survive.”

“I have no dread of death, Lawton,” returned Isabella. “I thank you for not doubting me; I felt it from the first.”

“These are not scenes for a form like yours,” added the trooper. “’Tis enough that Britain calls our youth to the field; but when such loveliness becomes the victim of war, I sicken of my trade.”

“Hear me, Captain Lawton,” said Isabella, raising herself with difficulty, but rejecting aid. “From early womanhood to the present hour have I been an inmate of camps and garrisons. I have lived to cheer the leisure of an aged father, and think you I would change those days of danger and privation for any ease? No! I have the consolation of knowing, in my dying moments, that what woman could do in such a cause, I have done.”

“Who could prove a recreant, and witness such a spirit! Hundreds of warriors have I witnessed in their blood, but never a firmer soul among them all.”

“’Tis the soul only,” said Isabella. “My sex and strength have denied me the dearest of privileges. But to you, Captain Lawton, nature has been more bountiful; you have an arm and a heart to devote to the cause; and I know they are in arm and a heart that will prove true to the last. And George — and— “ she paused, her lip quivered, and her eye sank to the floor.

“And Dunwoodie!” added the trooper. “Would you speak of Dunwoodie?”

“Name him not,” said Isabella, sinking back, and concealing her face in her garments. “Leave me, Lawton — prepare poor George for this unexpected blow.”

The trooper continued for a little while gazing, in melancholy interest, at the convulsive shudderings of her frame, which the scanty covering could not conceal, and withdrew to meet his comrade. The interview between Singleton and his sister was painful, and, for a moment, Isabella yielded to a burst of tenderness; but, as if aware that her hours were numbered, she was the first to rouse herself to exertion. At her earnest request, the room was left to herself, the captain, and Frances. The repeated applications of the surgeon, to be permitted to use professional aid, were steadily rejected, and, at length, he was obliged unwillingly to retire.

“Raise me,” said the dying young woman, “and let me look on a face that I love, once more.” Frances silently complied, and Isabella turned her eyes in sisterly affection upon George. “It matters but little, my brother — a few hours must close the scene.”

“Live, Isabella, my sister, my only sister!” cried the youth, with a burst of sorrow that he could not control. “My father! my poor father— “

“There is the sting of death; but he is a soldier and a Christian. Miss Wharton, I would speak of what interests you, while yet I have strength for the task.”

“Nay,” said Frances, tenderly, “compose yourself; let no desire to oblige me endanger a life that is precious to — to — so many.” The words were nearly stifled by her emotions, for the other had touched a chord that thrilled to her heart.

“Poor, sensitive girl!” said Isabella, regarding her with tender interest; “but the world is still before you, and why should I disturb the little happiness it may afford! Dream on, lovely innocent! and may God keep the evil day of knowledge far distant!”

“Oh, there is even now little left for me to enjoy,” said Frances, burying her face in the clothes. “I am heartstricken in all that I most loved.”

“No!” interrupted Isabella; “you have one inducement to wish for life, that pleads strongly in a woman’s breast. It is a delusion that nothing but death can destroy— “ Exhaustion compelled her to pause, and her auditors continued in breathless suspense, until, recovering her strength, she laid her hand on that of Frances, and continued more mildly, “Miss Wharton, if there breathes a spirit congenial to Dunwoodie’s, and worthy of his love, it is your own.”

A flush of fire passed over the face of the listener, and she raised her eyes, flashing with an ungovernable look of delight, to the countenance of Isabella; but the ruin she beheld recalled better feelings, and again her head dropped upon the covering of the bed. Isabella watched her emotion with a look that partook both of pity and admiration.

“Such have been the feelings that I have escaped,” she continued. “Yes,
Miss Wharton, Dunwoodie is wholly yours.”

“Be just to yourself, my sister,” exclaimed the youth; “let no romantic generosity cause you to forget your own character.”

She heard him, and fixed a gaze of tender interest on his face, but slowly shook her head as she replied, —

“It is not romance, but truth, that bids me speak. Oh! how much have I lived within an hour! Miss Wharton, I was born under a burning sun, and my feelings seem to have imbibed its warmth; I have existed for passion only.”

“Say not so — say not so, I implore you,” cried the agitated brother. “Think how devoted has been your love to our aged father; how disinterested, how tender, your affection to me!”

“Yes,” said Isabella, a smile of mild pleasure beaming on her countenance, “that, at least, is a reflection which may be taken to the grave.”

Neither Frances nor her brother interrupted her meditations, which continued for several minutes; when, suddenly recollecting herself, she continued, —

“I remain selfish even to the last; with me, Miss Wharton, America and her liberties were my earliest passion, and— “ Again she paused, and Frances thought it was the struggle of death that followed; but reviving, she proceeded, “Why should I hesitate, on the brink of the grave! Dunwoodie was my next and my last. But,” burying her face in her hands, “it was a love that was unsought.”

“Isabella!” exclaimed her brother, springing from the bed, and pacing the floor in disorder.

“See how dependent we become under the dominion of worldly pride; it is painful to George to learn that one he loves had not feelings superior to her nature and education.”

“Say no more,” whispered Frances; “you distress us both — say no more, I entreat you.”

“In justice to Dunwoodie I must speak; and for the same reason, my brother, you must listen. By no act or word has Dunwoodie ever induced me to believe he wished me more than a friend; nay, latterly, I have had the burning shame of thinking that he avoided my presence.”

“Would he dare?” said Singleton, fiercely.

“Peace, my brother, and listen,” continued Isabella, rousing herself with an effort that was final. “Here is the innocent, the justifiable cause. We are both motherless; but that aunt — that mild, plain-hearted, observing aunt, has given you the victory. Oh! how much she loses, who loses a female guardian to her youth. I have exhibited those feelings which you have been taught to repress. After this, can I wish to live?”

“Isabella! my poor Isabella! you wander in your mind.”

“But one word more — for I feel that blood, which ever flowed too swiftly, rushing where nature never intended it to go. Woman must be sought to be prized; her life is one of concealed emotions; blessed are they whose early impressions make the task free from hypocrisy, for such only can be happy with men like — like Dunwoodie.” Her voice failed, and she sank back on her pillow in silence. The cry of Singleton brought the rest of the party to her bedside; but death was already upon her countenance; her remaining strength just sufficed to reach the hand of George, and pressing it to her bosom for a moment, she relinquished her grasp, and, with a slight convulsion, expired.

Frances Wharton had thought that fate had done its worst, in endangering the life of her brother, and destroying the reason of her sister; but the relief conveyed by the dying declaration of Isabella taught her that another sorrow had aided in loading her heart with grief. She saw the whole truth at a glance; nor was the manly delicacy of Dunwoodie lost upon her — everything tended to raise him in her estimation; and, for mourning that duty and pride had induced her to strive to think less of him, she was compelled to substitute regret that her own act had driven him from her in sorrow, if not in desperation. It is not in the nature of youth, however, to despair; and Frances now knew a secret joy that gave a new spring to her existence.

The sun broke forth, on the morning that succeeded this night of desolation, in unclouded luster, and seemed to mock the petty sorrows of those who received his rays. Lawton had early ordered his steed, and was ready to mount as the first burst of light broke over the hills. His orders were already given, and the trooper threw his leg across the saddle, in silence; and, casting a glance of fierce chagrin at the narrow space that had favored the flight of the Skinner, he gave Roanoke the rein, and moved slowly towards the valley.

The stillness of death pervaded the road, nor was there a single vestige of the scenes of the night, to tarnish the loveliness of a glorious morn. Struck with the contrast between man and nature, the fearless trooper rode by each pass of danger, regardless of what might happen; nor did he rouse himself from his musing, until the noble charger, snuffing the morning air, greeted the steeds of the guard under Sergeant Hollister.

Here, indeed, was to be seen sad evidence of the midnight fray, but the trooper glanced his eye over it with the coolness of one accustomed to such sights. Without wasting the moments in useless regrets, he proceeded, at once, to business.

“Have you seen anything?” he demanded of the orderly.

“Nothing, sir, that we dared to charge upon,” returned Hollister; “but we mounted once, at the report of distant firearms.”

“’Tis well,” said Lawton, gloomily. “Ah! Hollister, I would give the animal I ride, to have had your single arm between the wretch who drew that trigger and these useless rocks, which overhang every bit of ground, as if they grudged pasture to a single hoof.”

“Under the light of day, and charging man to man, I am as good as another; but I can’t say that I’m overfond of fighting with those that neither steel nor lead can bring down.”

“What silly crotchet is uppermost, now, in that mystified brain of thine, Deacon Hollister?”

“I like not the dark object that has been maneuvering in the skirt of the wood since the first dawn of day; and twice, during the night, it was seen marching across the firelight, no doubt with evil intent.”

“Is it yon ball of black, at the foot of the rock maple, that you mean?
In truth it moves.”

“But without mortal motion,” said the sergeant, regarding it with awful reverence. “It glides along, but no feet have been seen by any who watch here.”

“Had it wings,” cried Lawton, “it is mine; stand fast, until I join.” The words were hardly uttered before Roanoke was flying across the plain, and apparently verifying the boast of his master.

“Those cursed rocks!” ejaculated the trooper, as he saw the object of his pursuit approaching the hillside; but, either from want of practice or from terror, it passed the obvious shelter they offered, and fled into the open plain.

“I have you, man or devil!” shouted Lawton, whirling his saber from its scabbard. “Halt, and take quarter!”

His proposition was apparently acceded to; for, at the sound of his powerful voice, the figure sank upon the ground, exhibiting a shapeless ball of black, without life or motion.

“What have we here?” cried Lawton, drawing up by its side. “A gala suit of the good maiden, Jeanette Peyton, wandering around its birthplace, or searching in vain for its discomfited mistress?” He leaned forward in his stirrups, and placing the point of his sword under the silken garment, by throwing aside the covering, discovered part of the form of the reverend gentleman who had fled from the Locusts, the evening before, in his robes of office.

“In truth, Hollister had some ground for his alarm; an army chaplain is, at any time, a terror to a troop of horse.”

The clergyman had collected enough of his disturbed faculties, to discover that it was a face he knew, and somewhat disconcerted at the terror he had manifested, and the indecent attitude in which he had been found, he endeavored to rise and offer some explanation. Lawton received his apologies good-humoredly, if not with much faith in their truth; and, after a short communication upon the state of the valley, the trooper courteously alighted, and they proceeded towards the guard.

“I am so little acquainted, sir, with the rebel uniform, that I really was unable to distinguish, whether those men, whom you say are your own, did or did not belong to the gang of marauders.”

“Apology, sir, is unnecessary,” replied the trooper, curling his lip. “It is not your task, as a minister of God, to take note of the facings of a coat. The standard under which you serve is acknowledged by us all.”

“I serve under the standard of his gracious Majesty, George III,” returned the priest, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. “But really the idea of being scalped has a strong tendency to unman a new-beginner, like myself.”

“Scalped!” echoed Lawton, stopping short in his walk. Then recollecting himself, he added, with composure, “If it is to Dunwoodie’s squadron of Virginia light dragoons that you allude, it may be well to inform you that they generally take a bit of the skull with the skin.”

“Oh! I can have no apprehensions of gentlemen of your appearance,” said the divine, with a smirk. “It is the natives that I apprehend.”

“Natives! I have the honor to be one, I assure you, sir.”

“Nay, I beg that I may be understood — I mean the Indians; they who do nothing but rob, and murder, and destroy.”

“And scalp!”

“Yes, sir, and scalp too,” continued the clergyman, eying his companion a little suspiciously; “the copper-colored, savage Indians.”

“And did you expect to meet those nose-jeweled gentry in the neutral ground?”

“Certainly; we understand in England that the interior swarms with them.”

“And call you this the interior of America?” cried Lawton, again halting, and staring the other in the face, with a surprise too naturally expressed to be counterfeited.

“Surely, sir, I conceive myself to be in the interior.”

“Attend,” said Lawton, pointing towards the east. “See you not that broad sheet of water which the eye cannot compass? Thither lies the England you deem worthy to hold dominion over half the world. See you the land of your nativity?”

“’Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance of three thousand miles!” exclaimed the wondering priest, a little suspicious of his companion’s sanity.

“No! what a pity it is that the powers of man are not equal to his ambition. Now turn your eyes westward; observe that vast expanse of water which rolls between the shores of America and China.”

“I see nothing but land,” said the trembling priest; “there is no water to be seen.”

“’Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance of three thousand miles!” repeated Lawton, pursuing his walk. “If you apprehend the savages, seek them in the ranks of your prince. Rum and gold have preserved their loyalty.”

“Nothing is more probable than my being deceived,” said the man of peace, casting furtive glances at the colossal stature and whiskered front of his companion; “but the rumors we have at home, and the uncertainty of meeting with such an enemy as yourself, induced me to fly at your approach.”

“’Twas not judiciously determined,” said the trooper, “as Roanoke has the heels of you greatly; and flying from Scylla, you were liable to encounter Charybdis. Those woods and rocks cover the very enemies you dread.”

“The savages!” exclaimed the divine, instinctively placing the trooper in the rear.

“More than savages; men who, under the guise of patriotism, prowl through the community, with a thirst for plunder that is unsatiable, and a love of cruelty that mocks the ingenuity of the Indian — fellows whose mouths are filled with liberty and equality, and whose hearts are overflowing with cupidity and gall — gentlemen that are ycleped the Skinners.”

“I have heard them mentioned in our army,” said the frightened divine, “and had thought them to be the aborigines.”

“You did the savages injustice.”

They now approached the spot occupied by Hollister, who witnessed with surprise the character of the prisoner made by his captain. Lawton gave his orders, and the men immediately commenced securing and removing such articles of furniture as were thought worthy of the trouble; and the captain, with his reverend associate, who was mounted on a mettled horse, returned to the quarters of the troop.

It was the wish of Singleton that the remains of his sister should be conveyed to the post commanded by his father, and preparations were early made to this effect. The wounded British were placed under the control of the chaplain; and towards the middle of the day Lawton saw all the arrangements so far completed, as to render it probable that in a few hours he would be left with his small party, in undisturbed possession of the Corners.

While leaning in the doorway, gazing in moody silence at the ground which had been the scene of the last night’s chase, his ear caught the sound of a horse, and the next moment a dragoon of his own troop appeared dashing up the road, as if on business of the last importance. The steed was foaming, and the rider had the appearance of having done a day’s service. Without speaking, he placed a letter in the hand of Lawton, and led his charger to the stable. The trooper knew the hand of the major, and ran his eye over the following: —

“I rejoice it is the order of Washington, that the family of the Locusts are to be removed above the Highlands. They are to be admitted to the society of Captain Wharton, who waits only for their testimony to be tried. You will communicate this order, and with proper delicacy I do not doubt. The English are moving up the river; and the moment you see the Whartons in safety, break up and join your troop. There will be good service to be done when we meet, as Sir Henry is reported to have sent out a real soldier in command. Reports must be made to the commandant at Peekskill, for Colonel Singleton is withdrawn to headquarters, to preside over the inquiry upon poor Wharton. Fresh orders have been sent to hang the peddler if we can take him, but they are not from the commander in chief. Detail a small guard with the ladies, and get into the saddle as soon as possible.”

Yours sincerely,
“PEYTON DUNWOODIE.”

This communication entirely changed the whole arrangement. There was no longer any motive for removing the body of Isabella, since her father was no longer with his command, and Singleton reluctantly acquiesced in an immediate interment. A retired and lovely spot was selected, near the foot of the adjacent rocks, and such rude preparations were made as the time and the situation of the country permitted. A few of the neighboring inhabitants collected from curiosity and interest, and Miss Peyton and Frances wept in sincerity over her grave. The solemn offices of the church were performed by the minister, who had so lately stood forth to officiate in another and very different duty; and Lawton bent his head, and passed his hand across his brow, while the words that accompanied the first clod were uttered.

A new stimulus was given to the Whartons by the intelligence conveyed in the letter of Dunwoodie; and Caesar, with his horses, was once more put in requisition. The relics of the property were intrusted to a neighbor, in whom they had confidence; and, accompanied by the unconscious Sarah, and attended by four dragoons and all of the American wounded, Mr. Wharton’s party took their departure. They were speedily followed by the English chaplain, with his countrymen, who were conveyed to the waterside, where a vessel was in waiting to receive them. Lawton joyfully witnessed these movements; and as soon as the latter were out of sight, he ordered his own bugle to sound. Everything was instantly in motion. The mare of Mrs. Flanagan was again fastened to the cart; Dr. Sitgreaves exhibited his shapeless form once more on horseback; and the trooper appeared in the saddle, rejoicing in his emancipation.

The word to march was given; and Lawton, throwing a look of sullen ferocity at the place of the Skinner’s concealment, and another of melancholy regret towards the grave of Isabella, led the way, accompanied by the surgeon in a brown study; while Sergeant Hollister and Betty brought up the rear, leaving a fresh southerly wind to whistle through the open doors and broken windows of the “Hotel Flanagan,” where the laugh of hilarity, the joke of the hardy partisan, and the lamentations of the sorrowing, had so lately echoed.

CHAPTER XXV

No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter, lingering, chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain’s breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
— GOLDSMITH.

The roads of Westchester are, at this hour, below the improvements of the country. Their condition at the time of the tale has already been alluded to in these pages; and the reader will, therefore, easily imagine the task assumed by Caesar, when he undertook to guide the translated chariot of the English prelate through their windings, into one of the less frequented passes of the Highlands of the Hudson.

While Caesar and his steeds were contending with these difficulties, the inmates of the carriage were too much engrossed with their own cares to attend to those who served them. The mind of Sarah had ceased to wander so wildly as at first; but at every advance that she made towards reason, she seemed to retire a step from animation; from being excited and flighty, she was gradually becoming moody and melancholy. There were moments, indeed, when her anxious companions thought that they could discern marks of recollection; but the expression of exquisite woe that accompanied these transient gleams of reason, forced them to the dreadful alternative of wishing that she might forever be spared the agony of thought. The day’s march was performed chiefly in silence, and the party found shelter for the night in different farmhouses.

The following morning the cavalcade dispersed. The wounded diverged towards the river, with the intention of taking water at Peekskill, in order to be transported to the hospitals of the American army above. The litter of Singleton was conveyed to a part of the Highlands where his father held his quarters, and where it was intended that the youth should complete his cure; the carriage of Mr. Wharton, accompanied by a wagon conveying the housekeeper and what baggage had been saved, and could be transported, resumed its route towards the place where Henry Wharton was held in duress, and where he only waited their arrival to be put on trial for his life.

The country which lies between the waters of the Hudson and Long Island Sound, is, for the first forty miles from their junction, a succession of hills and dales. The land bordering on the latter then becomes less abrupt, and gradually assumes a milder appearance, until it finally melts into the lovely plains and meadows of the Connecticut. But as you approach the Hudson, the rugged aspect increases, until you at length meet with the formidable barrier of the Highlands. Here the neutral ground ceased. The royal army held the two points of land that commanded the southern entrance of the river into the mountains; but all the remaining passes were guarded by the Americans.

We have already stated that the pickets of the continental army were sometimes pushed low into the country, and that the hamlet of the White Plains was occasionally maintained by parties of its troops. At other times, the advanced guards were withdrawn to the northern extremity of the country, and, as has been shown, the intermediate country was abandoned to the ravages of the miscreants who plundered between both armies, serving neither.

The road taken by our party was not the one that communicates between the two principal cities of the states, but was a retired and unfrequented pass, that to this hour is but little known, and which, entering the hills near the eastern boundary, emerges into the plain above, many miles from the Hudson.

It would have been impossible for the tired steeds of Mr. Wharton to drag the heavy chariot up the lengthened and steep ascents which now lay before them; and a pair of country horses were procured, with but little regard to their owner’s wishes, by the two dragoons who still continued to accompany the party. With their assistance, Caesar was enabled to advance, by slow and toilsome steps, into the bosom of the hills. Willing to relieve her own melancholy by breathing a fresher air, and also to lessen the weight, Frances alighted as they reached the foot of the mountain. She found that Katy had made similar preparations, with the like intention of walking to the summit. It was near the setting of the sun, and, from the top of the mountain, their guard had declared that the end of their journey might be discerned. Frances moved forward with the elastic step of youth; and, followed by the housekeeper at a little distance, she soon lost sight of the sluggish carriage, that was slowly toiling up the hill, occasionally halting to allow the cattle to breathe.

“Oh, Miss Fanny, what dreadful times these be!” said Katy, when they paused for breath themselves. “I know’d that calamity was about to befall, ever sin’ the streak of blood was seen in the clouds.”

“There has been blood upon earth, Katy, though but little is ever seen in the clouds.”

“Not blood in the clouds!” echoed the housekeeper. “Yes, that there has, often, and comets with fiery, smoking tails. Didn’t people see armed men in the heavens, the year the war began? And, the night before the battle of the Plains, wasn’t there thunder, like the cannon themselves? Ah! Miss Fanny, I’m fearful that no good can follow rebellion against the Lord’s anointed!”

“These events are certainly dreadful,” returned Frances, “and enough to sicken the stoutest heart. But what can be done, Katy? Gallant and independent men are unwilling to submit to oppression; and I am fearful that such scenes are but too common in war.”

“If I could but see anything to fight about,” said Katy, renewing her walk as the young lady proceeded, “I shouldn’t mind it so much. ’Twas said the king wanted all the tea for his own family, at one time; and then again, that he meant the colonies should pay over to him all their earnings. Now this is matter enough to fight about — for I’m sure that no one, however he may be lord or king, has a right to the hard earnings of another. Then it was all contradicted, and some said Washington wanted to be king himself; so that, between the two, one doesn’t know which to believe.”

“Believe neither — for neither is true. I do not pretend to understand, myself, all the merits of this war, Katy; but to me it seems unnatural, that a country like this should be ruled by another so distant as England.”

“So I have heard Harvey say to his father, that is dead and in his grave,” returned Katy, approaching nearer to the young lady, and lowering her voice. “Many is the good time that I’ve listened to them talking, when all the neighborhood was asleep; and such conversations, Miss Fanny, that you can have no idea on! Well, to say the truth, Harvey was a mystified body, and he was like the winds in the good book; no one could tell whence he came, or whither he went.”

Frances glanced her eye at her companion with an apparent desire to hear more.

“There are rumors abroad relative to the character of Harvey,” she said, “that I should be sorry were true.”

“’Tis a disparagement, every word on’t,” cried Katy, vehemently. “Harvey had no more dealings with Beelzebub than you or I had. I’m sure if Harvey had sold himself, he would take care to be better paid; though, to speak the truth, he was always a wasteful and disregardful man.”

“Nay, nay,” returned the smiling Frances, “I have no such injurious suspicion of him; but has he not sold himself to an earthly prince — one too much attached to the interests of his native island to be always just to this country?”

“To the king’s majesty!” replied Katy. “Why, Miss Fanny, your own brother that’s in jail serves King George.”

“True,” said Frances, “but not in secret — openly, manfully, and bravely.”

“’Tis said he is a spy, and why ain’t one spy as bad as another?”

“’Tis untrue; no act of deception is worthy of my brother; nor of any would he be guilty, for so base a purpose as gain or promotion.”

“Well, I’m sure,” said Katy, a little appalled at the manner of the young lady, “if a body does the work, he should be paid for it. Harvey is by no means partic’lar about getting his lawful dues; and I dar’st to say, if the truth was forthcoming, King George owes him money this very minute.”

“Then you acknowledge his connection with the British army,” said Frances. “I confess there have been moments when I have thought differently.”

“Lord, Miss Fanny, Harvey is a man that no calculation can be made on. Though I lived in his house for a long concourse of years, I have never known whether he belonged above or below [Footnote: The American party was called the party belonging ‘above,’ and the British that of ‘below.’ The terms had reference to the course of the Hudson.]. The time that Burg’yne was taken he came home, and there was great doings between him and the old gentleman, but for my life I couldn’t tell if ’twas joy or grief. Then, here, the other day, when the great British general — I’m sure I have been so flurried with losses and troubles, that I forget his name— “

“Andre,” said Frances.

“Yes, Ondree; when he was hanged, acrost the Tappan, the old gentleman was near hand to going crazy about it, and didn’t sleep for night nor day, till Harvey got back; and then his money was mostly golden guineas; but the Skinners took it all, and now he is a beggar, or, what’s the same thing, despisable for poverty and want.”

To this speech Frances made no reply, but continued her walk up the hill, deeply engaged in her own reflections. The allusion to Andre had recalled her thoughts to the situation of her own brother.

They soon reached the highest point in their toilsome progress to the summit, and Frances seated herself on a rock to rest and to admire. Immediately at her feet lay a deep dell, but little altered by cultivation, and dark with the gloom of a November sunset. Another hill rose opposite to the place where she sat, at no great distance, along whose rugged sides nothing was to be seen but shapeless rocks, and oaks whose stunted growth showed a meager soil.

To be seen in their perfection, the Highlands must be passed immediately after the fall of the leaf. The scene is then the finest, for neither the scanty foliage which the summer lends the trees, nor the snows of winter, are present to conceal the minutest objects from the eye. Chilling solitude is the characteristic of the scenery; nor is the mind at liberty, as in March, to look forward to a renewed vegetation that is soon to check, without improving, the view.

The day had been cloudy and cool, and thin fleecy clouds hung around the horizon, often promising to disperse, but as frequently disappointing Frances in the hope of catching a parting beam from the setting sun. At length a solitary gleam struck on the base of the mountain on which she was gazing, and moved gracefully up its side, until reaching the summit, it stood for a minute, forming a crown of glory to the somber pile. So strong were the rays, that what was before indistinct now clearly opened to the view. With a feeling of awe at being thus unexpectedly admitted, as it were, into the secrets of that desert place, Frances gazed intently, until, among the scattered trees and fantastic rocks, something like a rude structure was seen. It was low, and so obscured by the color of its materials, that but for its roof, and the glittering of a window, it must have escaped her notice. While yet lost in the astonishment created by discovering a habitation in such a spot, on moving her eyes she perceived another object that increased her wonder. It apparently was a human figure, but of singular mold and unusual deformity. It stood on the edge of a rock, a little above the hut, and it was no difficult task for our heroine to fancy it was gazing at the vehicles that were ascending the side of the mountain beneath her. The distance, however, was too great to distinguish with precision. After looking at it a moment in breathless wonder, Frances had just come to the conclusion that it was ideal, and that what she saw was a part of the rock itself, when the object moved swiftly from its position, and glided into the hut, at once removing every doubt as to the nature of either. Whether it was owing to the recent conversation that she had been holding with Katy, or to some fancied resemblance that she discerned, Frances thought, as the figure vanished from her view, that it bore a marked likeness to Birch, moving under the weight of his pack. She continued to gaze towards the mysterious residence, when the gleam of light passed away, and at the same instant the tones of a bugle rang through the glens and hollows, and were reechoed in every direction. Springing on her feet, the alarmed girl heard the trampling of horses, and directly a party in the well-known uniform of the Virginians came sweeping round the point of a rock near her, and drew up at a short distance. Again the bugle sounded a lively strain, and before the agitated Frances had time to rally her thoughts, Dunwoodie dashed by the party of dragoons, threw himself from his charger, and advanced to her side.

His manner was earnest and interested, but in a slight degree constrained. In a few words he explained that he had been ordered up, with a party of Lawton’s men, in the absence of the captain himself, to attend the trial of Henry, which was fixed for the morrow; and that, anxious for their safety in the rude passes of the mountain, he had ridden a mile or two in quest of the travelers. Frances explained, with trembling voice, the reason of her being in advance, and taught him momentarily to expect the arrival of her father. The constraint of his manner had, however, unwillingly on her part, communicated itself to her own deportment, and the approach of the chariot was a relief to both. The major handed her in, spoke a few words of encouragement to Mr. Wharton and Miss Peyton, and, again mounting, led the way towards the plains of Fishkill, which broke on their sight, on turning the rock, with the effect of enchantment. A short half hour brought them to the door of the farmhouse which the care of Dunwoodie had already prepared for their reception, and where Captain Wharton was anxiously expecting their arrival.

CHAPTER XXVI

These limbs are strengthened with a soldier’s toil,
Nor has this cheek been ever blanched with fear —
But this sad tale of thine enervates all
Within me that I once could boast as man;
Chill trembling agues seize upon my frame,
And tears of childish sorrow pour, apace,
Through scarred channels that were marked by wounds.
— Duo.

The friends of Henry Wharton had placed so much reliance on his innocence, that they were unable to see the full danger of his situation. As the moment of trial, however, approached, the uneasiness of the youth himself increased; and after spending most of the night with his afflicted family, he awoke, on the following morning, from a short and disturbed slumber, to a clearer sense of his condition, and a survey of the means that were to extricate him from it with life. The rank of Andre, and the importance of the measures he was plotting, together with the powerful intercessions that had been made in his behalf, occasioned his execution to be stamped with greater notoriety than the ordinary events of the war. But spies were frequently arrested; and the instances that occurred of summary punishment for this crime were numerous. These were facts that were well known to both Dunwoodie and the prisoner; and to their experienced judgments the preparations for the trial were indeed alarming. Notwithstanding their apprehensions, they succeeded so far in concealing them, that neither Miss Peyton nor Frances was aware of their extent. A strong guard was stationed in the outbuilding of the farmhouse where the prisoner was quartered, and several sentinels watched the avenues that approached the dwelling. Another was constantly near the room of the British officer. A court was already detailed to examine into the circumstances; and upon their decision the fate of Henry rested.

The moment at length arrived, and the different actors in the approaching investigation assembled. Frances experienced a feeling like suffocation, as, after taking her seat in the midst of her family, her eyes wandered over the group who were thus collected. The judges, three in number, sat by themselves, clad in the vestments of their profession, and maintained a gravity worthy of the occasion, and becoming in their rank. In the center was a man of advanced years, and whose whole exterior bore the stamp of early and long-tried military habits. This was the president of the court; and Frances, after taking a hasty and unsatisfactory view of his associates, turned to his benevolent countenance as to the harbinger of mercy to her brother. There was a melting and subdued expression in the features of the veteran, that, contrasted with the rigid decency and composure of the others, could not fail to attract her notice. His attire was strictly in conformity to the prescribed rules of the service to which he belonged; but while his air was erect and military, his fingers trifled with a kind of convulsive and unconscious motion, with a bit of crape that entwined the hilt of the sword on which his body partly reclined, and which, like himself, seemed a relic of older times. There were the workings of an unquiet soul within; but his military front blended awe with the pity that its exhibition excited. His associates were officers selected from the eastern troops, who held the fortresses of West Point and the adjacent passes; they were men who had attained the meridian of life, and the eye sought in vain the expression of any passion or emotion on which it might seize as an indication of human infirmity. In their demeanor there was a mild, but a grave, intellectual reserve. If there was no ferocity nor harshness to chill, neither was there compassion nor interest to attract. They were men who had long acted under the dominion of a prudent reason, and whose feelings seemed trained to a perfect submission to their judgments.

Before these arbiters of his fate Henry Wharton was ushered under the custody of armed men. A profound and awful silence succeeded his entrance, and the blood of Frances chilled as she noted the grave character of the whole proceedings. There was but little of pomp in the preparations, to impress her imagination; but the reserved, businesslike air of the whole scene made it seem, indeed, as if the destinies of life awaited the result. Two of the judges sat in grave reserve, fixing their inquiring eyes on the object of their investigation; but the president continued gazing around with uneasy, convulsive motions of the muscles of the face, that indicated a restlessness foreign to his years and duty. It was Colonel Singleton, who, but the day before, had learned the fate of Isabella, but who stood forth in the discharge of a duty that his country required at his hands. The silence, and the expectation in every eye, at length struck him, and making an effort to collect himself, he spoke, in the tones of one used to authority.

“Bring forth the prisoner,” he said, with a wave of the hand.

The sentinels dropped the points of their bayonets towards the judges, and Henry Wharton advanced, with a firm step, into the center of the apartment. All was now anxiety and eager curiosity. Frances turned for a moment in grateful emotion, as the deep and perturbed breathing of Dunwoodie reached her ears; but her brother again concentrated all her interest in one feeling of intense care. In the background were arranged the inmates of the family who owned the dwelling, and behind them, again, was a row of shining faces of ebony, glistening with pleased wonder. Amongst these was the faded luster of Caesar Thompson’s countenance.

“You are said,” continued the president, “to be Henry Wharton, a captain in his Britannic Majesty’s 60th regiment of foot.”

“I am.”

“I like your candor, sir; it partakes of the honorable feelings of a soldier, and cannot fail to impress your judges favorably.”

“It would be prudent,” said one of his companions, “to advise the prisoner that he is bound to answer no more than he deems necessary; although we are a court of martial law, yet, in this respect, we own the principles of all free governments.”

A nod of approbation from the silent member was bestowed on this remark, and the president proceeded with caution, referring to the minutes he held in his hand.

“It is an accusation against you, that, being an officer of the enemy, you passed the pickets of the American army at the White Plains, in disguise, on the 29th of October last, whereby you are suspected of views hostile to the interests of America, and have subjected yourself to the punishment of a spy.”

The mild but steady tones of the speaker, as he slowly repeated the substance of this charge, were full of authority. The accusation was so plain, the facts so limited, the proof so obvious, and the penalty so well established, that escape seemed impossible. But Henry replied, with earnest grace, —

“That I passed your pickets in disguise, is true; but— “

“Peace!” interrupted the president. “The usages of war are stern enough in themselves; you need not aid them to your own condemnation.”

“The prisoner can retract that declaration, if he please,” remarked another judge. “His confession, if taken, goes fully to prove the charge.”

“I retract nothing that is true,” said Henry proudly.

The two nameless judges heard him in silent composure, yet there was no exultation mingled with their gravity. The president now appeared, however, to take new interest in the scene.

“Your sentiment is noble, sir,” he said. “I only regret that a youthful soldier should so far be misled by loyalty as to lend himself to the purposes of deceit.”

“Deceit!” echoed Wharton. “I thought it prudent to guard against capture from my enemies.”

“A soldier, Captain Wharton, should never meet his enemy but openly, and with arms in his hands. I have served two kings of England, as I now serve my native land; but never did I approach a foe, unless under the light of the sun, and with honest notice that an enemy was nigh.”

“You are at liberty to explain what your motives were in entering the ground held by our army in disguise,” said the other judge, with a slight movement of the muscles of his mouth.

“I am the son of this aged man before you,” continued Henry. “It was to visit him that I encountered the danger. Besides, the country below is seldom held by your troops, and its very name implies a right to either party to move at pleasure over its territory.”

“Its name, as a neutral ground, is unauthorized by law; it is an appellation that originates with the condition of the country. But wherever an army goes, it carries its rights along, and the first is the ability to protect itself.”

“I am no casuist, sir,” returned the youth; “but I feel that my father is entitled to my affection, and I would encounter greater risks to prove it to him in his old age.”

“A very commendable spirit,” cried the veteran. “Come, gentlemen, this business brightens. I confess, at first, it was very bad, but no man can censure him for desiring to see his parents.”

“And have you proof that such only was your intention?”

“Yes — here,” said Henry, admitting a ray of hope. “Here is proof — my father, my sister, Major Dunwoodie, all know it.”

“Then, indeed,” returned his immovable judge, “we may be able to save you. It would be well, sir, to examine further into this business.”

“Certainly,” said the president, with alacrity. “Let the elder Mr.
Wharton approach and take the oath.”

The father made an effort at composure, and, advancing with a feeble step, he complied with the necessary forms of the court.

“You are the father of the prisoner?” said Colonel Singleton, in a subdued voice, after pausing a moment in respect for the agitation of the witness.

“He is my only son.”

“And what do you know of his visit to your house, on the 29th day of
October last?”

“He came, as he told you, to see me and his sisters.”

“Was he in disguise?” asked the other judge.

“He did not wear the uniform of the 60th.”

“To see his sisters, too!” said the president with great emotion. “Have you daughters, sir?”

“I have two — both are in this house.”

“Had he a wig?” interrupted the officer.

“There was some such thing I do believe, upon his head.”

“And how long had you been separated?” asked the president.

“One year and two months.”

“Did he wear a loose greatcoat of coarse materials?” inquired the officer, referring to the paper that contained the charges.

“There was an overcoat.”

“And you think that it was to see you, only, that he came out?”

“Me, and my daughters.”

“A boy of spirit,” whispered the president to his silent comrade. “I see but little harm in such a freak; ’twas imprudent, but then it was kind.”

“Do you know that your son was intrusted with no commission from Sir Henry Clinton, and that the visit to you was not merely a cloak to other designs?”

“How can I know it?” said Mr. Wharton, in alarm. “Would Sir Henry intrust me with such a business?”

“Know you anything of this pass?” exhibiting the paper that Dunwoodie had retained when Wharton was taken.

“Nothing — upon my honor, nothing,” cried the father, shrinking from the paper as from contagion.

“On your oath?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you other testimony? This does not avail you, Captain Wharton. You have been taken in a situation where your life is forfeited; the labor of proving your innocence rests with yourself. Take time to reflect, and be cool.”

There was a frightful calmness in the manner of this judge that appalled the prisoner. In the sympathy of Colonel Singleton, he could easily lose sight of his danger; but the obdurate and collected air of the others was ominous of his fate. He continued silent, casting imploring glances towards his friend. Dunwoodie understood the appeal, and offered himself as a witness. He was sworn, and desired to relate what he knew. His statement did not materially alter the case, and Dunwoodie felt that it could not. To him personally but little was known, and that little rather militated against the safety of Henry than otherwise. His account was listened to in silence, and the significant shake of the head that was made by the silent member spoke too plainly what effect it had produced.

“Still you think that the prisoner had no other object than what he has avowed?” said the president, when he had ended.

“None other, I will pledge my life,” cried the major, with fervor.

“Will you swear it?” asked the immovable judge.

“How can I? God alone can tell the heart; but I have known this gentleman from a boy; deceit never formed part of his character. He is above it.”

“You say that he escaped, and was retaken in open arms?” said the president.

“He was; nay, he received a wound in the combat. You see he yet moves his arm with difficulty. Would he, think you, sir, have trusted himself where he could fall again into our hands, unless conscious of innocence?”

“Would Andre have deserted a field of battle, Major Dunwoodie, had he encountered such an event, near Tarrytown?” asked his deliberate examiner. “Is it not natural to youth to seek glory?”

“Do you call this glory?” exclaimed the major: “an ignominious death and a tarnished name.”

“Major Dunwoodie,” returned the other, still with inveterate gravity, “you have acted nobly; your duty has been arduous and severe, but it has been faithfully and honorably discharged; ours must not be less so.”

During the examination, the most intense interest prevailed among the hearers. With that kind of feeling which could not separate the principle from the cause, most of the auditors thought that if Dunwoodie failed to move the hearts of Henry’s judges, no other possessed the power. Caesar thrust his misshapen form forward and his features, so expressive of the concern he felt, and so different from the vacant curiosity pictured in the countenance of the other blacks, caught the attention of the silent judge. For the first time he spoke: —

“Let that black be brought forward.”

It was too late to retreat, and Caesar found himself confronted with a row of rebel officers, before he knew what was uppermost in his thoughts. The others yielded the examination to the one who suggested it, and using all due deliberation, he proceeded accordingly.

“You know the prisoner?”

“I t’ink he ought,” returned the black, in a manner as sententious as that of his examiner.

“Did he give you the wig when he threw it aside?”

“I don’t want ‘em,” grumbled Caesar; “got a berry good hair heself.”

“Were you employed in carrying any letters or messages of any kind while
Captain Wharton was in your master’s house?”

“I do what a tell me,” returned the black.

“But what did they tell you to do?”

“Sometime a one ting — sometime anoder.”

“Enough,” said Colonel Singleton, with dignity. “You have the noble acknowledgment of a gentleman, what more can you obtain from this slave? — Captain Wharton, you perceive the unfortunate impression against you. Have you other testimony to adduce?”

To Henry there now remained but little hope; his confidence in his security was fast ebbing, but with an indefinite expectation of assistance from the loveliness of his sister, he fixed an earnest gaze on the pallid features of Frances. She arose, and with a tottering step moved towards the judges; the paleness of her cheek continued but for a moment, and gave place to a flush of fire, and with a light but firm tread, she stood before them. Raising her hand to her polished forehead, Frances threw aside her exuberant locks, and displayed a picture of beauty and innocence to their view that might have moved even sterner natures. The president shrouded his eyes for a moment, as if the wild eye and speaking countenance recalled the image of another. The movement was transient, and recovering himself, with an earnestness that betrayed his secret wishes, —

“To you, then, your brother previously communicated his intention of paying your family a secret visit?”

“No! — no!” said Frances, pressing her hand on her brain, as if to collect her thoughts; “he told me nothing — we knew not of the visit until he arrived; but can it be necessary to explain to gallant men, that a child would incur hazard to meet his only parent, and that in times like these, and in a situation like ours?”

“But was this the first time? Did he never even talk of doing so before?” inquired the colonel, leaning towards her with paternal interest.

“Certainly — certainly,” cried Frances, catching the expression of his own benevolent countenance. “This is but the fourth of his visits.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed the veteran, rubbing his hands with delight. “An adventurous, warm-hearted son — I warrant me, gentlemen, a fiery soldier in the field! In what disguises did he come?”

“In none, for none were then necessary; the royal troops covered the country, and gave him safe passage.”

“And was this the first of his visits out of the uniform of his regiment?” asked the colonel, in a suppressed voice, avoiding the penetrating looks of his companions.

“Oh! the very first,” exclaimed the eager girl. “His first offense, I do assure you, if offense it be.”

“But you wrote him — you urged the visit; surely, young lady, you wished to see your brother?” added the impatient colonel.

“That we wished it, and prayed for it, — oh, how fervently we prayed for it! — is true; but to have held communion with the royal army would have endangered our father, and we dared not.”

“Did he leave the house until taken, or had he intercourse with any out of your own dwelling?”

“With none — no one, excepting our neighbor, the peddler Birch.”

“With whom!” exclaimed the colonel, turning pale, and shrinking as from the sting of an adder.

Dunwoodie groaned aloud, and striking his head with his hand, cried in piercing tones, “He is lost!” and rushed from the apartment.

“But Harvey Birch,” repeated Frances, gazing wildly at the door through which her lover had disappeared.

“Harvey Birch!” echoed all the judges. The two immovable members of the court exchanged looks, and threw an inquisitive glance at the prisoner.

“To you, gentlemen, it can be no new intelligence to hear that Harvey Birch is suspected of favoring the royal cause,” said Henry, again advancing before the judges; “for he has already been condemned by your tribunals to the fate that I now see awaits myself. I will therefore explain, that it was by his assistance I procured the disguise, and passed your pickets; but to my dying moments, and with my dying breath, I will avow, that my intentions were as pure as the innocent being before you.”

“Captain Wharton,” said the president, solemnly, “the enemies of American liberty have made mighty and subtle efforts to overthrow our power. A more dangerous man, for his means and education, is not ranked among our foes than this peddler of Westchester. He is a spy — artful, delusive, and penetrating, beyond the abilities of any of his class. Sir Henry could not do better than to associate him with the officer in his next attempt. He would have saved Andre. Indeed, young man, this is a connection that may prove fatal to you!”

The honest indignation that beamed on the countenance of the aged warrior was met by a look of perfect conviction on the part of his comrades.

“I have ruined him!” cried Frances, clasping her hands in terror. “Do you desert us? then he is lost, indeed!”

“Forbear! lovely innocent, forbear!” said the colonel, with strong emotion; “you injure none, but distress us all.”

“Is it then such a crime to possess natural affection?” said Frances wildly. “Would Washington — the noble, upright, impartial Washington, judge so harshly? Delay, till Washington can hear his tale.”

“It is impossible,” said the president, covering his eyes, as if to hide her beauty from his view.

“Impossible! oh! but for a week suspend your judgment. On my knees I entreat you, as you will expect mercy yourself, when no human power can avail you, give him but a day.”

“It is impossible,” repeated the colonel, in a voice that was nearly choked. “Our orders are peremptory, and too long delay has been given already.”

He turned from the kneeling suppliant, but could not, or would not, extricate that hand that she grasped with frenzied fervor.

“Remand your prisoner,” said one of the judges to the officer who had the charge of Henry. “Colonel Singleton, shall we withdraw?”

“Singleton! Singleton!” echoed Frances. “Then you are a father, and know how to pity a father’s woes; you cannot, will not, wound a heart that is now nearly crushed. Hear me, Colonel Singleton; as God will listen to your dying prayers, hear me, and spare my brother!”

“Remove her,” said the colonel, gently endeavoring to extricate his hand; but none appeared disposed to obey. Frances eagerly strove to read the expression of his averted face, and resisted all his efforts to retire.

“Colonel Singleton! how lately was your own son in suffering and in danger! Under the roof of my father he was cherished-under my father’s roof he found shelter and protection. Oh! suppose that son the pride of your age, the solace and protection of your infant children, and then pronounce my brother guilty, if you dare!”

“What right has Heath to make an executioner of me!” exclaimed the veteran fiercely, rising with a face flushed like fire, and every vein and artery swollen with suppressed emotion. “But I forget myself; come, gentlemen, let us mount, our painful duty must be done.”

“Mount not! go not!” shrieked Frances. “Can you tear a son from his parent — a brother from his sister, so coldly? Is this the cause I have so ardently loved? Are these the men that I have been taught to reverence? But you relent, you do hear me, you will pity and forgive.”

“Lead on, gentlemen,” said the colonel, motioning towards the door, and erecting himself into an air of military grandeur, in the vain hope of quieting his feelings.

“Lead not on, but hear me,” cried Frances, grasping his hand convulsively. “Colonel Singleton, you are a father! — pity — mercy — mercy for the son! mercy for the daughter! Yes — you had a daughter. On this bosom she poured out her last breath; these hands closed her eyes; these very hands, that are now clasped in prayer, did those offices for her that you condemn my poor, poor brother, to require.”

One mighty emotion the veteran struggled with, and quelled; but with a groan that shook his whole frame. He even looked around in conscious pride at his victory; but a second burst of feeling conquered. His head, white with the frost of seventy winters, sank upon the shoulder of the frantic suppliant. The sword that had been his companion in so many fields of blood dropped from his nerveless hand, and as he cried, “May God bless you for the deed!” he wept aloud.

Long and violent was the indulgence that Colonel Singleton yielded to his feelings. On recovering, he gave the senseless Frances into the arms of her aunt, and, turning with an air of fortitude to his comrades, he said, —

“Still, gentlemen, we have our duty as officers to discharge; our feelings as men may be indulged hereafter. What is your pleasure with the prisoner?”

One of the judges placed in his hand a written sentence, that he had prepared while the colonel was engaged with Frances, and declared it to be the opinion of himself and his companion.

It briefly stated that Henry Wharton had been detected in passing the lines of the American army as a spy, and in disguise. That thereby, according to the laws of war, he was liable to suffer death, and that this court adjudged him to the penalty; recommending him to be executed by hanging, before nine o’clock on the following morning.

It was not usual to inflict capital punishments, even on the enemy, without referring the case to the commander in chief, for his approbation; or, in his absence, to the officer commanding for the time being. But, as Washington held his headquarters at New Windsor, on the western bank of the Hudson, there was sufficient time to receive his answer.

“This is short notice,” said the veteran, holding the pen in his hand, in a suspense that had no object; “not a day to fit one so young for heaven?”

“The royal officers gave Hale [Footnote: An American officer of this name was detected within the British lines, in disguise, in search of military information. He was tried and executed, as stated in the text, as soon as the preparations could be made. It is said that he was reproached under the gallows with dishonoring the rank he held by his fate. ‘What a death for an officer to die!’ said one of his captors. ‘Gentlemen, any death is honorable when a man dies in a cause like that of America,’ was his answer. Andre was executed amid the tears of his enemies; Hale died unpitied and with reproaches in his ears; and yet one was the victim of ambition, and the other of devotion to his country. Posterity will do justice between them.] but an hour,” returned his comrade; “we have granted the usual time. But Washington has the power to extend it, or to pardon.”

“Then to Washington will I go,” cried the colonel, returning the paper with his signature; “and if the services of an old man like me, or that brave boy of mine, entitle me to his ear, I will yet save the youth.”

So saying, he departed, full of his generous intentions in favor of
Henry Wharton.

The sentence of the court was communicated, with proper tenderness, to the prisoner; and after giving a few necessary instructions to the officer in command, and dispatching a courier to headquarters with their report, the remaining judges mounted, and rode to their own quarters, with the same unmoved exterior, but with the consciousness of the same dispassionate integrity, that they had maintained throughout the trial.

CHAPTER XXVII

Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,
But he must die to-morrow?
— Measure for Measure.

A few hours were passed by the prisoner, after his sentence was received, in the bosom of his family. Mr. Wharton wept in hopeless despondency over the untimely fate of his son; and Frances, after recovering from her insensibility, experienced an anguish of feeling to which the bitterness of death itself would have been comparatively light. Miss Peyton alone retained a vestige of hope, or presence of mind to suggest what might be proper to be done under their circumstances. The comparative composure of the good aunt arose in no degree from any want of interest in the welfare of her nephew, but it was founded in a kind of instinctive dependence on the character of Washington. He was a native of the same colony with herself; and although his early military services, and her frequent visits to the family of her sister, and subsequent establishment at its head, had prevented their ever meeting, still she was familiar with his domestic virtues, and well knew that the rigid inflexibility for which his public acts were distinguished formed no part of his reputation in private life. He was known in Virginia as a consistent but just and lenient master; and she felt a kind of pride in associating in her mind her countryman with the man who led the armies, and in a great measure controlled the destinies, of America. She knew that Henry was innocent of the crime for which he was condemned to suffer, and, with that kind of simple faith that is ever to be found in the most ingenuous characters, could not conceive of those constructions and interpretations of law that inflicted punishment without the actual existence of crime. But even her confiding hopes were doomed to meet with a speedy termination. Towards noon, a regiment of militia, that were quartered on the banks of the river, moved to the ground in front of the house that held our heroine and her family, and deliberately pitched their tents, with the avowed intention of remaining until the following morning, to give solemnity and effect to the execution of a British spy.

Dunwoodie had performed all that was required of him by his orders, and was at liberty to retrace his steps to his expectant squadron, which was impatiently waiting his return to be led against a detachment of the enemy that was known to be slowly moving up the banks of the river, in order to cover a party of foragers in its rear. He was accompanied by a small party of Lawton’s troop, under the expectation that their testimony might be required to convict the prisoner; and Mason, the lieutenant, was in command. But the confession of Captain Wharton had removed the necessity of examining any witnesses on behalf of the people. [Footnote: In America justice is administered in the name of “the good people,” etc., etc., the sovereignty residing with them.] The major, from an unwillingness to encounter the distress of Henry’s friends, and a dread of trusting himself within its influence, had spent the time we have mentioned in walking by himself, in keen anxiety, at a short distance from the dwelling. Like Miss Peyton, he had some reliance on the mercy of Washington, although moments of terrific doubt and despondency were continually crossing his mind. To him the rules of service were familiar, and he was more accustomed to consider his general in the capacity of a ruler, than as exhibiting the characteristics of the individual. A dreadful instance had too recently occurred, which fully proved that Washington was above the weakness of sparing another in mercy to himself. While pacing, with hurried steps, through the orchard, laboring under these constantly recurring doubts, enlivened by transient rays of hope, Mason approached, accoutered completely for the saddle.

“Thinking you might have forgotten the news brought this morning from below, sir, I have taken the liberty to order the detachment under arms,” said the lieutenant, very coolly, cutting down with his sheathed saber the mullein tops that grew within his reach.

“What news?” cried the major, starting.

“Only that John Bull is out in Westchester, with a train of wagons, which, if he fills, will compel us to retire through these cursed hills, in search of provender. These greedy Englishmen are so shut up on York Island, that when they do venture out, they seldom leave straw enough to furnish the bed of a Yankee heiress.”

“Where did the express leave them, did you say? The intelligence has entirely escaped my memory.”

“On the heights above Sing Sing,” returned the lieutenant, with no little amazement. “The road below looks like a hay market, and all the swine are sighing forth their lamentations, as the corn passes them towards King’s Bridge. George Singleton’s orderly, who brought up the tidings, says that our horses were holding consultation if they should not go down without their riders, and eat another meal, for it is questionable with them whether they can get a full stomach again. If they are suffered to get back with their plunder, we shall not be able to find a piece of pork at Christmas fat enough to fry itself.”

“Peace, with all this nonsense of Singleton’s orderly, Mr. Mason,” cried Dunwoodie, impatiently; “let him learn to wait the orders of his superiors.”

“I beg pardon in his name, Major Dunwoodie,” said the subaltern; “but, like myself, he was in error. We both thought it was the order of General Heath, to attack and molest the enemy whenever he ventured out of his nest.”

“Recollect yourself, Lieutenant Mason,” said the major, “or I may have to teach you that your orders pass through me.”

“I know it, Major Dunwoodie — I know it; and I am sorry that your memory is so bad as to forget that I never have yet hesitated to obey them.”

“Forgive me, Mason,” cried Dunwoodie, taking both his hands. “I do know you for a brave and obedient soldier; forget my humor. But this business — had you ever a friend?”

“Nay, nay,” interrupted the lieutenant, “forgive me and my honest zeal. I knew of the orders, and was fearful that censure might fall on my officer. But remain, and let a man breathe a syllable against the corps, and every sword will start from the scabbard of itself; besides, they are still moving up, and it is a long road from Croton to King’s Bridge. Happen what may, I see plainly that we shall be on their heels before they are housed again.”

“Oh! that the courier was returned from headquarters!” exclaimed
Dunwoodie. “This suspense is insupportable.”

“You have your wish,” cried Mason. “Here he is at the moment, and riding like the bearer of good news. God send it may be so; for I can’t say that I particularly like myself to see a brave young fellow dancing upon nothing.”

Dunwoodie heard but very little of this feeling declaration; for, ere half of it was uttered, he had leaped the fence and stood before the messenger.

“What news?” cried the major, the moment that the soldier stopped his horse.

“Good!” exclaimed the man; and feeling no hesitation to intrust an officer so well known as Major Dunwoodie, he placed the paper in his hands, as he added, “but you can read it, sir, for yourself.”

Dunwoodie paused not to read; but flew, with the elastic spring of joy, to the chamber of the prisoner. The sentinel knew him, and he was suffered to pass without question.

“Oh! Peyton,” cried Frances, as he entered the apartment, “you look like a messenger from heaven! Bring you tidings of mercy?”

“Here, Frances — here, Henry — here, dear cousin Jeanette,” cried the youth, as with trembling hands he broke the seal; “here is the letter itself, directed to the captain of the guard. But listen— “

All did listen with intense anxiety; and the pang of blasted hope was added to their misery, as they saw the glow of delight which had beamed on the countenance of the major give place to a look of horror. The paper contained the sentence of the court, and underneath was written these simple words, —

“Approved — GEO. WASHINGTON.”

“He’s lost, he’s lost!” cried Frances, sinking into the arms of her aunt.

“My son! my son!” sobbed the father, “there is mercy in heaven, if there is none on earth. May Washington never want that mercy he thus denies to my innocent child!”

“Washington!” echoed Dunwoodie, gazing around him in vacant horror. “Yes, ’tis the act of Washington himself; these are his characters; his very name is here, to sanction the dreadful deed.”

“Cruel, cruel Washington!” cried Miss Peyton. “How has familiarity with blood changed his nature!”

“Blame him not,” said Dunwoodie; “it is the general, and not the man; my life on it, he feels the blow he is compelled to inflict.”

“I have been deceived in him,” cried Frances. “He is not the savior of his country; but a cold and merciless tyrant. Oh! Peyton, Peyton! how have you misled me in his character!”

“Peace, dear Frances; peace, for God’s sake; use not such language. He is but the guardian of the law.”

“You speak the truth, Major Dunwoodie,” said Henry, recovering from the shock of having his last ray of hope extinguished, and advancing from his seat by the side of his father. “I, who am to suffer, blame him not. Every indulgence has been granted me that I can ask. On the verge of the grave I cannot continue unjust. At such a moment, with so recent an instance of danger to your cause from treason, I wonder not at Washington’s unbending justice. Nothing now remains but to prepare for that fate which so speedily awaits me. To you, Major Dunwoodie, I make my first request.”

“Name it,” said the major, giving utterance with difficulty.

Henry turned, and pointing to the group of weeping mourners near him, he continued, —

“Be a son to this aged man; help his weakness, and defend him from any usage to which the stigma thrown upon me may subject him. He has not many friends amongst the rulers of this country; let your powerful name be found among them.”

“It shall.”

“And this helpless innocent,” continued Henry, pointing to where Sarah sat, unconscious of what was passing, “I had hoped for an opportunity to revenge her wrongs;” a flush of excitement passed over his features; “but such thoughts are evil — I feel them to be wrong. Under your care, Peyton, she will find sympathy and refuge.”

“She shall,” whispered Dunwoodie.

“This good aunt has claims upon you already; of her I will not speak; but here,” taking the hand of Frances, and dwelling upon her countenance with an expression of fraternal affection, “here is the choicest gift of all. Take her to your bosom, and cherish her as you would cultivate innocence and virtue.”

The major could not repress the eagerness with which he extended his hand to receive the precious boon; but Frances, shrinking from his touch, hid her face in the bosom of her aunt.

“No, no, no!” she murmured. “None can ever be anything to me who aid in my brother’s destruction.”

Henry continued gazing at her in tender pity for several moments, before he again resumed a discourse that all felt was most peculiarly his own.

“I have been mistaken, then. I did think, Peyton, that your worth, your noble devotion to a cause that you have been taught to revere, that your kindness to our father when in imprisonment, your friendship for me, — in short, that your character was understood and valued by my sister.”

“It is — it is,” whispered Frances, burying her face still deeper in the bosom of her aunt.

“I believe, dear Henry,” said Dunwoodie, “this is a subject that had better not be dwelt upon now.”

“You forget,” returned the prisoner, with a faint smile, “how much I have to do, and how little time is left to do it in.”

“I apprehend,” continued the major, with a face of fire, “that Miss Wharton has imbibed some opinions of me that would make a compliance with your request irksome to her — opinions that it is now too late to alter.”

“No, no, no,” cried Frances, quickly, “you are exonerated, Peyton — with her dying breath she removed my doubts.”

“Generous Isabella!” murmured Dunwoodie; “but, still, Henry, spare your sister now; nay, spare even me.”

“I speak in pity to myself,” returned the brother, gently removing Frances from the arms of her aunt. “What a time is this to leave two such lovely females without a protector! Their abode is destroyed, and misery will speedily deprive them of their last male friend,” looking at his father; “can I die in peace with the knowledge of the danger to which they will be exposed?”

“You forget me,” said Miss Peyton, shrinking at the idea of celebrating nuptials at such a moment.

“No, my dear aunt, I forget you not, nor shall I, until I cease to remember; but you forget the times and the danger. The good woman who lives in this house has already dispatched a messenger for a man of God, to smooth my passage to another world. Frances, if you would wish me to die in peace, to feel a security that will allow me to turn my whole thoughts to heaven, you will let this clergyman unite you to Dunwoodie.”

Frances shook her head, but remained silent.

“I ask for no joy — no demonstration of a felicity that you will not, cannot feel, for months to come; but obtain a right to his powerful name — give him an undisputed title to protect you— “

Again the maid made an impressive gesture of denial.

“For the sake of that unconscious sufferer” — pointing to Sarah, “for your sake — for my sake — my sister— “

“Peace, Henry, or you will break my heart,” cried the agitated girl. “Not for worlds would I at such a moment engage in the solemn vows that you wish. It would render me miserable for life.”

“You love him not,” said Henry, reproachfully. “I cease to importune you to do what is against your inclinations.”

Frances raised one hand to conceal her countenance, as she extended the other towards Dunwoodie, and said earnestly, —

“Now you are unjust to me — before, you were unjust to yourself.”

“Promise me, then,” said Wharton, musing awhile in silence, “that as soon as the recollection of my fate is softened, you will give my friend that hand for life, and I am satisfied.”

“I do promise,” said Frances, withdrawing the hand that Dunwoodie delicately relinquished, without even presuming to press it to his lips.

“Well, then, my good aunt,” continued Henry, “will you leave me for a short time alone with my friend? I have a few melancholy commissions with which to intrust him, and would spare you and my sister the pain of hearing them.”

“There is yet time to see Washington again,” said Miss Peyton, moving towards the door; and then, speaking with extreme dignity, she continued, “I will go myself; surely he must listen to a woman from his own colony! — and we are in some degree connected with his family.”

“Why not apply to Mr. Harper?” said Frances, recollecting the parting words of their guest for the first time.

“Harper!” echoed Dunwoodie, turning towards her with the swiftness of lightning; “what of him? Do you know him?”

“It is in vain,” said Henry, drawing him aside; “Frances clings to hope with the fondness of a sister. Retire, my love, and leave me with my friend.”

But Frances read an expression in the eye of Dunwoodie that chained her to the spot. After struggling to command her feelings, she continued, —

“He stayed with us for two days — he was with us when Henry was arrested.”

“And — and — did you know him?”

“Nay,” continued Frances, catching her breath as she witnessed the intense interest of her lover, “we knew him not; he came to us in the night, a stranger, and remained with us during the severe storm; but he seemed to take an interest in Henry, and promised him his friendship,”

“What!” exclaimed the youth in astonishment. “Did he know your brother?”

“Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise.”

“But,” said Dunwoodie, turning pale with suspense, “he knew him not as an officer of the royal army?”

“Indeed he did,” cried Miss Peyton; “and he cautioned us against this very danger.”

Dunwoodie caught up the fatal paper, that still lay where it had fallen from his own hands, and studied its characters intently. Something seemed to bewilder his brain. He passed his hand over his forehead, while each eye was fixed on him in dreadful suspense — all feeling afraid to admit those hopes anew that had been so sadly destroyed.

“What said he? What promised he?” at length Dunwoodie asked, with feverish impatience.

“He bid Henry apply to him when in danger, and promised to requite the son for the hospitality of the father.”

“Said he this, knowing him to be a British officer?”

“Most certainly; and with a view to this very danger.”

“Then,” cried the youth aloud, and yielding to his rapture, “then you are safe — then will I save him; yes, Harper will never forget his word.”

“But has he the power to?” said Frances. “Can he move the stubborn purpose of Washington?”

“Can he? If he cannot,” shouted the youth, “if he cannot, who can?
Greene, and Heath, and young Hamilton are nothing compared to this
Harper. But,” rushing to his mistress, and pressing her hands
convulsively, “repeat to me — you say you have his promise?”

“Surely, surely, Peyton; his solemn, deliberate promise, knowing all the circumstances.”

“Rest easy,” cried Dunwoodie, holding her to his bosom for a moment, “rest easy, for Henry is safe.”

He waited not to explain, but darting from the room, he left the family in amazement. They continued in silent wonder until they heard the feet of his charger, as he dashed from the door with the speed of an arrow.

A long time was spent after this abrupt departure of the youth, by the anxious friends he had left, in discussing the probability of his success. The confidence of his manner had, however, communicated to his auditors something of his own spirit. Each felt that the prospects of Henry were again brightening, and with their reviving hopes they experienced a renewal of spirits, which in all but Henry himself amounted to pleasure; with him, indeed, his state was too awful to admit of trifling, and for a few hours he was condemned to feel how much more intolerable was suspense than even the certainty of calamity. Not so with Frances. She, with all the reliance of affection, reposed in security on the assurance of Dunwoodie, without harassing herself with doubts that she possessed not the means of satisfying; but believing her lover able to accomplish everything that man could do, and retaining a vivid recollection of the manner and benevolent appearance of Harper, she abandoned herself to all the felicity of renovated hope.

The joy of Miss Peyton was more sobered, and she took frequent occasions to reprove her niece for the exuberance of her spirits, before there was a certainty that their expectations were to be realized. But the slight smile that hovered around the lips of the virgin contradicted the very sobriety of feeling that she inculcated.

“Why, dearest aunt,” said Frances, playfully, in reply to one of her frequent reprimands, “would you have me repress the pleasure that I feel at Henry’s deliverance, when you yourself have so often declared it to be impossible that such men as ruled in our country could sacrifice an innocent man?”

“Nay, I did believe it impossible, my child, and yet think so; but still there is a discretion to be shown in joy as well as in sorrow.”

Frances recollected the declaration of Isabella, and turned an eye filled with tears of gratitude on her excellent aunt, as she replied, —

“True; but there are feelings that will not yield to reason. Ah! here are those monsters, who have come to witness the death of a fellow creature, moving around yon field, as if life was, to them, nothing but a military show.”

“It is but little more to the hireling soldier,” said Henry, endeavoring to forget his uneasiness.

“You gaze, my love, as if you thought a military show of some importance,” said Miss Peyton, observing her niece to be looking from the window with a fixed and abstracted attention. But Frances answered not.

From the window where she stood, the pass that they had traveled through the Highlands was easily to be seen; and the mountain which held on its summit the mysterious hut was directly before her. Its side was rugged and barren; huge and apparently impassable barriers of rocks presenting themselves through the stunted oaks, which, stripped of their foliage, were scattered over its surface. The base of the hill was not half a mile from the house, and the object which attracted the notice of Frances was the figure of a man emerging from behind a rock of remarkable formation, and as suddenly disappearing. The maneuver was several times repeated, as if it were the intention of the fugitive (for such by his air he seemed to be) to reconnoiter the proceedings of the soldiery, and assure himself of the position of things on the plain. Notwithstanding the distance, Frances instantly imbibed the opinion that it was Birch. Perhaps this impression was partly owing to the air and figure of the man, but in a great measure to the idea that presented itself on formerly beholding the object at the summit of the mountain. That they were the same figure she was confident, although this wanted the appearance which, in the other, she had taken for the pack of the peddler. Harvey had so connected himself with the mysterious deportment of Harper, within her imagination, that under circumstances of less agitation than those in which she had labored since her arrival, she would have kept her suspicions to herself. Frances, therefore, sat ruminating on this second appearance in silence, and endeavoring to trace what possible connection this extraordinary man could have with the fortunes of her own family. He had certainly saved Sarah in some degree, from the blow that had partially alighted on her, and in no instance had he proved himself to be hostile to their interests.

After gazing for a long time at the point where she had last seen the figure, in the vain expectation of its reappearance, she turned to her friends in the apartment. Miss Peyton was sitting by Sarah, who gave some slight additional signs of observing what passed, but who still continued insensible either to joy or grief.

“I suppose, by this time, my love, that you are well acquainted with the maneuvers of a regiment,” said Miss Peyton. “It is no bad quality in a soldier’s wife, at all events.”

“I am not a wife yet,” said Frances, coloring to the eyes; “and we have little reason to wish for another wedding in our family.”

“Frances!” exclaimed her brother, starting from his seat, and pacing the floor in violent agitation. “Touch not the chord again, I entreat you. While my fate is uncertain, I would wish to be at peace with all men.”

“Then let the uncertainty cease,” cried Frances, springing to the door, “for here comes Peyton with the joyful intelligence of your release.”

The words were hardly uttered, before the door opened, and the major entered. In his air there was the appearance of neither success nor defeat, but there was a marked display of vexation. He took the hand that Frances, in the fullness of her heart, extended towards him, but instantly relinquishing it, threw himself into a chair, in evident fatigue.

“You have failed,” said Wharton, with a bound of his heart, but an appearance of composure.

“Have you seen Harper?” cried Frances, turning pale.

“I have not. I crossed the river in one boat as he must have been coming to this side, in another. I returned without delay, and traced him for several miles into the Highlands, by the western pass, but there I unaccountably lost him. I have returned here to relieve your uneasiness, but see him I will this night, and bring a respite for Henry.”

“But saw you Washington?” asked Miss Peyton.

Dunwoodie gazed at her a moment in abstracted musing, and the question was repeated. He answered gravely, and with some reserve, —

“The commander in chief had left his quarters.”

“But, Peyton,” cried Frances, in returning terror, “if they should not see each other, it will be too late. Harper alone will not be sufficient.”

Her lover turned his eyes slowly on her anxious countenance, and dwelling a moment on her features, said, still musing, —

“You say that he promised to assist Henry.”

“Certainly, of his own accord and in requital for the hospitality he had received.”

Dunwoodie shook his head, and began to look grave.

“I like not that word hospitality — it has an empty sound; there must be something more reasonable to tie Harper. I dread some mistake; repeat to me all that passed.”

Frances, in a hurried and earnest voice, complied with his request. She related particularly the manner of his arrival at the Locusts, the reception that he received, and the events that passed as minutely as her memory could supply her with the means. As she alluded to the conversation that occurred between her father and his guest, the major smiled but remained silent. She then gave a detail of Henry’s arrival, and the events of the following day. She dwelt upon the part where Harper had desired her brother to throw aside his disguise, and recounted, with wonderful accuracy, his remarks upon the hazard of the step that the youth had taken. She even remembered a remarkable expression of his to her brother, “that he was safer from Harper’s knowledge of his person, than he would be without it.” Frances mentioned, with the warmth of youthful admiration, the benevolent character of his deportment to herself, and gave a minute relation of his adieus to the whole family.

Dunwoodie at first listened with grave attention; evident satisfaction followed as she proceeded. When she spoke of herself in connection with their guest, he smiled with pleasure, and as she concluded, he exclaimed, with delight, —

“We are safe! — we are safe!”

But he was interrupted, as will be seen in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The owlet loves the gloom of night,
The lark salutes the day,
The timid dove will coo at hand —
But falcons soar away.
— Song in Duo.

In a country settled, like these states, by a people who fled their native land and much-loved firesides, victims of consciences and religious zeal, none of the decencies and solemnities of a Christian death are dispensed with, when circumstances will admit of their exercise. The good woman of the house was a strict adherent to the forms of the church to which she belonged; and having herself been awakened to a sense of her depravity, by the ministry of the divine who harangued the people of the adjoining parish, she thought it was from his exhortations only that salvation could be meted out to the short-lived hopes of Henry Wharton. Not that the kind-hearted matron was so ignorant of the doctrines of the religion which she professed, as to depend, theoretically, on mortal aid for protection; but she had, to use her own phrase, “sat so long under the preaching of good Mr. —— ,” that she had unconsciously imbibed a practical reliance on his assistance, for that which her faith should have taught her could come from the Deity alone. With her, the consideration of death was at all times awful, and the instant that the sentence of the prisoner was promulgated, she dispatched Caesar, mounted on one of her husband’s best horses, in quest of her clerical monitor. This step had been taken without consulting either Henry or his friends; and it was only when the services of Caesar were required on some domestic emergency, that she explained the nature of his absence. The youth heard her, at first, with an unconquerable reluctance to admit of such a spiritual guide; but as our view of the things of this life becomes less vivid, our prejudices and habits cease to retain their influence; and a civil bow of thanks was finally given, in requital for the considerate care of the well-meaning woman.

The black returned early from his expedition, and, as well as could be gathered from his somewhat incoherent narrative, a minister of God might be expected to arrive in the course of the day. The interruption that we mentioned in our preceding chapter was occasioned by the entrance of the landlady. At the intercession of Dunwoodie, orders had been given to the sentinel who guarded the door of Henry’s room, that the members of the prisoner’s family should, at all times, have free access to his apartment. Caesar was included in this arrangement, as a matter of convenience, by the officer in command; but strict inquiry and examination was made into the errand of every other applicant for admission. The major had, however, included himself among the relatives of the British officer; and one pledge, that no rescue should be attempted, was given in his name, for them all. A short conversation was passing between the woman of the house and the corporal of the guard, before the door that the sentinel had already opened in anticipation of the decision of his noncommissioned commandant.

“Would you refuse the consolations of religion to a fellow creature about to suffer death?” said the matron, with earnest zeal. “Would you plunge a soul into the fiery furnace, and a minister at hand to point out the straight and narrow path?”

“I’ll tell you what, good woman,” returned the corporal, gently pushing her away; “I’ve no notion of my back being a highway for any man to walk to heaven upon. A pretty figure I should make at the pickets, for disobeying orders. Just step down and ask Lieutenant Mason, and you may bring in a whole congregation. We have not taken the guard from the foot soldiers, but an hour, and I shouldn’t like to have it said that we know less than the militia.”

“Admit the woman,” said Dunwoodie, sternly, observing, for the first time, that one of his own corps was on post.

The corporal raised his hand to his cap, and fell back in silence; the soldier stood to his arms, and the matron entered.

“Here is a reverend gentleman below, come to soothe the parting soul, in the place of our own divine, who is engaged with an appointment that could not be put aside; ’tis to bury old Mr.— “

“Show him in at once,” said Henry, with feverish impatience.

“But will the sentinel let him pass? I would not wish a friend of
Mr. — to be rudely stopped on the threshold, and he a stranger.”

All eyes were now turned on Dunwoodie, who, looking at his watch, spoke a few words with Henry, in an undertone, and hastened from the apartment, followed by Frances. The subject of their conversation was a wish expressed by the prisoner for a clergyman of his own persuasion, and a promise from the major, that one should be sent from Fishkill town, through which he was about to pass, on his way to the ferry to intercept the expected return of Harper. Mason soon made his bow at the door, and willingly complied with the wishes of the landlady; and the divine was invited to make his appearance accordingly.

The person who was ushered into the apartment, preceded by Caesar, and followed by the matron, was a man beyond the middle age, or who might rather be said to approach the downhill of life. In stature he was above the size of ordinary men, though his excessive leanness might contribute in deceiving as to his height; his countenance was sharp and unbending, and every muscle seemed set in rigid compression. No joy or relaxation appeared ever to have dwelt on features that frowned habitually, as if in detestation of the vices of mankind. The brows were beetling, dark, and forbidding, giving the promise of eyes of no less repelling expression; but the organs were concealed beneath a pair of enormous green goggles, through which they glared around with a fierceness that denounced the coming day of wrath. All was fanaticism, uncharitableness, and denunciation. Long, lank hair, a mixture of gray and black, fell down his neck, and in some degree obscured the sides of his face, and, parting on his forehead, fell in either direction in straight and formal screens. On the top of this ungraceful exhibition was laid impending forward, so as to overhang in some measure the whole fabric, a large hat of three equal cocks. His coat was of a rusty black, and his breeches and stockings were of the same color; his shoes without luster, and half-concealed beneath huge plated buckles. He stalked into the room, and giving a stiff nod with his head, took the chair offered him by the black, in dignified silence. For several minutes no one broke this ominous pause in the conversation; Henry feeling a repugnance to his guest, that he was vainly endeavoring to conquer, and the stranger himself drawing forth occasional sighs and groans, that threatened a dissolution of the unequal connection between his sublimated soul and its ungainly tenement. During this, deathlike preparation, Mr. Wharton, with a feeling nearly allied to that of his son, led Sarah from the apartment. His retreat was noticed by the divine, in a kind of scornful disdain, who began to hum the air of a popular psalm tune, giving it the full richness of the twang that distinguishes the Eastern [Footnote: By “Eastern” is meant the states of New England, which, being originally settled by Puritans, still retain many distinct shades of character.] psalmody.

“Caesar,” said Miss Peyton, “hand the gentleman some refreshment; he must need it after his ride.”

“My strength is not in the things of this life,” said the divine, speaking in a hollow, sepulchral voice. “Thrice have I this day held forth in my Master’s service, and fainted not; still it is prudent to help this frail tenement of clay, for, surely, ‘the laborer is worthy of his hire.’”

Opening a pair of enormous jaws, he took a good measure of the proffered brandy, and suffered it to glide downwards, with that sort of facility with which man is prone to sin.

“I apprehend, then, sir, that fatigue will disable you from performing the duties which kindness has induced you to attempt.”

“Woman!” exclaimed the stranger, with energy, “when was I ever known to shrink from a duty? But ‘judge not lest ye be judged,’ and fancy not that it is given to mortal eyes to fathom the intentions of the Deity.”

“Nay,” returned the maiden, meekly, and slightly disgusted with his jargon, “I pretend not to judge of either events, or the intentions of my fellow creatures, much less of those of Omnipotence.”

“’Tis well, woman,— ’tis well,” cried the minister, moving his head with supercilious disdain; “humility becometh thy sex and lost condition; thy weakness driveth thee on headlong like ‘unto the bosom of destruction.’”

Surprised at this extraordinary deportment, but yielding to that habit which urges us to speak reverently on sacred subjects, even when perhaps we had better continue silent, Miss Peyton replied, —

“There is a Power above, that can and will sustain us all in well-doing, if we seek its support in humility and truth.”

The stranger turned a lowering look at the speaker, and then composing himself into an air of self-abasement, he continued in the same repelling tones, —

“It is not everyone that crieth out for mercy, that will be heard. The ways of Providence are not to be judged by men— ‘Many are called, but few chosen.’ It is easier to talk of humility than to feel it. Are you so humble, vile worm, as to wish to glorify God by your own damnation? If not, away with you for a publican and a Pharisee!”

Such gross fanaticism was uncommon in America, and Miss Peyton began to imbibe the impression that her guest was deranged; but remembering that he had been sent by a well-known divine, and one of reputation, she discarded the idea, and, with some forbearance, observed, —

“I may deceive myself, in believing that mercy is proffered to all, but it is so soothing a doctrine, that I would not willingly be undeceived.”

“Mercy is only for the elect,” cried the stranger, with an unaccountable energy; “and you are in the ‘valley of the shadow of death.’ Are you not a follower of idle ceremonies, which belong to the vain church that our tyrants would gladly establish here, along with their stamp acts and tea laws? Answer me that, woman; and remember, that Heaven hears your answer; are you not of that idolatrous communion?”

“I worship at the altars of my fathers,” said Miss Peyton, motioning to
Henry for silence; “but bow to no other idol than my own infirmities.”

“Yes, yes, I know ye, self-righteous and papal as ye are — followers of forms, and listeners to bookish preaching; think you, woman, that holy Paul had notes in his hand to propound the Word to the believers?”

“My presence disturbs you,” said Miss Peyton, rising. “I will leave you with my nephew, and offer those prayers in private that I did wish to mingle with his.”

So saying, she withdrew, followed by the landlady, who was not a little shocked, and somewhat surprised, by the intemperate zeal of her new acquaintance; for, although the good woman believed that Miss Peyton and her whole church were on the highroad to destruction, she was by no means accustomed to hear such offensive and open avowals of their fate.

Henry had with difficulty repressed the indignation excited by this unprovoked attack on his meek and unresisting aunt; but as the door closed on her retiring figure, he gave way to his feelings.

“I must confess, sir,” he exclaimed with heat, “that in receiving a minister of God, I thought I was admitting a Christian; and one who, by feeling his own weaknesses, knew how to pity the frailties of others. You have wounded the meek spirit of an excellent woman, and I acknowledge but little inclination to mingle in prayer with so intolerant a spirit.”

The minister stood erect, with grave composure, following with his eyes, in a kind of scornful pity, the retiring females, and suffered the expostulation of the youth to be given, as if unworthy of his notice. A third voice, however, spoke, —

“Such a denunciation would have driven many women into fits; but it has answered the purpose well enough, as it is.”

“Who’s that?” cried the prisoner, in amazement, gazing around the room in quest of the speaker.

“It is I, Captain Wharton,” said Harvey Birch, removing the spectacles, and exhibiting his piercing eyes, shining under a pair of false eyebrows.

“Good heavens — Harvey!”

“Silence!” said the peddler, solemnly. “’Tis a name not to be mentioned, and least of all here, within the heart of the American army.” Birch paused and gazed around him for a moment, with an emotion exceeding the base passion of fear, and then continued in a gloomy tone, “There are a thousand halters in that very name, and little hope would there be left me of another escape, should I be again taken. This is a fearful venture that I am making; but I could not sleep in quiet, and know that an innocent man was about to die the death of a dog, when I might save him.”

“No,” said Henry, with a glow of generous feeling on his cheek, “if the risk to yourself be so heavy, retire as you came, and leave me to my fate. Dunwoodie is making, even now, powerful exertions in my behalf; and if he meets with Mr. Harper in the course of the night, my liberation is certain.”

“Harper!” echoed the peddler, remaining with his hands raised, in the act of replacing the spectacles. “What do you know of Harper? And why do you think he will do you service?”

“I have his promise; you remember our recent meeting in my father’s dwelling, and he then gave an unasked promise to assist me.”

“Yes — but do you know him? That is — why do you think he has the power?
Or what reason have you for believing he will remember his word?”

“If there ever was the stamp of truth, or simple, honest benevolence, in the countenance of man, it shone in his,” said Henry. “Besides, Dunwoodie has powerful friends in the rebel army, and it would be better that I take the chance where I am, than thus to expose you to certain death, if detected.”

“Captain Wharton,” said Birch, looking guardedly around and speaking with impressive seriousness of manner, “if I fail you, all fail you. No Harper nor Dunwoodie can save your life; unless you get out with me, and that within the hour, you die to-morrow on the gallows of a murderer. Yes, such are their laws; the man who fights, and kills, and plunders, is honored; but he who serves his country as a spy, no matter how faithfully, no matter how honestly, lives to be reviled, or dies like the vilest criminal!”

“You forget, Mr. Birch,” said the youth, a little indignantly, “that I am not a treacherous, lurking spy, who deceives to betray; but innocent of the charge imputed to me.”

The blood rushed over the pale, meager features of the peddler, until his face was one glow of fire; but it passed quickly away, as he replied, —

“I have told you truth. Caesar met me, as he was going on his errand this morning, and with him I have laid the plan which, if executed as I wish, will save you — otherwise you are lost; and I again tell you, that no other power on earth, not even Washington, can save you.”

“I submit,” said the prisoner, yielding to his earnest manner, and goaded by the fears that were thus awakened anew.

The peddler beckoned him to be silent, and walking to the door, opened it, with the stiff, formal air with which he had entered the apartment.

“Friend, let no one enter,” he said to the sentinel. “We are about to go to prayer, and would wish to be alone.”

“I don’t know that any will wish to interrupt you,” returned the soldier, with a waggish leer of his eye; “but, should they be so disposed, I have no power to stop them, if they be of the prisoner’s friends. I have my orders, and must mind them, whether the Englishman goes to heaven, or not.”

“Audacious sinner!” said the pretended priest, “have you not the fear of God before your eyes? I tell you, as you will dread punishment at the last day, to let none of the idolatrous communion enter, to mingle in the prayers of the righteous.”

“Whew-ew-ew — what a noble commander you’d make for Sergeant Hollister! You’d preach him dumb in a roll call. Harkee, I’ll thank you not to make such a noise when you hold forth, as to drown our bugles, or you may get a poor fellow a short horn at his grog, for not turning out to the evening parade. If you want to be alone, have you no knife to stick over the door latch, that you must have a troop of horse to guard your meetinghouse?”

The peddler took the hint, and closed the door immediately, using the precaution suggested by the dragoon.

“You overact your part,” said young Wharton, in constant apprehension of discovery; “your zeal is too intemperate.”

“For a foot soldier and them Eastern militia, it might be,” said Harvey, turning a bag upside down, that Caesar now handed him; “but these dragoons are fellows that you must brag down. A faint heart, Captain Wharton, would do but little here; but come, here is a black shroud for your good-looking countenance,” taking, at the same time, a parchment mask, and fitting it to the face of Henry. “The master and the man must change places for a season.”

“I don’t t’ink he look a bit like me,” said Caesar, with disgust, as he surveyed his young master with his new complexion.

“Stop a minute, Caesar,” said the peddler, with the lurking drollery that at times formed part of his manner, “till we get on the wool.”

“He worse than ebber now,” cried the discontented African. “A t’ink colored man like a sheep! I nebber see sich a lip, Harvey; he most as big as a sausage!”

Great pains had been taken in forming the different articles used in the disguise of Captain Wharton, and when arranged, under the skillful superintendence of the peddler, they formed together a transformation that would easily escape detection, from any but an extraordinary observer.

The mask was stuffed and shaped in such a manner as to preserve the peculiarities, as well as the color, of the African visage; and the wig was so artfully formed of black and white wool, as to imitate the pepper-and-salt color of Caesar’s own head, and to exact plaudits from the black himself, who thought it an excellent counterfeit in everything but quality.

“There is but one man in the American army who could detect you, Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, surveying his work with satisfaction, “and he is just now out of our way.”

“And who is he?”

“The man who made you prisoner. He would see your white skin through a plank. But strip, both of you; your clothes must be exchanged from head to foot.”

Caesar, who had received minute instructions from the peddler in their morning interview, immediately commenced throwing aside his coarse garments, which the youth took up and prepared to invest himself with; unable, however, to repress a few signs of loathing.

In the manner of the peddler there was an odd mixture of care and humor; the former was the result of a perfect knowledge of their danger, and the means necessary to be used in avoiding it; and the latter proceeded from the unavoidably ludicrous circumstances before him, acting on an indifference which sprang from habit, and long familiarity with such scenes as the present.

“Here, captain,” he said, taking up some loose wool, and beginning to stuff the stockings of Caesar, which were already on the leg of the prisoner; “some judgment is necessary in shaping this limb. You will have to display it on horseback; and the Southern dragoons are so used to the brittle-shins, that should they notice your well-turned calf, they’d know at once it never belonged to a black.”

“Golly!” said Caesar, with a chuckle, that exhibited a mouth open from ear to ear, “Massa Harry breeches fit.”

“Anything but your leg,” said the peddler, coolly pursuing the toilet of Henry. “Slip on the coat, captain, over all. Upon my word, you’d pass well at a pinkster frolic; and here, Caesar, place this powdered wig over your curls, and be careful and look out of the window, whenever the door is open, and on no account speak, or you will betray all.”

“I s’pose Harvey t’ink a colored man ain’t got a tongue like oder folk,” grumbled the black, as he took the station assigned to him.

Everything now was arranged for action, and the peddler very deliberately went over the whole of his injunctions to the two actors in the scene. The captain he conjured to dispense with his erect military carriage, and for a season to adopt the humble paces of his father’s negro; and Caesar he enjoined to silence and disguise, so long as he could possibly maintain them. Thus prepared, he opened the door, and called aloud to the sentinel, who had retired to the farthest end of the passage, in order to avoid receiving any of that spiritual comfort, which he felt was the sole property of another.

“Let the woman of the house be called,” said Harvey, in the solemn key of his assumed character; “and let her come alone. The prisoner is in a happy train of meditation, and must not be led from his devotions.”

Caesar sank his face between his hands; and when the soldier looked into the apartment, he thought he saw his charge in deep abstraction. Casting a glance of huge contempt at the divine, he called aloud for the good woman of the house. She hastened at the summons, with earnest zeal, entertaining a secret hope that she was to be admitted to the gossip of a death-bed repentance.

“Sister,” said the minister, in the authoritative tones of a master, “have you in the house `The Christian Criminal’s last Moments, or Thoughts on Eternity, for them who die a violent Death’?”

“I never heard of the book!” said the matron in astonishment.

“’Tis not unlikely; there are many books you have never heard of: it is impossible for this poor penitent to pass in peace, without the consolations of that volume. One hour’s reading in it is worth an age of man’s preaching.”

“Bless me, what a treasure to possess! When was it put out?”

“It was first put out at Geneva in the Greek language, and then translated at Boston. It is a book, woman, that should be in the hands of every Christian, especially such as die upon the gallows. Have a horse prepared instantly for this black, who shall accompany me to my brother — , and I will send down the volume yet in season. Brother, compose thy mind; you are now in the narrow path to glory.”

Caesar wriggled a little in his chair, but he had sufficient recollection to conceal his face with hands that were, in their turn, concealed by gloves. The landlady departed, to comply with this very reasonable request, and the group of conspirators were again left to themselves.

“This is well,” said the peddler; “but the difficult task is to deceive the officer who commands the guard — he is lieutenant to Lawton, and has learned some of the captain’s own cunning in these things. Remember, Captain Wharton,” continued he with an air of pride, “that now is the moment when everything depends on our coolness.”

“My fate can be made but little worse than it is at present, my worthy fellow,” said Henry; “but for your sake I will do all that in me lies.”

“And wherein can I be more forlorn and persecuted than I now am?” asked the peddler, with that wild incoherence which often crossed his manner. “But I have promised one to save you, and to him I have never yet broken my word.”

“And who is he?” said Henry, with awakened interest.

“No one.”

The man soon returned, and announced that the horses were at the door. Harvey gave the captain a glance, and led the way down the stairs, first desiring the woman to leave the prisoner to himself, in order that he might digest the wholesome mental food that he had so lately received.

A rumor of the odd character of the priest had spread from the sentinel at the door to his comrades; so that when Harvey and Wharton reached the open space before the building, they found a dozen idle dragoons loitering about with the waggish intention of quizzing the fanatic, and employed in affected admiration of the steeds.

“A fine horse!” said the leader in this plan of mischief; “but a little low in flesh. I suppose from hard labor in your calling.”

“My calling may be laborsome to both myself and this faithful beast, but then a day of settling is at hand, that will reward me for all my outgoings and incomings,” said Birch, putting his foot in the stirrup, and preparing to mount.

“You work for pay, then, as we fight for’t?” cried another of the party.

“Even so — is not the laborer worthy of his hire?”

“Come, suppose you give us a little preaching; we have a leisure moment just now, and there’s no telling how much good you might do a set of reprobates like us, in a few words. Here, mount this horseblock, and take your text where you please.”

The men now gathered in eager delight around the peddler, who, glancing his eye expressively towards the captain, who had been suffered to mount, replied, —

“Doubtless, for such is my duty. But, Caesar, you can ride up the road and deliver the note — the unhappy prisoner will be wanting the book, for his hours are numbered.”

“Aye, aye, go along, Caesar, and get the book,” shouted half a dozen voices, all crowding eagerly around the ideal priest, in anticipation of a frolic.

The peddler inwardly dreaded, that, in their unceremonious handling of himself and garments, his hat and wig might be displaced, when detection would be certain; he was therefore fain to comply with their request. Ascending the horseblock, after hemming once or twice, and casting several glances at the captain, who continued immovable, he commenced as follows: —

“I shall call your attention, my brethren, to that portion of Scripture which you will find in the second book of Samuel, and which is written in the following words:— ‘And the king lamented over Abner, and said. Died Abner as a fool dieth? Thy hands were not bound, nor thy feet put into fetters: as a man falleth before wicked men, so fellest thou. And all the people wept again over him.’ Caesar, ride forward, I say, and obtain the book as directed; thy master is groaning in spirit even now for the want of it.”

“An excellent text!” cried the dragoons. “Go on — go on — let the snowball stay; he wants to be edified as well as another.”

“What are you at there, scoundrels?” cried Lieutenant Mason, as he came in sight from a walk he had taken to sneer at the evening parade of the regiment of militia. “Away with every man of you to your quarters, and let me find that each horse is cleaned and littered, when I come round.” The sound of the officer’s voice operated like a charm, and no priest could desire a more silent congregation, although he might possibly have wished for one that was more numerous. Mason had not done speaking, when it was reduced to the image of Caesar only. The peddler took that opportunity to mount, but he had to preserve the gravity of his movements, for the remark of the troopers upon the condition of their beasts was but too just, and a dozen dragoon horses stood saddled and bridled at hand, ready to receive their riders at a moment’s warning.

“Well, have you bitted the poor fellow within,” said Mason, “that he can take his last ride under the curb of divinity, old gentleman?”

“There is evil in thy conversation, profane man,” cried the priest, raising his hands and casting his eyes upwards in holy horror; “so I will depart from thee unhurt, as Daniel was liberated from the lions’ den.”

“Off with you, for a hypocritical, psalm-singing, canting rogue in disguise,” said Mason scornfully. “By the life of Washington! it worries an honest fellow to see such voracious beasts of prey ravaging a country for which he sheds his blood. If I had you on a Virginia plantation for a quarter of an hour, I’d teach you to worm the tobacco with the turkeys.”

“I leave you, and shake the dust off my shoes, that no remnant of this wicked hole may tarnish the vestments of the godly.”

“Start, or I will shake the dust from your jacket, designing knave! A fellow to be preaching to my men! There’s Hollister put the devil in them by his exhorting; the rascals were getting too conscientious to strike a blow that would raze the skin. But hold! Whither do you travel, Master Blackey, in such godly company?”

“He goes,” said the minister, hastily speaking for his companion, “to return with a book of much condolence and virtue to the sinful youth above, whose soul will speedily become white, even as his outwards are black and unseemly. Would you deprive a dying man of the consolation of religion?”

“No, no, poor fellow, his fate is bad enough; a famous good breakfast his prim body of an aunt gave us. But harkee, Mr. Revelation, if the youth must die secundum arlem, let it be under a gentleman’s directions, and my advice is, that you never trust that skeleton of yours among us again, or I will take the skin off and leave you naked.”

“Out upon thee for a reviler and scoffer of goodness!” said Birch, moving slowly, and with a due observance of clerical dignity, down the road, followed by the imaginary Caesar. “But I leave thee, and that behind me that will prove thy condemnation, and take from thee a hearty and joyful deliverance.”

“Damn him,” muttered the trooper. “The fellow rides like a stake, and his legs stick out like the cocks of his hat. I wish I had him below these hills, where the law is not over-particular, I’d— “

“Corporal of the guard! — corporal of the guard!” shouted the sentinel in the passage to the chambers, “corporal of the guard! — corporal of the guard!”

The subaltern flew up the narrow stairway that led to the room of the prisoner, and demanded the meaning of the outcry.

The soldier was standing at the open door of the apartment, looking in with a suspicious eye on the supposed British officer. On observing his lieutenant, he fell back with habitual respect, and replied, with an air of puzzled thought, —

“I don’t know, sir; but just now the prisoner looked queer. Ever since the preacher has left him, he don’t look as he used to do — but,” gazing intently over the shoulder of his officer, “it must be him, too! There is the same powdered head, and the darn in the coat, where he was hit the day we had the last brush with the enemy.”

“And then all this noise is occasioned by your doubting whether that poor gentleman is your prisoner, or not, is it, sirrah? Who the devil do you think it can be, else?”

“I don’t know who else it can be,” returned the fellow, sullenly; “but he has grown thicker and shorter, if it is he; and see for yourself, sir, he shakes all over, like a man in an ague.”

This was but too true. Caesar was an alarmed auditor of this short conversation, and, from congratulating himself upon the dexterous escape of his young master, his thoughts were very naturally beginning to dwell upon the probable consequences to his own person. The pause that succeeded the last remark of the sentinel, in no degree contributed to the restoration of his faculties. Lieutenant Mason was busied in examining with his own eyes the suspected person of the black, and Caesar was aware of the fact, by stealing a look through a passage under one of his arms, that he had left expressly for the purpose of reconnoitering. Captain Lawton would have discovered the fraud immediately, but Mason was by no means so quick-sighted as his commander. He therefore turned rather contemptuously to the soldier, and, speaking in an undertone, observed,

“That anabaptist, methodistical, quaker, psalm-singing rascal has frightened the boy, with his farrago about flames and brimstone. I’ll step in and cheer him with a little rational conversation.”

“I have heard of fear making a man white,” said the soldier, drawing back, and staring as if his eyes would start from their sockets, “but it has changed the royal captain to a black!”

The truth was, that Caesar, unable to hear what Mason uttered in a low voice, and having every fear aroused in him by what had already passed, incautiously removed the wig a little from one of his ears, in order to hear the better, without in the least remembering that its color might prove fatal to his disguise. The sentinel had kept his eyes fastened on his prisoner, and noticed the action. The attention of Mason was instantly drawn to the same object; and, forgetting all delicacy for a brother officer in distress, or, in short, forgetting everything but the censure that might alight on his corps, the lieutenant sprang forward and seized the terrified African by the throat; for no sooner had Caesar heard his color named, than he knew his discovery was certain; and at the first sound of Mason’s heavy boot on the floor, he arose from his seat, and retreated precipitately to a corner of the room.

“Who are you?” cried Mason, dashing the head of the old man against the angle of the wall at each interrogatory. “Who the devil are you, and where is the Englishman? Speak, thou thundercloud! Answer me, you jackdaw, or I’ll hang you on the gallows of the spy!”

Caesar continued firm. Neither the threats nor the blows could extract any reply, until the lieutenant, by a very natural transition in the attack, sent his heavy boot forward in a direction that brought it in direct contact with the most sensitive part of the negro — his shin. The most obdurate heart could not have exacted further patience, and Caesar instantly gave in. The first words he spoke were —

“Golly! massa, you t’ink I got no feelin’?”

“By heavens!” shouted the lieutenant, “it is the negro himself! Scoundrel! where is your master, and who was the priest?” While speaking, he made a movement as if about to renew the attack; but Caesar cried aloud for mercy, promising to tell all that he knew.

“Who was the priest?” repeated the dragoon, drawing back his formidable leg, and holding it in threatening suspense. “Harvey, Harvey!” cried Caesar, dancing from one leg to the other, as he thought each member in turn might be assailed.

“Harvey who, you black villain?” cried the impatient lieutenant, as he executed a full measure of vengeance by letting his leg fly.

“Birch!” shrieked Caesar, falling on his knees, the tears rolling in large drops over his shining face.

“Harvey Birch!” echoed the trooper, hurling the black from him, and rushing from the room. “To arms! to arms! Fifty guineas for the life of the peddler spy — give no quarter to either. Mount, mount! to arms! to horse!”

During the uproar occasioned by the assembling of the dragoons, who all rushed tumultuously to their horses, Caesar rose from the floor, where he had been thrown by Mason, and began to examine into his injuries. Happily for himself, he had alighted on his head, and consequently sustained no material damage.

CHAPTER XXIX

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought,
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt, when he set out,
Of running such a rig.
— COWPER.

The road which it was necessary for the peddler and the English captain to travel, in order to reach the shelter of the hills, lay, for a half mile, in full view from the door of the building that had so recently been the prison of the latter; running for the whole distance over the rich plain, that spreads to the very foot of the mountains, which here rise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from their bases; it then turned short to the right, and was obliged to follow the windings of nature, as it won its way into the bosom of the Highlands.

To preserve the supposed difference in their stations, Harvey rode a short distance ahead of his companion, and maintained the sober, dignified pace, that was suited to his assumed character. On their right, the regiment of foot, that we have already mentioned, lay, in tents; and the sentinels who guarded their encampment were to be seen moving with measured tread under the hills themselves.

The first impulse of Henry was, certainly, to urge the beast he rode to his greatest speed at once, and by a coup de main not only accomplish his escape, but relieve himself from the torturing suspense of his situation. But the forward movement that the youth made for this purpose was instantly checked by the peddler.

“Hold up!” he cried, dexterously reining his own horse across the path of the other. “Would you ruin us both? Fall into the place of a black, following his master. Did you not see their blooded chargers, all saddled and bridled, standing in the sun before the house? How long do you think that miserable Dutch horse you are on would hold his speed, if pursued by the Virginians? Every foot that we can gain, without giving the alarm, counts a day in our lives. Ride steadily after me, and on no account look back. They are as subtle as foxes, aye, and as ravenous for blood as wolves!”

Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience, and followed the direction of the peddler. His imagination, however, continually alarmed him with the fancied sounds of pursuit, though Birch, who occasionally looked back under the pretense of addressing his companion, assured him that all continued quiet and peaceful.

“But,” said Henry, “it will not be possible for Caesar to remain long undiscovered. Had we not better put our horses to the gallop, and by the time they can reflect on the cause of our flight, we can reach the corner of the woods?”

“Ah! you little know them, Captain Wharton,” returned the peddler. “There is a sergeant at this moment looking after us, as if he thought all was not right; the keen-eyed fellow watches me like a tiger lying in wait for his leap. When I stood on the horseblock, he half suspected that something was wrong. Nay, check your beast — we must let the animals walk a little, for he is laying his hand on the pommel of his saddle. If he mounts, we are gone. The foot-soldiers could reach us with their muskets.”

“What does he now?” asked Henry, reining his horse to a walk, but at the same time pressing his heels into the animal’s sides, to be in readiness for a spring.

“He turns from his charger, and looks the other way, now trot on gently — not so fast — not so fast. Observe the sentinel in the field, a little ahead of us — he eyes us keenly.”

“Never mind the footman,” said Henry, impatiently, “he can do nothing but shoot us — whereas these dragoons may make me a captive again. Surely, Harvey, there are horse moving down the road behind us. Do you see nothing particular?”

“Humph!” ejaculated the peddler. “There is something particular, indeed, to be seen behind the thicket on our left. Turn your head a little, and you may see and profit by it too.”

Henry eagerly seized this permission to look aside, and the blood curdled to his heart as he observed that they were passing a gallows, which unquestionably had been erected for his own execution. He turned his face from the sight, in undisguised horror.

“There is a warning to be prudent,” said the peddler, in the sententious manner that he often adopted.

“It is a terrific sight, indeed!” cried Henry, for a moment veiling his eyes with his hand, as if to drive a vision from before him.

The peddler moved his body partly around, and spoke with energetic but gloomy bitterness, “And yet, Captain Wharton, you see it where the setting sun shines full upon you; the air you breathe is clear, and fresh from the hills before you. Every step that you take leaves that hated gallows behind; and every dark hollow, and every shapeless rock in the mountains, offers you a hiding place from the vengeance of your enemies. But I have seen the gibbet raised, when no place of refuge offered. Twice have I been buried in dungeons, where, fettered and in chains, I have passed nights in torture, looking forward to the morning’s dawn that was to light me to a death of infamy. The sweat has started from limbs that seemed already drained of their moisture; and if I ventured to the hole that admitted air through grates of iron to look out upon the smiles of nature, which God has bestowed for the meanest of His creatures, the gibbet has glared before my eyes, like an evil conscience harrowing the soul of a dying man. Four times have I been in their power, besides this last; but — twice — did I think my hour had come. It is hard to die at the best, Captain Wharton; but to spend your last moments alone and unpitied, to know that none near you so much as think of the fate that is to you the closing of all that is earthly; to think that, in a few hours, you are to be led from the gloom, which, as you dwell on what follows, becomes dear to you, to the face of day, and there to meet all eyes fixed upon you, as if you were a wild beast; and to lose sight of everything amidst the jeers and scoffs of your fellow creatures — that, Captain Wharton, that indeed is to die!”

Henry listened in amazement, as his companion uttered this speech with a vehemence altogether new to him; both seemed to have forgotten their danger and their disguises.

“What! were you ever so near death as that?”

“Have I not been the hunted beast of these hills for three years past?” resumed Harvey; “and once they even led me to the foot of the gallows itself, and I escaped only by an alarm from the royal troops. Had they been a quarter of an hour later, I must have died. There was I placed in the midst of unfeeling men, and gaping women and children, as a monster to be cursed. When I would pray to God, my ears were insulted with the history of my crimes; and when, in all that multitude, I looked around for a single face that showed me any pity, I could find none — no, not even one; all cursed me as a wretch who would sell his country for gold. The sun was brighter to my eyes than common — but it was the last time I should see it. The fields were gay and pleasant, and everything seemed as if this world was a kind of heaven. Oh, how sweet life was to me at that moment! ’Twas a dreadful hour, Captain Wharton, and such as you have never known. You have friends to feel for you, but I had none but a father to mourn my loss, when he might hear of it; but there was no pity, no consolation near, to soothe my anguish. Everything seemed to have deserted me. I even thought that HE had forgotten that I lived.”

“What! did you feel that God Himself had forgotten you, Harvey?”

“God never forsakes His servants,” returned Birch, with reverence, and exhibiting naturally a devotion that hitherto he had only assumed.

“And whom did you mean by HE?”

The peddler raised himself in his saddle to the stiff and upright posture that was suited to his outward appearance. The look of fire, that for a short time glowed on his countenance, disappeared in the solemn lines of unbending self-abasement, and, speaking as if addressing a negro, he replied, —

“In heaven there is no distinction of color, my brother, therefore you have a precious charge within you, that you must hereafter render an account of;” dropping his voice— “this is the last sentinel near the road; look not back, as you value your life.”

Henry remembered his situation, and instantly assumed the humble demeanor of his adopted character. The unaccountable energy of the peddler’s manner was soon forgotten in the sense of his own immediate danger; and with the recollection of his critical situation, returned all the uneasiness that he had momentarily forgotten.

“What see you, Harvey?” he cried, observing the peddler to gaze towards the building they had left, with ominous interest. “What see you at the house?”

“That which bodes no good to us,” returned the pretended priest. “Throw aside the mask and wig; you will need all your senses without much delay; throw them in the road. There are none before us that I dread, but there are those behind who will give us a fearful race!”

“Nay, then,” cried the captain, casting the implements of his disguise into the highway, “let us improve our time to the utmost. We want a full quarter to the turn; why not push for it, at once?”

“Be cool; they are in alarm, but they will not mount without an officer, unless they see us fly — now he comes, he moves to the stables; trots briskly; a dozen are in their saddles, but the officer stops to tighten his girths; they hope to steal a march upon us; he is mounted; now ride, Captain Wharton, for your life, and keep at my heels. If you quit me, you will be lost!”

A second request was unnecessary. The instant that Harvey put his horse to his speed Captain Wharton was at his heels, urging the miserable animal he rode to the utmost. Birch had selected his own beast; and although vastly inferior to the high-fed and blooded chargers of the dragoons, still it was much superior to the little pony that had been thought good enough to carry Caesar Thompson on an errand. A very few jumps convinced the captain that his companion was fast leaving him, and a fearful glance thrown behind informed the fugitive that his enemies were as speedily approaching. With that abandonment that makes misery doubly grievous, when it is to be supported alone, Henry cried aloud to the peddler not to desert him. Harvey instantly drew up, and suffered his companion to run alongside of his own horse. The cocked hat and wig of the peddler fell from his head the moment that his steed began to move briskly, and this development of their disguise, as it might be termed, was witnessed by the dragoons, who announced their observation by a boisterous shout, that seemed to be uttered in the very ears of the fugitives; so loud was the cry, and so short the distance between them.

“Had we not better leave our horses,” said Henry, “and make for the hills across the fields, on our left? The fence will stop our pursuers.”

“That way lies the gallows,” returned the peddler. “These fellows go three feet to our two, and would mind the fences no more than we do these ruts; but it is a short quarter to the turn, and there are two roads behind the wood. They may stand to choose until they can take the track, and we shall gain a little upon them there.”

“But this miserable horse is blown already,” cried Henry, urging his beast with the end of his bridle, at the same time that Harvey aided his efforts by applying the lash of a heavy riding whip he carried. “He will never stand it for half a mile farther.”

“A quarter will do; a quarter will do,” said the peddler, “a single quarter will save us, if you follow my directions.”

Somewhat cheered by the cool and confident manner of his companion, Henry continued silently urging his horse forward. A few moments brought them to the desired turn, and as they doubled round a point of low underbrush, the fugitives caught a glimpse of their pursuers scattered along the highway. Mason and the sergeant, being better mounted than the rest of the party, were much nearer to their heels than even the peddler thought could be possible.

At the foot of the hills, and for some distance up the dark valley that wound among the mountains, a thick underwood of saplings had been suffered to shoot up, where the heavier growth was felled for the sake of the fuel. At the sight of this cover, Henry again urged the peddler to dismount, and to plunge into the woods; but his request was promptly refused. The two roads, before mentioned, met at very sharp angles at a short distance from the turn, and both were circuitous, so that but little of either could be seen at a time. The peddler took the one which led to the left, but held it only a moment, for, on reaching a partial opening in the thicket, he darted across into the right-hand path and led the way up a steep ascent, which lay directly before them. This maneuver saved them. On reaching the fork, the dragoons followed the track and passed the spot where the fugitives had crossed to the other road, before they missed the marks of the footsteps. Their loud cries were heard by Henry and the peddler, as their wearied and breathless animals toiled up the hill, ordering their comrades in the rear to ride in the right direction. The captain again proposed to leave their horses and dash into the thicket.

“Not yet, not yet,” said Birch, in a low voice. “The road falls from the top of this hill as steep as it rises; first let us gain the top.” While speaking, they reached the desired summit, and both threw themselves from their horses, Henry plunging into the thick underwood, which covered the side of the mountain for some distance above them. Harvey stopped to give each of their beasts a few severe blows of his whip, that drove them headlong down the path on the other side of the eminence, and then followed his example.

The peddler entered the thicket with a little caution, and avoided, as much as possible, rustling or breaking the branches in his way. There was but time only to shelter his person from view when a dragoon led up the ascent, and on reaching the height, he cried aloud, —

“I saw one of their horses turning the hill this minute.”

“Drive on, spur forward, my lads,” shouted Mason; “give the Englishman quarter, but cut down the peddler, and make an end of him.”

Henry felt his companion grip his arm hard, as he listened in a great tremor to this cry, which was followed by the passage of a dozen horsemen, with a vigor and speed that showed too plainly how little security their overtired steeds could have afforded them.

“Now,” said the peddler, rising from the cover to reconnoiter, and standing for a moment in suspense, “all that we gain is clear gain; for, as we go up, they go down. Let us be stirring.”

“But will they not follow us, and surround this mountain?” said Henry, rising, and imitating the labored but rapid progress of his companion. “Remember, they have foot as well as horse, and, at any rate, we shall starve in the hills.”

“Fear nothing, Captain Wharton,” returned the peddler, with confidence; “this is not the mountain that I would be on, but necessity has made me a dexterous pilot among these hills. I will lead you where no man will dare to follow. See, the sun is already setting behind the tops of the western mountains, and it will be two hours to the rising of the moon. Who, think you, will follow us far, on a November night, among these rocks and precipices?”

“Listen!” exclaimed Henry; “the dragoons are shouting to each other; they miss us already.”

“Come to the point of this rock, and you may see them,” said Harvey, composedly setting himself down to rest. “Nay, they can see us — observe, they are pointing up with their fingers. There! one has fired his pistol, but the distance is too great even for a musket.”

“They will pursue us,” cried the impatient Henry, “let us be moving.”

“They will not think of such a thing,” returned the peddler, picking the checkerberries that grew on the thin soil where he sat, and very deliberately chewing them, leaves and all, to refresh his mouth. “What progress could they make here, in their heavy boots and spurs, and long swords? No, no — they may go back and turn out the foot, but the horse pass through these defiles, when they can keep the saddle, with fear and trembling. Come, follow me, Captain Wharton; we have a troublesome march before us, but I will bring you where none will think of venturing this night.”

So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid from view amongst the rocks and caverns of the mountain.

The conjecture of the peddler was true. Mason and his men dashed down the hill, in pursuit, as they supposed, of their victims, but, on reaching the bottom lands, they found only the deserted horses of the fugitives. Some little time was spent in examining the woods near them, and in endeavoring to take the trail on such ground as might enable the horse to pursue, when one of the party descried the peddler and Henry seated on the rock already mentioned.

“He’s off,” muttered Mason, eying Harvey, with fury; “he’s off, and we are disgraced. By heavens, Washington will not trust us with the keeping of a suspected Tory, if we let the rascal trifle in this manner with the corps; and there sits the Englishman, too, looking down upon us with a smile of benevolence! I fancy that I can see it. Well, well, my lad, you are comfortably seated, I will confess, and that is something better than dancing upon nothing; but you are not to the west of the Harlem River yet, and I’ll try your wind before you tell Sir Henry what you have seen.”

“Shall I fire and frighten the peddler?” asked one of the men, drawing his pistol from the holster.

“Aye, startle the birds from their perch — let us see how they can use the wing.” The man fired the pistol, and Mason continued— “‘Fore George, I believe the scoundrels laugh at us. But homeward, or we shall have them rolling stones upon our heads, and the royal gazettes teeming with an account of a rebel regiment routed by two loyalists. They have told bigger lies than that, before now.”

The dragoons moved sullenly after their officer, who rode towards their quarters, musing on the course it behooved him to pursue in the present dilemma. It was twilight when Mason’s party reached the dwelling, before the door of which were collected a great number of the officers and men, busily employed in giving and listening to the most exaggerated accounts of the escape of the spy. The mortified dragoons gave their ungrateful tidings with the sullen air of disappointed men; and most of the officers gathered round Mason, to consult of the steps that ought to be taken. Miss Peyton and Frances were breathless and unobserved listeners to all that passed between them, from the window of the chamber immediately above their heads.

“Something must be done, and that speedily,” observed the commanding officer of the regiment, which lay encamped before the house. “This English officer is doubtless an instrument in the great blow aimed at us by the enemy lately; besides, our honor is involved in his escape.”

“Let us beat the woods!” cried several at once. “By morning we shall have them both again.”

“Softly, softly, gentlemen,” returned the colonel. “No man can travel these hills after dark, unless used to the passes. Nothing but horse can do service in this business, and I presume Lieutenant Mason hesitates to move without the orders of his major.”

“I certainly dare not,” replied the subaltern, gravely shaking his head, “unless you will take the responsibility of an order; but Major Dunwoodie will be back again in two hours, and we can carry the tidings through the hills before daylight; so that by spreading patrols across, from one river to the other, and offering a reward to the country people, their escape will yet be impossible, unless they can join the party that is said to be out on the Hudson.”

“A very plausible plan,” cried the colonel, “and one that must succeed; but let a messenger be dispatched to Dunwoodie, or he may continue at the ferry until it proves too late; though doubtless the runaways will lie in the mountains to-night.”

To this suggestion Mason acquiesced, and a courier was sent to the major with the important intelligence of the escape of Henry, and an intimation of the necessity of his presence to conduct the pursuit. After this arrangement, the officers separated.

When Miss Peyton and her niece first learned the escape of Captain Wharton, it was with difficulty they could credit their senses. They both relied so implicitly on the success of Dunwoodie’s exertions, that they thought the act, on the part of their relative, extremely imprudent; but it was now too late to mend it. While listening to the conversation of the officers, both were struck with the increased danger of Henry’s situation, if recaptured, and they trembled to think of the great exertions that would be made to accomplish this object. Miss Peyton consoled herself, and endeavored to cheer her niece, with the probability that the fugitives would pursue their course with unremitting diligence, so that they might reach the neutral ground before the horse would carry down the tidings of their flight. The absence of Dunwoodie seemed to her all-important, and the artless lady was anxiously devising some project that might detain her kinsman, and thus give her nephew the longest possible time. But very different were the reflections of Frances. She could no longer doubt that the figure she had seen on the hill was Birch, and she felt certain that, instead of flying to the friendly forces below, her brother would be taken to the mysterious hut to pass the night.

Frances and her aunt held a long and animated discussion by themselves, when the good spinster reluctantly yielded to the representation of her niece, and folding her in her arms, she kissed her cold cheek, and, fervently blessing her, allowed her to depart on an errand of fraternal love.

CHAPTER XXX

And here, forlorn and lost, I tread,
With fainting steps, and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem length’ning as I go.
— GOLDSMITH.

The night had set in dark and chilling, as Frances Wharton, with a beating heart but light step, moved through the little garden that lay behind the farmhouse which had been her brother’s prison, and took her way to the foot of the mountain, where she had seen the figure of him she supposed to be the peddler. It was still early, but the darkness and the dreary nature of a November evening would, at any other moment, or with less inducement to exertion, have driven her back in terror to the circle she had left. Without pausing to reflect, however, she flew over the ground with a rapidity that seemed to bid defiance to all impediments, nor stopped even to breathe, until she had gone half the distance to the rock that she had marked as the spot where Birch made his appearance on that very morning.

The good treatment of their women is the surest evidence that a people can give of their civilization; and there is no nation which has more to boast of, in this respect, than the Americans. Frances felt but little apprehension from the orderly and quiet troops who were taking their evening’s repast on the side of the highway, opposite to the field through which she was flying. They were her countrymen, and she knew that her sex would be respected by the Eastern militia, who composed this body; but in the volatile and reckless character of the Southern horse she had less confidence. Outrages of any description were seldom committed by the really American soldiery; but she recoiled, with exquisite delicacy, from even the appearance of humiliation. When, therefore, she heard the footsteps of a horse moving slowly up the road, she shrank, timidly, into a little thicket of wood which grew around the spring that bubbled from the side of a hillock near her. The vidette, for such it proved to be, passed her without noticing her form, which was so enveloped as to be as little conspicuous as possible, humming a low air to himself, and probably thinking of some other fair that he had left on the banks of the Potomac.

Frances listened anxiously to the retreating footsteps of his horse, and, as they died upon her ear, she ventured from her place of secrecy, and advanced a short distance into the field, where, startled at the gloom, and appalled with the dreariness of the prospect, she paused to reflect on what she had undertaken. Throwing back the hood of her cardinal, she sought the support of a tree, and gazed towards the summit of the mountain that was to be the goal of her enterprise. It rose from the plain like a huge pyramid, giving nothing to the eye but its outlines. The pinnacle could be faintly discerned in front of a lighter background of clouds, between which a few glimmering stars occasionally twinkled in momentary brightness, and then gradually became obscured by the passing vapor that was moving before the wind, at a vast distance below the clouds themselves. Should she return, Henry and the peddler would most probably pass the night in fancied security upon that very hill towards which she was straining her eyes, in the vain hope of observing some light that might encourage her to proceed. The deliberate, and what to her seemed cold-blooded, project of the officer for the recapture of the fugitives, still rang in her ears, and stimulated her to go on; but the solitude into which she must venture, the time, the actual danger of the ascent, and the uncertainty of her finding the hut, or what was still more disheartening, the chance that it might be occupied by unknown tenants, and those of the worst description — urged her to retreat.

The increasing darkness was each moment rendering objects less and less distinct, and the clouds were gathering more gloomily in the rear of the hill, until its form could no longer be discerned. Frances threw back her rich curls with both hands on her temples, in order to possess her senses in their utmost keenness; but the towering hill was entirely lost to the eye. At length she discovered a faint and twinkling blaze in the direction in which she thought the building stood, that, by its reviving and receding luster, might be taken for the glimmering of a fire. But the delusion vanished, as the horizon again cleared, and the star of evening shone forth from a cloud, after struggling hard, as if for existence. She now saw the mountain to the left of the place where the planet was shining, and suddenly a streak of mellow light burst upon the fantastic oaks that were thinly scattered over its summit, and gradually moved down its side, until the whole pile became distinct under the rays of the rising moon. Although it would have been physically impossible for our heroine to advance without the aid of the friendly light, which now gleamed on the long line of level land before her, yet she was not encouraged to proceed. If she could see the goal of her wishes, she could also perceive the difficulties that must attend her reaching it.

While deliberating in distressing incertitude, now shrinking with the timidity of her sex and years from the enterprise, and now resolving to rescue her brother at every hazard, Frances turned her looks towards the east, in earnest gaze at the clouds which constantly threatened to involve her again in comparative darkness. Had an adder stung her, she could not have sprung with greater celerity than she recoiled from the object against which she was leaning, and which she for the first time noticed. The two upright posts, with a crossbeam on their tops, and a rude platform beneath, told but too plainly the nature of the structure; even the cord was suspended from an iron staple, and was swinging to and fro, in the night air. Frances hesitated no longer, but rather flew than ran across the meadow, and was soon at the base of the rock, where she hoped to find something like a path to the summit of the mountain. Here she was compelled to pause for breath, and she improved the leisure by surveying the ground about her. The ascent was quite abrupt, but she soon found a sheep path that wound among the shelving rocks and through the trees, so as to render her labor much less tiresome than it otherwise would have been. Throwing a fearful glance behind, the determined girl commenced her journey upwards. Young, active, and impelled by her generous motive, she moved up the hill with elastic steps, and very soon emerged from the cover of the woods, into an open space of more level ground, that had evidently been cleared of its timber, for the purpose of cultivation. But either the war or the sterility of the soil had compelled the adventurer to abandon the advantages that he had obtained over the wilderness, and already the bushes and briers were springing up afresh, as if the plow had never traced furrows through the mold which nourished them. Frances felt her spirits invigorated by these faint vestiges of the labor of man, and she walked up the gentle acclivity with renewed hopes of success. The path now diverged in so many different directions, that she soon saw it would be useless to follow their windings, and abandoning it, at the first turn, she labored forward towards what she thought was the nearest point of the summit. The cleared ground was soon past, and woods and rocks, clinging to the precipitous sides of the mountain, again opposed themselves to her progress. Occasionally, the path was to be seen running along the verge of the clearing, and then striking off into the scattering patches of grass and herbage, but in no instance could she trace it upward. Tufts of wool, hanging to the briers, sufficiently denoted the origin of these tracks, and Frances rightly conjectured that whoever descended the mountain, would avail himself of their existence, to lighten the labor. Seating herself on a stone, the wearied girl again paused to rest and to reflect; the clouds were rising before the moon, and the whole scene at her feet lay pictured in softest colors.

The white tents of the militia were stretched in regular lines immediately beneath her. The light was shining in the window of her aunt, who, Frances easily fancied, was watching the mountain, racked with all the anxiety she might be supposed to feel for her niece. Lanterns were playing about in the stable yard, where she knew the horses of the dragoons were kept, and believing them to be preparing for their night march, she again sprang upon her feet, and renewed her toil.

Our heroine had to ascend more than a quarter of a mile farther, although she had already conquered two thirds of the height of the mountain. But she was now without a path or any guide to direct her in her course. Fortunately, the hill was conical, like most of the mountains in that range, and, by advancing upwards, she was certain of at length reaching the desired hut, which hung, as it were, on the very pinnacle. Nearly an hour did she struggle with the numerous difficulties that she was obliged to overcome, when, having been repeatedly exhausted with her efforts, and, in several instances, in great danger from falls, she succeeded in gaining the small piece of tableland on the summit.

Faint with her exertions, which had been unusually severe for so slight a frame, she sank on a rock, to recover her strength and fortitude for the approaching interview. A few moments sufficed for this purpose, when she proceeded in quest of the hut. All of the neighboring hills were distinctly visible by the aid of the moon, and Frances was able, where she stood, to trace the route of the highway, from the plains into the mountains. By following this line with her eyes, she soon discovered the point whence she had seen the mysterious dwelling, and directly opposite to that point she well knew the hut must stand.

The chilling air sighed through the leafless branches of the gnarled and crooked oaks, as with a step so light as hardly to rustle the dry leaves on which she trod, Frances moved forward to that part of the hill where she expected to find this secluded habitation; but nothing could she discern that in the least resembled a dwelling of any sort. In vain she examined every recess of the rocks, or inquisitively explored every part of the summit that she thought could hold the tenement of the peddler. No hut, nor any vestige of a human being could she trace. The idea of her solitude struck on the terrified mind of the affrighted girl, and approaching to the edge of a shelving rock, she bent forward to gaze on the signs of life in the vale, when a ray of keen light dazzled her eyes, and a warm ray diffused itself over her whole frame. Recovering from her surprise, Frances looked on the ledge beneath her, and at once perceived that she stood directly over the object of her search. A hole through its roof afforded a passage to the smoke, which, as it blew aside, showed her a clear and cheerful fire crackling and snapping on a rude hearth of stone. The approach to the front of the hut was by a winding path around the point of the rock on which she stood, and by this, she advanced to its door.

Three sides of this singular edifice, if such it could be called, were composed of logs laid alternately on each other, to a little more than the height of a man; and the fourth was formed by the rock against which it leaned. The roof was made of the bark of trees, laid in long strips from the rock to its eaves; the fissures between the logs had been stuffed with clay, which in many places had fallen out, and dried leaves were made use of as a substitute, to keep out the wind. A single window of four panes of glass was in front, but a board carefully closed it, in such a manner as to emit no light from the fire within. After pausing some time to view this singularly constructed hiding place, for such Frances well knew it to be, she applied her eye to a crevice to examine the inside. There was no lamp or candle, but the blazing fire of dry wood made the interior of the hut light enough to read by. In one corner lay a bed of straw, with a pair of blankets thrown carelessly over it, as if left where they had last been used. Against the walls and rock were suspended, from pegs forced into the crevices, various garments, and such as were apparently fitted for all ages and conditions, and for either sex. British and American uniforms hung peaceably by the side of each other; and on the peg that supported a gown of striped calico, such as was the usual country wear, was also depending a well-powdered wig: in short, the attire was numerous and as various as if a whole parish were to be equipped from this one wardrobe.

In the angle against the rock, and opposite to the fire which was burning in the other corner, was an open cupboard, that held a plate or two, a mug, and the remains of some broken meat. Before the fire was a table, with one of its legs fractured, and made of rough boards; these, with a single stool, composed the furniture, if we except a few articles of cooking. A book, that by its size and shape, appeared to be a Bible, was lying on the table, unopened. But it was the occupant of the hut in whom Frances was chiefly interested. This was a man, sitting on the stool, with his head leaning on his hand, in such a manner as to conceal his features, and deeply occupied in examining some open papers. On the table lay a pair of curiously and richly mounted horseman’s pistols, and the handle of a sheathed rapier, of exquisite workmanship, protruded from between the legs of the gentleman, one of whose hands carelessly rested on its guard. The tall stature of this unexpected tenant of the hut, and his form, much more athletic than that of either Harvey or her brother, told Frances, without the aid of his dress, that it was neither of those she sought. A close surtout was buttoned high in the throat of the stranger, and parting at his knees, showed breeches of buff, with military boots and spurs. His hair was dressed so as to expose the whole face; and, after the fashion of that day, it was profusely powdered. A round hat was laid on the stones that formed a paved floor to the hut, as if to make room for a large map, which, among the other papers, occupied the table.

This was an unexpected event to our adventurer. She had been so confident that the figure twice seen was the peddler, that on learning his agency in her brother’s escape, she did not in the least doubt of finding them both in the place, which, she now discovered, was occupied by another and a stranger. She stood, earnestly looking through the crevice, hesitating whether to retire, or to wait with the expectation of yet meeting Henry, as the stranger moved his hand from before his eyes, and raised his face, apparently in deep musing, when Frances instantly recognized the benevolent and strongly marked, but composed features of Harper.

All that Dunwoodie had said of his power and disposition, all that he had himself promised her brother, and all the confidence that had been created by his dignified and paternal manner, rushed across the mind of Frances, who threw open the door of the hut, and falling at his feet, clasped his knees with her arms, as she cried, —

“Save him — save him — save my brother; remember your promise, and save him!”

Harper had risen as the door opened, and there was a slight movement of one hand towards his pistols; but it was cool and instantly checked. He raised the hood of the cardinal, which had fallen over her features, and exclaimed, with some uneasiness, —

“Miss Wharton! But you cannot be alone?”

“There is none here but my God and you; and by His sacred name, I conjure you to remember your promise, and save my brother!”

Harper gently raised her from her knees, and placed her on the stool, begging her at the same time to be composed, and to acquaint him with the nature of her errand. This Frances instantly did, ingenuously admitting him to a knowledge of all her views in visiting that lone spot at such an hour, and by herself.

It was at all times difficult to probe the thoughts of one who held his passions in such disciplined subjection as Harper, but still there was a lighting of his thoughtful eye, and a slight unbending of his muscles, as the hurried and anxious girl proceeded in her narrative. His interest, as she dwelt upon the manner of Henry’s escape, and the flight to the woods, was deep and manifest, and he listened to the remainder of her tale with a marked expression of benevolent indulgence. Her apprehensions, that her brother might still be too late through the mountains, seemed to have much weight with him, for, as she concluded, he walked a turn or two across the hut, in silent musing.

Frances hesitated, and unconsciously played with the handle of one of the pistols, and the paleness that her fears had spread over her fine features began to give place to a rich tint, as, after a short pause, she added, —

“We can depend much on the friendship of Major Dunwoodie, but his sense of honor is so pure, that — that — notwithstanding his — his — feelings — his desire to serve us — he will conceive it to be his duty to apprehend my brother again. Besides, he thinks there will be no danger in so doing, as he relies greatly on your interference.”

“On mine,” said Harper, raising his eyes in surprise.

“Yes, on yours. When we told him of your kind language, he at once assured us all that you had the power, and, if you had promised, would have the inclination, to procure Henry’s pardon.”

“Said he more?” asked Harper, who appeared slightly uneasy.

“Nothing but reiterated assurances of Henry’s safety; even now he is in quest of you.”

“Miss Wharton, that I bear no mean part, in the unhappy struggle between England and America, it might now be useless to deny. You owe your brother’s escape, this night, to my knowledge of his innocence, and the remembrance of my word. Major Dunwoodie is mistaken when he says that I might openly have procured his pardon. I now, indeed, can control his fate, and I pledge to you a word which has some influence with Washington, that means shall be taken to prevent his recapture. But from you, also, I exact a promise, that this interview, and all that has passed between us, remain confined to your own bosom, until you have my permission to speak upon the subject.”

Frances gave the desired assurance, and he continued, —

“The peddler and your brother will soon be here, but I must not be seen by the royal officer, or the life of Birch might be the forfeiture.”

“Never!” cried Frances, ardently. “Henry could never be so base as to betray the man who saved him.”

“It is no childish game that we are now playing, Miss Wharton. Men’s lives and fortunes hang upon slender threads, and nothing must be left to accident that can be guarded against. Did Sir Henry Clinton know that the peddler had communion with me, and under such circumstances, the life of the miserable man would be taken instantly; therefore, as you value human blood, or remember the rescue of your brother, be prudent, and be silent. Communicate what you know to them both, and urge them to instant departure. If they can reach the last pickets of our army before morning, it shall be my care that there are none to intercept them. There is better work for Major Dunwoodie than to be exposing the life of his friend.”

While Harper was speaking, he carefully rolled up the map he had been studying, and placed it, together with sundry papers that were also open, into his pocket. He was still occupied in this manner, when the voice of the peddler, talking in unusually loud tones, was heard directly over their heads.

“Stand farther this way, Captain Wharton, and you can see the tents in the moonshine. But let them mount and ride; I have a nest here, that will hold us both, and we will go in at our leisure.”

“And where is this nest? I confess that I have eaten but little the last two days, and I crave some of the cheer you mention.”

“Hem!” said the peddler, exerting his voice still more. “Hem — this fog has given me a cold; but move slow — and be careful not to slip, or you may land on the bayonet of the sentinel on the flats; ’tis a steep hill to rise, but one can go down it with ease.”

Harper pressed his finger on his lip, to remind Frances of her promise, and, taking his pistols and hat, so that no vestige of his visit remained, he retired deliberately to a far corner of the hut, where, lifting several articles of dress, he entered a recess in the rock, and, letting them fall again, was hid from view. Frances noticed, by the strong firelight, as he entered, that it was a natural cavity, and contained nothing but a few more articles of domestic use.

The surprise of Henry and the peddler, on entering and finding Frances in possession of the hut, may be easily imagined. Without waiting for explanations or questions, the warm-hearted girl flew into the arms of her brother, and gave a vent to her emotions in tears. But the peddler seemed struck with very different feelings. His first look was at the fire, which had been recently supplied with fuel; he then drew open a small drawer of the table, and looked a little alarmed at finding it empty.

“Are you alone, Miss Fanny?” he asked, in a quick voice. “You did not come here alone?”

“As you see me, Mr. Birch,” said Frances, raising herself from her brother’s arms, and turning an expressive glance towards the secret cavern, that the quick eye of the peddler instantly understood.

“But why and wherefore are you here?” exclaimed her astonished brother; “and how knew you of this place at all?”

Frances entered at once into a brief detail of what had occurred at the house since their departure, and the motives which induced her to seek them.

“But,” said Birch, “why follow us here, when we were left on the opposite hill?”

Frances related the glimpse that she had caught of the hut and peddler, in her passage through the Highlands, as well as her view of him on that day, and her immediate conjecture that the fugitives would seek the shelter of this habitation for the night. Birch examined her features as, with open ingenuousness, she related the simple incidents that had made her mistress of his secret; and, as she ended, he sprang upon his feet, and, striking the window with the stick in his hand, demolished it at a blow.

“’Tis but little luxury or comfort that I know,” he said, “but even that little cannot be enjoyed in safety! Miss Wharton,” he added, advancing before Frances, and speaking with the bitter melancholy that was common to him, “I am hunted through these hills like a beast of the forest; but whenever, tired with my toils, I can reach this spot, poor and dreary as it is, I can spend my solitary nights in safety. Will you aid to make the life of a wretch still more miserable?”

“Never!” cried Frances, with fervor; “your secret is safe with me.”

“Major Dunwoodie” — said the peddler, slowly, turning an eye upon her that read her soul.

Frances lowered her head upon her bosom, for a moment, in shame; then, elevating her fine and glowing face, she added, with enthusiasm, —

“Never, never, Harvey, as God may hear my prayers!”

The peddler seemed satisfied; for he drew back, and, watching his opportunity, unseen by Henry, slipped behind the screen, and entered the cavern.

Frances and her brother, who thought his companion had passed through the door, continued conversing on the latter’s situation for several minutes, when the former urged the necessity of expedition on his part, in order to precede Dunwoodie, from whose sense of duty they knew they had no escape. The captain took out his pocketbook, and wrote a few lines with his pencil; then folding the paper, he handed it to his sister.

“Frances,” he said, “you have this night proved yourself to be an incomparable woman. As you love me, give that unopened to Dunwoodie, and remember that two hours may save my life.”

“I will — I will; but why delay? Why not fly, and improve these precious moments?”

“Your sister says well, Captain Wharton,” exclaimed Harvey, who had reentered unseen; “we must go at once. Here is food to eat, as we travel.”

“But who is to see this fair creature in safety?” cried the captain. “I can never desert my sister in such a place as this.”

“Leave me! leave me!” said Frances. “I can descend as I came up. Do not doubt me; you know not my courage nor my strength.”

“I have not known you, dear girl, it is true; but now, as I learn your value, can I quit you here? Never, never!”

“Captain Wharton,” said Birch, throwing open the door, “you can trifle with your own lives, if you have many to spare; I have but one, and must nurse it. Do I go alone, or not?”

“Go, go, dear Henry,” said Frances, embracing him; “go; remember our father; remember Sarah.” She waited not for his answer, but gently forced him through the door, and closed it with her own hands.

For a short time there was a warm debate between Henry and the peddler; but the latter finally prevailed, and the breathless girl heard the successive plunges, as they went down the sides of the mountain at a rapid rate.

Immediately after the noise of their departure had ceased, Harper reappeared. He took the arm of Frances in silence, and led her from the hut. The way seemed familiar to him; for, ascending to the ledge above them, he led his companion across the tableland tenderly, pointing out the little difficulties in their route, and cautioning her against injury.

Frances felt, as she walked by the side of this extraordinary man, that she was supported by one of no common stamp. The firmness of his step, and the composure of his manner, seemed to indicate a mind settled and resolved. By taking a route over the back of the hill, they descended with great expedition, and but little danger. The distance it had taken Frances an hour to conquer, was passed by Harper and his companion in ten minutes, and they entered the open space already mentioned. He struck into one of the sheep paths, and, crossing the clearing with rapid steps, they came suddenly upon a horse, caparisoned for a rider of no mean rank. The noble beast snorted and pawed the earth, as his master approached and replaced the pistols in the holsters.

Harper then turned, and, taking the hand of Frances, spoke as follows: —

“You have this night saved your brother, Miss Wharton. It would not be proper for me to explain why there are limits to my ability to serve him; but if you can detain the horse for two hours, he is assuredly safe. After what you have already done, I can believe you equal to any duty. God has denied to me children, young lady; but if it had been His blessed will that my marriage should not have been childless, such a treasure as yourself would I have asked from His mercy. But you are my child: all who dwell in this broad land are my children, and my care; and take the blessing of one who hopes yet to meet you in happier days.”

As he spoke, with a solemnity that touched Frances to the heart, he laid his hand impressively upon her head. The guileless girl turned her face towards him, and the hood again falling back, exposed her lovely features to the moonbeams. A tear was glistening on either cheek, and her mild blue eyes were gazing upon him in reverence. Harper bent and pressed a paternal kiss upon her forehead, and continued: “Any of these sheep paths will take you to the plain; but here we must part — I have much to do and far to ride; forget me in all but your prayers.”

He then mounted his horse, and lifting his hat, rode towards the back of the mountain, descending at the same time, and was soon hid by the trees. Frances sprang forward with a lightened heart, and taking the first path that led downwards, in a few minutes she reached the plain in safety. While busied in stealing through the meadows towards the house, the noise of horse approaching startled her, and she felt how much more was to be apprehended from man, in some situations, than from solitude. Hiding her form in the angle of a fence near the road, she remained quiet for a moment, and watched their passage. A small party of dragoons, whose dress was different from the Virginians, passed at a brisk trot. They were followed by a gentleman, enveloped in a large cloak, whom she at once knew to be Harper. Behind him rode a black in livery, and two youths in uniform brought up the rear. Instead of taking the road that led by the encampment, they turned short to the left and entered the hills.

Wondering who this unknown but powerful friend of her brother could be, Frances glided across the fields, and using due precautions in approaching the dwelling, regained her residence undiscovered and in safety.

CHAPTER XXXI

Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence;
I am your wife, if you will marry me.

— Tempest.

On joining Miss Peyton, Frances learned that Dunwoodie was not yet returned; although, with a view to relieve Henry from the importunities of the supposed fanatic, he had desired a very respectable divine of their own church to ride up from the river and offer his services. This gentleman was already arrived, and had been passing the half hour he had been there, in a sensible and well-bred conversation with the spinster, that in no degree touched upon their domestic affairs.

To the eager inquiries of Miss Peyton, relative to her success in her romantic excursion, Frances could say no more than that she was bound to be silent, and to recommend the same precaution to the good maiden also. There was a smile playing around the beautiful mouth of Frances, while she uttered this injunction, which satisfied her aunt that all was as it should be. She was urging her niece to take some refreshment after her fatiguing expedition, when the noise of a horseman riding to the door, announced the return of the major. He had been found by the courier who was dispatched by Mason, impatiently waiting the return of Harper to the ferry, and immediately flew to the place where his friend had been confined, tormented by a thousand conflicting fears. The heart of Frances bounded as she listened to his approaching footsteps. It wanted yet an hour to the termination of the shortest period that the peddler had fixed as the time necessary to effect his escape. Even Harper, powerful and well-disposed as he acknowledged himself to be, had laid great stress upon the importance of detaining the Virginians during that hour. She, however, had not time to rally her thoughts, before Dunwoodie entered one door, as Miss Peyton, with the readiness of female instinct, retired through another.

The countenance of Peyton was flushed, and an air of vexation and disappointment pervaded his manner.

“’Twas imprudent, Frances; nay, it was unkind,” he cried, throwing himself in a chair, “to fly at the very moment that I had assured him of safety! I can almost persuade myself that you delight in creating points of difference in our feelings and duties.”

“In our duties there may very possibly be a difference,” returned his mistress, approaching, and leaning her slender form against the wall; “but not in our feelings, Peyton. You must certainly rejoice in the escape of Henry!”

“There was no danger impending. He had the promise of Harper; and it is a word never to be doubted. O Frances! Frances! had you known the man, you would never have distrusted his assurance; nor would you have again reduced me to this distressing alternative.”

“What alternative?” asked Frances, pitying his emotions deeply, but eagerly seizing upon every circumstance to prolong the interview.

“What alternative! Am I not compelled to spend this night in the saddle to recapture your brother, when I had thought to lay my head on its pillow, with the happy consciousness of having contributed to his release? You make me seem your enemy; I, who would cheerfully shed the last drop of blood in your service. I repeat, Frances, it was rash; it was unkind; it was a sad, sad mistake.”

She bent towards him and timidly took one of his hands, while with the other she gently removed the curls from his burning brow.

“Why go at all, dear Peyton?” she asked. “You have done much for your country, and she cannot exact such a sacrifice as this at your hand.”

“Frances! Miss Wharton!” exclaimed the youth, springing on his feet, and pacing the floor with a cheek that burned through its brown covering, and an eye that sparkled with wounded integrity. “It is not my country, but my honor, that requires the sacrifice. Has he not fled from a guard of my own corps? But for this, I might have been spared the blow! But if the eyes of the Virginians are blinded to deception and artifice, their horses are swift of foot, and their sabers keen. We shall see, before to-morrow’s sun, who will presume to hint that the beauty of the sister furnished a mask to conceal the brother! Yes, yes, I should like, even now,” he continued, laughing bitterly, “to hear the villain who would dare to surmise that such treachery existed!”

“Peyton, dear Peyton,” said Frances, recoiling from his angry eye, “you curdle my blood — would you kill my brother?”

“Would I not die for him!” exclaimed Dunwoodie, as he turned to her more mildly. “You know I would; but I am distracted with the cruel surmise to which this step of Henry’s subjects me. What will Washington think of me, should he learn that I ever became your husband?”

“If that alone impels you to act so harshly towards my brother,” returned Frances, with a slight tremor in her voice, “let it never happen for him to learn.”

“And this is consolation, Frances!”

“Nay, dear Dunwoodie, I meant nothing harsh or unkind; but are you not making us both of more consequence with Washington than the truth will justify?”

“I trust that my name is not entirely unknown to the commander in chief,” said the major, a little proudly; “nor are you as obscure as your modesty would make you. I believe you, Frances, when you say that you pity me, and it must be my task to continue worthy of such feelings. But I waste the precious moments; we must go through the hills to-night, that we may be refreshed in time for the duty of to-morrow. Mason is already waiting my orders to mount. Frances, I leave you with a heavy heart; pity me, but feel no concern for your brother; he must again become a prisoner, but every hair of his head is sacred.”

“Stop! Dunwoodie, I conjure you,” cried Frances, gasping for breath, as she noticed that the hand of the clock still wanted many minutes to the desired hour. “Before you go on your errand of fastidious duty, read this note that Henry has left for you, and which, doubtless, he thought he was writing to the friend of his youth.”

“Frances, I excuse your feelings; but the time will come when you will do me justice.”

“That time is now,” she answered, extending her hand, unable any longer to feign a displeasure that she did not feel.

“Where got you this note?” exclaimed the youth, glancing his eyes over its contents. “Poor Henry, you are indeed my friend! If anyone wishes me happiness, it is you!”

“He does, he does,” cried Frances, eagerly; “he wishes you every happiness; believe what he tells you; every word is true.”

“I do believe him, lovely girl, and he refers me to you for its confirmation. Would that I could trust equally to your affections!”

“You may, Peyton,” said Frances, looking up with innocent confidence towards her lover.

“Then read for yourself, and verify your words,” interrupted Dunwoodie, holding the note towards her.

Frances received it in astonishment, and read the following:

“Life is too precious to be trusted to uncertainties. I leave you, Peyton, unknown to all but Caesar, and I recommend him to your mercy. But there is a care that weighs me to the earth. Look at my aged and infirm parent. He will be reproached for the supposed crime of his son. Look at those helpless sisters that I leave behind me without a protector. Prove to me that you love us all. Let the clergyman whom you will bring with you, unite you this night to Frances, and become at once, brother, son, and husband.”

The paper fell from the hands of Frances, and she endeavored to raise her eyes to the face of Dunwoodie, but they sank abashed to the floor.

“Am I worthy of this confidence? Will you send me out this night, to meet my own brother? or will it be the officer of Congress in quest of the officer of Britain?”

“And would you do less of your duty because I am your wife, Major
Dunwoodie? In what degree would it better the condition of Henry?”

“Henry, I repeat, is safe. The word of Harper is his guarantee; but I will show the world a bridegroom,” continued the youth, perhaps deceiving himself a little, “who is equal to the duty of arresting the brother of his bride.”

“And will the world comprehend this refinement?” said Frances, with a musing air, that lighted a thousand hopes in the bosom of her lover. In fact, the temptation was mighty. Indeed, there seemed no other way to detain Dunwoodie until the fatal hour had elapsed. The words of Harper himself, who had so lately told her that openly he could do but little for Henry, and that everything depended upon gaining time, were deeply engraved upon her memory. Perhaps there was also a fleeting thought of the possibility of an eternal separation from her lover, should he proceed and bring back her brother to punishment. It is difficult at all times to analyze human emotions, and they pass through the sensitive heart of a woman with the rapidity and nearly with the vividness of lightning.

“Why do you hesitate, dear Frances?” cried Dunwoodie, who was studying her varying countenance. “A few minutes might give me a husband’s claim to protect you.”

Frances grew giddy. She turned an anxious eye to the clock, and the hand seemed to linger over its face, as if with intent to torture her.

“Speak, Frances,” murmured Dunwoodie; “may I summon my good kinswoman?
Determine, for time presses.”

She endeavored to reply, but could only whisper something that was inaudible, but which her lover, with the privilege of immemorial custom, construed into assent. He turned and flew to the door, when his mistress recovered her voice: —

“Stop, Peyton! I cannot enter into such a solemn engagement with a fraud upon my conscience. I have seen Henry since his escape, and time is all-important to him. Here is my hand; if, with this knowledge of the consequences of delay, you will not reject it, it is freely yours.”

“Reject it!” cried the delighted youth. “I take it as the richest gift of heaven. There is time enough for us all. Two hours will take me through the hills; and by noon to-morrow I will return with Washington’s pardon for your brother, and Henry will help to enliven our nuptials.”

“Then meet me here, in ten minutes,” said Frances, greatly relieved by unburdening her mind, and filled with the hope of securing Henry’s safety, “and I will return and take those vows which will bind me to you forever.”

Dunwoodie paused only to press her once to his bosom, and flew to communicate his wishes to the priest.

Miss Peyton received the avowal of her niece with infinite astonishment, and a little displeasure. It was violating all the order and decorum of a wedding to get it up so hastily, and with so little ceremony. But Frances, with modest firmness, declared that her resolution was taken; she had long possessed the consent of her friends, and their nuptials, for months, had only waited her pleasure. She had now promised Dunwoodie; and it was her wish to comply; more she dare not say without committing herself, by entering into explanations that might endanger Birch, or Harper, or both. Unused to contention, and really much attached to her kinsman, the feeble objections of Miss Peyton gave way to the firmness of her niece. Mr. Wharton was too completely a convert to the doctrine of passive obedience and nonresistance, to withstand any solicitation from an officer of Dunwoodie’s influence in the rebel armies; and the maid returned to the apartment, accompanied by her father and aunt, at the expiration of the time that she had fixed. Dunwoodie and the clergyman were already there. Frances, silently, and without the affectation of reserve, placed in his hand the wedding ring of her own mother, and after some little time spent in arranging Mr. Wharton and herself, Miss Peyton suffered the ceremony to proceed.

The clock stood directly before the eyes of Frances, and she turned many an anxious glance at the dial; but the solemn language of the priest soon caught her attention, and her mind became intent upon the vows she was uttering. The ceremony was quickly over, and as the clergyman closed the words of benediction, the clock told the hour of nine. This was the time that Harper had deemed so important, and Frances felt as if a mighty load was at once removed from her heart.

Dunwoodie folded her in his arms, saluted the mild aunt again and again, and shook Mr. Wharton and the divine repeatedly by the hands. In the midst of the felicitation, a tap was heard at the door. It was opened, and Mason appeared.

“We are in the saddle,” said the lieutenant, “and, with your permission, I will lead on; as you are so well mounted, you can overtake us at your leisure.”

“Yes, yes, my good fellow; march,” cried Dunwoodie, gladly seizing an excuse to linger. “I will reach you at the first halt.”

The subaltern retired to execute these orders; he was followed by Mr.
Wharton and the divine.

“Now, Peyton,” said Frances, “it is indeed a brother that you seek; I am sure I need not caution you in his behalf, should you unfortunately find him.”

“Say fortunately,” cried the youth, “for I am determined he shall yet dance at my wedding. Would that I could win him to our cause. It is the cause of his country; and I could fight with more pleasure, Frances, with your brother by my side.”

“Oh! mention it not! You awaken terrible reflections.”

“I will not mention it,” returned her husband; “but I must now leave you. But the sooner I go, Frances, the sooner I shall return.”

The noise of a horseman was heard approaching the house, and Dunwoodie was yet taking leave of his bride and her aunt, when an officer was shown into the room by his own man.

The gentleman wore the dress of an aid-de-camp, and the major at once knew him to be one of the military family of Washington.

“Major Dunwoodie,” he said, after bowing to the ladies, “the commander in chief has directed me to give you these orders.”

He executed his mission, and, pleading duty, took his leave immediately.

“Here, indeed!” cried the major, “is an unexpected turn in the whole affair; but I understand it: Harper has got my letter, and already we feel his influence.”

“Have you news affecting Henry?” cried Frances, springing to his side.

“Listen, and you shall judge.”

“SIR, — Upon the receipt of this, you will concentrate your squadron, so as to be in front of a covering party which the enemy has sent up in front of his foragers, by ten o’clock to-morrow, on the heights of Croton, where you will find a body of foot to support you. The escape of the English spy has been reported to me, but his arrest is unimportant, compared with the duty I now assign you. You will, therefore, recall your men, if any are in pursuit, and endeavor to defeat the enemy forthwith.”

Your obedient servant,
GEO. WASHINGTON.

“Thank God!” cried Dunwoodie, “my hands are washed of Henry’s recapture;
I can now move to my duty with honor.”

“And with prudence, too, dear Peyton,” said Frances, with a face as pale as death. “Remember, Dunwoodie, you leave behind you new claims on your life.”

The youth dwelt on her lovely but pallid features with rapture; and, as he folded her to his heart, exclaimed, —

“For your sake, I will, lovely innocent!” Frances sobbed a moment on his bosom, and he tore himself from her presence.

Miss Peyton retired with her niece, to whom she conceived it necessary, before they separated for the night, to give an admonitory lecture on the subject of matrimonial duty. Her instruction was modestly received, if not properly digested. We regret that history has not handed down to us this precious dissertation; but the result of all our investigation has been to learn that it partook largely of those peculiarities which are said to tincture the rules prescribed to govern bachelors’ children. We shall now leave the ladies of the Wharton family, and return to Captain Wharton and Harvey Birch.

CHAPTER XXXII

Allow him not a parting word;
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord!
— Rokeby.

The peddler and his companion soon reached the valley, and after pausing to listen, and hearing no sounds which announced that pursuers were abroad, they entered the highway. Acquainted with every step that led through the mountains, and possessed of sinews inured to toil, Birch led the way, with the lengthened strides that were peculiar to the man and his profession; his pack alone was wanting to finish the appearance of his ordinary business air. At times, when they approached one of those little posts held by the American troops, with which the Highlands abounded, he would take a circuit to avoid the sentinels, and plunge fearlessly into a thicket, or ascend a rugged hill, that to the eye seemed impassable. But the peddler was familiar with every turn in their difficult route, knew where the ravines might be penetrated, or where the streams were fordable. In one or two instances, Henry thought that their further progress was absolutely at an end, but the ingenuity, or knowledge, of his guide, conquered every difficulty. After walking at a great rate for three hours, they suddenly diverged from the road, which inclined to the east, and held their course directly across the hills, in a due south direction. This movement was made, the peddler informed his companion, in order to avoid the parties who constantly patrolled in the southern entrance of the Highlands, as well as to shorten the distance, by traveling in a straight line. After reaching the summit of a hill, Harvey seated himself by the side of a little run, and opening a wallet, that he had slung where his pack was commonly suspended, he invited his comrade to partake of the coarse fare it contained. Henry had kept pace with the peddler, more by the excitement natural to his situation, than by the equality of his physical powers. The idea of a halt was unpleasant, so long as there existed a possibility of the horse getting below him in time to intercept their retreat through the neutral ground. He therefore stated his apprehensions to his companion, and urged a wish to proceed.

“Follow my example, Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, commencing his frugal meal. “If the horse have started, it will be more than man can do to head them; and if they have not, work is cut out for them, that will drive all thoughts of you and me from their brains.”

“You said yourself, that two hours’ detention was all-important to us, and if we loiter here, of what use will be the advantage that we may have already obtained?”

“The time is past, and Major Dunwoodie thinks little of following two men, when hundreds are waiting for him on the banks of the river.”

“Listen!” interrupted Henry, “there are horse at this moment passing the foot of the hill. I hear them even laughing and talking to each other. Hist! there is the voice of Dunwoodie himself; he calls to his comrade in a manner that shows but little uneasiness. One would think that the situation of his friend would lower his spirits; surely Frances could not have given him the letter.”

On hearing the first exclamation of the captain, Birch arose from his seat, and approached cautiously to the brow of the hill, taking care to keep his body in the shadow of the rocks, so as to be unseen at any distance, and earnestly reconnoitered the group of passing horsemen. He continued listening, until their quick footsteps were no longer audible, and then quietly returned to his seat, and with incomparable coolness resumed his meal.

“You have a long walk, and a tiresome one, before you, Captain Wharton; you had better do as I do — you were eager for food at the hut above Fishkill, but traveling seems to have worn down your appetite.”

“I thought myself safe, then, but the information of my sister fills me with uneasiness, and I cannot eat.”

“You have less reason to be troubled now than at any time since the night before you were taken, when you refused my advice, and an offer to see you in safety,” returned the peddler. “Major Dunwoodie is not a man to laugh and be gay when his friend is in difficulty. Come, then, and eat, for no horse will be in our way, if we can hold our legs for four hours longer, and the sun keeps behind the hills as long as common.”

There was a composure in the peddler’s manner that encouraged his companion; and having once determined to submit to Harvey’s government, he suffered himself to be persuaded into a tolerable supper, if quantity be considered without any reference to the quality. After completing their repast, the peddler resumed his journey.

Henry followed in blind submission to his will. For two hours more they struggled with the difficult and dangerous passes of the Highlands, without road, or any other guide than the moon, which was traveling the heavens, now wading through flying clouds, and now shining brightly. At length they arrived at a point where the mountains sank into rough and unequal hillocks, and passed at once from the barren sterility of the precipices, to the imperfect culture of the neutral ground.

The peddler now became more guarded in the manner in which they proceeded, and took divers precautions to prevent meeting any moving parts of the Americans. With the stationary posts he was too familiar to render it probable he might fall upon any of them unawares. He wound among the hills and vales, now keeping the highways and now avoiding them, with a precision that seemed instinctive. There was nothing elastic in his tread, but he glided over the ground with enormous strides, and a body bent forward, without appearing to use exertion, or know weariness.

The moon had set, and a faint streak of light was beginning to show itself in the east. Captain Wharton ventured to express a sense of fatigue, and to inquire if they were not yet arrived at a part of the country where it might be safe to apply at some of the farmhouses for admission.

“See here,” said the peddler, pointing to a hill, at a short distance in the rear, “do you not see a man walking on the point of that rock? Turn, so as to bring the daylight in the range — now, see, he moves, and seems to be looking earnestly at something to the eastward. That is a royal sentinel; two hundred of the rig’lar troops lay on that hill, no doubt sleeping on their arms.”

“Then,” cried Henry, “let us join them, and our danger is ended.”

“Softly, softly, Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, dryly, “you’ve once been in the midst of three hundred of them, but there was a man who could take you out; see you not yon dark body, on the side of the opposite hill, just above the cornstalks? There are the — the rebels (since that is the word for us loyal subjects), waiting only for day, to see who will be master of the ground.”

“Nay, then,” exclaimed the fiery youth, “I will join the troops of my prince, and share their fortune, be it good or be it bad.”

“You forget that you fight with a halter round your neck; no, no — I have promised one whom I must not disappoint, to carry you safe in; and unless you forget what I have already done, and what I have risked for you, Captain Wharton, you will turn and follow me to Harlem.”

To this appeal the youth felt unwillingly obliged to submit; and they continued their course towards the city. It was not long before they gained the banks of the Hudson. After searching for a short time under the shore, the peddler discovered a skiff, that appeared to be an old acquaintance; and entering it with his companion he landed him on the south side of the Croton. Here Birch declared they were in safety; for the royal troops held the continentals at bay, and the former were out in too great strength for the light parties of the latter to trust themselves below that river, on the immediate banks of the Hudson.

Throughout the whole of this arduous flight, the peddler had manifested a coolness and presence of mind that nothing appeared to disturb. All his faculties seemed to be of more than usual perfection, and the infirmities of nature to have no dominion over him. Henry had followed him like a child in leading strings, and he now reaped his reward, as he felt a bound of pleasure at his heart, on hearing that he was relieved from apprehension, and permitted to banish every doubt of security.

A steep and laborious ascent brought them from the level of the tidewaters to the high lands that form, in this part of the river, the eastern banks of the Hudson. Retiring a little from the highway, under the shelter of a thicket of cedars, the peddler threw his form on a flat rock, and announced to his companion that the hour for rest and refreshment was at length arrived. The day was now opened, and objects could be seen in the distance, with distinctness. Beneath them lay the Hudson, stretching to the south in a straight line, as far as the eye could reach. To the north, the broken fragments of the Highlands threw upwards their lofty heads, above masses of fog that hung over the water, and by which the course of the river could be traced into the bosom of hills whose conical summits were grouping togather, one behind another, in that disorder which might be supposed to have succeeded their gigantic, but fruitless, efforts to stop the progress of the flood. Emerging from these confused piles, the river, as if rejoicing at its release from the struggle, expanded into a wide bay, which was ornamented by a few fertile and low points that jutted humbly into its broad basin. On the opposite, or western shore, the rocks of Jersey were gathered into an array that has obtained for them the name of the “Palisades,” elevating themselves for many hundred feet, as if to protect the rich country in their rear from the inroads of the conqueror; but, disdaining such an enemy, the river swept proudly by their feet, and held its undeviating way to the ocean. A ray of the rising sun darted upon the slight cloud that hung over the placid river, and at once the whole scene was in motion, changing and assuming new forms, and exhibiting fresh objects in each successive moment. At the daily rising of this great curtain of nature, at the present time, scores of white sails and sluggish vessels are seen thickening on the water, with that air of life which denotes the neighborhood to the metropolis of a great and flourishing empire; but to Henry and the peddler it displayed only the square yards and lofty masts of a vessel of war, riding a few miles below them. Before the fog had begun to move, the tall spars were seen above it, and from one of them a long pennant was feebly borne abroad in the current of night air, that still quivered along the river; but as the smoke arose, the black hull, the crowded and complicated mass of rigging, and the heavy yards and booms, spreading their arms afar, were successively brought into view.

“There, Captain Wharton,” said the peddler, “there is a safe resting place for you; America has no arm that can reach you, if you gain the deck of that ship. She is sent up to cover the foragers, and support the troops; the rig’lar officers are fond of the sound of cannon from their shipping.”

Without condescending to reply to the sarcasm conveyed in this speech, or perhaps not noticing it, Henry joyfully acquiesced in the proposal, and it was accordingly arranged between them, that, as soon as they were refreshed, he should endeavor to get on board the vessel.

While busily occupied in the very indispensable operation of breaking their fast, our adventurers were startled with the sound of distant firearms. At first a few scattering shots were fired, which were succeeded by a long and animated roll of musketry, and then quick and heavy volleys followed each other.

“Your prophecy is made good,” cried the English officer, springing upon his feet. “Our troops and the rebels are at it! I would give six months’ pay to see the charge.”

“Umph!” returned his companion, without ceasing his meal, “they do very well to look at from a distance; I can’t say but the company of this bacon, cold as it is, is more to my taste, just now, than a hot fire from the continentals.”

“The discharges are heavy for so small a force; but the fire seems irregular.”

“The scattering guns are from the Connecticut militia,” said Harvey, raising his head to listen; “they rattle it off finely, and are no fools at a mark. The volleys are the rig’lars, who, you know, fire by word — as long as they can.”

“I like not the warmth of what you call a scattering fire,” exclaimed the captain, moving about with uneasiness; “it is more like the roll of a drum than skirmishers’ shooting.”

“No, no; I said not skrimmagers,” returned the other, raising himself upon a knee, and ceasing to eat; “so long as they stand, they are too good for the best troops in the royal army. Each man does his work as if fighting by the job; and then, they think while they fight, and don’t send bullets to the clouds, that were meant to kill men on earth.”

“You talk and look, sir, as if you wished them success,” said Henry, sternly.

“I wish success to the good cause only, Captain Wharton. I thought you knew me too well, to be uncertain which party I favored.”

“Oh! you are reputed loyal, Mr. Birch. But the volleys have ceased!”

Both now listened intently for a little while, during which the irregular reports became less brisk, and suddenly heavy and repeated volleys followed.

“They’ve been at the bayonet,” said the peddler; “the rig’lars have tried the bayonet, and the rebels are driven.”

“Aye, Mr. Birch, the bayonet is the thing for the British soldier, after all. They delight in the bayonet!”

“Well, to my notion,” said the peddler, “there’s but little delight to be taken in any such fearful weapon. I dare say the militia are of my mind, for half of them don’t carry the ugly things. Lord! Lord! captain, I wish you’d go with me once into the rebel camp, and hear what lies the men will tell about Bunker Hill and Burg’yne; you’d think they loved the bayonet as much as they do their dinners.”

There was a chuckle, and an air of affected innocency about his companion, that rather annoyed Henry, and he did not deign to reply.

The firing now became desultory, occasionally intermingled with heavy volleys. Both of the fugitives were standing, listening with much anxiety, when a man, armed with a musket, was seen stealing towards them, under the shelter of the cedar bushes, that partially covered the hill. Henry first observed this suspicious-looking stranger, and instantly pointed him out to his companion. Birch started, and certainly made an indication of sudden flight; but recollecting himself, he stood, in sullen silence, until the stranger was within a few yards of them.

“’Tis friends,” said the fellow, clubbing his gun, but apparently afraid to venture nearer.

“You had better retire,” said Birch; “here are rig’lars at hand. We are not near Dunwoodie’s horse now, and you will not find me an easy prize to-day.”

“Damn Major Dunwoodie and his horse!” cried the leader of the Skinners (for it was he); “God bless King George! and a speedy end to the rebellion, say I. If you would show me the safe way in to the refugees, Mr. Birch, I’ll pay you well, and ever after stand your friend, in the bargain.”

“The road is as open to you as to me,” said Birch, turning from him in ill-concealed disgust. “If you want to find the refugees, you know well where they lay.”

“Aye, but I’m a little doubtful of going in upon them by myself; now, you are well known to them all, and it will be no detriment to you just to let me go in with you.”

Henry here interfered, and after holding a short dialogue with the fellow, he entered into a compact with him, that, on condition of surrendering his arms, he might join the party. The man complied instantly, and Birch received his gun with eagerness; nor did he lay it upon his shoulder to renew their march, before he had carefully examined the priming, and ascertained, to his satisfaction, that it contained a good, dry, ball cartridge.

As soon as this engagement was completed, they commenced their journey anew. By following the bank of the river, Birch led the way free from observation, until they reached the point opposite to the frigate, when, by making a signal, a boat was induced to approach. Some time was spent, and much precaution used, before the seamen would trust themselves ashore; but Henry having finally succeeded in making the officer who commanded the party credit his assertions, he was able to rejoin his companions in arms in safety. Before taking leave of Birch, the captain handed him his purse, which was tolerably well supplied for the times; the peddler received it, and, watching an opportunity, he conveyed it, unnoticed by the Skinner, to a part of his dress that was ingeniously contrived to hold such treasures.

The boat pulled from the shore, and Birch turned on his heel, drawing his breath, like one relieved, and shot up the hills with the strides for which he was famous. The Skinner followed, and each party pursued the common course, casting frequent and suspicious glances at the other, and both maintaining a most impenetrable silence.

Wagons were moving along the river road, and occasional parties of horse were seen escorting the fruits of the inroad towards the city. As the peddler had views of his own, he rather avoided falling in with any of these patrols, than sought their protection. But, after traveling a few miles on the immediate banks of the river, during which, notwithstanding the repeated efforts of the Skinner to establish something like sociability, he maintained a most determined silence, keeping a firm hold of the gun, and always maintaining a jealous watchfulness of his associate, the peddler suddenly struck into the highway, with an intention of crossing the hills towards Harlem. At the moment he gained the path, a body of horse came over a little eminence, and was upon him before he perceived them. It was too late to retreat, and after taking a view of the materials that composed this party, Birch rejoiced in the rencounter, as a probable means of relieving him from his unwelcome companion. There were some eighteen or twenty men, mounted and equipped as dragoons, though neither their appearance nor manners denoted much discipline. At their head rode a heavy, middle-aged man, whose features expressed as much of animal courage, and as little of reason, as could be desired for such an occupation. He wore the dress of an officer, but there was none of that neatness in his attire, nor grace in his movements, that was usually found about the gentlemen who bore the royal commission. His limbs were firm, and not pliable, and he sat his horse with strength and confidence, but his bridle hand would have been ridiculed by the meanest rider amongst the Virginians. As he expected, this leader instantly hailed the peddler, in a voice by no means more conciliating than his appearance.

“Hey! my gentlemen, which way so fast?” he cried, “Has Washington sent you down as spies?”

“I am an innocent peddler,” returned Harvey meekly, “and am going below, to lay in a fresh stock of goods.”

“And how do you expect to get below, my innocent peddler? Do you think we hold the forts at King’s Bridge to cover such peddling rascals as you, in your goings in and comings out?”

“I believe I hold a pass that will carry me through,” said the peddler, handing him a paper, with an air of indifference.

The officer, for such he was, read it, and cast a look of surprise and curiosity at Harvey, when he had done.

Then turning to one or two of his men, who had officiously stopped the way, he cried, —

“Why do you detain the man? Give way, and let him pass in peace. But whom have we here? Your name is not mentioned in the pass!”

“No, sir,” said the Skinner, lifting his hat with humility. “I have been a poor, deluded man, who has been serving in the rebel army; but, thank God, I’ve lived to see the error of my ways, and am now come to make reparation, by enlisting under the Lord’s anointed.”

“Umph! a deserter — a Skinner, I’ll swear, wanting to turn Cowboy! In the last brush I had with the scoundrels, I could hardly tell my own men from the enemy. We are not over well supplied with coats, and as for countenances, the rascals change sides so often, that you may as well count their faces for nothing; but trudge on, we will contrive to make use of you, sooner or later.”

Ungracious as was this reception, if you could judge of the Skinner’s feelings from his manner, it nevertheless delighted him. He moved with alacrity towards the city, and really was so happy to escape the brutal looks and frightful manner of his interrogator, as to lose sight of all other considerations. But the man who performed the functions of orderly in the irregular troop, rode up to the side of his commander, and commenced a close and apparently a confidential discourse with his principal. They spoke in whispers, and cast frequent and searching glances at the Skinner, until the fellow began to think himself an object of more than common attention. His satisfaction at this distinction was somewhat heightened, at observing a smile on the face of the captain, which, although it might be thought grim, certainly denoted satisfaction. This pantomime occupied the time they were passing a hollow, and concluded as they rose another hill. Here the captain and his sergeant both dismounted, and ordered the party to halt. The two partisans each took a pistol from his holster, a movement that excited no suspicion or alarm, as it was a precaution always observed, and beckoned to the peddler and the Skinner to follow. A short walk brought them to a spot where the hill overhung the river, the ground falling nearly perpendicularly to the shore. On the brow of the eminence stood a deserted and dilapidated barn. Many boards of its covering were torn from their places, and its wide doors were lying, the one in front of the building, and the other halfway down the precipice, whither the wind had cast it. Entering this desolate spot, the refugee officer very coolly took from his pocket a short pipe, which, from long use, had acquired not only the hue but the gloss of ebony, a tobacco box, and a small roll of leather, that contained steel, flint, and tinder. With this apparatus, he soon furnished his mouth with a companion that habit had long rendered necessary to reflection. So soon as a large column of smoke arose from this arrangement, the captain significantly held forth a hand towards his assistant. A small cord was produced from the pocket of the sergeant, and handed to the other. The refugee threw out vast puffs of smoke, until nearly all of his head was obscured, and looked around the building with an inquisitive eye. At length he removed the pipe, and inhaling a draft of pure air, returned it to its domicile, and proceeded at once to business. A heavy piece of timber lay across the girths of the barn, but a little way from the southern door, which opened directly upon a full view of the river, as it stretched far away towards the bay of New York. Over this beam the refugee threw one end of the rope, and, regaining it, joined the two parts in his hand. A small and weak barrel, that wanted a head, the staves of which were loose, and at one end standing apart, was left on the floor, probably as useless. The sergeant, in obedience to a look from his officer, placed it beneath the beam. All of these arrangements were made with composure, and they now seemed completed to the officer’s perfect satisfaction.

“Come,” he said coolly to the Skinner, who, admiring the preparations, had stood a silent spectator of their progress. He obeyed; and it was not until he found his neckcloth removed, and hat thrown aside, that he took the alarm. But he had so often resorted to a similar expedient to extort information, or plunder, that he by no means felt the terror an unpracticed man would have suffered, at these ominous movements. The rope was adjusted to his neck with the same coolness that formed the characteristic of the whole movement, and a fragment of board being laid upon the barrel, he was ordered to mount.

“But it may fall,” said the Skinner, for the first time beginning to tremble. “I will tell you anything — even how to surprise our party at the Pond, without all this trouble, and it is commanded by my own brother.”

“I want no information,” returned his executioner (for such he now seemed really to be), throwing the rope repeatedly over the beam, first drawing it tight so as to annoy the Skinner a little, and then casting the end from him, beyond the reach of anyone.

“This is joking too far,” cried the Skinner, in a tone of remonstrance, and raising himself on his toes, with the vain hope of releasing himself from the cord, by slipping his head through the noose. But the caution and experience of the refugee officer had guarded against this escape.

“What have you done with the horse you stole from me, rascal?” muttered the officer of the Cowboys, throwing out columns of smoke while he waited for a reply.

“He broke down in the chase,” replied the Skinner quickly; “but I can tell you where one is to be found that is worth him and his sire.”

“Liar! I will help myself when I am in need; you had better call upon God for aid, as your hour is short.” On concluding this consoling advice, he struck the barrel a violent blow with his heavy foot, and the slender staves flew in every direction, leaving the Skinner whirling in the air. As his hands were unconfined, he threw them upwards, and held himself suspended by main strength.

“Come, captain,” he said, coaxingly, a little huskiness creeping into his voice, and his knees beginning to shake with tremor, “end the joke; ’tis enough to make a laugh, and my arms begin to tire — I can’t hold on much longer.”

“Harkee, Mr. Peddler,” said the refugee, in a voice that would not be denied, “I want not your company. Through that door lies your road — march! offer to touch that dog, and you’ll swing in his place, though twenty Sir Henrys wanted your services.” So saying, he retired to the road with the sergeant, as the peddler precipitately retreated down the bank.

Birch went no farther than a bush that opportunely offered itself as a screen to his person, while he yielded to an unconquerable desire to witness the termination of this extraordinary scene.

Left alone, the Skinner began to throw fearful glances around, to espy the hiding places of his tormentors. For the first time the horrid idea seemed to shoot through his brain that something serious was intended by the Cowboy. He called entreatingly to be released, and made rapid and incoherent promises of important information, mingled with affected pleasantry at their conceit, which he would hardly admit to himself could mean anything so dreadful as it seemed. But as he heard the tread of the horses moving on their course, and in vain looked around for human aid, violent trembling seized his limbs, and his eyes began to start from his head with terror. He made a desperate effort to reach the beam; but, too much exhausted with his previous exertions, he caught the rope in his teeth, in a vain effort to sever the cord, and fell to the whole length of his arms. Here his cries were turned into shrieks.

“Help! cut the rope! captain! — Birch! good peddler! Down with the
Congress! — sergeant! for God’s sake, help! Hurrah for the king! — O God!
O God! — mercy, mercy — mercy!”

As his voice became suppressed, one of his hands endeavored to make its way between the rope and his neck, and partially succeeded; but the other fell quivering by his side. A convulsive shuddering passed over his whole frame, and he hung a hideous corpse.

Birch continued gazing on this scene with a kind of infatuation. At its close he placed his hands to his ears, and rushed towards the highway. Still the cries for mercy rang through his brain, and it was many weeks before his memory ceased to dwell on the horrid event. The Cowboys rode steadily on their route, as if nothing had occurred; and the body was left swinging in the wind, until chance directed the wandering footsteps of some lonely straggler to the place.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days;
None knew thee but to love thee,
None named thee but to praise.
— HALLECK.

While the scenes and events that we have recorded were occurring, Captain Lawton led his small party, by slow and wary marches, from the Four Corners to the front of a body of the enemy; where he so successfully maneuvered, for a short time, as completely to elude all their efforts to entrap him, and yet so disguised his own force as to excite the constant apprehension of an attack from the Americans. This forbearing policy, on the side of the partisan, was owing to positive orders received from his commander. When Dunwoodie left his detachment, the enemy were known to be slowly advancing, and he directed Lawton to hover around them, until his own return, and the arrival of a body of foot, might enable him to intercept their retreat.

The trooper discharged his duty to the letter but with no little of the impatience that made part of his character when restrained from the attack.

During these movements, Betty Flanagan guided her little cart with indefatigable zeal among the rocks of Westchester, now discussing with the sergeant the nature of evil spirits, and now combating with the surgeon sundry points of practice that were hourly arising between them. But the moment arrived that was to decide the temporary mastery of the field. A detachment of the eastern militia moved out from their fastnesses, and approached the enemy.

The junction between Lawton and his auxiliaries was made at midnight, and an immediate consultation was held between him and the leader of the foot soldiers. After listening to the statements of the partisan, who rather despised the prowess of his enemy, the commandant of the party determined to attack the British, the moment daylight enabled him to reconnoiter their position, without waiting for the aid of Dunwoodie and his horse. So soon as this decision was made, Lawton retired from the building where the consultation was held, and rejoined his own small command.

The few troopers who were with the captain had fastened their horses in a spot adjacent to a haystack, and laid their own frames under its shelter, to catch a few hours’ sleep. But Dr. Sitgreaves, Sergeant Hollister, and Betty Flanagan were congregated at a short distance by themselves, having spread a few blankets upon the dry surface of a rock. Lawton threw his huge frame by the side of the surgeon, and folding his cloak about him, leaned his head upon one hand, and appeared deeply engaged in contemplating the moon as it waded through the heavens. The sergeant was sitting upright, in respectful deference to the surgeon, and the washerwoman was now raising her head, in order to vindicate some of her favorite maxims, and now composing it to sleep.

“So, sergeant,” continued Sitgreaves, following up a previous position, “if you cut upwards, the blow, by losing the additional momentum of your weight, will be less destructive, and at the same time effect the true purpose of war, that of disabling your enemy.”

“Pooh! pooh! sergeant dear,” said the washerwoman, raising her head from the blanket, “where’s the harm of taking a life, jist in the way of battle? Is it the rig’lars who’ll show favor, and they fighting? Ask Captain Jack there, if the country could get free, and the boys no strike their might. I wouldn’t have them disparage the whisky so much.”

“It is not to be expected that an ignorant female like yourself, Mrs. Flanagan,” returned the surgeon, with a calmness that only rendered his contempt more stinging to Betty, “can comprehend the distinctions of surgical science; neither are you accomplished in the sword exercise; so that dissertations upon the judicious use of that weapon could avail you nothing either in theory or in practice.”

“It’s hut little I care, anyway, for such botherment; but fighting is no play, and a body shouldn’t be particular how they strike, or who they hit, so it’s the inimy.”

“Are we likely to have a warm day, Captain Lawton?”

“’Tis more than probable,” replied the trooper; “these militia seldom fail of making a bloody field, either by their cowardice or their ignorance, and the real soldier is made to suffer for their bad conduct.”

“Are you ill, John?” said the surgeon, passing his hand along the arm of the captain, until it instinctively settled on his pulse; but the steady, even beat announced neither bodily nor mental malady.

“Sick at heart, Archibald, at the folly of our rulers, in believing that battles are to be fought and victories won, by fellows who handle a musket as they would a flail; lads who wink when they pull a trigger, and form a line like a hoop pole. The dependence we place on these men spills the best blood of the country.”

The surgeon listened with amazement. It was not the matter, but the manner that surprised him. The trooper had uniformly exhibited, on the eve of battle, an animation, and an eagerness to engage, that was directly at variance with the admirable coolness of his manner at other times. But now there was a despondency in the tones of his voice, and a listlessness in his air, that was entirely different. The operator hesitated a moment, to reflect in what manner he could render this change of service in furthering his favorite system, and then continued, —

“It would be wise, John, to advise the colonel to keep at long shot; a spent ball will disable— “

“No!” exclaimed the trooper, impatiently, “let the rascals singe their whiskers at the muzzles of the British muskets, if they can be driven there. But, enough of them. Archibald, do you deem that moon to be a world like this, containing creatures like ourselves?”

“Nothing more probable, dear John; we know its size and, reasoning from analogy, may easily conjecture its use. Whether or not its inhabitants have attained to that perfection in the sciences which we have acquired, must depend greatly on the state of its society, and in some measure upon its physical influences.”

“I care nothing about their learning, Archibald; but ’tis a wonderful power that can create such worlds, and control them in their wanderings. I know not why, but there is a feeling of melancholy excited within me as I gaze on that body of light, shaded as it is by your fancied sea and land. It seems to be the resting place of departed spirits!”

“Take a drop, darling,” said Betty, raising her head once more, and proffering her own bottle. “’Tis the night damp that chills the blood — and then the talk with the cursed militia is no good for a fiery temper. Take a drop, darling, and ye’ll sleep till the morning. I fed Roanoke myself, for I thought ye might need hard riding the morrow.”

“’Tis a glorious heaven to look upon,” continued the trooper, in the same tone, disregarding the offer of Betty, “and ’tis a thousand pities that such worms as men should let their vile passions deface such goodly work.”

“You speak the truth, dear John; there is room for all to live and enjoy themselves in peace, if each could be satisfied with his own. Still, war has its advantages; it particularly promotes the knowledge of surgery; and— “

“There is a star,” continued Lawton, still bent on his own ideas, “struggling to glitter through a few driving clouds; perhaps that too is a world, and contains its creatures endowed with reason like ourselves. Think you that they know of war and bloodshed?”

“If I might be so bold,” said Sergeant Hollister, mechanically raising his hand to his cap, “’tis mentioned in the good book, that the Lord made the sun to stand still while Joshua was charging the enemy, in order, sir, as I suppose, that they might have daylight to turn their flank, or perhaps make a feint in the rear, or some such maneuver. Now, if the Lord would lend them a hand, fighting cannot be sinful. I have often been nonplused, though, to find that they used them chariots instead of heavy dragoons, who are, in all comparison, better to break a line of infantry, and who, for the matter of that, could turn such wheel carriages, and getting into the rear, play the very devil with them, horse and all.”

“It is because you do not understand the construction of those ancient vehicles, Sergeant Hollister, that you judge of them so erroneously,” said the surgeon. “They were armed with sharp weapons that protruded from their wheels, and which broke up the columns of foot, like dismembered particles of matter. I doubt not, if similar instruments were affixed to the cart of Mrs. Flanagan, that great confusion might be carried into the ranks of the enemy thereby, this very day.”

“It’s but little that the mare would go, and the rig’lars firing at her,” grumbled Betty, from under her blanket. “When we got the plunder, the time we drove them through the Jarseys it was, I had to back the baste up to the dead; for the divil the foot would she move, fornent the firing, wid her eyes open. Roanoke and Captain Jack are good enough for the redcoats, letting alone myself and the mare.”

A long roll of the drums, from the hill occupied by the British, announced that they were on the alert; and a corresponding signal was immediately heard from the Americans. The bugle of the Virginians struck up its martial tones; and in a few moments both the hills, the one held by the royal troops and the other by their enemies, were alive with armed men. Day had begun to dawn, and preparations were making by both parties, to give and to receive the attack. In numbers the Americans had greatly the advantage; but in discipline and equipment the superiority was entirely with their enemies. The arrangements for the battle were brief, and by the time the sun rose the militia moved forward.

The ground did not admit of the movements of horse; and the only duty that could be assigned to the dragoons was to watch the moment of victory, and endeavor to improve the success to the utmost. Lawton soon got his warriors into the saddle; and leaving them to the charge of Hollister, he rode himself along the line of foot, who, in varied dresses, and imperfectly armed, were formed in a shape that in some degree resembled a martial array. A scornful smile lowered about the lip of the trooper as he guided Roanoke with a skillful hand through the windings of their ranks; and when the word was given to march, he turned the flank of the regiment, and followed close in the rear. The Americans had to descend into a little hollow, and rise a hill on its opposite side, to approach the enemy.

The descent was made with tolerable steadiness, until near the foot of the hill, when the royal troops advanced in a beautiful line, with their flanks protected by the formation of the ground. The appearance of the British drew a fire from the militia, which was given with good effect, and for a moment staggered the regulars. But they were rallied by their officers, and threw in volley after volley with great steadiness. For a short time the fire was warm and destructive, until the English advanced with the bayonet. This assault the militia had not sufficient discipline to withstand. Their line wavered, then paused, and finally broke into companies and fragments of companies, keeping up at the same time a scattering and desultory fire.

Lawton witnessed these operations in silence, nor did he open his mouth until the field was covered with parties of the flying Americans. Then, indeed, he seemed stung with the disgrace thus heaped upon the arms of his country. Spurring Roanoke along the side of the hill, he called to the fugitives in all the strength of his powerful voice. He pointed to the enemy, and assured his countrymen that they had mistaken the way. There was such a mixture of indifference and irony in his exhortations that a few paused in surprise — more joined them, until, roused by the example of the trooper, and stimulated by their own spirit, they demanded to be led against their foe once more.

“Come on, then, my brave friends!” shouted the trooper, turning his horse’s head towards the British line, one flank of which was very near him; “come on, and hold your fire until it will scorch their eyebrows.”

The men sprang forward, and followed his example, neither giving nor receiving a fire until they had come within a very short distance of the enemy. An English sergeant, who had been concealed by a rock, enraged with the audacity of the officer who thus dared their arms, stepped from behind his cover, and leveled his musket.

“Fire and you die!” cried Lawton, spurring his charger, which leaped forward at the instant. The action and the tone of his voice shook the nerves of the Englishman, who drew his trigger with an uncertain aim. Roanoke sprang with all his feet from the earth, and, plunging, fell headlong and lifeless at the feet of his destroyer. Lawton kept his feet, standing face to face with his enemy. The latter presented his bayonet, and made a desperate thrust at the trooper’s heart. The steel of their weapons emitted sparks of fire, and the bayonet flew fifty feet in the air. At the next moment its owner lay a quivering corpse.

“Come on!” shouted the trooper, as a body of English appeared on the rock, and threw in a close fire. “Come on!” he repeated, and brandished his saber fiercely. Then his gigantic form fell backward, like a majestic pine yielding to the ax; but still, as he slowly fell, he continued to wield his saber, and once more the deep tones of his voice were heard uttering, “Come on!”

The advancing Americans paused aghast, and, turning, they abandoned the field to the royal troops.

It was neither the intention nor the policy of the English commander to pursue his success, for he well knew that strong parties of the Americans would soon arrive; accordingly he only tarried to collect his wounded, and forming in a square, he commenced his retreat towards the shipping. Within twenty minutes of the fall of Lawton, the ground was deserted by both English and Americans. When the inhabitants of the country were called upon to enter the field, they were necessarily attended by such surgical advisers as were furnished by the low state of the profession in the interior at that day. Dr. Sitgreaves entertained quite as profound a contempt for the medical attendants of the militia as the captain did of the troops themselves. He wandered, therefore, around the field, casting many a glance of disapprobation at the slight operations that came under his eye; but when, among the flying troops, he found that his comrade and friend was nowhere to be seen, he hastened back to the spot at which Hollister was posted, to inquire if the trooper had returned. Of course, the answer was in the negative. Filled with a thousand uneasy conjectures, the surgeon, without regarding, or indeed without at all reflecting upon any dangers that might lie in his way, strode over the ground at an enormous rate, to the point where he knew the final struggle had been. Once before, the surgeon had rescued his friend from death in a similar situation; and he felt a secret joy in his own conscious skill, as he perceived Betty Flanagan seated on the ground, holding in her lap the head of a man whose size and dress he knew could belong only to the trooper. As he approached the spot, the surgeon became alarmed at the aspect of the washerwoman. Her little black bonnet was thrown aside, and her hair, which was already streaked with gray, hung around her face in disorder.

“John! dear John!” said the doctor, tenderly, as he bent and laid his hand upon the senseless wrist of the trooper, from which it recoiled with an intuitive knowledge of his fate. “John! where are you hurt? — can I help you?”

“Ye talk to the senseless clay,” said Betty, rocking her body, and unconsciously playing with the raven ringlets of the trooper’s hair; “it’s no more will he hear, and it’s but little will he mind yeer probes and yeer med’cines. Och hone,” och hone! — and where will be the liberty now? or who will there be to fight the battle, or gain the day?”

“John!” repeated the surgeon, still unwilling to believe the evidence of his unerring senses. “Dear John, speak to me; say what you will, that you do but speak. Oh, God! he is dead; would that I had died with him!”

“There is but little use in living and fighting now,” said Betty. “Both him and the baste! see, there is the poor cratur, and here is the master! I fed the horse with my own hands, the day; and the last male that he ate was of my own cooking. Och hone! och hone! — that Captain Jack should live to be killed by the rig’lars!”

“John! my dear John!” said the surgeon, with convulsive sobs, “thy hour has come, and many a more prudent man survives thee; but none better, nor braver. O John, thou wert to me a kind friend, and very dear; it is unphilosophical to grieve; but for thee I must weep, in bitterness of heart.”

The doctor buried his face in his hands, and for several minutes sat yielding to an ungovernable burst of sorrow; while the washerwoman gave vent to her grief in words, moving her body in a kind of writhing, and playing with different parts of her favorite’s dress with her fingers.

“And who’ll there be to encourage the boys now?” she said. “O Captain Jack! ye was the sowl of the troop, and it was but little we knowed of the danger, and ye fighting. Och! he was no maly-mouthed, that quarreled wid a widowed woman for the matter of a burn in the mate, or the want of a breakfast. Taste a drop, darling, and it may be, ‘twill revive ye. Och! and he’ll niver taste ag’in; here’s the doctor, honey, him ye used to blarney wid, waping as if the poor sowl would die for ye. Och! he’s gone, he’s gone; and the liberty is gone with him.”

A thundering sound of horses’ feet came rolling along the road which led near the place where Lawton lay, and directly the whole body of Virginians appeared, with Dunwoodie at their head. The news of the captain’s fate had reached him, for the instant that he saw the body he halted the squadron, and, dismounting, approached the spot. The countenance of Lawton was not in the least distorted, but the angry frown which had lowered over his brow during the battle was fixed even in death. His frame was composed, and stretched as in sleep. Dunwoodie took hold of his hand, and gazed a moment in silence; his own dark eye kindled, and the paleness which had overspread his features was succeeded by a spot of deep red in either cheek.

“With his own sword will I avenge him!” he cried, endeavoring to take the weapon from the hand of Lawton; but the grasp resisted his utmost strength. “It shall be buried with him. Sitgreaves, take care of our friend, while I revenge his death.”

The major hastened back to his charger, and led the way in pursuit of the enemy.

While Dunwoodie had been thus engaged, the body of Lawton lay in open view of the whole squadron. He was a universal favorite, and the sight inflamed the men to the utmost: neither officers nor soldiers possessed that coolness which is necessary to insure success in military operations; they spurred after their enemies, burning for vengeance.

The English were formed in a hollow square, which contained their wounded, who were far from numerous, and were marching steadily across a very uneven country as the dragoons approached. The horse charged in column, and were led by Dunwoodie, who, burning with revenge, thought to ride through their ranks, and scatter them at a blow. But the enemy knew their own strength too well, and, standing firm, they received the charge on the points of their bayonets. The horses of the Virginians recoiled, and the rear rank of the foot throwing in a close fire, the major, with a few men, fell. The English continued their retreat the moment they were extricated from their assailants; and Dunwoodie, who was severely, but not dangerously wounded, recalled his men from further attempts, which must be fruitless.

A sad duty remained to be fulfilled. The dragoons retired slowly through the hills, conveying their wounded commander, and the body of Lawton. The latter they interred under the ramparts of one of the Highland forts, and the former they consigned to the tender care of his afflicted bride.

Many weeks were gone before the major was restored to sufficient strength to be removed. During those weeks, how often did he bless the moment that gave him a right to the services of his beautiful nurse! She hung around his couch with fond attention, administered with her own hands every prescription of the indefatigable Sitgreaves, and grew each hour in the affections and esteem of her husband. An order from Washington soon sent the troops into winter quarters, and permission was given to Dunwoodie to repair to his own plantation, with the rank of lieutenant colonel, in order to complete the restoration of his health. Captain Singleton made one of the party; and the whole family retired from the active scenes of the war, to the ease and plenty of the major’s own estate. Before leaving Fishkill, however, letters were conveyed to them, through an unknown hand, acquainting them with Henry’s safety and good health; and also that Colonel Wellmere had left the continent for his native island, lowered in the estimation of every honest man in the royal army.

It was a happy winter for Dunwoodie, and smiles once more began to play around the lovely mouth of Frances.

CHAPTER XXXIV

‘Midst furs, and silks, and jewels’ sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The center of the glittering ring;
And Snowdon’s knight is Scotland’s king!
— Lady of the Lake.

The commencement of the following year was passed, on the part of the Americans, in making great preparations, in conjunction with their allies, to bring the war to a close. In the South, Greene and Rawdon made a bloody campaign, that was highly honorable to the troops of the latter, but which, by terminating entirely to the advantage of the former, proved him to be the better general of the two.

New York was the point that was threatened by the allied armies; and Washington, by exciting a constant apprehension for the safety of that city, prevented such reënforcements from being sent to Cornwallis as would have enabled him to improve his success.

At length, as autumn approached, every indication was given that the final moment had arrived.

The French forces drew near to the royal lines, passing through the neutral ground, and threatened an attack in the direction of King’s Bridge, while large bodies of Americans were acting in concert. By hovering around the British posts, and drawing nigh in the Jerseys, they seemed to threaten the royal forces from that quarter also. The preparations partook of the nature of both a siege and a storm. But Sir Henry Clinton, in the possession of intercepted letters from Washington, rested within his lines, and cautiously disregarded the solicitations of Cornwallis for succor.

It was at the close of a stormy day in the month of September, that a large assemblage of officers was collected near the door of a building that was situated in the heart of the Americans troops, who held the Jerseys. The age, the dress, and the dignity of deportment of most of these warriors, indicated them to be of high rank; but to one in particular was paid a deference and obedience that announced him to be of the highest. His dress was plain, but it bore the usual military distinctions of command. He was mounted on a noble animal, of a deep bay; and a group of young men, in gayer attire, evidently awaited his pleasure and did his bidding. Many a hat was lifted as its owner addressed this officer; and when he spoke, a profound attention, exceeding the respect of mere professional etiquette, was exhibited on every countenance. At length the general raised his own hat, and bowed gravely to all around him. The salute was returned, and the party dispersed, leaving the officer without a single attendant, except his body servants and one aid-de-camp. Dismounting, he stepped back a few paces, and for a moment viewed the condition of his horse with the eye of one who well understood the animal, and then, casting a brief but expressive glance at his aid, he retired into the building, followed by that gentleman.

On entering an apartment that was apparently fitted for his reception, he took a seat, and continued for a long time in a thoughtful attitude, like one in the habit of communing much with himself. During this silence, the aid-de-camp stood in expectation of his orders. At length the general raised his eyes, and spoke in those low, placid tones that seemed natural to him.

“Has the man whom I wished to see arrived, sir?”

“He waits the pleasure of your excellency.”

“I will receive him here, and alone, if you please.”

The aid bowed and withdrew. In a few minutes the door again opened, and a figure, gliding into the apartment, stood modestly at a distance from the general, without speaking. His entrance was unheard by the officer, who sat gazing at the fire, still absorbed in his own meditations. Several minutes passed, when he spoke to himself in an undertone, —

“To-morrow we must raise the curtain, and expose our plans. May Heaven prosper them!”

A slight movement made by the stranger caught his ear, and he turned his head, and saw that he was not alone. He pointed silently to the fire, toward which the figure advanced, although the multitude of his garments, which seemed more calculated for disguise than comfort, rendered its warmth unnecessary. A second mild and courteous gesture motioned to a vacant chair, but the stranger refused it with a modest acknowledgment. Another pause followed, and continued for some time. At length the officer arose, and opening a desk that was laid upon the table near which he sat, took from it a small, but apparently heavy bag.

“Harvey Birch,” he said, turning to the stranger, “the time has arrived when our connection must cease; henceforth and forever we must be strangers.”

The peddler dropped the folds of the greatcoat that concealed his features, and gazed for a moment earnestly at the face of the speaker; then dropping his head upon his bosom, he said, meekly, —

“If it be your excellency’s pleasure.”

“It is necessary. Since I have filled the station which I now hold, it has become my duty to know many men, who, like yourself, have been my instruments in procuring intelligence. You have I trusted more than all; I early saw in you a regard to truth and principle, that, I am pleased to say, has never deceived me — you alone know my secret agents in the city, and on your fidelity depend, not only their fortunes, but their lives.”

He paused, as if to reflect in order that full justice might be done to the peddler, and then continued, —

“I believe you are one of the very few that I have employed who have acted faithfully to our cause; and, while you have passed as a spy of the enemy, have never given intelligence that you were not permitted to divulge. To me, and to me only of all the world, you seem to have acted with a strong attachment to the liberties of America.”

During this address, Harvey gradually raised his head from his bosom, until it reached the highest point of elevation; a faint tinge gathered in his cheeks, and, as the officer concluded, it was diffused over his whole countenance in a deep glow, while he stood proudly swelling with his emotions, but with eyes that sought the feet of the speaker.

“It is now my duty to pay you for these services; hitherto you have postponed receiving your reward, and the debt has become a heavy one — I wish not to undervalue your dangers; here are a hundred doubloons; remember the poverty of our country, and attribute to it the smallness of your pay.”

The peddler raised his eyes to the countenance of the speaker; but, as the other held forth the money, he moved back, as if refusing the bag.

“It is not much for your services and risks, I acknowledge,” continued the general, “but it is all that I have to offer; hereafter, it may be in my power to increase it.”

“Does your excellency think that I have exposed my life, and blasted my character, for money?”

“If not for money, what then?”

“What has brought your excellency into the field? For what do you daily and hourly expose your precious life to battle and the halter? What is there about me to mourn, when such men as you risk their all for our country? No, no, no — not a dollar of your gold will I touch; poor America has need of it all!”

The bag dropped from the hand of the officer, and fell at the feet of the peddler, where it lay neglected during the remainder of the interview. The officer looked steadily at the face of his companion, and continued, —

“There are many motives which might govern me, that to you are unknown. Our situations are different; I am known as the leader of armies — but you must descend into the grave with the reputation of a foe to your native land. Remember that the veil which conceals your true character cannot be raised in years — perhaps never.”

Birch again lowered his face, but there was no yielding of the soul in the movement.

“You will soon be old; the prime of your days is already past; what have you to subsist on?”

“These!” said the peddler, stretching forth his hands, that were already embrowned with toil.

“But those may fail you; take enough to secure a support to your age. Remember your risks and cares. I have told you that the characters of men who are much esteemed in life depend on your secrecy; what pledge can I give them of your fidelity?”

“Tell them,” said Birch, advancing and unconsciously resting one foot on the bag, “tell them that I would not take the gold!”

The composed features of the officer relaxed into a smile of benevolence, and he grasped the hand of the peddler firmly.

“Now, indeed, I know you; and although the same reasons which have hitherto compelled me to expose your valuable life will still exist, and prevent my openly asserting your character, in private I can always be your friend; fail not to apply to me when in want or suffering, and so long as God giveth to me, so long will I freely share with a man who feels so nobly and acts so well. If sickness or want should ever assail you and peace once more smile upon our efforts, seek the gate of him whom you have so often met as Harper, and he will not blush to acknowledge you.”

“It is little that I need in this life,” said Harvey; “so long as God gives me health and honest industry, I can never want in this country; but to know that your excellency is my friend is a blessing that I prize more than all the gold of England’s treasury.”

The officer stood for a few moments in the attitude of intense thought. He then drew to him the desk, and wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, and gave it to the peddler.

“That Providence destines this country to some great and glorious fate I must believe, while I witness the patriotism that pervades the bosoms of her lowest citizens,” he said. “It must be dreadful to a mind like yours to descend into the grave, branded as a foe to liberty; but you already know the lives that would be sacrificed, should your real character be revealed. It is impossible to do you justice now, but I fearlessly intrust you with this certificate; should we never meet again, it may be serviceable to your children.”

“Children!” exclaimed the peddler, “can I give to a family the infamy of my name?”

The officer gazed at the strong emotion he exhibited with pain, and he made a slight movement towards the gold; but it was arrested by the expression of his companion’s face. Harvey saw the intention, and shook his head, as he continued more mildly, —

“It is, indeed, a treasure that your excellency gives me: it is safe, too. There are men living who could say that my life was nothing to me, compared to your secrets. The paper that I told you was lost I swallowed when taken last by the Virginians. It was the only time I ever deceived your excellency, and it shall be the last; yes, this is, indeed, a treasure to me; perhaps,” he continued, with a melancholy smile, “it may be known after my death who was my friend; but if it should not, there are none to grieve for me.”

“Remember,” said the officer, with strong emotion, “that in me you will always have a secret friend; but openly I cannot know you.”

“I know it, I know it,” said Birch; “I knew it when I took the service. ’Tis probably the last time that I shall ever see your excellency. May God pour down His choicest blessings on your head!” He paused, and moved towards the door. The officer followed him with eyes that expressed deep interest. Once more the peddler turned, and seemed to gaze on the placid, but commanding features of the general with regret and reverence, and, bowing low, he withdrew.

The armies of America and France were led by their illustrious commander against the enemy under Cornwallis, and terminated a campaign in triumph that had commenced in difficulties. Great Britain soon after became disgusted with the war; and the States’ independence was acknowledged.

As years rolled by, it became a subject of pride among the different actors in the war, and their descendants, to boast of their efforts in the cause which had confessedly heaped so many blessings upon their country; but the name of Harvey Birch died away among the multitude of agents who were thought to have labored in secret against the rights of their countrymen. His image, however, was often present to the mind of the powerful chief, who alone knew his true character; and several times did he cause secret inquiries to be made into the other’s fate, one of which only resulted in any success. By this he learned that a peddler of a different name, but similar appearance, was toiling through the new settlements that were springing up in every direction, and that he was struggling with the advance of years and apparent poverty. Death prevented further inquiries on the part of the officer, and a long period passed before he was again heard of.

CHAPTER XXXV

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The village tyrant of his fields withstood —
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood.
— GRAY.

It was thirty-three years after the interview which we have just related that an American army was once more arrayed against the troops of England; but the scene was transferred from Hudson’s banks to those of the Niagara.

The body of Washington had long lain moldering in the tomb; but as time was fast obliterating the slight impressions of political enmity or personal envy, his name was hourly receiving new luster, and his worth and integrity each moment became more visible, not only to his countrymen, but to the world. He was already the acknowledged hero of an age of reason and truth; and many a young heart, amongst those who formed the pride of our army in 1814, was glowing with the recollection of the one great name of America, and inwardly beating with the sanguine expectation of emulating, in some degree, its renown. In no one were these virtuous hopes more vivid than in the bosom of a young officer who stood on the table rock, contemplating the great cataract, on the evening of the 25th of July of that bloody year. The person of this youth was tall and finely molded, indicating a just proportion between strength and activity; his deep black eyes were of a searching and dazzling brightness. At times, as they gazed upon the flood of waters that rushed tumultuously at his feet, there was a stern and daring look that flashed from them, which denoted the ardor of an enthusiast. But this proud expression was softened by the lines of a mouth around which there played a suppressed archness, that partook of feminine beauty. His hair shone in the setting sun like ringlets of gold, as the air from the falls gently moved the rich curls from a forehead whose whiteness showed that exposure and heat alone had given their darker hue to a face glowing with health. There was another officer standing by the side of this favored youth; and both seemed, by the interest they betrayed, to be gazing, for the first time, at the wonder of the western world. A profound silence was observed by each, until the companion of the officer that we have described suddenly started, and pointing eagerly with his sword into the abyss beneath, exclaimed, —

“See! Wharton, there is a man crossing in the very eddies of the cataract, and in a skiff no bigger than an eggshell.”

“He has a knapsack — it is probably a soldier,” returned the other. “Let us meet him at the ladder, Mason, and learn his tidings.”

Some time was expended in reaching the spot where the adventurer was intercepted. Contrary to the expectations of the young soldiers, he proved to be a man far advanced in life, and evidently no follower of the camp. His years might be seventy, and they were indicated more by the thin hairs of silver that lay scattered over his wrinkled brow, than by any apparent failure of his system. His frame was meager and bent; but it was the attitude of habit, for his sinews were strung with the toil of half a century. His dress was mean, and manifested the economy of its owner, by the number and nature of its repairs. On his back was a scantily furnished pack, that had led to the mistake in his profession. A few words of salutation, and, on the part of the young men, of surprise, that one so aged should venture so near the whirlpools of the cataract, were exchanged; when the old man inquired, with a voice that began to manifest the tremor of age, the news from the contending armies.

“We whipped the redcoats here the other day, among the grass on the Chippewa plains,” said the one who was called Mason; “since when, we have been playing hide and go seek with the ships: but we are now marching back from where we started, shaking our heads, and as surly as the devil.”

“Perhaps you have a son among the soldiers,” said his companion, with a milder demeanor, and an air of kindness; “if so, tell me his name and regiment, and I will take you to him.”

The old man shook his head, and, passing his hand over his silver locks, with an air of meek resignation, he answered, —

“No; I am alone in the world!”

“You should have added, Captain Dunwoodie,” cried his careless comrade, “if you could find either; for nearly half our army has marched down the road, and may be, by this time, under the walls of Fort George, for anything that we know to the contrary.”

The old man stopped suddenly, and looked earnestly from one of his companions to the other; the action being observed by the soldiers, they paused also.

“Did I hear right?” the stranger uttered, raising his hand to screen his eyes from the rays of the setting sun. “What did he call you?” “My name is Wharton Dunwoodie,” replied the youth, smiling. The stranger motioned silently for him to remove his hat, which the youth did accordingly, and his fair hair blew aside like curls of silk, and opened the whole of his ingenuous countenance to the inspection of the other. “’Tis like our native land!” exclaimed the old man with vehemence, “improving with time; God has blessed both.” “Why do you stare thus, Lieutenant Mason?” cried Captain Dunwoodie, laughing a little. “You show more astonishment than when you saw the falls.” “Oh, the falls! — they are a thing to be looked at on a moonshiny night, by your Aunt Sarah and that gay old bachelor, Colonel Singleton; but a fellow like myself never shows surprise, unless it may be at such a touch as this.” The extraordinary vehemence of the stranger’s manner had passed away as suddenly as it was exhibited, but he listened to this speech with deep interest, while Dunwoodie replied, a little gravely,— “Come, come, Tom, no jokes about my good aunt, I beg; she is kindness itself, and I have heard it whispered that her youth was not altogether happy.” “Why, as to rumor,” said Mason, “there goes one in Accomac, that Colonel Singleton offers himself to her regularly every Valentine’s day; and there are some who add that your old great-aunt helps his suit.” “Aunt Jeanette!” said Dunwoodie, laughing. “Dear, good soul, she thinks but little of marriage in any shape, I believe, since the death of Dr. Sitgreaves. There were some whispers of a courtship between them formerly, but it ended in nothing but civilities, and I suspect that the whole story arises from the intimacy of Colonel Singleton and my father. You know they were comrades in the horse, as indeed was your own father.”

“I know all that, of course; but you must not tell me that the particular, prim bachelor goes so often to General Dunwoodie’s plantation merely for the sake of talking old soldier with your father. The last time I was there, that yellow, sharp-nosed housekeeper of your mother’s took me into the pantry, and said that the colonel was no despisable match, as she called it, and how the sale of his plantation in Georgia had brought him — oh, Lord! I don’t know how much.”

“Quite likely,” returned the captain, “Katy Haynes is no bad calculator.”

They had stopped during this conversation, in uncertainty whether their new companion was to be left or not.

The old man listened to each word as it was uttered, with the most intense interest; but, towards the conclusion of the dialogue, the earnest attention of his countenance changed to a kind of inward smile. He shook his head, and, passing his hands over his forehead, seemed to be thinking of other times. Mason paid but little attention to the expression of his features, and continued, —

“To me, she is selfishness embodied!”

“Her selfishness does but little harm,” returned Dunwoodie. “One of her greatest difficulties is her aversion to the blacks. She says that she never saw but one she liked.”

“And who was he?”

“His name was Caesar; he was a house servant of my late grandfather Wharton. You don’t remember him, I believe; he died the same year with his master, while we were children. Katy yearly sings his requiem, and, upon my word, I believe he deserved it. I have heard something of his helping my English uncle, as we call General Wharton, in some difficulty that occurred in the old war. My mother always speaks of him with great affection. Both Caesar and Katy came to Virginia with my mother when she married. My mother was— “

“An angel!” interrupted the old man, in a voice that startled the young soldiers by its abruptness and energy.

“Did you know her?” cried the son, with a glow of pleasure on his cheek.

The reply of the stranger was interrupted by sudden and heavy explosions of artillery, which were immediately followed by continued volleys of small arms, and in a few minutes the air was filled with the tumult of a warm and well-contested battle.

The two soldiers hastened with precipitation towards the camp, accompanied by their new acquaintance. The excitement and anxiety created by the approaching fight prevented a continuance of the conversation, and the three held their way to the army, making occasional conjectures on the cause of the fire, and the probability of a general engagement. During their short and hurried walk, Captain Dunwoodie, however, threw several friendly glances at the old man, who moved over the ground with astonishing energy for his years, for the heart of the youth was warmed by an eulogium on a mother that he adored. In a short time they joined the regiment to which the officers belonged, when the captain, squeezing the stranger’s hand, earnestly begged that he would make inquiries after him on the following morning, and that he might see him in his own tent. Here they separated.

Everything in the American camp announced an approaching struggle. At a distance of a few miles, the sound of cannon and musketry was heard above the roar of the cataract. The troops were soon in motion, and a movement made to support the division of the army which was already engaged. Night had set in before the reserve and irregulars reached the foot of Lundy’s Lane, a road that diverged from the river and crossed a conical eminence, at no great distance from the Niagara highway. The summit of this hill was crowned with the cannon of the British, and in the flat beneath was the remnant of Scott’s gallant brigade, which for a long time had held an unequal contest with distinguished bravery. A new line was interposed, and one column of the Americans directed to charge up the hill, parallel to the road. This column took the English in flank, and, bayoneting their artillerists, gained possession of the cannon. They were immediately joined by their comrades, and the enemy was swept from the hill. But large reenforcements were joining the English general momentarily, and their troops were too brave to rest easy under the defeat. Repeated and bloody charges were made to recover the guns, but in all they were repulsed with slaughter. During the last of these struggles, the ardor of the youthful captain whom we have mentioned urged him to lead his men some distance in advance, to scatter a daring party of the enemy. He succeeded, but in returning to the line missed his lieutenant from the station that he ought to have occupied. Soon after this repulse, which was the last, orders were given to the shattered troops to return to the camp. The British were nowhere to be seen, and preparations were made to take in such of the wounded as could be moved. At this moment Wharton Dunwoodie, impelled by affection for his friend, seized a lighted fusee, and taking two of his men went himself in quest of his body, where he was supposed to have fallen. Mason was found on the side of the hill, seated with great composure, but unable to walk from a fractured leg. Dunwoodie saw and flew to the side of his comrade, saying, —

“Ah! dear Tom, I knew I should find you the nearest man to the enemy.”

“Softly, softly; handle me tenderly,” replied the lieutenant. “No, there is a brave fellow still nearer than myself, and who he can be I know not. He rushed out of our smoke, near my platoon, to make a prisoner or some such thing, but, poor fellow, he never came back; there he lies just over the hillock. I have spoken to him several times, but I fancy he is past answering.”

Dunwoodie went to the spot, and to his astonishment beheld the aged stranger.

“It is the old man who knew my mother!” cried the youth. “For her sake he shall have honorable burial; lift him, and let him be carried in; his bones shall rest on native soil.”

The men approached to obey. He was lying on his back, with his face exposed to the glaring light of the fusee; his eyes were closed, as if in slumber; his lips, sunken with years, were slightly moved from their natural position, but it seemed more like a smile than a convulsion which had caused the change. A soldier’s musket lay near him; his hands were pressed upon his breast, and one of them contained a substance that glittered like silver. Dunwoodie stooped, and removing the limbs, perceived the place where the bullet had found a passage to his heart. The subject of his last care was a tin box, through which the fatal lead had gone; and the dying moments of the old man must have passed in drawing it from his bosom. Dunwoodie opened it, and found a paper in which, to his astonishment, he read the following: —

“Circumstances of political importance, which involve the lives and fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret what this paper now reveals. Harvey Birch has for years been a faithful and unrequited servant of his country. Though man does not, may God reward him for his conduct!”

GEO. WASHINGTON.

It was the SPY OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND, who died as he had lived, devoted to his country, and a martyr to her liberties.

THE PIONEERS

OR, THE SOURCES OF THE SUSQUEHANNA

First published in 1823, this is the first of Cooper’s ‘Leatherstocking’ tales, which relate experiences in the life of frontiersman Nathaniel ‘Natty’ Bumppo. Although the first of the series to be written and published, The Pioneers is actually the fourth story in the ‘Leatherstocking’ chronology. Commencing on Christmas Eve, 1793 it might best be summated as a year in the life of the pioneer community of Templeton, New York – a fictional setting based on Cooperstown, which Cooper’s own father had founded in 1786.

The novel’s main plot concerns the relationship between the ‘civilized’ residents of Templeton (including the founding Templeton family) and the land-dwelling trio of Bumppo, his young companion Oliver Edwards and the Mohican Indian Chingachgook. Over the course of the novel, this relationship is complicated by the contentious arrest of Bumppo for the slaying of a deer and Edwards’s attraction to Elizabeth Temple, despite his mysterious grudge against her father Sir Marmaduke. Relationships between these characters are used to symbolise wider tensions between a rapacious, wasteful civilization and sustainable, harmonious nature. Where The Spy explores aspects of the young American nation’s political birth, The Pioneers can be seen as a consideration of its citizens’ relationship with the land itself.

Title page of the first edition

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXV.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

CHAPTER XL.

CHAPTER XLI.

An illustration made for the novel by Felix Octavius Carr Darley

Lee Horsley as Natty Bumppo and Rodney Grant as Chingachgook, in Hawkeye, a 1994 TV series based on Cooper’s popular characters

INTRODUCTION

As this work professes, in its title-page, to be a descriptive tale, they who will take the trouble to read it may be glad to know how much of its contents is literal fact, and how much is intended to represent a general picture. The author is very sensible that, had he confined himself to the latter, always the most effective, as it is the most valuable, mode of conveying knowledge of this nature, he would have made a far better book. But in commencing to describe scenes, and perhaps he may add characters, that were so familiar to his own youth, there was a constant temptation to delineate that which he had known, rather than that which he might have imagined. This rigid adhesion to truth, an indispensable requisite in history and travels, destroys the charm of fiction; for all that is necessary to be conveyed to the mind by the latter had better be done by delineations of principles, and of characters in their classes, than by a too fastidious attention to originals.

New York having but one county of Otsego, and the Susquehanna but one proper source, there can be no mistake as to the site of the tale. The history of this district of country, so far as it is connected with civilized men, is soon told.

Otsego, in common with most of the interior of the province of New York, was included in the county of Albany previously to the war of the separation. It then became, in a subsequent division of territory, a part of Montgomery; and finally, having obtained a sufficient population of its own, it was set apart as a county by itself shortly after the peace of 1783. It lies among those low spurs of the Alleghanies which cover the midland counties of New York, and it is a little east of a meridional line drawn through the centre of the State. As the waters of New York flow either southerly into the Atlantic or northerly into Ontario and its outlet, Otsego Lake, being the source of the Susquehanna, is of necessity among its highest lands. The face of the country, the climate as it was found by the whites, and the manners of the settlers, are described with a minuteness for which the author has no other apology than the force of his own recollections.

Otsego is said to be a word compounded of Ot, a place of meeting, and Sego, or Sago, the ordinary term of salutation used by the Indians of this region. There is a tradition which says that the neighboring tribes were accustomed to meet on the banks of the lake to make their treaties, and otherwise to strengthen their alliances, and which refers the name to this practice. As the Indian agent of New York had a log dwelling at the foot of the lake, however, it is not impossible that the appellation grew out of the meetings that were held at his council fires; the war drove off the agent, in common with the other officers of the crown; and his rude dwelling was soon abandoned. The author remembers it, a few years later, reduced to the humble office of a smoke-house.

In 1779 an expedition was sent against the hostile Indians, who dwelt about a hundred miles west of Otsego, on the banks of the Cayuga. The whole country was then a wilderness, and it was necessary to transport the bag gage of the troops by means of the rivers — a devious but practicable route. One brigade ascended the Mohawk until it reached the point nearest to the sources of the Susquehanna, whence it cut a lane through the forest to the head of the Otsego. The boats and baggage were carried over this “portage,” and the troops proceeded to the other extremity of the lake, where they disembarked and encamped. The Susquehanna, a narrow though rapid stream at its source, was much filled with “flood wood,” or fallen trees; and the troops adopted a novel expedient to facilitate their passage. The Otsego is about nine miles in length, varying in breadth from half a mile to a mile and a half. The water is of great depth, limpid, and supplied from a thousand springs. At its foot the banks are rather less than thirty feet high the remainder of its margin being in mountains, intervals, and points. The outlet, or the Susquehanna, flows through a gorge in the low banks just mentioned, which may have a width of two hundred feet. This gorge was dammed and the waters of the lake collected: the Susquehanna was converted into a rill.

When all was ready the troops embarked, the damn was knocked away, the Otsego poured out its torrent, and the boats went merrily down with the current.

General James Clinton, the brother of George Clinton, then governor of New York, and the father of De Witt Clinton, who died governor of the same State in 1827, commanded the brigade employed on this duty. During the stay of the troops at the foot of the Otsego a soldier was shot for desertion. The grave of this unfortunate man was the first place of human interment that the author ever beheld, as the smoke-house was the first ruin! The swivel alluded to in this work was buried and abandoned by the troops on this occasion, and it was subsequently found in digging the cellars of the authors paternal residence.

Soon after the close of the war, Washington, accompanied by many distinguished men, visited the scene of this tale, it is said with a view to examine the facilities for opening a communication by water with other points of the country. He stayed but a few hours.

In 1785 the author’s father, who had an interest in extensive tracts of land in this wilderness, arrived with a party of surveyors. The manner in which the scene met his eye is described by Judge Temple. At the commencement of the following year the settlement began; and from that time to this the country has continued to flourish. It is a singular feature in American life that at the beginning of this century, when the proprietor of the estate had occasion for settlers on a new settlement and in a remote county, he was enabled to draw them from among the increase of the former colony.

Although the settlement of this part of Otsego a little preceded the birth of the author, it was not sufficiently advanced to render it desirable that an event so important to himself should take place in the wilderness. Perhaps his mother had a reasonable distrust of the practice of Dr Todd, who must then have been in the novitiate of his experimental acquirements. Be that as it may, the author was brought an infant into this valley, and all his first impressions were here obtained. He has inhabited it ever since, at intervals; and he thinks he can answer for the faithfulness of the picture he has drawn. Otsego has now become one of the most populous districts of New York. It sends forth its emigrants like any other old region, and it is pregnant with industry and enterprise. Its manufacturers are prosperous, and it is worthy of remark that one of the most ingenious machines known in European art is derived from the keen ingenuity which is exercised in this remote region.

In order to prevent mistake, it may be well to say that the incidents of this tale are purely a fiction. The literal facts are chiefly connected with the natural and artificial objects and the customs of the inhabitants. Thus the academy, and court-house, and jail, and inn, and most similar things, are tolerably exact. They have all, long since, given place to other buildings of a more pretending character. There is also some liberty taken with the truth in the description of the principal dwelling; the real building had no “firstly” and “lastly.” It was of bricks, and not of stone; and its roof exhibited none of the peculiar beauties of the “composite order.” It was erected in an age too primitive for that ambitious school of architecture. But the author indulged his recollections freely when he had fairly entered the door. Here all is literal, even to the severed arm of Wolfe, and the urn which held the ashes of Queen Dido.*

* Though forests still crown the mountains of Otsego, the bear, the

wolf, and the panther are nearly strangers to them.  Even the innocent

deer is rarely seen bounding beneath their arches; for the rifle and

the activity of the settlers hare driven them to other haunts.  To

this change (which in some particulars is melancholy to one who knew

the country in its infancy), it may be added that the Otsego is

beginning to be a niggard of its treasures.

The author has elsewhere said that the character of Leather-Stocking is a creation, rendered probable by such auxiliaries as were necessary to produce that effect. Had he drawn still more upon fancy, the lovers of fiction would not have so much cause for their objections to his work. Still, the picture would not have been in the least true without some substitutes for most of the other personages. The great proprietor resident on his lands, and giving his name to instead of receiving it from his estates as in Europe, is common over the whole of New York. The physician with his theory, rather obtained from than corrected by experiments on the human constitution; the pious, self-denying, laborious, and ill-paid missionary; the half-educated, litigious, envious, and disreputable lawyer, with his counterpoise, a brother of the profession, of better origin and of better character; the shiftless, bargaining, discontented seller of his “betterments;” the plausible carpenter, and most of the others, are more familiar to all who have ever dwelt in a new country.

It may be well to say here, a little more explicitly, that there was no real intention to describe with particular accuracy any real characters in this book. It has been often said, and in published statements, that the heroine of this book was drawn after the sister of the writer, who was killed by a fall from a horse now near half a century since. So ingenious is conjecture that a personal resemblance has been discovered between the fictitious character and the deceased relative! It is scarcely possible to describe two females of the same class in life who would be less alike, personally, than Elizabeth Temple and the sister of the author who met with the deplorable fate mentioned. In a word, they were as unlike in this respect as in history, character, and fortunes.

Circumstances rendered this sister singularly dear to the author. After a lapse of half a century, he is writing this paragraph with a pain that would induce him to cancel it, were it not still more painful to have it believed that one whom he regarded with a reverence that surpassed the love of a brother was converted by him into the heroine of a work of fiction.

From circumstances which, after this Introduction, will be obvious to all, the author has had more pleasure in writing “The Pioneers” than the book will probably ever give any of its readers. He is quite aware of its numerous faults, some of which he has endeavored to repair in this edition; but as he has — in intention, at least — done his full share in amusing the world, he trusts to its good-nature for overlooking this attempt to please himself.

CHAPTER I.

“See, Winter comes, to rule the varied years,

Sullen and sad, with all his rising train;

Vapors, and clouds, and storms.” — Thomson.

Near the centre of the State of New York lies an extensive district of country whose surface is a succession of hills and dales, or, to speak with greater deference to geographical definitions, of mountains and valleys. It is among these hills that the Delaware takes its rise; and flowing from the limpid lakes and thousand springs of this region the numerous sources of the Susquehanna meander through the valleys until, uniting their streams, they form one of the proudest rivers of the United States. The mountains are generally arable to the tops, although instances are not wanting where the sides are jutted with rocks that aid greatly in giving to the country that romantic and picturesque character which it so eminently possesses. The vales are narrow, rich, and cultivated, with a stream uniformly winding through each. Beautiful and thriving villages are found interspersed along the margins of the small lakes, or situated at those points of the streams which are favorable for manufacturing; and neat and comfortable farms, with every indication of wealth about them, are scattered profusely through the vales, and even to the mountain tops. Roads diverge in every direction from the even and graceful bottoms of the valleys to the most rugged and intricate passes of the hills. Academies and minor edifices of learning meet the eye of the stranger at every few miles as be winds his way through this uneven territory, and places for the worship of God abound with that frequency which characterize a moral and reflecting people, and with that variety of exterior and canonical government which flows from unfettered liberty of conscience. In short, the whole district is hourly exhibiting how much can be done, in even a rugged country and with a severe climate, under the dominion of mild laws, and where every man feels a direct interest in the prosperity of a commonwealth of which he knows himself to form a part. The expedients of the pioneers who first broke ground in the settlement of this country are succeeded by the permanent improvements of the yeoman who intends to leave his remains to moulder under the sod which he tills, or perhaps of the son, who, born in the land, piously wishes to linger around the grave of his father. Only forty years * have passed since this territory was a wilderness.

* Our tale begins in 1793, about seven years after the commencement of

one of the earliest of those settlements which have conduced to effect

that magical change in the power and condition of the State to which

we have alluded.

Very soon after the establishment of the independence of the States by the peace of 1783, the enterprise of their citizens was directed to a development of the natural ad vantages of their widely extended dominions. Before the war of the Revolution, the inhabited parts of the colony of New York were limited to less than a tenth of its possessions, A narrow belt of country, extending for a short distance on either side of the Hudson, with a similar occupation of fifty miles on the banks of the Mohawk, together with the islands of Nassau and Staten, and a few insulated settlements on chosen land along the margins of streams, composed the country, which was then inhabited by less than two hundred thousand souls. Within the short period we have mentioned, the population has spread itself over five degrees of latitude and seven of longitude, and has swelled to a million and a half of inhabitants, who are maintained in abundance, and can look forward to ages before the evil day must arrive when their possessions shall become unequal to their wants.

It was near the setting of the sun, on a clear, cold day in December, when a sleigh was moving slowly up one of the mountains in the district we have described. The day had been fine for the season, and but two or three large clouds, whose color seemed brightened by the light reflected from the mass of snow that covered the earth, floated in a sky of the purest blue. The road wound along the brow of a precipice, and on one side was upheld by a foundation of logs piled one upon the other, while a narrow excavation in the mountain in the opposite direction had made a passage of sufficient width for the ordinary travelling of that day. But logs, excavation, and every thing that did not reach several feet above the earth lay alike buried beneath the snow. A single track, barely wide enough to receive the sleigh, * denoted the route of the highway, and this was sunk nearly two feet below the surrounding surface.

* Sleigh is the word used in every part of the United States to denote

a traineau.  It is of local use in the west of England, whence it is

most probably derived by the Americans.  The latter draw a distinction

between a sled, or sledge, and a sleigh, the sleigh being shod with

metal. Sleighs are also subdivided into two-horse and one-horse

sleighs.  Of the latter, there are the cutter, with thills so arranged

as to permit the horse to travel in the side track; the “pung,” or

“tow-pung” which is driven with a pole; and the “gumper,” a rude

construction used for temporary purposes in the new countries.  Many

of the American sleighs are elegant though the use of this mode of

conveyance is much lessened with the melioration of the climate

consequent to the clearing of the forests.

In the vale, which lay at a distance of several hundred feet lower, there was what, in the language of the country, was called a clearing, and all the usual improvements of a new settlement; these even extended up the hill to the point where the road turned short and ran across the level land, which lay on the summit of the mountain; but the summit itself remained in the forest. There was glittering in the atmosphere, as if it was filled with innumerable shining particles; and the noble bay horses that drew the sleigh were covered, in many parts with a coat of hoar-frost. The vapor from their nostrils was seen to issue like smoke; and every object in the view, as well as every arrangement of the travellers, denoted the depth of a winter in the mountains. The harness, which was of a deep, dull black, differing from the glossy varnishing of the present day, was ornamented with enormous plates and buckles of brass, that shone like gold in those transient beams of the sun which found their way obliquely through the tops of the trees. Huge saddles, studded with nails and fitted with cloth that served as blankets to the shoulders of the cattle, supported four high, square-topped turrets, through which the stout reins led from the mouths of the horses to the hands of the driver, who was a negro, of apparently twenty years of age. His face, which nature had colored with a glistening black, was now mottled with the cold, and his large shining eyes filled with tears; a tribute to its power that the keen frosts of those regions always extracted from one of his African origin. Still, there was a smiling expression of good-humor in his happy countenance, that was created by the thoughts of home and a Christmas fireside, with its Christmas frolics. The sleigh was one of those large, comfortable, old-fashioned conveyances, which would admit a whole family within its bosom, but which now contained only two passengers besides the driver. The color of its outside was a modest green, and that of its inside a fiery red, The latter was intended to convey the idea of heat in that cold climate. Large buffalo-skins trimmed around the edges with red cloth cut into festoons, covered the back of the sleigh, and were spread over its bottom and drawn up around the feet of the travellers — one of whom was a man of middle age and the other a female just entering upon womanhood. The former was of a large stature; but the precautions he had taken to guard against the cold left but little of his person exposed to view. A great-coat, that was abundantly ornamented by a profusion of furs, enveloped the whole of his figure excepting the head, which was covered with a cap of mar ten-skins lined with morocco, the sides of which were made to fall, if necessary, and were now drawn close over the ears and fastened beneath his chin with a black rib bon. The top of the cap was surmounted with the tail of the animal whose skin had furnished the rest of the materials, which fell back, not ungracefully, a few inches be hind the head. From beneath this mask were to be seen part of a fine, manly face, and particularly a pair of expressive large blue eyes, that promised extraordinary intellect, covert humor, and great benevolence. The form of his companion was literally hid beneath the garments she wore. There were furs and silks peeping from under a large camlet cloak with a thick flannel lining, that by its cut and size was evidently intended for a masculine wearer. A huge hood of black silk, that was quilted with down, concealed the whole of her head, except at a small opening in front for breath, through which occasionally sparkled a pair of animated jet-black eyes.

Both the father and daughter (for such was the connection between the two travellers) were too much occupied with their reflections to break a stillness that derived little or no interruption from the easy gliding of the sleigh by the sound of their voices. The former was thinking of the wife that had held this their only child to her bosom, when, four years before, she had reluctantly consented to relinquish the society of her daughter in order that the latter might enjoy the advantages of an education which the city of New York could only offer at that period. A few months afterward death had deprived him of the remaining companion of his solitude; but still he had enough real regard for his child not to bring her into the comparative wilderness in which he dwelt, until the full period had expired to which he had limited her juvenile labors. The reflections of the daughter were less melancholy, and mingled with a pleased astonishment at the novel scenery she met at every turn in the road.

The mountain on which they were journeying was covered with pines that rose without a branch some seventy or eighty feet, and which frequently doubled that height by the addition of the tops. Through the innumerable vistas that opened beneath the lofty trees, the eye could penetrate until it was met by a distant inequality in the ground, or was stopped by a view of the summit of the mountain which lay on the opposite side of the valley to which they were hastening. The dark trunks of the trees rose from the pure white of the snow in regularly formed shafts, until, at a great height, their branches shot forth horizontal limbs, that were covered with the meagre foliage of an evergreen, affording a melancholy contrast to the torpor of nature below. To the travellers there seemed to be no wind; but these pines waved majestically at their topmost boughs, sending forth a dull, plaintive sound that was quite in consonance with the rest of the melancholy scene.

The sleigh had glided for some distance along the even surface, and the gaze of the female was bent in inquisitive and, perhaps, timid glances into the recesses of the forest, when a loud and continued howling was heard, pealing under the long arches of the woods like the cry of a numerous pack of hounds. The instant the sounds reached the ear of the gentleman he cried aloud to the black:

“Hol up, Aggy; there is old Hector; I should know his bay among ten thousand! The Leather-Stocking has put his hounds into the hills this clear day, and they have started their game. There is a deer-track a few rods ahead; and now, Bess, if thou canst muster courage enough to stand fire, I will give thee a saddle for thy Christmas dinner.”

The black drew up, with a cheerful grin upon his chilled features, and began thrashing his arms together in order to restore the circulation of his fingers, while the speaker stood erect and, throwing aside his outer covering, stepped from the sleigh upon a bank of snow which sustained his weight without yielding.

In a few moments the speaker succeeded in extricating a double-barrelled fowling-piece from among a multitude of trunks and bandboxes. After throwing aside the thick mittens which had encased his hands, there now appeared a pair of leather gloves tipped with fur; he examined his priming, and was about to move forward, when the light bounding noise of an animal plunging through the woods was heard, and a fine buck darted into the path a short distance ahead of him. The appearance of the animal was sudden, and his flight inconceivably rapid; but the traveller appeared to be too keen a sportsman to be disconcerted by either. As it came first into view he raised the fowling-piece to his shoulder and, with a practised eye and steady hand, drew a trigger. The deer dashed forward undaunted, and apparently unhurt. Without lowering his piece, the traveller turned its muzzle toward his victim, and fired again. Neither discharge, however, seemed to have taken effect,

The whole scene had passed with a rapidity that confused the female, who was unconsciously rejoicing in the escape of the buck, as he rather darted like a meteor than ran across the road, when a sharp, quick sound struck her ear, quite different from the full, round reports of her father’s gun, but still sufficiently distinct to be known as the concussion produced by firearms. At the same instant that she heard this unexpected report, the buck sprang from the snow to a great height in the air, and directly a second discharge, similar in sound to the first, followed, when the animal came to the earth, failing head long and rolling over on the crust with its own velocity. A loud shout was given by the unseen marksman, and a couple of men instantly appeared from behind the trunks of two of the pines, where they had evidently placed them selves in expectation of the passage of the deer.

“Ha! Natty, had I known you were in ambush, I should not have fired,” cried the traveller, moving toward the spot where the deer lay — near to which he was followed by the delighted black, with his sleigh; “but the sound of old Hector was too exhilarating to be quiet; though I hardly think I struck him, either.”

“No — no —— Judge,” returned the hunter, with an inward chuckle, and with that look of exultation that indicates a consciousness of superior skill, “you burnt your powder only to warm your nose this cold evening. Did ye think to stop a full-grown buck, with Hector and the slut open upon him within sound, with that pop-gun in your hand! There’s plenty of pheasants among the swamps; and the snow-birds are flying round your own door, where you may feed them with crumbs, and shoot them at pleasure, any day; but if you’re for a buck, or a little bear’s meat, Judge, you’ll have to take the long rifle, with a greased wadding, or you’ll waste more powder than you’ll fill stomachs, I’m thinking.”

As the speaker concluded he drew his bare hand across the bottom of his nose, and again opened his enormous mouth with a kind of inward laugh.

“The gun scatters well, Natty, And it has killed a deer before now,” said the traveller, smiling good-humoredly. “One barrel was charged with buckshot, but the other was loaded for birds only. Here are two hurts; one through the neck, and the other directly through the heart. It is by no means certain, Natty, but I gave him one of the two.

“Let who will kill him.” said the hunter, rather surily.

“I suppose the creature is to be eaten.” So saying, he drew a large knife from a leathern sheath, which was stuck through his girdle, or sash, and cut the throat of the animal, “If there are two balls through the deer, I would ask if there weren’t two rifles fired — besides, who ever saw such a ragged hole from a smooth-bore as this through the neck? And you will own yourself, Judge, that the buck fell at the last shot, which was sent from a truer and a younger hand than your’n or mine either; but, for my part, although I am a poor man I can live without the venison, but I don’t love to give up my lawful dues in a free country. Though, for the matter of that, might often makes right here, as well as in the old country, for what I can see.”

An air of sullen dissatisfaction pervaded the manner of the hunter during the whole of his speech; yet he thought it prudent to utter the close of the sentence in such an undertone as to leave nothing audible but the grumbling sounds of his voice.

“Nay, Natty,” rejoined the traveller, with undisturbed good-humor, “it is for the honor that I contend. A few dollars will pay for the venison; but what will requite me for the lost honor of a buck’s tail in my cap? Think, Natty, how I should triumph over that quizzing dog, Dick Jones, who has failed seven times already this season, and has only brought in one woodchuck and a few gray squirrels.”

“Ah! The game is becoming hard to find, indeed, Judge, with your clearings and betterments,” said the old hunter, with a kind of compelled resignation. “The time has been when I have shot thirteen deer without counting the fa’ns standing in the door of my own hut; and for bear’s meat, if one wanted a ham or so, he had only to watch a-nights, and he could shoot one by moonlight, through the cracks of the logs, no fear of his oversleeping himself neither, for the howling of the wolves was sartin to keep his eyes open. There’s old Hector” — patting with affection a tall hound of black and yellow spots, with white belly and legs, that just then came in on the scent, accompanied by the slut he had mentioned; “see where the wolves bit his throat, the night I druv them from the venison that was smoking on the chimney top — that dog is more to be trusted than many a Christian man; for he never forgets a friend, and loves the hand that gives him bread.”

There was a peculiarity in the manner of the hunter that attracted the notice of the young female, who had been a close and interested observer of his appearance and equipments, from the moment he came into view. He was tall, and so meagre as to make him seem above even the six feet that he actually stood in his stockings. On his head, which was thinly covered with lank, sandy hair, he wore a cap made of fox-skin, resembling in shape the one we have already described, although much inferior in finish and ornaments. His face was skinny and thin al most to emaciation; but yet it bore no signs of disease — on the contrary, it had every indication of the most robust and enduring health. The cold and exposure had, together, given it a color of uniform red. His gray eyes were glancing under a pair of shaggy brows, that over hung them in long hairs of gray mingled with their natural hue; his scraggy neck was bare, and burnt to the same tint with his face; though a small part of a shirt-collar, made of the country check, was to be seen above the overdress he wore. A kind of coat, made of dressed deer-skin, with the hair on, was belted close to his lank body by a girdle of colored worsted. On his feet were deer-skin moccasins, ornamented with porcupines’ quills, after the manner of the Indians, and his limbs were guarded with long leggings of the same material as the moccasins, which, gartering over the knees of his tarnished buckskin breeches, had obtained for him among the settlers the nickname of Leather-Stocking. Over his left shoulder was slung a belt of deer-skin, from which depended an enormous ox-horn, so thinly scraped as to discover the powder it contained. The larger end was fitted ingeniously and securely with a wooden bottom, and the other was stopped tight by a little plug. A leathern pouch hung before him, from which, as he concluded his last speech, he took a small measure, and, filling it accurately with powder, he commenced reloading the rifle, which as its butt rested on the snow before him reached nearly to the top of his fox-skin cap.

The traveller had been closely examining the wounds during these movements, and now, without heeding the ill-humor of the hunter’s manner, he exclaimed:

“I would fain establish a right, Natty, to the honor of this death; and surely if the hit in the neck be mine it is enough; for the shot in the heart was unnecessary — what we call an act of supererogation, Leather-Stocking.”

“You may call it by what larned name you please, Judge,” said the hunter, throwing his rifle across his left arm, and knocking up a brass lid in the breech, from which he took a small piece of greased leather and, wrapping a bail in it, forced them down by main strength on the powder, where he continued to pound them while speaking. “It’s far easier to call names than to shoot a buck on the spring; but the creatur came by his end from a younger hand than either your’n or mine, as I said before.”

“What say you, my friend,” cried the traveller, turning pleasantly to Natty’s companion; “shall we toss up this dollar for the honor, and you keep the silver if you lose; what say you, friend?”

“That I killed the deer,” answered the young man, with a little haughtiness, as he leaned on another long rifle similar to that of Natty.

“Here are two to one, indeed,” replied the Judge with a smile; “I am outvoted — overruled, as we say on the bench. There is Aggy, he can’t vote, being a slave; and Bess is a minor — so I must even make the best of it. But you’ll send me the venison; and the deuce is in it, but I make a good story about its death.”

“The meat is none of mine to sell,” said Leather-Stocking, adopting a little of his companion’s hauteur; “for my part, I have known animals travel days with shots in the neck, and I’m none of them who’ll rob a man of his rightful dues.”

“You are tenacious of your rights, this cold evening, Natty,” returned the Judge with unconquerable good-nature; “but what say you, young man; will three dollars pay you for the buck?”

“First let us determine the question of right to the satisfaction of us both,” said the youth firmly but respect fully, and with a pronunciation and language vastly superior to his appearance: “with how many shot did you load your gun?”

“With five, sir,” said the Judge, a little struck with the other’s manner; “are they not enough to slay a buck like this?”

“One would do it; but,” moving to the tree from be hind which he had appeared, “you know, sir, you fired in this direction — here are four of the bullets in the tree.”

The Judge examined the fresh marks in the bark of the pine, and, shaking his head, said with a laugh:

“You are making out the case against yourself, my young advocate; where is the fifth?”

“Here,” said the youth, throwing aside the rough over coat that he wore, and exhibiting a hole in his under-garment, through which large drops of blood were oozing.

“Good God!” exclaimed the Judge, with horror; “have I been trifling here about an empty distinction, and a fellow-creature suffering from my hands without a murmur? But hasten — quick — get into my sleigh — it is but a mile to the village, where surgical aid can be obtained — all shall be done at my expense, and thou shalt live with me until thy wound is healed, ay, and forever afterward.”

“I thank you for your good intention, but I must decline your offer. I have a friend who would be uneasy were he to hear that I am hurt and away from him. The injury is but slight, and the bullet has missed the bones; but I believe, sir, you will now admit me title to the venison.”

“Admit it!” repeated the agitated Judge; “I here give thee a right to shoot deer, or bears, or anything thou pleasest in my woods, forever. Leather-Stocking is the only other man that I have granted the same privilege to; and the time is coming when it will be of value. But I buy your deer — here, this bill will pay thee, both for thy shot and my own.”

The old hunter gathered his tall person up into an air of pride during this dialogue, but he waited until the other had done speaking.

“There’s them living who say that Nathaniel Bumppo’s right to shoot on these hills is of older date than Marmaduke Temple’s right to forbid him,” he said. “But if there’s a law about it at all, though who ever heard of a law that a man shouldn’t kill deer where he pleased! — but if there is a law at all, it should be to keep people from the use of smooth-bores. A body never knows where his lead will fly, when he pulls the trigger of one of them uncertain firearms.”

Without attending to the soliloquy of Natty, the youth bowed his head silently to the offer of the bank-note, and replied:

“Excuse me: I have need of the venison.”

“But this will buy you many deer,” said the Judge; “take it, I entreat you;” and, lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “It is for a hundred dollars.”

For an instant only the youth seemed to hesitate, and then, blushing even through the high color that the cold had given to his cheeks, as if with inward shame at his own weakness, he again declined the offer.

During this scene the female arose, and regardless of the cold air, she threw back the hood which concealed her features, and now spoke, with great earnestness.

“Surely, surely — young man — sir — you would not pain my father so much as to have him think that he leaves a fellow-creature in this wilderness whom his own hand has injured. I entreat you will go with us, and receive medical aid.”

Whether his wound became more painful, or there was something irresistible in the voice and manner of the fair pleader for her father’s feelings, we know not; but the distance of the young mans manner was sensibly softened by this appeal, and he stood in apparent doubt, as if reluctant to comply with and yet unwilling to refuse her request. The Judge, for such being his office must in future be his title, watched with no little interest the display of this singular contention in the feelings of the youth; and, advancing, kindly took his hand, and, as he pulled him gently toward the sleigh, urged him to enter it.

“There is no human aid nearer than Templeton,” he said, “and the hut of Natty is full three miles from this — come, come, my young friend, go with us, and let the new doctor look to this shoulder of thine. Here is Natty will take the tidings of thy welfare to thy friend; and shouldst thou require it, thou shalt return home in the morning.” The young man succeeded in extricating his hand from the warm grasp of the Judge, but he continued to gaze on the face of the female, who, regardless of the cold, was still standing with her fine features exposed, which expressed feeling that eloquently seconded the request of her father. Leather-Stocking stood, in the mean time, leaning upon his long rifle, with his head turned a little to one side, as if engaged in sagacious musing; when, having apparently satisfied his doubts, by revolving the subject in his mind, he broke silence. “It may be best to go, lad, after all; for, if the shot hangs under the skin, my hand is getting too old to be cutting into human flesh, as I once used to, Though some thirty years agone, in the old war, when I was out under Sir William, I travelled seventy miles alone in the howling wilderness, with a rifle bullet in my thigh, and then cut it out with my own jack-knife. Old Indian John knows the time well. I met him with a party of the Delawares, on the trail of the Iroquois, who had been down and taken five scalps on the Schoharie. But I made a mark on the red-skin that I’ll warrant he’ll carry to his grave! I took him on the posteerum, saving the lady’s presence, as he got up from the ambushment, and rattled three buckshot into his naked hide, so close that you might have laid a broad joe upon them all” — here Natty stretched out his long neck, and straightened his body, as he opened his mouth, which exposed a single tusk of yellow bone, while his eyes, his face, even his whole frame seemed to laugh, although no sound was emitted except a kind of thick hissing, as he inhaled his breath in quavers. “I had lost my bullet-mould in crossing the Oneida outlet, and had to make shift with the buckshot; but the rifle was true, and didn’t scatter like your two-legged thing there, Judge, which don’t do, I find, to hunt in company with.”

Natty’s apology to the delicacy of the young lady was unnecessary, for, while he was speaking, she was too much employed in helping her father to remove certain articles of baggage to hear him. Unable to resist the kind urgency of the travellers any longer, the youth, though still with an unaccountable reluctance, suffered himself to be persuaded to enter the sleigh. The black, with the aid of his master, threw the buck across the baggage and entering the vehicle themselves, the Judge invited the hunter to do so likewise.

“No, no,” said the old roan, shaking his head; “I have work to do at home this Christmas eve — drive on with the boy, and let your doctor look to the shoulder; though if he will only cut out the shot, I have yarbs that will heal the wound quicker than all his foreign ‘intments.” He turned, and was about to move off, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he again faced the party, and added: “If you see anything of Indian John, about the foot of the lake, you had better take him with you, and let him lend the doctor a hand; for, old as he is, he is curious at cuts and bruises, and it’s likelier than not he’ll be in with brooms to sweep your Christmas ha’arths.”

“Stop, stop,” cried the youth, catching the arm of the black as he prepared to urge his horses forward; “Natty — you need say nothing of the shot, nor of where I am going — remember, Natty, as you love me.”

“Trust old Leather-Stocking,” returned the hunter significantly; “he hasn’t lived fifty years in the wilderness, and not larnt from the savages how to hold his tongue — trust to me, lad; and remember old Indian John.”

“And, Natty,” said the youth eagerly, still holding the black by the arm. “I will just get the shot extracted, and bring you up to-night a quarter of the buck for the Christmas dinner.”

He was interrupted by the hunter, who held up his finger with an expressive gesture for silence. He then moved softly along the margin of the road, keeping his eyes steadfastly fixed on the branches of a pine. When he had obtained such a position as he wished, he stopped, and, cocking his rifle, threw one leg far behind him, and stretching his left arm to its utmost extent along the barrel of his piece, he began slowly to raise its muzzle in a line with the straight trunk of the tree. The eyes of the group in the sleigh naturally preceded the movement of the rifle, and they soon discovered the object of Natty’s aim. On a small dead branch of the pine, which, at the distance of seventy feet from the ground, shot out horizontally, immediately beneath the living members of the tree, sat a bird, that in the vulgar language of the country was indiscriminately called a pheasant or a partridge. In size, it was but little smaller than a common barn-yard fowl. The baying of the dogs, and the conversation that had passed near the root of the tree on which it was perched, had alarmed the bird, which was now drawn up near the body of the pine, with a head and neck so erect as to form nearly a straight line with its legs. As soon as the rifle bore on the victim, Natty drew his trigger, and the partridge fell from its height with a force that buried it in the snow.

“Lie down, you old villain,” exclaimed Leather-Stocking, shaking his ramrod at Hector as he bounded toward the foot of the tree, “lie down, I say.” The dog obeyed, and Natty proceeded with great rapidity, though with the nicest accuracy, to reload his piece. When this was ended, he took up his game, and, showing it to the party without a head, he cried: “Here is a tidbit for an old man’s Christmas — never mind the venison, boy, and remember Indian John; his yarbs are better than all the foreign ‘intments. Here, Judge,” holding up the bird again, “do you think a smooth-bore would pick game off their roost, and not ruffle a feather?” The old man gave another of his remarkable laughs, which partook so largely of exultation, mirth, and irony, and, shaking his head, he turned, with his rifle at a trail, and moved into the forest with steps that were between a walk and a trot. At each movement he made his body lowered several inches, his knees yielding with an inclination inward; but, as the sleigh turned at a bend in the road, the youth cast his eyes in quest of his old companion, and he saw that he was already nearly concealed by the trunks of the tree; while his dogs were following quietly in his footsteps, occasionally scenting the deer track, that they seemed to know instinctively was now of no further use to them. Another jerk was given to the sleigh, and Leather-Stocking was hid from view.

CHAPTER II

All places that the eye of heaven visits

Are to a wise man ports and happy havens:

Think not the king did banish thee:

But thou the king. — Richard II

An ancestor of Marmaduke Temple had, about one hundred and twenty years before the commencement of our tale, come to the colony of Pennsylvania, a friend and co-religionist of its great patron. Old Marmaduke, for this formidable prenomen was a kind of appellative to the race, brought with him, to that asylum of the persecuted an abundance of the good things of this life. He became the master of many thousands of acres of uninhabited territory, and the supporter of many a score of dependents. He lived greatly respected for his piety, and not a little distinguished as a sectary; was intrusted by his associates with many important political stations; and died just in time to escape the knowledge of his own poverty. It was his lot to share the fortune of most of those who brought wealth with them into the new settlements of the middle colonies.

The consequence of an emigrant into these provinces was generally to be ascertained by the number of his white servants or dependents, and the nature of the public situations that he held. Taking this rule as a guide, the ancestor of our Judge must have been a man of no little note.

It is, however, a subject of curious inquiry at the present day, to look into the brief records of that early period, and observe how regular, and with few exceptions how inevitable, were the gradations, on the one hand, of the masters to poverty, and on the other, of their servants to wealth. Accustomed to ease, and unequal to the struggles incident to an infant society, the affluent emigrant was barely enabled to maintain his own rank by the weight of his personal superiority and acquirements; but, the moment that his head was laid in the grave, his indolent and comparatively uneducated offspring were compelled to yield precedency to the more active energies of a class whose exertions had been stimulated by necessity. This is a very common course of things, even in the present state of the Union; but it was peculiarly the fortunes of the two extremes of society, in the peaceful and unenterprising colonies of Pennsylvania and New Jersey,

The posterity of Marmaduke did not escape the common lot of those who depend rather on their hereditary possessions than on their own powers; and in the third generation they had descended to a point below which, in this happy country, it is barely possible for honesty, intellect and sobriety to fall. The same pride of family that had, by its self-satisfied indolence, conduced to aid their fail, now became a principle to stimulate them to endeavor to rise again. The feeling, from being morbid, was changed to a healthful and active desire to emulate the character, the condition, and, peradventure, the wealth of their ancestors also. It was the father of our new acquaintance, the Judge, who first began to reascend in the scale of society; and in this undertaking he was not a little assisted by a marriage, which aided in furnishing the means of educating his only son in a rather better manner than the low state of the common schools of Pennsylvania could promise; or than had been the practice in the family for the two or three preceding generations.

At the school where the reviving prosperity of his father was enabled to maintain him, young Marmaduke formed an intimacy with a youth whose years were about equal to his own. This was a fortunate connection for our Judge, and paved the way to most of his future elevation in life.

There was not only great wealth but high court interest among the connections of Edward Effingham. They were one of the few families then resident in the colonies who thought it a degradation to its members to descend to the pursuits of commerce; and who never emerged from the privacy of domestic life unless to preside in the councils of the colony or to bear arms in her defense. The latter had from youth been the only employment of Edward’s father. Military rank under the crown of Great Britain was attained with much longer probation, and by much more toilsome services, sixty years ago than at the present time. Years were passed without murmuring, in the sub ordinate grades of the service; and those soldiers who were stationed in the colonies felt, when they obtained the command of a company, that they were entitled to receive the greatest deference from the peaceful occupants of the soil. Any one of our readers who has occasion to cross the Niagara may easily observe not only the self importance, but the real estimation enjoyed by the hum blest representative of the crown, even in that polar region of royal sunshine. Such, and at no very distant period, was the respect paid to the military in these States, where now, happily, no symbol of war is ever seen, unless at the free and tearless voice of their people. When, therefore, the father of Marmaduke’s friend, after forty years’ service, retired with the rank of major, maintaining in his domestic establishment a comparative splendor, he be came a man of the first consideration in his native colony which was that of New York. He had served with fidelity and courage, and having been, according to the custom of the provinces, intrusted with commands much superior to those to which he was entitled by rank, with reputation also. When Major Effingham yielded to the claims of age, he retired with dignity, refusing his half-pay or any other compensation for services that he felt he could no longer perform.

The ministry proffered various civil offices which yielded not only honor but profit; but he declined them all, with the chivalrous independence and loyalty that had marked his character through life. The veteran soon caused this set of patriotic disinterestedness to be followed by another of private munificence, that, however little it accorded with prudence, was in perfect conformity with the simple integrity of his own views.

The friend of Marmaduke was his only child; and to this son, on his marriage with a lady to whom the father was particularly partial, the Major gave a complete conveyance of his whole estate, consisting of money in the funds, a town and country residence, sundry valuable farms in the old parts of the colony, and large tracts of wild land in the new — in this manner throwing himself upon the filial piety of his child for his own future maintenance. Major Effingham, in declining the liberal offers of the British ministry, had subjected himself to the suspicion of having attained his dotage, by all those who throng the avenues to court patronage, even in the remotest corners of that vast empire; but, when he thus voluntarily stripped himself of his great personal wealth, the remainder of the community seemed instinctively to adopt the conclusion also that he had reached a second childhood. This may explain the fact of his importance rapidly declining; and, if privacy was his object, the veteran had soon a free indulgence of his wishes. Whatever views the world might entertain of this act of the Major, to himself and to his child it seemed no more than a natural gift by a father of those immunities which he could no longer enjoy or improve, to a son, who was formed, both by nature and education, to do both. The younger Effingham did not object to the amount of the donation; for he felt that while his parent reserved a moral control over his actions, he was relieving himself of a fatiguing burden: such, indeed, was the confidence existing between them, that to neither did it seem anything more than removing money from one pocket to another.

One of the first acts of the young man, on corning into possession of his wealth, was to seek his early friend, with a view to offer any assistance that it was now in his power to bestow.

The death of Marmaduke’s father, and the consequent division of his small estate, rendered such an offer extremely acceptable to the young Pennsylvanian; he felt his own powers, and saw, not only the excellences, but the foibles in the character of his friend. Effingham was by nature indolent, confiding, and at times impetuous and indiscreet; but Marmaduke was uniformly equable, penetrating, and full of activity and enterprise. To the latter therefore, the assistance, or rather connection that was proffered to him, seemed to produce a mutual advantage. It was cheerfully accepted, and the arrangement of its conditions was easily completed. A mercantile house was established in the metropolis of Pennsylvania, with the avails of Mr. Effingham’s personal property; all, or nearly all, of which was put into the possession of Temple, who was the only ostensible proprietor in the concern, while, in secret, the other was entitled to an equal participation in the profits. This connection was thus kept private for two reasons, one of which, in the freedom of their inter course, was frankly avowed to Marmaduke, while the other continued profoundly hid in the bosom of his friend, The last was nothing more than pride. To the descend ant of a line of soldiers, commerce, even in that indirect manner, seemed a degrading pursuit; but an insuperable obstacle to the disclosure existed in the prejudices of his father.

We have already said that Major Effingham had served as a soldier with reputation. On one occasion, while in command on the western frontier of Pennsylvania against a league of the French and Indians, not only his glory, but the safety of himself and his troops were jeoparded by the peaceful policy of that colony. To the soldier, this was an unpardonable offence. He was fighting in their defense — he knew that the mild principles of this little nation of practical Christians would be disregarded by their subtle and malignant enemies; and he felt the in jury the more deeply because he saw that the avowed object of the colonists, in withholding their succors, would only have a tendency to expose his command, without preserving the peace. The soldier succeeded, after a desperate conflict, in extricating himself, with a handful of his men, from their murderous enemy; but he never for gave the people who had exposed him to a danger which they left him to combat alone. It was in vain to tell him that they had no agency in his being placed on their frontier at all; it was evidently for their benefit that he had been so placed, and it was their “religious duty,” so the Major always expressed it, “it was their religions duty to have supported him.”

At no time was the old soldier an admirer of the peaceful disciples of Fox. Their disciplined habits, both of mind and body, had endowed them with great physical perfection; and the eye of the veteran was apt to scan the fair proportions and athletic frames of the colonists with a look that seemed to utter volumes of contempt for their moral imbecility, He was also a little addicted to the expression of a belief that, where there was so great an observance of the externals of religion, there could not be much of the substance. It is not our task to explain what is or what ought to be the substance of Christianity, but merely to record in this place the opinions of Major Effingham.

Knowing the sentiments of the father in relation to this people, it was no wonder that the son hesitated to avow his connection with, nay, even his dependence on the integrity of, a Quaker.

It has been said that Marmaduke deduced his origin from the contemporaries and friends of Penn. His father had married without the pale of the church to which he belonged, and had, in this manner, forfeited some of the privileges of his offspring. Still, as young Marmaduke was educated in a colony and society where even the ordinary intercourse between friends was tinctured with the aspect of this mild religion, his habits and language were some what marked by its peculiarities. His own marriage at a future day with a lady without not only the pale, but the influence, of this sect of religionists, had a tendency, it is true, to weaken his early impressions; still he retained them in some degree to the hour of his death, and was observed uniformly, when much interested or agitated, to speak in the language of his youth. But this is anticipating our tale.

When Marmaduke first became the partner of young Effingham, he was quite the Quaker in externals; and it was too dangerous an experiment for the son to think of encountering the prejudices of the father on this subject. The connection, therefore, remained a profound secret to all but those who were interested in it.

For a few years Marmaduke directed the commercial operations of his house with a prudence and sagacity that afforded rich returns. He married the lady we have mentioned, who was the mother of Elizabeth, and the visits of his friend were becoming more frequent. There was a speedy prospect of removing the veil from their intercourse, as its advantages became each hour more apparent to Mr. Effingham, when the troubles that preceded the war of the Revolution extended themselves to an alarming degree.

Educated in the most dependent loyalty, Mr. Effingham had, from the commencement of the disputes between the colonists and the crown, warmly maintained what he believed to be the just prerogatives of his prince; while, on the other hand, the clear head and independent mind of Temple had induced him to espouse the cause of the people. Both might have been influenced by early impressions; for, if the son of the loyal and gallant soldier bowed in implicit obedience to the will of his sovereign, the descendant of the persecuted followers of Penn looked back with a little bitterness to the unmerited wrongs that had been heaped upon his ancestors.

This difference in opinion had long been a subject of amicable dispute between them: but, Latterly, the contest was getting to be too important to admit of trivial discussions on the part of Marmaduke, whose acute discernment was already catching faint glimmerings of the important events that were in embryo. The sparks of dissension soon kindled into a blaze; and the colonies, or rather, as they quickly declared themselves, THE STATES, became a scene of strife and bloodshed for years.

A short time before the battle of Lexington, Mr. Effingham, already a widower, transmitted to Marmaduke, for safe-keeping, all his valuable effects and papers; and left the colony without his father. The war had, however, scarcely commenced in earnest, when he reappeared in New York, wearing the Livery of his king; and, in a short time, he took the field at the head of a provincial corps. In the mean time Marmaduke had completely committed himself in the cause, as it was then called, of the rebel lion. Of course, all intercourse between the friends ceased — on the part of Colonel Effingham it was unsought, and on that of Marmaduke there was a cautious reserve. It soon became necessary for the latter to abandon the capital of Philadelphia; but he had taken the precaution to remove the whole of his effects beyond the reach of the royal forces, including the papers of his friend also. There he continued serving his country during the struggle, in various civil capacities, and always with dignity and usefulness. While, however, he discharged his functions with credit and fidelity, Marmaduke never seemed to lose sight of his own interests; for, when the estates of the adherents of the crown fell under the hammer, by the acts of confiscation, he appeared in New York, and became the purchaser of extensive possessions at comparatively low prices.

It is true that Marmaduke, by thus purchasing estates that had been wrested by violence from others, rendered himself obnoxious to the censures of that Sect which, at the same time that it discards its children from a full participation in the family union, seems ever unwilling to abandon them entirely to the world. But either his success, or the frequency of the transgression in others, soon wiped off this slight stain from his character; and, although there were a few who, dissatisfied with their own fortunes, or conscious of their own demerits, would make dark hints concerning the sudden prosperity of the unportioned Quaker, yet his services, and possibly his wealth, soon drove the recollection of these vague conjectures from men’s minds. When the war ended, and the independence of the States was acknowledged, Mr. Temple turned his attention from the pursuit of commerce, which was then fluctuating and uncertain, to the settlement of those tracts of land which he had purchased. Aided by a good deal of money, and directed by the suggestions of a strong and practical reason, his enterprise throve to a degree that the climate and rugged face of the country which he selected would seem to forbid. His property increased in a tenfold ratio, and he was already ranked among the most wealthy and important of his countrymen. To inherit this wealth he had but one child — the daughter whom we have introduced to the reader, and whom he was now conveying from school to preside over a household that had too long wanted a mistress.

When the district in which his estates lay had become sufficiently populous to be set off as a county, Mr. Temple had, according to the custom of the new settlements, been selected to fill its highest judicial station. This might make a Templar smile; but in addition to the apology of necessity, there is ever a dignity in talents and experience that is commonly sufficient, in any station, for the protection of its possessor; and Marmaduke, more fortunate in his native clearness of mind than the judge of King Charles, not only decided right, but was generally able to give a very good reason for it. At all events, such was the universal practice of the country and the times; and Judge Temple, so far from ranking among the lowest of his judicial contemporaries in the courts of the new counties, felt himself, and was unanimously acknowledged to be, among the first.

We shall here close this brief explanation of the history and character of some of our personages leaving them in future to speak and act for themselves.

CHAPTER III

“All that thou see’st is Natures handiwork;

Those rocks that upward throw their mossy brawl

Like castled pinnacles of elder times;

These venerable stems, that slowly rock

Their towering branches in the wintry gale;

That field of frost, which glitters in the sun,

Mocking the whiteness of a marble breast!

Yet man can mar such works with his rude taste,

Like some sad spoiler of a virgin’s fame.”

— Duo.

Some little while elapsed ere Marmaduke Temple was sufficiently recovered from his agitation to scan the person of his new companion. He now observed that he was a youth of some two or three and twenty years of age, and rather above the middle height. Further observation was prevented by the rough overcoat which was belted close to his form by a worsted sash, much like the one worn by the old hunter. The eyes of the Judge, after resting a moment on the figure of the stranger, were raised to a scrutiny of his countenance. There had been a look of care visible in the features of the youth, when he first entered the sleigh, that had not only attracted the notice of Elizabeth, but which she had been much puzzled to interpret. His anxiety seemed the strongest when he was en joining his old companion to secrecy; and even when he had decided, and was rather passively suffering himself to be conveyed to the village, the expression of his eyes by no means indicated any great degree of self-satisfaction at the step. But the lines of an uncommonly prepossessing countenance were gradually becoming composed; and he now sat silent, and apparently musing. The Judge gazed at him for some time with earnestness, and then smiling, as if at his own forgetfulness, he said:

“I believe, my young friend, that terror has driven you from my recollection; your face is very familiar, and yet, for the honor of a score of bucks’ tails in my cap, I could not tell your name.”

“I came into the country but three weeks since,” returned the youth coldly, “and I understand you have been absent twice that time.”

“It will be five to-morrow. Yet your face is one that I have seen; though it would not be strange, such has been my affright, should I see thee in thy winding-sheet walking by my bedside to-night. What say’st thou, Bess? Am I compos mentis or not? Fit to charge a grand jury, or, what is just now of more pressing necessity, able to do the honors of Christmas eve in the hall of Templeton?”

“More able to do either, my dear father.” said a playful voice from under the ample inclosures of the hood, “than to kill deer with a smooth-bore.” A short pause followed, and the same voice, but in a different accent, continued. “We shall have good reasons for our thanksgiving to night, on more accounts than one.”

The horses soon reached a point where they seemed to know by instinct that the journey was nearly ended, and, bearing on the bits as they tossed their heads, they rapidly drew the sleigh over the level land which lay on the top of the mountain, and soon came to the point where the road descended suddenly, but circuitously, into the valley.

The Judge was roused from his reflections, when he saw the four columns of smoke which floated above his own chimneys. As house, village, and valley burst on his sight, he exclaimed cheerfully to his daughter:

“See, Bess, there is thy resting-place for life! And thine too, young man, if thou wilt consent to dwell with us.”

The eyes of his auditors involuntarily met; and, if the color that gathered over the face of Elizabeth was contradicted by the cold expression of her eye, the ambiguous smile that again played about the lips of the stranger seemed equally to deny the probability of his consenting to form one of this family group. The scene was one, however, which might easily warm a heart less given to philanthropy than that of Marmaduke Temple.

The side of the mountain on which our travellers were journeying, though not absolutely perpendicular, was so steep as to render great care necessary in descending the rude and narrow path which, in that early day, wound along the precipices. The negro reined in his impatient steeds, and time was given Elizabeth to dwell on a scene which was so rapidly altering under the hands of man, that it only resembled in its outlines the picture she had so often studied with delight in childhood. Immediately beneath them lay a seeming plain, glittering without in equality, and buried in mountains. The latter were precipitous, especially on the side of the plain, and chiefly in forest. Here and there the hills fell away in long, low points, and broke the sameness of the outline, or setting to the long and wide field of snow, which, without house, tree, fence, or any other fixture, resembled so much spot less cloud settled to the earth. A few dark and moving spots were, however, visible on the even surface, which the eye of Elizabeth knew to be so many sleighs going their several ways to or from the village. On the western border of the plain, the mountains, though equally high, were less precipitous, and as they receded opened into irregular valleys and glens, or were formed into terraces and hollows that admitted of cultivation. Although the evergreens still held dominion over many of the hills that rose on this side of the valley, yet the undulating outlines of the distant mountains, covered with forests of beech and maple, gave a relief to the eye, and the promise of a kinder soil. Occasionally spots of white were discoverable amidst the forests of the opposite hills, which announced, by the smoke that curled over the tops of the trees, the habitations of man and the commencement of agriculture. These spots were sometimes, by the aid of united labor, enlarged into what were called settlements, but more frequently were small and insulated; though so rapid were the changes, and so persevering the labors of those who had cast their fortunes on the success of the enterprise, that it was not difficult for the imagination of Elizabeth to conceive they were enlarging under her eye while she was gazing, in mute wonder, at the alterations that a few short years had made in the aspect of the country. The points on the western side of this remarkable plain, on which no plant had taken root, were both larger and more numerous than those on its eastern, and one in particular thrust itself forward in such a manner as to form beautifully curved bays of snow on either side. On its extreme end an oak stretched forward, as if to overshadow with its branches a spot which its roots were forbidden to enter. It had released itself from the thraldom that a growth of centuries had imposed on the branches of the surrounding forest trees, and threw its gnarled and fantastic arms abroad, in the wildness of liberty. A dark spot of a few acres in extent at the southern extremity of this beautiful flat, and immediately under the feet of our travellers, alone showed by its rippling surface, and the vapors which exhaled from it, that what at first might seem a plain was one of the mountain lakes, locked in the frosts of winter. A narrow current rushed impetuously from its bosom at the open place we have mentioned, and was to be traced for miles, as it wound its way toward the south through the real valley, by its borders of hemlock and pine, and by the vapor which arose from its warmer surface into the chill atmosphere of the hills. The banks of this lovely basin, at its outlet, or southern end, were steep, but not high; and in that direction the land continued, far as the eye could reach, a narrow but graceful valley, along which the settlers had scattered their humble habitations, with a profusion that bespoke the quality of the soil and the comparative facilities of intercourse, Immediately on the bank of the lake and at its foot, stood the village of Templeton. It consisted of some fifty buildings, including those of every description, chiefly built of wood, and which, in their architecture, bore no great marks of taste, but which also, by the unfinished appearance of most of the dwellings, indicated the hasty manner of their construction, To the eye, they presented a variety of colors. A few were white in both front and rear, but more bore that expensive color on their fronts only, while their economical but ambitious owners had covered the remaining sides of the edifices with a dingy red. One or two were slowly assuming the russet of age; while the uncovered beams that were to be seen through the broken windows of their second stories showed that either the taste or the vanity of their proprietors had led them to undertake a task which they were unable to accomplish. The whole were grouped in a manner that aped the streets of a city, and were evidently so arranged by the directions of one who looked to the wants of posterity rather than to the convenience of the present incumbents. Some three or four of the better sort of buildings, in addition to the uniformity of their color, were fitted with green blinds, which, at that season at least, were rather strangely contrasted to the chill aspect of the lake, the mountains, the forests, and the wide fields of snow. Before the doors of these pretending dwellings were placed a few saplings, either without branches or possessing only the feeble shoots of one or two summers’ growth, that looked not unlike tall grenadiers on post near the threshold of princes. In truth, the occupants of these favored habitations were the nobles of Templeton, as Marmaduke was its king. They were the dwellings of two young men who were cunning in the law; an equal number of that class who chaffered to the wants of the community under the title of storekeepers; and a disciple of Aesculapius, who, for a novelty, brought more subjects into the world than he sent out of it. In the midst of this incongruous group of dwellings rose the mansion of the Judge, towering above all its neighbors. It stood in the centre of an inclosure of several acres, which was covered with fruit-trees. Some of the latter had been left by the Indians, and began already to assume the moss and inclination of age, therein forming a very marked contrast to the infant plantations that peered over most of the picketed fences of the village. In addition to this show of cultivation were two rows of young Lombardy poplars, a tree but lately introduced into America, formally lining either side of a pathway which led from a gate that opened on the principal street to the front door of the building. The house itself had been built entirely under the superintendence of a certain Mr. Richard Jones, whom we have already mentioned, and who, from his cleverness in small matters, and an entire willingness to exert his talents, added to the circumstance of their being sisters’ children, ordinarily superintended all the minor concerns of Marmaduke Temple. Richard was fond of saying that this child of invention consisted of nothing more nor less than what should form the groundwork of every clergyman’s discourse, viz., a firstly and a lastly. He had commenced his labors, in the first year of their residence, by erecting a tall, gaunt edifice of wood, with its gable toward the highway. In this shelter for it was little more, the family resided three years. By the end of that period, Richard had completed his design. He had availed himself, in this heavy undertaking, of the experience of a certain wandering eastern mechanic, who, by exhibiting a few soiled plates of English architecture, and talking learnedly of friezes, entablatures, and particularly of the composite order, had obtained a very undue influence over Richard’s taste in everything that pertained to that branch of the fine arts. Not that Mr. Jones did not affect to consider Hiram Doolittle a perfect empiric in his profession, being in the constant habit of listening to his treatises on architecture with a kind of indulgent smile; yet, either from an inability to oppose them by anything plausible from his own stores of learning or from secret admiration, Richard generally submitted to the arguments of his co-adjutor. Together, they had not only erected a dwelling for Marmaduke, but they had given a fashion to the architecture of the whole county. The composite order, Mr. Doolittle would contend, was an order composed of many others, and was intended to be the most useful of all, for it admitted into its construction such alterations as convenience or circumstances might require. To this proposition Richard usually assented; and when rival geniuses who monopolize not only all the reputation but most of the money of a neighborhood, are of a mind, it is not uncommon to see them lead the fashion, even in graver matters. In the present instance, as we have already hinted, the castle, as Judge Templeton’s dwelling was termed in common parlance, came to be the model, in some one or other of its numerous excellences, for every aspiring edifice within twenty miles of it.

The house itself, or the “lastly,” was of stone: large, square, and far from uncomfortable. These were four requisites, on which Marmaduke had insisted with a little more than his ordinary pertinacity. But everything else was peaceably assigned to Richard and his associate. These worthies found the material a little too solid for the tools of their workmen, which, in General, were employed on a substance no harder than the white pine of the adjacent mountains, a wood so proverbially soft that it is commonly chosen by the hunters for pillows. But for this awkward dilemma, it is probable that the ambitious tastes of our two architects would have left us much more to do in the way of description. Driven from the faces of the house by the obduracy of the material, they took refuge in the porch and on the roof. The former, it was decided, should be severely classical, and the latter a rare specimen of the merits of the Composite order.

A roof, Richard contended, was a part of the edifice that the ancients always endeavored to conceal, it being an excrescence in architecture that was only to be tolerated on account of its usefulness. Besides, as he wittily added, a chief merit in a dwelling was to present a front on whichever side it might happen to be seen; for, as it was exposed to all eyes in all weathers, there should be no weak flank for envy or unneighborly criticism to assail. It was therefore decided that the roof should be flat, and with four faces. To this arrangement, Marmaduke objected the heavy snows that lay for months, frequently covering the earth to a depth of three or four feet. Happily the facilities of the composite order presented themselves to effect a compromise, and the rafters were lengthened, so as to give a descent that should carry off the frozen element. But, unluckily, some mistake was made in the admeasurement of these material parts of the fabric; and, as one of the greatest recommendations of Hiram was his ability to work by the “square rule,” no opportunity was found of discovering the effect until the massive timbers were raised on the four walls of the building. Then, indeed, it was soon seen that, in defiance of all rule, the roof was by far the most conspicuous part of the whole edifice. Richard and his associate consoled themselves with the relief that the covering would aid in concealing this unnatural elevation; but every shingle that was laid only multiplied objects to look at. Richard essayed to remedy the evil with paint, and four different colors were laid on by his own hands. The first was a sky-blue, in the vain expectation that the eye might be cheated into the belief it was the heavens themselves that hung so imposingly over Marmaduke’s dwelling; the second was what he called a “cloud-color,” being nothing more nor less than an imitation of smoke; the third was what Richard termed an invisible green, an experiment that did not succeed against a background of sky. Abandoning the attempt to conceal, our architects drew upon their invention for means to ornament the offensive shingles.

After much deliberation and two or three essays by moonlight, Richard ended the affair by boldly covering the whole beneath a color that he christened “sunshine,” a cheap way, as he assured his cousin the Judge, of always keeping fair weather over his head. The platform, as well as the caves of the house, were surmounted by gaudily painted railings, and the genius of Hiram was exerted in the fabrication of divers urns and mouldings, that were scattered profusely around this part of their labors. Richard had originally a cunning expedient, by which the chimneys were intended to be so low, and so situated, as to resemble ornaments on the balustrades; but comfort required that the chimneys should rise with the roof, in order that the smoke might be carried off, and they thus became four extremely conspicuous objects in the view.

As this roof was much the most important architectural undertaking in which Mr. Jones was ever engaged, his failure produced a correspondent degree of mortification At first, he whispered among his acquaintances that it proceeded from ignorance of the square rule on the part of Hiram; but, as his eye became gradually accustomed to the object, he grew better satisfied with his labors, and instead of apologizing for the defects, he commenced praising the beauties of the mansion-house; he soon found hearers, and, as wealth and comfort are at all times attractive, it was, as has been said, made a model for imitation on a small scale. In less than two years from its erection, he had the pleasure of standing on the elevated platform, and of looking down on three humble imitators of its beauty. Thus it is ever with fashion, which even renders the faults of the great subjects of admiration.

Marmaduke bore this deformity in his dwelling with great good-nature, and soon contrived, by his own improvements, to give an air of respectability and comfort to his place of residence. Still, there was much of in congruity, even immediately about the mansion-house. Although poplars had been brought from Europe to ornament the grounds, and willows and other trees were gradually springing up nigh the dwelling, yet many a pile of snow betrayed the presence of the stump of a pine; and even, in one or two instances, unsightly remnants of trees that had been partly destroyed by fire were seen rearing their black, glistening columns twenty or thirty feet above the pure white of the snow, These, which in the language of the country are termed stubs, abounded in the open fields adjacent to the village, and were accompanied, occasionally, by the ruin of a pine or a hemlock that had been stripped of its bark, and which waved in melancholy grandeur its naked limbs to the blast, a skeleton of its former glory. But these and many other unpleasant additions to the view were unseen by the delighted Elizabeth, who, as the horses moved down the side of the mountain, saw only in gross the cluster of houses that lay like a map at her feet; the fifty smokes that were curling from the valley to the clouds; the frozen lake as it lay imbedded in mountains of evergreen, with the long shadows of the pines on its white surface, lengthening in the setting sun; the dark ribbon of water that gushed from the outlet and was winding its way toward the distant Chesapeake — the altered, though still remembered, scenes of her child hood.

Five years had wrought greater changes than a century would produce in countries where time and labor have given permanency to the works of man. To our young hunter and the Judge the scene had less novelty; though none ever emerge from the dark forests of that mountain, and witness the glorious scenery of that beauteous valley, as it bursts unexpectedly upon them, without a feeling of delight. The former cast one admiring glance from north to south, and sank his face again beneath the folds of his coat; while the latter contemplated, with philanthropic pleasure, the prospect of affluence and comfort that was expanding around him; the result of his own enterprise, and much of it the fruits of his own industry.

The cheerful sound of sleigh-bells, however, attracted the attention of the whole party, as they came jingling up the sides of the mountain, at a rate that announced a powerful team and a hard driver. The bushes which lined the highway interrupted the view, and the two sleighs were close upon each other before either was seen.

CHAPTER IV

“How now? whose mare’s dead? what’s the matter?”

— Falstaff

A large lumber sleigh, drawn by four horses, was soon seen dashing through the leafless bushes which fringed the road. The leaders were of gray, and the pole-horses of a jet-black. Bells innumerable were suspended from every part of the harness where one of the tinkling balls could be placed, while the rapid movement of the equipage, in defiance of the steep ascent, announced the desire of the driver to ring them to the utmost. The first glance at this singular arrangement acquainted the Judge with the character of those in the sleigh. It contained four male figures. On one of those stools that are used at writing desks, lashed firmly to the sides of the vehicle, was seated a little man, enveloped in a great-coat fringed with fur, in such a manner that no part of him was visible, except a face of an unvarying red color. There was an habitual upward look about the head of this gentleman, as if dissatisfied with its natural proximity to the earth; and the expression of his countenance was that of busy care, He was the charioteer, and he guided the mettled animals along the precipice with a fearless eye and a steady hand, Immediately behind him, with his face toward the other two, was a tall figure, to whose appearance not even the duplicate overcoats which he wore, aided by the corner of a horse-blanket, could give the appearance of strength. His face was protruding from beneath a woollen night cap; and, when he turned to the vehicle of Marmaduke as the sleighs approached each other, it seemed formed by nature to cut the atmosphere with the least possible resistance. The eyes alone appeared to create any obstacle, for from either side of his forehead their light-blue, glassy balls projected. The sallow of his countenance was too permanent to be affected even by the intense cold of the evening. Opposite to this personage sat a solid, short, and square figure. No part of his form was to be discovered through his overdress, but a face that was illuminated by a pair of black eyes that gave the lie to every demure feature in his countenance. A fair, jolly wig furnished a neat and rounded outline to his visage, and he, well as the other two, wore marten-skin caps. The fourth was a meek-looking, long-visaged man, without any other protection from the cold than that which was furnished by a black surcoat, made with some little formality, but which was rather threadbare and rusty. He wore a hat of extremely decent proportions, though frequent brushing had quite destroyed its nap. His face was pale, and withal a little melancholy, or what might be termed of a studious complexion. The air had given it, just now, a light and somewhat feverish flush, The character of his whole appearance, especially contrasted to the air of humor in his next companion, was that of habitual mental care. No sooner had the two sleighs approached within speaking distance, than the driver of this fantastic equipage shouted aloud,

“Draw up in the quarry — draw up, thou king of the Greeks; draw into the quarry, Agamemnon, or I shall never be able to pass you. Welcome home, Cousin ‘Duke — welcome, welcome, black-eyed Bess. Thou seest, Marina duke that I have taken the field with an assorted cargo, to do thee honor. Monsieur Le Quoi has come out with only one cap; Old Fritz would not stay to finish the bottle; and Mr. Grant has got to put the ‘lastly’ to his sermon, yet. Even all the horses would come — by the-bye, Judge, I must sell the blacks for you immediately; they interfere, and the nigh one is a bad goer in double harness. I can get rid of them to— “

“Sell what thou wilt, Dickon,” interrupted the cheerful voice of the Judge, “so that thou leavest me my daughter and my lands. And Fritz, my old friend, this is a kind compliment, indeed, for seventy to pay to five-and-forty. Monsieur Le Quoi, I am your servant. Mr. Grant,” lifting his cap, “I feel indebted to your attention. Gentlemen, I make you acquainted with my child. Yours are names with which she is very familiar.”

“Velcome, velcome Tchooge,” said the elder of the party, with a strong German accent. “Miss Petsy vill owe me a kiss.”

“And cheerfully will I pay It, my good sir,” cried the soft voice of Elizabeth; which sounded, in the clear air of the hills. Like tones of silver, amid the loud cries of Richard. “I have always a kiss for my old friend. Major Hartmann.”

By this time the gentleman in the front seat, who had been addressed as Monsieur Le Quoi, had arisen with some difficulty, owing to the impediment of his overcoats, and steadying himself by placing one hand on the stool of the charioteer, with the other he removed his cap, and bowing politely to the Judge and profoundly to Elizabeth, he paid his compliments.

“Cover thy poll, Gaul, cover thy poll,” cried the driver, who was Mr. Richard Jones; “cover thy poll, or the frost will pluck out the remnant of thy locks. Had the hairs on the head of Absalom been as scarce as thine, he might have been living to this day.” The jokes of Richard never failed of exciting risibility, for he uniformly did honor to his own wit; and he enjoyed a hearty laugh on the present occasion, while Mr. Le Quoi resumed his seat with a polite reciprocation in his mirth. The clergyman, for such was the office of Mr. Grant, modestly, though quite affectionately, exchanged his greetings with the travellers also, when Richard prepared to turn the heads of his horses homeward.

It was in the quarry alone that he could effect this object, without ascending to the summit of the mountain. A very considerable excavation had been made in the side of the hill, at the point where Richard had succeeded in stopping the sleighs, from which the stones used for building in the village were ordinarily quarried, and in which he now attempted to turn his team. Passing itself was a task of difficulty, and frequently of danger, in that narrow road; but Richard had to meet the additional risk of turning his four-in-hand. The black civilly volunteered his services to take off the leaders, and the Judge very earnestly seconded the measure with his advice. Richard treated both proposals with great disdain.

“Why, and wherefore. Cousin ‘Duke?” he exclaimed, a little angrily; “the horses are gentle as lambs. You know that I broke the leaders myself, and the pole-horses are too near my whip to be restive. Here is Mr. Le Quoi, now, who must know something about driving, because he has rode out so often with me; I will leave it to Mr. Le Quoi whether there is any danger.”

It was not in the nature of the Frenchman to disappoint expectations so confidently formed; although he cat looking down the precipice which fronted him, as Richard turned his leaders into the quarry, with a pair of eyes that stood out like those of lobsters. The German’s muscles were unmoved, but his quick sight scanned each movement. Mr. Grant placed his hands on the side of the sleigh, in preparation for a spring, but moral timidity deterred him from taking the leap that bodily apprehension strongly urged him to attempt.

Richard, by a sudden application of the whip, succeeded in forcing the leaders into the snow-bank that covered the quarry; but the instant that the impatient animals suffered by the crust, through which they broke at each step, they positively refused to move an inch farther in that direction. On the contrary, finding that the cries and blows of their driver were redoubled at this juncture, the leaders backed upon the pole-horses, who in their turn backed the sleigh. Only a single log lay above the pile which upheld the road on the side toward the valley, and this was now buried in the snow. The sleigh was easily breed across so slight an impediment, and before Richard became conscious of his danger one-half of the vehicle Was projected over a precipice, which fell perpendicularly more than a hundred feet. The Frenchman, who by his position had a full view of their threatened flight, instinctively threw his body as far forward as possible, and cried,

“Oh! mon cher Monsieur Deeck! mon Dieu! que faites vous!”

“Donner und blitzen, Richart!” exclaimed the veteran German, looking over the side of the sleigh with unusual emotion, “put you will preak ter sleigh and kilt ter horses!”

“Good Mr. Jones,” said the clergyman, “be prudent, good sir — be careful.”

“Get up, obstinate devils!” cried Richard, catching a bird’s-eye view of his situation, and in his eagerness to move forward kicking the stool on which he sat— “get up, I say — Cousin ‘Duke, I shall have to sell the grays too; they are the worst broken horses — Mr. Le Quoi” Richard was too much agitated to regard his pronunciation, of which he was commonly a little vain: “Monsieur La Quoi, pray get off my leg; you hold my leg so tight that it’s no wonder the horses back.”

“Merciful Providence!” exclaimed the Judge; “they will be all killed!” Elizabeth gave a piercing shriek, and the black of Agamemnon’s face changed to a muddy white.

At this critical moment, the young hunter, who during the salutations of the parties had sat in rather sullen silence, sprang from the sleigh of Marmaduke to the heads of the refractory leaders. The horses, which were yet suffering under the injudicious and somewhat random blows of Richard, were dancing up and down with that ominous movement that threatens a sudden and uncontrollable start, still pressing backward. The youth gave the leaders a powerful jerk, and they plunged aside, and re-entered the road in the position in which they were first halted. The sleigh was whirled from its dangerous position, and upset, with the runners outward. The German and the divine were thrown, rather unceremoniously, into the highway, but without danger to their bones. Richard appeared in the air, describing the segment of a circle, of which the reins were the radii, and landed, at the distance of some fifteen feet, in that snow-bank which the horses had dreaded, right end uppermost. Here, as he instinctively grasped the reins, as drowning men seize at straws, he admirably served the purpose of an anchor. The Frenchman, who was on his legs, in the act of springing from the sleigh, took an aerial flight also, much in the attitude which boys assume when they play leap-frog, and, flying off in a tangent to the curvature of his course, came into the snow-bank head foremost, w-here he remained, exhibiting two lathy legs on high, like scarecrows waving in a corn-field. Major Hartmann, whose self-possession had been admirably preserved during the whole evolution, was the first of the party that gained his feet and his voice.

“Ter deyvel, Richart!” he exclaimed in a voice half serious, half-comical, “put you unload your sleigh very hautily!”

It may be doubtful whether the attitude in which Mr. Grant continued for an instant after his overthrow was the one into which he had been thrown, or was assumed, in humbling himself before the Power that he reverenced, in thanksgiving at his escape. When he rose from his knees, he began to gaze about him, with anxious looks, after the welfare of his companions, while every joint in his body trembled with nervous agitation. There was some confusion in the faculties of Mr. Jones also: but as the mist gradually cleared from before his eyes, he saw that all was safe, and, with an air of great self-satisfaction, he cried, “Well — that was neatly saved, anyhow! — it was a lucky thought in me to hold on to the reins, or the fiery devils would have been over the mountain by this time. How well I recovered myself, ‘Duke! Another moment would have been too late; but I knew just the spot where to touch the off-leader; that blow under his right flank, and the sudden jerk I gave the rein, brought them round quite in rule, I must own myself.” *

* The spectators, from immemorial usage, have a right to laugh at the

casualties of a sleigh ride; and the Judge was no sooner certain that

no one was done than he made full use of the privilege.

“Thou jerk! thou recover thyself, Dickon!” he said; “but for that brave lad yonder, thou and thy horses, or rather mine, would have been dashed to pieces — but where is Monsieur Le Quoi?”

“Oh! mon cher Juge! mon ami!” cried a smothered voice, “praise be God, I live; vill you, Mister Agamemnon, be pleas come down ici, and help me on my leg?”

The divine and the negro seized the incarcerated Gaul by his legs and extricated him from a snow-bank of three feet in depth, whence his voice had sounded as from the tombs. The thoughts of Mr. Le Quoi, immediately on his liberation, were not extremely collected; and, when he reached the light, he threw his eyes upward, in order to examine the distance he had fallen. His good-humor returned, however, with a knowledge of his safety, though it was some little time before he clearly comprehended the case.

“What, monsieur,” said Richard, who was busily assisting the black in taking off the leaders; “are you there? I thought I saw you flying toward the top of the mountain just now.”

“Praise be God, I no fly down into the lake,” returned the Frenchman, with a visage that was divided between pain, occasioned by a few large scratches that he had received in forcing his head through the crust, and the look of complaisance that seemed natural to his pliable features.

“Ah! mon cher Mister Deeck, vat you do next? — dere be noting you no try.”

“The next thing, I trust, will be to learn to drive,” said the Judge, who bad busied himself in throwing the buck, together with several other articles of baggage, from his own sleigh into the snow; “here are seats for you all, gentlemen; the evening grows piercingly cold, and the hour approaches for the service of Mr. Grant; we will leave friend Jones to repair the damages, with the assistance of Agamemnon, and hasten to a warm fire. Here, Dickon, are a few articles of Bess’ trumpery, that you can throw into your sleigh when ready; and there is also a deer of my taking, that I will thank you to bring. Aggy! remember that there will be a visit from Santa Claus * to-night.”

* The periodical visits of St. Nicholas, or Santa Claus, as he is

termed, were never forgotten among the inhabitants of New York, until

the emigration from New England brought in the opinions and usages of

the Puritans, like the “bon homme de Noel.” he arrives at each

Christmas.

The black grinned, conscious of the bribe that was offered him for silence on the subject of the deer, while Richard, without in the least waiting for the termination of his cousin’s speech, began his reply:

“Learn to drive, sayest thou, Cousin ‘Duke? Is there a man in the county who knows more of horse-flesh than myself? Who broke in the filly, that no one else dare mount, though your coachman did pretend that he had tamed her before I took her in hand; but anybody could see that he lied — he was a great liar, that John — what’s that, a buck?” Richard abandoned the horses, and ran to the spot where Marmaduke had thrown the deer, “It is a buck! I am amazed! Yes, here are two holes in him, he has fired both barrels, and hit him each time, Egod! how Marmaduke will brag! he is a prodigious bragger about any small matter like this now; well, to think that ‘Duke has killed a buck before Christmas! There will be no such thing as living with him — they are both bad shots though, mere chance — mere chance — now, I never fired twice at a cloven foot in my life — it is hit or miss with me — dead or run away-had it been a bear, or a wild-cat, a man might have wanted both barrels. Here! you Aggy! how far off was the Judge when this buck was shot?”

“Oh! massa Richard, maybe a ten rod,” cried the black, bending under one of the horses, with the pretence of fastening a buckle, but in reality to conceal the grin that opened a mouth from ear to ear.

“Ten rod!” echoed the other; “way, Aggy, the deer I Killed last winter ‘was at twenty — yes! if anything it was nearer thirty than twenty. I wouldn’t shoot at a deer at ten rod: besides, you may remember, Aggy, I only fired once.”

“Yes, massa Richard, I ‘member ‘em! Natty Bumppo fire t’oder gun. You know, sir, all ‘e folks say Natty kill him.”

“The folks lie, you black devil!” exclaimed Richard in great heat. “I have not shot even a gray squirrel these four years, to which that old rascal has not laid claim, or some one else for him. This is a damned envious world that we live in — people are always for dividing the credit at a thing, in order to bring down merit to their own level. Now they have a story about the Patent,* that Hiram Doolittle helped to plan the steeple to St. Paul’s; when Hiram knows that it is entirely mine; a little taken front a print of his namesake in London, I own; but essentially, as to all points of genius, my own.”

* The grants of land, made either by the crown or the state, were but

letters patent under the great seal, and the term “patent” is usually

applied to any district of extent thus conceded; though under the

crown’, manorial rights being often granted with the soil, in the

older counties the word “manor” is frequently used.  There are many

manors in New York though all political and judicial rights have

ceased.

“I don’t know where he come from,” said the black, losing every mark of humor in an expression of admiration, “but eb’rybody say, he wounerful handsome.”

“And well they may say so, Aggy,” cried Richard, leaving the buck and walking up to the negro with the air of a man who has new interest awakened within him, “I think I may say, without bragging, that it is the handsomest and the most scientific country church in America. I know that the Connecticut settlers talk about their West Herfield meeting-house; but I never believe more than half what they say, they are such unconscionable braggers. Just as you have got a thing done, if they see it likely to be successful, they are always for interfering; and then it’s tea to one but they lay claim to half, or even all of the credit. You may remember, Aggy, when I painted the sign of the bold dragoon for Captain Hollister there was that fellow, who was about town laying brick-dust on the houses, came one day and offered to mix what I call the streaky black, for the tail and mane; and then, because it looks like horse-hair, he tells everybody that the sign was painted by himself and Squire Jones. If Marmaduke don’t send that fellow off the Patent, he may ornament his village with his own hands for me,” Here Richard paused a moment, and cleared his throat by a loud hem, while the negro, who was all this time busily engaged in preparing the sleigh, proceeded with his work in respectful silence. Owing to the religious scruples of the Judge, Aggy was the servant of Richard, who had his services for a time,* and who, of course, commanded a legal claim to the respect of the young negro. But when any dispute between his lawful and his real master occurred, the black felt too much deference for both to express any opinion.

* The manumission of the slaves in New York has been gradual.  When

public opinion became strong in their favor, then grew up a custom of

buying the services of a slave, for six or eight years, with a

condition to liberate him at the end of the period.  Then the law

provided that all born after a certain day should be free, the males

at twenty — eight and the females at twenty-five.  After this the owner

was obliged to cause his servants to be taught to read and write

before they reached the age of eighteen, and, finally, the few that

remained were all unconditionally liberated in 1826, or after the

publication of this tale.  It was quite usual for men more or less

connected with the Quakers, who never held slaves to adopt the first

expedient.

In the mean while, Richard continued watching the negro as he fastened buckle after buckle, until, stealing a look of consciousness toward the other, he continued: “Now, if that young man who was in your sleigh is a real Connecticut settler, he will be telling everybody how he saved my horses, when, if he had let them alone for half a minute longer, I would have brought them in much better, without upsetting, with the whip amid rein — it spoils a horse to give him his heal, I should not wonder if I had to sell the whole team, just for that one jerk he gave them,” Richard paused and hemmed; for his conscience smote him a little for censuring a man who had just saved his life. “Who is the lad, Aggy — I don’t remember to have seen him before?”

The black recollected the hint about Santa Claus; and, while he briefly explained how they had taken up the person in question on the top of the mountain, he forbore to add anything concerning the accident or the wound, only saying that he believed the youth was a stranger. It was so usual for men of the first rank to take into their sleighs any one they found toiling through the snow, that Richard was perfectly satisfied with this explanation. He heard Aggy with great attention, and then remarked: “Well, if the lad has not been spoiled by the people in Templeton he may be a modest young man, and, as he certainly meant well, I shall take some notice of him — perhaps he is land-hunting — I say, Aggy, maybe he is out hunting?”

“Eh! yes, massa Richard,” said the black, a little confused; for, as Richard did all the flogging, he stood in great terror of his master, in the main— “Yes, sir, I b’lieve he be.”

“Had he a pack and an axe?”

“No, sir, only he rifle.”

“Rifle!” exclaimed Richard, observing the confusion of The negro, which now amounted to terror. “By Jove, he killed the deer! I knew that Marmaduke couldn’t kill a buck on the jump — how was it, Aggy? Tell me all about it, and I’ll roast ‘Duke quicker than he can roast his saddle — how was it, Aggy? the lad shot the buck, and the Judge bought it, ha! and he is taking the youth down to get the pay?”

The pleasure of this discovery had put Richard in such a good humor, that the negro’s fears in some measure vanished, and he remembered the stocking of Santa Claus. After a gulp or two, he made out to reply;

“You forgit a two shot, sir?”

“Don’t lie, you black rascal!” cried Richard, stepping on the snow-bank to measure the distance from his lash to the negro’s back; “speak truth, or I trounce you.” While speaking, the stock was slowly rising in Richard’s right hand, and the lash drawing through his left, in the scientific manner with which drummers apply the cat; and Agamemnon, after turning each side of himself toward his master, and finding both equally unwilling to remain there, fairly gave in. In a very few words he made his master acquainted with the truth, at the same time earnestly conjuring Richard to protect him from the displeasure of the lodge “I’ll do it, boy, I’ll do it,” cried the other, rubbing his hands with delight; “say nothing, but leave me to manage Duke. I have a great mind to leave the deer on the hill, and to make the fellow send for his own carcass; but no, I will let Marmaduke tell a few bounces about it before I come out upon him. Come, hurry in, Aggy, I must help to dress the lad’s wound; this Yankee* doctor knows nothing of surgery — I had to hold out Milligan’s leg for him, while he cut it off.”

* In America the term Yankee is of local meaning.  It is thought to be

derived from the manner in which the Indians of New England pronounced

the word “English,” or “Yengeese.” New York being originally a Dutch

province, the term of course was not known there, and Farther south

different dialects among the natives themselves probably produced a

different pronunciation Marmaduke and his cousin, being Pennsylvanians

by birth, were not Yankees in the American sense of the word.

Richard was now seated on the stool again, and, the black taking the hind seat, the steeds were put in motion toward home, As they dashed down the hill on a fast trot, the driver occasionally turned his face to Aggy, and continued speaking; for, notwithstanding their recent rupture, the most perfect cordiality was again existing between them, “This goes to prove that I turned the horses with the reins, for no man who is shot in the right shoulder can have strength enough to bring round such obstinate devils. I knew I did it from the first; but I did not want to multiply words with Marmaduke about it. — Will you bite, you villain? — hip, boys, hip! Old Natty, too, that is the best of it! — Well, well— ‘Duke will say no more about my deer — and the Judge fired both barrels, and hit nothing but a poor lad who was behind a pine-tree. I must help that quack to take out the buckshot for the poor fellow.” In this manner Richard descended the mountain; the bells ringing, and his tongue going, until they entered the village, when the whole attention of the driver was devoted to a display of his horsemanship, to the admiration of all the gaping women and children who thronged the windows to witness the arrival of their landlord and his daughter.

CHAPTER V

“Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made,

And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ th’ heel;

There was no link to color Peter’s hat,

And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing;

There were none fine, but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory.”

— Shakespeare.

After winding along the side of the mountain, the road, on reaching the gentle declivity which lay at the base of the hill, turned at a right angle to its former course, and shot down an inclined plane, directly into the village of Templeton. The rapid little stream that we have already mentioned was crossed by a bridge of hewn timber, which manifested, by its rude construction and the unnecessary size of its framework, both the value of Labor and the abundance of materials. This little torrent, whose dark waters gushed over the limestones that lined its bottom, was nothing less than one of the many sources of the Susquehanna; a river to which the Atlantic herself has extended an arm in welcome. It was at this point that the powerful team of Mr. Jones brought him up to the more sober steeds of our travellers. A small hill was risen, and Elizabeth found herself at once amidst the incongruous dwellings of the village. The street was of the ordinary width, notwithstanding the eye might embrace, in one view, thousands and tens of thousands of acres, that were yet tenanted only by the beasts of the forest. But such had been the will of her father, and such had also met the wishes of his followers. To them the road that made the most rapid approaches to the condition of the old, or, as they expressed it, the down countries, was the most pleasant; and surely nothing could look more like civilization than a city, even if it lay in a wilderness! The width of the street, for so it was called, might have been one hundred feet; but the track for the sleighs was much more limited. On either side of the highway were piled huge heaps of logs, that were daily increasing rather than diminishing in size, notwithstanding the enormous fires that might be seen through every window.

The last object at which Elizabeth gazed when they renewed their journey, after their encountre with Richard, was the sun, as it expanded in the refraction of the horizon, and over whose disk the dark umbrage of a pine was stealing, while it slowly sank behind the western hills. But his setting rays darted along the openings of the mountain he was on, and lighted the shining covering of the birches, until their smooth and glossy coats nearly rivalled the mountain sides in color. The outline of each dark pine was delineated far in the depths of the forest, and the rocks, too smooth and too perpendicular to retain the snow that had fallen, brightened, as if smiling at the leave-taking of the luminary. But at each step as they descended, Elizabeth observed that they were leaving the day behind them. Even the heartless but bright rays of a December sun were missed as they glided into the cold gloom of the valley. Along the summits of the mountains in the eastern range, it is true, the light still lingered, receding step by step from the earth into the clouds that were gathering with the evening mist, about the limited horizon, but the frozen lake lay without a shadow on its bosom; the dwellings were becoming already gloomy and indistinct, and the wood-cutters were shouldering their axes and preparing to enjoy, throughout the long evening before them, the comforts of those exhilarating fires that their labor had been supplying with fuel. They paused only to gaze at the passing sleighs, to lift their caps to Marmaduke, to exchange familiar nods with Richard, and each disappeared in his dwelling. The paper curtains dropped behind our travellers in every window, shutting from the air even the firelight of the cheerful apartments, and when the horses of her father turned with a rapid whirl into the open gate of the mansion-house, and nothing stood before her but the cold dreary stone walls of the building, as she approached them through an avenue of young and leafless poplars, Elizabeth felt as if all the loveliness of the mountain-view had vanished like the fancies of a dream. Marmaduke retained so much of his early habits as to reject the use of bells, but the equipage of Mr. Jones came dashing through the gate after them, sending its jingling sounds through every cranny of the building, and in a moment the dwelling was in an uproar.

On a stone platform, of rather small proportions, considering the size of the building, Richard and Hiram had, conjointly, reared four little columns of wood, which in their turn supported the shingled roofs of the portico — this was the name that Mr. Jones had thought proper to give to a very plain, covered entrance. The ascent to the platform was by five or six stone steps, somewhat hastily laid together, and which the frost had already begun to move from their symmetrical positions, But the evils of a cold climate and a superficial construction did not end here. As the steps lowered the platform necessarily fell also, and the foundations actually left the super structure suspended in the air, leaving an open space of a foot between the base of the pillars and the stones on which they had originally been placed. It was lucky for the whole fabric that the carpenter, who did the manual part of the labor, had fastened the canopy of this classic entrance so firmly to the side of the house that, when the base deserted the superstructure in the manner we have described, and the pillars, for the want of a foundation, were no longer of service to support the roof, the roof was able to uphold the pillars. Here was, indeed, an unfortunate gap left in the ornamental part of Richard’s column; but, like the window in Aladdin’s palace, it seemed only left in order to prove the fertility of its master’s resources. The composite order again offered its advantages, and a second edition of the base was given, as the booksellers say, with additions and improvements. It was necessarily larger, and it was properly ornamented with mouldings; still the steps continued to yield, and, at the moment when Elizabeth returned to her father’s door, a few rough wedges were driven under the pillars to keep them steady, and to prevent their weight from separating them from the pediment which they ought to have supported.

From the great door which opened into the porch emerged two or three female domestics, and one male. The latter was bareheaded, but evidently more dressed than usual, and on the whole was of so singular a formation and attire as to deserve a more minute description. He was about five feet in height, of a square and athletic frame, with a pair of shoulders that would have fitted a grenadier. His low stature was rendered the more striking by a bend forward that he was in the habit of assuming, for no apparent reason, unless it might be to give greater freedom to his arms, in a particularly sweeping swing, that they constantly practised when their master was in motion. His face was long, of a fair complexion, burnt to a fiery red; with a snub nose, cocked into an inveterate pug; a mouth of enormous dimensions, filled with fine teeth; and a pair of blue eyes, that seemed to look about them on surrounding objects with habitual contempt. His head composed full one-fourth of his whole length, and the cue that depended from its rear occupied another. He wore a coat of very light drab cloth, with buttons as large as dollars, bearing the impression of a “foul anchor.” The skirts were extremely long, reaching quite to the calf, and were broad in proportion. Beneath, there were a vest and breeches of red plush, somewhat worn and soiled. He had shoes with large buckles, and stockings of blue and white stripes.

This odd-looking figure reported himself to be a native of the county of Cornwall, in the island of Great Britain. His boyhood had passed in the neighborhood of the tin mines, and his youth as the cabin-boy of a smuggler, between Falmouth and Guernsey. From this trade he had been impressed into the service of his king, and, for the want of a better, had been taken into the cabin, first as a servant, and finally as steward to the captain. Here he acquired the art of making chowder, lobster, and one or two other sea-dishes, and, as he was fond of saying, had an opportunity of seeing the world. With the exception of one or two outports in France, and an occasional visit to Portsmouth, Plymouth, and Deal, he had in reality seen no more of mankind, however, than if he had been riding a donkey in one of his native mines. But, being discharged from the navy at the peace of ‘83, he declared that, as he had seen all the civilized parts of the earth, he was inclined to make a trip to the wilds of America We will not trace him in his brief wanderings, under the influence of that spirit of emigration that some times induces a dapper Cockney to quit his home, and lands him, before the sound of Bow-bells is out of his ears, within the roar of the cataract of Niagara; but shall only add that at a very early day, even before Elizabeth had been sent to school, he had found his way into the family of Marmaduke Temple, where, owing to a combination of qualities that will be developed in the course of the tale, he held, under Mr. Jones, the office of major-domo. The name of this worthy was Benjamin Penguillan, according to his own pronunciation; but, owing to a marvellous tale that he was in the habit of relating, concerning the length of time he had to labor to keep his ship from sinking after Rodney’s victory, he had universally acquired the nick name of Ben Pump.

By the side of Benjamin, and pressing forward as if a little jealous of her station, stood a middle-aged woman, dressed in calico, rather violently contrasted in color with a tall, meagre, shapeless figure, sharp features, and a somewhat acute expression of her physiognomy. Her teeth were mostly gone, and what did remain were of a tight yellow. The skin of her nose was drawn tightly over the member, to hang in large wrinkles in her cheeks and about her mouth. She took snuff in such quantities as to create the impression that she owed the saffron of her lips and the adjacent parts to this circumstance; but it was the unvarying color of her whole face. She presided over the female part of the domestic arrangements, in the capacity of housekeeper; was a spinster, and bore the name of Remarkable Pettibone. To Elizabeth she was an entire stranger, having been introduced into the family since the death of her mother.

In addition to these, were three or four subordinate menials, mostly black, some appearing at the principal door, and some running from the end of the building, where stood the entrance to the cellar-kitchen.

Besides these, there was a general rush from Richard’s kennel, accompanied with every canine tone from the howl of the wolf-dog to the petulant bark of the terrier. The master received their boisterous salutations with a variety of imitations from his own throat, when the dogs, probably from shame of being outdone, ceased their out-cry. One stately, powerful mastiff, who wore round his neck a brass collar, with “M. T.” engraved in large letters on the rim, alone was silent. He walked majestically, amid the confusion, to the side of the Judge, where, receiving a kind pat or two, he turned to Elizabeth, who even stooped to kiss him, as she called him kindly by the name of “Old Brave.” The animal seemed to know her, as she ascended the steps, supported by Monsieur Le Quoi and her father, in order to protect her from falling on the ice with which they were covered. He looked wistfully after her figure, and when the door closed on the whole party, he laid himself in a kennel that was placed nigh by, as if conscious that the house contained some thing of additional value to guard.

Elizabeth followed her father, who paused a moment to whisper a message to one of his domestics, into a large hall, that was dimly lighted by two candies, placed in high, old-fashioned, brass candlesticks. The door closed, and the party were at once removed from an atmosphere that was nearly at zero, to one of sixty degrees above. In the centre of the hall stood an enormous stove, the sides of which appeared to be quivering with heat; from which a large, straight pipe, leading through the ceiling above, carried off the smoke. An iron basin, containing water, was placed on this furnace, for such only it could be called, in order to preserve a proper humidity in the apartment. The room was carpeted, and furnished with convenient, substantial furniture, some of which was brought from the city, the remainder having been manufactured by the mechanics of Templeton. There was a sideboard of mahogany, inlaid with ivory, and bearing enormous handles of glittering brass, and groaning under the piles of silver plate. Near it stood a set of prodigious tables, made of the wild cherry, to imitate the imported wood of the sideboard, but plain and without ornament of any kind. Opposite to these stood a smaller table, formed from a lighter-colored wood, through the grains of which the wavy lines of the curled maple of the mountains were beautifully undulating. Near to this, in a corner, stood a heavy, old-fashioned, brass-faced clock, incased in a high box, of the dark hue of the black walnut from the seashore. An enormous settee, or sofa, covered with light chintz, stretched along the walls for nearly twenty feet on one side of the hail; and chairs of wood, painted a light yellow, with black lines that were drawn by no very steady hand, were ranged opposite, and in the intervals between the other pieces of furniture. A Fahrenheit’s thermometer in a mahogany case, and with a barometer annexed, was hung against the wall, at some little distance from the stove, which Benjamin consulted, every half hour, with prodigious exactitude. Two small glass chandeliers were suspended at equal distances between the stove and outer doors, one of which opened at each end of the hall, and gilt lustres were affixed to the frame work of the numerous side-doors that led from the apartment. Some little display in architecture had been made in constructing these frames and casings, which were surmounted with pediments, that bore each a little pedestal in its centre; on these pedestals were small busts in blacked plaster-of-Paris. The style of the pedestals as well as the selection of the busts were all due to the taste of Mr. Jones. On one stood Homer, a most striking likeness, Richard affirmed, “as any one might see, for it was blind,” Another bore the image of a smooth-visaged gentleman with a pointed beard, whom he called Shakespeare. A third ornament was an urn, which; from its shape, Richard was accustomed to say, intended to represent itself as holding the ashes of Dido. A fourth was certainly old Franklin, in his cap and spectacles. A fifth as surely bore the dignified composure of the face of Washington. A sixth was a nondescript, representing “a man with a shirt-collar open,” to use the language of Richard, “with a laurel on his head-it was Julius Caesar or Dr. Faustus; there were good reasons for believing either.”

The walls were hung with a dark lead-colored English paper that represented Britannia weeping over the tomb of Wolfe, The hero himself stood at a little distance from the mourning goddess, and at the edge of the paper. Each width contained the figure, with the slight exception of one arm of the general, which ran over on the next piece, so that when Richard essayed, with his own hands, to put together this delicate outline, some difficulties occurred that prevented a nice conjunction; and Britannia had reason to lament, in addition to the loss of her favorite’s life, numberless cruel amputations of his right arm.

The luckless cause of these unnatural divisions now announced his presence in the halt by a loud crack of his whip.

“Why, Benjamin! you Ben Pump! is this the manner in which you receive the heiress?” he cried. “Excuse him, Cousin Elizabeth. The arrangements were too intricate to be trusted to every one; but now I am here, things will go on better. — Come, light up, Mr. Penguillan, light up, light up, and let us see One another’s faces. Well, ‘Duke, I have brought home your deer; what is to be done with it, ha?”

“By the Lord, squire,” commenced Benjamin, in reply, first giving his mouth a wipe with the back of his hand, “if this here thing had been ordered sum’at earlier in the day, it might have been got up, d’ye see, to your liking. I had mustered all hands and was exercising candles, when you hove in sight; but when the women heard your bells they started an end, as if they were riding the boat swain’s colt; and if-so-be there is that man in the house who can bring up a parcel of women when they have got headway on them, until they’ve run out the end of their rope, his name is not Benjamin Pump. But Miss Betsey here must have altered more than a privateer in disguise, since she has got on her woman’s duds, if she will take offence with an old fellow for the small matter of lighting a few candles.”

Elizabeth and her father continued silent, for both experienced the same sensation on entering the hall. The former had resided one year in the building before she left home for school, and the figure of its lamented mistress was missed by both husband and child.

But candles had been placed in the chandeliers and lustres, and the attendants were so far recovered from surprise as to recollect their use; the oversight was immediately remedied, and in a minute the apartment was in a blaze of light.

The slight melancholy of our heroine and her father was banished by this brilliant interruption; and the whole party began to lay aside the numberless garments they had worn in the air.

During this operation Richard kept up a desultory dialogue with the different domestics, occasionally throwing out a remark to the Judge concerning the deer; but as his conversation at such moments was much like an accompaniment on a piano, a thing that is heard without being attended to, we will not undertake the task of recording his diffuse discourse,

The instant that Remarkable Pettibone had executed her portion of the labor in illuminating, she returned to a position near Elizabeth, with the apparent motive of receiving the clothes that the other threw aside, but in reality to examine, with an air of curiosity — not unmixed with jealousy — the appearance of the lady who was to supplant her in the administration of their domestic economy. The housekeeper felt a little appalled, when, after cloaks, coats, shawls, and socks had been taken off in succession, the large black hood was removed, and the dark ringlets, shining like the raven’s wing, fell from her head, and left the sweet but commanding features of the young lady exposed to view. Nothing could be fairer and more spotless than the forehead of Elizabeth, and preserve the appearance of life and health. Her nose would have been called Grecian, but for a softly rounded swell, that gave in character to the feature what it lost in beauty. Her mouth, at first sight, seemed only made for love; but, the instant that its muscles moved, every expression that womanly dignity could utter played around it with the flexibility of female grace. It spoke not only to the ear, but to the eye. So much, added to a form of exquisite proportions, rather full and rounded for her years, and of the tallest medium height, she inherited from her mother. Even the color of her eye, the arched brows, and the long silken lashes, came from the same source; but its expression was her father’s. Inert and composed, it was soft, benevolent, and attractive; but it could be roused, and that without much difficulty. At such moments it was still beautiful, though it was a little severe. As the last shawl fell aside, and she stood dressed in a rich blue riding-habit, that fitted her form with the nicest exactness; her cheeks burning with roses, that bloomed the richer for the heat of the hall, and her eyes lightly suffused with moisture that rendered their ordinary beauty more dazzling, and with every feature of her speaking countenance illuminated by the lights that flared around her, Remarkable felt that her own power had ended.

The business of unrobing had been simultaneous. Marmaduke appeared in a suit of plain, neat black; Monsieur Le Quoi in a coat of snuff-color, covering a vest of embroidery, with breeches, and silk stockings, and buckles — that were commonly thought to be of paste. Major Hartmann wore a coat of sky-blue, with large brass buttons, a club wig, and boots; and Mr. Richard Jones had set off his dapper little form in a frock of bottle-green, with bullet-buttons, by one of which the sides were united over his well-rounded waist, opening above, so as to show a jacket of red cloth, with an undervest of flannel, faced with green velvet, and below, so as to exhibit a pair of buckskin breeches, with long, soiled, white top-boots, and spurs; one of the latter a little bent, from its recent attacks on the stool.

When the young lady had extricated herself from her garments, she was at liberty to gaze about her, and to examine not only the household over which she was to preside, but also the air and manner in which the domestic arrangements were conducted. Although there was much incongruity in the furniture and appearance of the hall, there was nothing mean. The floor was carpeted, even in its remotest corners. The brass candlesticks, the gilt lustres, and the glass chandeliers, whatever might be their keeping as to propriety and taste, were admirably kept as to all the purposes of use and comfort. They were clean and glittering in the strong light of the apartment.

Compared with the chill aspect of the December night without, the warmth and brilliancy of the apartment produced an effect that was not unlike enchantment. Her eye had not time to detect, in detail, the little errors which in truth existed, but was glancing around her in de light, when an object arrested her view that was in strong contrast to the smiling faces and neatly attired person ages who had thus assembled to do honor to the heiress of Templeton.

In a corner of the hall near the grand entrance stood the young hunter, unnoticed, and for the moment apparently forgotten. But even the forgetfulness of the Judge, which, under the influence of strong emotion, had banished the recollection of the wound of this stranger, seemed surpassed by the absence of mind in the youth himself. On entering the apartment, he had mechanically lifted his cap, and exposed a head covered with hair that rivalled, in color and gloss, the locks of Elizabeth. Nothing could have wrought a greater transformation than the single act of removing the rough fox-skin cap. If there was much that was prepossessing in the countenance of the young hunter, there was something even noble in the rounded outlines of his head and brow. The very air and manner with which the member haughtily maintained itself over the coarse and even wild attire in which the rest of his frame was clad, bespoke not only familiarity with a splendor that in those new settlements was thought to be unequalled, but something very like contempt also.

The hand that held the cap rested lightly on the little ivory-mounted piano of Elizabeth, with neither rustic restraint nor obtrusive vulgarity. A single finger touched the instrument, as if accustomed to dwell on such places. His other arm was extended to its utmost length, and the hand grasped the barrel of his long rifle with something like convulsive energy. The act and the attitude were both involuntary, and evidently proceeded from a feeling much deeper than that of vulgar surprise. His appearance, connected as it was with the rough exterior of his dress, rendered him entirely distinct from the busy group that were moving across the other end of the long hall, occupied in receiving the travellers and exchanging their welcomes; and Elizabeth continued to gaze at him in wonder. The contraction of the stranger’s brows in creased as his eyes moved slowly from one object to another. For moments the expression of his countenance was fierce, and then again it seemed to pass away in some painful emotion. The arm that was extended bent and brought the hand nigh to his face, when his head dropped upon it, and concealed the wonderfully speaking lineaments.

“We forget, dear sir, the strange gentleman” (for her life Elizabeth could not call him otherwise) “whom we have brought here for assistance, and to whom we owe every attention.”

All eyes were instantly turned in the direction of those of the speaker, and the youth rather proudly elevated his head again, while he answered:

“My wound is trifling, and I believe that Judge Temple sent for a physician the moment we arrived.”

“Certainly,” said Marmaduke: “I have not forgotten the object of thy visit, young man, nor the nature of my debt.

“Oh!” exclaimed Richard, with something of a waggish leer, “thou owest the lad for the venison, I suppose that thou killed, Cousin ‘Duke! Marmaduke! Marmaduke! That was a marvellous tale of thine about the buck! Here, young man, are two dollars for the deer, and Judge Temple can do no less than pay the doctor. I shall charge you nothing for my services, but you shall not fare the worst for that. Come, come, ‘Duke, don’t be down hearted about it; if you missed the buck, you contrived to shoot this poor fellow through a pine-tree. Now I own that you have beat me; I never did such a thing in all my life.”

“And I hope never will,” returned the Judge, “if you are to experience the uneasiness that I have suffered; but be of good cheer, my young friend, the injury must be small, as thou movest thy arm with apparent freedom.

“Don’t make the matter worse, ‘Duke, by pretending to talk about surgery,” interrupted Mr. Jones, with a contemptuous wave of the hand: “it is a science that can only be learned by practice. You know that my grandfather was a doctor, but you haven’t got a drop of medical blood in your veins. These kind of things run in families. All my family by my father’s side had a knack at physic. ‘There was my uncle that was killed at Brandywine — he died as easy again as any other man the regiment, just from knowing how to hold his breath naturally. Few men know how to breathe naturally.”

“I doubt not, Dickon,” returned the Judge, meeting the bright smile which, in spite of himself, stole over the stranger’s features, “that thy family thoroughly under stand the art of letting life slip through their lingers.”

Richard heard him quite coolly, and putting a hand in either pocket of his surcoat, so as to press forward the skirts, began to whistle a tune; but the desire to reply overcame his philosophy, and with great heat he exclaimed:

“You may affect to smile, Judge Temple, at hereditary virtues, if you please; but there is not a man on your Patent who don’t know better. Here, even this young man, who has never seen anything but bears, and deer, and woodchucks, knows better than to believe virtues are not transmitted in families. Don’t you, friend?”

“I believe that vice is not,” said the stranger abruptly; his eye glancing from the father to the daughter.

“The squire is right, Judge,” observed Benjamin, with a knowing nod of his head toward Richard, that bespoke the cordiality between them, “Now, in the old country, the king’s majesty touches for the evil, and that is a disorder that the greatest doctor in the fleet, or for the matter of that admiral either: can’t cure; only the king’s majesty or a man that’s been hanged. Yes, the squire is right; for if-so-be that he wasn’t, how is it that the seventh son always is a doctor, whether he ships for the cockpit or not? Now when we fell in with the mounsheers, under De Grasse, d’ye see, we hid aboard of us a doctor— “

“Very well, Benjamin,” interrupted Elizabeth, glancing her eyes from the hunter to Monsieur Le Quoi, who was most politely attending to what fell from each individual in succession, “you shall tell me of that, and all your entertaining adventures together; just now, a room must be prepared, in which the arm of this gentleman can be dressed.”

“I will attend to that myself, Cousin Elizabeth,” observed Richard, somewhat haughtily. “The young man will not suffer because Marmaduke chooses to be a little obstinate. Follow me, my friend, and I will examine the hurt myself.”

“It will be well to wait for the physician,” said the hunter coldly; “he cannot be distant.”

Richard paused and looked at the speaker, a little astonished at the language, and a good deal appalled at the refusal. He construed the latter into an act of hostility, and, placing his hands in the pockets again, he walked up to Mr. Grant, and, putting his face close to the countenance of the divine, said in an undertone:

“Now, mark my words — there will be a story among the settlers, that all our necks would have been broken but for that fellow — as if I did not know how to drive. Why, you might have turned the horses yourself, sir; nothing was easier; it was only pulling hard on the nigh rein, and touching the off flank of the leader. I hope, my dear sir, you are not at all hurt by the upset the lad gave us?”

The reply was interrupted by the entrance of the village physician.

CHAPTER VI

“And about his shelves,

A beggarly account of empty boxes,

Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds.

Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,

Were thinly scattered to make up a show.”

— Shakespeare.

Doctor Elnathan Todd, for such was the name of the man of physic, was commonly thought to be, among the settlers, a gentleman of great mental endowments, and he was assuredly of rare personal proportions. In height he measured, without his shoes, exactly six feet and four inches. His hands, feet, and knees corresponded in every respect with this formidable stature; but every other part of his frame appeared to have been intended for a man several sizes smaller, if we except the length of the limbs. His shoulders were square, in one sense at least, being in a right line from one side to the other; but they were so narrow, that the long dangling arms they supported seemed to issue out of his back. His neck possessed, in an eminent degree, the property of length to which we have alluded, and it was topped by a small bullet-head that exhibited on one side a bush of bristling brown hair and on the other a short, twinkling visage, that appeared to maintain a constant struggle with itself in order to look wise. He was the youngest son of a farmer in the western part of Massachusetts, who, being in some what easy circumstances, had allowed this boy to shoot up to the height we have mentioned, without the ordinary interruptions of field labor, wood-chopping, and such other toils as were imposed on his brothers. Elnathan was indebted for this exemption from labor in some measure to his extraordinary growth, which, leaving him pale, inanimate, and listless, induced his tender mother to pronounce him “a sickly boy, and one that was not equal to work, but who might earn a living comfortably enough by taking to pleading law, or turning minister, or doctoring, or some such like easy calling.’ Still, there was great uncertainty which of these vocations the youth was best endowed to fill; but, having no other employment, the stripling was constantly lounging about the homestead,” munching green apples and hunting for sorrel; when the same sagacious eye that had brought to light his latent talents seized upon this circumstance as a clew to his future path through the turmoils of the world. “Elnathan was cut out for a doctor, she knew, for he was forever digging for herbs, and tasting all kinds of things that grow’d about the lots. Then again he had a natural love for doctor-stuff, for when she had left the bilious pills out for her man, all nicely covered with maple sugar just ready to take, Nathan had come in and swallowed them for all the world as if they were nothing, while Ichabod (her husband) could never get one down without making such desperate faces that it was awful to look on.”

This discovery decided the matter. Elnathan, then about fifteen, was, much like a wild colt, caught and trimmed by clipping his bushy locks; dressed in a suit of homespun, dyed in the butternut bark; furnished with a “New Testament” and a “Webster’s Spelling Book,” and sent to school. As the boy was by nature quite shrewd enough, and had previously, at odd times, laid the foundations of reading, writing, and arithmetic, he was soon conspicuous in the school for his learning. The delighted mother had the gratification of hearing, from the lips of the master, that her son was a “prodigious boy, and far above all his class.” He also thought that “the youth had a natural love for doctoring, as he had known him frequently advise the smaller children against eating to much; and, once or twice, when the ignorant little things had persevered in opposition to Elnathan’s advice, he had known her son empty the school-baskets with his own mouth, to prevent the consequences.”

Soon after this comfortable declaration from his school master, the lad was removed to the house of the village doctor, a gentleman whose early career had not been unlike that of our hero where he was to be seen sometimes watering a horse, at others watering medicines, blue, yellow, and red: then again he might be noticed lolling under an apple-tree, with Ruddiman’s Latin Grammar in his hand, and a corner of Denman’s Midwifery sticking out of a pocket; for his instructor held it absurd to teach his pupil how to dispatch a patient regularly from this world, before he knew how to bring him into it.

This kind of life continued for a twelvemonth, when he suddenly appeared at a meeting in a long coat (and well did it deserve the name!) of black homespun, with little bootees, bound with an uncolored calf-skin for the want of red morocco.

Soon after he was seen shaving with a dull razor. Three or four months had scarce elapsed before several elderly ladies were observed hastening toward the house of a poor woman in the village, while others were running to and fro in great apparent distress. One or two boys were mounted, bareback, on horses, and sent off at speed in various directions. Several indirect questions were put concerning the place where the physician was last seen; but all would not do; and at length Elnathan was seen issuing from his door with a very grave air, preceded by a little white-headed boy, out of breath, trotting before him. The following day the youth appeared in the street, as the highway was called, and the neighborhood was much edified by the additional gravity of his air. The same week he bought a new razor; and the succeeding Sunday he entered the meeting-house with a red silk handkerchief in his hand, and with an extremely demure countenance. In the evening he called upon a young woman of his own class in life, for there were no others to be found, and, when he was left alone with the fair, he was called, for the first time in his life, Dr. Todd, by her prudent mother. The ice once broken in this manner, Elnathan was greeted from every mouth with his official appellation.

Another year passed under the superintendence of the same master, during which the young physician had the credit of “riding with the old doctor,” although they were generally observed to travel different roads. At the end of that period, Dr. Todd attained his legal majority. He then took a jaunt to Boston to purchase medicines, and, as some intimated, to walk the hospital; we know not how the latter might have been, but, if true, he soon walked through it, for he returned within a fortnight, bringing with him a suspicious-looking box, that smelled powerfully of brimstone.

The next Sunday he was married, and the following morning he entered a one-horse sleigh with his bride, having before him the box we have mentioned, with another filled with home-made household linen, a paper-covered trunk with a red umbrella lashed to it, a pair of quite new saddle-bags, and a handbox. The next intelligence that his friends received of the bride and bridegroom was, that the latter was “settled in the new countries, and well to do as a doctor in Templeton, in York State!”

If a Templar would smile at the qualifications of Marmaduke to fill the judicial seat he occupied, we are certain that a graduate of Leyden or Edinburgh would be extremely amused with this true narration of the servitude of Elnathan in the temple of Aesculapius. But the same consolation was afforded to both the jurist and the leech, for Dr. Todd was quite as much on a level with his own peers of the profession in that country, as was Marmaduke with his brethren on the bench.

Time and practice did wonders for the physician. He was naturally humane, but possessed of no small share of moral courage; or, in other words, he was chary of the lives of his patients, and never tried uncertain experiments on such members of society as were considered useful; but, once or twice, when a luckless vagrant had come under his care, he was a little addicted to trying the effects of every phial in his saddle-bags on the strangers constitution. Happily their number was small, and in most cases their natures innocent. By these means Elnathan had acquired a certain degree of knowledge in fevers and agues, and could talk with judgment concerning intermittents, remittents, tertians, quotidians, etc. In certain cutaneous disorders very prevalent in new settlements, he was considered to be infallible; and there was no woman on the Patent but would as soon think of becoming a mother without a husband as without the assistance of Dr. Todd. In short, he was rearing, on this foundation of sand a superstructure cemented by practice, though composed of somewhat brittle materials. He however, occasionally renewed his elementary studies, and, with the observation of a shrewd mind, was comfort ably applying his practice to his theory.

In surgery, having the least experience, and it being a business that spoke directly to the senses, he was most apt to distrust his own powers; but he had applied oils to several burns, cut round the roots of sundry defective teeth, and sewed up the wounds of numberless wood choppers, with considerable éclat, when an unfortunate jobber suffered a fracture of his leg by the tree that he had been felling. It was on this occasion that our hero encountered the greatest trial his nerves and moral feeling had ever sustained. In the hour of need, however, he was not found wanting. Most of the amputations in the new settlements, and they were quite frequent, were per formed by some one practitioner who, possessing originally a reputation, was enabled by this circumstance to acquire an experience that rendered him deserving of it; and Elnathan had been present at one or two of these operations. But on the present occasion the man of practice was not to be obtained, and the duty fell, as a matter of course, to the share of Mr. Todd. He went to work with a kind of blind desperation, observing, at the same time, all the externals of decent gravity and great skill, The sufferer’s name was Milligan, and it was to this event that Richard alluded, when he spoke of assisting the doctor at an amputation by holding the leg! The limb was certainly cut off, and the patient survived the operation. It was, however, two years before poor Milligan ceased to complain that they had buried the leg in so narrow a box that it was straitened for room; he could feel the pain shooting up from the inhumed fragment into the living members. Marmaduke suggested that the fault might lie in the arteries and nerves; but Richard, considering the amputation as part of his own handiwork, strongly repelled the insinuation, at the same time declaring that he had often heard of men who could tell when it was about to rain, by the toes of amputated limbs, After two or three years, notwithstanding, Milligan’s complaints gradually diminished, the leg was dug up, and a larger box furnished, and from that hour no one had heard the sufferer utter another complaint on the subject. This gave the public great confidence in Dr. Todd, whose reputation was hourly increasing, and, luckily for his patients, his information also.

Notwithstanding Dr. Todd’s practice, and his success with the leg, he was not a little appalled on entering the hall of the mansion-house. It was glaring with the light of day; it looked so imposing, compared with the hastily built and scantily furnished apartments which he frequented in his ordinary practice, and contained so many well-dressed persons and anxious faces, that his usually firm nerves were a good deal discomposed. He had heard from the messenger who summoned him, that it was a gun-shot wound, and had come from his own home, wading through the snow, with his saddle-bags thrown over his arm, while separated arteries, penetrated lungs, and injured vitals were whirling through his brain, as if he were stalking over a field of battle, instead of Judge Temple’s peaceable in closure.

The first object that met his eye, as he moved into the room, was Elizabeth in her riding-habit, richly laced with gold cord, her fine form bending toward him, and her face expressing deep anxiety in every one of its beautiful features. The enormous knees of the physician struck each other with a noise that was audible; for, in the absent state of his mind, he mistook her for a general officer, perforated with bullets, hastening from the field of battle to implore assistance. The delusion, however, was but momentary, and his eye glanced rapidly from the daughter to the earnest dignity of the father’s countenance; thence to the busy strut of Richard, who was cooling his impatience at the hunter’s indifference to his assistance, by pacing the hall and cracking his whip; from him to the Frenchman, who had stood for several minutes unheeded with a chair for the lady; thence to Major Hartmann, who was very coolly lighting a pipe three feet long by a candle in one of the chandeliers; thence to Mr. Grant, who was turning over a manuscript with much earnestness at one of the lustres; thence to Remarkable, who stood, with her arms demurely folded before her, surveying, with a look of admiration and envy, the dress and beauty of the young lady; and from her to Benjamin, who, with his feet standing wide apart, and his arms akimbo, was balancing his square little body with the indifference of one who is accustomed to wounds and bloodshed. All of these seemed to be unhurt, and the operator began to breathe more freely; but, before he had time to take a second look, the Judge, advancing, shook him kindly by the hand, and spoke.

“Thou art welcome, my good sir, quite welcome, indeed; here is a youth whom I have unfortunately wounded in shooting a deer this evening, and who requires some of thy assistance.”

“Shooting at a deer, ‘Duke,” interrupted Richard— “shooting at a deer. Who do you think can prescribe, unless he knows the truth of the case? It is always so with some people; they think a doctor can be deceived with the same impunity as another man.”

“Shooting at a deer, truly,” returned the Judge, smiling, “although it is by no means certain that I did not aid in destroying the buck; but the youth is injured by my hand, be that as it may; and it is thy skill that must cure him, and my pocket shall amply reward thee for it.”

“Two ver good tings to depend on,” observed Monsieur Le Quoi, bowing politely, with a sweep of his head to the Judge and to the practitioner.

“I thank you, monsieur,” returned the Judge; “but we keep the young man in pain. Remarkable, thou wilt please to provide linen for lint and bandages.”

This remark caused a cessation of the compliments, and induced the physician to turn an inquiring eye in the direction of his patient. During the dialogue the young hunter had thrown aside his overcoat, and now stood clad in a plain suit of the common, light-colored homespun of the country, that was evidently but recently made. His hand was on the lapels of his coat, in the attitude of removing the garment, when he suddenly suspended the movement, and looked toward the commiserating Elizabeth, who was standing in an unchanged posture, too much absorbed with her anxious feelings to heed his actions. A slight color appeared on the brow of the youth.

“Possibly the sight of blood may alarm the lady; I will retire to another room while the wound is dressing.”

“By no means.” said Dr. Todd, who, having discovered that his patient was far from being a man of importance, felt much emboldened to perform the duty. “The strong light of these candles is favorable to the operation, and it is seldom that we hard students enjoy good eyesight.”

While speaking, Elnathan placed a pair of large iron-rimmed spectacles on his face, where they dropped, as it were by long practice, to the extremity of his slim pug nose; and, if they were of no service as assistants to his eyes, neither were they any impediment to his vision; for his little gray organs were twinkling above them like two stars emerging from the envious cover of a cloud. The action was unheeded by all but Remarkable, who observed to Benjamin:

“Dr. Todd is a comely man to look on, and despu’t pretty. How well he seems in spectacles! I declare, they give a grand look to a body’s face. I have quite a great mind to try them myself.”

The speech of the stranger recalled the recollection of Miss Temple, who started as if from deep abstraction, and, coloring excessively, she motioned to a young woman who served in the capacity of maid, and retired with an air of womanly reserve.

The field was now left to the physician and his patient, while the different personages who remained gathered around the latter, with faces expressing the various degrees of interest that each one felt in his condition. Major Hartmann alone retained his seat, where he continued to throw out vast quantities of smoke, now rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, as if musing on the uncertainty of life, and now bending them on the wounded man, with an expression that bespoke some consciousness of his situation.

In the mean time Elnathan, to whom the sight of a gun shot wound was a perfect novelty, commenced his preparations with a solemnity and care that were worthy of the occasion. An old shirt was procured by Benjamin, and placed in the hand of the other, who tore divers bandages from it, with an exactitude that marked both his own skill and the importance of the operation.

When this preparatory measure was taken, Dr. Todd selected a piece of the shirt with great care, and handing to Mr. Jones, without moving a muscle, said: “Here, Squire Jones, you are well acquainted with these things; will you please to scrape the lint? It should be fine and soft, you know, my dear sir; and be cautious that no cotton gets in, or it may p’izen the wound. The shirt has been made with cotton thread, but you can easily pick it out.”

Richard assumed the office, with a nod at his cousin, that said quite plainly, “You see this fellow can’t get along without me;” and began to scrape the linen on his knee with great diligence.

A table was now spread with phials, boxes of salve, and divers surgical instruments. As the latter appeared in succession, from a case of red morocco, their owner held up each implement to the strong light of the chandelier, near to which he stood, and examined it with the nicest care. A red silk handkerchief was frequently applied to the glittering steel, as if to remove from the polished surfaces the least impediment which might exist to the most delicate operation. After the rather scantily furnished pocket-case which contained these instruments was exhausted, the physician turned to his saddle-bags, and produced various phials, filled with liquids of the most radiant colors. These were arranged in due order by the side of the murderous saws, knives, and scissors, when Elnathan stretched his long body to its utmost elevation, placing his hand on the small of his back as if for sup port, and looked about him to discover what effect this display of professional skill was likely to produce on the spectators.

“Upon my wort, toctor,” observed Major Hartmann, with a roguish roll of his little black eyes, but with every other feature of his face in a state of perfect rest, “put you have a very pretty pocket-book of tools tere, and your toctor-stuff glitters as if it was petter for ter eyes as for ter pelly.”

Elnathan gave a hem — one that might have been equally taken for that kind of noise which cowards are said to make in order to awaken their dormant courage, or for a natural effort to clear the throat; if for the latter it was successful; for, turning his face to the veteran German, he said:

“Very true, Major Hartmann, very true, sir; a prudent man will always strive to make his remedies agreeable to the eyes, though they may not altogether suit the stomach. It is no small part of our art, sir,” and he now spoke with the confidence of a man who understood his subject, “to reconcile the patient to what is for his own good, though at the same time it may be unpalatable.”

“Sartain! Dr. Todd is right,” said Remarkable, “and has Scripter for what he says. The Bible tells us how things may be sweet to the mouth, and bitter to the inwards.”

“True, true,” interrupted the Judge, a little impatiently; “but here is a youth who needs no deception to lure him to his own benefit. I see, by his eye, that he fears nothing more than delay.”

The stranger had, without assistance, bared his own shoulder, when the slight perforation produced by the pas sage of the buckshot was plainly visible. The intense cold of the evening had stopped the bleeding, and Dr. Todd, casting a furtive glance at the wound, thought it by no means so formidable an affair as he had anticipated. Thus encouraged, he approached his patient, and made some indication of an intention to trace the route that had been taken by the lead.

Remarkable often found occasions, in after days, to recount the minutiae of that celebrated operation; and when she arrived at this point she commonly proceeded as follows: “And then the doctor tuck out of the pocket book a long thing, like a knitting-needle, with a button fastened to the end on’t; and then he pushed it into the wound and then the young man looked awful; and then I thought I should have swaned away — I felt in sitch a dispu’t taking; and then the doctor had run it right through his shoulder, and shoved the bullet out on tother side; and so Dr. Todd cured the young man — Of a ball that the Judge had shot into him — for all the world as easy as I could pick out a splinter with my darning-needle.”

Such were the impressions of Remarkable on the subject; and such doubtless were the opinions of most of those who felt it necessary to entertain a species of religious veneration for the skill of Elnathan; but such was far from the truth.

When the physician attempted to introduce the instrument described by Remarkable, he was repulsed by the stranger, with a good deal of decision, and some little contempt, in his manner.

“I believe, sir,” he said, “that a probe is not necessary; the shot has missed the bone, and has passed directly through the arm to the opposite side, where it remains but skin deep, and whence, I should think, it might be easily extracted.”

“The gentleman knows best,” said Dr. Todd, laying down the probe with the air of a man who had assumed it merely in compliance with forms; and, turning to Richard, he fingered the lint with the appearance of great care and foresight. “Admirably well scraped, Squire Jones: it is about the best lint I have ever seen. I want your assistance, my good sir, to hold the patient’s arm while I make an incision for the ball. Now, I rather guess there is not another gentleman present who could scrape the lint so well as Squire Jones!”

“Such things run in families,” observed Richard, rising with alacrity to render the desired assistance. “My father, and my grandfather before him, were both celebrated for their knowledge of surgery; they were not, like Marmaduke here, puffed up with an accidental thing, such as the time when he drew in the hip-joint of the man who was thrown from his horse; that was the fall before you came into the settlement, doctor; but they were men who were taught the thing regularly, spending half their lives in learning those little niceties; though, for the matter of that, my grandfather was a college-bred physician, and the best in the colony, too — that is, in his neighborhood.”

“So it goes with the world, squire,” cried Benjamin; “if so be that a man wants to walk the quarter-deck with credit, d’ye see, and with regular built swabs on his shoulders, he mustn’t think to do it by getting in at the cabin windows. There are two ways to get into a top, besides the lubber-holes. The true way to walk aft is to begin forrard; tho’f it be only in a humble way, like myself, d’ye see, which was from being only a hander of topgallant sails, and a stower of the flying-jib, to keeping the key of the captain’s locker.”

Benjamin speaks quite to the purpose,’ continued Richard, “I dare say that he has often seen shot extracted in the different ships in which he has served; suppose we get him to hold the basin; he must be used to the sight of blood.”

“That he is, squire, that he is,” interrupted the cidevant steward; “many’s the good shot, round, double-headed, and grape, that I’ve seen the doctors at work on. For the matter of that, I was in a boat, alongside the ship, when they cut out the twelve-pound shot from the thigh of the captain of the Foodyrong, one of Mounsheer Ler Quaw’s countrymen!” *

* It is possible that the reader may start at this declaration of

Benjamin, but those who have lived in the new settlements of America

are too much accustomed to hear of these European exploits to doubt

it.

“A twelve-pound ball from the thigh of a human being:” exclaimed Mr. Grant, with great simplicity, dropping the sermon he was again reading, and raising his spectacles to the top of his forehead.

“A twelve-pounder!” echoed Benjamin, staring around him with much confidence; “a twelve-pounder! ay! a twenty-four-pound shot can easily be taken from a man’s body, if so be a doctor only knows how, There’s Squire Jones, now, ask him, sir; he reads all the books; ask him if he never fell in with a page that keeps the reckoning of such things.”

“Certainly, more important operations than that have been performed,” observed Richard; “the encyclopaedia mentions much more incredible circumstances than that, as, I dare say, you know, Dr. Todd.”

“Certainly, there are incredible tales told in the encyclopaedias,” returned Elnathan, “though I cannot say that I have ever seen, myself, anything larger than a musket ball extracted.”

During this discourse an incision had been made through the skin of the young hunter’s shoulder, and the lead was laid bare. Elnathan took a pair of glittering forceps, and was in the act of applying them to the wound, when a sudden motion of the patient caused the shot to fall out of itself, The long arm and broad hand of the operator were now of singular service; for the latter expanded itself, and caught the lead, while at the same time an extremely ambiguous motion was made by its brother, so as to leave it doubtful to the spectators how great was its agency in releasing the shot, Richard, however, put the matter at rest by exclaiming:

“Very neatly done, doctor! I have never seen a shot more neatly extracted; and I dare say Benjamin will say the same.”

“Why, considering,” returned Benjamin, “I must say that it was ship-shape and Brister-fashion. Now all that the doctor has to do, is to clap a couple of plugs in the holes, and the lad will float in any gale that blows in these here hills.”

“I thank you, sir, for what you have done,” said the youth, with a little distance; “but here is a man who will take me under his care, and spare you all, gentlemen, any further trouble on my account.”

The whole group turned their heads in surprise, and beheld, standing at one of the distant doors of the hall, the person of Indian John.

CHAPTER VII.

“From Sesquehanna’s utmost springs,

Where savage tribes pursue their game,

His blanket tied with yellow strings,

The shepherd of the forest came.” — Freneau.

Before the Europeans, or, to use a more significant term, the Christians, dispossessed the original owners of the soil, all that section of country which contains the New England States, and those of the Middle which lie east of the mountains, was occupied by two great nations of Indians, from whom had descended numberless tribes. But, as the original distinctions between these nations were marked by a difference in language, as well as by repeated and bloody wars, they were never known to amalgamate, until after the power and inroads of the whites had reduced some of the tribes to a state of dependence that rendered not only their political, but, considering the wants and habits of a savage, their animal existence also, extremely precarious.

These two great divisions consisted, on the one side, of the Five, or, as they were afterward called, the Six Nations, and their allies; and, on the other, of the Lenni Lenape, or Delawares, with the numerous and powerful tribes that owned that nation as their grandfather The former was generally called, by the Anglo-Americans Iroquois, or the Six Nations, and sometimes Mingoes. Their appellation among their rivals, seems generally to have been the Mengwe, or Maqua. They consisted of the tribes or, as their allies were fond of asserting, in order to raise their consequence, of the several nations of the Mohawks, the Oneidas, the Onondagas, Cayugas, and Senecas; who ranked, in the confederation in the order in which they are named. The Tuscaroras were admitted to this union near a century after its foundation, and thus completed the number of six.

Of the Lenni Lenape, or as they were called by the whites, from the circumstances of their holding their great council-fire on the banks of that river, the Delaware nation, the principal tribes, besides that which bore the generic name, were the Mahicanni, Mohicans, or Mohegans, and the Nanticokes, or Nentigoes. Of these the latter held the country along the waters of the Chesapeake and the seashore; while the Mohegans occupied the district between the Hudson and the ocean, including much of New England. Of course these two tribes were the first who were dispossessed of their lands by the Europeans.

The wars of a portion of the latter are celebrated among us as the wars of King Philip; but the peaceful policy of William Penn, or Miquon, as he was termed by the natives, effected its object with less difficulty, though not with less certainty. As the natives gradually disappeared from the country of the Mohegans, some scattering families sought a refuge around the council-fire of the mother tribe, or the Delawares.

This people had been induced to suffer themselves to be called women by their old enemies, the Mingoes, or Iroquois. After the latter, having in vain tried the effects of hostility, had recourse in artifice in order to prevail over their rivals. According to this declaration, the Delawares were to cultivate the arts of peace, and to intrust their defence entirely to the men, or warlike tribes of the Six Nations.

This state of things continued until the war of the Revolution. When the Lenni Lenape formally asserted their independence, and fearlessly declared that they were again men. But, in a government so peculiarly republican as the Indian polity, it was not at all times an easy task to restrain its members within the rules of the nation. Several fierce and renowned warriors of the Mohegans, finding the conflict with the whites to be in vain, sought a refuge with their grandfather, and brought with them the feelings and principles that had so long distinguished them in their own tribe. These chieftains kept alive, in some measure, the martial spirit of the Delawares; and would, at times, lead small parties against their ancient enemies, or such other foes as incurred their resentment.

Among these warriors was one race particularly famous for their prowess, and for those qualities that render an Indian hero celebrated. But war, time, disease, and want had conspired to thin their number; and the sole representative of this once renowned family now stood in the hall of Marmaduke Temple. He had for a long time been an associate of the white men, particularly in their wars, and having been, at the season when his services were of importance, much noticed and flattered, he had turned Christian and was baptized by the name of John. He had suffered severely in his family during the recent war, having had every soul to whom he was allied cut off by an inroad of the enemy; and when the last lingering remnant of his nation extinguished their fires, among the hills of the Delaware, he alone had remained, with a determination of laying his hones in that country where his fathers had so long lived and governed.

It was only, however, within a few months, that he had appeared among the mountains that surrounded Templeton. To the hut of the old hunter he seemed peculiarly welcome; and, as the habits of the Leather-Stocking were so nearly assimilated to those of the savages, the conjunction of their interests excited no surprise. They resided in the same cabin, ate of the same food, and were chiefly occupied in the same pursuits.

We have already mentioned the baptismal name of this ancient chief; but in his conversation with Natty, held in the language of the Delawares, he was heard uniformly to call himself Chingachgook, which, interpreted, means the “Great Snake.” This name he had acquired in his youth, by his skill and prowess in war; but when his brows began to wrinkle with time, and he stood alone, the last of his family, and his particular tribe, the few Delawares, who yet continued about the head-waters of their river, gave him the mournful appellation of Mohegan. Perhaps there was something of deep feeling excited in the bosom of this inhabitant of the forest by the sound of a name that recalled the idea of his nation in ruins, for he seldom used it himself — never, indeed, excepting on the most solemn occasions; but the settlers had united, according to the Christian custom, his baptismal with his national name, and to them he was generally known as John Mohegan, or, more familiarly, as Indian John.

From his long association with the white men, the habits of Mohegan were a mixture of the civilized and savage states, though there was certainly a strong preponderance in favor of the latter. In common with all his people, who dwelt within the influence of the Anglo-Americans, he had acquired new wants, and his dress was a mixture of his native and European fashions. Notwithstanding the in tense cold without, his head was uncovered; but a profusion of long, black, coarse hair concealed his forehead, his crown, and even hung about his cheeks, so as to convey the idea, to one who knew his present amid former conditions, that he encouraged its abundance, as a willing veil to hide the shame of a noble soul, mourning for glory once known. His forehead, when it could be seen, appeared lofty, broad, and noble. His nose was high, and of the kind called Roman, with nostrils that expanded, in his seventieth year, with the freedom that had distinguished them in youth. His mouth was large, but compressed, and possessing a great share of expression and character, and, when opened, it discovered a perfect set of short, strong, and regular teeth. His chin was full, though not prominent; and his face bore the infallible mark of his people, in its square, high cheek-bones. The eyes were not large, but their black orbs glittered in the rays of the candles, as he gazed intently down the hall, like two balls of fire.

The instant that Mohegan observed himself to be noticed by the group around the young stranger, he dropped the blanket which covered the upper part of his frame, from his shoulders, suffering it to fall over his leggins of untanned deer-skin, where it was retained by a belt of bark that confined it to his waist.

As he walked slowly down the long hail, the dignified and deliberate tread of the Indian surprised the spectators.

His shoulders, and body to his waist, were entirely bare, with the exception of a silver medallion of Washington, that was suspended from his neck by a thong of buckskin, and rested on his high chest, amid many scars. His shoulders were rather broad and full; but the arms, though straight and graceful, wanted the muscular appearance that labor gives to a race of men. The medallion was the only ornament he wore, although enormous slits in the rim of either ear, which suffered the cartilages to fall two inches below the members, had evidently been used for the purposes of decoration in other days in his hand he held a small basket of the ash-wood slips, colored in divers fantastical conceits, with red and black paints mingled with the white of the wood.

As this child of the forest approached them, the whole party stood aside, and allowed him to confront the object of his visit. He did not speak, however, but stood fixing his glowing eyes on the shoulder of the young hunter, and then turning them intently on the countenance of the Judge. The latter was a good deal astonished at this unusual departure from the ordinarily subdued and quiet manner of the Indian; but he extended his hand, and said:

“Thou art welcome, John. This youth entertains a high opinion of thy skill, it seems, for he prefers thee to dress his wound even to our good friend, Dr. Todd.”

Mohegan now spoke in tolerable English, but in a low, monotonous, guttural tone;

“The children of Miquon do not love the sight of blood; and yet the Young Eagle has been struck by the hand that should do no evil!”

“Mohegan! old John!” exclaimed the Judge, “thinkest thou that my hand has ever drawn human blood willingly? For shame! for shame, old John! thy religion should have taught thee better.”

“The evil spirit sometimes lives in the best heart,” returned John, “but my brother speaks the truth; his hand has never taken life, when awake; no! not even when the children of the great English Father were making the waters red with the blood of his people.”

“Surely John,” said Mr. Grant, with much earnestness, “you remember the divine command of our Saviour, ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ What motive could Judge Temple have for injuring a youth like this; one to whom he is unknown, and from whom he can receive neither in jury nor favor?”

John listened respectfully to the divine, and, when he had concluded, he stretched out his arm, and said with energy:

“He is innocent. My brother has not done this.”

Marmaduke received the offered hand of the other with a smile, that showed, however he might be astonished at his suspicion, he had ceased to resent it; while the wounded youth stood, gazing from his red friend to his host, with interest powerfully delineated in his countenance.

No sooner was this act of pacification exchanged, than John proceeded to discharge the duty on which he had come. Dr. Todd was far from manifesting any displeasure at this invasion of his rights, but made way for the new leech with an air that expressed a willingness to gratify the humors of his patient, now that the all-important part of the business was so successfully performed, and nothing remained to be done but what any child might effect, indeed, he whispered as much to Monsieur Le Quoi, when he said:

“It was fortunate that the ball was extracted before this Indian came in; but any old woman can dress the wound. The young man, I hear, lives with John and Natty Bumppo, and it’s always best to humor a patient, when it can be done discreetly — I say, discreetly, monsieur.”

“Certainement,” returned the Frenchman; “you seem ver happy, Mister Todd, in your pratice. I tink the elder lady might ver well finish vat you so skeelfully begin.”

But Richard had, at the bottom, a great deal of veneration for the knowledge of Mohegan, especially in external wounds; and, retaining all his desire for a participation in glory, he advanced nigh the Indian, and said: “Sago, sago, Mohegan! sago my good fellow I am glad you have come; give me a regular physician, like Dr. Todd to cut into flesh, and a native to heal the wound. Do you remember, John, the time when I and you set the bone of Natty Bumppo’s little finger, after he broke it by falling from the rock, when he was trying to get the partridge that fell on the cliffs? I never could tell yet whether it was I or Natty who killed that bird: he fired first, and the bird stooped, and then it was rising again as I pulled trigger. I should have claimed it for a certainty, but Natty said the hole was too big for shot, and he fired a single ball from his rifle; but the piece I carried then didn’t scatter, and I have known it to bore a hole through a board, when I’ve been shooting at a mark, very much like rifle bullets. Shall I help you, John? You know I have a knack at these things.”

Mohegan heard this disquisition quite patiently, and, when Richard concluded, he held out the basket which contained his specifics, indicating, by a gesture, that he might hold it. Mr. Jones was quite satisfied with this commission; and ever after, in speaking of the event, was used to say that “Dr. Todd and I cut out the bullet, and I and Indian John dressed the wound.”

The patient was much more deserving of that epithet while under the hands of Mohegan, than while suffering under the practice of the physician. Indeed, the Indian gave him but little opportunity for the exercise of a forbearing temper, as he had come prepared for the occasion. His dressings were soon applied, and consisted only of some pounded bark, moistened with a fluid that he had expressed from some of the simples of the woods.

Among the native tribes of the forest there were always two kinds of leeches to be met with. The one placed its whole dependence on the exercise of a supernatural power, and was held in greater veneration than their practice could at all justify; but the other was really endowed with great skill in the ordinary complaints of the human body, and was more particularly, as Natty had intimated, “curous” in cuts and bruises.

While John and Richard were placing the dressings on the wound, Elnathan was acutely eyeing the contents of Mohegan’s basket, which Mr. Jones, in his physical ardor had transferred to the doctor, in order to hold himself one end of the bandages. Here he was soon enabled to detect sundry fragments of wood and bark, of which he quite coolly took possession, very possibly without any intention of speaking at all upon the subject; but, when he beheld the full blue eye of Marmaduke watching his movements, he whispered to the Judge:

“It is not to be denied, Judge Temple, but what the savages are knowing in small matters of physic. They hand these things down in their traditions. Now in cancers and hydrophoby they are quite ingenious. I will just take this bark home and analyze it; for, though it can’t be worth sixpence to the young man’s shoulder, it may be good for the toothache, or rheumatism, or some of them complaints. A man should never be above learning, even if it be from an Indian.”

It was fortunate for Dr. Todd that his principles were so liberal, as, coupled with his practice, they were the means by which he acquired all his knowledge, and by which he was gradually qualifying himself for the duties of his profession. The process to which he subjected the specific differed, however, greatly from the ordinary rules of chemistry; for instead of separating he afterward united the component parts of Mohegan’s remedy, and was thus able to discover the tree whence the Indian had taken it.

Some ten years after this event, when civilization and its refinements had crept, or rather rushed, into the settlements among these wild hills, an affair of honor occurred, and Elnathan was seen to apply a salve to the wound received by one of the parties, which had the flavor that was peculiar to the tree, or root, that Mohegan had used. Ten years later still, when England and the United States were again engaged in war, and the hordes of the western parts of the State of New York were rushing to the field, Elnathan, presuming on the reputation obtained by these two operations, followed in the rear of a brigade of militia as its surgeon!

When Mohegan had applied the bark, he freely relinquished to Richard the needle and thread that were used in sewing the bandages, for these were implements of which the native but little understood the use: and, step ping back with decent gravity, awaited the completion of the business by the other.

“Reach me the scissors,” said Mr. Jones, when he had finished, and finished for the second time, after tying the linen in every shape and form that it could be placed; “reach me the scissors, for here is a thread that must be cut off, or it might get under the dressings, and inflame the wound. See, John, I have put the lint I scraped between two layers of the linen; for though the bark is certainly best for the flesh, yet the lint will serve to keep the cold air from the wound. If any lint will do it good, it is this lint; I scraped it myself, and I will not turn my back at scraping lint to any man on the Patent. I ought to know how, if anybody ought, for my grandfather was a doctor, and my father had a natural turn that way.”

“Here, squire, is the scissors,” said Remarkable, producing from beneath her petticoat of green moreen a pair of dull-looking shears; “well, upon my say-so, you have sewed on the rags as well as a woman.”

“As well as a woman!” echoed Richard with indignation; “what do women know of such matters? and you are proof of the truth of what I say. Who ever saw such a pair of shears used about a wound? Dr. Todd, I will thank you for the scissors from the case, Now, young man, I think you’ll do. The shot has been neatly taken out, although, perhaps, seeing I had a hand in it, I ought not to say so; and the wound is admirably dressed. You will soon be well again; though the jerk you gave my leaders must have a tendency to inflame the shoulder, yet you will do, you will do, You were rather flurried, I sup pose, and not used to horses; but I forgive the accident for the motive; no doubt you had the best of motives; yes, now you will do.”

“Then, gentlemen,” said the wounded stranger, rising, and resuming his clothes, “it will be unnecessary for me to trespass longer on your time and patience. There remains but one thing more to be settled, and that is, our respective rights to the deer, Judge Temple.”

“I acknowledge it to be thine,” said. Marmaduke; “and much more deeply am I indebted to thee than for this piece of venison. But in the morning thou wilt call here, and we can adjust this, as well as more important matters Elizabeth” — for the young lady, being apprised that the wound was dressed, had re-entered the hall— “thou wilt order a repast for this youth before we proceed to the church; and Aggy will have a sleigh prepared to convey him to his friend.”

“But, sir, I cannot go without a part of the deer,” returned the youth, seemingly struggling with his own feelings; “I have already told you that I needed the venison for myself.”

“Oh, we will not be particular,” exclaimed Richard; “the Judge will pay you in the morning for the whole deer; and, Remarkable, give the lad all the animal excepting the saddle; so, on the whole, I think you may consider yourself as a very lucky young man — you have been shot without being disabled; have had the wound dressed in the best possible manner here in the woods, as well as it would have been done in the Philadelphia hospital, if not better; have sold your deer at a high price, and yet can keep most of the carcass, with the skin in the bargain. ‘Marky, tell Tom to give him the skin too, and in the morning bring the skin to me and I will give you half a dollar for it, or at least three-and-sixpence. I want just such a skin to cover the pillion that I am making for Cousin Bess.”

“I thank you, sir, for your liberality, and, I trust, am also thankful for my escape,” returned the stranger; “but you reserve the very part of the animal that I wished for my own use. I must have the saddle myself.”

“Must!” echoed Richard; “must is harder to be swallowed than the horns of the buck.”

“Yes, must,” repeated the youth; when, turning his head proudly around him, as if to see who would dare to controvert his rights, he met the astonished gaze of Elizabeth, and proceeded more mildly: “That is, if a man is allowed the possession of that which his hand hath killed, and the law will protect him in the enjoyment of his own.”

“The law will do so,” said Judge Temple, with an air of mortification mingled with surprise. “Benjamin, see that the whole deer is placed in the sleigh; and have this youth conveyed to the hut of Leather Stocking. But, young man thou hast a name, and I shall see you again, in order to compensate thee for the wrong I have done thee?”

“I am called Edwards,” returned the hunter; “Oliver Edwards, I am easily to be seen, sir, for I live nigh by, and am not afraid to show my face, having never injured any man.”

“It is we who have injured you, sir,” said Elizabeth; “and the knowledge that you decline our assistance would give my father great pain. He would gladly see you in the morning.”

The young hunter gazed at the fair speaker until his earnest look brought the blood to her temples; when, recollecting himself, he bent his head, dropping his eyes to the carpet, and replied:

“In the morning, then, will I return, and see Judge Temple; and I will accept his offer of the sleigh in token of amity.”

“Amity!” repeated Marmaduke; “there was no malice in the act that injured thee, young man; there should be none in the feelings which it may engender.”

“Forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” observed Mr. Grant, “is the language used by our Divine Master himself, and it should be the golden rule with us, his humble followers.”

The stranger stood a moment lost in thought, and then, glancing his dark eyes rather wildly around the hall, he bowed low to the divine, and moved from the apartment with an air that would not admit of detention.

“’Tis strange that one so young should harbor such feelings of resentment,” said Marmaduke, when the door closed behind the stranger; “but while the pain is recent, and the sense of the injury so fresh, he must feel more strongly than in cooler moments. I doubt not we shall see him in the morning more tractable.”

Elizabeth, to whom this speech was addressed, did not reply, but moved slowly up the hall by herself, fixing her eyes on the little figure of the English ingrain carpet that covered the floor; while, on the other hand, Richard gave a loud crack with his whip, as the stranger disappeared, and cried:

“Well, ‘Duke, you are your own master, but I would have tried law for the saddle before I would have given it to the fellow. Do you not own the mountains as well as the valleys? are not the woods your own? what right has this chap, or the Leather-Stocking, to shoot in your woods without your permission? Now, I have known a farmer in Pennsylvania order a sportsman off his farm with as little ceremony as I would order Benjamin to put a log in the stove — By-the-bye, Benjamin, see how the thermometer stands. — Now, if a man has a right to do this on a farm of a hundred acres, what power must a landlord have who owns sixty thousand — ay, for the matter of that, including the late purchases, a hundred thousand? There is Mohegan, to be sure, he may have some right, being a native; but it’s little the poor fellow can do now with his rifle. How is this managed in France, Monsieur Le Quoi? Do you let everybody run over your land in that country helter-skelter, as they do here, shooting the game, so that a gentleman has but little or no chance with his gun?”

“Bah! diable, no, Meester Deeck,” replied the Frenchman; “we give, in France, no liberty except to the ladi.”

“Yes, yes, to the women, I know,” said Richard, “that is your Salic law. I read, sir, all kinds of books; of France, as well as England; of Greece, as well as Rome. But if I were in ‘Duke’s place, I would stick up advertisements to-morrow morning, forbidding all persons to shoot, or trespass in any manner, on my woods. I could write such an advertisement myself, in an hour, as would put a stop to the thing at once.”

“Richart,” said Major Hartmann, very coolly knocking the ashes from his pipe into the spitting-box by his side, “now listen; I have livet seventy-five years on ter Mohawk, and in ter woots. You had better mettle as mit ter deyvel, as mit ter hunters, Tey live mit ter gun, and a rifle is better as ter law.”

“Ain’t Marmaduke a judge?” said Richard indignantly. “Where is the use of being a judge, or having a judge, if there is no law? Damn the fellow! I have a great mind to sue him in the morning myself, before Squire Doolittle, for meddling with my leaders. I am not afraid of his rifle. I can shoot, too. I have hit a dollar many a time at fifty rods.

“Thou hast missed more dollars than ever thou hast hit, Dickon,” exclaimed the cheerful voice of the Judge. “But we will now take our evening’s repast, which I perseive, by Remarkable’s physiognomy, is ready. Monsieur Le Quoi, Miss Temple has a hand at your service. Will you lead the way, my child?”

“Ah! ma chere mam’selle, comme je suis enchante!” said the Frenchman. “Il ne manque que les dames de faire un paradis de Templeton.”

Mr. Grant and Mohegan continued in the hall, while the remainder of the party withdrew to an eating parlor, if we except Benjamin, who civilly remained to close the rear after the clergyman and to open the front door for the exit of the Indian.

“John,” said the divine, when the figure of Judge Temple disappeared, the last of the group, “to-morrow is the festival of the nativity of our blessed Redeemer, when the church has appointed prayers and thanksgivings to be offered up by her children, and when all are invited to partake of the mystical elements. As you have taken up the cross, and become a follower of good and an eschewer of evil, I trust I shall see you before the altar, with a contrite heart and a meek spirit.”

“John will come,” said the Indian, betraying no surprise; though he did not understand all the terms used by the other.

“Yes,” continued Mr. Grant, laying his hand gently on the tawny shoulder of the aged chief, “but it is not enough to be there in the body; you must come in the spirit and in truth. The Redeemer died for all, for the poor Indian as well as for the white man. Heaven knows no difference in color; nor must earth witness a separation of the church. It is good and profitable, John, to freshen the understanding, and support the wavering, by the observance of our holy festivals; but all form is but stench in the nostrils of the Holy One, unless it be accompanied by a devout and humble spirit.”

The Indian stepped back a little, and, raising his body to its utmost powers of erection, he stretched his right arm on high, and dropped his forefinger downward, as if pointing from the heavens; then, striking his other band on his naked breast, he said, with energy:

“The eye of the Great Spirit can see from the clouds — the bosom of Mohegan is bare!”

“It is well, John, and I hope you will receive profit and consolation from the performance of this duty. The Great Spirit overlooks none of his children; and the man of the woods is as much an object of his care as he who dwells in a palace. I wish you a good-night, and pray God to bless you.”

The Indian bent his head, and they separated — the one to seek his hut, and the other to join his party at the supper-table. While Benjamin was opening the door for the passage of the chief, he cried, in a tone that was meant to be encouraging:

“The parson says the word that is true, John. If so be that they took count of the color of the skin in heaven, why, they might refuse to muster on their books a Christian-born, like myself, just for the matter of a little tan, from cruising in warm latitudes; though, for the matter of that, this damned norwester is enough to whiten the skin of a blackamore. Let the reef out of your blanket, man, or your red hide will hardly weather the night with out a touch from the frost.”

CHAPTER VIII.

“For here the exile met from every clime,

And spoke, in friendship, every distant tongue.”

— Campbell.

We have made our readers acquainted with some variety in character and nations, in introducing the most important personages of this legend to their notice; but, in order to establish the fidelity of our narrative, we shall briefly attempt to explain the reason why we have been obliged to present so motley a dramatis personae.

Europe, at the period of our tale, was in the commencement of that commotion which afterward shook her political institutions to the centre. Louis the Sixteenth had been beheaded, and a nation once esteemed the most refined among the civilized people of the world was changing its character, and substituting cruelty for mercy, and subtlety and ferocity for magnanimity and courage. Thou sands of Frenchmen were compelled to seek protection in distant lands. Among the crowds who fled from France and her islands, to the United States of America, was the gentleman whom we have already mentioned as Monsieur Le Quoi. He had been recommended to the favor of Judge Temple by the head of an eminent mercantile house in New York, with whom Marmaduke was in habits of intimacy, and accustomed to exchange good offices. At his first interview with the Frenchman, our Judge had discovered him to be a man of breeding, and one who had seen much more prosperous days in his own country. From certain hints that had escaped him, Monsieur Le Quoi was suspected of having been a West-India planter, great numbers of whom had fled from St. Domingo and the other islands, and were now living in the Union, in a state of comparative poverty, and some in absolute want The latter was not, however, the lot of Monsieur Le Quoi. He had but little, he acknowledged; but that little was enough to furnish, in the language of the country, an assortment for a store.

The knowledge of Marmaduke was eminently practical, and there was no part of a settler’s life with which he was not familiar. Under his direction, Monsieur Le Quoi made some purchases, consisting of a few cloths; some groceries, with a good deal of gunpowder and tobacco; a quantity of iron-ware, among which was a large proportion of Barlow’s jack-knives, potash-kettles, and spiders; a very formidable collection of crockery of the coarsest quality and most uncouth forms; together with every other common article that the art of man has devised for his wants, not forgetting the luxuries of looking-glasses and Jew’s-harps. With this collection of valuables, Monsieur Le Quoi had stepped behind a counter, and, with a wonderful pliability of temperament, had dropped into his assumed character as gracefully as he had ever moved in any other. The gentleness and suavity of his manners rendered him extremely popular; besides this, the women soon discovered that he had taste. His calicoes were the finest, or, in other words, the most showy, of any that were brought into the country, and it was impossible to look at the prices asked for his goods by “so pretty a spoken man,” Through these conjoint means, the affairs of Monsieur Le Quoi were again in a prosperous condition, and he was looked up to by the settlers as the second best man on the “Patent.”*

* The term “Patent” which we have already used, and for which we may

have further occasion, meant the district of country that had been

originally granted to old Major Effingham by the “king’s letters

patent,” and which had now become, by purchase under the act of

confiscation, the property of Marmaduke Temple.  It was a term in

common use throughout the new parts of the State; and was usually

annexed to the landlord’s name, as “Temple’s or Effingham’s Patent.”

Major Hartmann was a descendant of a man who, in company with a number of his countrymen, had emigrated with their families from the banks of the Rhine to those of the Mohawk. This migration had occurred as far back as the reign of Queen Anne; and their descendants were now living, in great peace and plenty, on the fertile borders of that beautiful stream.

The Germans, or “High Dutchers,” as they were called, to distinguish them from the original or Low Dutch colonists, were a very peculiar people. They possessed all the gravity of the latter, without any of their phlegm; and like them, the “High Dutchers” were industrious, honest, and economical, Fritz, or Frederick Hartmann, was an epitome of all the vices and virtues, foibles and excellences, of his race. He was passionate though silent, obstinate, and a good deal suspicious of strangers; of immovable courage, in flexible honesty, and undeviating in his friendships. In deed there was no change about him, unless it were from grave to gay. He was serious by months, and jolly by weeks. He had, early in their acquaintance, formed an attachment for Marmaduke Temple, who was the only man that could not speak High Dutch that ever gained his en tire confidence Four times in each year, at periods equidistant, he left his low stone dwelling on the banks of the Mohawk, and travelled thirty miles, through the hills, to the door of the mansion-house in Templeton. Here he generally stayed a week; and was reputed to spend much of that time in riotous living, greatly countenanced by Mr. Richard Jones. But every one loved him, even to Remarkable Pettibone, to whom he occasioned some additional trouble, he was so frank, so sincere, and, at times, so mirthful. He was now on his regular Christmas visit, and had not been in the village an hour when Richard summoned him to fill a seat in the sleigh to meet the landlord and his daughter.

Before explaining the character and situation of Mr. Grant, it will be necessary to recur to times far back in the brief history of the settlement.

There seems to be a tendency in human nature to endeavor to provide for the wants of this world, before our attention is turned to the business of the other. Religion was a quality but little cultivated amid the stumps of Temple’s Patent for the first few years of its settlement; but, as most of its inhabitants were from the moral States of Connecticut and Massachusetts, when the wants of nature were satisfied they began seriously to turn their attention to the introduction of those customs and observances which had been the principal care of their fore fathers. There was certainly a great variety of opinions on the subject of grace and free-will among the tenantry of Marmaduke; and, when we take into consideration the variety of the religious instruction which they received, it can easily be seen that it could not well be otherwise.

Soon after the village had been formally laid out into the streets and blocks that resembled a city, a meeting of its inhabitants had been convened, to take into consideration the propriety of establishing an academy. This measure originated with Richard, who, in truth, was much disposed to have the institution designated a university, or at least a college. Meeting after meeting was held, for this purpose, year after year. The resolutions of these as sembiages appeared in the most conspicuous columns of a little blue-looking newspaper, that was already issued weekly from the garret of a dwelling-house in the village, and which the traveller might as often see stuck into the fissure of a stake, erected at the point where the footpath from the log-cabin of some settler entered the highway, as a post-office for an individual. Sometimes the stake supported a small box, and a whole neighborhood received a weekly supply for their literary wants at this point, where the man who “rides post” regularly deposited a bundle of the precious commodity. To these flourishing resolutions, which briefly recounted the general utility of education, the political and geographical rights of the village of Templeton to a participation in the favors of the regents of the university, the salubrity of the air, and wholesomeness of the water, together with the cheapness of food and the superior state of morals in the neighbor hood, were uniformly annexed, in large Roman capitals, the names of Marmaduke Temple as chairman and Richard Jones as secretary.

Happily for the success of this undertaking, the regents were not accustomed to resist these appeals to their generosity, whenever there was the smallest prospect of a donation to second the request. Eventually Judge Temple concluded to bestow the necessary land, and to erect the required edifice at his own expense. The skill of Mr., or, as he was now called, from the circumstance of having received the commission of a justice of the peace, Squire Doolittle, was again put in requisition; and the science of Mr. Jones was once more resorted to.

We shall not recount the different devices of the architects on the occasion; nor would it be decorous so to do, seeing that there was a convocation of the society of the ancient and honorable fraternity “of the Free and Accepted Masons,” at the head of whom was Richard, in the capacity of master, doubtless to approve or reject such of the plans as, in their wisdom, they deemed to be for the best. The knotty point was, however, soon decided; and, on the appointed day, the brotherhood marched in great state, displaying sundry banners and mysterious symbols, each man with a little mimic apron before him, from a most cunningly contrived apartment in the garret of the “Bold Dragoon,” an inn kept by one Captain Hollister, to the site of the intended edifice. Here Richard laid the corner stone, with suitable gravity, amidst an assemblage of more than half the men, and all the women, within ten miles of Templeton.

In the course of the succeeding week there was another meeting of the people, not omitting swarms of the gentler sex, when the abilities of Hiram at the “square rule” were put to the test of experiment. The frame fitted well; and the skeleton of the fabric was reared without a single accident, if we except a few falls from horses while the laborers were returning home in the evening. From this time the work advanced with great rapidity, and in the course of the season the Labor was completed; the edifice Manding, in all its heatity and proportions, the boast of the village, the study of young aspirants for architectural fame, and the admiration of every settler on the Patent.

It was a long, narrow house of wood, painted white, and more than half windows; and, when the observer stood at the western side of the building, the edifice offered but a small obstacle to a full view of the rising sun. It was, in truth, but a very comfortless open place, through which the daylight shone with natural facility. On its front were divers ornaments in wood, designed by Richard and executed by Hiram; but a window in the centre of the second story, immediately over the door or grand entrance, and the “steeple” were the pride of the building. The former was, we believe, of the composite order; for it included in its composition a multitude of ornaments and a great variety of proportions. It consisted of an arched compartment in the centres with a square and small division on either side, the whole incased in heavy frames, deeply and laboriously moulded in pine-wood, and lighted with a vast number of blurred and green-looking glass of those dimensions which are commonly called “eight by ten.” Blinds, that were intended to be painted green, kept the window in a state of preservation, and probably might have contributed to the effect of the whole, had not the failure in the public funds, which seems always to be incidental to any undertaking of this kind, left them in the sombre coat of lead-color with which they had been originally clothed. The “steeple” was a little cupola, reared on the very centre of the roof, on four tall pillars of pine that were fluted with a gouge, and loaded with mouldings. On the tops of the columns was reared a dome or cupola, resembling in shape an inverted tea-cup without its bottom, from the centre of which projected a spire, or shaft of wood, transfixed with two iron rods, that bore on their ends the letters N. S. E. and W, in the same metal. The whole was surmounted by an imitation of one of the finny tribe, carved in wood by the hands of Richard, and painted what he called a “scale-color.” This animal Mr. Jones affirmed to be an admirable resemblance of a great favorite of the epicures in that country, which bore the title of “lake-fish,” and doubtless the assertion was true; for, although intended to answer the purposes of a weathercock, the fish was observed invariably to look with a longing eye in the direction of the beautiful sheet of water that lay imbedded in the mountains of Templeton.

For a short time after the charter of the regents was received, the trustees of this institution employed a graduate of one of the Eastern colleges to instruct such youth as aspired to knowledge within the walls of the edifice which we have described. The upper part of the building was in one apartment, and was intended for gala-days and exhibitions; and the lower contained two rooms that were intended for the great divisions of education, viz., the Latin and the English scholars. The former were never very numerous; though the sounds of “nominative, pennaa — genitive, penny,” were soon heard to issue from the windows of the room, to the great delight and manifest edification of the passenger.

Only one laborer in this temple of Minerva, however, was known to get so far as to attempt a translation of Virgil. He, indeed, appeared at the annual exhibition, to the prodigious exultation of all his relatives, a farmer’s family in the vicinity, and repeated the whole of the first eclogue from memory, observing the intonations of the dialogue with much judgment and effect. The sounds, as they proceeded from his mouth, of

“Titty-ree too patty-lee ree-coo-bans sub teg-mi-nee faa-gy

Syl-ves-trem ten-oo-i moo-sam, med-i-taa-ris, aa-ve-ny.”

were the last that had been heard in that building, as probably they were the first that had ever been heard, in the same language, there or anywhere else. By this time the trustees discovered that they had anticipated the age and the instructor, or principal, was superseded by a master, who went on to teach the more humble lesson of “the more haste the worst speed,” in good plain English.

From this time until the date of our incidents, the academy was a common country school, and the great room of the building was sometimes used as a court-room, on extraordinary trials; sometimes for conferences of the religious and the morally disposed, in the evening; at others for a ball in the afternoon, given under the auspices of Richard; and on Sundays, invariably, as a place of public worship.

When an itinerant priest of the persuasion of the Methodists, Baptists, Universalists, or of the more numerous sect of the Presbyterians, was accidentally in the neighborhood, he was ordinarily invited to officiate, and was commonly rewarded for his services by a collection in a hat, before the congregation separated. When no such regular minister offered, a kind of colloquial prayer or two was made by some of the more gifted members, and a sermon was usually read, from Sterne, by Mr. Richard Jones.

The consequence of this desultory kind of priesthood was, as we have already intimated, a great diversity of opinion on the more abstruse points of faith. Each sect had its adherents, though neither was regularly organized and disciplined. Of the religious education of Marmaduke we have already written, nor was the doubtful character of his faith completely removed by his marriage. The mother of Elizabeth was an Episcopalian, as indeed, was the mother of the Judge himself; and the good taste of Marmaduke revolted at the familiar colloquies which the leaders of the conferences held with the Deity, in their nightly meetings. In form, he was certainly an Episcopalian, though not a sectary of that denomination. On the other hand, Richard was as rigid in the observance of the canons of his church as he was inflexible in his opinions. Indeed, he had once or twice essayed to introduce the Episcopal form of service, on the Sundays that the pulpit was vacant; but Richard was a good deal addicted to carrying things to an excess, and then there was some thing so papal in his air that the greater part of his hearers deserted him on the second Sabbath — on the third his only auditor was Ben Pump, who had all the obstinate and enlightened orthodoxy of a high churchman.

Before the war of the Revolution, the English Church was supported in the colonies, with much interest, by some of its adherents in the mother country, and a few of the congregations were very amply endowed. But, for the season, after the independence of the States was established, this sect of Christians languished for the want of the highest order of its priesthood. Pious and suitable divines were at length selected, and sent to the mother country, to receive that authority which, it is understood, can only be transmitted directly from one to the other, and thus obtain, in order to reserve, that unity in their churches which properly belonged to a people of the same nation. But unexpected difficulties presented themselves, in the oaths with which the policy of England had fettered their establishment; and much time was spent before a conscientious sense of duty would permit the prelates of Britain to delegate the authority so earnestly sought. Time, patience, and zeal, however, removed every impediment, and the venerable men who had been set apart by the American churches at length returned to their expecting dioceses, endowed with the most elevated functions of their earthly church. Priests and deacons were ordained, and missionaries provided, to keep alive the expiring flame of devotion in such members as were deprived of the ordinary administrations by dwelling in new and unorganized districts.

Of this number was Mr. Grant. He had been sent into the county of which Templeton was the capital, and had been kindly invited by Marmaduke, and officiously pressed by Richard, to take up his abode in the village. A small and humble dwelling was prepared for his family, and the divine had made his appearance in the place but a few days previously to the time of his introduction to the reader, As his forms were entirely new to most of the inhabitants, and a clergyman of another denomination had previously occupied the field, by engaging the academy, the first Sunday after his arrival was allowed to pass in silence; but now that his rival had passed on, like a meteor filling the air with the light of his wisdom, Richard was empowered to give notice that “Public worship, after the forms of the Protestant Episcopal Church, would be held on the night before Christmas, in the long room of the academy in Templeton, by the Rev. Mr. Grant.”

This annunciation excited great commotion among the different sectaries. Some wondered as to the nature of the exhibition; others sneered; but a far greater part, recollecting the essays of Richard in that way, and mindful of the liberality, or rather laxity, of Marmaduke’s notions on the subject of sectarianism, thought it most prudent to be silent.

The expected evening was, however, the wonder of the hour; nor was the curiosity at all diminished when Richard and Benjamin, on the morning of the eventful day, were seen to issue from the woods in the neighborhood of the village, each bearing on his shoulders a large bunch of evergreens. This worthy pair was observed to enter the academy, and carefully to fasten the door, after which their proceedings remained a profound secret to the rest of the village; Mr. Jones, before he commenced this mysterious business, having informed the school-master, to the great delight of the white-headed flock he governed, that there could be no school that day. Marmaduke was apprised of all these preparations by letter, and it was especially arranged that he and Elizabeth should arrive in season to participate in the solemnities of the evening.

After this digression, we shall return to our narrative.

CHAPTER IX.

“Now all admire, in each high-flavored dish

The capabilities of flesh — fowl — fish;

In order due each guest assumes his station,

Throbs high his breast with fond anticipation,

And prelibates the joys of mastication.”

— Heliogabaliad.

The apartment to which Monsieur Le Quoi handed Elizabeth communicated with the hall, through the door that led under the urn which was supposed to contain the ashes of Dido. The room was spacious, and of very just proportions; but in its ornaments and furniture the same diversity of taste and imperfection of execution were to be observed as existed in the hall. Of furniture, there were a dozen green, wooden arm-chairs, with cushions of moreen, taken from the same piece as the petticoat of Remarkable. The tables were spread, and their materials and workmanship could not be seen; but they were heavy and of great size, An enormous mirror, in a gilt frame, hung against the wall, and a cheerful fire, of the hard or sugar maple, was burning on the hearth. The latter was the first object that struck the attention of the Judge, who on beholding it exclaimed, rather angrily, to Richard:

“How often have I forbidden the use of the sugar maple in my dwelling! The sight of that sap, as it exudes with the heat, is painful to me, Richard, Really, it behooves the owner of woods so extensive as mine, to be cautious what example he sets his people, who are already felling the forests as if no end could be found to their treasures, nor any limits to their extent. If we go on in this way, twenty years hence we shall want fuel.”

“Fuel in these hills, Cousin ‘Duke!” exclaimed Richard, in derision— “fuel! why, you might as well predict that the fish will die for the want of water in the lake, because I intend, when the frost gets out of the ground, to lead one or two of the spring; through logs, into the village. But you are always a little wild on such subject; Marmaduke.”

“Is it wildness,” returned the Judge earnestly, “to condemn a practice which devotes these jewels of the forest, these precious gifts of nature, these mines of corn, forest and wealth, to the common uses of a fireplace? But I must, and will, the instant the snow is off the earth, send out a party into the mountains to explore for coal.”

“Coal!” echoed Richard. “Who the devil do you think will dig for coal when, in hunting for a bushel he would have to rip up more of trees than would keep him in fuel for a twelvemonth? Poh! poh! Marmaduke: you should leave the management of these things to me, who have a natural turn that way. It was I that ordered this fire, and a noble one it is, to warm the blood of my pretty Cousin Bess.”

“The motive, then, must be your apology, Dick,” said the Judge.— “But, gentlemen, we are waiting. — Elizabeth, my child, take the head of the table; Richard, I see, means to spare me the trouble of carving, by sitting opposite to you.”

“To be sure I do,” cried Richard. “Here is a turkey to carve; and I flatter myself that I understand carving a turkey, or, for that matter, a goose, as well as any man alive. — Mr. Grant! Where’s Mr. Grant? Will you please to say grace, sir? Everything in getting cold. Take a thing from the fire this cold weather, and it will freeze in five minutes. Mr. Grant, we want you to say grace. ‘For what we are about to receive, the Lord make, us thankful Come, sit down, sit down. Do you eat wing or breast, Cousin Bess?”

But Elizabeth had not taken her seat, nor Was she in readiness to receive either the wing or breast. Her Laughing eyes were glancing at the arrangements of the table, and the quality and selection of the food. The eyes of the father soon met the wondering looks of his daughter, and he said, with a smile:

“You perceive, my child, how much we are indebted to Remarkable for her skill in housewifery. She has indeed provided a noble repast — such as well might stop the cravings of hunger.”

“Law!” said Remarkable, “I’m glad if the Judge is pleased; but I’m notional that you’ll find the sa’ce over done. I thought, as Elizabeth was coming home, that a body could do no less than make things agreeable.”

“My daughter has now grown to woman’s estate, and is from this moment mistress of my house,” said the Judge; “it is proper that all who live with me address her as Miss Temple.

“Do tell!” exclaimed Remarkable, a little aghast; “well, who ever heerd of a young woman’s being called Miss? If the Judge had a wife now, I shouldn’t think of calling her anything but Miss Temple; but— “

“Having nothing but a daughter you will observe that style to her, if you please, in future,” interrupted Marmaduke.

As the Judge looked seriously displeased, and, at such moments, carried a particularly commanding air with him, the wary housekeeper made no reply; and, Mr. Grant entering the room, the whole party were seated at the table. As the arrangements of this repast were much in the prevailing taste of that period and country, we shall endeavor to give a short description of the appearance of the banquet.

The table-linen was of the most beautiful damask, and the plates and dishes of real china, an article of great luxury at this early period of American commerce. The knives and forks were of exquisitely polished steel, and were set in unclouded ivory. So much, being furnished by the wealth of Marmaduke, was not only comfortable but even elegant. The contents of the several dishes, and their positions, however, were the result of the sole judgment of Remarkable. Before Elizabeth was placed an enormous roasted turkey, and before Richard one boiled, in the centre of the table stood a pair of heavy silver casters, surrounded by four dishes: one a fricassee that consisted of gray squirrels; another of fish fried; a third of fish boiled; the last was a venison steak. Between these dishes and the turkeys stood, on the one side, a prodigious chine of roasted bear’s meat, and on the other a boiled leg of delicious mutton. Interspersed among this load of meats was every species of vegetables that the season and country afforded. The four corners were garnished with plates of cake. On one was piled certain curiously twisted and complicated figures, called “nut-cakes,” On another were heaps of a black-looking sub stance, which, receiving its hue from molasses, was properly termed “sweet-cake;” a wonderful favorite in the coterie of Remarkable, A third was filled, to use the language of the housekeeper, with “cards of gingerbread;” and the last held a “plum-cake,” so called from the number of large raisins that were showing their black heads in a substance of suspiciously similar color. At each corner of the table stood saucers, filled with a thick fluid of some what equivocal color and consistence, variegated with small dark lumps of a substance that resembled nothing but itself, which Remarkable termed her “sweetmeats.” At the side of each plate, which was placed bottom upward, with its knife and fork most accurately crossed above it, stood another, of smaller size, containing a motley-looking pie, composed of triangular slices of apple, mince, pump kin, cranberry, and custard so arranged as to form an entire whole, Decanters of brandy, rum, gin, and wine, with sundry pitchers of cider, beer, and one hissing vessel of “flip,” were put wherever an opening would admit of their introduction. Notwithstanding the size of the tables, there was scarcely a spot where the rich damask could be seen, so crowded were the dishes, with their associated bottles, plates, and saucers. The object seemed to be profusion, and it was obtained entirely at the expense of order and elegance.

All the guests, as well as the Judge himself, seemed perfectly familiar with this description of fare, for each one commenced eating, with an appetite that promised to do great honor to Remarkable’s taste and skill. What rendered this attention to the repast a little surprising, was the fact that both the German and Richard had been summoned from another table to meet the Judge; but Major Hartmann both ate and drank without any rule, when on his excursions; and Mr. Jones invariably made it a point to participate in the business in hand, let it be what it would. The host seemed to think some apology necessary for the warmth he had betrayed on the subject of the firewood, and when the party were comfortably seated, and engaged with their knives and forks, he observed:

“The wastefulness of the settlers with the noble trees of this country is shocking, Monsieur Le Quoi, as doubt less you have noticed. I have seen a man fell a pine, when he has been in want of fencing stuff, and roll his first cuts into the gap, where he left it to rot, though its top would have made rails enough to answer his purpose, and its butt would have sold in the Philadelphia market for twenty dollars.”

“And how the devil — I beg your pardon, Mr. Grant,” interrupted Richard: “but how is the poor devil to get his logs to the Philadelphia market, pray? put them in his pocket, ha! as you would a handful of chestnuts, or a bunch of chicker-berries? I should like to see you walking up High Street, with a pine log in each pocket! — Poh! poh! Cousin ‘Duke, there are trees enough for us all, and some to spare. Why, I can hardly tell which way the wind blows, when I’m out in the clearings, they are so thick and so tall; I couldn’t at all, if it wasn’t for the clouds, and I happen to know all the points of the compass, as it were, by heart.”

“Ay! ay! squire,” cried Benjamin, who had now entered and taken his place behind the Judge’s chair, a little aside withal, in order to be ready for any observation like the present; “look aloft, sir, look aloft. The old seamen say, ‘that the devil wouldn’t make a sailor, unless he looked aloft’ As for the compass, why, there is no such thing as steering without one. I’m sure I never lose sight of the main-top, as I call the squire’s lookout on the roof, but I set my compass, d’ye see, and take the bearings and distance of things, in order to work out my course, if so be that it should cloud up, or the tops of the trees should shut out the light of heaven. The steeple of St. Paul’s, now that we have got it on end, is a great help to the navigation of the woods, for, by the Lord Harry! as was— “

“It is well, Benjamin,” interrupted Marmaduke, observing that his daughter manifested displeasure at the major-domo’s familiarity; “but you forget there is a lady in company, and the women love to do most of the talking themselves.”

“The Judge says the true word,” cried Benjamin, with one of his discordant laughs. “Now here is Mistress Remarkable Pettibones; just take the stopper off her tongue, and you’ll hear a gabbling worse like than if you should happen to fall to leeward in crossing a French privateer, or some such thing, mayhap, as a dozen monkeys stowed in one bag.”

It were impossible to say how perfect an illustration of the truth of Benjamin’s assertion the housekeeper would have furnished, if she had dared; but the Judge looked sternly at her, and unwilling to incur his resentment, yet unable to contain her anger, she threw herself out of the room with a toss of the body that nearly separated her frail form in the centre.

“Richard,” said Marmaduke, observing that his displeasure had produced the desired effect, “can you inform me of anything concerning the youth whom I so unfortunately wounded? I found him on the mountain hunting in company with the Leather-Stocking, as if they were of the same family; but there is a manifest difference in their manners. The youth delivers himself in chosen language, such as is seldom heard in these hills, and such as occasions great surprise to me, how one so meanly clad, and following so lowly a pursuit, could attain. Mohegan also knew him. Doubtless he is a tenant of Natty’s hut. Did you remark the language of the lad. Monsieur Le Quoi?”

“Certainement, Monsieur Temple,” returned the French man, “he deed convairse in de excellent Anglaise.”

“The boy is no miracle,” exclaimed Richard; “I’ve known children that were sent to school early, talk much better before they were twelve years old. There was Zared Coe, old Nehemiah’s son, who first settled on the beaver-dam meadow, he could write almost as good hand as myself, when he was fourteen; though it’s true, I helped to teach him a little in the evenings. But this shooting gentleman ought to be put in the stocks, if he ever takes a rein in his hand again. He is the most awkward fellow about a horse I ever met with. I dare say he never drove anything but oxen in his life.”

“There, I think, Dickon, you do the lad injustice,” said the Judge; “he uses much discretion in critical moments. Dost thou not think so, Bess?”

There was nothing in this question particularly to excite blushes, but Elizabeth started from the revery into which she had fallen, and colored to her forehead as she answered:

“To me, dear sir, he appeared extremely skilful, and prompt, and courageous; but perhaps Cousin Richard will say I am as ignorant as the gentleman himself.”

“Gentleman!” echoed Richard; “do you call such chaps gentlemen, at school, Elizabeth?”

“Every man is a gentleman that knows how to treat a woman with respect and consideration,” returned the young lady promptly, and a little smartly.

“So much for hesitating to appear before the heiress in his shirt-sleeves,” cried Richard, winking at Monsieur Le Quoi, who returned the wink with one eye, while he rolled the other, with an expression of sympathy, toward the young lady. “Well, well, to me he seemed anything but a gentleman. I must say, however, for the lad, that he draws a good trigger, and has a true aim. He’s good at shooting a buck, ha! Marmaduke?”

“Richart,” said Major Hartmann, turning his grave countenance toward the gentleman he addressed, with much earnestness, “ter poy is goot. He savet your life, and my life, and ter life of i’ominie Grant, and ter life of ter Frenchman; and, Richard, he shall never vant a pet to sleep in vile olt Fritz Hartmann has a shingle to cover his het mit.”

“Well, well, as you please, old gentleman,” returned Mr. Jones, endeavoring to look indifferent; “put him into your own stone house, if you will, Major. I dare say the lad never slept in anything better than a bark shanty in his life, unless it was some such hut as the cabin of Leather-Stocking. I prophesy you will soon spoil him; any one could see how proud he grew, in a short time, just because he stood by my horses’ heads while I turned them into the highway.”

“No, no, my old friend,” cried Marmaduke, “it shall be my task to provide in some manner for the youth; I owe him a debt of my own, besides the service he has done me through my friends. And yet I anticipate some little trouble in inducing him to accept of my services. He showed a marked dislike, I thought, Bess, to my offer of a residence within these walls for life.”

“Really, dear sir,” said Elizabeth, projecting her beautiful under-lip, “I have not studied the gentleman so closely as to read his feelings in his countenance. I thought he might very naturally feel pain from his wound, and therefore pitied him; but” — and as she spoke she glanced her eye, with suppressed curiosity, toward the major-domo— “I dare say, sir, that Benjamin can tell you something about him, he cannot have been in the village, and Benjamin not have seen him often.”

“Ay! I have seen the boy before,” said Benjamin, who wanted little encouragement to speak; “he has been backing and filling in the wake of Natty Bumppo, through the mountains, after deer, like a Dutch long-boat in tow of an Albany sloop. He carries a good rifle, too, ‘the Leather-Stocking said, in my hearing, before Betty Hollister’s bar-room fire, no later than the Tuesday night, that the younger was certain death to the wild beasts. If so be he can kill the wild-cat that has been heard moaning on the lake-side since the hard frosts and deep snows have driven the deer to herd, he will be doing the thing that is good. Your wild-cat is a bad shipmate, and should be made to cruise out of the track of Christian men.”

“Lives he in the hut of Bumppo?” asked Marmaduke, with some interest.

“Cheek by jowl; the Wednesday will be three weeks since he first hove in sight, in company with Leather-Stocking. They had captured a wolf between them, and had brought in his scalp for the bounty. That Mister Bump-ho has a handy turn with him in taking off a scalp; and there’s them, in this here village, who say he l’arnt the trade by working on Christian men. If so be that there is truth in the saying, and I commanded along shore here, as your honor does, why, d’ye see, I’d bring him to the gangway for it, yet. There’s a very pretty post rigged alongside of the stocks; and for the matter of a cat, I can fit one with my own hands; ay! and use it too, for the want of a better.”

“You are not to credit the idle tales you hear of Natty; he has a kind of natural right to gain a livelihood in these mountains; and if the idlers in the village take it into their heads to annoy him, as they sometimes do reputed rogues, they shall find him protected by the strong arm of the law.”

“Ter rifle is petter as ter law,” said the Major sententiously.

“That for his rifle!” exclaimed Richard, snapping his fingers; “Ben is right, and I— “ He was stopped by the sound of a common ship-bell, that had been elevated to the belfry of the academy, which now announced, by its incessant ringing, that the hour for the appointed service had arrived. “‘For this and every other instance of his goodness— ‘ I beg pardon, Mr. Grant, will you please to return thanks, sir? It is time we should be moving, as we are the only Episcopalians in the neighborhood; that is, I and Benjamin, and Elizabeth; for I count half — breeds, like Marmaduke as bad as heretics.”

The divine arose and performed the office meekly and fervently, and the whole party instantly prepared them selves for the church — or rather academy.

CHAPTER X.

“And calling sinful man to pray,

Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled.”

— Scotts Burgher

While Richard and Monsieur Le Quoi, attended by Benjamin, proceeded to the academy by a foot-path through the snow, the judge, his daughter, the divine, and the Major took a more circuitous route to the same place by the streets of the village.

The moon had risen, and its orb was shedding a flood of light over the dark outline of pines which crowned the eastern mountain. In many climates the sky would have been thought clear and lucid for a noontide. The stars twinkled in the heavens, like the last glimmerings of distant fire, so much were they obscured by the overwhelming radiance of the atmosphere; the rays from the moon striking upon the smooth, white surfaces of the lake and fields, reflecting upward a light that was brightened by the spotless color of the immense bodies of snow which covered the earth.

Elizabeth employed herself with reading the signs, one of which appeared over almost every door; while the sleigh moved steadily, and at an easy gait, along the principal street. Not only new occupations, but names that were strangers to her ears, met her gaze at every step they proceeded. The very houses seemed changed. This had been altered by an addition; that had been painted; another had been erected on the site of an old acquaintance, which had been banished from the earth almost as soon as it made its appearance on it. All were, however, pouring forth their inmates, who uniformly held their way toward the point where the expected exhibition of the conjoint taste of Richard and Benjamin was to be made.

After viewing the buildings, which really appeared to some advantage under the bright but mellow light of the moon, our heroine turned her eyes to a scrutiny of the different figures they passed, in search of any form that she knew. But all seemed alike, as muffled in cloaks, hoods, coats, or tippets, they glided along the narrow passages in the snow which led under the houses, half hid by the bank that had been thrown up in excavating the deep path in which they trod. Once or twice she thought there was a stature or a gait that she recollected; but thc person who owned it instantly disappeared behind one of those enormous piles of wood that lay before most of the doors, It was only as they turned from the main street into another that intersected it at right angles, and which led directly to the place of meeting, that she recognized a face and building that she knew.

The house stood at one of the principal corners in the village; and by its well-trodden doorway, as well as the sign that was swinging with a kind of doleful sound in the blasts that occasionally swept down the lake, was clearly one of the most frequented inns in the place. The building was only of one story; but the dormer-windows in the roof, the paint, the window-shutters, and the cheerful fire that shone through the open door, gave it an air of comfort that was not possessed by many of its neighbors. The sign was suspended from a common ale-house post, and represented the figure of a horseman, armed with sabre and pistols, and surmounted by a bear-skin cap, with a fiery animal that he bestrode “rampant.” All these particulars were easily to be seen by the aid of the moon, together with a row of somewhat illegible writing in black paint, but in which Elizabeth, to whom the whole was familiar, read with facility, “The Bold Dragoon.”

A man and a woman were issuing from the door of this habitation as the sleigh was passing, The former moved with a stiff, military step, that was a good deal heightened by a limp in one leg; but the woman advanced with a measure and an air that seemed not particularly regardful of what she might encounter. The light of the moon fell directly upon her full, broad, and red visage, exhibiting her masculine countenance, under the mockery of a ruffled cap that was intended to soften the lineamints of features that were by no means squeamish. A small bonnet of black silk, and of a slightly formal cut, was placed on the back of her head, but so as not to shade her visage in the least. The face, as it encountered the rays of the moon from the east, seemed not unlike sun rising in the west. She advanced with masculine strides to intercept the sleigh; and the Judge, directing the namesake of the Grecian king, who held the lines, to check his horse, the par ties were soon near to each other.

“Good luck to ye, and a welcome home, Jooge,” cried the female, with a strong Irish accent; “and I’m sure it’s to me that ye’re always welcome. Sure! and there’s Miss Lizzy, and a fine young woman she is grown. What a heart-ache would she be giving the young men now, if there was sich a thing as a rigiment in the town! Och! but it’s idle to talk of sich vanities, while the bell is calling us to mateing jist as we shall be called away unexpictedly some day, when we are the laist calkilating. Good-even, Major; will I make the bowl of gin toddy the night, or it’s likely ye’ll stay at the big house the Christmas eve, and the very night of yer getting there?”

“I am glad to see you, Mrs. Hollister,” returned Elizabeth. “I have been trying to find a face that I knew since we left the door of the mansion-house; but none have I seen except your own. Your house, too, is unaltered, while all the others are so changed that, but for the places where they stand, they would be utter strangers. I observe you also keep the dear sign that I saw Cousin Richard paint; and even the name at the bottom, about which, you may remember, you had the disagreement.”

“It is the bould dragoon, ye mane? And what name would he have, who niver was known by any other, as my husband here, the captain, can testify? He was a pleasure to wait upon, and was ever the foremost in need. Och! but he had a sudden end! but it’s to be hoped that he was justified by the cause, And it’s not Parson Grant there who’ll gainsay that same. Yes, yes; the squire would paint, and so I thought that we might have his face up there, who had so often shared good and evil wid us. The eyes is no so large nor so fiery as the captain’s Own; but the whiskers and the cap is as two paes. Well, well, I’ll not keep ye in the cowld, talking, but will drop in the morrow after sarvice, and ask ye how ye do. It’s our bounden duty to make the most of this present, and to go to the house which is open to all; so God bless ye, and keep ye from evil! Will I make the gin-twist the night, or no, Major?”

To this question the German replied, very sententiously, in the affirmative; and, after a few words had passed between the husband of the fiery-faced hostess and the Judge, the sleigh moved on. It soon reached the door of the academy, where the party alighted and entered the building.

In the mean time, Mr. Jones and his two companions, having a much shorter distance to journey, had arrived before the appointed place some minutes sooner than the party in the sleigh. Instead of hastening into the room in order to enjoy the astonishment of the settlers, Richard placed a hand in either pocket of his surcoat, and affected to walk about, in front of the academy, like one to whom the ceremonies were familiar.

The villagers proceeded uniformly into the building, with a decorum and gravity that nothing could move, on such occasions; but with a haste that was probably a little heightened by curiosity. Those who came in from the adjacent country spent some little time in placing certain blue and white blankets over their horses before they proceeded to indulge their desire to view the interior of the house. Most of these men Richard approached, and inquired after the health and condition of their families. The readiness with which he mentioned the names of even the children, showed how very familiarly acquainted he was with their circumstances; and the nature of the answers he received proved that he was a general favorite.

At length one of the pedestrians from the village stopped also, and fixed an earnest gaze at a new brick edifice that was throwing a long shadow across the fields of snow, as it rose, with a beautiful gradation of light and shade, under the rays of a full moon. In front of the academy was a vacant piece of ground, that was intended for a public square. On the side opposite to Mr. Jones, the new and as yet unfinished church of St. Paul’s was erected, This edifice had been reared during the preceding summer, by the aid of what was called a subscription; though all, or nearly all, of the money came from the pockets of the landlord. It had been built under a strong conviction of the necessity of a more seemly place of worship than “the long room of the academy,” and under an implied agreement that, after its completion, the question should be fairly put to the people, that they might decide to what denomination it should belong. Of course, this expectation kept alive a strong excitement in some few of the sectaries who were interested in its decision; though but little was said openly on the subject. Had Judge Temple espoused the cause of any particular sect, the question would have been immediately put at rest, for his influence was too powerful to be opposed; but he declined interference in the matter, positively refusing to lend even the weight of his name on the side of Richard, who had secretly given an assurance to his diocesan that both the building and the congregation would cheerfully come within the pale of the Protestant Episcopal Church. But, when the neutrality of the Judge was clearly ascertained, Mr. Jones discovered that he had to contend with a stiff necked people. His first measure was to go among them and commence a course of reasoning, in order to bring them round to his own way of thinking. They all heard him patiently, and not a man uttered a word in reply in the way of argument, and Richard thought, by the time that he had gone through the settlement, the point was conclusively decided in his favor. Willing to strike while the iron was hot, he called a meeting, through the news paper, with a view to decide the question by a vote at once. Not a soul attended; and one of the most anxious afternoons that he had ever known was spent by Richard in a vain discussion with Mrs. Hollister, who strongly contended that the Methodist (her own) church was the best entitled to and most deserving of, the possession of the new tabernacle. Richard now perceived that he had been too sanguine, and had fallen into the error of all those who ignorantly deal with that wary and sagacious people. He assumed a disguise himself — that is, as well as he knew how, and proceeded step by step to advance his purpose.

The task of erecting the building had been unanimously transferred to Mr. Jones and Hiram Doolittle. Together they had built the mansion-house, the academy, and the jail, and they alone knew how to plan and rear such a structure as was now required. Early in the day, these architects had made an equitable division of their duties. To the former was assigned the duty of making all the plans, and to the latter the labor of superintending the execution.

Availing himself of this advantage, Richard silently determined that the windows should have the Roman arch; the first positive step in effecting his wishes. As the building was made of bricks, he was enabled to conceal his design until the moment arrived for placing the frames; then, indeed, it became necessary to act. He communicated his wishes to Hiram with great caution; and, without in the least adverting to the spiritual part of his project, he pressed the point a little warmly on the score of architectural beauty. Hiram heard him patiently, and without contradiction, but still Richard was unable to discover the views of his coadjutor on this interesting subject. As the right to plan was duly delegated to Mr. Jones, no direct objection was made in words. but numberless unexpected difficulties arose in the execution. At first there was a scarcity in the right kind of material necessary to form the frames; but this objection was instantly silenced by Richard running his pencil through two feet of their length at one stroke. Then the expense was mentioned; but Richard reminded Hiram that his cousin paid, and that he was treasurer. This last intimation had great weight, and after a silent and protracted, but fruitless opposition, the work was suffered to proceed on the original plan.

The next difficulty occurred in the steeple, which Richard had modelled after one of the smaller of those spires that adorn the great London cathedral. The imitation was somewhat lame, it was true, the proportions being but in differently observed; but, after much difficulty, Mr. Jones had the satisfaction of seeing an object reared that bore in its outlines, a striking resemblance to a vinegar-cruet. There was less opposition to this model than to the windows; for the settlers were fond of novelty, and their steeple was without a precedent.

Here the labor ceased for the season, and the difficult question of the interior remained for further deliberation. Richard well knew that, when he came to propose a reading-desk and a chancel, he must unmask; for these were arrangements known to no church in the country but his own. Presuming, however, on the advantages he had already obtained, he boldly styled the building St. Paul’s, and Hiram prudently acquiesced in this appellation, making, however, the slight addition of calling it “New St. Paul’s,” feeling less aversion to a name taken from the English cathedral than from the saint.

The pedestrian whom we have already mentioned, as pausing to contemplate this edifice, was no other than the gentleman so frequently named as Mr. or Squire Doolittle. He was of a tall, gaunt formation, with rather sharp features, and a face that expressed formal propriety mingled with low cunning. Richard approached him, followed by Monsieur Le Quoi and the major-domo.

“Good-evening, squire,” said Richard, bobbing his head, but without moving his hands from his pockets.

“Good-evening, squire,” echoed Hiram, turning his body in order to turn his head also.

“A cold night, Mr. Doolittle, a cold night, sir.”

“Coolish; a tedious spell on’t.”

“What, looking at our church, ha! It looks well, by moonlight; how the tin of the cupola glistens! I warrant you the dome of the other St. Paul’s never shines so in the smoke of London.”

“It is a pretty meeting-house to look on,” returned Hiram, “and I believe that Monshure Ler Quow and Mr. Penguilliam will allow it.”

“Sairtainlee!” exclaimed the complaisant Frenchman, “it ees ver fine.”

“I thought the monshure would say so. The last molasses that we had was excellent good. It isn’t likely that you have any more of it on hand?”

“Ah! oui; ees, sair,” returned Monsieur Le Quoi, with a slight shrug of his shoulder, and a trifling grimace, “dere is more. I feel ver happi dat you love eet. I hope dat Madame Doleet’ is in good ‘ealth.”

“Why, so as to be stirring,” said Hiram. “The squire hasn’t finished the plans for the inside of the meeting house yet?”

“No — no — no,” returned Richard, speaking quickly, but making a significant pause between each negative — .. “it requires reflection. There is a great deal of room to fill up, and I am afraid we shall not know how to dispose of it to advantage. There will be a large vacant spot around the pulpit, which I do not mean to place against the wall, like a sentry-box stuck up on the side of a fort.”

“It is rulable to put the deacons’ box under the pulpit,” said Hiram; and then, as if he had ventured too much, he added, “but there’s different fashions in different Countries.”

“That there is,” cried Benjamin; “now, in running down the coast of Spain and Portingall, you may see a nunnery stuck out on every headland, with more steeples and outriggers such as dog-vanes and weathercocks, than you’ll find aboard of a three-masted schooner. If so be that a well-built church is wanting, old England, after all, is the country to go to after your models and fashion pieces. As to Paul’s, thof I’ve never seen it, being that it’s a long way up town from Radcliffe Highway and the docks, yet everybody knows that it’s the grandest place in the world Now, I’ve no opinion but this here church over there is as like one end of it as a grampus is to a whale; and that’s only a small difference in bulk. Mounsheer Ler Quaw, here, has been in foreign parts; and thof that is not the same as having been at home, yet he must have seen churches in France too, and can form a small idee of what a church should be; now I ask the mounsheer to his face if it is not a clever little thing, taking it by and large.”

“It ees ver apropos of saircumstance,” said the Frenchman— “ver judgment — but it is in the catholique country dat dey build dc — vat you call — ah a ah-ha — la grande cathédrale — de big church. St. Paul, Londre, is ver fine; ver belle; ver grand — vat you call beeg; but, Monsieur Ben, pardonnez-moi, it is no vort so much as Notre Dame.”

“Ha! mounsheer, what is that you say?” cried Benjamin; “St. Paul’s church is not worth so much as a damn! Mayhap you may be thinking too that the Royal Billy isn’t so good a ship as the Billy de Paris; but she would have licked two of her any day, and in all weathers.”

As Benjamin had assumed a very threatening kind of attitude, flourishing an arm with a bunch at the end of it that was half as big as Monsieur Le Quoi’s head, Richard thought it time to interpose his authority.

“Hush, Benjamin, hush,” he said; “you both misunderstand Monsieur Le Quoi and forget yourself. But here comes Mr. Grant, and the service will commence. Let us go in.”

The Frenchman, who received Benjamin’s reply with a well-bred good-humor that would not admit of any feeling but pity for the other’s ignorance, bowed in acquiescence and followed his companion.

Hiram and the major-domo brought up the rear, the latter grumbling as he entered the building:

“If so be that the king of France had so much as a house to live in that would lay alongside of Paul’s, one might put up with their jaw. It’s more than flesh and blood can bear to hear a Frenchman run down an English church in this manner. Why, Squire Doolittle, I’ve been at the whipping of two of them in one day — clean built, snug frigates with standing royals and them new-fashioned cannonades on their quarters — such as, if they had only Englishmen aboard of them, would have fout the devil.”

With this ominous word in his mouth Benjamin entered the church.

CHAPTER XI.

“And fools who came to scoff, remained to pray.”

— Goldsmith.

Notwithstanding the united labors of Richard and Benjamin, the “long room” was but an extremely inartificial temple. Benches; made in the coarsest manner, and entirely with a view to usefulness, were arranged in rows for the reception of the Congregation; while a rough, unpainted box was placed against the wall, in the centre of the length of the apartment, as an apology for a pulpit. Something like a reading-desk was in front of this rostrum; and a small mahogany table from the mansion-house, covered with a spotless damask cloth, stood a little on one side, by the way of an altar. Branches of pines and hemlocks were stuck in each of the fissures that offered in the unseasoned and hastily completed woodwork of both the building and its furniture; while festoons and hieroglyphics met the eye in vast profusion along the brown sides of the scratch-coated walls. As the room was only lighted by some ten or fifteen miserable candles, and the windows were without shutters, it would have been but a dreary, cheerless place for the solemnities of a Christmas eve, had not the large fire that was crackling at each end of the apartment given an air of cheerfulness to the scene, by throwing an occasional glare of light through the vistas of bushes and faces.

The two sexes were separated by an area in the centre of the room immediately before the pulpit; amid a few benches lined this space, that were occupied by the principal personages of the village and its vicinity. This distinction was rather a gratuitous concession made by the poorer and less polished part of the population than a right claimed by the favored few. One bench was occupied by the party of Judge Temple, including his daughter, and, with the exception of Dr. Todd, no one else appeared willing to incur the imputation of pride, by taking a seat in what was, literally, the high place of the tabernacle.

Richard filled the chair that was placed behind another table, in the capacity of clerk; while Benjamin, after heaping sundry logs on the fire, posted himself nigh by, in reserve for any movement that might require co-operation.

It would greatly exceed our limits to attempt a description of the congregation, for the dresses were as various as the individuals. Some one article of more than usual finery, and perhaps the relic of other days, was to be seen about most of the females, in connection with the coarse attire of the woods. This wore a faded silk, that had gone through at least three generations, over coarse, woollen black stockings; that, a shawl, whose dyes were as numerous as those of the rainbow, over an awkwardly fitting gown of rough brown “woman’s wear.” In short, each one exhibited some favorite article, and all appeared in their best, both men and women; while the ground-works in dress, in either sex, were the coarse fabrics manufactured within their own dwellings. One man appeared in the dress of a volunteer company of artillery, of which he had been a member in the “down countries,” precisely for no other reason than because it was the best suit he had. Several, particularly of the younger men, displayed pantaloons of blue, edged with red cloth down the seams part of the equipments of the “Templeton Light Infantry,” from a little vanity to be seen in “boughten clothes.” There was also one man in a “rifle frock,” with its fringes and folds of spotless white, striking a chill to the heart with the idea of its coolness, although the thick coat of brown “home-made” that was concealed beneath preserved a proper degree of warmth.

There was a marked uniformity of expression in Countenance, especially in that half of the congregation who did not enjoy the advantages of the polish of the village. A sallow skin, that indicated nothing but exposure, was common to all, as was an air of great decency and attention, mingled, generally, with an expression of shrewdness, and in the present instance of active curiosity. Now and then a face and dress were to be seen among the congregation, that differed entirely from this description. If pock-marked and florid, with gartered legs, and a coat that snugly fitted the person of the wearer, it was surely an English emigrant, who had bent his steps to this retired quarter of the globe. If hard-featured and without color, with high cheek-bones, it was a native of Scotland, in similar circumstances.

The short, black-eyed man, with a cast of the swarthy Spaniard in his face, who rose repeatedly to make room for the belles of the village as they entered, was a son of Erin, who had lately left off his pack, and become a stationary trader in Templeton. In short, half the nations in the north of Europe had their representatives in this assembly, though all had closely assimilated themselves to the Americans in dress and appearance, except the English man. He, indeed, not only adhered to his native customs in attire and living, but usually drove his plough among the stumps in the same manner as he had before done on the plains of Norfolk, until dear-bought experience taught him the useful lesson that a sagacious people knew what was suited to their circumstances better than a casual observer, or a sojourner who was, perhaps, too much prejudiced to compare and, peradventure, too conceited to learn.

Elizabeth soon discovered that she divided the attention of the congregation with Mr. Grant. Timidity, therefore, confined her observation of the appearances which we have described to stoles glances; but, as the stamping of feet was now becoming less frequent, and even the coughing, and other little preliminaries of a congregation settling themselves down into reverential attention, were ceasing, she felt emboldened to look around her. Gradually all noises diminished, until the suppressed cough denoted that it was necessary to avoid singularity, and the most pro found stillness pervaded the apartment. The snapping of the fires, as they threw a powerful heat into the room, was alone heard, and each face and every eye were turned on the divine.

At this moment, a heavy stamping of feet was heard in the passage below, as if a new-corner was releasing his limbs from the snow that was necessarily clinging to the legs of a pedestrian. It was succeeded by no audible tread; but directly Mohegan, followed by the Leather-Stocking and the young hunter, made his appearance.

Their footsteps would not have been heard, as they trod the apartment in their moccasins, but for the silence which prevailed.

The Indian moved with great gravity across the floor, and, observing a vacant seat next to the Judge, he took it, in a manner that manifested his sense of his own dignity. Here, drawing his blanket closely around him so as partly to conceal his countenance, he remained during the service immovable, but deeply attentive. Natty passed the place that was so freely taken by his red companion, and seated himself on one end of a log that was lying near the fire, where he continued, with his rifle standing between his legs, absorbed in reflections seemingly of no very pleasing nature. The youth found a seat among the congregation, and another silence prevailed.

Mr. Grant now arose and commenced his service with the sublime declaration of the Hebrew prophet: “The Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him.” The example of Mr. Jones was unnecessary to teach the congregation to rise; the solemnity of the divine effected this as by magic. After a short pause, Mr. Grant proceeded with the solemn and winning exhortation of his service. Nothing was heard but the deep though affectionate tones of the reader, as he went slowly through this exordium; until, something unfortunately striking the mind of Richard as incomplete, he left his place and walked on tiptoe from the room.

When the clergyman bent his knees in prayer and confession, the congregation so far imitated his example as to resume their seats; whence no succeeding effort of the divine, during the evening, was able to remove them in a body. Some rose at times; but by far the larger part continued unbending; observant, it is true, but it was the kind of observation that regarded the ceremony as a spectacle rather than a worship in which they were to participate. Thus deserted by his clerk Mr. Grant continued to read; but no response was audible. The short and solemn pause that succeeded each petition was made; still no voice repeated the eloquent language of the prayer.

The lips of Elizabeth moved, but they moved in vain and accustomed as she was to the service of the churches of the metropolis, she was beginning to feel the awkwardness of the circumstance most painfully when a soft, low female voice repeated after the priest, “We have left undone those things which we ought to have done.” Startled at finding one of her own sex in that place who could rise superior to natural timidity, Miss Temple turned her eyes in the direction of the penitent. She observed a young female on her knees, but a short distance from her, with her meek face humbly bent over her book.

The appearance of this stranger, for such she was, entirely, to Elizabeth, was light and fragile. Her dress was neat and becoming; and her countenance, though pale and slightly agitated, excited deep interest by its sweet and melancholy expression. A second and third response was made by this juvenile assistant, when the manly sounds of a male voice proceeded from the opposite part of the room, Miss Temple knew the tones of the young hunter instantly, and struggling to overcome her own diffidence she added her low voice to the number.

All this time Benjamin stood thumbing the leaves of a prayer-book with great industry; but some unexpected difficulties prevented his finding the place. Before the divine reached the close of the confession, however, Richard reappeared at the door, and, as he moved lightly across the room, he took up the response, in a voice that betrayed no other concern than that of not being heard. In his hand he carried a small open box, with the figures “8 by 10” written in black paint on one of its sides; which, having placed in the pulpit, apparently as a footstool for the divine, he returned to his station in time to say, sonorously, “Amen.” The eyes of the congregation, very naturally, were turned to the windows, as Mr. Jones entered with his singular load; and then, as if accustomed to his “general agency,” were again bent on the priest, in close and curious attention.

The long experience of Mr. Grant admirably qualified him to perform his present duty. He well understood the character of his listeners, who were mostly a primitive people in their habits; and who, being a good deal addicted to subtleties and nice distinctions in their religious opinions, viewed the introduction of any such temporal assistance as form into their spiritual worship not only with jealousy, but frequently with disgust. He had acquired much of his knowledge from studying the great book of human nature as it lay open in the world; and, knowing how dangerous it was to contend with ignorance, uniformly endeavored to avoid dictating where his better reason taught him it was the most prudent to attempt to lead, His orthodoxy had no dependence on his cassock; he could pray with fervor and with faith, if circumstances required it, without the assistance of his clerk; and he had even been known to preach a most evangelical sermon, in the winning manner of native eloquence, without the aid of a cambric handkerchief.

In the present instance he yielded, in many places, to the prejudices of his congregation; and when he had ended, there was not one of his new hearers who did not think the ceremonies less papal and offensive, and more conformant to his or her own notions of devout worship, than they had been led to expect from a service of forms, Richard found in the divine, during the evening, a most powerful co-operator in his religious schemes. In preaching, Mr. Grant endeavored to steer a middle course between the mystical doctrines of those sublimated creeds which daily involve their professors in the most absurd contradictions, and those fluent roles of moral government which would reduce the Saviour to a level with the teacher of a school of ethics. Doctrine it was necessary to preach, for nothing less would have satisfied the disputatious people who were his listeners, and who would have interpreted silence on his part into a tacit acknowledgment of the superficial nature of his creed. We have already said that, among the endless variety of religious instructors, the settlers were accustomed to hear every denomination urge its own distinctive precepts, and to have found one indifferent to this Interesting subject would have been destructive to his influence. But Mr. Grant so happily blended the universally received opinions of the Christian faith with the dogmas of his own church that, although none were entirely exempt from the influence of his reasons, very few took any alarm at the innovation.

“When we consider the great diversity of the human character, influenced as it is by education, by opportunity, and by the physical and moral conditions of the creature, my dear hearers,” he earnestly concluded “it can excite no surprise that creeds so very different in their tendencies should grow out of a religion revealed, it is true, but whose revelations are obscured by the lapse of ages, and whose doctrines were, after the fashion of the countries in which they were first promulgated, frequently delivered in parables, and in a language abounding in metaphors and loaded with figures. On points where the learned have, in purity of heart, been compelled to differ, the unlettered will necessarily be at variance. But, happily for us, my brethren, the fountain of divine love flows from a source too pure to admit of pollution in its course; it extends, to those who drink of its vivifying waters, the peace of the righteous, and life everlasting; it endures through all time, and it pervades creation. If there be mystery in its workings, it is the mystery of a Divinity. With a clear knowledge of the nature, the might, and the majesty of God, there might be conviction, but there could be no faith. If we are required to believe in doctrines that seem not in conformity with the deductions of human wisdom, let us never forget that such is the mandate of a wisdom that is infinite. It is sufficient for us that enough is developed to point our path aright, and to direct our wandering steps to that portal which shall open on the light of an eternal day. Then, indeed, it may be humbly hoped that the film which has been spread by the subtleties of earthly arguments will be dissipated by the spiritual light of Heaven; and that our hour of probation, by the aid of divine grace, being once passed in triumph, will be followed by an eternity of intelligence and endless ages of fruition. All that is now obscure shall become plain to our expanded faculties; and what to our present senses may seem irreconcilable to our limited notions of mercy, of justice, and of love, shall stand irradiated by the light of truth, confessedly the suggestions of Omniscience, and the acts of an All-powerful Benevolence.”

“What a lesson of humility, my brethren, might not each of us obtain from a review of his infant hours, and the recollection of his juvenile passions! How differently do the same acts of parental rigor appear in the eyes of the suffering child and of the chastened man! When the sophist would supplant, with the wild theories of his worldly wisdom, the positive mandates of inspiration, let him remember the expansion of his own feeble intellects, and pause — let him feel the wisdom of God in what is partially concealed as well as that which is revealed; in short, let him substitute humility for pride of reason — let him have faith, and live!”

“The consideration of this subject is full of consolation, my hearers, and does not fail to bring with it lessons of humility and of profit, that, duly improved, would both chasten the heart and strengthen the feeble-minded man in his course. It is a blessed consolation to be able to lay the misdoubtings of our arrogant nature at the thresh old of the dwelling-place of the Deity, from whence they shall be swept away, at the great opening of the portal, like the mists of the morning before the rising sun. It teaches us a lesson of humility, by impressing us with the imperfection of human powers, and by warning us of the many weak points where we are open to the attack of the great enemy of our race; it proves to us that we are in danger of being weak, when our vanity would fain soothe us into the belief that we are most strong; it forcibly points out to us the vainglory of intellect, and shows us the vast difference between a saving faith and the corollaries of a philosophical theology; and it teaches us to reduce our self-examination to the test of good works. By good works must be understood the fruits of repentance, the chiefest of which is charity. Not that charity only which causes us to help the needy and comfort the suffering, but that feeling of universal philanthropy which, by teaching us to love, causes us to judge with lenity all men; striking at the root of self-righteousness, and warning us to be sparing of our condemnation of others, while our own salvation is not yet secure.”

“The lesson of expediency, my brethren, which I would gather from the consideration of this subject, is most strongly inculcated by humility. On the heading and essential points of our faith, there is but little difference among those classes of Christians who acknowledge the attributes of the Saviour, and depend on his mediation. But heresies have polluted every church, and schisms are the fruit of disputation. In order to arrest these dangers, and to insure the union of his followers, it would seem that Christ had established his visible church and delegated the ministry. Wise and holy men, the fathers of our religion, have expended their labors in clearing what was revealed from the obscurities of language, and the results of their experience and researches have been em bodied in the form of evangelical discipline That this discipline must be salutary, is evident from the view of the weakness of human nature that we have already taken; and that it may be profitable to us, and all who listen to its precepts and its liturgy, may God, in his infinite wisdom, grant! — And now to,” etc.

With this ingenious reference to his own forms and ministry, Mr. Grant concluded his discourse. The most profound attention had been paid to the sermon during the whole of its delivery, although the prayers had not been received with so perfect demonstration of respect. This was by no means an intended slight of that liturgy to which the divine alluded, but was the habit of a people who owed their very existence, as a distinct nation, to the doctrinal character of their ancestors. Sundry looks of private dissatisfaction were exchanged between Hiram and one or two of the leading members of the conference, but the feeling went no further at that time; and the congregation, after receiving the blessing of Mr. Grant., dispersed in Silence, and with great decorum.

CHAPTER XII.

“Your creeds and dogmas of a learned church

May build a fabric, fair with moral beauty;

But it would seem that the strong hand of God

Can, only, ‘rase the devil from the heart.”

— Duo.

While the congregation was separating, Mr. Grant approached the place where Elizabeth and her father were seated, leading the youthful female whom we have mentioned in the preceding chapter, and presented her as his daughter. Her reception was as cordial and frank as the manners of the country and the value of good society could render it; the two young women feeling, instantly, that they were necessary to the comfort of each other, The Judge, to whom the clergyman’s daughter was also a stranger, was pleased to find one who, from habits, sex, and years, could probably contribute largely to the pleasures of his own child, during her first privations on her removal from the associations of a city to the solitude of Templeton; while Elizabeth, who had been forcibly struck with the sweetness and devotion of the youthful suppliant, removed the slight embarrassment of the timid stranger by the ease of her own manners. They were at once acquainted; and, during the ten minutes that the “academy” was clearing, engagements were made between the young people, not only for the succeeding day, but they would probably have embraced in their arrangements half of the winter, had not the divine interrupted them by saying:

“Gently, gently, my dear Miss Temple, or you will make my girl too dissipated. You forget that she is my housekeeper, and that my domestic affairs must remain unattended to, should Louisa accept of half the kind offers you are so good as to make her.”

“And why should they not be neglected entirely, sir?” interrupted Elizabeth. “There are but two of you; and certain I am that my father’s house will not only contain you both, but will open its doors spontaneously to receive such guests. Society is a good not to be rejected on account of cold forms, in this wilderness, sir; and I have often heard my father say, that hospitality is not a virtue in a new country, the favor being conferred by the guest.”

“The manner in which Judge Temple exercises its rites would confirm this opinion; but we must not trespass too freely. Doubt not that you will see us often, my child, particularly during the frequent visits that I shall be compelled to make to the distant parts of the country. But to obtain an influence with such a people,” he continued, glancing his eyes toward the few who were still lingering, curious observers of the interview, “a clergyman most not awaken envy or distrust by dwelling under so splendid a roof as that of Judge Temple.”

“You like the roof, then, Mr. Grant,” cried Richard, who had been directing the extinguishment of the fires and other little necessary duties, and who approached in time to hear the close of the divine’s speech. “I am glad to find one man of taste at last. Here’s ‘Duke now, pretends to call it by every abusive name he can invent; but though ‘Duke is a tolerable judge, he is a very poor carpenter, let me tell him. Well, sir, well, I think we may say, without boasting, that the service was as well per formed this evening as you often see; I think, quite as well as I ever knew it to be done in old Trinity — that is, if we except the organ. But there is the school-master leads the psalm with a very good air. I used to lead myself, but latterly I have sung nothing but bass. There is a good deal of science to be shown in the bass, and it affords a fine opportunity to show off a full, deep voice. Benjamin, too, sings a good bass, though he is often out in the words. Did you ever hear Benjamin sing the ‘Bay of Biscay,’?”

“I believe he gave us part of it this evening,” said Marmaduke, laughing. “There was, now and then, a fearful quaver in his voice, and it seems that Mr. Penguillian is like most others who do one thing particularly well; he knows nothing else. He has, certainly, a wonderful partiality to one tune, and he has a prodigious self-confidence in that one, for he delivers himself like a northwester sweeping across the lake. But come, gentlemen, our way is clear, and the sleigh waits. Good-evening, Mr. Grant. Good-night, young lady — remember you dine beneath the Corinthian roof, to-morrow, with Elizabeth.”

The parties separated, Richard holding a close dissertation with Mr. Le Quoi, as they descended the stairs, on the subject of psalmody, which he closed by a violent eulogium on the air of the “Bay of Biscay, O,” as particularly connected with his friend Benjamin’s execution.

During the preceding dialogue, Mohegan retained his seat, with his head shrouded in his blanket, as seemingly inattentive to surrounding objects as the departing congregation was itself to the presence of the aged chief, Natty, also, continued on the log where he had first placed himself, with his head resting on one of his hands, while the other held the rifle, which was thrown carelessly across his lap. His countenance expressed uneasiness, and the occasional unquiet glances that he had thrown around him during the service plainly indicated some unusual causes for unhappiness. His continuing seated was, how ever, out of respect to the Indian chief to whom he paid the utmost deference on all occasions, although it was mingled with the rough manner of a hunter.

The young companion of these two ancient inhabitants of the forest remained also standing before the extinguished brands, probably from an unwillingness to depart without his comrades. The room was now deserted by all but this group, the divine, and his daughter. As the party from the mansion-house disappeared, John arose, and, dropping the blanket from his head, he shook back the mass of black hair from his face, and, approaching Mr. Grant, he extended his hand, and said solemnly:

“Father, I thank you. The words that have been said, since the rising moon, have gone upward, and the Great Spirit is glad. What you have told your children, they will remember, and be good.” He paused a moment, and then, elevating himself with the grandeur of an Indian chief, he added: “If Chingachgook lives to travel toward the setting sun, after his tribe, and the Great Spirit carries him over the lakes and mountains with the breath of his body, he will tell his people the good talk he has heard; and they will believe him; for who can say that Mohegan has ever lied?”

“Let him place his dependence on the goodness of Divine mercy,” said Mr. Grant, to whom the proud consciousness of the Indian sounded a little heterodox, “and it never will desert him. When the heart is filled with love to God, there is no room for sin. But, young man, to you I owe not only an obligation, in common with those you saved this evening on the mountain, but my thanks for your respectable and pious manner in assisting in the service at a most embarrassing moment. I should be happy to see you sometimes at my dwelling, when, perhaps, my conversation may strengthen you in the path which you appear to have chosen. It is so unusual to find one of your age and appearance, in these woods, at all acquainted with our holy liturgy, that it lessens at once the distance between us, and I feel that we are no longer strangers. You seem quite at home in the service; I did not perceive that you had even a book, although good Mr. Jones, had laid several in different parts of the room.”

“It would be strange if I were ignorant of the service of our church, sir,” returned the youth modestly; “for I was baptized in its communion and I have never yet attended public worship elsewhere. For me to use the forms of any other denomination would be as singular as our own have proved to the people here this evening.”

“You give me great pleasure, my dear sir,” cried the divine, seizing the other by the hand, and shaking it cordially. “You will go home with me now — indeed you must — my child has yet to thank you for saving my life. I will-listen to no apologies. This worthy Indian, and your friend, there, will accompany us. Bless me! to think that’ he has arrived at manhood in this country, without entering a dissenting * meeting-house!”

* The divines of the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States

commonly call other denominations Dissenters, though there never was

an established church in their own country!

“No, no,” interrupted the Leather-Stocking, “I must away to the wigwam; there’s work there that mustn’t be forgotten for all your churchings and merry-makings. Let the lad go with you in welcome; he is used to keeping company with ministers, and talking of such matters; so is old John, who was christianized by the Moravians abouts the time of the old war. But I am a plain unlarned man, that has sarved both the king and his country, in his day, agin’ the French and savages, but never so much as looked into a book, or larnt a letter of scholarship, in my born days. I’ve never seen the use of much in-door work, though I have lived to be partly bald, and in my time have killed two hundred beaver in a season, and that without counting thc other game. If you mistrust what I am telling you, you can ask Chingachgook there, for I did it in the heart of the Delaware country, and the old man is knowing to the truth of every word I say.”

“I doubt not, my friend, that you have been both a valiant soldier and skilful hunter in your day,” said the divine; “but more is wanting to prepare you for that end which approaches. You may have heard the maxim, that ‘young men may die, but that old men must’.”

“I’m sure I never was so great a fool as to expect to live forever,” said Natty, giving one of his silent laughs; “no man need do that who trails the savages through the woods, as I have done, and lives, for the hot months, on the lake streams. I’ve a strong constitution, I must say that for myself, as is plain to be seen; for I’ve drunk the Onondaga water a hundred times, while I’ve been watching the deer-licks, when the fever-an’-agy seeds was to be seen in it as plain and as plenty as you can see the rattle snakes on old Crumhorn. But then I never expected to hold out forever; though there’s them living who have seen the German flats a wilderness; ay! and them that’s larned, and acquainted with religion, too; though you might look a week, now, and not find even the stump of a pine on them; and that’s a wood that lasts in the ground the better part of a hundred years after the tree is dead.”

“This is but time, my good friend,” returned Mr. Grant, who began to take an interest in the welfare of his new acquaintance, “but I would have you prepare for eternity. It is incumbent on you to attend places of public worship, as I am pleased to see that you have done this evening. Would it not be heedless in you to start on a day’s toil of hard hunting, and leave your ramrod and flint behind?”

“It must be a young hand in the woods,” interrupted Natty, with another laugh, “that didn’t know how to dress a rod out of an ash sapling or find a fire-stone in the mountains. No, no, I never expected to live forever; but I see, times be altering in these mountains from what they was thirty years ago, or, for that matter, ten years. But might makes right, and the law is stronger than an old man, whether he is one that has much laming, or only like me, that is better now at standing at the passes than in following the hounds, as I once used to could. Heigh-ho! I never know’d preaching come into a settlement but it made game scarce, and raised the price of gunpowder; and that’s a thing that’s not as easily made as a ramrod or an Indian flint.”

The divine, perceiving that he had given his opponent an argument by his own unfortunate selection of a comparison, very prudently relinquished the controversy; although he was fully determined to resume it at a more happy moment, Repeating his request to the young hunter with great earnestness, the youth and Indian consented to ac company him and his daughter to the dwelling that the care of Mr. Jones had provided for their temporary residence. Leather-Stocking persevered in his intention of returning to the hut, and at the door of the building they separated.

After following the course of one of the streets of the village a short distance. Mr. Grant, who led the way, turned into a field, through a pair of open bars, and entered a footpath, of but sufficient width to admit one person to walk in at a time. The moon had gained a height that enabled her to throw her rays perpendicularly on the valley; and the distinct shadows of the party flitted along on the banks of the silver snow, like the presence of aerial figures, gliding to their appointed place of meeting. The night still continued intensely cold, although not a breath of wind was felt. The path was beaten so hard that the gentle female, who made one of the party, moved with ease along its windings; though the frost emitted a low creaking at the impression of even her light footsteps.

The clergyman in his dark dress of broadcloth, with his mild, benevolent countenance occasionally turned toward his companions, expressing that look of subdued care which was its characteristic, presented the first object in this singular group. Next to him moved the Indian, his hair falling about his face, his head uncovered, and the rest of his form concealed beneath his blanket. As his swarthy visage, with its muscles fixed in rigid composure, was seen under the light of the moon, which struck his face obliquely, he seemed a picture of resigned old age, on whom the storms of winter had beaten in vain for the greater part of a century; but when, in turning his head, the rays fell directly on his dark, fiery eyes, they told a tale of passions unrestrained, and of thoughts free as air. The slight person of Miss Grant, which followed next, and which was but too thinly clad for the severity of the season, formed a marked contrast to thc wild attire and uneasy glances of the Delaware chief; and more than once during their walk, the young hunter, himself no insignificant figure in the group, was led to consider the difference in the human form, as the face of Mohegan and the gentle countenance of Miss Grant, with eyes that rivalled the soft hue of the sky, met his view at the instant that each turned to throw a glance at the splendid orb which lighted their path. Their way, which led through fields that lay at some distance in the rear of the houses, was cheered by a conversation that flagged or became animated with the subject. The first to speak was the divine.

“Really,” he said, “it is so singular a circumstance to meet with one of your age, that has not been induced by idle curiosity to visit any other church than the one in which he has been educated, that I feel a strong curiosity to know the history of a life so fortunately regulated. Your education must have been excellent; as indeed is evident from your manners and language. Of which of the States are you a native, Mr. Edwards? for such, I believe, was the name that you gave Judge Temple.”

“Of this.”

“Of this! I was at a loss to conjecture, from your dialect, which does not partake, particularly, of the peculiarities of any country with which I am acquainted. You have, then, resided much in the cities, for no other part of this country is so fortunate as to possess the constant enjoyment of our excellent liturgy.”

The young hunter smiled, as he listened to the divine while he so clearly betrayed from what part of the country he had come himself; but, for reasons probably connected with his present situation, he made no answer.

“I am delighted to meet with you, my young friend, for I think an ingenuous mind, such as I doubt not yours must be, will exhibit all the advantages of a settled doctrine and devout liturgy. You perceive how I was compelled to bend to the humors of my hearers this evening. Good Mr. Jones wished me to read the communion, and, in fact, all the morning service; but, happily, the canons do not require this of an evening. It would have wearied a new congregation; but to-morrow I purpose administering the sacrament, Do you commune, my young friend?”

“I believe not, sir,” returned the youth, with a little embarrassment, that was not at all diminished by Miss Grant’s pausing involuntarily, and turning her eyes on him in surprise; “I fear that I am not qualified; I have never yet approached the altar; neither would I wish to do it while I find so much of the world clinging to my heart.”

“Each must judge for himself,” said Mr. Grant; “though I should think that a youth who had never been blown about by the wind of false doctrines, and who has enjoyed the advantages of our liturgy for so many years in its purity, might safely come. Yet, sir, it is a solemn festival, which none should celebrate until there is reason to hope it is not mockery. I observed this evening, in your manner to Judge Temple, a resentment that bordered on one of the worst of human passions, We will cross this brook on the ice; it must bear us all, I think, in safety. Be careful not to slip, my child.” While speaking, he descended a little bank by the path, and crossed one of the small streams that poured their waters into the lake; and, turning to see his daughter pass, observed that the youth had advanced, and was kindly directing her footsteps. When all were safely over, he moved up the opposite bank, and continued his discourse. “It was wrong, my dear sir, very wrong, to suffer such feelings to rise, under any circumstances, and especially in the present, where the evil was not intended.”

“There is good in the talk of my father,” said Mohegan, stopping short, and causing those who Were behind him to pause also; “it is the talk of Miquon. The white man may do as his fathers have told him; but the ‘Young Eagle’ has the blood of a Delaware chief in his veins; it is red, and the stain it makes can only be washed out with the blood of a Mingo.”

Mr. Grant was surprised by the interruption of the Indian, and, stopping, faced the speaker. His mild features were confronted to the fierce and determined looks of the chief, and expressed the horror he felt at hearing such sentiments from one who professed the religion of his Saviour. Raising his hands to a level with his head, he exclaimed:

“John, John! is this the religion that you have learned from the Moravians? But no — I will not be so uncharitable as to suppose it. They are a pious, a gentle, and a mild people, and could never tolerate these passions. Listen to the language of the Redeemer: ‘But I say unto you, love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good to them that hate you; pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you.’ This is the command of God, John, and, without striving to cultivate such feelings, no man can see Him.”

The Indian heard the divine with attention; the unusual fire of his eye gradually softened, and his muscles relaxed into their ordinary composure; but, slightly shaking his head, he motioned with dignity for Mr. Grant to resume his walk, and followed himself in silence, The agitation of the divine caused him to move with unusual rapidity along the deep path, and the Indian, without any apparent exertion, kept an equal pace; but the young hunter observed the female to linger in her steps, until a trifling distance intervened between the two former and the latter. Struck by the circumstance, and not perceiving any new impediment to retard her footstep, the youth made a tender of his assistance.

“You are fatigued, Miss Grant,” he said; “the snow yields to the foot, and you are unequal to the strides of us men. Step on the crust, I entreat you, and take the help of my arm, Yonder light is, I believe, the house of your father; but it seems yet at some distance.”

“I am quite equal to the walk,” returned a low, tremulous voice; “but I am startled by the manner of that Indian, Oh! his eye was horrid, as he turned to the moon, in speaking to my father. But I forgot, sir; he is your friend, and by his language may be your relative; and yet of you I do not feel afraid.”

The young man stepped on the bank of snow, which firmly sustained his weight, and by a gentle effort induced his companion to follow. Drawing her arm through his own, he lifted his cap from his head, allowing the dark locks to flow in rich curls over his open brow, and walked by her side with an air of conscious pride, as if inviting an examination of his utmost thoughts. Louisa took but a furtive glance at his person, and moved quietly along, at a rate that was greatly quickened by the aid of his arm.

“You are but little acquainted with this peculiar people, Miss Grant,” he said, “or you would know that revenge is a virtue with an Indian. They are taught, from infancy upward, to believe it a duty never to allow an injury to pass unrevenged; and nothing but the stronger claims of hospitality can guard one against their resentments where they have power.”

“Surely, sir,” said Miss Grant, involuntarily withdrawing her arm from his, “you have not been educated with such unholy sentiments?”

“It might be a sufficient answer to your excellent father to say that I was educated in the church,” he returned; “but to you I will add that I have been taught deep and practical lessons of forgiveness. I believe that, on this subject, I have but little cause to reproach myself; it shall be my endeavor that there yet be less.”

While speaking, he stopped, and stood with his arm again proffered to her assistance. As he ended, she quietly accepted his offer, and they resumed their walk.

Mr. Grant and Mohegan had reached the door of the former’s residence, and stood waiting near its threshold for the arrival of their young companions. The former was earnestly occupied in endeavoring to correct, by his precepts, the evil propensities that he had discovered in the Indian during their conversation; to which the latter listened in Profound but respectful attention. On the arrival of the young hunter and the lady, they entered the building. The house stood at some distance from the village, in the centre of a field, surrounded by stumps that were peering above the snow, bearing caps of pure white, nearly two feet in thickness. Not a tree nor a shrub was nigh it; but the house, externally, exhibited that cheer less, unfurnished aspect which is so common to the hastily erected dwellings of a new country. The uninviting character of its outside was, however, happily relieved by the exquisite neatness and comfortable warmth within.

They entered an apartment that was fitted as a parlor, though the large fireplace, with its culinary arrangements, betrayed the domestic uses to which it was occasionally applied. The bright blaze from the hearth rendered the light that proceeded from the candle Louisa produced unnecessary; for the scanty furniture of the room was easily seen and examined by the former. The floor was covered in the centre by a carpet made of rags, a species of manufacture that was then, and yet continues to be, much in use in the interior; while its edges, that were exposed to view, were of unspotted cleanliness. There was a trifling air of better life in a tea-table and work-stand, as well as in an old-fashioned mahogany bookcase; but the chairs, the dining-table, and the rest of the furniture were of the plainest and cheapest construction, Against the walls were hung a few specimens of needle-work and drawing, the former executed with great neatness, though of somewhat equivocal merit in their designs, while the latter were strikingly deficient in both.

One of the former represented a tomb, with a youthful female weeping over it, exhibiting a church with arched windows in the background. On the tomb were the names, with the dates of the births and deaths, of several individuals, all of whom bore the name of Grant. An extremely cursory glance at this record was sufficient to discover to the young hunter the domestic state of the divine. He there read that he was a widower; and that the innocent and timid maiden, who had been his companion, was the only survivor of six children. The knowledge of the dependence which each of these meek Christians had on the other for happiness threw an additional charm around the gentle but kind attentions which the daughter paid to the father.

These observations occurred while the party were seating themselves before the cheerful fire, during which time there was a suspension of discourse. But, when each was comfortably arranged, and Louisa, after laying aside a thin coat of faded silk, and a gypsy hat, that was more becoming to her modest, ingenuous countenance than appropriate to the season, had taken a chair between her father and the youth, the former resumed the conversation.

“I trust, my young friend,” he said, “that the education you have received has eradicated most of those revengeful principles which you may have inherited by descent, for I understand from the expressions of John that you have some of the blood of the Delaware tribe. Do not mistake me, I beg, for it is not color nor lineage that constitutes merit; and I know not that he who claims affinity to the proper owners of this soil has not the best right to tread these hills with the lightest conscience.”

Mohegan turned solemnly to the speaker, and, with the peculiarly significant gestures of an Indian, he spoke:

“Father, you are not yet past the summer of life; your limbs are young. Go to the highest hill, and look around you. All that you see, from the rising to the setting sun, from the head-waters of the great spring, to where the ‘crooked river’* is hid by the hills, is his. He has Delaware blood, and his right is strong.

* The Susquehannah means crooked river; “hannah,” or “hannock,” meant

river in many of the native dialects.  Thus we find Rappahannock as

far south as Virginia.

“But the brother of Miquon is just; he will cut the country in two parts, as the river cuts the lowlands, and will say to the ‘Young Eagle,’ ‘Child of the Delawares! take it — keep it; and be a chief in the land of your fathers.’”

“Never!” exclaimed the young hunter, with a vehemence that destroyed the rapt attention with which the divine and his daughter were listening to the Indian. “The wolf of the forest is not more rapacious for his prey than that man is greedy of gold; and yet his glidings into wealth are subtle as the movements of a serpent.”

“Forbear, forbear, my son, forbear,” interrupted Mr. Grant. “These angry passions most be subdued. The accidental injury you have received from Judge Temple has heightened the sense of your hereditary wrongs. But remember that the one was unintentional, and that the other is the effect of political changes, which have, in their course, greatly lowered the pride of kings, and swept mighty nations from the face of the earth. Where now are the Philistines, who so often held the children of Israel in bondage? or that city of Babylon, which rioted in luxury and vice, and who styled herself the Queen of Nations in the drunkenness of her pride? Remember the prayer of our holy litany, where we implore the Divine Power— ‘that it may please thee to forgive our enemies, persecutors, and slanderers, and to turn their hearts. The sin of the wrongs which have been done to the natives is shared by Judge Temple only in common with a whole people, and your arm will speedily be restored to its strength.”

“This arm!” repeated the youth, pacing the floor in violent agitation. “Think you, sir, that I believe the man a murderer? Oh, no! he is too wily, too cowardly, for such a crime. But let him and his daughter riot in their wealth — a day of retribution will come. No, no, no,” he continued, as he trod the floor more calmly— “it is for Mohegan to suspect him of an intent to injure me; but the trifle is not worth a second thought.” He seated himself, and hid his face between his hands, as they rested on his knees.

“It is the hereditary violence of a native’s passion, my child,” said Mr. Grant in a low tone to his affrighted daughter, who was clinging in terror to his arm. “He is mixed with the blood of the Indians, you have heard; and neither the refinements of education nor the advantages of our excellent liturgy have been able entirely to eradicate the evil. But care and time will do much for him yet.”

Although the divine spoke in a low tone, yet what he uttered was heard by the youth, who raised his head, with a smile of indefinite expression, and spoke more calmly:

“Be not alarmed, Miss Grant, at either the wildness of my manner or that of my dress. I have been carried away by passions that I should struggle to repress. I must attribute it, with your father, to the blood in my veins, although I would not impeach my lineage willingly; for it is all that is left me to boast of. Yes! I am proud of my descent from a Delaware chief, who was a warrior that ennobled human nature. Old Mohegan was his friend, and will vouch for his virtues.”

Mr. Grant here took up the discourse, and, finding the young man more calm, and the aged chief attentive, he entered into a full and theological discussion of the duty of forgiveness. The conversation lasted for more than an hour, when the visitors arose, and, after exchanging good wishes with their entertainers, they departed. At the door they separated, Mohegan taking the direct route to the village, while the youth moved toward the lake. The divine stood at the entrance of his dwelling, regarding the figure of the aged chief as it glided, at an astonishing gait for his years, along the deep path; his black, straight hair just visible over the bundle formed by his blanket, which was sometimes blended with the snow, under the silvery light of the moon. From the rear of the house was a window that overlooked the lake; and here Louisa was found by her father, when he entered, gazing intently on some object in the direction of the eastern mountain. He approached the spot, and saw the figure of the young hunter, at the distance of half a mile, walking with prodigious steps across the wide fields of frozen snow that covered the ice, toward the point where he knew the hut inhabited by the Leather-Stocking was situated on the margin of the lake, under a rock that was crowned by pines and hemlocks. At the next instant, the wild looking form entered the shadow cast from the over-hanging trees, and was lost to view.

“It is marvellous how long the propensities of the savage continue in that remarkable race,” said the good divine; “but if he perseveres as he has commenced, his triumph shall yet be complete. Put me in mind, Louisa, to lend him the homily ‘against peril of idolatry,’ at his next visit.”

“Surety, father, you do not think him in danger of relapsing into the worship of his ancestors?”

“No, my child,” returned the clergyman, laying his hand affectionately on her flaxen locks, and smiling; “his white blood would prevent it; but there is such a thing as the idolatry of our passions.”

CHAPTER XIII.

“And I’ll drink out of the quart pot —

Here’s a health to the barley mow.

“ — Drinking Song.

On one of the corners, where the two principal streets of Templeton intersected each other, stood, as we have already mentioned, the inn called the “Bold Dragoon”. In the original plan it was ordained that the village should stretch along the little stream that rushed down the valley; and the street which led from the lake to the academy was intended to be its western boundary. But convenience frequently frustrates the best-regulated plans. The house of Mr., or as, in consequence of commanding the militia of that vicinity, he was called, Captain Hollister, had, at an early day, been erected directly facing the main street, and ostensibly interposed a barrier to its further progress. Horsemen, and subsequently teamsters, however, availed themselves of an opening, at the end of the building, to shorten their passage westward, until in time the regular highway was laid out along this course, and houses were gradually built on either side, so as effectually to prevent any subsequent correction of the evil.

Two material consequences followed this change in the regular plans of Marmaduke. The main street, after running about half its length, was suddenly reduced for precisely that difference in its width; and “Bold Dragoon” became, next to the mansion-house, by far the most conspicuous edifice in the place.

This conspicuousness, aided by the characters of the host and hostess, gave the tavern an advantage over all its future competitors that no circumstances could conquer. An effort was, however, made to do so; and at the corner diagonally opposite, stood a new building that was in tended, by its occupants, to look down all opposition. It was a house of wood, ornamented in the prevailing style of architecture, and about the roof and balustrades was one of the three imitators of the mansion-house. The upper windows were filled with rough boards secured by nails, to keep out the cold air — for the edifice was far from finished, although glass was to be seen in the lower apartments, and the light of the powerful fires within de noted that it was already inhabited. The exterior was painted white on the front and on the end which was exposed to the street; but in the rear, and on the side which was intended to join the neighboring house, it was coarsely smeared with Spanish brown. Before the door stood two lofty posts, connected at the top by a beam, from which was suspended an enormous sign, ornamented around its edges with certain curious carvings in pine boards, and on its faces loaded with Masonic emblems. Over these mysterious figures was written, in large letters, “The Templeton Coffee-house, and Traveller’s Hotel,” and beneath them, “By Habakkuk Foote and Joshua Knapp.” This was a fearful rival to the “Bold Dragoon,” as our readers will the more readily perceive when we add that the same sonorous names were to be seen over a newly erected store in the village, a hatter’s shop, and the gates of a tan-yard. But, either because too much was attempted to be executed well, or that the “Bold Dragoon” had established a reputation which could not be easily shaken, not only Judge Temple and his friends, but most of the villagers also, who were not in debt to the powerful firm we have named, frequented the inn of Captain Hollister on all occasions where such a house was necessary.

On the present evening the limping veteran and his consort were hardly housed after their return from the academy, when the sounds of stamping feet at their threshold announced the approach of visitors, who were probably assembling with a view to compare opinions on the subject of the ceremonies they had witnessed.

The public, or as it was called, the “bar-room,” of the “Bold Dragoon,” was a spacious apartment, lined on three sides with benches and on the fourth by fireplaces. Of the latter there were two of such size as to occupy, with their enormous jambs, the whole of that side of the apartment where they were placed, excepting room enough for a door or two, and a little apartment in one corner, which was protected by miniature palisades, and profusely garnished with bottles and glasses. In the entrance to this sanctuary Mrs. Hollister was seated, with great gravity in her air, while her husband occupied himself with stirring the fires, moving the logs with a large stake burnt to a point at one end.

“There, sargeant, dear,” said the landlady, after she thought the veteran had got the logs arranged in the most judicious manner, “give over poking, for it’s no good ye’ll be doing, now that they burn so convaniently. There’s the glasses on the table there, and the mug that the doctor was taking his cider and ginger in, before the fire here — just put them in the bar, will ye? for we’ll be having the jooge, and the Major, and Mr. Jones down the night, without reckoning Benjamin Poomp, and the lawyers; so yell be fixing the room tidy; and put both flip irons in the coals; and tell Jude, the lazy black baste, that if she’s no be cleaning up the kitchen I’ll turn her out of the house, and she may live wid the jontlemen that kape the ‘Coffee house,’ good luck to ‘em. Och! sargeant, sure it’s a great privilege to go to a mateing where a body can sit asy, without joomping up and down so often, as this Mr. Grant is doing that same.”

“It’s a privilege at all times, Mrs. Hollister, whether we stand or be seated; or, as good Mr. Whitefleld used to do after he had made a wearisome day’s march, get on our knees and pray, like Moses of old, with a flanker to the right and left to lift his hands to heaven,” returned her husband, who composedly performed what she had directed to be done. “It was a very pretty fight, Betty, that the Israelites had on that day with the Amalekites, It seams that they fout on a plain, for Moses is mentioned as having gone on the heights to overlook the battle, and wrestle in prayer; and if I should judge, with my little larning, the Israelites depended mainly on their horse, for it was written ‘that Joshua cut up the enemy with the edge of the sword; from which I infer, not only that they were horse, but well diseiplyned troops. Indeed, it says as much as that they were chosen men; quite likely volunteers; for raw dragoons seldom strike with the edge of their swords, particularly if the weapon be any way crooked.”

“Pshaw! why do ye bother yourself wid texts, man, about so small a matter?” interrupted the landlady; “sure, it was the Lord who was with ‘em; for he always sided with the Jews, before they fell away; and it’s but little matter what kind of men Joshua commanded, so that he was doing the right bidding. Aven them cursed millaishy, the Lord forgive me for swearing, that was the death of him, wid their cowardice, would have carried the day in old times. There’s no rason to be thinking that the soldiers were used to the drill.”

“I must say, Mrs. Hollister, that I have not often seen raw troops fight better than the left flank of the militia, at the time you mention. They rallied handsomely, and that without beat of drum, which is no easy thing to do under fire, and were very steady till he fell. But the Scriptures contain no unnecessary words; and I will maintain that horse, who know how to strike with the edge of the sword, must be well disoiplyned. Many a good sarmon has been preached about smaller matters than that one word! If the text was not meant to be particular, why wasn’t it written with the sword, and not with the edge? Now, a back-handed stroke, on the edge, takes long practice. Goodness! what an argument would Mr. Whitefield make of that word edge! As to the captain, if he had only called up the guard of dragoons when he rallied the foot, they would have shown the inimy what the edge of a sword was; for, although there was no commissioned officer with them, yet I think I must say,” the veteran continued, stiffening his cravat about his throat, and raising himself up with the air of a drill-sergeant, “they were led by a man who knowed how to bring them on, in spite of the ravine.”

“Is it lade on ye would,” cried the landlady, “when ye know yourself, Mr. Hollister, that the baste he rode was but little able to joomp from one rock to another, and the animal was as spry as a squirrel? Och! but it’s useless to talk, for he’s gone this many a year. I would that he had lived to see the true light; but there’s mercy for a brave sowl, that died in the saddle, fighting for the liberty. It is a poor tombstone they have given him, anyway, and many a good one that died like himself; but the sign is very like, and I will be kapeing it up, while the blacksmith can make a hook for it to swing on, for all the ‘coffee-houses’ betwane this and Albany.”

There is no saying where this desultory conversation would have led the worthy couple, had not the men, who were stamping the snow off their feet on the little plat form before the door, suddenly ceased their occupation, and entered the bar-room.

For ten or fifteen minutes the different individuals, who intended either to bestow or receive edification before the fires of the “Bold Dragoon” on that evening, were collecting, until the benches were nearly filled with men of different occupations. Dr. Todd and a slovenly-looking, shabby-genteel young man, who took tobacco profusely, wore a coat of imported cloth cut with something like a fashionable air, frequently exhibited a large French silver watch, with a chain of woven hair and a silver key, and who, altogether, seemed as much above the artisans around him as he was himself inferior to the real gentle man, occupied a high-back wooden settee, in the most comfortable corner in the apartment.

Sundry brown mugs, containing cider or beer, were placed between the heavy andirons, and little groups were found among the guests as subjects arose or the liquor was passed from one to the other. No man was seen to drink by himself, nor in any instance was more than one vessel considered necessary for the same beverage; but the glass or the mug was passed from hand to hand until a chasm in the line or a regard to the rights of ownership would regularly restore the dregs of the potation to him who de frayed the cost.

Toasts were uniformly drunk; and occasionally some one who conceived himself peculiarly endowed by Nature to shine in the way of wit would attempt some such sentiment as “hoping that he” who treated “might make a better man than his father;” or “live till all his friends wished him dead;” while the more humble pot-companion contented himself by saying, with a most composing gravity in his air, “Come, here’s luck,” or by expressing some other equally comprehensive desire. In every instance the veteran landlord was requested to imitate the custom of the cupbearers to kings, and taste the liquor he presented, by the invitation of “After you is manners,” with which request he ordinarily complied by wetting his lips, first expressing the wish of “Here’s hoping,” leaving it to the imagination of the hearers to fill the vacuum by whatever good each thought most desirable. During these movements the landlady was busily occupied with mixing the various compounds required by her customers, with her own hands, and occasionally exchanging greetings and inquiries concerning the conditions of their respective families, with such of the villagers as approached the bar.

At length the common thirst being in some measure assuaged, conversation of a more general nature became the order of the hour. The physician and his companion, who was one of the two lawyers of the village, being considered the best qualified to maintain a public discourse with credit, were the principal speakers, though a remark was hazarded, now and then, by Mr. Doolittle, who was thought to be their inferior only in the enviable point of education. A general silence was produced on all but the two speakers, by the following observation from the practitioner of the law:

“So, Dr. Todd, I understand that you have been per forming an important operation this evening by cutting a charge of buckshot from the shoulder of the son of Leather-Stocking?”

“Yes, sir,” returned other, elevating his little head with an air of importance. “I had a small job up at the Judge’s in that way; it was, however, but a trifle to what it might have been, had it gone through the body. The shoulder is not a very vital part; and I think the young man will soon be well. But I did not know that the patient was a son of Leather-Stocking; it is news to me to hear that Natty had a wife.”

“It is by no means a necessary consequence,” returned the other, winking, with a shrewd look around the bar room; “there is such a thing, I suppose you know, in law as a filius nullius.”

“Spake it out, man,” exclaimed the landlady; “spake it out in king’s English; what for should ye be talking Indian in a room full of Christian folks, though it is about a poor hunter, who is but little better in his ways than the wild savages themselves? Och! it’s to be hoped that the missionaries will, in his own time, make a conversion of the poor devils; and then it will matter little of what color is the skin, or wedder there be wool or hair on the head.”

“Oh! it is Latin, not Indian, Miss Hollister!” returned the lawyer, repeating his winks and shrewd looks; “and Dr. Todd understands Latin, or how would he read the labels on his gailipots and drawers? No, no, Miss Hollis ter, the doctor understands me; don’t you, doctor?”

“Hem — why, I guess I am not far out of the way,” returned Elnathan, endeavoring to imitate the expression of the other’s countenance, by looking jocular. “Latin is a queer language, gentlemen; now I rather guess there is no one in the room, except Squire Lippet, who can believe that ‘Far. Av.’ means oatmeal, in English.”

The lawyer in his turn was a good deal embarrassed by this display of learning; for, although he actually had taken his first degree at one of the eastern universities, he was somewhat puzzled with the terms used by his companion. It was dangerous, however, to appear to be out done in learning in a public bar-room, and before so many of his clients; he therefore put the best face on the matter, and laughed knowingly as if there were a good joke concealed under it, that was understood only by the physician and himself. All this was attentively observed by the listeners, who exchanged looks of approbation; and the expressions of “tonguey mati,” and “I guess Squire Lippet knows if anybody does,” were heard in different parts of the room, as vouchers for the admiration of his auditors. Thus encouraged, the lawyer rose from his chair, and turning his back to the fire, and facing the company, he continued:

“The son of Natty, or the son of nobody, I hope the young man is not going to let the matter drop. This is a country of law; and I should like to see it fairly tried, whether a man who owns, or says he owns, a hundred thousand acres of land, has any more right to shoot a body than another. What do you think of it, Dr. Todd?”

“Oh, sir, I am of opinion that the gentleman will soon be well, as I said before; the wound isn’t in a vital part; and as the ball was extracted so soon, and the shoulder was what I call well attended to, I do not think there is as much danger as there might have been.”

“I say, Squire Doolittle,” continued the attorney, raising his voice, “you are a magistrate, and know what is law and what is not law. I ask you, sir, if shooting a man is a thing that is to be settled so very easily? Suppose, sir, that the young man had a wife and family; and suppose that he was a mechanic like yourself, sir; and sup pose that his family depended on him for bread; and suppose that the ball, instead of merely going through the flesh, had broken the shoulder-blade, and crippled him forever; I ask you all, gentlemen, supposing this to be the case, whether a jury wouldn’t give what I call handsome damages?”

As the close of this supposititious case was addressed to the company generally, Hiram did not at first consider himself called on for a reply; but finding the eyes of the listeners bent on him in expectation, he remembered his character for judicial discrimination, and spoke, observing a due degree of deliberation and dignity.

“Why, if a man should shoot another,” he said, “and if he should do it on purpose and if the law took notice on’t, and if a jury should find him guilty, it would be likely to turn out a state-prison matter.”

“It would so, sir,” returned the attorney. “The law, gentlemen, is no respecter of persons in a free country. It is one of the great blessings that has been handed down to us from our ancestors, that all men are equal in the eye of the laws, as they are by nater. Though some may get property, no one knows how, yet they are not privileged to transgress the laws any more than the poorest citizen in the State. This is my notion, gentlemen: and I think that it a man had a mind to bring this matter up, something might be made out of it that would help pay for the salve — ha! doctor!”

“Why, sir,” returned the physician, who appeared a little uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking, “I have the promise of Judge Temple before men — not but what I would take his word as soon as his note of hand — but it was before men. Let me see — there was Mounshier Ler Quow, and Squire Jones, and Major Hartmann, and Miss Pettibone, and one or two of the blacks by, when he said that his pocket would amply reward me for what I did.”

“Was the promise made before or after the service was performed?” asked the attorney.

“It might have been both,” returned the discreet physician; “though I’m certain he said so before I undertook the dressing.”

“But it seems that he said his pocket should reward you, doctor,” observed Hiram. “Now I don’t know that the law will hold a man to such a promise; he might give you his pocket with sixpence in’t, and tell you to take your pay out on’t.”

“That would not be a reward in the eye of the law,” interrupted the attorney— “not what is called a ‘quid pro quo;’ nor is the pocket to be considered as an agent, but as part of a man’s own person, that is, in this particular. I am of opinion that an action would lie on that promise, and I will undertake to bear him out, free of costs, if he don’t recover.”

To this proposition the physician made no reply; but he was observed to cast his eyes around him, as if to enumerate the witnesses, in order to substantiate this promise also, at a future day, should it prove necessary. A subject so momentous as that of suing Judge Temple was not very palatable to the present company in so public a place; and a short silence ensued, that was only interrupted by the opening of the door, and the entrance of Natty himself.

The old hunter carried in his hand his never-failing companion, the rifle; and although all of the company were uncovered excepting the lawyer, who wore his hat on one side, with a certain dam’me air, Natty moved to the front of one of the fires without in the least altering any part of his dress or appearance. Several questions were addressed to him, on the subject of the game he had killed, which he answered readily, and with some little interest; and the landlord, between whom and Natty there existed much cordiality, on account of their both having been soldiers in youth, offered him a glass of a liquid which, if we might judge from its reception, was no unwelcome guest. When the forester had got his potation also, he quietly took his seat on the end of one of the logs that lay nigh the fires, and the slight interruption produced by his entrance seemed to be forgotten.

“The testimony of the blacks could not be taken, sir,” continued the lawyer, “for they are all the property of Mr. Jones, who owns their time. But there is a way by which Judge Temple, or any other man, might be made to pay for shooting another, and for the cure in the bargain. There is a way, I say, and that without going into the ‘court of errors,’ too.”

“And a mighty big error ye would make of it, Mister Todd,” cried the landlady, “should ye be putting the mat ter into the law at all, with Joodge Temple, who has a purse as long as one of them pines on the hill, and who is an asy man to dale wid, if yees but mind the humor of him. He’s a good man is Joodge Temple, and a kind one, and one who will be no the likelier to do the pratty thing, becase ye would wish to tarrify him wid the law. I know of but one objaction to the same, which is an over-careless ness about his sowl. It’s neither a Methodie, nor a Papish, nor Parsbetyrian, that he is, but just nothing at all; and it’s hard to think that he, ‘who will not fight the good fight, under the banners of a rig’lar church, in this world, will be mustered among the chosen in heaven,’ as my husband, the captain there, as ye call him, says — though there is but one captain that I know, who desarves the name. I hopes, Lather-Stocking, ye’ll no be foolish, and putting the boy up to try the law in the matter; for ‘twill be an evil day to ye both, when ye first turn the skin of so paceable an animal as a sheep into a bone of contention, The lad is wilcome to his drink for nothing, until his shoulther will bear the rifle agin.”

“Well, that’s gin’rous,” was heard from several mouths at once, for this was a company in which a liberal offer was not thrown away; while the hunter, instead ‘of expressing any of that indignation which he might be sup posed to feel, at hearing the hurt of his young companion alluded to, opened his mouth, with the silent laugh for which he was so remarkable; and after he had indulged his humor, made this reply:

“I knowed the Judge would do nothing with his smooth bore when he got out of his sleigh. I never saw but one smooth-bore that would carry at all, and that was a French ducking-piece, upon the big lakes; it had a barrel half as long agin as my rifle, and would throw fine shot into a goose at one hundred yards; but it made dreadful work with the game, and you wanted a boat to carry it about in. When I went with Sir William agin’ the French, at Fort Niagara, all the rangers used the rifle; and a dreadful weapon it is, in the hands of one who knows how to charge it, and keep a steady aim. The captain knows, for he says he was a soldier in Shirley’s; and, though they were nothing but baggonet-men, he must know how we cut up the French and Iroquois in the skrimmages in that war. Chingachgook, which means ‘Big Sarpent’ in English, old John Mohegan, who lives up at the hut with me, was a great warrior then, and was out with us; he can tell all about it, too; though he was overhand for the tomahawk, never firing more than once or twice, before he was running in for the scalps. Ah! times is dreadfully altered since then. Why, doctor, there was nothing but a foot path, or at the most a track for pack-horses, along the Mohawk, from the Jarman Flats up to the forts. Now, they say, they talk of running one of them wide roads with gates on it along the river; first making a road, and then fencing it up! I hunted one season back of the Kaatskills, nigh-hand to the settlements, and the dogs often lost the scent, when they came to them highways, there was so much travel on them; though I can’t say that the brutes was of a very good breed. Old Hector will wind a deer, in the fall of the year, across the broadest place in the Otsego, and that is a mile and a half, for I paced it my self on the ice, when the tract was first surveyed, under the Indian grant.”

“It sames to me, Natty, but a sorry compliment to call your comrad after the evil one,” said the landlady; “and it’s no much like a snake that old John is looking now, Nimrod would be a more becoming name for the lad, and a more Christian, too, seeing that it conies from the Bible. The sargeant read me the chapter about him, the night before my christening, and a mighty asement it was to listen to anything from the book.”

“Old John and Chingachgook were very different men to look on,” returned the hunter, shaking his head at his melancholy recollections. “In the ‘fifty-eighth war’ he was in the middle of manhood, and taller than now by three inches. If you had seen him, as I did, the morning we beat Dieskau, from behind our log walls, you would have called him as comely a redskin as ye ever set eyes on. He was naked all to his breech-cloth and leggins; and you never seed a creatur’ so handsomely painted. One side of his face was red and the other black. His head was shaved clean, all to a few hairs on the crown, where he wore a tuft of eagle’s feathers, as bright as if they had come from a peacock’s tail. He had colored his sides so that they looked like anatomy, ribs and all, for Chingachgook had a great taste in such things, so that, what with his bold, fiery countenance, his knife, and his tomahawk, I have never seen a fiercer warrior on the ground. He played his part, too, like a man, for I saw him next day with thirteen scalps on his pole. And I will say this for the ‘Big Snake,’ that he always dealt fair, and never scalped any that he didn’t kill with his own hands.”

“Well, well!” cried the landlady, “fighting is fighting anyway, and there is different fashions in the thing; though I can’t say that I relish mangling a body after the breath is out of it; neither do I think it can be uphild by doctrine. I hope, sargeant, ye niver was helping in sich evil worrek.”

“It was my duty to keep my ranks, and to stand or fall by the baggonet or lead,” returned the veteran. “I was then in the fort, and seldom leaving my place, saw but little of the savages, who kept on the flanks or in front, skrimmaging. I remember, howsomever, to have heard mention made of the ‘Great Snake,’ as he was called, for he was a chief of renown; but little did I ever expect to see him enlisted in the cause of Christianity, and civilized like old John.”

“Oh! he was Christianized by the Moravians, who were always over-intimate with the Delawares,” said Leather-Stocking. “It’s my opinion that, had they been left to themselves, there would be no such doings now about the head-waters of the two rivers, and that these hills mought have been kept as good hunting-ground by their right owner, who is not too old to carry a rifle, and whose sight is as true as a fish-hawk hovering— “

He was interrupted by more stamping at the door, and presently the party from the mansion-house entered, followed by the Indian himself.

CHAPTER XIV.

“There’s quart-pot, pint-pot.

Mit-pint, Gill-pot, half-gill, nipperkin.

And the brown bowl —

Here’s a health to the barley mow,

My brave boys,

Here’s a health to the barley mow.”

— Drinking Song.

Some little commotion was produced by the appearance of the new guests, during which the lawyer slunk from the room. Most of the men approached Marmaduke, and shook his offered hand, hoping “that the Judge was well;” while Major Hartmann having laid aside his hat and wig, and substituted for the latter a warm, peaked woollen nightcap, took his seat very quietly on one end of the settee, which was relinquished by its former occupant. His tobacco-box was next produced, and a clean pipe was handed him by the landlord. When he had succeeded in raising a smoke, the Major gave a long whiff, and, turning his head toward the bar, he said:

“Petty, pring in ter toddy.”

In the mean time the Judge had exchanged his salutations with most of the company, and taken a place by the side of the Major, and Richard had bustled himself into the most comfortable seat in the room. Mr. Le Quoi was the last seated, nor did he venture to place his chair finally, until by frequent removals he had ascertained that he could not possibly intercept a ray of heat front any individual present. Mohegan found a place on an end of one of the benches, and somewhat approximated to the bar.

When these movements had subsided, the Judge remarked pleasantly: “Well, Betty, I find you retain your popularity through all weathers, against all rivals, and among all religions. How liked you the sermon?”

“Is it the sarmon?” exclaimed the landlady. “I can’t say but it was rasonable; but the prayers is mighty unasy. It’s no small a matter for a body in their fifty-nint’ year to be moving so much in church. Mr. Grant sames a godly man, any way, and his garrel a hommble on; and a devout. Here, John, is a mug of cider, laced with whiskey. An Indian will drink cider, though he niver be athirst.”

“I must say,” observed Hiram, with due deliberation, “that it was a tongney thing; and I rather guess that it gave considerable satisfaction, There was one part, though, which might have been left out, or something else put in; but then I s’pose that, as it was a written discourse, it is not so easily altered as where a minister preaches without notes.”

“Ày! there’s the rub, Joodge,” cried the landlady. “How can a man stand up and be preaching his word, when all that he is saying is written down, and he is as much tied to it as iver a thaving dragoon was to the pickets?”

“Well, well,” cried Marmaduke, waving his hand for silence, “there is enough said; as Mr. Grant told us, there are different sentiments on such subjects, and in my opinion he spoke most sensibly. So, Jotham, I am told you have sold your betterments to a new settler, and have moved into the village and opened a school. Was it cash or dicker?”

The man who was thus addressed occupied a seat immediately behind Marmaduke, and one who was ignorant of the extent of the Judge’s observation might have thought he would have escaped notice. He was of a thin, shapeless figure, with a discontented expression of countenance, and with something extremely shiftless in his whole air, Thus spoken to, after turning and twisting a little, by way of preparation, he made a reply:

“Why part cash and part dicker. I sold out to a Pumfietman who was so’thin’ forehanded. He was to give me ten dollar an acre for the clearin’, and one dollar an acre over the first cost on the woodland, and we agreed to leave the buildin’s to men. So I tuck Asa Montagu, and he tuck Absalom Bement, and they two tuck old Squire Napthali Green. And so they had a meetin’, and made out a vardict of eighty dollars for the buildin’s. There was twelve acres of clearin’ at ten dollars, and eighty-eight at one, and the whole came to two hundred and eighty-six dollars and a half, after paying the men.”

“Hum,” said Marmaduke, “what did you give for the place?”

“Why, besides what’s comin’ to the Judge, I gi’n my brother Tim a hundred dollars for his bargain; but then there’s a new house on’t, that cost me sixty more, and I paid Moses a hundred dollars for choppin’, and loggin’, and sowin’, so that the whole stood to me in about two hundred and sixty dollars. But then I had a great crop oft on’t, and as I got twenty-six dollars and a half more than it cost, I conclude I made a pretty good trade on’t.”

“Yes, but you forgot that the crop was yours without the trade, and you have turned yourself out of doors for twenty-six dollars.”

“Oh! the Judge is clean out,” said the man with a look of sagacious calculation; “he turned out a span of horses, that is wuth a hundred and fifty dollars of any man’s money, with a bran-new wagon; fifty dollars in cash, and a good note for eighty more; and a side-saddle that was valued at seven and a half — so there was jist twelve shillings betwixt us. I wanted him to turn out a set of harness, and take the cow and the sap troughs. He wouldn’t — but I saw through it; he thought I should have to buy the tacklin’ afore I could use the wagon and horses; but I knowed a thing or two myself; I should like to know of what use is the tacklin’ to him! I offered him to trade back agin for one hundred and fifty-five. But my woman said she wanted to churn, so I tuck a churn for the change.”

“And what do you mean to do with your time this winter? You must remember that time is money.”

“Why, as master has gone down country to see his mother, who, they say, is going to make a die on’t, I agreed to take the school in hand till he comes back, It times doesn’t get worse in the spring, I’ve some notion of going into trade, or maybe I may move off to the Genesee; they say they are carryin’ on a great stroke of business that-a-way. If the wust comes to the wust, I can but work at my trade, for I was brought up in a shoe manufactory.”

It would seem that Marmaduke did not think his society of sufficient value to attempt inducing him to remain where he was, for he addressed no further discourse to the man, but turned his attention to other subjects. After a short pause, Hiram ventured a question:

“What news does the Judge bring us from the Legislature? It’s not likely that Congress has done much this session; or maybe the French haven’t fit any more battles lately?”

“The French, since they have beheaded their king, have done nothing but fight,” returned the Judge. “The character of the nation seems changed. I knew many French gentlemen during our war, and they all appeared to me to be men of great humanity and goodness of heart; but these Jacobins are as blood thirsty as bull-dogs.”

“There was one Roshambow wid us down at Yorrektown,” cried the landlady “a mighty pratty man he was too; and their horse was the very same. It was there that the sargeant got the hurt in the leg from the English batteries, bad luck to ‘em.”

“Oh! mon pauvre roil” muttered Monsieur Le Quoi.

“The Legislature have been passing laws,” continued Marmaduke, “that the country much required. Among others, there is an act prohibiting the drawing of seines, at any other than proper seasons, in certain of our streams and small lakes; and another, to prohibit the killing of deer in the teeming months. These are laws that were loudly called for by judicious men; nor do I despair of getting an act to make the unlawful felling of timber a criminal offence.”

The hunter listened to this detail with breathless attention, and, when the Judge had ended, he laughed in open derision.

“You may make your laws, Judge,” he cried, “but who will you find to watch the mountains through the long summer days, or the lakes at night? Game is game, and he who finds may kill; that has been the law in these mountains for forty years to my sartain knowledge; and I think one old law is worth two new ones. None but a green one would wish to kill a doe with a fa’n by its side, unless his moccasins were getting old, or his leggins ragged, for the flesh is lean and coarse. But a rifle rings among the rocks along the lake shore, sometimes, as if fifty pieces were fired at once — it would be hard to tell where the man stood who pulled the trigger.”

“Armed with the dignity of the law, Mr. Bumppo,” returned the Judge, gravely, “a vigilant magistrate can prevent much of the evil that has hitherto prevailed, and which is already rendering the game scarce. I hope to live to see the day when a man’s rights in his game shall be as much respected as his title to his farm.”

“Your titles and your farms are all new together,” cried Natty; “but laws should be equal, and not more for one than another. I shot a deer, last Wednesday was a fort night, and it floundered through the snow-banks till it got over a brush fence; I catched the lock of my rifle in the twigs in following, and was kept back, until finally the creature got off. Now I want to know who is to pay me for that deer; and a fine buck it was. If there hadn’t been a fence I should have gotten another shot into it; and I never drawed upon anything that hadn’t wings three times running, in my born days. No, no, Judge, it’s the farmers that makes the game scarce, and not the hunters.”

“Ter teer is not so plenty as in tee old war, Pumppo,” said the Major, who had been an attentive listener, amid clouds of smoke; “put ter lant is not mate as for ter teer to live on, put for Christians.”

“Why, Major, I believe you’re a friend to justice and the right, though you go so often to the grand house; but it’s a hard case to a man to have his honest calling for a livelihood stopped by laws, and that, too, when, if right was done, he mought hunt or fish on any day in the week, or on the best flat in the Patent, if he was so minded.”

“I unterstant you, Letter-Stockint,” returned the Major, fixing his black eyes, with a look of peculiar meaning, on the hunter: “put you didn’t use to be so prutent as to look ahet mit so much care.”

“Maybe there wasn’t so much occasion,” said the hunter, a little sulkily; when he sank into a silence from which he was not roused for some time.

“The Judge was saying so’thin’ about the French,” Hiram observed when the pause in the conversation had continued a decent time.

“Yes, sir,” returned Marmaduke, “the Jacobins of France seem rushing from one act of licentiousness to an other, They continue those murders which are dignified by the name of executions. You have heard that they have added the death of their queen to the long list of their crimes.”

“Les monstres!” again murmured Monsieur Le Quoi, turning himself suddenly in his chair, with a convulsive start.

“The province of La Vendée is laid waste by the troops of the republic, and hundreds of its inhabitants, who are royalists in their sentiments, are shot at a time. La Vendée is a district in the southwest of France, that continues yet much attached to the family of the Bourbons; doubtless Monsieur Le Quoi is acquainted with it, and can describe it more faithfully.”

“Non, non, non, mon cher ami,” returned the Frenchman in a suppressed voice, but speaking rapidly, and gesticulating with his right hand, as if for mercy, while with his left he concealed his eyes.

“There have been many battles fought lately,” continued Marmaduke, “and the infuriated republicans are too often victorious. I cannot say, however, that I am sorry that they have captured Toulon from the English, for it is a place to which they have a just right.”

“Ah — ha!” exclaimed Monsieur Le Quoi, springing on his feet and flourishing both arms with great animation; “ces Anglais!”

The Frenchman continued to move about the room with great alacrity for a few minutes, repeating his exclamations to himself; when overcome by the contrary nature of his emotions, he suddenly burst out of the house, and was seen wading through the snow toward his little shop, waving his arms on high, as if to pluck down honor from the moon. His departure excited but little surprise, for the villagers were used to his manner; but Major Hartmann laughed outright, for the first during his visit, as he lifted the mug, and observed:

“Ter Frenchman is mat — put he is goot as for noting to trink: he is trunk mit joy.”

“The French are good soldiers,” said Captain Hollis ter; “they stood us in hand a good turn at Yorktown; nor do I think, although I am an ignorant man about the great movements of the army, that his excellency would have been able to march against Cornwallis without their reinforcements.”

“Ye spake the trot’, sargeant,” interrupted his wife, “and I would iver have ye be doing the same. It’s varry pratty men is the French; and jist when I stopt the cart, the time when ye was pushing on in front it was, to kape the riglers in, a rigiment of the jontlemen marched by, and so I dealt them out to their liking. Was it pay I got? Sure did I, and in good solid crowns; the divil a bit of continental could they muster among them all, for love nor money. Och! the Lord forgive me for swearing and spakeing of such vanities; but this I will say for the French, that they paid in good silver; and one glass would go a great way wid ‘em, for they gin’rally handed it back wid a drop in the cup; and that’s a brisk trade, Joodge, where the pay is good, and the men not over-partic’lar.”

“A thriving trade, Mrs. Hollister,” said Marmaduke. “But what has become of Richard? he jumped up as soon as seated, and has been absent so long that I am really fearful he has frozen.”

“No fear of that, Cousin ‘Duke,” cried the gentleman himself; “business will sometimes keep a man warm the coldest night that ever snapt in the mountains. Betty, your husband told me, as we came out of church, that your hogs were getting mangy, and so I have been out to take a look at them, and found it true. I stepped across, doctor, and got your boy to weigh me out a pound of salts, and have been mixing it with their swill. I’ll bet a saddle of venison against a gray squirrel that they are better in a week. And now, Mrs. Hollister, I’m ready for a hissing mug of flip.”

“Sure I know’d ye’d be wanting that same,” said the landlady; “it’s fixt and ready to the boiling. Sargeant, dear, be handing up the iron, will ye? — no, the one on the far fire, it’s black, ye will see. Ah! you’ve the thing now; look if it’s not as red as a cherry.” The beverage was heated, and Richard took that kind of draught which men are apt to indulge in who think that they have just executed a clever thing, especially when they like the liquor.

“Oh! you have a hand. Betty, that was formed to mix flip,” cried Richard, when he paused for breath. “The very iron has a flavor in it. Here, John, drink, man, drink! I and you and Dr. Todd have done a good thing with the shoulder of that lad this very night. ‘Duke, I made a song while you were gone — one day when I had nothing to do; so I’ll sing you a verse or two, though I haven’t really determined on the tune yet.

“What is life but a scene of care, Where each one must toil in his way? Then let us be jolly, and prove that we are A set of good fellows, who seem very rare, And can laugh and sing all the day. Then let us be jolly And cast away folly, For grief turns a black head to gray.”

“There, ‘Duke, what do you think of that? There is another verse of it, all but the last line. I haven’t got a rhyme for the last line yet. Well, old John, what do you think of the music? as good as one of your war-songs, ha?”

“Good!” said Mohegan, who had been sharing deeply in the potations of the landlady, besides paying a proper respect to the passing mugs of the Major and Marmaduke.

“Bravo! pravo! Richart,” cried the Major, whose black eyes were beginning to swim in moisture; “pravisimo his a goot song; put Natty Pumppo has a petter. Letter-Stockint, vilt sing? say, olt poy, vilt sing ter song as apout ter wools?”

“No, no, Major,” returned the hunter, with a melancholy shake of the head, “I have lived to see what I thought eyes could never behold in these hills, and I have no heart left for singing. If he that has a right to be master and ruler here is forced to squinch his thirst, when a-dry, with snow-Water, it ill becomes them that have lived by his bounty to be making merry, as if there was nothing in the world but sunshine and summer.”

When he had spoken, Leather-Stocking again dropped his head on his knees, and concealed his hard and wrinkled features with his hands. The change from the excessive cold without to the heat of the bar-room, coupled with the depth and frequency of Richard’s draughts, had already levelled whatever inequality there might have existed between him and the other guests, on the score of spirits; and he now held out a pair of swimming mugs of foaming flip toward the hunter, as he cried:

“Merry! ay! merry Christmas to you, old boy! Sun shine and summer! no! you are blind, Leather-Stocking, ’tis moonshine and winter — take these spectacles, and open your eyes —

So let us be jolly,

And cast away folly,

For grief turns a black head to gray.

— Hear how old John turns his quavers. What damned dull music an Indian song is, after all, Major! I wonder if they ever sing by note.”

While Richard was singing and talking, Mohegan was uttering dull, monotonous tones, keeping time by a gentle motion of his head and body. He made use of but few words, and such as he did utter were in his native language, and consequently only understood by himself and Natty. Without heeding Richard, he continued to sing a kind of wild, melancholy air, that rose, at times, in sudden and quite elevated notes, and then fell again into the low, quavering sounds that seemed to compose the character of his music.

The attention of the company was now much divided, the men in the rear having formed themselves into little groups, where they were discussing various matters; among the principal of which were the treatment of mangy hogs and Parson Grant’s preaching; while Dr. Todd was endeavoring to explain to Marmaduke the nature of the hurt received by the young hunter. Mohegan continued to sing, while his countenance was becoming vacant, though, coupled with his thick, bushy hair, it was assuming an expression very much like brutal ferocity. His notes were gradually growing louder, and soon rose to a height that caused a general cessation in the discourse. The hunter now raised his head again, and addressed the old warrior warmly in the Delaware language, which, for the benefit of our readers, we shall render freely into English.

“Why do you sing of your battles, Chingachgook, and of the warriors you have slain, when the worst enemy of all is near you, and keeps the Young Eagle from his rights? I have fought in as many battles as any warrior in your tribe, but cannot boast of my deeds at such a time as this.”

“Hawk-eye,” said the Indian, tottering with a doubtful step from his place, “I am the Great Snake of the Delawares; I can track the Mingoes like an adder that is stealing on the whip-poor-will’s eggs, and strike them like the rattlesnake dead at a blow. The white man made the tomahawk of Chingachgook bright as the waters of Otsego, when the last sun is shining; but it is red with the blood of the Maquas.”

“And why have you slain the Mingo warriors? Was it not to keep these hunting-grounds and lakes to your father’s children? and were they not given in solemn council to the Fire-eater? and does not the blood of a warrior run in the veins of a young chief, who should speak aloud where his voice is now too low to be heard?”

The appeal of the hunter seemed in some measure to recall the confused faculties of the Indian, who turned his face toward the listeners and gazed intently on the Judge. He shook his head, throwing his hair back from his countenance, and exposed eyes that were glaring with an expression of wild resentment. But the man was not himself. His hand seemed to make a fruitless effort to release his tomahawk, which was confined by its handle to his belt, while his eyes gradually became vacant. Richard at that instant thrusting a mug before him, his features changed to the grin of idiocy, and seizing the vessel with both hands, he sank backward on the bench and drank until satiated, when he made an effort to lay aside the mug with the helplessness of total inebriety.

“Shed not blood!” exclaimed the hunter, as he watched the countenance of the Indian in its moment of ferocity; “but he is drunk and can do no harm. This is the way with all the savages; give them liquor, and they make dogs of themselves. Well, well — the day will come when right will be done; and we must have patience.”

Natty still spoke in the Delaware language, and of course was not understood. He had hardly concluded before Richard cried:

“Well, old John is soon sewed up. Give him a berth, captain, in the barn, and I will pay for it. I am rich to night, ten times richer than ‘Duke, with all his lands, and military lots, and funded debts, and bonds, and mortgages,

‘Come, let us be jolly,

And cast away folly, For grief— ‘

“Drink, King Hiram — drink, Mr. Doo-nothing — drink, sir, I say. This is a Christmas eve, which comes, you know, but once a year.”

“He! he! he! the squire is quite moosical to-night,” said Hiram, whose visage began to give marvellous signs of relaxation. “I rather guess we shall make a church on’t yet, squire?”

“A church, Mr. Doolittle! we will make a cathedral of it! bishops, priests, deacons, wardens, vestry, and choir; organ, organist, amid bellows! By the Lord Harry, as Benjamin says, we will clap a steeple on the other end of it, and make two churches of it. What say you, ‘Duke, will you pay? ha! my cousin Judge, wilt pay?”

“Thou makest such a noise, Dickon,” returned Marmaduke, “it is impossible that I can hear what Dr. Todd is saying. I think thou observedst, it is probable the wound will fester, so as to occasion danger to the limb in this cold weather?”

“Out of nater, sir, quite out of nater,” said Elnathan, attempting to expectorate, but succeeding only in throwing a light, frothy substance, like a flake of snow, into the fire— “quite out of nater that a wound so well dressed, and with the ball in my pocket, should fester. I s’pose, as the Judge talks of taking the young man into his house, it will be most convenient if I make but one charge on’t.”

“I should think one would do,” returned Marmaduke, with that arch smile that so often beamed on his face; leaving the beholder in doubt whether he most enjoyed the character of his companion or his own covert humor. The landlord had succeeded in placing the Indian on some straw in one of his outbuildings, where, covered with his own blanket, John continued for the remainder of the night.

In the mean time, Major Hartmann began to grow noisy and jocular; glass succeeded glass, and mug after mug was introduced, until the carousal had run deep into the night, or rather morning; when the veteran German expressed an inclination to return to the mansion-house. Most of the party had already retired, but Marmaduke knew the habits of his friend too well to suggest an earlier adjournment. So soon, however, as the proposal was made, the Judge eagerly availed himself of it, and the trio prepared to depart. Mrs. Hollister attended them to the door in person, cautioning her guests as to the safest manner of leaving her premises.

“Lane on Mister Jones, Major,” said she “he’s young and will be a support to ye. Well, it’s a charming sight to see ye, anyway, at the Bould Dragoon; and sure it’s no harm to be kaping a Christmas eve wid a light heart, for it’s no telling when we may have sorrow come upon us. So good-night, Joodge, and a merry Christmas to ye all tomorrow morning.”

The gentlemen made their adieus as well as they could, and taking the middle of the road, which was a fine, wide, and well-beaten path, they did tolerably well until they reached the gate of the mansion-house: but on entering the Judge’s domains they encountered some slight difficulties. We shall not stop to relate them, but will just mention that in the morning sundry diverging paths were to be seen in the snow; and that once during their progress to the door, Marmaduke, missing his companions, was enabled to trace them by one of these paths to a spot where he discovered them with nothing visible but their heads, Richard singing in a most vivacious strain:

“Come, let us be jolly, And cast away folly, For grief turns a black head to gray.”

CHAPTER XV.

“As she lay, on that day, in the Bay of Biscay, O!”

Previously to the occurrence of the scene at the “Bold Dragoon,” Elizabeth had been safely reconducted to the mansion-house, where she was left as its mistress, either to amuse or employ herself during the evening as best suited her own inclinations. Most of the lights were extinguished; but as Benjamin adjusted with great care and regularity four large candles, in as many massive candlesticks of brass, in a row on the sideboard, the hall possessed a peculiar air of comfort and warmth, contrasted with the cheerless aspect of the room she had left in the academy.

Remarkable had been one of the listeners to Mr. Grant, and returned with her resentment, which had been not a little excited by the language of the Judge, somewhat softened by reflection and the worship. She recollected the youth of Elizabeth, and thought it no difficult task, under present appearances, to exercise that power indirectly which hitherto she had enjoyed undisputed. The idea of being governed, or of being compelled to pay the deference of servitude, was absolutely intolerable; and she had already determined within herself, some half dozen times, to make an effort that should at once bring to an issue the delicate point of her domestic condition. But as often as she met the dark, proud eye of Elizabeth, who was walking up and down the apartment, musing on the scenes of her youth and the change in her condition, and perhaps the events of the day, the housekeeper experienced an awe that she would not own to herself could be excited by anything mortal. It, however, checked her advances, and for some time held her tongue-tied. At length she determined to commence the discourse by entering on a subject that was apt to level all human distinctions, and in which she might display her own abilities.

“It was quite a wordy sarmon that Parson Grant gave us to-night,” said Remarkable. “The church ministers be commonly smart sarmonizers, but they write down their idees, which is a great privilege. I don’t think that, by nater, they are as tonguey speakers, for an off-hand discourse, as the standing-order ministers.”

“And what denomination do you distinguish as the standing-order?” inquired Miss Temple, with some surprise.

“Why, the Presbyter’ans and Congregationals, and Baptists, too, for-til’ now; and all sitch as don’t go on their knees to prayer.”

“By that rule, then, you would call those who belong’ to the persuasion of my father, the sitting-order,” observed Elizabeth. “I’m sure I’ve never heard ‘em spoken of by any other’ name than Quakers, so called,” returned Remarkable, betraying a slight uneasiness; “I should be the last to call them otherwise, for I never in my life used a disparaging’ tarm of the Judge, or any of his family. I’ve always set store by the Quakers, they are so pretty-spoken, clever people, and it’s a wonderment to me how your father come to marry into a church family; for they are as contrary in religion as can be. One sits still, and, for the most part; says nothing, while the church folks practyse all kinds of ways, so that I sometimes think it quite moosical to see them; for I went to a church-meeting once before, down country.”

“You have found an excellence in the church liturgy that has hitherto escaped me. I will thank you to inquire whether the fire in my room burns; I feel fatigued with my journey, and will retire.”

Remarkable felt a wonderful inclination to tell the young mistress of the mansion that by opening a door she might see for herself; but prudence got the better of resentment, and after pausing some little time, as a salve to her dignity, she did as desired. The report was favorable, and the young lady, wishing Benjamin, who was filling the stove with wood, and the housekeeper, each a good-night, withdrew.

The instant the door closed on Miss Temple, Remark able commenced a sort of mysterious, ambiguous discourse, that was neither abusive nor commendatory of the qualities of the absent personage, but which seemed to be drawing nigh, by regular degrees, to a most dissatisfied description. The major-domo made no reply, but continued his occupation with great industry, which being happily completed, he took a look at the thermometer, and then opening a drawer of the sideboard, he produced a supply of stimulants that would have served to keep the warmth in his system without the aid of the enormous fire he had been building. A small stand was drawn up near the stove, and the bottles and the glasses necessary for convenience were quietly arranged. Two chairs were placed by the side of this comfortable situation, when Benjamin, for the first time, appeared to observe his companion.

“Come,” he cried, “come, Mistress Remarkable, bring yourself to an anchor on this chair. It’s a peeler without, I can tell you, good woman; but what cares I? blow high or blow low, d’ye see, it’s all the same thing to Ben. The niggers are snug stowed below before a fire that would roast an ox whole. The thermometer stands now at fifty-five, but if there’s any vartue in good maple wood, I’ll weather upon it, before one glass, as much as ten points more, so that the squire, when he comes home from Betty Hollister’s warm room, will feel as hot as a hand that has given the rigging a lick with bad tar. Come, mistress, bring up in this here chair, and tell me how you like our new heiress.”

“Why, to my notion, Mr. Penguillum — — “

“Pump, Pump,” interrupted Benjamin; “it’s Christmas eve, Mistress Remarkable, and so, dye see, you had better call me Pump. It’s a shorter name, and as I mean to pump this here decanter till it sucks, why, you may as well call me Pump.”

“Did you ever!” cried Remarkable, with a laugh that seemed to unhinge every joint in her body. “You’re a moosical creature, Benjamin, when the notion takes you. But, as I was saying, I rather guess that times will be altered now in this house.”

“Altered!” exclaimed the major-domo, eyeing the bottle, that was assuming the clear aspect of cut glass with astonishing rapidity; “it don’t matter much, Mistress Remarkable, so long as I keep the keys of the lockers in my pocket.”

“I can’t say,” continued the housekeeper, “but there’s good eatables and drinkables enough in the house for a body’s content — a little more sugar, Benjamin, in the glass — for Squire Jones is an excellent provider. But new lords, new laws; and I shouldn’t wonder if you and I had an unsartain time on’t in footer.”

“Life is as unsartain as the wind that blows,” said Benjamin, with a moralizing air; “and nothing is more varible than the wind, Mistress Remarkable, unless you hap pen to fall in with the trades, d’ye see, and then you may run for the matter of a month at a time, with studding-sails on both sides, alow and aloft, and with the cabin-boy at the wheel.”

“I know that life is disp’ut unsartain,” said Remark able, compressing her features to the humor of her companion; “but I expect there will be great changes made in the house to rights; and that you will find a young man put over your head, as there is one that wants to be over mine; and after having been settled as long as you have, Benjamin, I should judge that to be hard.”

“Promotion should go according to length of sarvice,” said the major-domo; “and if-so-be that they ship a hand for my berth, or place a new steward aft, I shall throw up my commission in less time than you can put a pilot-boat in stays. The Squire Dickon” — this was a common misnomer with Benjamin— “is a nice gentleman, and as good a man to sail with as heart could wish, yet I shall tel the squire, d’ye see, in plain English, and that’s my native tongue, that if-so-be he is thinking of putting any Johnny Raw over my head, why, I shall resign. I began forrard, Mistress Prettybones, and worked my way aft, like a man. I was six months aboard a Garnsey lugger, hauling in the slack of the lee-sheet and coiling up rigging. From that I went a few trips in a fore-and-after, in the same trade, which, after all, was but a blind kind of sailing in the dark, where a man larns but little, excepting how to steer by the stars. Well, then, d’ye see, I larnt how a topmast should be slushed, and how a topgallant-sail was to be becketted; and then I did small jobs in the cabin, such as mixing the skipper’s grog. ’Twas there I got my taste, which, you must have often seen, is excel lent. Well, here’s better acquaintance to us.” Remarkable nodded a return to the compliment, and took a sip of the beverage before her; for, provided it was well sweetened, she had no objection to a small potation now and then, After this observance of courtesy between the worthy couple, the dialogue proceeded.

“You have had great experiences in life, Benjamin; for, as the Scripter says, ‘They that go down to the sea in ships see the works of the Lord.’”

“Ay! for that matter, they in brigs and schooners, too; and it mought say, the works of the devil. The sea, Mistress Remarkable, is a great advantage to a man, in the way of knowledge, for he sees the fashions of nations and the shape of a country. Now, I suppose, for myself here, who is but an unlarned man to some that follows the seas, I suppose that, taking the coast from Cape Ler Hogue as low down as Cape Finish-there, there isn’t so much as a headland, or an island, that I don’t know either the name of it or something more or less about it. Take enough, woman, to color the water. Here’s sugar. It’s a sweet tooth, that fellow that you hold on upon yet, Mistress Prettybones. But, as I was saying, take the whole coast along, I know it as well as the way from here to the Bold Dragoon; and a devil of acquaintance is that Bay of Biscay. Whew! I wish you could but hear the wind blow there. It sometimes takes two to hold one man’s hair on his head. Scudding through the bay is pretty much the same thing as travelling the roads in this country, up one side of a mountain and down the other.”

“Do tell!” exclaimed Remarkable; “and does the sea run as high as mountains, Benjamin?”

“Well, I will tell; but first let’s taste the grog. Hem! it’s the right kind of stuff, I must say, that you keep in this country; but then you’re so close aboard the West Indies, you make but a small run of it. By the Lord Harry, woman, if Garnsey only lay somewhere between Cape Hatteras and the bite of Logann, but you’d see rum cheap! As to the seas, they runs more in uppers in the Bay of Biscay, unless it may be in a sow-wester, when they tumble about quite handsomely; thof it’s not in the narrow sea that you are to look for a swell; just go off the Western Islands, in a westerly blow, keeping the land on your larboard hand, with the ship’s head to the south’ard, and bring to, under a close-reefed topsail; or, mayhap, a reefed foresail, with a fore-topmast-staysail and mizzen staysail to keep her up to the sea, if she will bear it; and ay there for the matter of two watches, if you want to see mountains. Why, good woman, I’ve been off there in the Boadishey frigate, when you could see nothing but some such matter as a piece of sky, mayhap, as big as the main sail; and then again, there was a hole under your lee-quarter big enough to hold the whole British navy.”

“Oh! for massy’s sake! and wa’n’t you afeard, Benjamin? and how did you get off?”

“Afeard! who the devil do you think was to be frightened at a little salt water tumbling about his head? As for getting off, when we had enough of it, and had washed our decks down pretty well, we called all hands, for, d’ye see, the watch below was in their hammocks, all the same as if they were in one of your best bedrooms; and so we watched for a smooth time, clapt her helm hard a weather, let fall the foresail, and got the tack aboard; and so, when we got her afore it, I ask you, Mistress Prettybones, if she didn’t walk? didn’t she? I’m no liar, good woman, when I say that I saw that ship jump from the top of one sea to another, just like one of these squirrels that can fly jumps from tree to tree.”

“What! clean out of the water?” exclaimed Remark able, lifting her two lank arms, with their bony hands spread in astonishment.

“It was no such easy matte: to get out of the water, good woman; for the spray flew so that you couldn’t tell which was sea or which was cloud. So there we kept her afore it for the matter of two glasses. The first lieutenant he cun’d the ship himself, and there was four quarter masters at the wheel, besides the master with six forecastle men in the gun-room at the relieving tackles. But then she behaved herself so well! Oh! she was a sweet ship, mistress! That one frigate was well worth more, to live in, than the best house in the island. If I was king of England I’d have her hauled up above Lon’on bridge, and fit her up for a palace; because why? if anybody can afford to live comfortably, his majesty can.”

“Well! but, Benjamin,” cried the listener, who was in an ecstasy of astonishment at this relation of the steward’s dangers, “what did you do?”

“Do! why, we did our duty like hearty fellows. Now if the countrymen of Monnsheer Ler Quaw had been aboard of her, they would have just struck her ashore on some of them small islands; but we run along the land until we found her dead to leeward off the mountains of Pico, and dam’me if I know to this day how we got there — whether we jumped over the island or hauled round it; but there we was, and there we lay, under easy sail, fore-reaching first upon one tack and then upon t’other, so as to poke her nose out now and then and take a look to wind’ard till the gale blowed its pipe out.”

“I wonder, now!” exclaimed Remarkable, to whom most of the terms used by Benjamin were perfectly unintelligible, but who had got a confused idea of a raging tempest. “It must be an awful life, that going to sea! and I don’t feel astonishment that you are so affronted with the thoughts, of being forced to quit a comfortable home like this. Not that a body cares much for’t, as there’s more houses than one to live in. Why, when the Judge agreed with me to come and live with him, I’d no more notion of stopping any time than anything. I happened in just to see how the family did, about a week after Mrs. Temple died, thinking to be back home agin’ night; but the family was in such a distressed way that I couldn’t but stop awhile and help em on. I thought the situation a good one, seeing that I was an unmarried body, and they were so much in want of help; so I tarried.”

“And a long time you’ve left your anchors down in the same place, mistress. I think yo’ must find that the ship rides easy.”

“How you talk, Benjamin! there’s no believing a word you say. I must say that the Judge and Squire Jones have both acted quite clever, so long; but I see that now we shall have a specimen to the contrary. I heern say thats the Judge was gone a great ‘broad, and that he meant to bring his darter hum, but I didn’t calculate on sich carrins on. To my notion, Benjamin, she’s likely to turn out a desp’ut ugly gal.”

“Ugly!” echoed the major-domo, opening eyes that were beginning to close in a very suspicious sleepiness, in wide amazement. “By the Lord Harry, woman, I should as soon think of calling the Boadishey a clumsy frigate. What the devil would you have? Arn’t her eyes as bright as the morning and evening stars? and isn’t her hair as black and glistening as rigging that has just had a lick of tar? doesn’t she move as stately as a first-rate in smooth water, on a bowline? Why, woman, the figure-head of the Boadishey was a fool to her, and that, as I’ve often heard the captain say, was an image of a great queen; and arn’t queens always comely, woman? for who do you think would be a king, and not choose a handsome bedfellow?”

“Talk decent, Benjamin,” said the housekeeper, “Or I won’t keep your company. I don’t gainsay her being comely to look on, but I will maintain that she’s likely to show poor conduct. She seems to think herself too good to talk to a body. From what Squire Jones had telled me, I some expected to be quite captivated by her company. Now, to my reckoning, Lowizy Grant is much more pritty behaved than Betsey Temple. She wouldn’t so much as hold discourse with me when I wanted to ask her how she felt on coming home and missing her mammy.”

“Perhaps she didn’t understand you, woman; you are none of the best linguister; and then Miss Lizzy has been exercising the king’s English under a great Lon’on lady, and, for that matter, can talk the language almost as well as myself, or any native-born British subject. You’ve forgot your schooling, and the young mistress is a great scollard.”

“Mistress!” cried Remarkable; “don’t make one out to be a nigger, Benjamin. She’s no mistress of mine, and never will be. And as to speech, I hold myself as second to nobody out of New England. I was born and raised in Essex County; and I’ve always heern say that the Bay State was provarbal for pronounsation!”

“I’ve often heard of that Bay of State,” said Benjamin, “but can’t say that I’ve ever been in it, nor do I know exactly whereaway it is that it lays; but I suppose there is good anchorage in it, and that it’s no bad place for the taking of ling; but for size it can’t be so much as a yawl to a sloop of war compared with the Bay of Biscay, or, mayhap, Torbay. And as for language, if you want to hear the dictionary overhauled like a log-line in a blow, you must go to Wapping and listen to the Lon’oners as they deal out their lingo. Howsomever, I see no such mighty matter that Miss Lizzy has been doing to you, good woman; so take another drop of your brews and forgive and forget, like an honest soul.”

“No, indeed! and I shan’t do sitch a thing, Benjamin. This treatment is a newity to me, and what I won’t put up with. I have a hundred and fifty dollars at use, besides a bed and twenty sheep, to good; and I don’t crave to live in a house where a body mustn’t call a young woman by her given name to her face. I will call her Betsey as much as I please; it’s a free country, and no one can stop me. I did intend to stop while summer, but I shall quit to-morrow morning; and I will talk just as I please.”

“For that matter, Mistress Remarkable,” said Benjamin, “there’s none here who will contradict you; for I’m of opinion that it would be as easy to stop a hurricane with a Barcelony handkerchy as to bring up your tongue when the stopper is off. I say, good woman, do they grow many monkeys along the shores of that Bay of State?”

“You’re a monkey yourself, Mr. Penguillum,” cried the enraged housekeeper, “or a bear — a black, beastly bear! and ain’t fit for a decent woman to stay with. I’ll never, keep your company agin, sir, if I should live thirty years with the Judge. Sitch talk is more befitting the kitchen than the keeping-room of a house of one who is well-to-do in the world.”

“Look you, Mistress Pitty — Patty ——  — Prettybones, mayhap I’m some such matter as a bear, as they will find who come to grapple with me; but dam’me if I’m a monkey — a thing that chatters without knowing a word of what it says — a parrot; that will hold a dialogue, for what an honest man knows, in a dozen languages; mayhap in the Bay of State lingo; mayhap in Greek or High Dutch. But dost it know what it means itself? canst answer me that, good woman? Your midshipman can sing out, and pass the word, when the captain gives the order, but just send him adrift by himself, and let him work the ship of his own head, and stop my grog if you don’t find all the Johnny Raws laughing at him.”

“Stop your grog, indeed!” said Remarkable, rising with great indignation, and seizing a candle; “you’re groggy now, Benjamin and I’ll quit the room before I hear any misbecoming words from you.” The housekeeper retired, with a manner but little less dignified, as she thought, than the air of the heiress, muttering as she drew the door after her, with a noise like the report of a musket, the opprobrious terms of “drunkard,” “sot,” and “beast.”

“Who’s that you say is drunk?” cried Benjamin fiercely, rising and making a movement toward Remarkable. “You talk of mustering yourself with a lady you’re just fit to grumble and find fault. Where the devil should you larn behavior and dictionary? in your damned Bay of State, ha?”

Benjamin here fell back in his chair, and soon gave vent to certain ominous sounds, which resembled not a little the growling of his favorite animal the bear itself. Be fore, however, he was quite locked — to use the language that would suit the Della-cruscan humor of certain refined minds of the present day— “in the arms of Morpheus,” he spoke aloud, observing due pauses between his epithets, the impressive terms of “monkey,” “parrot,” “picnic,” “tar pot,” and “linguisters”

We shall not attempt to explain his meaning nor connect his sentences; and our readers must be satisfied with our informing them that they were expressed with all that coolness of contempt that a man might well be supposed to feel for a monkey.

Nearly two hours passed in this sleep before the major domo was awakened by the noisy entrance of Richard, Major Hartmann, and the master of the mansion. Benjamin so far rallied his confused faculties as to shape the course of the two former to their respective apartments, when he disappeared himself, leaving the task of securing the house to him who was most interested in its safety. Locks and bars were but little attended to in the early days of that settlement, and so soon as Marmaduke had given an eye to the enormous fires of his dwelling he retired. With this act of prudence closes the first night of our tale.

CHAPTER XVI

“Watch (aside).

Some treason, masters —

Yet stand close.”

— Much Ado About Nothing.

It was fortunate for more than one of the bacchanalians who left the “Bold Dragoon” late in the evening that the severe cold of the season was becoming rapidly less dangerous as they threaded the different mazes through the snow-banks that led to their respective dwellings. Then driving clouds began toward morning to flit across the heavens, and the moon set behind a volume of vapor that was impelled furiously toward the north, carrying with it the softer atmosphere from the distant ocean. The rising sun was obscured by denser and increasing columns of clouds, while the southerly wind that rushed up the valley brought the never-failing symptoms of a thaw.

It was quite late in the morning before Elizabeth, observing the faint glow which appeared on the eastern mountain long after the light of the sun had struck the opposite hills, ventured from the house, with a view to gratify her curiosity with a glance by daylight at the surrounding objects before the tardy revellers of the Christmas eve should make their appearance at the breakfast-table. While she was drawing the folds of her pelisse more closely around her form, to guard against a cold that was yet great though rapidly yielding, in the small inclosure that opened in the rear of the house on a little thicket of low pines that were springing up where trees of a mightier growth had lately stood, she was surprised at the voice of Mr. Jones.

“Merry Christmas, merry Christmas to you, Cousin Bess,” he shouted. “Ah, ha! an early riser, I see; but I knew I should steal a march on you. I never was in a house yet where I didn’t get the first Christmas greeting on every soul in it, man, woman, and child — great and small — black, white, and yellow. But stop a minute till I can just slip on my coat. You are about to look at the improvements, I see, which no one can explain so well as I, who planned them all. It will be an hour before ‘Duke and the Major can sleep off Mrs. Hollister’s confounded distillations, and so I’ll come down and go with you.”

Elizabeth turned and observed her cousin in his night cap, with his head out of his bedroom window, where his zeal for pre-eminence, in defiance of the weather, had impelled him to thrust it. She laughed, and promising to wait for his company re-entered the house, making her appearance again, holding in her hand a packet that was secured by several large and important seals, just in time to meet the gentleman.

“Come, Bessy, come,” he cried, drawing one of her arms through his own; “the snow begins to give, but it will bear us yet. Don’t you snuff old Pennsylvania in the very air? This is a vile climate, girl; now at sunset, last evening, it was cold enough to freeze a man’s zeal, and that, I can tell you, takes a thermometer near zero for me; then about nine or ten it began to moderate; at twelve it was quite mild, and here all the rest of the night I have been so hot as not to bear a blanket on the bed. — Holla! Aggy — merry Christmas, Aggy — I say, do you hear me, you black dog! there’s a dollar for you; and if the gentle men get up before I come back, do you come out and let me know. I wouldn’t have ‘Duke get the start of me for the worth of your head.”

The black caught the money from the snow, and promising a due degree of watchfulness, he gave the dollar a whirl of twenty feet in the air, and catching it as it fell in the palm of his hand, he withdrew to the kitchen, to exhibit his present, with a heart as light as his face was happy in its expression.

“Oh, rest easy, my dear coz,” said the young lady; “I took a look in at my father, who is likely to sleep an hour; and by using due vigilance you will secure all the honors of the season.”

“Why, Duke is your father, Elizabeth; but ‘Duke is a man who likes to be foremost, even in trifles. Now, as for myself, I care for no such things, except in the way of competition; for a thing which is of no moment in itself may be made of importance in the way of competition. So it is with your father — he loves to be first; but I only; struggle with him as a competitor.”

“It’s all very clear, sir,” said Elizabeth; “you would not care a fig for distinction if there were no one in the world but yourself; but as there happens to be a great many others, why, you must struggle with them all — in the way of competition.”

“Exactly so; I see you are a clever girl, Bess, and one who does credit to her masters. It was my plan to send you to that school; for when your father first mentioned the thing, I wrote a private letter for advice to a judicious friend in the city, who recommended the very school you went to. ‘Duke was a little obstinate at first, as usual, but when he heard the truth he was obliged to send you.”

“Well, a truce to ‘Duke’s foibles, sir; he is my father, and if you knew what he has been doing for you while we were in Albany, you would deal more tenderly with his character.”

“For me!” cried Richard, pausing a moment in his walk to reflect. “Oh! he got the plans of the new Dutch meeting-house for me, I suppose; but I care very little about it, for a man of a certain kind of talent is seldom aided by any foreign suggestions; his own brain is the best architect.”

“No such thing,” said Elizabeth, looking provokingly knowing.

“No! let me see — perhaps he had my name put in the bill for the new turnpike, as a director.”

“He might possibly; but it is not to such an appointment that I allude.”

“Such an appointment!” repeated Mr. Jones, who began to fidget with curiosity; “then it is an appointment. If it is in the militia, I won’t take it.

“No, no, it is not in the militia,” cried Elizabeth, showing the packet in her hand, and then drawing it back with a coquettish air; “it is an office of both honor and emolument.”

“Honor and emolument!” echoed Richard, in painful suspense; “show me the paper, girl. Say, is it an office where there is anything to do?”

“You have hit it, Cousin Dickon; it is the executive office of the county; at least so said my father when he gave me this packet to offer you as a Christmas-box. Surely, if anything will please Dickon,’ he said, ‘it will be to fill the executive chair of the county.’”

“Executive chair! what nonsense!” cried the impatient gentleman, snatching the packet from her hand; “there is no such office in the county. Eh! what! it is, I declare, a commission, appointing Richard Jones, Esquire, sheriff of the county. Well, this is kind in ‘Duke, positively. I must say ‘Duke has a warm heart, and never forgets his friends. Sheriff! High Sheriff of — ! it sounds well, Bess, but it shall execute better. ‘Duke is a judicious man after all, and knows human nature thoroughly, I’m much obliged to him,” continued Richard, using the skirt of his coat unconsciously to wipe his eyes; “though I would do as much for him any day, as he shall see, if I have an opportunity to perform any of the duties of my office on him. It shall be done, Cousin Bess —— it shall be done, I say. How this cursed south wind makes one’s eyes water!”

“Now, Richard,” said the laughing maiden, “now I think you will find something to do. I have often heard you complain of old that there was nothing to do in this new country, while to my eyes it seemed as if everything remained to be done.”

“Do!” echoed Richard, who blew his nose, raised his little form to its greatest elevation, and looked serious. “Everything depends on system, girl. I shall sit down this afternoon and systematize the county. I must have deputies, you know. I will divide the county into districts, over which I will place my deputies; and I will have one for the village, which I will call my home department. Let me see — ho! Benjamin! yes, Benjamin will make a good deputy; he has been naturalized, and would answer admirably if he could only ride on horseback.”

“Yes, Mr. Sheriff,” said his companion; “and as he understands ropes so well, he would be very expert, should occasion happen for his services in another way.”

“No,” interrupted the other; “I flatter myself that no man could hang a man better than — that is — ha! — oh! yes, Benjamin would do extremely well in such an unfortunate dilemma, if he could be persuaded to attempt it. But I should despair of the thing. I never could induce him to hang, or teach him to ride on horseback. I must seek another deputy.”

“Well, sir, as you have abundant leisure for all these important affairs, I beg that you will forget that you are high sheriff, and devote some little of your time to gallantry. Where are the beauties and improvements which you were to show me?”

“Where? why, everywhere! Here I have laid out some new streets; and when they are opened, and the trees felled, and they are all built up, will they not make a fine town? Well, ‘Duke is a liberal-hearted fellow, with all his stubbornness. Yes, yes; I must have at least four deputies, besides a jailer.”

“I see no streets in the direction of our walk,” said Elizabeth, “unless you call the short avenues through these pine bushes by that name. Surely you do not contemplate building houses, very soon, in that forest before us, and in those swamps.”

“We must run our streets by the compass, coz, and disregard trees, hills, ponds, stumps, or, in fact, anything but posterity. Such is the will of your father, and your father, you know — — “

“Had you made sheriff, Mr. Jones,” interrupted the lady, with a tone that said very plainly to the gentleman that he was touching a forbidden subject.

“I know it, I know it,” cried Richard; “and if it were in my power, I’d make ‘Duke a king. He is a noble hearted fellow, and would make an excellent king; that is, if he had a good prime minister. But who have we here? voices in the bushes — a combination about mischief, I’ll wager my commission. Let us draw near and examine a little into the matter.”

During this dialogue, as the parties had kept in motion, Richard and his cousin advanced some distance from the house into the open space in the rear of the village, where, as may be gathered from the conversation, streets were planned and future dwellings contemplated; but where, in truth, the only mark of improvement that was to be seen was a neglected clearing along the skirt of a dark forest of mighty pines, over which the bushes or sprouts of the same tree had sprung up to a height that interspersed the fields of snow with little thickets of evergreen. The rushing of the wind, as it whistled through the tops of these mimic trees, prevented the footsteps of the pair from being heard, while the branches concealed their persons. Thus aided, the listeners drew nigh to a spot where the young hunter, Leather-Stocking, and the Indian chief were collected in an earnest consultation. The former was urgent in his manner, and seemed to think the subject of deep importance, while Natty appeared to listen with more than his usual attention to what the other was saying. Mohegan stood a little on one side, with his head sunken on his chest, his hair falling forward so as to conceal most of his features, and his whole attitude expressive of deep dejection, if not of shame. “Let us withdraw,” whispered Elizabeth; “we are intruders, and can have no right to listen to the secrets of these men.”

“No right!” returned Richard a little impatiently, in the same tone, and drawing her arm so forcibly through his own as to prevent her retreat; “you forget, cousin, that it is my duty to preserve the peace of the county and see the laws executed, these wanderers frequently commit depredations, though I do not think John would do anything secretly. Poor fellow! he was quite boozy last night, and hardly seems to be over it yet. Let us draw nigher and hear what they say.”

Notwithstanding the lady’s reluctance, Richard, stimulated doubtless by his sense of duty, prevailed; and they were soon so near as distinctly to hear sounds.

“The bird must be had,” said Natty, “by fair means or foul. Heigho! I’ve known the time, lad, when the wild turkeys wasn’t over-scarce in the country; though you must go into the Virginia gaps if you want them now. ‘to be sure, there is a different taste to a partridge and a well-fatted turkey; though, to my eating, beaver’s tail and bear’s ham make the best of food. But then every one has his own appetite. I gave the last farthing, all to that shilling, to the French trader, this very morning, as I came through the town, for powder; so, as you have nothing, we can have but one shot for it. I know that Billy Kirby is out, and means to have a pull of the trigger at that very turkey. John has a true eye for a single fire, and, some how, my hand shakes so whenever I have to do anything extrawnary, that I often lose my aim. Now, when I killed the she-bear this fall, with her cubs, though they were so mighty ravenous, I knocked them over one at a shot, and loaded while I dodged the trees in the bargain; but this is a very different thing, Mr. Oliver.”

“This,” cried the young man, with an accent that sounded as if he took a bitter pleasure in his poverty, while he held a shilling up before his eyes, “this is all the treasure that I possess — this and my rifle! Now, indeed, I have become a man of the woods, and must place my sole dependence on the chase. Come, Natty, let us stake the last penny for the bird; with your aim, it cannot fail to be successful.”

“I would rather it should be John, lad; my heart jumps into my mouth, because you set your mind so much out; and I’m sartain that I shall miss the bird. Them Indians can shoot one time as well as another; nothing ever troubles them. I say, John, here’s a shilling; take my rifle, and get a shot at the big turkey they’ve put up at the stump. Mr. Oliver is over-anxious for the creatur’, and I’m sure to do nothing when I have over-anxiety about it.”

The Indian turned his head gloomily, and after looking keenly for a moment, in profound silence, at his companions, he replied:

“When John was young, eyesight was not straighter than his bullet. The Mingo squaws cried out at the sound of his rifle. The Mingo warriors were made squaws. When did he ever shoot twice? The eagle went above the clouds when he passed the wigwam of Chingachgook; his feathers were plenty with the women. But see,” he said, raising his voice from the low, mournful tones in which he had spoken to a pitch of keen excitement, and stretching forth both hands, “they shake like a deer at the wolf’s howl. Is John old? When was a Mohican a squaw with seventy winters? No! the white man brings old age with him — rum is his tomahawk!”

“Why, then, do you use it, old man?” exclaimed the young hunter; “why will one, so noble by nature, aid the devices of the devil by making himself a beast?”

“Beast! is John a beast?” replied the Indian slowly; “yes; you say no lie, child of the Fire-eater! John is a beast. The smokes were once few in these hills, The deer would lick the hand of a white man and the birds rest on his head. They were strangers to him. My fathers came from the shores of the salt lake. They fled before rum. They came to their grandfather, and they lived in peace; or, when they did raise the hatchet, it was to strike it into the brain of a Mingo. They gathered around the council fire, and what they said was done. Then John was a man. But warriors and traders with light eyes followed them. One brought the long knife and one brought rum. They were more than the pines on the mountains; and they broke up the councils and took the lands, The evil spirit was in their jugs, and they let him loose. Yes yes — you say no lie, Young Eagle; John is a Christian beast.”

“Forgive me, old warrior,” cried the youth, grasping his hand; “I should be the last to reproach you. The curses of Heaven light on the cupidity that has destroyed such a race. Remember, John, that I am of your family, and it is now my greatest pride.”

The muscles of Mohegan relaxed a little, and he said, more mildly:

“You are a Delaware, my son; your words are not heard — John cannot shoot.”

“I thought that lad had Indian blood in him,” whispered Richard, “by the awkward way he handled my horses last night. You see, coz, they never use harness. But the poor fellow shall have two shots at the turkey, if he wants it, for I’ll give him another shilling myself; though, per haps, I had better offer to shoot for him. They have got up their Christmas sports, I find, in the bushes yonder, where you hear the laughter — though it is a queer taste this chap has for turkey; not but what it is good eating, too.”

“Hold, Cousin Richard,” exclaimed Elizabeth, clinging to his arm; “would it be delicate to offer a shilling to that gentleman?”

“Gentleman, again! Do you think a half-breed, like him, will refuse money? No, no, girl, he will take the shilling; ay! and even rum too, notwithstanding he moralizes so much about it, But I’ll give the lad a chance for his turkey; for that Billy Kirby is one of the best marksmen in the country; that is, if we except the — the gentleman.”

“Then,” said Elizabeth, who found her strength unequal to her will, “then, sir, I will speak.” She advanced, with an air of determination, in front of her cousin, and entered the little circle of bushes that surrounded the trio of hunters. Her appearance startled the youth, who at first made an unequivocal motion toward retiring, but, recollecting himself, bowed, by lifting his cap, and resumed his attitude of leaning on his rifle. Neither Natty nor Mohegan betrayed any emotion, though the appearance of Elizabeth was so entirely unexpected.

“I find,” she said, “that the old Christmas sport of shooting the turkey is yet in use among you. I feel inclined to try my chance for a bird. Which of you will take this money, and, after paying my fee, give me the aid of his rifle?”

“Is this a sport for a lady?” exclaimed the young hunter, with an emphasis that could not well be mistaken, and with a rapidity that showed he spoke without consulting anything but feeling. “Why not, sir? If it be inhuman the sin is not confined to one sex only. But I have my humor as well as others. I ask not your assistance, but” — turning to Natty, and dropping a dollar in his hand— “this old veteran of the forest will not be so ungallant as to refuse one fire for a lady.”

Leather-Stocking dropped the money into his pouch, and throwing up the end of his rifle he freshened his priming; and first laughing in his usual manner, he threw the piece over his shoulder, and said:

“If Billy Kirby don’t get the bird before me, and the Frenchman’s powder don’t hang fire this damp morning, you’ll see as fine a turkey dead, in a few minutes, as ever was eaten in the Judge’s shanty. I have knowed the Dutch women, on the Mohawk and Schoharie, count greatly on coming to the merry-makings; and so, lad, you shouldn’t be short with the lady. Come, let us go forward, for if we wait the finest bird will be gone.”

“But I have a right before you, Natty, and shall try on my own luck first. You will excuse me, Miss Temple; I have much reason to wish that bird, and may seem ungallant, but I must claim my privileges.”

“Claim anything that is justly your own, sir,” returned the lady; “we are both adventurers; and this is my knight. I trust my fortune to his hand and eye. Lead on, Sir Leather-Stocking, and we will follow.”

Natty, who seemed pleased with the frank address of the young and beauteous Elizabeth, who had so singularly intrusted him with such a commission, returned the bright smile with which she had addressed him, by his own peculiar mark of mirth, and moved across the snow toward the spot whence the sounds of boisterous mirth proceeded, with the long strides of a hunter. His companions followed in silence, the youth casting frequent and uneasy glances toward Elizabeth, who was detained by a motion from Richard.

“I should think, Miss Temple,” he said, so soon as the others were out of hearing, “that if you really wished a turkey, you would not have taken a stranger for the office, and such a one as Leather-Stocking. But I can hardly believe that you are serious, for I have fifty, at this moment, shut up in the coops, in every stage of fat, so that you might choose any quality you pleased. There are six that I am trying an experiment on, by giving them brick-bats with— “

“Enough, Cousin Dickon,” interrupted the lady; “I do wish the bird, and it is because I so wish that I commissioned this Mr. Leather-Stocking.”

“Did you ever hear of the great shot that I made at the wolf, Cousin Elizabeth, who was carrying off your father’s sheep?” said Richard, drawing himself up with an air of displeasure. “He had the sheep on his hack; and, had the head of the wolf been on the other side, I should have killed him dead; as it was— “

“You killed the sheep — I know it all, dear coz. Hut would it have been decorous for the High Sheriff of — to mingle in such sports as these?” “Surely you did not think that I intended actually to fire with my own hands?” said Mr. Jones. “But let us follow, and see the shooting. There is no fear of anything unpleasant occurring to a female in this new country, especially to your father’s daughter, and in my presence.”

“My father’s daughter fears nothing, sir, more especially when escorted by the highest executive officer in the county.”

She took his arm, and he led her through the mazes of the bushes to the spot where most of the young men of the village were collected for the sports of shooting a Christmas match, and whither Natty and his Companions had already preceded them.

CHAPTER XVII

“I guess, by all this quaint array,

The burghers hold their sports to-day.”

— Scott.

The ancient amusement of shooting the Christmas turkey is one of the few sports that the settlers of a new country seldom or never neglect to observe. It was connected with the daily practices of a people who often laid aside the axe or the scythe to seize the rifle, as the deer glided through the forests they were felling, or the bear entered their rough meadows to scent the air of a clearing, and to scan, with a look of sagacity, the progress of the invader.

On the present occasion, the usual amusement of the day had been a little hastened, in order to allow a fair opportunity to Mr. Grant, whose exhibition was not less a treat to the young sportsmen than the one which engaged their present attention. The owner of the birds was a free black, who had prepared for the occasion a collection of game that was admirably qualified to inflame the appetite of an epicure, and was well adapted to the means and skill of the different competitors, who were of all ages. He had offered to the younger and more humble marks men divers birds of an inferior quality, and some shooting had already taken place, much to the pecuniary advantage of the sable owner of the game. The order of the sports was extremely simple, and well understood. The bird was fastened by a string to the stump of a large pine, the side of which, toward the point where the marksmen were placed, had been flattened with an axe, in order that it might serve the purpose of a target, by which the merit of each individual might be ascertained. The distance between the stump and shooting-stand was one hundred measured yards; a foot more or a foot less being thought an invasion of the right of one of the parties. The negro affixed his own price to every bird, and the terms of the chance; but, when these were once established, he was obliged, by the strict principles of public justice that prevailed in the country, to admit any adventurer who might offer.

The throng consisted of some twenty or thirty young men, most of whom had rifles, and a collection of all the boys in the village. The little urchins, clad in coarse but warm garments, stood gathered around the more distinguished marksmen, with their hands stuck under their waistbands, listening eagerly to the boastful stories of skill that had been exhibited on former occasions, and were already emulating in their hearts these wonderful deeds in gunnery.

The chief speaker was the man who had been mentioned by Natty as Billy Kirby. This fellow, whose occupation, when he did labor, was that of clearing lands, or chopping jobs, was of great stature, and carried in his very air the index of his character. He was a noisy, boisterous, reckless lad, whose good-natured eye contradicted the bluntness and bullying tenor of his speech. For weeks he would lounge around the taverns of the county, in a state of perfect idleness, or doing small jobs for his liquor and his meals, and cavilling with applicants about the prices of his labor; frequently preferring idleness to an abatement of a little of his independence, or a cent in his wages. But, when these embarrassing points were satisfactorily arranged, he would shoulder his axe and his rifle, slip his arms through the straps of his pack, and enter the woods with the tread of a Hercules. His first object was to learn his limits, round which he would pace, occasionally freshening, with a blow of his axe, the marks on the boundary trees; and then he would proceed, with an air of great deliberation, to the centre of his premises, and, throwing aside his superfluous garments, measure, with a knowing eye, one or two of the nearest trees that were towering apparently into the very clouds as he gazed upward. Commonly selecting one of the most noble for the first trial of his power, he would approach it with a listless air, whistling a low tune; and wielding his axe with a certain flourish, not unlike the salutes of a fencing-master, he would strike a light blow into the bark, and measure his distance. The pause that followed was ominous of the fall of the forest which had flourished there for centuries. The heavy and brisk blows that he struck were soon succeeded by the thundering report of the tree, as it came, first cracking and threatening with the separation of its own last ligaments, then threshing and tearing with its branches the tops of its surrounding brethren, and finally meeting the ground with a shock but little inferior to an earthquake. From that moment the sounds of the axe were ceaseless, while the failing of the trees was like a distant cannonading; and the daylight broke into the depths of the woods with the suddenness of a winter morning.

For days, weeks, nay months, Billy Kirby would toil with an ardor that evinced his native spirit, and with an effect that seemed magical, until, his chopping being ended, his stentorian lungs could be heard emitting sounds, as he called to his patient oxen, which rang through the hills like the cries of an alarm. He had been often heard, on a mild summer’ evening, a long mile across the vale of Templeton; when the echoes from the mountains would take up his cries, until they died away in the feeble sounds from the distant rocks that overhung the lake. His piles, or, to use the language of the country, his logging ended, with a dispatch that could only accompany his dexterity and herculean strength, the jobber would collect together his implements of labor, light the heaps of timber, and march away under the blaze of the prostrate forest, like the conqueror of some city who, having first prevailed over his adversary, applies the torch as the finishing blow to his conquest. For a long time Billy Kirby would then be seen sauntering around the taverns, the rider of scrub races, the bully of cock-fights, and not infrequently the hero of such sports as the one in hand.

Between him and the Leather-Stocking there had long existed a jealous rivalry on the point of skill with the rifle. Notwithstanding the long practice of Natty, it was commonly supposed that the steady nerves and the quick eye of the wood-chopper rendered him his equal. The competition had, however, been confined hitherto to boasting, and comparisons made from their success in various hunting excursions; but this was the first time they had ever come in open collision. A good deal of higgling about the price of the choicest bird had taken place between Billy Kirby and its owner before Natty and his companions rejoined the sportsmen It had, however, been settled at one shilling * a shot, which was the highest sum ever exacted, the black taking care to protect himself from losses, as much as possible, by the conditions of the sport.

* Before the Revolution, each province had its own money of account

though neither coined any but copper pieces.  In New York the Spanish

dollar was divided into eight shillings, each of the value of a

fraction more than sixpence sterling.  At present the Union has

provided a decimal system, with coins to represent it.

The turkey was already fastened at the “mark,” hut its body was entirely hid by the surrounding snow, nothing being visible but its red swelling head and its long neck. If the bird was injured by any bullet that struck below the snow, it was to continue the property of its present owner; but if a feather was touched in a visible part, the animal became the prize of the successful adventurer.

These terms were loudly proclaimed by the negro, who was seated in the snow, in a somewhat hazardous vicinity to his favorite bird, when Elizabeth and her cousin approached the noisy sportsmen. The sounds of mirth and contention sensibly lowered at this unexpected visit; but, after a moment’s pause, the curious interest exhibited in the face of the young lady, together with her smiling air, restored the freedom of the morning; though it was somewhat chastened, both in language and vehemence, by the presence of such a spectator.

“Stand out of the way there, boys!” cried the wood-chopper, who was placing himself at the shooting-point — stand out of the way, you little rascals, or I will shoot through you. Now, Brom, take leave of your turkey.

“Stop!” cried the young hunter; “I am a candidate for a chance. Here is my shilling, Brom; I wish a shot too.”

“You may wish it in welcome,” cried Kirby, “but if I ruffle the gobbler’s feathers, how are you to get it? Is money so plenty in your deer-skin pocket, that you pay for a chance that you may never have?”

“How know you, sir, how plenty money is in my pocket?” said the youth fiercely. “Here is my shilling, Brom, and I claim a right to shoot.”

“Don’t be crabbed, my boy,” said the other, who was very coolly fixing his flint. “They say you have a hole in your left shoulder yourself, so I think Brom may give you a fire for half-price. It will take a keen one to hit that bird, I can tell you, my lad, even if I give you a chance, which is what I have no mind to do.”

“Don’t be boasting, Billy Kirby,” said Natty, throwing the breech of his rifle into the snow, and leaning on its barrel; “you’ll get but one shot at the creatur’, for if the lad misses his aim, which wouldn’t be a wonder if he did, with his arm so stiff and sore, you’ll find a good piece and an old eye coming a’ter you. Maybe it’s true that I can’t shoot as I used to could, but a hundred yards is a short distance for a long rifle.”

“What, old Leather-Stocking, are you out this morning?” cried his reckless opponent. “Well, fair play’s a jewel. I’ve the lead of you, old fellow; so here goes for a dry throat or a good dinner.”

The countenance of the negro evinced not only all the interest which his pecuniary adventure might occasion, but also the keen excitement that the sport produced in the others, though with a very different wish as to the result. While the wood-chopper was slowly and steadily raising his rifle, he bawled;

“Fair play, Billy Kirby — stand back — make ‘em stand back, boys — gib a nigger fair play — poss-up, — gobbler; shake a head, fool; don’t you see ‘em taking aim?”

These cries, which were intended as much to distract the attention of the marksman as for anything else, were fruitless.

The nerves of the wood-chopper were not so easily shaken, and he took his aim with the utmost deliberation. Stillness prevailed for a moment, and he fired. The head of the turkey was seen to dash on one side, and its wings were spread in momentary fluttering; but it settled itself down calmly into its bed of snow, and glanced its eyes uneasily around. For a time long enough to draw a deep breath, not a sound was heard. The silence was then broken by the noise of the negro, who laughed, and shook his body with all kinds of antics, rolling over in the snow in the excess of delight.

“Well done, a gobbler,” he cried, jumping up and affecting to embrace his bird; “I tell ‘em to poss-up, and you see ‘em dodge. Gib anoder shillin’, Billy, and halb anoder shot.”

“No — the shot is mine,” said the young hunter; “you have my money already. Leave the mark, and let me try my luck.”

“Ah! it’s but money thrown away, lad,” said Leather-Stocking. “A turkey’s head and neck is but a small mark for a new hand and a lame shoulder. You’d best let me take the fire, and maybe we can make some settlement with the lady about the bird.”

“The chance is mine,” said the young hunter. “Clear the ground, that I may take it.”

The discussions and disputes concerning the last shot were now abating, it having been determined that if the turkey’s head had been anywhere but just where it was at that moment, the bird must certainly have been killed. There was not much excitement produced by the preparations of the youth, who proceeded in a hurried manner to take his aim, and was in the act of pulling the trigger, when he was stopped by Natty.

“Your hand shakes, lad,” he said, “and you seem over eager. Bullet-wounds are apt to weaken flesh, and to my judgment you’ll not shoot so well as in common. If you will fire, you should shoot quick, before there is time to shake off the aim.”

“Fair play,” again shouted the negro; “fair play — gib a nigger fair play. What right a Nat Bumppo advise a young man? Let ‘em shoot — clear a ground.”

The youth fired with great rapidity, but no motion was made by the turkey; and, when the examiners for the ball returned from the “mark,” they declared that he had missed the stump.

Elizabeth observed the change in his countenance, and could not help feeling surprise that one so evidently superior to his companions should feel a trifling loss so sensibly. But her own champion was now preparing to enter the lists.

The mirth of Brom, which had been again excited, though in a much smaller degree than before, by the failure of the second adventurer, vanished the instant Natty took his stand. His skin became mottled with large brown spots, that fearfully sullied the lustre of his native ebony, while his enormous lips gradually compressed around two rows of ivory that had hitherto been shining in his visage like pearls set in jet. His nostrils, at all times the most conspicuous feature of his face, dilated until they covered the greater part of the diameter of his countenance; while his brown and bony hands unconsciously grasped the snow-crust near him, the excitement of the moment completely overcoming his native dread of cold.

While these indications of apprehension were exhibited in the sable owner of the turkey, the man who gave rise to this extraordinary emotion was as calm and collected as if there was not to be a single spectator of his skill.

“I was down in the Dutch settlements on the Schoharie,” said Natty, carefully removing the leather guard from the lock of his rifle, “just before the breaking out of the last war, and there was a shooting-match among the boys; so I took a hand. I think I opened a good many Dutch eyes that day; for I won the powder-horn, three bars of lead, and a pound of as good powder as ever flashed in pan. Lord! how they did swear in Jarman! They did tell me of one drunken Dutchman who said he’d have the life of me before I got back to the lake agin. But if he had put his rifle to his shoulder with evil intent God would have punished him for it; and even if the Lord didn’t, and he had missed his aim, I know one that would have given him as good as he sent, and better too, if good shooting could come into the ‘count.” By this time the old hunter was ready for his business, and throwing his right leg far behind him, and stretching his left arm along the barrel of his piece, he raised it toward the bird, Every eye glanced rapidly from the marks man to the mark; but at the moment when each ear was expecting the report of the rifle, they were disappointed by the ticking sound of the flint.

“A snap, a snap!” shouted the negro, springing from his crouching posture like a madman, before his bird. “A snap good as fire — Natty Bumppo gun he snap — Natty Bumppo miss a turkey!”

“Natty Bumppo hit a nigger,” said the indignant old hunter, “if you don’t get out of the way, Brom. It’s contrary to the reason of the thing, boy, that a snap should count for a fire, when one is nothing more than a fire-stone striking a steel pan, and the other is sudden death; so get out of my way, boy, and let me show Billy Kirby how to shoot a Christmas turkey.”

“Gib a nigger fair play!” cried the black, who continued resolutely to maintain his post, and making that appeal to the justice of his auditors which the degraded condition of his caste so naturally suggested. “Eberybody know dat snap as good as fire. Leab it to Massa Jone — leab it to lady.”

“Sartain,” said the wood-chopper; “it’s the law of the game in this part of the country, Leather-Stocking. If you fire agin you must pay up the other shilling. I b’lieve I’ll try luck once more myself; so, Brom, here’s my money, and I take the next fire.”

“It’s likely you know the laws of the woods better than I do, Billy Kirby,” returned Natty. “You come in with the settlers, with an ox-goad in your hand, and I come in with moccasins on my feet, and with a good rifle on my shoulders, so long back as afore the old war. Which is likely to know the best? I say no man need tell me that snapping is as good as firing when I pull the trigger.”

“Leab it to Massa Jone,” said the alarmed negro; “he know eberyting.” This appeal to the knowledge of Richard was too flattering to be unheeded. He therefore advanced a little from the spot whither the delicacy of Elizabeth had induced her to withdraw, and gave the following opinion, with the gravity that the subject and his own rank demanded:

“There seems to be a difference in opinion,” he said, “on the subject of Nathaniel Bumppo’s right to shoot at Abraham Freeborn’s turkey without the said Nathaniel paying one shilling for the privilege.” The fact was too evident to be denied, and after pausing a moment, that the audience might digest his premises, Richard proceeded: “It seems proper that I should decide this question, as I am bound to preserve the peace of the county; and men with deadly weapons in their hands should not be heedlessly left to contention and their own malignant passions. It appears that there was no agreement, either in writing or in words, on the disputed point; therefore we must reason from analogy, which is, as it were, comparing one thing with another. Now, in duels, where both parties shoot, it is generally the rule that a snap is a fire; and if such is the rule where the party has a right to fire back again, it seems to me unreasonable to say that a man may stand snapping at a defenceless turkey all day. I therefore am of the opinion that Nathaniel Bumppo has lost his chance, and must pay another shilling before he renews his right.”

As this opinion came from so high a quarter, and was delivered with effect, it silenced all murmurs — for the whole of the spectators had begun to take sides with great warmth — except from the Leather-Stocking himself.

“I think Miss Elizabeth’s thoughts should be taken,” said Natty. “I’ve known the squaws give very good counsel when the Indians had been dumfounded. If she says that I ought to lose, I agree to give it up.”

“Then I adjudge you to be a loser for this time,” said Miss Temple; “but pay your money and renew your chance; unless Brom will sell me the bird for a dollar. I will give him the money, and save the life of the poor victim.”

This proposition was evidently but little relished by any of the listeners, even the negro feeling the evil excitement of the chances. In the mean while, as Billy Kirby was preparing himself for another shot, Natty left the stand, with an extremely dissatisfied manner, muttering:

“There hasn’t been such a thing as a good flint sold at the foot of the lake since the Indian traders used to come into the country; and, if a body should go into the flats along the streams in the hills to hunt for such a thing, it’s ten to one but they will be all covered up with the plough. Heigho! it seems to me that just as the game grows scarce, and a body wants the best ammunition to get a livelihood, everything that’s bad falls on him like a judgment. But I’ll change the stone, for Billy Kirby hasn’t the eye for such a mark, I know.”

The wood-chopper seemed now entirely sensible that his reputation depended on his care; nor did he neglect any means to insure success. He drew up his rifle, and renewed his aim again and again, still appearing reluctant to fire, No sound was heard from even Brom, during these portentous movements, until Kirby discharged his piece, with the same want of success as before. Then, indeed, the shouts of the negro rang through the bushes and sounded among the trees of the neighboring forest like the outcries of a tribe of Indians. He laughed, rolling his head first on one side, then on the other, until nature seemed exhausted with mirth. He danced until his legs were wearied with motion in the snow; and, in short, he exhibited all that violence of joy that characterizes the mirth of a thoughtless negro.

The wood-chopper had exerted all his art, and felt a proportionate degree of disappointment at the failure. He first examined the bird with the utmost attention, and more than once suggested that he had touched its feathers; but the voice of the multitude was against him, for it felt disposed to listen to the often-repeated cries of the black to “gib a nigger fair play.”

Finding it impossible to make out a title to the bird, Kirby turned fiercely to the black and said:

“Shut your oven, you crow! Where is the man that can hit a turkey’s head at a hundred yards? I was a fool for trying. You needn’t make an uproar like a falling pine-tree about it. Show me the man who can do it.”

“Look this a-way, Billy Kirby,” said Leather-Stocking, “and let them clear the mark, and I’ll show you a man who’s made better shots afore now, and that when he’s been hard pressed by the savages and wild beasts.”

“Perhaps there is one whose rights come before ours, Leather-Stocking,” said Miss Temple. “If so, we will waive our privilege.”

“If it be me that you have reference to,” said the young hunter, “I shall decline another chance. My shoulder is yet weak, I find.”

Elizabeth regarded his manner, and thought that she could discern a tinge on his cheek that spoke the shame of conscious poverty. She said no more, but suffered her own champion to make a trial. Although Natty Bumppo had certainly made hundreds of more momentous shots at his enemies or his game, yet he never exerted himself more to excel. He raised his piece three several times: once to get his range; once to calculate his distance; and once because the bird, alarmed by the death-like stillness, turned its head quickly to examine its foes. But the fourth time he fired. The smoke, the report, and the momentary shock prevented most of the spectators from instantly knowing the result; but Elizabeth, when she saw her champion drop the end of his rifle in the snow and open his mouth in one of its silent laughs, and then proceed very coolly to recharge his piece, knew that he had been successful. The boys rushed to the mark, and lifted the turkey on high, lifeless, and with nothing but the remnant of a head. “Bring in the creatur’,” said Leather-Stocking, “and put it at the feet of the lady. I was her deputy in the matter, and the bird is her property.”

“And a good deputy you have proved yourself,” returned Elizabeth— “so good, Cousin Richard, that I would advise you to remember his qualities.” She paused, and the gayety that beamed on her face gave place to a more serious earnestness. She even blushed a little as she turned to the young hunter, and with the charm of a woman’s manner added: “But it was only to see an exhibition of the far-famed skill of Leather-Stocking, that I tried my fortunes. Will you, sir, accept the bird as a small peace offering for the hurt that prevented your own success?”

The expression with which the youth received this present was indescribable, He appeared to yield to the blandishment of her air, in opposition to a strong inward impulse to the contrary. He bowed, and raised the victim silently from her feet, but continued silent.

Elizabeth handed the black a piece of silver as a remuneration for his loss, which had some effect in again unbending his muscles, and then expressed to her companion her readiness to return homeward.

“Wait a minute, Cousin Bess,” cried Richard; “there is an uncertainty about the rules of this sport that it is proper I should remove. If you will appoint a committee, gentlemen, to wait on me this morning, I will draw up in writing a set of regulations— ‘ He stopped, with some indignation, for at that instant a hand was laid familiarly on the shoulder of the High Sheriff of — .

“A merry Christmas to you, Cousin Dickon,” said Judge Temple, who had approached the party unperceived: “I must have a vigilant eye to my daughter, sir, if you are to be seized daily with these gallant fits. I admire the taste which would introduce a lady to such scenes!”

“It is her own perversity, ‘Duke,” cried the disappointed sheriff, who felt the loss of the first salutation as grievously as many a man would a much greater misfortune; “and I must say that she comes honestly by it. I led her out to show her the improvements, but away she scampered, through the snow, at the first sound of fire-arms, the same as if she had been brought up in a camp, instead of a first-rate boarding-school. I do think, Judge Temple, that such dangerous amusements should be suppressed, by statute; nay, I doubt whether they are not already indict able at common law.”

“Well, sir, as you are sheriff of the county, it becomes your duty to examine into the matter,” returned the smiling Marmaduke, “I perceive that Bess has executed her commission, and I hope it met with a favorable reception.” Richard glanced his eye at the packet which he held in his hand, and the slight anger produced by disappointment vanished instantly.

“Ah! ‘Duke, my dear cousin,” he said, “step a little on one side; I have something I would say to you.”

Marmaduke complied, and the sheriff led him to a little distance in the bushes, and continued: “First, ‘Duke, let me thank you for your friendly interest with the Council and the Governor, without which I am confident that the greatest merit would avail but little. But we are sisters’ children — we are sisters’ children, and you may use me like one of your horses; ride me or drive me, ‘Duke, I am wholly yours. But in my humble opinion, this young companion of Leather-Stocking requires looking after. He has a very dangerous propensity for turkey.”

“Leave him to my management, Dickon,” said the Judge, “and I will cure his appetite by indulgence. It is with him that I would speak. Let us rejoin the sportsmen.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,

If she had been in presence there,

In his wan face, and sunburnt hair,

She had not known her child.”

— Scott.

It diminished, in no degree, the effect produced by the conversation which passed between Judge Temple and the I young hunter, that the former took the arm of his daughter and drew it through his own, when he advanced from the spot whither Richard had led him to that where the youth was standing, leaning on his rifle, and contemplating the dead bird at his feet. The presence of Marmaduke did not interrupt the sports, which were resumed by loud and clamorous disputes concerning the conditions of a chance that involved the life of a bird of much inferior quality to the last. Leather-Stocking and Mohegan had alone drawn aside to their youthful companion; and, although in the immediate vicinity of such a throng, the following conversation was heard only by those who were interested in it.

“I have greatly injured you, Mr. Edwards,” said the Judge; but the sudden and inexplicable start with which the person spoken to received this unexpected address, caused him to pause a moment. As no answer was given, and the strong emotion exhibited in the countenance of the youth gradually passed away, he continued: “But fortunately it is in some measure in my power to compensate you for what I have done. My kinsman, Richard Jones, has received an appointment that will, in future, deprive me of his assistance, and leave me, just now, destitute of one who might greatly aid me with his pen. Your manner, notwithstanding appearances, is a sufficient proof of your education, nor will thy shoulder suffer thee to labor, for some time to come.” (Marmaduke insensibly relapsed into the language of the Friends as he grew warm.) “My doors are open to thee, my young friend, for in this infant country we harbor no suspicions; little offering to tempt the cupidity of the evil-disposed. Be come my assistant, for at least a season, and receive such compensation as thy services will deserve.”

There was nothing in the manner of the offer of the Judge to justify the reluctance, amounting nearly to loathing, with which the youth listened to his speech; but, after a powerful effort for self-command, he replied:

“I would serve you, sir, or any other man, for an honest support, for I do not affect to conceal that my necessities are very great, even beyond what appearances would indicate; but I am fearful that such new duties would interfere too much with more important business; so that I must decline your offer, and depend on my rifle, as before, for subsistence.”

Richard here took occasion to whisper to the young lady, who had shrunk a little from the foreground of the picture:

“This, you see, Cousin Bess, is the natural reluctance of a half-breed to leave the savage state. Their attachment to a wandering life is, I verily believe, unconquerable.”

“It is a precarious life,” observed Marmaduke, without hearing the sheriff’s observation, “and one that brings more evils with it than present suffering. Trust me, young friend, my experience is greater than thine, when I tell thee that the unsettled life of these hunters is of vast disadvantage for temporal purposes, and it totally removes one from the influence of more sacred things.”

“No, no, Judge,” interrupted the Leather-Stocking, who was hitherto unseen, or disregarded; “take him into your shanty in welcome, but tell him truth. I have lived in the woods for forty long years, and have spent five at a time without seeing the light of a clearing bigger than a window in the trees; and I should like to know where you’ll find a man, in his sixty-eighth year, who can get an easier living, for all your betterments and your deer laws; and, as for honesty, or doing what’s right between man and man, I’ll not turn my back to the longest-winded deacon on your Patent.”

“Thou art an exception, Leather-Stocking,” returned the Judge, nodding good-naturedly at the hunter; “for thou hast a temperance unusual in thy class, and a hardihood exceeding thy years. But this youth is made of I materials too precious to be wasted in the forest — I entreat thee to join my family, if it be but till thy arm is healed. My daughter here, who is mistress of my dwelling, wilt tell thee that thou art welcome.”

“Certainly,” said Elizabeth, whose earnestness was a little checked by female reserve. “The unfortunate would be welcome at any time, but doubly so when we feel that we have occasioned the evil ourselves,” “Yes,” said Richard, “and if you relish turkey, young man, there are plenty in the coops, and of the best kind, I can assure you.”

Finding himself thus ably seconded, Marmaduke pushed his advantage to the utmost. He entered into a detail of the duties that would attend the situation, and circumstantially mentioned the reward, and all those points which are deemed of importance among men of business. The youth listened in extreme agitation. There was an evident contest in his feelings; at times he appeared to wish eagerly for the change, and then again the incomprehensible expression of disgust would cross his features, like a dark cloud obscuring a noonday sun.

The Indian, in whose manner the depression of self-abasement was most powerfully exhibited, listened to the offers of the Judge with an interest that increased with each syllable. Gradually he drew nigher to the group and when, with his keen glance, he detected the most marked evidence of yielding in the countenance of his young companion, he changed at once from his attitude and look of shame to the front of an Indian warrior, and moving, with great dignity, closer to the parties, he spoke.

“Listen to your father,” he said; “his words are old. Let the Young Eagle and the Great Land Chief eat together; let them sleep, without fear, near each other. The children of Miquon love not blood: they are just, and will do right. The sun must rise and set often, be fore men can make one family; it is not the work of a day, but of many winters. The Mingoes and the Delawares are born enemies; their blood can never mix in the wigwam; it never will run in the same stream in the battle. What makes the brother of Miquon and the Young Eagle foes? They are of the same tribe; their fathers and mothers are one. Learn to wait, my son, you are a Delaware, and an Indian warrior knows how to be patient.”

This figurative address seemed to have great weight with the young man, who gradually yielded to the representations of Marmaduke, and eventually consented to his proposal. It was, however, to be an experiment only; and, if either of the parties thought fit to rescind the engagement, it was left at his option so to do. The remarkable and ill-concealed reluctance of the youth to accept of an offer, which most men in his situation would consider as an unhoped-for elevation, occasioned no little surprise in those to whom he was a stranger; and it left a slight impression to his disadvantage. When the parties separated, they very naturally made the subject the topic of a conversation, which we shall relate; first commencing with the Judge, his daughter, and Richard, who were slowly pursuing the way back to the mansion-house.

“I have surely endeavored to remember the holy man dates of our Redeemer, when he bids us ‘love them who despitefully use you,’ in my intercourse with this incomprehensible boy,” said Marmaduke. “I know not what there is in my dwelling to frighten a lad of his years, unless it may he thy presence and visage, Bess.”

“No, no,” said Richard, with great simplicity, “it is not Cousin Bess. But when did you ever know a half-breed, ‘Duke, who could bear civilization? For that mat ter, they are worse than the savages themselves! Did you notice how knock-kneed he stood, Elizabeth, and what a wild look he had in his eyes?”

“I heeded not his eyes, nor his knees, which would be all the better for a little humbling. Really, my dear sir, I think you did exercise the Christian virtue of patience to the utmost. I was disgusted with his airs, long before he consented to make one of our family. Truly we are much honored by the association! In what apartment is he to be placed, sir; and at what table is he to receive his nectar and ambrosia?”

“With Benjamin and Remarkable,” interrupted Mr. Jones; “you sorely would not make the youth eat with the blacks! He is part Indian, it is true; but the natives hold the negroes in great contempt. No, no; he would starve before he would break a crust with the negroes.”

“I am but too happy, Dickon, to tempt him to eat with ourselves,” said Marmaduke, “to think of offering even the indignity you propose.”

“Then, sir,” said Elizabeth, with an air that was slightly affected, as if submitting to her father’s orders in opposition to her own will, “it is your pleasure that he be a gentleman.”

“Certainly; he is to fill the station of one. Let him receive the treatment that is due to his place, until we find him unworthy of it.”

“Well, well, ‘Duke,” cried the sheriff, “you will find it no easy matter to make a gentleman of him. The old proverb says that ‘it takes three generations to make a gentleman.’ There was my father whom everybody knew my grandfather was an M.D., and his father a D.D.; and his father came from England, I never could come at the truth of his origin; but he was either a great mer chant in London, or a great country lawyer, or the youngest son of a bishop.”

“Here is a true American genealogy for you,” said Marmaduke, laughing. “It does very well till you get across the water, where, as everything is obscure, it is certain to deal in the superlative. You are sure that your English progenitor was great, Dickon, whatever his profession might have been?”

“To be sure I am,” returned the other. “I have heard my old aunt talk of him by the month. We are of a good family, Judge Temple, and have never filled any but honorable stations in life.”

“I marvel that you should be satisfied with so scanty a provision of gentility in the olden time, Dickon. Most of the American genealogists commence their traditions like the stories for children, with three brothers, taking especial care that one of the triumvirate shall be the pro genitor of any of the same name who may happen to be better furnished with worldly gear than themselves. But, here, all are equal who know how to conduct themselves with propriety; and Oliver Edwards comes into my family on a footing with both the high sheriff and the judge.”

“Well, ‘Duke, I call this democracy, not republicanism; but I say nothing; only let him keep within the law, or I shall show him that the freedom of even this country is under wholesome restraint.”

“Surely, Dickon, you will not execute till I condemn! But what says Bess to the new inmate? We must pay a deference to the ladies in this matter, after all.”

“Oh, sir!” returned Elizabeth, “I believe I am much like a certain Judge Temple in this particular — not easily to be turned from my opinion. But, to be serious, although I must think the introduction of a demi-savage into the family a somewhat startling event, whomsoever you think proper to countenance may be sure of my respect.”

The Judge drew her arm more closely in his own and smiled, while Richard led the way through the gate of the little court-yard in the rear of the dwelling, dealing out his ambiguous warnings with his accustomed loquacity.

On the other hand, the foresters — for the three hunters, notwithstanding their difference in character, well deserved this common name — pursued their course along the skirts of the village in silence. It was not until they had reached the lake, and were moving over its frozen surface toward the foot of the mountain, where the hut stood, that the youth exclaimed:

“Who could have foreseen this a month since! I have consented to serve Marmaduke Temple — to be an inmate in the dwelling of the greatest enemy of my race; yet what better could I do? The servitude cannot be long; and, when the motive for submitting to it ceases to exist, I will shake it off like the dust from my feet.”

“Is he a Mingo, that you will call him enemy?” said Mohegan. “The Delaware warrior sits still, and waits the time of the Great Spirit. He is no woman, to cry out like a child.”

“Well, I’m mistrustful, John,” said Leather-Stocking, in whose air there had been, during the whole business, a strong expression of doubt and uncertainty. “They say that there’s new laws in the land, and I’m sartin that there’s new ways in the mountains. One hardly knows the lakes and streams, they’ve altered the country so much. I must say I’m mistrustful of such smooth speakers; for I’ve known the whites talk fair when they wanted the Indian lands most. This I will say, though I’m a white myself, and was born nigh York, and of honest parents, too.”

“I will submit,” said the youth; “I will forget who I am. Cease to remember, old Mohegan, that I am the descendant of a Delaware chief, who once was master of these noble hills, these beautiful vales, and of this water, over which we tread. Yes, yes; I will become his bonds man — his slave, Is it not an honorable servitude, old man?”

“Old man!” repeated the Indian solemnly, and pausing in his walk, as usual, when much excited; “yes, John is old. Son of my brother! if Mohegan was young, when would his rifle be still? Where would the deer hide, and he not find him? But John is old; his hand is the hand of a squaw; his tomahawk is a hatchet; brooms and baskets are his enemies — he strikes no other. Hunger and old age come together. See Hawk-eye! when young, he would go days and eat nothing; but should he not put the brush on the fire now, the blaze would go out. Take the son of Miquon by the hand, and he will help you.”

“I’m not the man I was, I’ll own, Chingachgook,” returned the Leather-Stocking; “but I can go without a meal now, on occasion. When we tracked the Iroquois through the ‘Beech-woods,’ they drove the game afore them, for I hadn’t a morsel to eat from Monday morning come Wednesday sundown, and then I shot as fat a buck, on the Pennsylvany line, as ever mortal laid eyes on. It would have done your heart good to have seen the Delaware eat; for I was out scouting and skrimmaging with their tribe at the time. Lord! The Indians, lad, lay still, and just waited till Providence should send them their game, but I foraged about, and put a deer up, and put him down too, afore he had made a dozen jumps. I was too weak and too ravenous to stop for his flesh, so I took a good drink of his blood, and the Indians ate of his meat raw. John was there, and John knows. But then starvation would be apt to be too much for me now, I will own, though I’m no great eater at any time.”

“Enough is said, my friend,” cried the youth. “I feel that everywhere the sacrifice is required at my hands, and it shall be made; but say no more, I entreat you; I can not bear this subject now.”

His companions were silent; and they soon reached the hut, which they entered, after removing certain complicated and ingenious fastenings, that were put there apparently to guard a property of but very little value. Immense piles of snow lay against the log walls of this secluded habitation on one side; while fragments of small trees, and branches of oak and chestnut, that had been torn from their parent stems by the winds, were thrown into a pile on the other. A small column of smoke rose through a chimney of sticks, cemented with clay, along the side of the rock, and had marked the snow above with its dark tinges, in a wavy line, from the point of emission to an other, where the hill receded from the brow of a precipice, and held a soil that nourished trees of a gigantic growth, that overhung the little bottom beneath.

The remainder of the day passed off as such days are commonly spent in a new country. The settlers thronged to the academy again, to witness the second effort of Mr. Grant; and Mohegan was one of his hearers. But, not withstanding the divine fixed his eyes intently on the Indian when he invited his congregation to advance to the table, the shame of last night’s abasement was yet too keen in the old chief to suffer him to move.

When the people were dispersing, the clouds that had been gathering all the morning were dense and dirty, and before half of the curious congregation had reached their different cabins, that were placed in every glen and hollow of the mountains, or perched on the summits of the hills themselves, the rain was falling in torrents. The dark edges of the stumps began to exhibit themselves, as the snow settled rapidly; the fences of logs and brush, which before had been only traced by long lines of white mounds, that ran across the valley and up the mountains, peeped out from their covering, and the black stubs were momentarily becoming more distinct, as large masses of snow and ice fell from their sides, under the influence of the thaw.

Sheltered in the warm hall of her father’s comfortable mansion, Elizabeth, accompanied by Louisa Grant, looked abroad with admiration at the ever-varying face of things without. Even the village, which had just before been glittering with the color of the frozen element, reluctantly dropped its mask, and the houses exposed their dark roofs and smoked chimneys. The pines shook off the covering of snow, and everything seemed to be assuming its proper hues with a transition that bordered on the supernatural.

CHAPTER XIX.

“And yet, poor Edwin was no vulgar boy.”

— Beattie.

The close of Christmas Day, A.D. 1793, was tempestuous, but comparatively warm. When darkness had again hid the objects in the village from the gaze of Elizabeth, she turned from the window, where she had remained while the least vestige of light lingered over the tops of the dark pines, with a curiosity that was rather excited than appeased by the passing glimpses of woodland scenery that she had caught during the day.

With her arm locked in that of Miss Grant, the young mistress of the mansion walked slowly up and down the hall, musing on scenes that were rapidly recurring to her memory, and possibly dwelling, at times, in the sanctuary of her thoughts, on the strange occurrences that had led to the introduction to her father’s family of one whose Manners so singularly contradicted the inferences to be drawn from his situation. The expiring heat of the apartment — for its great size required a day to reduce its temperature — had given to her cheeks a bloom that exceeded their natural color, while the mild and melancholy features of Louisa were brightened with a faint tinge, that, like the hectic of disease, gave a painful interest to her beauty.

The eyes of the gentlemen, who were yet seated around the rich wines of Judge Temple, frequently wandered from the table, that was placed at one end of the hall, to the forms that were silently moving over its length. Much mirth, and that, at times, of a boisterous kind, proceeded from the mouth of Richard; but Major Hartmann was not yet excited to his pitch of merriment, and Marmaduke respected the presence of his clerical guest too much to indulge in even the innocent humor that formed no small ingredient in his character.

Such were, and such continued to be, the pursuits of the party, for half an hour after the shutters were closed, and candles were placed in various parts of the hall, as substitutes for departing daylight. The appearance of Benjamin, staggering under the burden of an armful of wood, was the first interruption to the scene.

“How now, Master Pump!” roared the newly appointed sheriff; “is there not warmth enough in ‘Duke’s best Madeira to keep up the animal heat through this thaw? Remember, old boy, that the Judge is particular with his beech and maple, beginning to dread already a scarcity of the precious articles. Ha! ha! ha! ‘Duke, you are a good, warm-hearted relation, I will own, as in duty bound, but you have some queer notions about you, after all. ‘Come, let us be jolly, and cast away folly.”

The notes gradually sank into a hum, while the major-domo threw down his load, and, turning to his interrogator with an air of earnestness, replied:

“Why, look you, Squire Dickon, mayhap there’s a warm latitude round about the table there, thof it’s not the stuff to raise the heat in my body, neither; the raal Jamaiky being the only thing to do that, besides good wood, or some such matter as Newcastle coal. But, if I know anything of the weather, d’ye see, it’s time to be getting all snog, and for putting the ports in and stirring the fires a bit. Mayhap I’ve not followed the seas twenty-seven years, and lived another seven in these here woods, for nothing, gemmen.”

“Why, does it bid fair for a change in the weather, Benjamin?” inquired the master of the house.

“There’s a shift of wind, your honor,” returned the steward; “and when there’s a shift of wind, you may look for a change in this here climate. I was aboard of one of Rodney’s fleet, dye see, about the time we licked De Grasse, Mounsheer Lor Quaw’s countryman, there; and the wind was here at the south’ard and east’ard; and I was below, mixing a toothful of hot stuff for the captain of marines, who dined, dye see, in the cabin, that there very same day; and I suppose he wanted to put out the captain’s fire with a gun-room ingyne; and so, just as I got it to my own liking, after tasting pretty often, for the soldier was difficult to please, slap came the foresail agin’ the mast, whiz went the ship round on her heel, like a whirligig. And a lucky thing was it that our helm was down; for as she gathered starnway she paid off, which was more than every ship in the fleet did, or could do. But she strained herself in the trough of the sea, and she shipped a deal of water over her quarter. I never swallowed so much clear water at a time in my life as I did then, for I was looking up the after-hatch at the instant.”

“I wonder, Benjamin, that you did not die with a dropsy!” said Marmaduke.

“I mought, Judge,” said the old tar, with a broad grin; “but there was no need of the medicine chest for a cure; for, as I thought the brew was spoilt for the marine’s taste, and there was no telling when another sea might come and spoil it for mine. I finished the mug on the spot. So then all hands was called to the pumps, and there we began to ply the pumps— “

“Well, but the weather?” interrupted Marmaduke; “what of the weather without doors?”

“Why here the wind has been all day at the south, and now there’s a lull, as if the last blast was out of the bellows; and there’s a streak along the mountains, to the northard, that, just now, wasn’t wider than the bigness of your hand; and then the clouds drive afore it as you’d brail a mainsail, and the stars are heaving in sight, like so many lights and beacons, put there to warn us to pile on the wood; and, if so be that I’m a judge of weather, it’s getting to be time to build on a fire, or you’ll have half of them there porter bottles, and them dimmyjohns of wine, in the locker here, breaking with the frost, afore the morning watch is called.”

“Thou art a prudent sentinel,” said the Judge. “Act thy pleasure with the forests, for this night at feast.”

Benjamin did as he was ordered; nor had two hours elapsed, before the prudence of his precautions became very visible. The south wind had, indeed, blown itself cut, and it was succeeded by the calmness that usually gave warning of a serious change in the weather. Long before the family retired to rest, the cold had become cuttingly severe; and when Monsieur Le Quoi sallied c forth under a bright moon, to seek his own abode, he was compelled to beg a blanket, in which he might envelop c his form, in addition to the numerous garments that his sagacity had provided for the occasion. The divine and his daughter remained as inmates of the mansion-house during the night, and the excess of last night’s merriment c induced the gentlemen to make an early retreat to their several apartments. Long before midnight, the whole family were invisible.

Elizabeth and her friend had not yet lost their senses in sleep, and the howlings of the northwest wind were heard around the buildings, and brought with them that exquisite sense of comfort that is ever excited under such circumstances, in an apartment where the fire has not yet ceased to glimmer, and curtains, and shutters, and feathers unite to preserve the desired temperature. Once, just as her eyes had opened, apparently in the last stage of drowsiness, the roaring winds brought with them a long and plaintive howl, that seemed too wild for a dog, and yet resembled the cries of that faithful animal, when night awakens his vigilance, and gives sweetness and solemnity to its charms. The form of Louis Grant instinctively pressed nearer to that of the young heiress, who, finding her companion was yet awake, said in a low tone, as if afraid to break a charm with her voice:

“Those distant cries are plaintive, and even beautiful. Can they be the hounds from the hut of Leather-Stocking?”

“They are wolves, who have ventured from the mountain, on the lake,” whispered Louisa, “and who are only kept from the village by the lights. One night, since we have been here, hunger drove them to our very door. Oh, what a dreadful night it was! But the riches of Judge Temple have given him too many safeguards, to leave room for fear in this house.”

“The enterprise of Judge Temple is taming the very forests!” exclaimed Elizabeth, throwing off the covering, and partly rising in the bed. “How rapidly is civilization treading on the foot of Nature!” she continued, as her eye glanced over not only the comforts, but the luxuries of her apartment, and her ear again listened to the distant, but often repeated howls from the lake. Finding, how-ever, that the timidity of her companion rendered the sounds painful to her, Elizabeth resumed her place, and soon forgot the changes in the country, with those in her own condition, in a deep sleep.

The following morning, the noise of the female servant, who entered the apartment to light the fire, awoke the females. They arose, and finished the slight preparations I of their toilets in a clear, cold atmosphere, that penetrated through all the defences of even Miss Temple’s warm room. When Elizabeth was attired, she approached a window and drew its curtain, and throwing open its shutters she endeavored to look abroad on the village and the lake. But a thick covering of frost on the glass, while it admitted the light, shut out the view. She raised the sash, and then, indeed, a glorious scene met her delighted eye.

The lake had exchanged its covering of unspotted snow for a face of dark ice, that reflected the rays of the rising sun like a polished mirror. The houses clothed in a dress of the same description, but which, owing to its position, shone like bright steel; while the enormous icicles that were pendent from every roof caught the brilliant light, apparently throwing it from one to the other, as each glittered, on the side next the luminary, with a golden lustre that melted away, on its opposite, into the dusky shades of a background. But it was the appearance of the boundless forests that covered the hills as they rose in the distance, one over the other, that most attracted the gaze of Miss Temple. The huge branches of the pines and hemlocks bent with the weight of the ice they supported, while their summits rose above the swelling tops of the oaks, beeches, and maples, like spires of burnished silver issuing from domes of the same material. The limits of the view, in the west, were marked by an undulating outline of bright light, as if, reversing the order of nature, numberless suns might momentarily he expected to heave above the horizon. In the foreground of the picture, along the shores of the lake, and near to the village, each tree seemed studded with diamonds. Even the sides of the mountains where the rays of the sun could not yet fall, were decorated with a glassy coat, that presented every gradation of brilliancy, from the first touch of the luminary to the dark foliage of the hemlock, glistening through its coat of crystal. In short, the whole view was one scene of quivering radiancy, as lake, mountains, village, and woods, each emitted a portion of light, tinged with its peculiar hue, and varied by its position and its magnitude.

“See!” cried Elizabeth; “see, Louisa; hasten to the window, and observe the miraculous change!”

Miss Grant complied; and, after bending for a moment in silence from the opening, she observed, in a low tone, as if afraid to trust the sound of her voice:

“The change is indeed wonderful! I am surprised that he should be able to effect it so soon.”

Elizabeth turned in amazement, to hear so skeptical a sentiment from one educated like her companion; but was surprised to find that, instead of looking at the view, the mild blue eyes of Miss Grant were dwelling on the form of a well-dressed young man, who was standing before the door of the building, in earnest conversation with her father. A second look was necessary before she was able to recognize the person of the young hunter in a plain, but assuredly the ordinary, garb of a gentleman.

“Everything in this magical country seems to border on the marvellous,” said Elizabeth; “and, among all the changes, this is certainly not the least wonderful, The actors are as unique as the scenery.”

Miss Grant colored and drew in her head.

“I am a simple country girl, Miss Temple, and I am afraid you will find me but a poor companion,” she said. “I — I am not sure that I understand all you say. But I really thought that you wished me to notice the alteration in Mr. Edwards, Is it not more wonderful when we recollect his origin? They say he is part Indian.”

“He is a genteel savage; but let us go down, and give the sachem his tea; for I suppose he is a descendant of King Philip, if not a grandson of Pocahontas.”

The ladies were met in the hall by Judge Temple, who took his daughter aside to apprise her of that alteration in the appearance of their new inmate, with which she was already acquainted.

“He appears reluctant to converse on his former situation,” continued Marmaduke “but I gathered from his discourse, as is apparent from his manner, that he has seen better days; and I am really inclining to the opinion of Richard, as to his origin; for it was no unusual thing for the Indian agents to rear their children in a laudable manner, and— “

“Very well, my dear sir,” interrupted his daughter, laughing and averting her eyes; “it is all well enough, I dare say; but, as I do not understand a word of the Mohawk language he must be content to speak English; and as for his behavior, I trust to your discernment to control it.”

“Ay! but, Bess,” cried the judge, detaining her gently by the hand, “nothing must be said to him of his past life. This he has begged particularly of me, as a favor, He is, perhaps, a little soured, just now, with his wounded arm; the injury seems very light, and another time he may be more communicative.”

“Oh! I am not much troubled, sir, with that laudable thirst after knowledge that is called curiosity. I shall believe him to be the child of Corn-stalk, or Corn-planter, or some other renowned chieftain; possibly of the Big Snake himself; and shall treat him as such until he sees fit to shave his good-looking head, borrow some half-dozen pair of my best earrings, shoulder his rifle again, and disappear as suddenly as he made his entrance. So come, my dear sir, and let us not forget the rites of hospitality, for the short time he is to remain with us.”

Judge Temple smiled at the playfulness of his child, and taking her arm they entered the breakfast parlor, where the young hunter was seated with an air that showed his determination to domesticate himself in the family with as little parade as possible.

Such were the incidents that led to this extraordinary increase in the family of Judge Temple, where, having once established the youth, the subject of our tale requires us to leave him for a time, to pursue with diligence and intelligence the employments that were assigned him by Marmaduke.

Major Hartmann made his customary visit, and took his leave of the party for the next three months. Mr. Grant was compelled to be absent most of his time, in remote parts of the country, and his daughter became almost a constant visitor at the mansion-house. Richard entered, with his constitutional eagerness, on the duties of his new office; and, as Marmaduke was much employed with the constant applications of adventures for farms, the winter passed swiftly away. The lake was the principal scene f or the amusements of the young people; where the ladies, in their one-horse cutter, driven by Richard, and attended, when the snow would admit of it, by young Ed wards on his skates, spent many hours taking the benefit of exercise in the clear air of the hills. The reserve of the youth gradually gave way to time and his situation, though it was still evident, to a close observer, that he had frequent moments of bitter and intense feeling.

Elizabeth saw many large openings appear in the sides of the mountains during the three succeeding months, where different settlers had, in the language of the country “made their pitch,” while the numberless sleighs that passed through the village, loaded with wheat and barrels of potashes, afforded a clear demonstration that all these labors were not undertaken in vain. In short, the whole country was exhibiting the bustle of a thriving settlement, where the highways were thronged with sleighs, bearing piles of rough household furniture, studded, here and there, with the smiling faces of women and children, happy in the excitement of novelty; or with loads of produce, hastening to the common market at Albany, that served as so many snares to induce the emigrants to enter into those wild mountains in search of competence and happiness.

The village was alive with business, the artisans in creasing in wealth with the prosperity of the country, and each day witnessing some nearer approach to the manners and usages of an old-settled town. The man who carried the mail or “the post,” as he was called, talked much of running a stage, and, once or twice during the winter, he was seen taking a single passenger, in his cutter, through the snow-banks, toward the Mohawk, along which a regular vehicle glided, semi-weekly, with the velocity of lightning, and under the direction of a knowing whip from the “down countries,” Toward spring, divers families, who had been into the “old States” to see their relatives, returned in time to save the snow, frequently bringing with them whole neighborhoods, who were tempted by their representations to leave the farms of Connecticut and Massachusetts, to make a trial of fortune in the woods.

During all this time, Oliver Edwards, whose sudden elevation excited no surprise in that changeful country, was earnestly engaged in the service of Marmaduke, during the days; but his nights were often spent in the hut of Leather-Stocking. The intercourse between the three hunters was maintained with a certain air of mystery, it is true, but with much zeal and apparent interest to all the parties. Even Mohegan seldom came to the mansion-house, and Natty never; but Edwards sought every leisure moment to visit his former abode, from which he would often return in the gloomy hours of night through the snow, or, if detained beyond the time at which the family retired to rest, with the morning sun. These visits certainly excited much speculation in those to whom they were known, but no comments were made, excepting occasionally in whispers from Richard, who would say:

“It is not at all remarkable; a half-breed can never be weaned from the savage ways — and, for one of his lineage, the boy is much nearer civilization than could, in reason, be expected.”

CHAPTER XX.

“Away! nor let me loiter in my song,

For we have many a mountain-path to tread.”

— Byron.

As the spring gradually approached, the immense piles of snow that, by alternate thaws and frosts, and repeated storms, had obtained a firmness which threatened a tiresome durability, began to yield to the influence of milder breezes and a warmer sun. The gates of heaven at times seemed to open, and a bland air diffused itself over the earth, when animate and inanimate nature would awaken, and, for a few hours, the gayety of spring shone in every eye and smiled on every field. But the shivering blasts from the north would carry their chill influence over the scene again, and the dark and gloomy clouds that intercepted the rays of the sun were not more cold and dreary than the reaction. These struggles between the seasons became daily more frequent, while the earth, like a victim to contention, slowly lost the animated brilliancy of winter, without obtaining the aspect of spring.

Several weeks were consumed in this cheerless manner, during which the inhabitants of the country gradually changed their pursuits from the social and bustling movements of the time of snow to the laborious and domestic engagements of the coming season, The village was no longer thronged with visitors; the trade that had enlivened the shops for several months, began to disappear; the highways lost their shining coats of beaten snow in impassable sloughs, and were deserted by the gay and noisy travellers who, in sleighs, had, during the winter, glided along their windings; and, in short, everything seemed indicative of a mighty change, not only in the earth, but in those who derived their sources of comfort and happiness from its bosom.

The younger members of the family in the mansion house, of which Louisa Grant was now habitually one, were by no means indifferent observers of these fluctuating and tardy changes. While the snow rendered the roads passable, they had partaken largely in the amusements of the winter, which included not only daily rides over the mountains, and through every valley within twenty miles of them, but divers ingenious and varied sources of pleasure on the bosom of their frozen lake. There had been excursions in the equipage of Richard, when with his four horses he had outstripped the winds, as it flew over the glassy ice which invariably succeeded a thaw. Then the exciting and dangerous “whirligig” would be suffered to possess its moment of notice. Cutters, drawn by a single horse, and handsleds, impelled by the gentlemen on skates, would each in turn be used; and, in short, every source of relief against the tediousness of a winter in the mountains was resorted to by the family, Elizabeth was compelled to acknowledge to her father, that the season, with the aid of his library, was much less irksome than she had anticipated.

As exercise in the open air was in some degree necessary to the habits of the family, when the constant recurrence of frosts and thaws rendered the roads, which were dangerous at the most favorable times, utterly impassable for wheels, saddle-horses were used as substitutes for other conveyances. Mounted on small and sure-footed beasts, the ladies would again attempt the passages of the mountains and penetrate into every retired glen where the enterprise of a settler had induced him to establish himself. In these excursions they were attended by some one or all of the gentlemen of the family, as their different pursuits admitted. Young Edwards was hourly becoming more familiarized to his situation, and not infrequently mingled in the parties with an unconcern and gayety that for a short time would expel all unpleasant recollections from his mind. Habit, and the buoyancy of youth, seemed to be getting the ascendency over the secret causes of his uneasiness; though there were moments when the same remarkable expression of disgust would cross his intercourse with Marmaduke, that had distinguished their conversations in the first days of their acquaintance.

It was at the close of the month of March, that the sheriff succeeded in persuading his cousin and her young friend to accompany him in a ride to a hill that was said to overhang the lake in a manner peculiar to itself.

“Besides, Cousin Bess,” continued the indefatigable Richard, “we will stop and see the ‘sugar bush’ of Billy Kirby; he is on the east end of the Ransom lot, making sugar for Jared Ransom. There is not a better hand over a kettle in the county than that same Kirby. You remember, ‘Duke, that I had him his first season in our camp; and it is not a wonder that he knows something of his trade.”

“He’s a good chopper, is Billy,” observed Benjamin, who held the bridle of the horse while the sheriff mounted; “and he handles an axe much the same as a forecastleman does his marling-spike, or a tailor his goose. They say he’ll lift a potash-kettle off the arch alone, though I can’t say that I’ve ever seen him do it with my own eyes; but that is the say. And I’ve seen sugar of his making, which, maybe, wasn’t as white as an old topgallant sail, but which my friend, Mistress Pettibones, within there, said had the true molasses smack to it; and you are not the one, Squire Dickens, to be told that Mistress Remarkable has a remarkable tooth for sweet things in her nut-grinder.”

The loud laugh that succeeded the wit of Benjamin, and in which he participated with no very harmonious sounds himself, very fully illustrated the congenial temper which existed between the pair. Most of its point was, however, lost on the rest of the party, who were either mounting their horses or assisting the ladies at the moment. When all were safely in their saddles, they moved through the village in great order. They paused for a moment before the door of Monsieur Le Quoi, until he could bestride his steed, and then, issuing from the little cluster of houses, they took one of the principal of those highways that centred in the village.

As each night brought with it a severe frost, which the heat of the succeeding day served to dissipate, the equestrians were compelled to proceed singly along the margin of the road, where the turf, and firmness of the ground, gave the horses a secure footing. Very trifling indications of vegetation were to be seen, the surface of the earth presenting a cold, wet, and cheerless aspect that chilled the blood. The snow yet lay scattered over most of those distant clearings that were visible in different parts of the mountains; though here and there an opening might be seen where, as the white covering yielded to the season, the bright and lively green of the wheat served to enkindle the hopes of the husbandman. Nothing could be more marked than the contrast between the earth and the heavens; for, while the former presented the dreary view that we have described, a warm and invigorating sun was dispensing his heats from a sky that contained but a solitary cloud, and through an atmosphere that softened the colors of the sensible horizon until it shone like a sea of blue.

Richard led the way on this, as on all other occasions that did not require the exercise of unusual abilities; and as he moved along, he essayed to enliven the party with the sounds of his experienced voice.

“This is your true sugar weather, ‘Duke,” he cried; “a frosty night and a sunshiny day. I warrant me that the sap runs like a mill-tail up the maples this warm morning. It is a pity, Judge, that you do not introduce a little more science into the manufactory of sugar among your tenants. It might be done, sir, without knowing as much as Dr. Franklin — it might be done, Judge Temple.”

“The first object of my solicitude, friend Jones,” returned Marmaduke, “is to protect the sources of this great mine of comfort and wealth from the extravagance of the people themselves. When this important point shall be achieved, it will be in season to turn our attention to an improvement in the manufacture of the article, But thou knowest, Richard, that I have already subjected our sugar to the process of the refiner, and that the result has produced loaves as white as the snow on yon fields, and possessing the saccharine quality in its utmost purity.”

“Saccharine, or turpentine, or any other ‘ine, Judge Temple, you have never made a loaf larger than a good-sized sugar-plum,” returned the sheriff. “Now, sir, I assert that no experiment is fairly tried, until it be reduced to practical purposes. If, sir, I owned a hundred, or, for that matter, two hundred thousand acres of land, as you do. I would build a sugar house in the village; I would invite learned men to an investigation of the subject — and such are easily to be found, sir; yes, sir, they are not difficult to find — men who unite theory with practice; and I would select a wood of young and thrifty trees; and, instead of making loaves of the size of a lump of candy, dam’me, ‘Duke, but I’d have them as big as a haycock.”

“And purchase the cargo of one of those ships that they say are going to China,” cried Elizabeth; “turn your pot ash-kettles into teacups, the scows on the lake into saucers, bake your cake in yonder lime-kiln, and invite the county to a tea-party. How wonderful are the projects of genius! Really, sir, the world is of opinion that Judge Temple has tried the experiment fairly, though he did not cause his loaves to be cast in moulds of the magnitude that would suit your magnificent conceptions.”

“You may laugh, Cousin Elizabeth — you may laugh, madam,” retorted Richard, turning himself so much in his saddle as to face the party, and making dignified gestures with his whip; “but I appeal to common sense, good sense, or, what is of more importance than either, to the sense of taste, which is one of the five natural senses, whether a big loaf of sugar is not likely to contain a better illustration of a proposition than such a lump as one of your Dutch women puts under her tongue when she drinks her tea. There are two ways of doing everything, the right way and the wrong way. You make sugar now, I will admit, and you may, possibly, make loaf-sugar; but I take the question to be, whether you make the best possible sugar, and in the best possible loaves.”

“Thou art very right, Richard,” observed Marmaduke, with a gravity in his air that proved how much he was interested in the subject. “It is very true that we manufacture sugar, and the inquiry is quite useful, how much? and in what manner? I hope to live to see the day when farms and plantations shall be devoted to this branch of business. Little is known concerning the properties of the tree itself, the source of all this wealth; how much it may be improved by cultivation, by the use of the hoe and plough.”

“Hoe and plough!” roared the sheriff; “would you set a man hoeing round the root of a maple like this?” pointing to one of the noble trees that occur so frequently in that part of the country. “Hoeing trees! are you mad, ‘Duke? This is next to hunting for coal! Poh! poh! my dear cousin, hear reason, and leave the management of the sugar-bush to me. Here is Mr. Le Quoi — he has been in the West Indies, and has seen sugar made. Let him give an account of how it is made there, and you will hear the philosophy of the thing. Well, monsieur, how is it that you make sugar in the West Indies; anything in Judge Temples fashion?”

The gentleman to whom this query was put was mounted on a small horse, of no very fiery temperament, and was riding with his stirrups so short as to bring his knees, while the animal rose a small ascent in the wood-path they were now travelling, into a somewhat hazardous vicinity to his chin. There was no room for gesticulation or grace in the delivery of his reply, for the mountain was steep and slippery; and, although the Frenchman had an eye of uncommon magnitude on either side of his face, they did not seem to be half competent to forewarn him of the impediments of bushes, twigs, and fallen trees, that were momentarily crossing his path. With one hand employed in averting these dangers, and the other grasping his bridle to check an untoward speed that his horse was assuming, the native of France responded as follows:

“Sucre! dey do make sucre in Martinique; mais — mais ce n’est pas one tree — ah — ah — vat you call — je voudrois que ces chemins fussent au diable — vat you call — steeck pour la promenade?”

“Cane,” said Elizabeth, smiling at the imprecation which the wary Frenchman supposed was understood only by himself. “Oui, mam’selle, cane.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Richard, “cane is the vulgar name for it, but the real term is saccharum officinarum; and what we call the sugar, or hard maple, is acer saccharinum. These are the learned names, monsieur, and are such as, doubtless, you well understand.”

“Is this Greek or Latin, Mr. Edwards?” whispered Elizabeth to the youth, who was opening a passage for herself and her companions through the bushes, “or per haps it is a still more learned language, for an interpretation of which we must look to you.”

The dark eye of the young man glanced toward the speaker, but its resentful expression changed in a moment.

“I shall remember your doubts, Miss Temple, when next I visit my old friend Mohegan, and either his skill, or that of Leather-Stocking, shall solve them.”

“And are you, then, really ignorant of their language?”

“Not absolutely; but the deep learning of Mr. Jones is more familiar to me, or even the polite masquerade of Monsieur Le Quoi.”

“Do you speak French?” said the lady, with quickness.

“It is a common language with the Iroquois, and through the Canadas,” he answered, smiling.

“Ah! but they are Mingoes, and your enemies.”

“It will be well for me if I have no worse,” said the youth, dashing ahead with his horse, and putting an end to the evasive dialogue.

The discourse, however, was maintained with great vigor by Richard, until they reached an open wood on the summit of the mountain, where the hemlocks and pines totally disappeared, and a grove of the very trees that formed the subject of debate covered the earth with their tall, straight trunks and spreading branches, in stately pride. The underwood had been entirely removed from this grove, or bush, as, in conjunction with the simple arrangements for boiling, it was called, and a wide space of many acres was cleared, which might be likened to the dome of a mighty temple, to which the maples formed the columns, their tops composing the capitals and the heavens the arch. A deep and careless incision had been made into each tree, near its root, into which little spouts, formed of the I bark of the alder, or of the sumach, were fastened; and a trough, roughly dug out of the linden, or basswood, was I lying at the root of each tree, to catch the sap that flowed from this extremely wasteful and inartificial arrangement.

The party paused a moment, on gaining the flat, to breathe their horses, and, as the scene was entirely new to several of their number, to view the manner of collecting the fluid. A fine, powerful voice aroused them from their momentary silence, as it rang under the branches of the trees, singing the following words of that inimitable doggerel, whose verses, if extended, would reach from the Caters of the Connecticut to the shores of Ontario. The tune was, of course, a familiar air which, although it is said to have been first applied to this nation in derision, circumstances have since rendered so glorious that no American ever hears its jingling cadence without feeling a thrill at his heart:

“The Eastern States be full of men, The Western Full of woods, sir, The hill be like a cattle-pen, The roads be full of goods, sir! Then flow away, my sweety sap, And I will make you boily; Nor catch a wood man’s hasty nap, For fear you should get roily. The maple-tree’s a precious one, ’Tis fuel, food, and timber; And when your stiff day’s work is done, Its juice will make you limber, Then flow away, etc.

“And what’s a man without his glass. His wife without her tea, sir? But neither cup nor mug will pass, Without his honey-bee, sir! Then flow away,” etc.

During the execution of this sonorous doggerel, Richard kept time with his whip on the mane of his charger, accompanying the gestures with a corresponding movement of his head and body. Toward the close of the song, he was overheard humming the chorus, and, at its last repetition, to strike in at “sweety sap,” and carry a second through, with a prodigious addition to the “effect” of the noise, if not to that of the harmony.

“Well done us!” roared the sheriff, on the same key with the tune; “a very good song, Billy Kirby, and very well sung. Where got you the words, lad? Is there more of it, and can you furnish me with a copy?” The sugar-boiler, who was busy in his “camp,” at a short distance from the equestrians, turned his head with great indifference, and surveyed the party, as they approached, with admirable coolness. To each individual, as he or she rode close by him, he gave a nod that was extremely good-natured and affable, but which partook largely of the virtue of equality, for not even to the ladies did he in the least vary his mode of salutation, by touching the apology for a hat that he wore, or by any other motion than the one we have mentioned.

“How goes it, how goes it, sheriff?” said the wood-chopper; “what’s the good word in the village?”

“Why, much as usual, Billy,” returned Richard. “But how is this? where are your four kettles, and your troughs, and your iron coolers? Do you make sugar in this slovenly way? I thought you were one of the best sugar-boilers in the county.”

“I’m all that, Squire Jones,” said Kirby, who continued his occupation; “I’ll turn my back to no man in the Otsego hills for chopping and logging, for boiling down the maple sap, for tending brick-kiln, splitting out rails, making potash, and parling too, or hoeing corn; though I keep myself pretty much to the first business, seeing that the axe comes most natural to me.”

“You be von Jack All-trade, Mister Beel,” said Monsieur Le Quoi.

“How?” said Kirby, looking up with a simplicity which, coupled with his gigantic frame and manly face, was a little ridiculous, “if you be for trade, mounsher, here is some as good sugar as you’ll find the season through. It’s as clear from dirt as the Jarman Flats is free from stumps, and it has the raal maple flavor. Such stuff would sell in York for candy.”

The Frenchman approached the place where Kirby had deposited his cake of sugar, under the cover of a bark roof, and commenced the examination of the article with the eye of one who well understood its value. Marmaduke had dismounted, and was viewing the works and the trees very closely, and not without frequent expressions of dissatisfaction at the careless manner in which the manufacture was conducted.

“You have much experience in these things, Kirby,” he said; “what course do you pursue in making your sugar? I see you have but two kettles.”

“Two is as good as two thousand, Judge. I’m none of your polite sugar-makers, that boils for the great folks; but if the raal sweet maple is wanted, I can answer your turn. First, I choose, and then I tap my trees; say along about the last of February, or in these mountains maybe not afore the middle of March; but anyway, just as the sap begins to cleverly run— “

“Well, in this choice,” interrupted Marmaduke, “are you governed by any outward signs that prove the quality of the tree?”

“Why, there’s judgment in all things,” said Kirby, stirring the liquor in his kettles briskly. “There’s some thing in knowing when and how to stir the pot. It’s a thing that must be larnt. Rome wasn’t built in a day, nor for that matter Templeton either, though it may be said to be a quick-growing place. I never put my axe into a stunty tree, or one that hasn’t a good, fresh-looking bark: for trees have disorders, like creatur’s; and where’s the policy of taking a tree that’s sickly, any more than you’d choose a foundered horse to ride post, or an over heated ox to do your logging?”

“All that is true. But what are the signs of illness? how do you distinguish a tree that is well from one that is diseased?”

“How does the doctor tell who has fever and who colds?” interrupted Richard. “By examining the skin, and feeling the pulse, to be sure.”

“Sartain,” continued Billy; “the squire ain’t far out of the way. It’s by the look of the thing, sure enough. Well, when the sap begins to get a free run, I hang over the kettles, and set up the bush. My first boiling I push pretty smartly, till I get the virtue of the sap; but when it begins to grow of a molasses nater, like this in the kettle, one mustn’t drive the fires too hard, or you’ll burn the sugar; and burny sugar is bad to the taste, let it be never so sweet. So you ladle out from one kettle into the other till it gets so, when you put the stirring-stick into it, that it will draw into a thread — when it takes a kerful hand to manage it. There is a way to drain it off, after it has grained, by putting clay into the pans; bitt it isn’t always practised; some doos and some doosn’t. Well, mounsher, be we likely to make a trade?”

“I will give you, Mister Etel, for von pound, dix sous.”

“No, I expect cash for it; I never dicker my sugar, But, seeing that it’s you, mounsher,” said Billy, with a Coaxing smile, “I’ll agree to receive a gallon of rum, and cloth enough for two shirts if you’ll take the molasses in the bargain. It’s raal good. I wouldn’t deceive you or any man and to my drinking it’s about the best molasses that come out of a sugar-bush.”

“Mr. Le Quoi has offered you ten pence,” said young Edwards.

The manufacturer stared at the speaker with an air of great freedom, but made no reply.

“Oui,” said the Frenchman, “ten penny. Jevausraner cie, monsieur: ah! mon Anglois! je l’oublie toujours.”

The wood-chopper looked from one to the other with some displeasure; and evidently imbibed the opinion that they were amusing themselves at his expense. He seized the enormous ladle, which was lying on one of his kettles, and began to stir the boiling liquid with great diligence. After a moment passed in dipping the ladle full, and then raising it on high, as the thick rich fluid fell back into the kettle, he suddenly gave it a whirl, as if to cool what yet remained, and offered the bowl to Mr. Le Quoi, saying:

“Taste that, mounsher, and you will say it is worth more than you offer. The molasses itself would fetch the money.”

The complaisant Frenchman, after several timid efforts to trust his lips in contact with the howl of the ladle, got a good swallow of the scalding liquid. He clapped his hands on his breast, and looked most piteously at the ladies, for a single instant; and then, to use the language of Billy, when he afterward recounted the tale, “no drumsticks ever went faster on the skin of a sheep than the Frenchman’s legs, for a round or two; and then such swearing and spitting in French you never saw. But it’s a knowing one, from the old countries, that thinks to get his jokes smoothly over a wood-chopper.”

The air of innocence with which Kirby resumed the occupation of stirring the contents of his kettles would have completely deceived the spectators as to his agency in the temporary sufferings of Mr. Le Quoi, had not the reckless fellow thrust his tongue into his cheek, and cast his eyes over the party, with a simplicity of expression that was too exquisite to be natural. Mr. Le Quoi soon recovered his presence of mind and his decorum; and he briefly apologized to the ladies for one or two very intemperate expressions that had escaped him in a moment of extraordinary excitement, and, remounting his horse, he continued in the background during the remainder of the visit, the wit of Kirby putting a violent termination, at once, to all negotiations on the subject of trade. During all this time, Marmaduke had been wandering about the grove, making observations on his favorite trees, and the wasteful manner in which the wood-chopper conducted his manufacture.

“It grieves me to witness the extravagance that pervades this country,” said the Judge, “where the settlers trifle with the blessings they might enjoy, with the prodigality of successful adventurers. You are not exempt from the censure yourself, Kirby, for you make dreadful wounds in these trees where a small incision would effect the same object. I earnestly beg you will remember that they are the growth of centuries, and when once gone none living will see their loss remedied.”

“Why, I don’t know, Judge,” returned the man he ad dressed; “it seems to me, if there’s plenty of anything in this mountaynious country, it’s the trees. If there’s any sin in chopping them, I’ve a pretty heavy account to settle; for I’ve chopped over the best half of a thousand acres, with my own hands, counting both Varmount and York States; and I hope to live to finish the whull, before I lay up my axe. Chopping comes quite natural to me, and I wish no other employment; but Jared Ransom said that he thought the sugar was likely to be source this season, seeing that so many folks was coming into the settlement, and so I concluded to take the ‘bush’ on sheares for this one spring. What’s the best news, Judge, consarning ashes? do pots hold so that a man can live by them still? I s’pose they will, if they keep on fighting across the water.”

“Thou reasonest with judgment, William,” returned Marmaduke. “So long as the Old Worm is to be convulsed with wars, so long will the harvest of America continue.”

“Well, it’s an ill wind, Judge, that blows nobody any good. I’m sure the country is in a thriving way; and though I know you calkilate greatly on the trees, setting as much store by them as some men would by their children, yet to my eyes they are a sore sight any time, unless I’m privileged to work my will on them: in which case I can’t say but they are more to my liking. I have heard the settlers from the old countries say that their rich men keep great oaks and elms, that would make a barrel of pots to the tree, standing round their doors and humsteds and scattered over their farms, just to look at. Now, I call no country much improved that is pretty well covered with trees. Stumps are a different thing, for they don’t shade the land; and, besides, you dig them — they make a fence that will turn anything bigger than a hog, being grand for breachy cattle.”

“Opinions on such subjects vary much in different countries,” said Marmaduke; “but it is not as ornaments that I value the noble trees of this country; it is for their usefulness We are stripping the forests, as if a single year would replace what we destroy. But the hour approaches when the laws will take notice of not only the woods, but the game they contain also.”

With this consoling reflection, Marmaduke remounted, and the equestrians passed the sugar-camp, on their way to the promised landscape of Richard. The wood-chop-per was left alone, in the bosom of the forest, to pursue his labors. Elizabeth turned her head, when they reached the point where they were to descend the mountain, and thought that the slow fires that were glimmering under his enormous kettles, his little brush shelter, covered with pieces of hemlock bark, his gigantic size, as he wielded his ladle with a steady and knowing air, aided by the back-ground of stately trees, with their spouts and troughs, formed, altogether, no unreal picture of human life in its first stages of civilization. Perhaps whatever the scene possessed of a romantic character was not injured by the powerful tones of Kirby’s voice ringing through the woods as he again awoke his strains to another tune, which was but little more scientific than the former. All that she understood of the words were:

“And when the proud forest is falling, To my oxen cheerfully calling, From morn until night I am bawling, Whoa, back there, and haw and gee; Till our labor is mutually ended, By my strength and cattle befriended, And against the mosquitoes defended By the bark of the walnut-trees. Away! then, you lads who would buy land; Choose the oak that grows on the high land, or the silvery pine on the dry land, it matters but little to me.”

CHAPTER XXI.

“Speed! Malise, speed! such cause of haste

Thine active sinews never braced.”

— Scott.

The roads of Otsego, if we except the principal high ways, were, at the early day of our tale, but little better than wood-paths. The high trees that were growing on the very verge of the wheel-tracks excluded the sun’s rays, unless at meridian; and the slowness of the evaporation, united with the rich mould of vegetable decomposition that covered the whole country to the depth of several inches, occasioned but an indifferent foundation for the footing of travellers. Added to these were the inequalities of a natural surface, and the constant recurrence of enormous and slippery roots that were laid bare by the removal of the light soil, together with stumps of trees, to make a passage not only difficult but dangerous. Yet the riders among these numerous obstructions, which were such as would terrify an unpracticed eye, gave no demonstrations of uneasiness as their horses toiled through the sloughs or trotted with uncertain paces along the dark route. In many places the marks on the trees were the only indications of a road, with perhaps an occasional remnant of a pine that, by being cut close to the earth, so as to leave nothing visible but its base of roots, spreading for twenty feet in every direction, was apparently placed there as a beacon to warn the traveller that it was the centre of a highway.

Into one of these roads the active sheriff led the way, first striking out of the foot-path, by which they had descended from the sugar-bush, across a little bridge, formed of round logs laid loosely on sleepers of pine, in which large openings of a formidable width were frequent. The nag of Richard, when it reached one of these gaps, laid its nose along the logs and stepped across the difficult passage with the sagacity of a man; but the blooded filly which Miss Temple rode disdained so humble a movement. She made a step or two with an unusual caution, and then, on reaching the broadest opening, obedient to the curt and whip of her fearless mistress, she bounded across the dangerous pass with the activity of a squirrel.

“Gently, gently, my child,” said Marmaduke, who was following in the manner of Richard; “this is not a country for equestrian feats. Much prudence is requisite to journey through our rough paths with safety. Thou mayst practise thy skill in horsemanship on the plains of New Jersey with safety; but in the hills of Otsego they may be suspended for a time.”

“I may as well then relinquish my saddle at once, dear sir,” returned his daughter; “for if it is to be laid aside until this wild country be improved, old age will overtake me, and put an end to what you term my equestrian feats.”

“Say not so, my child,” returned her father; “but if thou venturest again as in crossing this bridge, old age will never overtake thee, but I shall be left to mourn thee, cut off in thy pride, my Elizabeth. If thou hadst seen this district of country, as I did, when it lay in the sleep of nature, and bad witnessed its rapid changes as it awoke to supply the wants of man, thou wouldst curb thy impatience for a little time, though thou shouldst not check thy steed.”

“I recollect hearing you speak of your first visit to these woods, but the impression is faint, and blended with the confused images of childhood. Wild and unsettled as it may yet seem, it must have been a thousand times more dreary then. Will you repeat, dear sir, what you then thought of your enterprise, and what you felt?”

During this speech of Elizabeth, which was uttered with the fervor of affection, young Edwards rode more closely to the side of the Judge, and bent his dark eyes on his countenance with an expression that seemed to read his thoughts.

“Thou wast then young, my child, but must remember when I left thee and thy mother, to take my first survey of these uninhabited mountains,” said Marmaduke. “But thou dost not feel all the secret motives that can urge a man to endure privations in order to accumulate wealth. In my case they have not been trifling, and God has been pleased to smile on my efforts. If I have encountered pain, famine, and disease in accomplishing the settlement of this rough territory, I have not the misery of failure to add to the grievances.”

“Famine!” echoed Elizabeth; “I thought this was the land of abundance! Had you famine to contend with?”

“Even so, my child,” said her father. “Those who look around them now, and see the loads of produce that issue out of every wild path in these mountains during the season of travelling, will hardly credit that no more than five years have elapsed since the tenants of these woods were compelled to eat the scanty fruits of the forest to sustain life, and, with their unpracticed skill, to hunt the beasts as food for their starving families.”

“Ay!” cried Richard, who happened to overhear the last of this speech between the notes of the wood-chopper’s song, which he was endeavoring to breathe aloud; “that was the starving-time,* Cousin Bess. I grew as lank as a weasel that fall, and my face was as pale as one of your fever-and-ague visages. Monsieur Le Quoi, there, fell away like a pumpkin in drying; nor do I think you have got fairly over it yet, monsieur. Benjamin, I thought, bore it with a worse grace than any of the family; for he swore it was harder to endure than a short allowance in the calm latitudes. Benjamin is a sad fellow to swear if you starve him ever so little. I had half a mind to quit you then, ‘Duke, and to go into Pennsylvania to fatten; but, damn it, thinks I, we are sisters’ children, and I will live or die with him, after all.”

* The author has no better apology for interrupting the interest of a

work of fiction by these desultory dialogues than that they have ref-

erence to facts.  In reviewing his work, after so many years, he is

compelled to confess it is injured by too many allusions to incidents

that are not at all suited to satisfy the just expectations of the

general reader.  One of these events is slightly touched on in the

commencement of this chapter.

More than thirty years since a very near and dear relative of the writer, an elder sister and a second mother, was killed by a fall from a horse in a ride among the very mountains mentioned in this tale. Few of her sex and years were more extensively known or more universally beloved than the admirable woman who thus fell a victim to the chances of the wilderness. “I do not forget thy kindness,” said Marmaduke, “nor that we are of one blood.”

“But, my dear father,” cried the wondering Elizabeth, “was there actual suffering? Where were the beautiful and fertile vales of the Mohawk? Could they not furnish food for your wants?”

“It was a season of scarcity; the necessities of life commanded a high price in Europe, and were greedily sought after by the speculators. The emigrants from the East to the West invariably passed along the valley of the Mohawk, and swept away the means of subsistence like a swarm of locusts, Nor were the people on the Flats in a much better condition. They were in want themselves, but they spared the little excess of provisions that nature did not absolutely require, with the justice of the German character. There was no grinding of the poor. The word speculator was then unknown to them. I have seen many a stout man, bending under the load of the bag of meal which he was carrying from the mills of the Mohawk, through the rugged passes of these mountains, to feed his half-famished children, with a heart so light, as he approached his hut, that the thirty miles he had passed seemed nothing. Remember, my child, it was in our very infancy; we had neither mills, nor grain, nor roads, nor often clearings; we had nothing of increase but the mouths that were to be fed: for even at that inauspicious moment the restless spirit of emigration was not idle; nay, the general scarcity which extended to the East tended to increase the number of adventurers.”

“And how, dearest father, didst thou encounter this dreadful evil?” said Elizabeth, unconsciously adopting the dialect of her parent in the warmth of her sympathy. “Upon thee must have fallen the responsibility, if not the suffering.”

“It did, Elizabeth,” returned the Judge, pausing for a single moment, as if musing on his former feelings. “I had hundreds at that dreadful time daily looking up to me for bread. The sufferings of their families and the gloomy prospect before them had paralyzed the enterprise and efforts of my settlers; hunger drove them to the woods for food, but despair sent them at night, enfeebled and wan, to a sleepless pillow. It was not a moment for in action. I purchased cargoes of wheat from the granaries of Pennsylvania; they were landed at Albany and brought up the Mohawk in boats; from thence it was transported on pack-horses into the wilderness and distributed among my people. Seines were made, and the lakes and rivers were dragged for fish. Something like a miracle was wrought in our favor, for enormous shoals of herrings were discovered to have wandered five hundred miles through the windings of the impetuous Susquehanna, and the lake was alive with their numbers. These were at length caught and dealt out to the people, with proper portions of salt, and from that moment we again began to prosper.” *

* All this was literally true.

“Yes,” cried Richard, “and I was the man who served out the fish and salt. When the poor devils came to receive their rations, Benjamin, who was my deputy, was obliged to keep them off by stretching ropes around me, for they smelt so of garlic, from eating nothing but the wild onion, that the fumes put me out often in my measurement. You were a child then, Bess, and knew nothing of the matter, for great care was observed to keep both you and your mother from suffering. That year put me back dreadfully, both in the breed of my hogs and of my turkeys.”

“No, Bess,” cried the Judge, in a more cheerful tone, disregarding the interruption of his cousin, “he who hears of the settlement of a country knows but little of the toil and suffering by which it is accomplished. Unimproved and wild as this district now seems to your eyes, what was it when I first entered the hills? I left my party, the morning of my arrival, near the farms of the Cherry Valley, and, following a deer-path, rode to the summit of the mountain that I have since called Mount Vision; for the sight that there met my eyes seemed to me as the deceptions of a dream. The fire had run over the pinnacle, and in a great measure laid open the view. The leaves were fallen, and I mounted a tree and sat for an hour looking on the silent wilderness. Not an opening was to be seen in the boundless forest except where the lake lay, like a mirror of glass. The water was covered by myriads of the wild-fowl that migrate with the changes in the season; and while in my situation on the branch of the beech, I saw a bear, with her cubs, descend to the shore to drink. I had met many deer, gliding through the woods, in my journey; but not the vestige of a man could I trace during my progress, nor from my elevated observatory. No clearing, no hut, none of the winding roads that are now to be seen, were there; nothing but mountains rising behind mountains; and the valley, with its surface of branches enlivened here and there with the faded foliage of some tree that parted from its leaves with more than ordinary reluctance. Even the Susquehanna was then hid by the height and density of the forest.”

“And were you alone?” asked Elizabeth: “passed you the night in that solitary state?”

“Not so, my child,” returned the father. “After musing on the scene for an hour, with a mingled feeling of pleasure and desolation, I left my perch and descended the mountain. My horse was left to browse on the twigs that grew within his reach, while I explored the shores of the lake and the spot where Templeton stands. A pine of more than ordinary growth stood where my dwelling is now placed! A wind — row had been opened through the trees from thence to the lake, and my view was but little impeded. Under the branches of that tree I made my solitary dinner. I had just finished my repast as I saw smoke curling from under the mountain, near the eastern bank of the lake. It was the only indication of the vicinity of man that I had then seen. After much toil I made my way to the spot, and found a rough cabin of logs, built against the foot of a rock, and bearing the marks of a tenant, though I found no one within it— “

“It was the hut of Leather-Stocking,” said Edwards quickly.

“It was; though I at first supposed it to be a habitation of the Indians. But while I was lingering around the spot Natty made his appearance, staggering under the carcass of a buck that he had slain. Our acquaintance commenced at that time; before, I had never heard that such a being tenanted the woods. He launched his bark canoe and set me across the foot of the lake to the place where I had fastened my horse, and pointed out a spot where he might get a scanty browsing until the morning; when I returned and passed the night in the cabin of the hunter.”

Miss Temple was so much struck by the deep attention of young Edwards during this speech that she forgot to resume her interrogations; but the youth himself continued the discourse by asking:

“And how did the Leather-Stocking discharge the duties of a host sir?”

“Why, simply but kindly, until late in the evening, when he discovered my name and object, and the cordiality of his manner very sensibly diminished, or, I might better say, disappeared. He considered the introduction of the settlers as an innovation on his rights, I believe for he expressed much dissatisfaction at the measure, though it was in his confused and ambiguous manner. I hardly understood his objections myself, but supposed they referred chiefly to an interruption of the hunting.”

“Had you then purchased the estate, or were you examining it with an intent to buy?” asked Edwards, a little abruptly.

“It had been mine for several years. It was with a view to People the land that I visited the lake. Natty treated me hospitably, but coldly, I thought, after he learned the nature of my journey. I slept on his own bear — skin, however, and in the morning joined my surveyors again.”

“Said he nothing of the Indian rights, sir? The Leather-Stocking is much given to impeach the justice of the tenure by which the whites hold the country.”

“I remember that he spoke of them, but I did not nearly comprehend him, and may have forgotten what he said; for the Indian title was extinguished so far back as the close of the old war, and if it had not been at all, I hold under the patents of the Royal Governors, confirmed by an act of our own State Legislature, and no court in the country can affect my title.”

“Doubtless, sir, your title is both legal and equitable,” returned the youth coldly, reining his horse back and remaining silent till the subject was changed.

It was seldom Mr. Jones suffered any conversation to continue for a great length of time without his participation. It seems that he was of the party that Judge Temple had designated as his surveyors; and he embraced the opportunity of the pause that succeeded the retreat of young Edwards to take up the discourse, and with a narration of their further proceedings, after his own manner. As it wanted, however, the interest that had accompanied the description of the Judge, we must decline the task of committing his sentences to paper.

They soon reached the point where the promised view was to be seen. It was one of those picturesque and peculiar scenes that belong to the Otsego, but which required the absence of the ice and the softness of a summer’s landscape to be enjoyed in all its beauty. Marmaduke had early forewarned his daughter of the season, and of its effect on the prospect; and after casting a cursory glance at its capabilities, the party returned homeward, perfectly satisfied that its beauties would repay them for the toil of a second ride at a more propitious season.

“The spring is the gloomy time of the American year,” said the Judge, “and it is more peculiarly the case in these mountains. The winter seems to retreat to the fast nesses of the hills, as to the citadel of its dominion, and is only expelled after a tedious siege, in which either party, at times, would seem to be gaining the victory.”

“A very just and apposite figure, Judge Temple,” observed the sheriff; “and the garrison under the command of Jack Frost make formidable sorties — you understand what I mean by sorties, monsieur; sallies, in English — and sometimes drive General Spring and his troops back again into the low countries.”

“Yes sair,” returned the Frenchman, whose prominent eyes were watching the precarious footsteps of the beast he rode, as it picked its dangerous way among the roots of trees, holes, log bridges, and sloughs that formed the aggregate of the highway. “Je vous entends; de low countrie is freeze up for half de year.”

The error of Mr. Le Quoi was not noticed by the sheriff; and the rest of the party were yielding to the influence of the changeful season, which was already teaching the equestrians that a continuance of its mildness was not to be expected for any length of time. Silence and thoughtfulness succeeded the gayety and conversation that had prevailed during the commencement of the ride, as clouds began to gather about the heavens, apparently collecting from every quarter, in quick motion, without the agency of a breath of air,

While riding over one of the cleared eminencies that occurred in their route, the watchful eye of Judge Temple pointed out to his daughter the approach of a tempest. Flurries of snow already obscured the mountain that formed the northern boundary of the lake, and the genial sensation which had quickened the blood through their veins was already succeeded by the deadening influence of an approaching northwester.

All of the party were now busily engaged in making the best of their way to the village, though the badness of the roads frequently compelled them to check the impatience of their animals, which often carried them over places that would not admit of any gait faster than a walk.

Richard continued in advance, followed by Mr. Le Quoi; next to whom rode Elizabeth, who seemed to have imbibed the distance which pervaded the manner of young Edwards since the termination of the discourse between the latter and her father. Marmaduke followed his daughter, giving her frequent and tender warnings as to the management of her horse. It was, possibly, the evident dependence that Louisa Grant placed on his assistance which induced the youth to continue by her side, as they pursued their way through a dreary and dark wood, where the rays of the sun could but rarely penetrate, and where even the daylight was obscured and rendered gloomy by the deep forests that surrounded them. No wind had yet reached the spot where the equestrians were in motion, but that dead silence that often precedes a storm contributed to render their situation more irksome than if they were already subject to the fury of the tempest. Suddenly the voice of young Edwards was heard shouting in those appalling tones that carry alarm to the very soul, and which curdle the blood of those that hear them.

“A tree! a tree! Whip — spur for your lives! a tree! a tree.”

“A tree! a tree!” echoed Richard, giving his horse a blow that caused the alarmed beast to jump nearly a rod, throwing the mud and water into the air like a hurricane.

“Von tree! von tree!” shouted the Frenchman, bending his body on the neck of his charger, shutting his eyes, and playing on the ribs of his beast with his heels at a rate that caused him to be conveyed on the crupper of the sheriff with a marvellous speed.

Elizabeth checked her filly and looked up, with an unconscious but alarmed air, at the very cause of their danger, while she listened to the crackling sounds that awoke the stillness of the forest; but the next instant her bridlet was seized by her father, who cried, “God protect my child!” and she felt herself hurried onward, impelled by the vigor of his nervous arm.

Each one of the party bowed to his saddle-bows as the tearing of branches was succeeded by a sound like the rushing of the winds, which was followed by a thundering report, and a shock that caused the very earth to tremble as one of the noblest ruins of the forest fell directly across their path.

One glance was enough to assure Judge Temple that his daughter and those in front of him were safe, and he turned his eyes, in dreadful anxiety, to learn the fate of the others. Young Edwards was on the opposite side of the tree, his form thrown back in his saddle to its utmost distance, his left hand drawing up his bridle with its greatest force, while the right grasped that of Miss Grant so as to draw the head of her horse under its body. Both the animals stood shaking in every joint with terror, and snorting fearfully. Louisa herself had relinquished her reins, and, with her hands pressed on her face, sat bending forward in her saddle, in an attitude of despair, mingled strangely with resignation.

“Are you safe?” cried the Judge, first breaking the awful silence of the moment.

“By God’s blessing,” returned the youth; “but if there had been branches to the tree we must have been lost— “

He was interrupted by the figure of Louisa slowly yielding in her saddle, and but for his arm she would have sunk to the earth. Terror, however, was the only injury that the clergyman’s daughter had sustained, and, with the aid of Elizabeth, she was soon restored to her senses. After some little time was lost in recovering her strength, the young lady was replaced in her saddle, and supported on either side by Judge Temple and Mr. Edwards she was enabled to follow the party in their slow progress.

“The sudden fallings of the trees,” said Marmaduke, “are the most dangerous accidents in the forest, for they are not to be foreseen, being impelled by no winds, nor any extraneous or visible cause against which we can guard.”

“The reason of their falling, Judge Temple, is very obvious,” said the sheriff. “The tree is old and decayed, and it is gradually weakened by the frosts, until a line drawn from the centre of gravity falls without its base, and then the tree comes of a certainty; and I should like to know what greater compulsion there can be for any thing than a mathematical certainty. I studied math— “

“Very true, Richard,” interrupted Marmaduke; “thy reasoning is true, and, if my memory be not over-treacherous, was furnished by myself on a former occasion, But how is one to guard against the danger? Canst thou go through the forests measuring the bases and calculating the centres of the oaks? Answer me that, friend Jones, and I will say thou wilt do the country a service.”

“Answer thee that, friend Temple!” returned Richard; “a well-educated man can answer thee anything, sir. Do any trees fall in this manner but such as are decayed? Take care not to approach the roots of a rotten tree, and you will be safe enough.”

“That would be excluding us entirely from the forests,” said Marmaduke. “But, happily, the winds usually force down most of these dangerous ruins, as their currents are admitted into the woods by the surrounding clearings, and such a fall as this has been is very rare.”

Louisa by this time had recovered so much strength as to allow the party to proceed at a quicker pace, but long before they were safely housed they were overtaken by the storm; and when they dismounted at the door of the mansion-house, the black plumes of Miss Temple’s hat were drooping with the weight of a load of damp snow, and the coats of the gentlemen were powdered with the same material.

While Edwards was assisting Louisa from her horse, the warm-hearted girl caught his hand with fervor and whispered:

“Now, Mr. Edwards, both father and daughter owe their lives to you.”

A driving northwesterly storm succeeded, and before the sun was set every vestige of spring had vanished; the lake, the mountains, the village, and the fields being again hidden under one dazzling coat of snow.

CHAPTER XXII

“Men, boys, and girls

Desert the unpeopled village; and wild crowds

Spread o’er the plain, by the sweet phrensy driven.”

— Somerville.

From this time to the close of April the weather continued to be a succession of neat and rapid changes. One day the soft airs of spring seemed to be stealing along the valley, and, in unison with an invigorating sun, attempting covertly to rouse the dormant powers of the vegetable world, while, on the next, the surly blasts from the north would sweep across the lake and erase every impression left by their gentle adversaries. The snow, however, finally disappeared, and the green wheat fields were seen in every direction, spotted with the dark and charred stumps that had, the preceding season, supported some of the proudest trees of the forest. Ploughs were in motion, wherever those useful implements could be used, and the smokes of the sugar-camps were no longer seen issuing from the woods of maple. The lake had lost the beauty of a field of ice, but still a dark and gloomy covering concealed its waters, for the absence of currents left them yet hidden under a porous crust, which, saturated with the fluid, barely retained enough strength to preserve the continuity of its parts. Large flocks of wild geese were seen passing over the country, which hovered, for a time, around the hidden sheet of water, apparently searching for a resting-place; and then, on finding them selves excluded by the chill covering, would soar away to the north, filling the air with discordant screams, as if venting their complaints at the tardy operations of Nature.

For a week, the dark covering of the Otsego was left to the undisturbed possession of two eagles, who alighted on the centre of its field, and sat eyeing their undisputed territory. During the presence of these monarchs of the air, the flocks of migrating birds avoided crossing the plain of ice by turning into the hills, apparently seeking the protection of the forests, while the white and bald heads of the tenants of the lake were turned upward, with a look of contempt. But the time had come when even these kings of birds were to be dispossessed. An opening had been gradually increasing at the lower extremity of the lake, and around the dark spot where the current of the river prevented the formation of ice during even the coldest weather; and the fresh southerly winds, that now breathed freely upon the valley, made an impression on the waters. Mimic waves began to curl over the margin of the frozen field, which exhibited an outline of crystallizations that slowly receded toward the north. At each step the power of the winds and the waves increased, until, after a struggle of a few hours, the turbulent little billows succeeded in setting the whole field in motion, when it was driven beyond the reach of the eye, with a rapidity that was as magical as the change produced in the scene by this expulsion of the lingering remnant of winter. Just as the last sheet of agitated ice was disappearing in the distance, the eagles rose, and soared with a wide sweep above the clouds, while the waves tossed their little caps of snow in the air, as if rioting in their release from a thraldom of five minutes’ duration.

The following morning Elizabeth was awakened by the exhilarating sounds of the martens, who were quarrelling and chattering around the little boxes suspended above her windows, and the cries of Richard, who was calling in tones animating as signs of the season itself:

“Awake! awake! my fair lady! the gulls are hovering over the lake already, and the heavens are alive with pigeons. You may look an hour before you can find a hole through which to get a peep at the sun. Awake! awake! lazy ones’ Benjamin is overhauling the ammunition, and we only wait for our breakfasts, and away for the mountains and pigeon-shooting.”

There was no resisting this animated appeal, and in a few minutes Miss Temple and her friend descended to the parlor. The doors of the hall were thrown open, and the mild, balmy air of a clear spring morning was ventilating the apartment, where the vigilance of the ex-steward had been so long maintaining an artificial heat with such unremitted diligence. The gentlemen were impatiently waiting for their morning’s repast, each equipped in the garb of a sportsman. Mr. Jones made many visits to the southern door, and would cry:

“See, Cousin Bess! see, ‘Duke, the pigeon-roosts of the south have broken up! They are growing more thick every instant, Here is a flock that the eye cannot see the end of. There is food enough in it to keep the army of Xerxes for a month, and feathers enough to make beds for the whole country. Xerxes, Mr. Edwards, was a Grecian king, who — no, he was a Turk, or a Persian, who wanted to conquer Greece, just the same as these rascals will overrun our wheat fields, when they come back in the fall. Away! away! Bess; I long to pepper them.”

In this wish both Marmaduke and young Edwards seemed equally to participate, for the sight was exhilarating to a sportsman; and the ladies soon dismissed the party after a hasty breakfast.

If the heavens were alive with pigeons, the whole village seemed equally in motion with men, women, and children. Every species of firearm, from the French ducking gun, with a barrel near six feet in length, to the common horseman’s pistol, was to be seen in the hands of the men and boys; while bows and arrows, some made of the simple stick of walnut sapling and others in a rude imitation of the ancient cross-bows, were carried by many of the latter.

The houses and the signs of life apparent in the village drove the alarmed birds from the direct line of their flight, toward the mountains, along the sides and near the bases of which they were glancing in dense masses, equally wonderful by the rapidity of their motion and their incredible numbers.

We have already said that, across the inclined plane which fell from the steep ascent of the mountain to the banks of the Susquehanna, ran the highway on either side of which a clearing of many acres had been made at a very early day. Over those clearings, and up the eastern mountain, and along the dangerous path that was cut into its side, the different individuals posted themselves, and in a few moments the attack commenced.

Among the sportsmen was the tall, gaunt form of Leather-Stocking, walking over the field, with his rifle hanging on his arm, his dogs at his heels; the latter now scenting the dead or wounded birds that were beginning to tumble from the flocks, and then crouching under the legs of their master, as if they participated in his feelings at this wasteful and unsportsmanlike execution.

The reports of the firearms became rapid, whole volleys rising from the plain, as flocks of more than ordinary numbers darted over the opening, shadowing the field like a cloud; and then the light smoke of a single piece would issue from among the leafless bushes on the mountain, as death was hurled on the retreat of the affrighted birds, who were rising from a volley, in a vain effort to escape. Arrows and missiles of every kind were in the midst of the flocks; and so numerous were the birds, and so low did they take their flight, that even long poles in the hands of those on the sides of the mountain were used to strike them to the earth.

During all this time Mr. Jones, who disdained the humble and ordinary means of destruction used by his companions, was busily occupied, aided by Benjamin, in making arrangements for an assault of more than ordinarily fatal character. Among the relics of the old military excursions, that occasionally are discovered throughout the different districts of the western part of New York, there had been found in Templeton, at its settlement, a small swivel, which would carry a ball of a pound weight. It was thought to have been deserted by a war-party of the whites in one of their inroads into the Indian settlements, when, perhaps, convenience or their necessity induced them to leave such an incumberance behind them in the woods. This miniature cannon had been released from the rust, and being mounted on little wheels was now in a state for actual service. For several years it was the sole organ for extraordinary rejoicings used in those mountains. On the mornings of the Fourth of July it would be heard ringing among the hills; and even Captain Hollister, who was the highest authority in that part of the country on all such occasions, affirmed that, considering its dimensions, it was no despicable gun for a salute. It was somewhat the worse for the service it had performed, it is true, there being but a trifling difference in size between the touch-hole and the muzzle Still, the grand conceptions of Richard had suggested the importance of such an instrument in hurling death at his nimble enemies. The swivel was dragged by a horse into a part of the open space that the sheriff thought most eligible for planning a battery of the kind, and Mr. Pump proceeded to load it. Several handfuls of duck-shot were placed on top of the powder, and the major-domo announced that his piece was ready for service.

The sight of such an implement collected all the idle spectators to the spot, who, being mostly boys, filled the air with cries of exultation and delight The gun was pointed high, and Richard, holding a coal of fire in a pair of tongs, patiently took his seat on a stump, awaiting the appearance of a flock worthy of his notice.

So prodigious was the number of the birds that the scattering fire of the guns, with the hurling of missiles and the cries of the boys, had no other effect than to break off small flocks from the immense masses that continued to dart along the valley, as if the whole of the feathered tribe were pouring through that one pass. None pretended to collect the game, which lay scattered over the fields in such profusion as to cover the very ground with fluttering victims.

Leather-Stocking was a silent but uneasy spectator of all these proceedings, but was able to keep his sentiments to himself until he saw the introduction of the swivel into the sports.

“This comes of settling a country!” he said. “Here have I known the pigeon to fly for forty long years, and, till you made your clearings, there was nobody to skeart or to hurt them, I loved to see them come into the woods, for they were company to a body, hurting nothing — being, as it was, as harmless as a garter-snake. But now it gives me sore thoughts when I hear the frighty things whizzing through the air, for I know it’s only a motion to bring out all the brats of the village. Well, the Lord won’t see the waste of his creatures for nothing, and right will be done to the pigeons, as well as others, by and by. There’s Mr. Oliver as bad as the rest of them, firing into the flocks as if he was shooting down nothing but Mingo warriors.” Among the sportsmen was Billy Kirby, who, armed with an old musket, was loading, and, without even looking into the air, was firing and shouting as his victims fell even on his own person. He heard the speech of Natty, and took upon himself to reply:

“What! old Leather-Stocking,” he cried, “grumbling at the loss of a few pigeons! If you had to sow your wheat twice, and three times, as I have done, you wouldn’t be so massyfully feeling toward the divils. Hurrah, boys! scatter the feathers! This is better than shooting at a turkey’s head and neck, old fellow.”

“It’s better for you, maybe, Billy Kirby,” replied the indignant old hunter, “and all them that don’t know how to put a ball down a rifle-barrel, or how to bring it up again with a true aim; but it’s wicked to be shooting into flocks in this wasty manner, and none to do it who know how to knock over a single bird. If a body has a craving for pigeon’s flesh, why, it’s made the same as all other creatures, for man’s eating; but not to kill twenty and eat one. When I want such a thing I go into the woods till I find one to my liking, and then I shoot him off the branches, without touching the feather of another, though there might be a hundred on the same tree. You couldn’t do such a thing, Billy Kirby — you couldn’t do it if you tried.”

“What’s that, old corn-stalk! you sapless stub!” cried the wood-chopper. “You have grown wordy, since the affair of the turkey; but if you are for a single shot, here goes at that bird which comes on by himself.”

The fire from the distant part of the field had driven a single pigeon below the flock to which it belonged, and, frightened with the constant reports of the muskets, it was approaching the spot where the disputants stood, darting first from One side and then to the other, cutting the air with the swiftness of lightning, and making a noise with its wings not unlike the rushing of a bullet. Unfortunately for the wood-chopper, notwithstanding his vaunt, he did not see this bird until it was too late to fire as it approached, and he pulled the trigger at the unlucky moment when it was darting immediately over his head. The bird continued its course with the usual velocity.

Natty lowered his rifle from his arm when the challenge was made, and waiting a moment, until the terrified victim had got in a line with his eye, and had dropped near the bank of the lake, he raised it again with uncommon rapidity, and fired. It might have been chance, or it might have been skill, that produced the result; it was probably a union of both; but the pigeon whirled over in the air, and fell into the lake with a broken wing At the sound of his rifle, both his dogs started from his feet, and in a few minutes the “slut” brought out the bird, still alive.

The wonderful exploit of Leather-Stocking was noised through the field with great rapidity, and the sportsmen gathered in, to learn the truth of the report.

“What” said young Edwards, “have you really killed a pigeon on the wing, Natty, with a single ball?”

“Haven’t I killed loons before now, lad, that dive at the flash?” returned the hunter. “It’s much better to kill only such as you want, without wasting your powder and lead, than to be firing into God’s creatures in this wicked manner. But I came out for a bird, and you know the reason why I like small game, Mr. Oliver, and now I have got one Twill go home, for I don’t relish to see these wasty ways that you are all practysing, as if the least thing wasn’t made for use, and not to destroy.”

“Thou sayest well, Leather-Stocking,” cried Marmaduke, “and I begin to think it time to put an end to this work of destruction.”

“Put an ind, Judge, to your clearings. Ain’t the woods His work as well as the pigeons? Use, but don’t waste. Wasn’t the woods made for the beasts and birds to harbor in? and when man wanted their flesh, their skins, or their feathers, there’s the place to seek them. But I’ll go to the hut with my own game, for I wouldn’t touch one of the harmless things that cover the ground here, looking up with their eyes on me, as if they only wanted tongues to say their thoughts.” With this sentiment in his month, Leather-Stocking threw his rifle over his arm, and, followed by his dogs, stepped across the clearing with great caution, taking care not to tread on one of the wounded birds in his path. He soon entered the bushes on the margin of the lake and was hid from view.

Whatever impression the morality of Natty made on the Judge, it was utterly lost on Richard. He availed himself of the gathering of the sportsmen, to lay a plan for one “fell swoop” of destruction. The musket-men were drawn up in battle array, in a line extending on each side of his artillery, with orders to await the signal of firing from himself.

“Stand by, my lads,” said Benjamin, who acted as an aid de-camp on this occasion, “stand by, my hearties, and when Squire Dickens heaves out the signal to begin firing, d’ye see, you may open upon them in a broadside. Take care and fire low, boys, and you’ll be sure to hull the flock.”

“Fire low!” shouted Kirby; “hear the old fool! If we fire low, we may hit the stumps, but not ruffle a pigeon.”

“How should you know, you lubber?” cried Benjamin, with a very unbecoming heat for an officer on the eve of battle— “how should you know, you grampus? Haven’t I sailed aboard of the Boadishy for five years? and wasn’t it a standing order to fire low, and to hull your enemy! Keep silence at your guns, boys and mind the order that is passed.”

The loud laughs of the musket-men were silenced by the more authoritative voice of Richard, who called for attention and obedience to his signals.

Some millions of pigeons were supposed to have already passed, that morning, over the valley of Templeton; but nothing like the flock that was now approaching had been seen before. It extended from mountain to mountain in one solid blue mass, and the eye looked in vain, over the southern hills, to find its termination. The front of this living column was distinctly marked by a line but very slightly indented, so regular and even was the flight. Even Marmaduke forgot the morality of Leather-Stocking as it approached, and, in common with the rest, brought his musket to a poise.

“Fire!” cried the sheriff, clapping a coal to the priming of the cannon. As half of Benjamin’s charge escaped through the touch-hole, the whole volley of the musketry preceded the report of the swivel. On receiving this united discharge of small-arms, the front of the flock darted upward, while, at the same instant, myriads of those in the rear rushed with amazing rapidity into their places, so that, when the column of white smoke gushed from the mouth of the little cannon, an accumulated mass of objects was gliding over its point of direction. The roar of the gun echoed along the mountains, and died away to the north, like distant thunder, while the whole flock of alarmed birds seemed, for a moment, thrown into one disorderly and agitated mass. The air was filled with their irregular flight, layer rising above layer, far above the tops of the highest pines, none daring to advance beyond the dangerous pass; when, suddenly, some of the headers of the feathered tribes shot across the valley, taking their flight directly over the village, and hundreds of thousands in their rear followed the example, deserting the eastern side of the plain to their persecutors and the slain.

“Victory!” shouted Richard, “victory! we have driven the enemy from the field.”

“Not so, Dickon,” said Marmaduke; “the field is covered with them; and, like the Leather-Stocking, I see nothing but eyes, in every direction, as the innocent sufferers turn their heads in terror. Full one-half of those that have fallen are yet alive; and I think it is time to end the sport, if sport it be.”

“Sport!” cried the sheriff; “it is princely sport! There are some thousands of the blue-coated boys on the ground, so that every old woman in the village may have a pot-pie for the asking.”

“Well, we have happily frightened the birds from this side of the valley,” said Marmaduke, “and the carnage must of necessity end for the present. Boys, I will give you sixpence a hundred for the pigeons’ heads only; so go to work, and bring them into the village.”

This expedient produced the desired effect, for every urchin on the ground went industriously to work to wring the necks of the wounded birds. Judge Temple retired toward his dwelling with that kind of feeling that many a man has experienced before him, who discovers, after the excitement of the moment has passed, that he has purchased pleasure at the price of misery to others. Horses were loaded with the dead; and, after this first burst of sporting, the shooting of pigeons became a business, with a few idlers, for the remainder of the season, Richard, however, boasted for many a year of his shot with the “cricket;” and Benjamin gravely asserted that he thought they had killed nearly as many pigeons on that day as there were Frenchmen destroyed on the memorable occasion of Rodney’s victory.

CHAPTER XXIII.

“Help, masters, help; here’s a fish hangs in the net, like a poor

Man’s right in the law.”

— Pericles of Tyre.

The advance of the season now became as rapid as its first approach had been tedious and lingering. The days were uniformly mild, while the nights, though cool, were no longer chilled by frosts. The whip-poor-will was heard whistling his melancholy notes along the margin of the lake, and the ponds and meadows were sending forth the music of their thousand tenants. The leaf of the native poplar was seen quivering in the woods; the sides of the mountains began to lose their hue of brown, as the lively green of the different members of the forest blended their shades with the permanent colors of the pine and hemlock; and even the buds of the tardy oak were swelling with the promise of the coming summer. The gay and fluttering blue-bird, the social robin, and the industrious little wren were all to be seen enlivening the fields with their presence and their songs; while the soaring fish-hawk was already hovering over the waters of the Otsego, watching with native voracity for the appearance of his prey.

The tenants of the lake were far-famed for both their quantities and their quality, and the ice had hardly disappeared before numberless little boats were launched from the shores, and the lines of the fishermen were dropped into the inmost recesses of its deepest caverns, tempting the unwary animals with every variety of bait that the ingenuity or the art of man had invented. But the slow though certain adventures with hook and line were ill suited to the profusion and impatience of the settlers. More destructive means were resorted to; and, as the season had now arrived when the bass fisheries were allowed by the provisions of the law that Judge Temple had procured, the sheriff declared his intention, by availing himself of the first dark night, to enjoy the sport in person.

“And you shall be present, Cousin Bess,” he added, when he announced this design, “and Miss Grant, and Mr. Edwards; and I will show you what I call fishing not nibble, nibble, nibble, as ‘Duke does when he goes after the salmon-trout. There he will sit for hours, in a broiling sun or, perhaps, over a hole in the lee, in the coldest days in winter, under the lee of a few bushes, and not a fish will he catch, after all this mortification of the flesh. No, no — give me a good seine that’s fifty or sixty fathoms in length, with a jolly parcel of boatmen to crack their jokes the while, with Benjamin to steer, and let us haul them in by thousands; I call that fishing.”

“Ah! Dickon,” cried Marmaduke, “thou knowest but little of the pleasure there is in playing with the hook and line, or thou wouldst be more saving of the game. I have known thee to leave fragments enough behind thee, when thou hast headed a night party on the lake, to feed a dozen famishing families.”

“I shall not dispute the matter, Judge Temple; this night will I go; and I invite the company to attend, and then let them decide between us.”

Richard was busy during most of the afternoon, making his preparations for the important occasion. Just as the light of the settling sun had disappeared, and a new moon had begun to throw its shadows on the earth, the fisher-men took their departure, in a boat, for a point that was situated on the western shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than half a mile from the village. The ground had become settled, and the walking was good and dry. Marmaduke, with his daughter, her friend, and young Edwards, continued on the high grassy banks at the outlet of the placid sheet of water, watching the dark object that was moving across the lake, until it entered the shade of the western hills, and was lost to the eye. The distance round by land to the point of destination was a mile, and he observed:

“It is time for us to be moving; the moon will be down ere we reach the point, and then the miraculous hauls of Dickon will commence.”

The evening was warm, and, after the long and dreary winter from which they had just escaped, delightfully invigorating. Inspirited by the scene and their anticipated amusement, the youthful companions of the Judge followed his steps, as he led them along the shores of the Otsego, and through the skirts of the village.

“See!” said young Edwards, “they are building their fire already; it glimmers for a moment, and dies again like the light of a firefly.”

“Now it blazes,” cried Elizabeth; “you can perceive figures moving around the light. Oh! I would bet my jewels against the gold beads of Remarkable, that my impatient Cousin Dickon had an agency in raising that bright flame; and see! it fades again, like most of his brilliant schemes.”

“Thou hast guessed the truth, Bess,” said her father; “he has thrown an armful of brush on the pile, which has burnt out as soon as lighted. But it has enabled them to find a better fuel, for their fire begins to blaze with a more steady flame. It is the true fisherman’s beacon now; observe how beautifully it throw s its little circle of light on the water!”

The appearance of the fire urged the pedestrians on, for even the ladies had become eager to witness the miraculous draught. By the time they reached the bank, which rose above the low point where the fishermen had landed, the moon had sunk behind the top of the western pines, and, as most of the stars were obscured by clouds, there was but little other light than that which proceeded from the fire. At the suggestion of Marmaduke, his companions paused to listen to the conversation of those below them, and examine the party for a moment before they descended to the shore.

The whole group were seated around the fire, with the exception of Richard and Benjamin; the former of whom occupied the root of a decayed stump, that had been drawn to the spot as part of their fuel, and the latter was standing, with his arms akimbo, so near to the flame that the smoke occasionally obscured his solemn visage, as it waved around the pile in obedience to the night airs that swept gently over the water.

“Why, look you, squire, said the major-domo. You may call a lake-fish that will weigh twenty or thirty pounds a serious matter, but to a man who has hauled in a shovel-nosed shirk, d’ye see, it’s but a poor kind of fishing after all.”

“I don’t know, Benjamin,” returned the sheriff; “a haul of one thousand Otsego bass, without counting pike, pickerel, perch, bull-pouts, salmon-trouts, and suckers, is no bad fishing, let me tell you. There may he sport in sticking a shark, but what is he good for after you have got him? Now, any one of the fish that I have named is fit to set before a king.”

“Well, squire,” returned Benjamin, “just listen to the philosophy of the thing. Would it stand to reason, that such a fish should live and be catched in this here little pond of water, where it’s hardly deep enough to drown a man, as you’ll find in the wide ocean, where, as every body knows that is, everybody that has followed the seas, whales and grampuses are to be seen, that are as long as one of the pine-trees on yonder mountain?”

“Softly, softly, Benjamin,” said the sheriff, as if he wished to save the credit of his favorite; “why, some of the pines will measure two hundred feet, and even more.”

“Two hundred or two thousand, it’s all the same thing,” cried Benjamin, with an air which manifested that he was not easily to be bullied out of his opinion, on a subject like the present. “Haven’t I been there, and haven’t I seen? I have said that you fall in with whales as long as one of them there pines: and what I have once said I’ll stand to!”

During this dialogue, which was evidently but the close of much longer discussion, the huge frame of Billy Kirby was seen extended on one side of the fire, where he was picking his teeth with splinters of the chips near him, and occasionally shaking his head with distrust of Benjamin’s assertions.

“I’ve a notion,” said the wood-chopper, “that there’s water in this lake to swim the biggest whale that ever was invented; and, as to the pines, I think I ought to know so’thing consarning them; I have chopped many a one that was sixty times the length of my helve, without counting the eye; and I believe, Benny, that if the old pine that stands in the hollow of the Vision Mountain just over the village — you may see the tree itself by looking up, for the moon is on its top yet — well, now I believe, if that same tree was planted out in the deepest part of the lake, there would be water enough for the biggest ship that ever was built to float over it, without touching its upper branches, I do.”

“Did’ee ever see a ship, Master Kirby?” roared the steward, “did’ee ever see a ship, man? or any craft bigger than a lime-scow, or a wood-boat, on this here small bit of fresh water?”

“Yes, I have,” said the wood-chopper stoutly; “I can say that I have, and tell no lie.”

“Did’ee ever see a British ship, Master Kirby? an English line-of-battle ship, boy? Where did’ee ever fall in with a regular built vessel, with starn-post and cutwater, gar board-streak and plank-shear, gangways, and hatchways, and waterways, quarter-deck, and forecastle, ay, and flush-deck? — tell me that, man, if you can; where away did’ee ever fall in with a full-rigged, regular-built, necked vessel?”

The whole company were a good deal astounded with this overwhelming question, and even Richard afterward remarked that it “was a thousand pities that Benjamin could not read, or he must have made a valuable officer to the British marine. It is no wonder that they overcame the French so easily on the water, when even the lowest sailor so well understood the different parts of a vessel.” But Billy Kirby was a fearless wight, and had great jealousy of foreign dictation; he had risen on his feet, and turned his back to the fire, during the voluble delivery of this interrogatory; and when the steward ended, contrary to all expectation, he gave the following spirited reply:

“Where! why, on the North River, and maybe on Champlain. There’s sloops on the river, boy, that would give a hard time on’t to the stoutest vessel King George owns. They carry masts of ninety feet in the clear of good solid pine, for I’ve been at the chopping of many a one in Varmount State. I wish I was captain in one of them, and you was in that Board-dish that you talk so much about, and we’d soon see what good Yankee stuff is made on, and whether a Varmounter’s hide ain’t as thick as an Englishman’s.” The echoes from the opposite hills, which were more than half a mile from the fishing point, sent back the discordant laugh that Benjamin gave forth at this challenge; and the woods that covered their sides seemed, by the noise that issued from their shades, to be full of mocking demons.

“Let us descend to the shore,” whispered Marmaduke, “or there will soon be ill-blood between them. Benjamin is a fearless boaster; and Kirby, though good-natured, is a careless son of the forest, who thinks one American more than a match for six Englishmen. I marvel that Dickon is silent, where there is such a trial of skill in the superlative!”

The appearance of Judge Temple and the ladies produced, if not a pacification, at least a cessation of hostilities. Obedient to the directions of Mr. Jones the fishermen prepared to launch their boat, which had been seen in the background of the view, with the net carefully disposed on a little platform in its stern, ready for service. Richard gave vent to his reproaches at the tardiness of the pedestrians, when all the turbulent passions of the party were succeeded by a calm, as mild and as placid as that which prevailed over the beautiful sheet of water that they were about to rifle of its best treasures.

The night had now become so dark as to render objects, without the reach of the light of the fire, not only indistinct, but in most cases invisible. For a little distance the water was discernible, glistening, as the glare from the fire danced over its surface, touching it here and there with red quivering streaks; but, at a hundred feet from the shore, there lay a boundary of impenetrable gloom. One or two stars were shining through the openings of the clouds, and the lights were seen in the village, glimmering faintly, as if at an immeasurable distance. At times, as the fire lowered, or as the horizon cleared, the outline of the mountain, on the other side of the lake, might be traced by its undulations; but its shadow was cast, wide and dense, on the bosom of the water, rendering the darkness in that direction trebly deep.

Benjamin Pump was invariably the coxswain and net caster of Richard’s boat, unless the sheriff saw fit to preside in person: and, on the present occasion, Billy Kirby, and a youth of about half his strength, were assigned to the oars. The remainder of the assistants were stationed at the drag-ropes. The arrangements were speedily made, and Richard gave the signal to “shove off.”

Elizabeth watched the motion of the batteau as it pulled from the shore, letting loose its rope as it went, but it soon disappeared in the darkness, when the ear was her only guide to its evolutions. There was great affectation of stillness during all these manoeuvers, in order, as Richard assured them, “not to frighten the bass, who were running into the shoal waters, and who would approach the light if not disturbed by the sounds from the fishermen.”

The hoarse voice of Benjamin was alone heard issuing out of the gloom, as he uttered, in authoritative tones, “Pull larboard oar,” “Pull starboard,” “Give way together, boys,” and such other indicative mandates as were necessary for the right disposition of his seine. A long time was passed in this necessary part of the process, for Benjamin prided himself greatly on his skill in throwing the net, and, in fact, most of the success of the sport depended on its being done with judgment. At length a loud splash in the water, as he threw away the “staff,” or “stretcher,” with a hoarse call from the steward of “Clear,” announced that the boat was returning; when Richard seized a brand from the fire, and ran to a point as far above the centre of the fishing-ground, as the one from which the batteau had started was below it.

“Stick her in dead for the squire, boys,” said the steward, “and we’ll have a look at what grows in this here pond.”

In place of the falling net were now to be heard the quick strokes of the oars, and the noise of the rope running out of the boat. Presently the batteau shot into the circle of light, and in an instant she was pulled to the shore. Several eager hands were extended to receive the line, and, both ropes being equally well manned, the fishermen commenced hauling in with slow, and steady drags, Richard standing to the centre, giving orders, first to one party, and then to the other, to increase or slacken their efforts, as occasion required. The visitors were posted near him, and enjoyed a fair view of the whole operation, which was slowly advancing to an end.

Opinions as to the result of their adventure were now freely hazarded by all the men, some declaring that the net came in as light as a feather, and others affirming that it seemed to be full of logs. As the ropes were many hundred feet in length, these opposing sentiments were thought to be of little moment by the sheriff, who would go first to one line, and then to the other, giving each small pull, in order to enable him to form an opinion for himself.

“Why, Benjamin,” he cried, as he made his first effort in this way, “you did not throw the net clear. I can move it with my little finger. The rope slackens in my hand.”

“Did you ever see a whale, squire?” responded the steward: “I say that, if that there net is foul, the devil is in the lake in the shape of a fish, for I cast it as far as ever rigging was rove over the quarter-deck of a flag-ship.”

But Richard discovered his mistake, when he saw Billy Kirby before him, standing with his feet in the water, at an angle of forty-five degrees, inclining southward, and expending his gigantic strength in sustaining himself in that posture. He ceased his remonstrances, and proceeded to the party at the other line.

“I see the ‘staffs,’” shouted Mr. Jones— “gather in boys, and away with it; to shore with her! — to shore with her!”

At this cheerful sound, Elizabeth strained her eyes and saw the ends of the two sticks on the seine emerging from the darkness, while the men closed near to each other, and formed a deep bag of their net. The exertions of the fishermen sensibly increased, and the voice of Richard was heard encouraging them to make their greatest efforts at the present moment.

“Now’s the time, my lads,” he cried; “let us get the ends to land, and all we have will be our own — away with her!”

“Away with her, it is,” echoed Benjamin!— “hurrah! ho-a-hay, ho-a-hoy, ho-a!”

“In with her,” shouted Kirby, exerting himself in a manner that left nothing for those in his rear to do, but to gather up the slack of the rope which passed through his hands.

“Staff, ho!” shouted the steward.

“Staff, ho!” echoed Kirby, from the other rope. The men rushed to the water’s edge, some seizing the upper rope, and some the lower or lead rope, and began to haul with great activity and zeal, A deep semicircular sweep of the little balls that supported the seine in its perpendicular position was plainly visible to the spectators, and, as it rapidly lessened in size, the bag of the net appeared, while an occasional flutter on the water announced the uneasiness of the prisoners it contained.

“Haul in, my lads,” shouted Richard— “I can see the dogs kicking to get free. Haul in, and here’s a cast that will pay for the labor.” Fishes of various sorts were now to be seen, entangled in the meshes of the net, as it was passed through the hands of the laborers; and the water, at a little distance from the shore, was alive with the movements of the alarmed victims. Hundreds of white sides were glancing up to the surface of the water, and glistening in the fire light, when, frightened at the uproar and the change, the fish would again dart to the bottom, in fruitless efforts for freedom. “Hurrah!” shouted Richard: “one or two more heavy drags, boys, and we are safe.”

“Cheerily, boys, cheerily!” cried Benjamin; “I see a salmon-trout that is big enough for a chowder.”

“Away with you, you varmint!” said Billy Kirby, plucking a bullpout from the meshes, and casting the animal back into the lake with contempt. “Pull, boys, pull; here’s all kinds, and the Lord condemn me for a liar, if there ain’t a thousand bass!”

Inflamed beyond the bounds of discretion at the sight, and forgetful of the season, the wood-chopper rushed to his middle into the water, and began to drive the reluctant animals before him from their native element.

“Pull heartily, boys,” cried Marmaduke, yielding to the excitement of the moment, and laying his hands to the net, with no trifling addition to the force. Edwards had preceded him; for the sight of the immense piles of fish, that were slowly rolling over on the gravelly beach, had impelled him also to leave the ladies and join the fishermen.

Great care was observed in bringing the net to land, and, after much toil, the whole shoal of victims was safely deposited in a hollow of the bank, where they were left to flutter away their brief existence in the new and fatal element.

Even Elizabeth and Louisa were greatly excited and highly gratified by seeing two thousand captives thus drawn from the bosom of the lake, and laid prisoners at their feet. But when the feelings of the moment were passing away, Marmaduke took in his hands a bass, that might have weighed two pounds, and after viewing it a moment, in melancholy musing, he turned to his daughter, and observed:

“This is a fearful expenditure of the choicest gifts of Providence. These fish, Bess, which thou seest lying in such piles before thee, and which by to-morrow evening will be rejected food on the meanest table in Templeton, are of a quality and flavor that, in other countries, would make them esteemed a luxury on the tables of princes or epicures. The world has no better fish than the bass of Otsego; it unites the richness of the shad* to the firmness of the salmon.”

* Of all the fish the writer has ever tasted, he thinks the one in

question the best.

“But surely, dear sir,” cried Elizabeth, “they must prove a great blessing to the country, and a powerful friend to the poor.”

“The poor are always prodigal, my child, where there is plenty, and seldom think of a provision against the morrow. But, if there can be any excuse for destroying animals in this manner, it is in taking the bass. During the winter, you know, they are entirely protected from our assaults by the ice, for they refuse the hook; and during the hot months they are not seen. It is supposed they retreat to the deep and cool waters of the lake, at that season; and it is only in the spring and autumn that, for a few days, they are to be found around the points where they are within the reach of a seine. But, like all the other treasures of the wilderness, they already begin to disappear before the wasteful extravagance of man.”

“Disappear, Duke! disappear!” exclaimed the sheriff “if you don’t call this appearing, I know not what you will. Here are a good thousand of the shiners, some hundreds of suckers, and a powerful quantity of other fry. But this is always the way with you, Marmaduke: first it’s the trees, then it’s the deer; after that it’s the maple sugar, and so on to the end of the chapter. One day you talk of canals through a country where there’s a river or a lake every half-mile, just because the water won’t run the way you wish it to go; and, the next, you say some thing about mines of coal, though any man who has good eyes like myself — I say, with good eyes — can see more wood than would keep the city of London in fuel for fifty years; wouldn’t it, Benjamin?”

“Why, for that, squire,” said the steward, “Lon’on is no small place. If it was stretched an end, all the same as a town on one side of the river, it would cover some such matter as this here lake. Thof I dar’st to say, that the wood in sight might sarve them a good turn, seeing that the Lon’oners mainly burn coal.”

“Now we are on the subject of coal, Judge Temple,” interrupted the sheriff, “I have a thing of much importance to communicate to you; but I will defer it — until tomorrow. I know that you intend riding into the eastern part of the Patent, and I will accompany you, and conduct you to a spot where some of your projects may be realized. We will say no more now, for there are listeners; but a secret has this evening been revealed to me, ‘Duke, that is of more consequence to your welfare than all your estate united.”

Marmaduke laughed at the important intelligence, to which in a variety of shapes he was accustomed, and the sheriff, with an air of great dignity, as if pitying his want of faith, proceeded in the business more immediately be fore them. As the labor of drawing the net had been very great, he directed one party of his men to commence throwing the fish into piles, preparatory to the usual division, while another, under the superintendence of Benjamin, prepared the seine for a second haul.

CHAPTER XXIV.

“While from its margin, terrible to tell,

Three sailors with their gallant boatswain fell.”

— Falconer.

While the fishermen were employed in making the preparations for an equitable division of the spoil, Elizabeth and her friend strolled a short distance from the group, along the shore of the lake. After reaching a point to which even the brightest of the occasional gleams of the fire did not extend, they turned, and paused a moment, in contemplation of the busy and lively party they had left, and of the obscurity which, like the gloom of oblivion, seemed to envelop the rest of the creation.

“This is indeed a subject for the pencil!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “Observe the countenance of that woodchopper, while he exults in presenting a larger fish than common to my cousin sheriff; and see, Louisa, how hand some and considerate my dear father looks, by the light of that fire, where he stands viewing the havoc of the game. He seems melancholy, as if he actually thought that a day of retribution was to follow this hour of abundance and prodigality! Would they not make a picture, Louisa?”

“You know that I am ignorant of all such accomplishments, Miss Temple.”

“Call me by my Christian name,” interrupted Elizabeth; “this is not a place, neither is this a scene, for forms.”

“Well, then, if I may venture an opinion,” said Louisa timidly, “I should think it might indeed make a picture. The selfish earnestness of that Kirby over his fish would contrast finely with the — the — expression of Mr. Edwards’ face. I hardly know what to call it; but it is — a — is — you know what I would say, dear Elizabeth.”

“You do me too much credit, Miss Grant,” said the heiress; “I am no diviner of thoughts, or interpreter of expressions.”

There was certainly nothing harsh or even cold in the manner of the speaker, but still it repressed the conversation, and they continued to stroll still farther from the party, retaining each other’s arm, but observing a pro found silence. Elizabeth, perhaps conscious of the improper phraseology of her last speech, or perhaps excited by the new object that met her gaze, was the first to break the awkward cessation in the discourse, by exclaiming:

“Look, Louisa! we are not alone; there are fishermen lighting a fire on the other side of the lake, immediately opposite to us; it must be in front of the cabin of Leather-Stocking!”

Through the obscurity, which prevailed most immediately under the eastern mountain, a small and uncertain light was plainly to be seen, though, as it was occasionally lost to the eye, it seemed struggling for existence. They observed it to move, and sensibly to lower, as it carried down the descent of the bank to the shore. Here, in a very short time, its flame gradually expanded, and grew brighter, until it became of the size of a man’s head, when it continued to shine a steady ball of fire. Such an object, lighted as it were by magic, under the brow of the mountain, and in that retired and unfrequented place, gave double interest to the beauty and singularity of its appearance. It did not at all resemble the large and unsteady light of their own fire, being much more clear and bright, and retaining its size and shape with perfect uniformity.

There are moments when the best-regulated minds are more or less subjected to the injurious impressions which few have escaped in infancy; and Elizabeth smiled at her own weakness, while she remembered the idle tales which were circulated through the village, at the expense of the Leather-Stocking. The same ideas seized her companion, and at the same instant, for Louisa pressed nearer to her friend, as she said in a low voice, stealing a timid glance toward the bushes and trees that overhung the bank near them:

“Did you ever hear the singular ways of this Natty spoken of, Miss Temple? They say that, in his youth, he was an Indian warrior; or, what is the same thing, a white man leagued with the savages; and it is thought he has been concerned in many of their inroads, in the old wars.”

“The thing is not at all improbable,” returned Elizabeth; “he is not alone in that particular.”

“No, surely; but is it not strange that he is so cautious with his hut? He never leaves it, without fastening it in a remarkable manner; and in several instances, when the children, or even the men of the village, have wished to seek a shelter there from the storms, he has been known to drive them from his door with rudeness and threats. That surely is singular to this country!”

“It is certainly not very hospitable; but we must remember his aversion to the customs of civilized life. You heard my father say, a few days since, how kindly he was treated by him on his first visit to his place.” Elizabeth paused, and smiled, with an expression of peculiar arch ness, though the darkness hid its meaning from her companion, as she continued: “Besides, he certainly admits the visits of Mr. Edwards, whom we both know to be far from a savage.”

To this speech Louisa made no reply, but continued gazing on the object which had elicited her remarks. In addition to the bright and circular flame, was now to be seen a fainter, though a vivid light, of an equal diameter to the other at the upper end, but which, after extending downward for many feet, gradually tapered to a point at its lower extremity. A dark space was plainly visible between the two, and the new illumination was placed beneath the other, the whole forming an appearance not unlike an inverted note of admiration. It was soon evident that the latter was nothing but the reflection, from the water, of the former, and that the object, whatever it might be, was advancing across, or rather over the lake, for it seemed to be several feet above its surface, in a direct line with themselves. Its motion was amazingly rapid, the ladies having hardly discovered that it was moving at all, before the waving light of a flame was discerned, losing its regular shape, while it increased in size, as it approached.

“It appears to be supernatural!” whispered Louisa, beginning to retrace her steps toward the party.

“It is beautiful!” exclaimed Elizabeth,

A brilliant though waving flame was now plainly visible, gracefully gliding over the lake, and throwing its light on the water in such a manner as to tinge it slightly though in the air, so strong was the contrast, the darkness seemed to have the distinctness of material substances, as if the fire were imbedded in a setting of ebony. This appearance, however, gradually wore off, and the rays from the torch struck out, and enlightened the atmosphere in front of it, leaving the background in a darkness that was more impenetrable than ever.

“Ho! Natty, is that you?” shouted the sheriff. “Paddle in, old boy, and I’ll give you a mess of fish that is fit to place before the governor.”

The light suddenly changed its direction, and a long and slightly built boat hove up out of the gloom, while the red glare fell on the weather-beaten features of the Leather-Stocking, whose tall person was seen erect in the frail vessel, wielding, with the grace of an experienced boatman, a long fishing-spear, which he held by its centre, first dropping one end and then the other into the water, to aid in propelling the little canoe of bark, we will not say through, but over, the water. At the farther end of the vessel a form was faintly seen, guiding its motions, and using a paddle with the ease of one who felt there was no necessity for exertion. The Leather-Stocking struck his spear lightly against the short staff which up held, on a rude grating framed of old hoops of iron, the knots of pine that composed the fuel, and the light, which glared high, for an instant fell on the swarthy features and dark, glancing eyes of Mohegan.

The boat glided along the shore until it arrived opposite the fishing-ground, when it again changed its direction and moved on to the land, with a motion so graceful, and yet so rapid, that it seemed to possess the power of regulating its own progress. The water in front of the canoe was hardly ruffled by its passage and no sound betrayed the collision, when the light fabric shot on the gravelly beach for nearly half its length, Natty receding a step or two from its bow, in order to facilitate the landing.

“Approach, Mohegan,” said Marmaduke; “approach, Leather-Stocking, and load your canoe with bass. It would be a shame to assail the animals with the spear, when such multitudes of victims lie here, that will be lost as food for the want of mouths to consume them.”

“No, no, Judge,” returned Natty, his tall figure stalking over the narrow beach, and ascending to the little grassy bottom where the fish were laid in piles; “I eat of no man’s wasty ways. I strike my spear into the eels or the trout, when I crave the creatur’; but I wouldn’t be helping to such a sinful kind of fishing for the best rifle that was ever brought out from the old countries. If they had fur, like the beaver, or you could tan their hides, like a buck, something might be said in favor of taking them by the thousand with your nets; but as God made them for man’s food, and for no other disarnable reason, I call it sinful and wasty to catch more than can be eat.”

“Your reasoning is mine; for once, old hunter, we agree in opinion; and I heartily wish we could make a convert of the sheriff. A net of half the size of this would supply the whole village with fish for a week at one haul.”

The Leather-Stocking did not relish this alliance in sentiment; and he shook his head doubtingly as he answered;

“No, no; we are not much of one mind, Judge, or you’d never turn good hunting-grounds into stumpy pastures. And you fish and hunt out of rule; but, to me, the flesh is sweeter where the creatur’ has some chance for its life; for that reason, I always use a single ball, even if it be at a bird or a squirrel. Besides, it saves lead; for, when a body knows how to shoot, one piece of lead is enough for all, except hard-lived animals.”

The sheriff heard these opinions with great indignation; and when he completed the last arrangement for the division, by carrying with his own hands a trout of a large size, and placing it on four different piles in succession, as his vacillating ideas of justice required, gave vent to his spleen.

“A very pretty confederacy, indeed! Judge Temple, the landlord and owner of a township, with Nathaniel Bumppo a lawless squatter, and professed deer-killer, in order to preserve the game of the county! But, ‘Duke, when I fish I fish; so, away, boys, for another haul, and we’ll send out wagons and carts in the morning to bring in our prizes.”

Marmaduke appeared to understand that all opposition to the will of the sheriff would be useless, and he strolled from the fire to the place where the canoe of the hunters lay, whither the ladies and Oliver Edwards had already preceded him.

Curiosity induced the females to approach this spot; but it was a different motive that led the youth thither. Elizabeth examined the light ashen timbers and thin bark covering of the canoe, in admiration of its neat but simple execution, and with wonder that any human being could be so daring as to trust his life in so frail a vessel. But the youth explained to her the buoyant properties of the boat, and its perfect safety when under proper management; adding, in such glowing terms, a description of the manner in which the fish were struck with the spear, that she changed suddenly, from an apprehension of the danger of the excursion, to a desire to participate in its pleasures. She even ventured a proposition to that effect to her father, laughing at the same time at her own wish, and accusing herself of acting under a woman’s caprice.

“Say not so, Bess,” returned the Judge; “I would have you above the idle fears of a silly girl. These canoes are the safest kind of boats to those who have skill and steady nerves. I have crossed the broadest part of the Oneida in one much smaller than this.”

“And I the Ontary,” interrupted the Leather-Stocking; “and that with squaws in the canoe, too. But the Delaware women are used to the paddle, and are good hands in a boat of this natur’, If the young lady would like to see an old man strike a trout for his breakfast, she is welcome to a seat. John will say the same, seeing that he built the canoe, which was only launched yesterday; for I’m not over-curious at such small work as brooms, and basket-making, and other like Indian trades.”

Natty gave Elizabeth one of his significant laughs, with a kind nod of the head, when he concluded his invitation but Mohegan, with the native grace of an Indian, approached, and taking her soft white hand into his own swarthy and wrinkled palm, said:

“Come, granddaughter of Miquon, and John will be glad. Trust the Indian; his head is old, though his hand is not steady. The Young Eagle will go, and see that no harm hurts his sister.”

“Mr. Edwards,” said Elizabeth, blushing slightly, “your friend Mohegan has given a promise for you. Do you redeem the pledge?”

“With my life, if necessary, Miss Temple,” cried the youth, with fervor. “The sight is worth some little apprehension; for of real danger there is none, I will go with you and Miss Grand, however, to save appearances.”

“With me!” exclaimed Louisa. “No, not with me, Mr. Edwards; nor, surely, do you mean to trust yourself in that slight canoe.”

“But I shall; for I have no apprehensions any longer,” said Elizabeth, stepping into the boat, and taking a seat where the Indian directed. “Mr. Edwards, you may remain, as three do seem to be enough for such an egg shell.”

“It shall hold a fourth,” cried the young man, springing to her side, with a violence that nearly shook the weak fabric of the vessel asunder. “Pardon me, Miss Temple, that I do not permit these venerable Charons to take you to the shades unattended by your genius.”

“Is it a good or evil spirit?” asked Elizabeth.

“Good to you.”

“And mine,” added the maiden, with an air that strangely blended pique with satisfaction. But the motion of the canoe gave rise to new ideas, and fortunately afforded a good excuse to the young man to change the discourse.

It appeared to Elizabeth that they glided over the water by magic, so easy and graceful was the manner in which Mohegan guided his little bark. A slight gesture with his spear indicated the way in which Leather-Stocking wished to go, and a profound silence was preserved by the whole party, as the precaution necessary to the success of their fishery. At that point of the lake the water shoaled regularly. differing in this particular altogether from those parts where the mountains rose nearly in perpendicular precipices from the beach. There the largest vessels could have lain, with their yards interlocked with the pines; while here a scanty growth of rushes lifted their tops above the lake, gently curling the waters, as their bending heads waved with the passing breath of the night air. It was at the shallow points only that the bass could be found, or the net cast with success.

Elizabeth saw thousands of these fish swimming in shoals along the shallow and warm waters of the shore; for the flaring light of their torch laid bare the mysteries of the lake, as plainly as if the limpid sheet of the Otsego was but another atmosphere. Every instant she expected to see the impending spear of Leather-Stocking darting into the thronging hosts that were rushing beneath her, where it would seem that a blow could not go amiss; and where, as her father had already said, the prize that would be obtained was worthy any epicure. But Natty had his peculiar habits, and, it would seem, his peculiar tastes also.

His tall stature, and his erect posture, enabled him to see much farther than those who were seated in the bottom of the canoe; and he turned his head warily in every direction, frequently bending his body forward, and straining his vision, as if desirous of penetrating the water that surrounded their boundary of light. At length his anxious scrutiny was rewarded with success, and, waving his spear from the shore, he said in a cautious tone:

“Send her outside the bass, John; I see a laker there, that has run out of the school. It’s seldom one finds such a creatur’ in shallow water, where a spear can touch it.”

Mohegan gave a wave of assent with his hand, and in the next instant the canoe was without the “run of the bass,” and in water nearly twenty feet in depth. A few additional knots were laid on the grating, and the light penetrated to the bottom, Elizabeth then saw a fish of unusual size floating above small pieces of logs and sticks. The animal was only distinguishable, at that distance, by a slight but almost imperceptible motion of its fins and tail. The curiosity excited by this unusual exposure of the secrets of the lake seemed to be mutual between the heiress of the land and the lord of these waters, for the “salmon-trout” soon announced his interest by raising his head and body for a few degrees above a horizontal line, and then dropping them again into a horizontal position.

“Whist! whist!” said Natty, in a low voice, on hearing a slight sound made by Elizabeth in bending over the side of the canoe in curiosity; “’tis a skeary animal, and it’s a far stroke for a spear. My handle is hut fourteen foot, and the creator’ lies a good eighteen from the top of the water: but I’ll try him, for he’s a ten — pounder.”

While speaking, the Leather-Stocking was poising and directing his weapon. Elizabeth saw the bright, polished tines, as they slowly and silently entered the water, where the refraction pointed them many degrees from the true direction of the fish; and she thought that the intended victim saw them also, as he seemed to increase the play of his tail and fins, though without moving his station. At the next instant the tall body of Natty bent to the water’s edge, and the handle of his spear disappeared in the lake. The long, dark streak of the gliding weapon, and the little bubbling vortex which followed its rapid flight, were easily to be seen: but it was not until the handle snot again into the air by its own reaction, and its master catching it in his hand, threw its tines uppermost, that Elizabeth was acquainted with the success of the blow. A fish of great size was transfixed by the barbed steel, and was very soon shaken from its impaled situation into the bottom of the canoe.

“That will do, John,” said Natty, raising his prize by one of his fingers, and exhibiting it before the torch; “I shall not strike another blow to-night.”

The Indian again waved his hand, and replied with the simple and energetic monosyllable of:

“Good.”

Elizabeth was awakened from the trance created by this scene, and by gazing in that unusual manner at the bot tom of the lake, be the hoarse sounds of Benjamin’s voice, and the dashing of oars, as the heavier boat of the seine-drawers approached the spot where the canoe lay, dragging after it the folds of the net.

“Haul off, haul off, Master Bumppo,” cried Benjamin, “your top-light frightens the fish, who see the net and sheer off soundings. A fish knows as much as a horse, or, for that matter, more, seeing that it’s brought up on the water. Haul oil, Master Bumppo, haul off, I say, and give a wide berth to the seine.”

Mohegan guided their little canoe to a point where the movements of the fishermen could be observed, without interruption to the business, and then suffered it to lie quietly on the water, looking like an imaginary vessel floating in air. There appeared to be much ill-humor among the party in the batteau, for the directions of Benjamin were not only frequent, but issued in a voice that partook largely of dissatisfaction.

“Pull larboard oar, will ye, Master Kirby?” cried the old seaman; “pull larboard best. It would puzzle the oldest admiral in their British fleet to cast this here net fair, with a wake like a corkscrew. Full starboard, boy, pull starboard oar, with a will.”

“Harkee, Mister Pump,” said Kirby, ceasing to row, and speaking with sonic spirit; “I’m a man that likes civil language and decent treatment, such as is right ‘twixt man and man. If you want us to go hoy, say so, and hoy I’ll go, for the benefit of the company; but I’m not used to being ordered about like dumb cattle.”

“Who’s dumb cattle?” echoed Benjamin, fiercely, turning his forbidding face to the glare of light from the canoe, and exhibiting every feature teeming with the expression of disgust. “If you want to come aft and con the boat round, come and be damned, and pretty steerage you’ll make of it. There’s but another heave of the net in the stern-sheets, and we’re clear of the thing. Give way, will ye? and shoot her ahead for a fathom or two, and if you catch me afloat again with such a horse-marine as yourself, why, rate me a ship’s jackass, that’s all.”

Probably encouraged by the prospect of a speedy termination to his labor, the wood-chopper resumed his oar, and, under strong excitement, gave a stroke that not only cleared the boat of the net but of the steward at the same instant. Benjamin had stood on the little platform that held the seine, in the stern of the boat, and the violent whirl occasioned by the vigor of the wood-chopper’s arm completely destroyed his balance. The position of the lights rendered objects in the batteau distinguishable, both from the canoe and the shore; and the heavy fall on the water drew all eyes to the steward, as he lay struggling, for a moment, in sight.

A loud burst of merriment, to which the lungs of Kirby contributed no small part, broke out like a chorus of laughter, and ran along the eastern mountain, in echoes, until it died away in distant, mocking mirth, among the rocks and woods. The body of the steward was seen slowly to disappear, as was expected; but when the light waves, which had been raised by his fall, began to sink in calmness, and the water finally closed over his head, unbroken and still, a very different feeling pervaded the spectators.

“How fare you, Benjamin?” shouted Richard from the shore.

“The dumb devil can’t swim a stroke!” exclaimed Kirby, rising, and beginning to throw aside his clothes.

“Paddle up, Mohegan,” cried young Edwards, “the light will show us where he lies, and I will dive for the body.”

“Oh! save him! for God’s sake, save him!” exclaimed Elizabeth, bowing her head on the side of the canoe in horror.

A powerful and dexterous sweep of Mohegan’s paddle sent the canoe directly over the spot where the steward had fallen, and a loud shout from the Leather-Stocking announced that he saw the body.

“Steady the boat while I dive,” again cried Edwards.

“Gently, lad, gently,” said Natty; “I’ll spear the creatur’ up in half the time, and no risk to anybody.”

The form of Benjamin was lying about half-way to the bottom, grasping with both hands some broken rushes. The blood of Elizabeth curdled to her heart, as she saw the figure of a fellow-creature thus extended under an immense sheet of water, apparently in motion by the undulations of the dying waves, with its face and hands, viewed by that light, and through the medium of the fluid, already colored with hues like death.

At the same instant, she saw the shining tines of Natty’s spear approaching the head of the sufferer, and entwinning themselves, rapidly and dexterously, in the hairs of his cue and the cape of his coat. The body was now raised slowly, looking ghastly and grim as its features turned upward to the light and approached the surface. The arrival of the nostrils of Benjamin into their own atmosphere was announced by a breathing that would have done credit to a porpoise. For a moment, Natty held the steward suspended, with his head just above the water, while his eyes slowly opened and stared about him, as if he thought that he had reached a new and unexplored country.

As all the parties acted and spoke together, much less time was consumed in the occurrence of these events than in their narration. To bring the batteau to the end of the spear, and to raise the form of Benjamin into the boat, and for the whole party to regain the shore, required but a minute. Kirby, aided by Richard, whose anxiety induced him to run into the water to meet his favorite assistant, carried the motionless steward up the bank, and seated him before the fire, while the sheriff proceeded to order the most approved measures then in use for the resuscitation of the drowned.

“Run, Billy,” he cried, “to the village, and bring up the rum-hogshead that lies before the door, in which I am making vinegar, and be quick, boy, don’t stay to empty the vinegar, and stop at Mr. Le Quoi’s, and buy a paper of tobacco and half a dozen pipes; and ask Remarkable for some salt, and one of her flannel petticoats; and ask Dr. Todd to send his lancet, and to come himself; and — ha! ‘Duke, what are you about? would you strangle a man who is full of water, by giving him rum? Help me to open his hand, that I may pat it.”

All this time Benjamin sat, with his muscles fixed, his mouth shut, and his hands clinching the rushes which he had seized in the confusion of the moment and which, as he held fast, like a true seaman, had been the means of preventing his body from rising again to the surface. His eyes, however, were open, and stared wildly on the group about the fire, while his lungs were playing like a blacksmith’s bellows, as if to compensate themselves for the minute of inaction to which they had been subjected. As he kept his lips compressed, with a most inveterate determination, the air was compelled to pass through his nostrils, and he rather snorted than breathed, and in such a manner that nothing but the excessive agitation of the sheriff could at all justify his precipitous orders.

The bottle, applied to the steward’s lips by Marmaduke, acted like a charm. His mouth opened instinctively; his hands dropped the rushes, and seized the glass; his eyes raised from their horizontal stare to the heavens; and the whole man was lost, for a moment, in a new sensation. Unhappily for the propensity of the steward, breath was as necessary after one of these draughts as after his submersion, and the time at length arrived when he was compelled to let go the bottle.

“Why, Benjamin!” roared the sheriff; “you amaze me! for a man of your experience in drownings to act so foolishly! Just now, you were half full of water, and now you are— “

“Full of grog,” interrupted the steward, his features settling down, with amazing flexibility, into their natural economy. “But, d’yesee, squire, I kept my hatches chose, and it’s but little water that ever gets into my scuttle-butt. Harkee, Master Kirby! I’ve followed the salt-water for the better part of a man’s life, and have seen some navigation on the fresh; but this here matter I will say in your favor, and that is, that you’re the awk’ardest green ‘un that ever straddled a boat’s thwart. Them that likes you for a shipmate, may sail with you and no thanks; but dam’me if I even walk on the lake shore in your company. For why? you’d as lief drown a man as one of them there fish; not to throw a Christian creature so much as a rope’s end when he was adrift, and no life-buoy in sight! Natty Bumppo, give us your fist. There’s them that says you’re an Indian, and a scalper, but you’ve served me a good turn, and you may set me down for a friend; thof it would have been more ship shape like to lower the bight of a rope or running bowline below me, than to seize an old seaman by his head-lanyard; but I suppose you are used to taking men by the hair, and seeing you did me good instead of harm thereby, why, it’s the same thing, d’ye see?”

Marmaduke prevented any reply, and assuming the action of matters with a dignity and discretion that at once silenced all opposition from his cousin, Benjamin was dispatched to the village by land, and the net was hauled to shore in such a manner that the fish for once escaped its meshes with impunity.

The division of the spoils was made in the ordinary manner, by placing one of the party with his hack to the game, who named the owner of each pile. Bill Kirby stretched his large frame on the grass by the side of the fire, as sentinel until morning, over net and fish; and the remainder of the party embarked in the batteau, to return to the village.

The wood-chopper was seen broiling his supper on the coals as they lost sight of the fire, and when the boat approached the shore, the torch of Mohegan’s canoe was shining again under the gloom of the eastern mountain. Its motion ceased suddenly; a scattering of brands was in the air, and then all remained dark as the conjunction of night, forest, and mountain could render the scene.

The thoughts of Elizabeth wandered from the youth, who was holding a canopy of shawls over herself and Louisa, to the hunter and the Indian warrior; and she felt an awakening curiosity to visit a hut where men of such different habits and temperament were drawn together as by common impulse.

CHAPTER XXV.

“Cease all this parlance about hills and dales.

None listen to thy scenes of boyish frolic.

Fond dotard! with such tickled ears as thou dost

Come to thy tale.”

— Duo.

Mr. Jones arose on the following morning with the sun, and, ordering his own and Marmaduke’s steeds to be saddled, he proceeded, with a countenance big with some business of unusual moment to the apartment of the Judge. The door was unfastened, and Richard entered, with the freedom that characterized not only the intercourse between the cousins, but the ordinary manners of the sheriff.

“Well, ‘Duke, to horse,” he cried, “and I will explain to you my meaning in the allusions I made last night. David says, in the Psalms — no, it was Solomon, but it was all in the family — Solomon said there was a time for all things; and, in my humble opinion, a fishing-party is not the moment for discussing important subjects. Ha! why, what the devil ails you, Marmaduke? Ain’t you well? Let me feel your pulse; my grandfather, you know— “

“Quite well in the body, Richard,” interrupted the Judge, repulsing his cousin, who was about to assume the functions that rightly belonged to Dr. Todd; “but ill at heart. I received letters by the post last night, after we returned from the point, and this among the number.”

The sheriff took the letter, but without turning his eyes on the writing, for he was examining the appearance of the other with astonishment. From the face of his cousin the gaze of Richard wandered to the table, which was covered with letters, packets, and newspapers; then to the apartment and all it contained. On the bed there was the impression that had been made by a human form, but the coverings were unmoved, and everything indicated that the occupant of the room had passed a sleepless night. The candles had burned to the sockets, and had evidently extinguished themselves in their own fragments Marmaduke had drawn his curtains, and opened both the shutters and the sashes, to admit the balmy air “of a spring morning; but his pale cheek, his quivering lip, and his sunken eye presented altogether so very different an appearance from the usual calm, manly, and cheerful aspect of the Judge, that the sheriff grew each moment more and more bewildered with astonishment. At length Richard found time to cast his eyes on the direction of the letter, which he still held unopened, crumpling it in his hand.

“What! a ship-letter!” he exclaimed; “and from England, ha! ‘Duke, there must be news of importance! indeed!”

“Read it,” said Marmaduke, pacing the floor in excessive agitation.

Richard, who commonly thought aloud, was unable to read a letter without suffering part of its contents to escape him in audible sounds. So much of the epistle as was divulged in that manner, we shall lay before the reader, accompanied by the passing remarks of the sheriff:

“‘London, February 12, 1793.’ What a devil of a passage she had! but the wind has been northwest for six weeks, until within the last fortnight. Sir, your favors of August 10th, September 23d, and of December 1st, were received in due season, and the first answered by return of packet. Since the receipt of the last, I’ “ — here a long passage was rendered indistinct by a kind of humming noise by the sheriff— “ ‘I grieve to say that ‘ — hum, hum, bad enough to be sure— ‘ but trusts that a merciful Providence has seen fit’ — hum, hum, hum seems to be a good, pious sort of a man, ‘Duke; belongs to the Established Church, I dare say; hum, hum— ‘ vessel sailed from Falmouth on or about the 1st September of last year, and’ — hum, hum, hum, ‘If anything should transpire on this afflicting subject shall not fail’ — hum, hum; really a good-hearted man, for a lawyer— ‘but Can communicate nothing further at present’ — hum, hum. ‘The national convention’ — hum, hum— ‘unfortunate Louis’ — hum, hum— ‘example of your Washington’ — a very sensible man, I declare, and none of your crazy democrats. Hum, hum— ‘our gallant navy’ — hum, hum— ‘under our most excellent monarch’ — ay, a good man enough, that King George, but bad advisers: hum, hum— ‘I beg to conclude with assurances of my perfect respect.’ — hum, hum— ‘Andrew Holt. ‘ — Andrew Holt, a very sensible, feeling man, this Mr. Andrew Holt — but the writer of evil tidings. What will you do next, Cousin Marmaduke?”

“What can I do, Richard, but trust to time, and the will of Heaven? Here is another letter from Connecticut, but it only repeats the substance of the last. There is but one consoling reflection to be gathered from the English news, which is, that my last letter was received by him before the ship sailed.”

“This is bad enough, indeed! ‘Duke, bad enough, indeed! and away go all my plans, of putting wings to the house, to the devil. I had made arrangements for a ride to introduce you to something of a very important nature. You know how much you think of mines— “

“Talk not of mines,” interrupted the Judge: “there is a sacred duty to be performed, and that without delay, I must devote this day to writing; and thou must be my assistant, Richard; it will not do to employ Oliver in a matter of such secrecy and interest.”

“No, no, ‘Duke,” cried the sheriff, squeezing his hand, “I am your man, just now; we are sister’s children, and blood, after all, is the best cement to make friendship stick together. Well, well, there is no hurry about the silver mine, just now; another time will do as well. We shall want Dirky Van, I suppose?”

Marmaduke assented to this indirect question, and the sheriff relinquished all his intentions on the subject of the ride, and, repairing to the breakfast parlor, he dispatched a messenger to require the immediate presence of Dirck Van der School.

The village of Templeton at that time supported but two lawyers, one of whom was introduced to our readers in the bar-room of the “Bold Dragoon.” and the other was the gentleman of whom Richard spoke by the friendly yet familiar appellation of Dirck, or Dirky Van. Great good-nature, a very tolerable share of skill in his profession, and, considering the circumstances, no contemptible degree of honesty, were the principal ingredients in the character of this man, who was known to the settlers as Squire Van der School, and sometimes by the flattering though anomalous title of the “Dutch” or “honest lawyer.”

We would not wish to mislead our readers in their conceptions of any of our characters, and we therefore feel it necessary to add that the adjective, in the preceding agnomen of Mr. Van der School, was used in direct reference to its substantive. Our orthodox friends need not be told that all the merit in this world is comparative; and, once for all, we desire to say that, where anything which involves qualities or characters is asserted, we must be understood to mean, “under the circumstances.”

During the remainder of the day, the Judge was closeted with his cousin and his lawyer; and no one else was admitted to his apartment, excepting his daughter. The deep distress that so evidently affected Marmaduke was in some measure communicated to Elizabeth also; for a look of dejection shaded her intelligent features, and the buoyancy of her animated spirits was sensibly softened. Once on that day, young Edwards, who was a wondering and observant spectator of the sudden alteration produced in the heads of the family, detected a tear stealing over the cheek of Elizabeth, and suffusing her bright eyes with a softness that did not always belong to their expression.

“Have any evil tidings been received, Miss Temple?” he inquired, with an interest and voice that caused Louisa Grant to raise her head from her needlework, with a quick ness at which she instantly blushed herself. “I would offer my services to your father, if, as I suspect, he needs an agent in some distant place, and I thought it would give you relief.”

“We have certainly heard bad news,” returned Elizabeth, “and it may be necessary that my father should leave home for a short period; unless I can persuade him to trust my cousin Richard with the business, whose absence from the country, just at this time, too, might be inexpedient.”

The youth paused a moment, and the blood gathered slowly to his temples as he continued:

“If it be of a nature that I could execute-”

“It is such as can only be confided to one we know — one of ourselves.”

“Surely, you know me, Miss Temple!” he added, with a warmth that he seldom exhibited, but which did some times escape him in the moments of their frank communications. “Have I lived five months under your roof to be a stranger?”

Elizabeth was engaged with her needle also, and she bent her head to one side, affecting to arrange her muslin; but her hand shook, her color heightened, and her eyes lost their moisture in an expression of ungovernable interest, as she said:

“How much do we know of you, Mr. Edwards?”

“How much!” echoed the youth, gazing from the speaker to the mild countenance of Louisa, that was also illuminated with curiosity; “how much Have I been so long an inmate with you and not known?”

The head of Elizabeth turned slowly from its affected position, and the look of confusion that had blended so strongly with an expression of interest changed to a smile.

“We know you, sir, indeed; you are called Mr. Oliver Edwards. I understand that you have informed my friend Miss Grant that you are a native— “

“Elizabeth!” exclaimed Louisa, blushing to thc eyes, and trembling like an aspen; “you misunderstood me, dear Miss Temple; I — I — it was only a conjecture. Besides, if Mr. Edwards is related to the natives why should we reproach him? In what are we better? at least I, who am the child of a poor and unsettled clergyman?”

Elizabeth shook her head doubtingly, and even laughed, but made no reply, until, observing the melancholy which pervaded the countenance of her companion, who was thinking of the poverty and labors of her father, she continued:

“Nay, Louisa, humility carries you too far. The daughter of a minister of the church can have no superiors. Neither I nor Mr. Edwards is quite your equal, unless,” she added, again smiling, “he is in secret a king.”

“A faithful servant of the King of kings, Miss Temple, is inferior to none on earth,” said Louisa; “but his honors are his own; I am only the child of a poor and friendless man, and can claim no other distinction. Why, then, should I feel myself elevated above Mr. Edwards, because — because — perhaps he is only very, very distantly related to John Mohegan?”

Glances of a very comprehensive meaning were exchanged between the heiress and the young man, as Louisa betrayed, while vindicating his lineage, the reluctance with which she admitted his alliance with the old warrior; but not even a smile at the simplicity of their companion was indulged in by either.

“On reflection, I must acknowledge that my situation here is somewhat equivocal,” said Edwards, “though I may be said to have purchased it with my blood.”

“The blood, too, of one of the native lords of the soil!” cried Elizabeth, who evidently put little faith in his aboriginal descent.

“Do I bear the marks of my lineage so very plainly impressed on my appearance? I am dark, but not very red — not more so than common?”

“Rather more so, just now.”

“I am sure, Miss Temple,” cried Louisa, “you cannot have taken much notice of Mr. Edwards. His eyes are not so black as Mohegan’s or even your own, nor is his hair.”

“Very possibly, then, I can lay claim to the same de scent It would be a great relief to my mind to think so, for I own that I grieve when I see old Mohegan walking about these lands like the ghost of one of their ancient possessors, and feel how small is my own right to possess them.”

“Do you?” cried the youth, with a vehemence that startled the ladies

“I do, indeed,” returned Elizabeth, after suffering a moment to pass in surprise; “but what can I do — what can my father do? Should we offer the old man a home’ and a maintenance, his habits would compel him to refuse us. Neither were we so silly as to wish such a thing, could we convert these clearings and farms again into hunting grounds, as the Leather-Stocking would wish to see them.”

“You speak the truth, Miss Temple,” said Edwards. “What can you do indeed? But there is one thing that I am certain you can and will do, when you become the mistress of these beautiful valleys — use your wealth with indulgence to the poor, and charity to the needy; indeed, you can do no more.”

“And That will be doing a good deal,” said Louisa, smiling in her turn. “But there will, doubtless, be one to take the direction of such things from her hands.”

“I am not about to disclaim matrimony, like a silly girl, who dreams of nothing else from morn till night; but I am a nun here, without the vow of celibacy. Where shall I find a husband in these forests?”

“There is none, Miss Temple,” said Edwards quickly; “there is none who has a right to aspire to you, and I know that you will wait to be sought by your equal; or die, as you live, loved, respected, and admired by all who know you.”

The young man seemed to think that he had said all that was required by gallantry, for he arose, and, taking his hat, hurried from the apartment. Perhaps Louisa thought that he had said more than was necessary, for she sighed, with an aspiration so low that it was scarcely audible to herself, and bent her head over her work again. And it is possible that Miss Temple wished to hear more, for her eyes continued fixed for a minute on the door through which the young man had passed, then glanced quickly toward her companion, when the long silence that succeeded manifested how much zest may be given to the conversation of two maidens under eighteen, by the presence of a youth of three-and-twenty.

The first person encountered by Mr. Edwards, as he rather rushed than walked from the house, was the little square-built lawyer, with a large bundle of papers under his arm, a pair of green spectacles on his nose, with glasses at the sides, as if to multiply his power of detecting frauds by additional organs of vision.

Mr. Van der School was a well-educated man, but of slow comprehension, who had imbibed a wariness in his speeches and actions, from having suffered by his collisions with his more mercurial and apt brethren who had laid the foundations of their practice in the Eastern courts, and who had sucked in shrewdness with their mother’s milk. The caution of this gentleman was exhibited in his actions, by the utmost method and punctuality, tinctured with a good deal of timidity; and in his speeches, by a parenthetical style, that frequently left to his auditors a long search after his meaning.

“A good-morning to you, Mr. Van der School,” said Edwards; “it seems to be a busy day with us at the mansion-house.”

“Good-morning, Mr. Edwards (if that is your name [for, being a stranger, we have no other evidence of the fact than your own testimony], as I understand you have given it to Judge Temple), good-morning, sir. It is, apparently a busy day (but a man of your discretion need not be told [having, doubtless, discovered it of your own accord], that appearances are often deceitful) up at the mansion-house.”

“Have you papers of consequence that will require copying? Can I be of assistance in any way?”

“There are papers (as doubtless you see [for your eyes are young] by the outsides) that require copying.”

“Well, then, I will accompany you to your office, and receive such as are most needed, and by night I shall have them done if there be much haste.”

“I shall always be glad to see you, sir, at my office (as in duty bound, not that it is obligatory to receive any man within your dwelling unless so inclined), which is a castle, according to the forms of politeness, or at any other place; but the papers are most strictly confidential (and, as such, cannot be read by any one), unless so directed (by Judge Temple’s solemn injunctions), and are invisible to all eyes; excepting those whose duties (I mean assumed duties) require it of them.”

“Well, sir, as I perceive that I can be of no service, I wish you another good-morning; but beg you will remember that I am quite idle just now, and I wish you would intimate as much to Judge Temple, and make him a ten der of my services in any part of the world, \ unless — unless — it be far from Templeton.”

“I will make the communication, sir, in your name (with your own qualifications), as your agent. Good morning, sir. But stay proceedings, Mr. Edwards (so called), for a moment. Do you wish me to state the offer of travelling as a final contract (for which consideration has been received at former dates [by sums advanced], which would be binding), or as a tender of services for which compensation is to be paid (according to future agreement between the parties), on performance of the conditions?”

“Any way, any way,” said Edwards; “he seems in distress, and I would assist him.”

“The motive is good, sir (according to appearances which are often deceitful] on first impressions), and does you honor. I will mention your wish, young gentleman (as you now seem), and will not fail to communicate the answer by five o’clock P.M. of this present day (God willing), if you give me an opportunity so to do.”

The ambiguous nature of the situation and character of Mr. Edwards had rendered him an object of peculiar suspicion to the lawyer, and the youth was consequently too much accustomed to similar equivocal and guarded speeches to feel any unusual disgust at the present dialogue. He saw at once that it was the intention of the practitioner to conceal the nature of his business, even from the private secretary of Judge Temple; and he knew too well the difficulty of comprehending the meaning of Mr. Van der School, when the gentleman most wished to be luminous in his discourse, not to abandon all thoughts of a discovery, when he perceived that the attorney was endeavoring to avoid anything like an approach to a cross-examination. They parted at the gate, the lawyer walking with an important and hurried air toward his office, keeping his right hand firmly clinched on the bundle of papers.

It must have been obvious to all our readers, that the youth entertained an unusual and deeply seated prejudice against the character of the Judge; but owing to some counteracting cause, his sensations were now those of powerful interest in the state of his patron’s present feelings, and in the cause of his secret uneasiness. He remained gazing after the lawyer until the door closed on both the bearer and the mysterious packet, when he returned slowly to the dwelling, and endeavored to forget his curiosity in the usual avocations of his office.

When the Judge made his reappearance in the circles of his family, his cheerfulness was tempered by a shade of melancholy that lingered for many days around his manly brow; but the magical progression of the season aroused him from his temporary apathy, and his smiles returned with the summer.

The heats of the days, and the frequent occurrence of balmy showers, had completed in an incredibly short period the growth of plants which the lingering spring had so long retarded in the germ; and the woods presented every shade of green that the American forests know. The stumps in the cleared fields were already hidden beneath the wheat that was waving with every breath of the sum mer air, shining and changing its hues like velvet.

During the continuance of his cousin’s dejection, Mr. Jones forebore, with much consideration, to press on his attention a business that each hour was drawing nearer to the heart of the sheriff, and which, if any opinion could be formed by his frequent private conferences with the man who was introduced in these pages by the name of Jotham, at the bar-room of the Bold Dragoon, was becoming also of great importance.

At length the sheriff ventured to allude again to the subject; and one evening, in the beginning of July, Marmaduke made him a promise of devoting the following day to the desired excursion.

CHAPTER XXVI.

“Speak on, my dearest father!

Thy words are like the breezes of the west.”

— Milman.

It was a mild and soft morning, when Marmaduke and Richard mounted their horses and proceeded on the expedition that had so long been uppermost in the thoughts of the latter; and Elizabeth and Louisa appeared at the same instant in the hall, attired for an excursion on foot.

The head of Miss Grant was covered by a neat little hat of green silk, and her modest eyes peered from under its shade, with the soft languor that characterized her whole appearance; but Miss Temple trod her father’s wide apartments with the step of their mistress, holding in her hands, dangling by one of its ribbons, the gypsy that was to conceal the glossy locks that curled around her polished fore head in rich profusion.

“What? are you for a walk, Bess?” cried the Judge, suspending his movements for a moment to smile, with a father’s fondness, at the display of womanly grace and beauty that his child presented. “Remember the heats of July, my daughter; nor venture further than thou canst retrace before the meridian. Where is thy parasol, girl? thou wilt lose tine polish of that brow, under this sun and southern breeze, unless thou guard it with unusual care.”

“I shall then do more honor to my connections,” returned the smiling daughter. “Cousin Richard has a bloom that any lady might envy. At present the resemblance between us is so trifling that no stranger would know us to be ‘sisters’ children.”

“Grandchildren, you mean, Cousin Bess,” said the sheriff. “But on, Judge Temple; time and tide wait for no man; and if you take my counsel, sir, in twelve months from this day you may make an umbrella for your daughter of her camel’s-hair shawl, and have its frame of solid silver. I ask nothing for myself, ‘Duke; you have been a good friend to me already; besides, all that I have will go to Bess there, one of these melancholy days, so it’s as long as it’s short, whether I or you leave it. But we have a day’s ride before us, sir; so move forward, or dismount, and say you won’t go at once.”

“Patience, patience, Dickon,” returned the Judge, checking his horse and turning again to his daughter. “If thou art for the mountains, love, stray not too deep into the forest. I entreat thee; for, though it is done often with impunity, there is sometimes danger.”

“Not at this season, I believe, sir,” said Elizabeth; “for, I will confess, it is the intention of Louisa and myself to stroll among the hills.”

“Less at this season than in the winter, dear; but still there may be danger in venturing too far. But though thou art resolute, Elizabeth, thou art too much like thy mother not to be prudent.”

The eyes of the parent turned reluctantly from his child, and the Judge and sheriff rode slowly through the gateway, and disappeared among the buildings of the village.

During this short dialogue, young Edwards stood, an attentive listener, holding in his hand a fishing-rod, the day and the season having tempted him also to desert the house for the pleasure of exercise in the air. As the equestrians turned through the gate, he approached the young females, who were already moving toward the street, and was about to address them, as Louisa paused, and said quickly:

“Mr. Edwards would speak to us, Elizabeth.”

The other stopped also, and turned to the youth, politely but with a slight coldness in her air, that sensibly checked the freedom with which he had approached them,

“Your father is not pleased that you should walk unattended in the hills, Miss Temple. If I might offer my self as a protector— “

“Does my father select Mr. Oliver Edwards as the organ of his displeasure?” interrupted the lady.

“Good Heaven! you misunderstood my meaning; I should have said uneasy or not pleased. I am his servant, madam, and in consequence yours. I repeat that, with your consent, I will change my rod for a fowling-piece, and keep nigh you on the mountain.”

“I thank you, Mr. Edwards; but where there is no danger, no protection is required. We are not yet reduced to wandering among these free hills accompanied by a body guard. If such a one is necessary there he is, however. — Here, Brave — Brave —— my noble Brave!” The huge mastif that has been already mentioned, appeared from his kennel, gaping and stretching himself with pampered laziness; but as his mistress again called:

“Come, dear Brave; once you have served your master well; let us see how you can do your duty by his daughter” — the dog wagged his tail, as if he understood her language, walked with a stately gait to her side, where he seated himself, and looked up at her face, with an intelligence but little inferior to that which beamed in her own lovely countenance.

She resumed her walk, but again paused, after a few steps, and added, in tones of conciliation:

“You can be serving us equally, and, I presume, more agreeably to yourself, Mr. Edwards, by bringing us a string of your favorite perch for the dinner-table.”

When they again began to walk Miss Temple did not look back to see how the youth bore this repulse; but the head of Louisa was turned several times before they reached the gate on that considerate errand.

“I am afraid, Elizabeth,” she said, “that we have mortified Oliver. He is still standing where we left him, leaning on his rod. Perhaps he thinks us proud.”

“He thinks justly,” exclaimed Miss Temple, as if awaking from a deep musing; “he thinks justly, then. We are too proud to admit of such particular attentions from a young man in an equivocal situation. What! make him the companion of our most private walks! It is pride, Louisa, but it is the pride of a woman.”

It was several minutes before Oliver aroused himself from the abstracted position in which he was standing when Louisa last saw him; but when he did, he muttered something rapidly and incoherently, and, throwing his rod over his shoulder, he strode down the walk through the gate and along one of the streets of the village, until he reached the lake-shore, with the air of an emperor. At this spot boats were kept for the use of Judge Temple and his family. The young man threw himself into a light skiff, and, seizing the oars, he sent it across the lake toward the hut of Leather-Stocking, with a pair of vigorous arms. By the time he had rowed a quarter of a mile, his reflections were less bitter; and when he saw the bushes that lined the shore in front of Natty’s habitation gliding by him, as if they possessed the motion which proceeded from his own efforts, he was quite cooled in mind, though somewhat heated in body. It is quite possible that the very same reason which guided the conduct of Miss Temple suggested itself to a man of the breeding and education of the youth; and it is very certain that, if such were the case, Elizabeth rose instead of falling in the estimation of Mr. Edwards.

The oars were now raised from the water, and the boat shot close in to the land, where it lay gently agitated by waves of its own creating, while the young man, first casting a cautious and searching glance around him in every direction, put a small whistle to his mouth, and blew a long, shrill note that rang among the echoing rocks behind the hut. At this alarm, the hounds of Natty rushed out of their bark kennel, and commenced their long, piteous howls, leaping about as if half frantic, though restrained by the leashes of buckskin by which they were fastened.

“Quiet, Hector, quiet,” said Oliver, again applying his whistle to his mouth, and drawing out notes still more shrill than before. No reply was made, the dogs having returned to their kennel at the sound of his voice.

Edwards pulled the bows of the boat on the shore, and landing, ascended the beach and approached the door of the cabin. The fastenings were soon undone, and he entered, closing the door after him, when all was as silent, in that retired spot, as if the foot of man had never trod the wilderness. The sounds of the hammers, that were in incessant motion in the village, were faintly heard across the water; but the dogs had crouched into their lairs, satisfied that none but the privileged had approached the forbidden ground.

A quarter of an hour elapsed before the youth reappeared, when he fastened the door again, and spoke kindly to the hounds. The dogs came out at the well-known tones, and the slut jumped upon his person, whining and barking as if entreating Oliver to release her from prison. But old Hector raised his nose to the light current of air, and opened a long howl, that might have been heard for a mile. “Ha! what do you scent, old veteran of the woods?” cried Edwards. “If a beast, it is a bold one; and if a man, an impudent.”

He sprang through the top of a pine that had fallen near the side of the hut, and ascended a small hillock that sheltered the cabin to the south, where he caught a glimpse of the formal figure of Hiram Doolittle, as it vanished, with unusual rapidity for the architect, amid the bushes.

“What can that fellow be wanting here?” muttered Oliver. “He has no business in this quarter, unless it be curiosity, which is an endemic in these woods. But against that I will effectually guard, though the dogs should take a liking to his ugly visage, and let him pass.” The youth returned to the door, while giving vent to this soliloquy, and completed the fastenings by placing a small chain through a staple, and securing it there by a padlock. “He is a pettifogger, and surely must know that there is such a thing as feloniously breaking into a man’s house.”

Apparently well satisfied with this arrangement, the youth again spoke to the hounds; and, descending to the shore, he launched his boat, and taking up his oars, pulled off into the lake.

There were several places in the Otsego that were celebrated fishing-ground for perch. One was nearly opposite to the cabin, and another, still more famous, was near a point, at the distance of a mile and a half above it, under the brow of the mountain, and on the same side of the lake with the hut. Oliver Edwards pulled his little skiff to the first, and sat, for a minute, undecided whether to continue there, with his eyes on the door of the cabin, or to change his ground, with a view to get superior game. While gazing about him, he saw the light-colored bark canoe of his old companions riding on the water, at the point we have mentioned, and containing two figures, that he at once knew to be Mohegan and the Leather-Stocking. This decided the matter, and the youth pulled, in a very few minutes, to the place where his friends were fishing, and fastened his boat to the light vessel of the Indian.

The old men received Oliver with welcoming nods, but neither drew his line from the water nor in the least varied his occupation. When Edwards had secured his own boat, he baited his hook and threw it into the lake, with out speaking.

“Did you stop at the wigwam, lad, as you rowed past?” asked Natty.

“Yes, and I found all safe; but that carpenter and justice of the peace, Mr., or as they call him, Squire, Doolittle, was prowling through the woods. I made sure of the door before I left the hut, and I think he is too great a coward to approach the hounds.”

“There’s little to be said in favor of that man,” said Natty, while he drew in a perch and baited his hook. “He craves dreadfully to come into the cabin, and has as good as asked me as much to my face; but I put him off with unsartain answers, so that he is no wiser than Solo mon. This comes of having so many laws that such a man may be called on to intarpret them.”

“I fear he is more knave than fool,” cried Edwards; “he makes a tool of, that simple man, the sheriff; and I dread that his impertinent curiosity may yet give us much trouble.”

“If he harbors too much about the cabin, lad, I’ll shoot the creatur’,” said the Leather-Stocking, quite simply.

“No, no, Natty, you must remember the law,” said Edwards, “or we shall have you in trouble; and that, old man, would be an evil day and sore tidings to us all.”

“Would it, boy?” exclaimed the hunter, raising his eyes, with a look of friendly interest, toward the youth. “You have the true blood in your veins, Mr. Oliver; and I’ll support it to the face of Judge Temple or in any court in the country. How is it, John? Do I speak the true word? Is the lad stanch, and of the right blood?”

“He is a Delaware,” said Mohegan, “and my brother. The Young Eagle is brave, and he will be a chief. No harm can come.”

“Well, well,” cried the youth impatiently, “say no more about it, my good friends; if I am not all that your partiality would make me, I am yours through life, in prosperity as in poverty. We will talk of other matters.”

The old hunters yielded to his wish, which seemed to be their law. For a short time a profound silence prevailed, during which each man was very busy with his hook and line, but Edwards, probably feeling that it remained with him to renew the discourse, soon observed, with the air of one who knew not what he said:

“How beautifully tranquil and glassy the lake is! Saw you it ever more calm and even than at this moment, Natty?”

“I have known the Otsego water for five-and-forty years,” said Leather — Stocking, “and I will say that for it, which is, that a cleaner spring or better fishing is not to be found in the land. Yes, yes; I had the place to myself once, and a cheerful time I had of it. The game was plenty as heart could wish; and there was none to meddle with the ground unless there might have been a hunting party of the Delawares crossing the hills, or, maybe, a rifling scout of them thieves, the Iroquois. There was one or two Frenchmen that squatted in the flats further west, and married squaws; and some of the Scotch-Irishers, from the Cherry Valley, would come on to the lake, and borrow my canoe to take a mess of parch, or drop a line for salmon-trout; but, in the main, it was a cheerful place, and I had but little to disturb me in it. John would come, and John knows.” Mohegan turned his dark face at this appeal; and, moving his hand forward with graceful motion of assent, he spoke, using the Delaware language:

“The land was owned by my people; we gave it to my brother in council — to the Fire-eater; and what the Delawares give lasts as long as the waters run. Hawk-eye smoked at that council, for we loved him.”

“No, no, John,” said Natty, “I was no chief, seeing that I knowed nothing of scholarship, and had a white skin. But it was a comfortable hunting-ground then, lad, and would have been so this day, but for the money of Marmaduke Temple, and the twisty ways of the law.”

“It must have been a sight of melancholy pleasure in deed,” said Edwards, while his eye roved along the shores and over the hills, where the clearings, groaning with the golden corn, were cheering the forest with the signs of life, “to have roamed over these mountains and along this sheet of beautiful water, without a living soul to speak to, or to thwart your humor.”

“Haven’t I said it was cheerful?” said Leather-Stocking. “Yes, yes, when the trees began to be covered with leaves, and the ice was out of the hake, it was a second paradise. I have travelled the woods for fifty-three years, and have made them my home for more than forty, and I can say that I have met but one place that was more to my liking; and that was only to eyesight, and not for hunting or fishing.”

“And where was that?” asked Edwards.

“Where! why, up on the Catskills. I used often to go up into the mountains after wolves’ skins and bears; once they paid me to get them a stuffed painter, and so I often went. There’s a place in them hills that I used to climb to when I wanted to see the carryings on of the world, that would well pay any man for a barked shin or a torn moccasin. You know the Catskills, lad; for you must have seen them on your left, as you followed the river up from York, looking as blue as a piece of clear sky, and holding the clouds on their tops, as the smoke curls over the head of an Indian chief at the council fire. Well, there’s the High-peak and the Round-top, which lay back like a father and mother among their children, seeing they are far above all the other hills. But the place I mean is next to the river, where one of the ridges juts out a little from the rest, and where the rocks fall, for the best part of a thousand feet, so much up and down, that a man standing on their edges is fool enough to think he can jump from top to bottom.”

“What see you when you get there?” asked Edwards,

“Creation,” said Natty, dropping the end of his rod into the water, and sweeping one hand around him in a circle, “all creation, lad. I was on that hill when Vaughan burned ‘Sopus in the last war; and I saw the vessels come out of the Highlands as plain as I can see that lime-scow rowing into the Susquehanna, though one was twenty times farther from me than the other. The river was in sight for seventy miles, looking like a curled shaving under my feet, though it was eight long miles to its banks. I saw the hills in the Hampshire grants, the highlands of the river, and all that God had done, or man could do, far as eye could reach — you know that the Indians named me for my sight, lad; and from the flat on the top of that mountain, I have often found the place where Albany stands. And as for ‘Sopus, the day the royal troops burnt the town, the smoke seemed so nigh, that I thought I could hear the screeches of the women.”

“It must have been worth the toil to meet with such a glorious view.”

“If being the best part of a mile in the air and having men’s farms and houses your feet, with rivers looking like ribbons, and mountains bigger than the ‘Vision seeming to be hay-stacks of green grass under you, gives any satisfaction to a man, I can recommend the spot. When I first came into the woods to live, I used to have weak spells when I felt lonesome: and then I would go into the Catskills, and spend a few days on that hill to look at the ways of man; but it’s now many a year since I felt any such longings, and I am getting too old for rugged rocks. But there’s a place, a short two miles back of that very hill, that in late times I relished better than the mountains: for it was more covered with the trees, and natural.”

“And where was that?” inquired Edwards, whose curiosity was strongly excited by the simple description of the hunter.

“Why, there’s a fall in the hills where the water of two little ponds. that lie near each other, breaks out of their bounds and runs over the rocks into the valley. The stream is, maybe, such a one as would turn a mill, if so useless thing was wanted in the wilderness. But the hand that made that ‘Leap’ never made a mill. There the water comes crooking and winding among the rocks, first so slow that a trout could swim in it, and then starting and running like a creatur’ that wanted to make a far spring, till it gets to where the mountain divides, like the cleft hoof of a deer, leaving a deep hollow for the brook to tumble into. The first pitch is nigh two hundred feet, and the water looks like flakes of driven snow afore it touches the bottom; and there the stream gathers itself together again for a new start, and maybe flutters over fifty feet of flat rock before it falls for another hundred, when it jumps about from shelf to shelf, first turning this-away and then turning that-away, striving to get out of the hollow, till it finally comes to the plain.”

“I have never heard of this spot before; it is not mentioned in the books.”

“I never read a book in my life,” said Leather-Stocking; “and how should a man who has lived in towns and schools know anything about the wonders of the woods? No, no, lad; there has that little stream of water been playing among the hills since He made the world, and not a dozen white men have ever laid eyes on it. The rock sweeps like mason-work, in a half-round, on both sides of the fall, and shelves over the bottom for fifty feet; so that when I’ve been sitting at the foot of the first pitch, and my hounds have run into the caverns behind the sheet of water, they’ve looked no bigger than so many rabbits. To my judgment, lad, it’s the best piece of work that I’ve met with in the woods; and none know how often the hand of God is seen in the wilderness, but them that rove it for a man’s life.”

“What becomes of the water? In which direction does it run? Is it a tributary of the Delaware?”

“Anan!” said Natty.

“Does the water run into the Delaware?”

“No, no; it’s a drop for the old Hudson, and a merry time it has till it gets down off the mountain. I’ve sat on the shelving rock many a long hour, boy, and watched the bubbles as they shot by me, and thought how long it would be before that very water, which seemed made for the wilderness, would be under the bottom of a vessel, and tossing in the salt sea. It is a spot to make a man solemnize. You go right down into the valley that lies to the east of the High Peak, where, in the fall of the year, thousands of acres of woods are before your eyes, in the deep hollow, and along the side of the mountain, painted like ten thousand rainbows, by no hand of man, though without the ordering of God’s providence.”

“You are eloquent, Leather-Stocking,” exclaimed the youth.

“Anan!” repeated Natty.

“The recollection of the sight has warmed your blood, old man. How many years is it since you saw the place?”

The hunter made no reply; but, bending his ear near the water, he sat holding his breath, and listening attentively as if to some distant sound. At length he raised his head, and said:

“If I hadn’t fastened the hounds with my own hands, with a fresh leash of green buckskin, I’d take a Bible oath that I heard old Hector ringing his cry on the mountain.”

“It is impossible,” said Edwards; “it is not an hour since I saw him in his kennel.”

By this time the attention of Mohegan was attracted to the sounds; but, notwithstanding the youth was both silent and attentive, he could hear nothing but the lowing of some cattle from the western hills. He looked at the old men, Natty sitting with his hand to his ear, like a trumpet, and Mohegan bending forward, with an arm raised to a level with his face, holding the forefinger elevated as a signal for attention, and laughed aloud at what he deemed to be imaginary sounds.

“Laugh if you will, boy,” said Leather-Stocking, “the hounds be out, and are hunting a deer, No man can deceive me in such a matter. I wouldn’t have had the thing happen for a beaver’s skin. Not that I care for the law; but the venison is lean now, and the dumb things run the flesh off their own bones for no good. Now do you hear the hounds?”

Edwards started, as a full cry broke on his ear, changing from the distant sounds that were caused by some intervening hill, to confused echoes that rang among the rocks that the dogs were passing, and then directly to a deep and hollow baying that pealed under the forest under the Lake shore. These variations in the tones of the hounds passed with amazing rapidity; and, while his eyes were glancing along the margin of the water, a tearing of the branches of the alder and dogwood caught his attention, at a spot near them and at the next moment a noble buck sprang on the shore, and buried himself in the lake. A full-mouthed cry followed, when Hector and the slut shot through the opening in the bushes, and darted into the lake also, bearing their breasts gallantly against the water.

CHAPTER XXVII.

“Oft in the full descending flood he tries

To lose the scent, and lave his burning sides.”

— Thomson.

“I knowed it — I knowed it!” cried Natty, when both deer and hounds were in full view; “the buck has gone by them with the wind, and it has been too much for the poor rogues; but I must break them of these tricks, or they’ll give me a deal of trouble. He-ere, he-ere — shore with you, rascals — shore with you — will ye? Oh! off with you, old Hector, or I’ll hackle your hide with my ramrod when I get ye.”

The dogs knew their master’s voice, and after swimming in a circle, as if reluctant to give over the chase, and yet afraid to persevere, they finally obeyed, and returned to the land, where they filled the air with their cries.

In the mean time the deer, urged by his fears, had swum over half the distance between the shore and the boats, before his terror permitted him to see the new danger. But at the sounds of Natty’s voice, he turned short in his course and for a few moments seemed about to rush back again, and brave the dogs. His retreat in this direction was, however, effectually cut off, and, turning a second time, he urged his course obliquely for the centre of the lake, with an intention of landing on the western shore. As the buck swam by the fishermen, raising his nose high into the air, curling the water before his slim neck like the beak of a galley, the Leather-Stocking began to sit very uneasy in his canoe.

“’Tis a noble creatur’!” he exclaimed; “what a pair of horns! a man might hang up all his garments on the branches. Let me see — July is the last month, and the flesh must be getting good.” While he was talking, Natty had instinctively employed himself in fastening the inner end of the bark rope, that served him for a cable, to a paddle, and, rising suddenly on his legs, he cast this buoy away, and cried; “Strike out, John! let her go. The creatur’s a fool to tempt a man in this way.”

Mohegan threw the fastening of the youth’s boat from the canoe, and with one stroke of his paddle sent the light bark over the water like a meteor.

“Hold!” exclaimed Edwards. “Remember the law, my old friends. You are in plain sight of the village, and I know that Judge Temple is determined to prosecute all, indiscriminately, who kill deer out of season.”

The remonstrance came too late; the canoe was already far from the skiff, and the two hunters were too much engaged in the pursuit to listen to his voice.

The buck was now within fifty yards of his pursuers, cutting the water gallantly, and snorting at each breath with terror and his exertions, while the canoe seemed to dance over the waves as it rose and fell with the undulations made by its own motion. Leather-Stocking raised his rifle and freshened the priming, but stood in suspense whether to slay his victim or not.

“Shall I, John or no?” he said. “It seems but a poor advantage to take of the dumb thing, too. I won’t; it has taken to the water on its own natur’, which is the reason that God has given to a deer, and I’ll give it the lake play; so, John, lay out your arm, and mind the turn of the buck; it’s easy to catch them, but they’ll turn like a snake.”

The Indian laughed at the conceit of his friend, but continued to send the canoe forward with a velocity’ that proceeded much more from skill than his strength. Both of the old men now used the language of the Delawares when they spoke.

“Hugh!” exclaimed Mohegan; “the deer turns his head. Hawk-eye, lift your spear.”

Natty never moved abroad without taking with him every implement that might, by possibility, be of service in his pursuits. From his rifle he never parted; and although intending to fish with the line, the canoe was invariably furnished with all of its utensils, even to its grate This precaution grew out of the habits of the hunter, who was often led, by his necessities or his sports, far beyond the limits of his original destination. A few years earlier than the date of our tale, the Leather-Stocking had left his hut on the shores of the Otsego, with his rifle and his hounds, for a few days’ hunting in the hills; but before he returned he had seen the waters of Ontario. One, two, or even three hundred miles had once been nothing to his sinews, which were now a little stiffened by age. The hunter did as Mohegan advised, and prepared to strike a blow with the barbed weapon into the neck of the buck.

“Lay her more to the left, John,” he cried, “lay her more to the left; another stroke of the paddle and I have him.”

While speaking he raised the spear, and darted it front him like an arrow. At that instant the buck turned, the long pole glanced by him, the iron striking against his horn, and buried itself harmlessly in the lake.

“Back water,” cried Natty, as the canoe glided over the place where the spear had fallen; “hold water, John.”

The pole soon reappeared, shooting up from the lake, and, as the hunter seized it in his hand, the Indian whirled the light canoe round, and renewed the chase. But this evolution gave the buck a great advantage; and it also allowed time for Edwards to approach the scene of action.

“Hold your hand, Natty!” cried the youth, “hold your hand; remember it is out of season.”

This remonstrance was made as the batteau arrived close to the place where the deer was struggling with the water, his back now rising to the surface, now sinking beneath it, as the waves curled from his neck, the animal still sustaining itself nobly against the odds,

“Hurrah!” shouted Edwards, inflamed beyond prudence at the sight; “mind him as he doubles — mind him as he doubles; sheer more to the right, Mohegan, more to the right, and I’ll have him by the horns; I’ll throw the rope over his antlers.”

The dark eye of the old warrior was dancing in his head with a wild animation, and the sluggish repose in which his aged frame had been resting in the canoe was now changed to all the rapid inflections of practiced agility. The canoe whirled with each cunning evolution of the chase, like a bubble floating in a whirlpool; and when the direction of the pursuit admitted of a straight course the little bark skimmed the lake with a velocity that urged the deer to seek its safety in some new turn.

It was the frequency of these circuitous movements that, by confining the action to so small a compass, enabled the youth to keep near his companions. More than twenty times both the pursued and the pursuer glided by him, just without the reach of his oars, until he thought the best way to view the sport was to remain stationary, and, by watching a favorable opportunity, assist as much as he could in taking the victim.

He was not required to wait long, for no sooner had he adopted this resolution, and risen in the boat, than he saw the deer coming bravely toward him, with an apparent intention of pushing for a point of land at some distance from the hounds, who were still barking and howling on the shore. Edwards caught the painter of his skiff, and, making a noose, cast it from him with all his force, and luckily succeeded in drawing its knot close around one of the antlers of the buck.

For one instant the skiff was drawn through the water, but in the next the canoe glided before it, and Natty, bending low, passed his knife across the throat of the animal, whose blood followed the wound, dyeing the waters. The short time that was passed in the last struggles of the animal was spent by the hunters in bringing their boats together and securing them in that position, when Leather-Stocking drew the deer from the water and laid its lifeless form in the bottom of the canoe. He placed his hands on the ribs, and on different parts of the body of his prize, and then, raising his head, he laughed in his peculiar manner.

“So much for Marmaduke Temple’s law!” he said, “This warms a body’s blood, old John: I haven’t killed a buck in the lake afore this, sin’ many a year. I call that good venison, lad: and I know them that will relish the creatur’s steaks for all the betterments in the land.”

The Indian had long been drooping with his years, and perhaps under the calamities of his race, but this invigorating and exciting sport caused a gleam of sunshine to cross his swarthy face that had long been absent from his features. It was evident the old man enjoyed the chase more as a memorial of his youthful sports and deeds than with any expectation of profiting by the success. He felt the deer, however, lightly, his hand already trembling with the reaction of his unusual exertions, and smiled with a nod of approbation, as he said, in the emphatic and sententious manner of his people:

“Good.”

“I am afraid, Natty,” said Edwards, when the heat of the moment had passed, and his blood began to cool, “that we have all been equally transgressors of the law. But keep your own counsel, and there are none here to betray us. Yet how came those dogs at large? I left them securely fastened, I know, for I felt the thongs and examined the knots when I was at the hunt.”

“It has been too much for the poor things,” said Natty, “to have such a buck take the wind of them. See, lad, the pieces of the buckskin are hanging from their necks yet. Let us paddle up, John, and I will call them in and look a little into the matter.”

When the old hunter landed and examined the thongs that were yet fast to the hounds, his countenance sensibly changed, and he shook his head doubtingly.

“Here has been a knife at work,” he said; “this skin was never torn, nor is this the mark of a hound’s tooth. No, no — Hector is not in fault, as I feared.”

“Has the leather been cut?” cried Edwards.

“No, no — I didn’t say it had been cut, lad; but this is a mark that was never made by a jump or a bite.”

“Could that rascally carpenter have dared!”

“Ay! he durst do anything when there is no danger,” said Natty; “he is a curious body, and loves to be helping other people on with their consarns. But he had best not harbor so much near the wigwam!”

In the mean time, Mohegan had been examining, with an Indian’s sagacity, the place where the leather thong had been separated. After scrutinizing it closely, he said, in Delaware:

“It was cut with a knife — a sharp blade and a long handle — the man was afraid of the dogs.”

“How is this, Mohegan?” exclaimed Edwards; “you saw it not! how can you know these facts?”

“Listen, son,” said the warrior. “The knife was sharp, for the cut was smooth; the handle was long, for a man’s arm would not reach from this gash to the cut that did not go through the skin; he was a coward, or he would have cut the thongs around the necks of the hounds.”

“On my life,” cried Natty, “John is on the scent! It was the carpenter; and he has got on the rock back of the kennel and let the dogs loose by fastening his knife to a stick. It would be an easy matter to do it where a man is so minded.”

“And why should he do so?” asked Edwards; “who has done him wrong, that he should trouble two old men like you?”

“It’s a hard matter, lad, to know men’s ways, I find, since the settlers have brought in their new fashions, But is there nothing to be found out in the place? and maybe he is troubled with his longings after other people’s business, as he often is.”

“Your suspicions are just. Give me the canoe; I am young and strong, and will get down there yet, perhaps, in time to interrupt his plans. Heaven forbid that we should be at the mercy of such a man!”

His proposal was accepted, the deer being placed in the skiff in order to lighten the canoe, and in less than five minutes the little vessel of bark was gilding over the glassy lake, and was soon hid by the points of land as it shot close along the shore.

Mohegan followed slowly with the skiff, while Natty called his hounds to him, bade them keep close, and, shouldering his rifle, he ascended the mountain, with an intention of going to the hut by land.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

“Ask me not what the maiden feels,

Left in that dreadful hour alone:

Perchance, her reason stoops, or reel!

Perchance, a courage not her own

Braces her mind to desperate tone.”

— Scott.

While the chase was occurring on the lake, Miss Temple and her companion pursued their walk on the mountain. Male attendants on such excursions were thought to be altogether unnecessary, for none were even known to offer insult to a female who respected herself. After the embarrassment created by the parting discourse with Edwards had dissipated, the girls maintained a conversation that was as innocent and cheerful as themselves.

The path they took led them but a short distance above the hut of Leather-Stocking, and there was a point in the road which commanded a bird’s-eye view of the sequestered spot.

From a feeling that might have been, natural, and must have been powerful, neither of the friends, in their frequent and confidential dialogues, had ever trusted herself to utter one syllable concerning the equivocal situation in which the young man who was now so intimately associated with them had been found. If judge Temple had deemed it prudent to make any inquiries on the subject, he had also thought it proper to keep the answers to him self; though it was so common an occurrence to find the well-educated youth of the Eastern States in every stage of their career to wealth, that the simple circumstance of his intelligence, connected with his poverty, would not, at that day and in that country, have excited any very powerful curiosity. With his breeding, it might have been different; but the youth himself had so effectually guarded against surprise on this subject, by his cold and even, in some cases, rude deportment, that when his manners seemed to soften by time, the Judge, if he thought about it at all, would have been most likely to imagine that the improvement was the result of his late association. But women are always more alive to such subjects than men; and what the abstraction of the father had overlooked, the observation of the daughter had easily detected. In the thousand little courtesies of polished life she had early discovered that Edwards was not wanting, though his gentleness was so often crossed by marks of what she conceived to be fierce and uncontrollable passions. It may, perhaps, be unnecessary to tell the reader that Louisa Grant never reasoned so much after the fashions of the world. The gentle girl, however, had her own thoughts on the subject, and, like others, she drew her own conclusions.

“I would give all my other secrets, Louisa,” exclaimed Miss Temple, laughing, and shaking back her dark locks, with a look of childish simplicity that her intelligent face seldom expressed, “to be mistress of all that those rude logs have heard and witnessed.”

They were both looking at the secluded hut at the instant, and Miss Grant raised her mild eyes as she answered:

“I am sure they would tell nothing to the disadvantage of Mr. Edwards.”

“Perhaps not; but they might, at least, tell who he is.”

“Why, dear Miss Temple, we know all that already. I have heard it all very rationally explained by your cousin— “

“The executive chief! he can explain anything. His ingenuity will one day discover the philosopher’s stone. But what did he say?”

“Say!” echoed Louisa, with a look of surprise; “why, everything that seemed to me to be satisfactory, and I now believed it to be true. He said that Natty Bumppo had lived most of his life in the woods and among the Indians, by which means he had formed an acquaintance with old John, the Delaware chief.”

“Indeed! that was quite a matter-of-fact tale for Cousin Dickon. What came next?”

“I believe he accounted for their close intimacy by some story about the Leather-Stocking saving the life of John in a battle.”

“Nothing more likely,” said Elizabeth, a little impatiently; “but what is all this to the purpose?”

“Nay, Elizabeth, you must bear with my ignorance, and I will repeat all that I remember to have overheard for the dialogue was between my father and the sheriff, so lately as the last time they met, He then added that the kings of England used to keep gentlemen as agents among the different tribes of Indians, and sometimes officers in the army, who frequently passed half their lives on the edge of the wilderness.”

“Told with wonderful historical accuracy! And did he end there?”

“Oh! no — then he said that these agents seldom married; and — and — they must have been wicked men, Elizabeth! but I assure you he said so.”

“Never mind,” said Miss Temple, blushing and smiling, though so slightly that both were unheeded by her companion; “skip all that.”

“Well, then, he said that they often took great pride in the education of their children, whom they frequently sent to England, and even to the colleges; and this is the way that he accounts for the liberal manner in which Mr. Edwards has been taught; for he acknowledges that he knows almost as much as your father — or mine — or even himself.”

“Quite a climax in learning’. And so he made Mohegan the granduncle or grandfather of Oliver Edwards.”

“You have heard him yourself, then?” said Louisa.

“Often; but not on this subject. Mr. Richard Jones, you know, dear, has a theory for everything; but has he one which will explain the reason why that hut is the only habitation within fifty miles of us whose door is not open to every person who may choose to lift its latch?”

“I have never heard him say anything on this subject,” returned the clergyman’s daughter; “but I suppose that, as they are poor, they very naturally are anxious to keep the little that they honestly own. It is sometimes dangerous to be rich, Miss Temple; but you cannot know how hard it is to be very, very poor.”

“Nor you, I trust, Louisa; at least I should hope that, in this land of abundance, no minister of the church could be left in absolute suffering.”

“There cannot be actual misery,” returned the other, in a low and humble tone, “where there is a dependence on our Maker; but there may be such suffering as will cause the heart to ache.”

“But not you — not you,” said the impetuous Elizabeth— “not you, dear girl, you have never known the misery that is connected with poverty.”

“Ah! Miss Temple, you little understand the troubles of this life, I believe. My father has spent many years as a missionary in the new countries, where his people were poor, and frequently we have been without bread; unable to buy, and ashamed to beg, because we would not disgrace his sacred calling. But how often have I seen him leave his home, where the sick and the hungry felt, when he left them, that they had lost their only earthly friend, to ride on a duty which could not be neglected for domes tic evils! Oh! how hard it must be to preach consolation to others when your own heart is bursting with anguish!”

“But it is all over now! your father’s income must now be equal to his wants — it must be — it shall be— “

“It is,” replied Louisa, dropping her head on her bosom to conceal the tears which flowed in spite of her gentle Christianity— “for there are none left to be supplied but me.”

The turn the conversation had taken drove from the minds of the young maidens all other thoughts but those of holy charity; and Elizabeth folded her friend in her arms, when the latter gave vent to her momentary grief in audible sobs. When this burst of emotion had subsided, Louisa raised her mild countenance, and they continued their walk in silence.

By this time they had gained the summit of the mountain, where they left the highway, and pursued their course under the shade of the stately trees that crowned the eminence. The day was becoming warm, and the girls plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the excessive heat they had experienced in the ascent. The conversation, as if by mutual consent, was entirely changed to the little incidents and scenes of their walk, and every tall pine, and every shrub or flower, called forth some simple expression of admiration.

In this manner they proceeded along the margin of the precipice, catching occasional glimpses of the placid Otsego, or pausing to listen to the rattling of wheels and the sounds of hammers that rose from the valley, to mingle the signs of men with the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly started, and exclaimed:

“Listen! there are the cries of a child on this mountain! Is there a clearing near us, or can some little one have strayed from its parents?”

“Such things frequently happen,” returned Louisa. “Let us follow the sounds; it may be a wanderer starving on the hill.”

Urged by this consideration, the females pursued the low, mournful sounds, that proceeded from the forest, with quick and impatient steps. More than once, the ardent Elizabeth was on the point of announcing that she saw the sufferer, when Louisa caught her by the arm, and pointing behind them, cried:

“Look at the dog!”

Brave had been their companion, from the time the voice of his young mistress lured him from his kennel, to the present moment. His advanced age had long before deprived him of his activity; and when his companions stopped to view the scenery, or to add to their bouquets, the mastiff would lay his huge frame on the ground and await their movements, with his eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill accorded with the character of a protector. But when, aroused by this cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the dog with his eyes keenly set on some distant object, his head bent near the ground, and his hair actually rising on his body, through fright or anger. It was most probably the latter, for he was growling in a low key, and occasionally showing his teeth, in a manner that would have terrified his mistress, had she not so well known his good qualities.

“Brave!” she said, “be quiet, Brave! What do you see, fellow?”

At the sounds of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, instead of being at all diminished, was very sensibly increased. He stalked in front of the ladies, and seated himself at the feet of his mistress, growling louder than before, and occasionally giving vent to his ire by a short, surly barking.

“What does he see?” said Elizabeth; “there must be some animal in sight.”

Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Temple turned her head and beheld Louisa, standing with her face whitened to the color of death, and her finger pointing upward with a sort of flickering, convulsed motion. The quick eye of Elizabeth glanced in the direction indicated by her friend, where she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes of a female panther, fixed on them in horrid malignity, and threatening to leap.

“Let us fly,” exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the arm of Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow.

There was not a single feeling in the temperament of Elizabeth Temple that could prompt her to desert a companion in such an extremity. She fell on her knees by the side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing from the person of her friend, with instinctive readiness, such parts of her dress as might obstruct her respiration, and encouraging their only safeguard, the dog, at the same time, by the sounds of her voice.

“Courage, Brave!” she cried, her own tones beginning to tremble, “courage, courage, good Brave!”

A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been unseen, now appeared, dropping from the branches of a sapling that grew under the shade of the beech which held its dam. This ignorant but vicious creature approached the dog, imitating the actions and sounds of its parent, but exhibiting a strange mixture of the playfulness of a kitten with the ferocity of its race. Standing on its hind-legs, it would rend the bark of a tree with its fore-paws, and play the antics of a cat; and then, by lashing itself with its tail, growling, and scratching the earth, it would at tempt the manifestations of anger that rendered its parent so terrific.

All this time Brave stood firm and undaunted, his short tail erect, his body drawn backward on its haunches, and his eyes following the movements of both dam and cub. At every gambol played by the latter, it approached nigher to the dog, the growling of the three becoming more horrid at each moment, until the younger beast, over-leaping its intended bound, fell directly before the mastiff. There was a moment of fearful cries and struggles, but they ended almost as soon as commenced, by the cub appearing in the air, hurled from the jaws of Brave, with a violence that sent it against a tree so forcibly as to render it completely senseless. Elizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her blood was warming with the triumph of the dog, when she saw the form of the old panther in the air, springing twenty feet from the branch of the beech to the back of the mastiff. No words of ours can describe the fury of the conflict that followed. It was a confused struggle on the dry leaves, accompanied by loud and terrific cries. Miss Temple continued on her knees, bending over the form of Louisa, her eyes fixed on the animals with an interest so horrid, and yet so intense, that she almost forgot her own stake in the result. So rapid and vigorous were the bounds of the inhabitant of the forest, that its active frame seemed constantly in the air, while the dog nobly faced his foe at each successive leap. When the panther lighted on the shoulders of the mastiff, which was its constant aim, old Brave, though torn with her talons, and stained with his own blood, that already flowed from a dozen wounds, would shake off his furious foe like a feather, and, rearing on his hind-legs, rush to the fray again, with jaws distended, and a dauntless eye. But age, and his pampered life, greatly disqualified the noble mastiff for such a struggle. In everything but courage, he was only the vestige of what he had once been. A higher bound than ever raised the wary and furious beast far beyond the reach of the dog, who was making a desperate but fruitless dash at her, from which she alighted in a favorable position, on the back of her aged foe. For a single moment only could the panther remain there, the great strength of the dog returning with a convulsive effort. But Elizabeth saw, as Brave fastened his teeth in the side of his enemy, that the collar of brass around his neck, which had been glittering throughout the fray, was of the color of blood, and directly that his frame was sinking to the earth, where it soon lay prostrate and helpless. Several mighty efforts of the wild-cat to extricate herself from the jaws of the dog followed, but they were fruitless, until the mastiff turned on his back, his lips collapsed, and his teeth loosened, when the short convulsions and stillness that succeeded announced the death of poor Brave.

Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the beast. There is said to be something in the front of the image of the Maker that daunts the hearts of the inferior beings of his creation; and it would seem that some such power, in the present instance, suspended the threatened blow. The eyes of the monster and the kneeling maiden met for an instant, when the former stooped to examine her fallen foe; next, to scent her luckless cub. From the latter examination it turned, however, with its eyes apparently emitting flashes of fire, its tail lashing its sides furiously, and its claws projecting inches from her broad feet.

Miss Temple did not or could not move. Her hands were clasped in the attitude of prayer, but her eyes were still drawn to her terrible enemy — her cheeks were blanched to the whiteness of marble, and her lips were slightly separated with horror.

The moment seemed now to have arrived for the fatal termination, and the beautiful figure of Elizabeth was bowing meekly to the stroke, when a rustling of leaves behind seemed rather to mock the organs than to meet her ears.

“Hist! hist!” said a low voice, “stoop lower, gal; your bonnet hides the creatur’s head.”

It was rather the yielding of nature than a compliance with this unexpected order, that caused the head of our heroine to sink on her bosom; when she heard the report of the rifle, the whizzing of the bullet, and the enraged cries of the beast, who was rolling over on the earth, biting its own flesh, and tearing the twigs and branches within its reach. At the next instant the form of the Leather-Stocking rushed by her, and he called aloud:

“Come in, Hector! come in, old fool; ’tis a hard-lived animal, and may jump agin.”

Natty fearlessly maintained his position in front of the females, notwithstanding the violent bounds and threatening aspect of the wounded panther, which gave several indications of returning strength and ferocity, until his rifle was again loaded, when he stepped up to the enraged animal, and, placing the muzzle close to its head, every spark of life was extinguished by the discharge.

The death of her terrible enemy appeared to Elizabeth like a resurrection from her own grave. There was an elasticity in the mind of our heroine that rose to meet the pressure of instant danger, and the more direct it had been, the more her nature had struggled to overcome them. But still she was a woman. Had she been left to herself in her late extremity, she would probably have used her faculties to the utmost, and with discretion, in protecting her person; but, encumbered with her inanimate friend, retreat was a thing not to be attempted. Notwithstanding the fearful aspect of her foe, the eye of Elizabeth had never shrunk from its gaze, and long after the event her thoughts would recur to her passing sensations, and the sweetness of her midnight sleep would be disturbed, as her active fancy conjured, in dreams, the most trifling movements of savage fury that the beast had exhibited in its moment of power.

We shall leave the reader to imagine the restoration of Louisa’s senses, and the expressions of gratitude which fell from the young women. The former was effected by a little water, that was brought from one of the thousand springs of those mountains, in the cap of the Leather-Stocking; and the latter were uttered with the warmth that might be expected from the character of Elizabeth. Natty received her vehement protestations of gratitude with a simple expression of good-will, and with indulgence for her present excitement, but with a carelessness that showed how little he thought of the service he had rendered.

“Well, well,” he said, “be it so, gal; let it be so, if you wish it — we’ll talk the thing over another time. Come, come — let us get into the road, for you’ve had terror enough to make you wish yourself in your father’s house agin.”

This was uttered as they were proceeding, at a pace that was adapted to the weakness of Louisa, toward the highway; on reaching which the ladies separated from their guide, declaring themselves equal to the remainder of the walk without his assistance, and feeling encouraged by the sight of the village which lay beneath their feet like a picture, with its limpid lake in front, the winding stream along its margin, and its hundred chimneys of whitened bricks.

The reader need not be told the nature of the emotions which two youthful, ingenuous, and well-educated girls would experience at their escape from a death so horrid as the one which had impended over them, while they pursued their way in silence along the track on the side of the mountain; nor how deep were their mental thanks to that Power which had given them their existence, and which had not deserted them in their extremity; neither how often they pressed each other’s arms as the assurance of their present safety came, like a healing balm, athwart their troubled spirits, when their thoughts were recurring to the recent moments of horror.

Leather-Stocking remained on the hill, gazing after their retiring figures, until they were hidden by a bend in the road, when he whistled in his dogs, and shouldering his rifle, he returned into the forest.

“Well, it was a skeary thing to the young creatur’s,” said Natty, while he retrod the path toward the plain. “It might frighten an older woman, to see a she-painter so near her, with a dead cub by its side. I wonder if I had aimed at the varmint’s eye, if I shouldn’t have touched the life sooner than in the forehead; but they are hard-lived animals, and it was a good shot, consid’ring that I could see nothing but the head and the peak of its tail. Hah! who goes there?”

“How goes it, Natty?” said Mr. Doolittle, stepping out of the bushes, with a motion that was a good deal accelerated by the sight of the rifle, that was already lowered in his direction. “What! shooting this warm day! Mind, old man, the law don’t get hold on you.”

“The law, squire! I have shook hands with the law these forty year,” returned Natty; “for what has a man who lives in the wilderness to do with the ways of the law?”

“Not much, maybe,” said Hiram; “but you sometimes trade in venison. I s’pose you know, Leather-Stocking, that there is an act passed to lay a fine of five pounds currency, or twelve dollars and fifty cents, by decimals, on every man who kills a deer betwixt January and August. The Judge had a great hand in getting the law through.”

“I can believe it,” returned the old hunter; “I can believe that or anything of a man who carries on as he does in the country.”

“Yes, the law is quite positive, and the Judge is bent on putting it in force — five pounds penalty. I thought I heard your hounds out on the scent of so’thing this morning; I didn’t know but they might get you in difficulty.”

“They know their manners too well,” said Natty carelessly. “And how much goes to the State’s evidence, squire?”

“How much?” repeated Hiram, quailing under the honest but sharp look of the hunter; “the informer gets half, I — I believe — yes, I guess it’s half. But there’s blood on your sleeve, man — you haven’t been shooting anything this morning?”

“I have, though,” said the hunter, nodding his head significantly to the other, “and a good shot I made of it.”

“H-e-m!” ejaculated the magistrate; “and where is the game? I s’pose it’s of a good natur’, for your dogs won’t hunt anything that isn’t choice.”

“They’ll hunt anything I tell them to, squire,” cried Natty, favoring the other with his laugh. “They’ll hunt you, if I say so. He-e-e-re, he-e-e-re, Hector — he-e-e-re, slut — come this a-way, pups — come this a-way — come hither.”

“Oh! I have always heard a good character of the dogs,” returned Mr. Doolittle, quickening his pace by raising each leg in rapid succession, as the hounds scented around his person. “And where is the game, Leather-Stocking?”

During this dialogue, the speakers had been walking at a very fast gait, and Natty swung the end of his rifle round, pointing through the bushes, and replied: “There lies one. How do you like such meat?”

“This!” exclaimed Hiram; “why, this is Judge Temple’s dog Brave. Take care, Leather-Stocking, and don’t make an enemy of the Judge. I hope you haven’t harmed the animal?”

“Look for yourself, Mr. Doolittle,” said Natty, drawing his knife from his girdle, and wiping it in a knowing manner, once or twice across his garment of buckskin; “does his throat look as if I had cut it with this knife?”

“It is dreadfully torn! it’s an awful wound — no knife ever did this deed. Who could have done it?”

“The painters behind you, squire.”

“Painters!” echoed Hiram, whirling on his heel with an agility that would have done credit to a dancing’ master.

“Be easy, man,” said Natty; “there’s two of the venomous things; but the dog finished one, and I have fastened the other’s jaws for her; so don’t be frightened, squire; they won’t hurt you.”

“And where’s the deer?” cried Hiram, staring about him with a bewildered air.

“Anan? deer!” repeated Natty. “Sartain; an’t there venison here, or didn’t you kill a buck?”

“What! when the law forbids the thing, squire!” said the old hunter, “I hope there’s no law agin’ killing the painters.”

“No! there’s a bounty on the scalps — but — will your dogs hunt painters, Natty?”

“Anything; didn’t I tell you they would hunt a man? He-e-re, he-e-re, pups— “

“Yes, yes, I remember. Well, they are strange dogs, I must say — I am quite in a wonderment.”

Natty had seated himself on the ground, and having laid the grim head of his late ferocious enemy in his lap, was drawing his knife with a practiced hand around the ears, which he tore from the head of the beast in such a manner as to preserve their connection, when he answered;

“What at, squire? did you never see a painter’s scalp afore? Come, you are a magistrate, I wish you’d make me out an order for the bounty.”

“The bounty!” repeated Hiram, holding the ears on the end of his finger for a moment, as if uncertain how to proceed. “Well, let us go down to your hut, where you can take the oath, and I will write out the order, I sup pose you have a Bible? All the law wants is the four evangelists and the Lord’s prayer.”

“I keep no books,” said Natty, a little coldly; “not such a Bible as the law needs.”

“Oh! there’s but one sort of Bible that’s good in law,” returned the magistrate, “and your’n will do as well as another’s. Come, the carcasses are worth nothing, man; let us go down and take the oath.”

“Softly, softly, squire,” said the hunter, lifting his trophies very deliberately from the ground, and shouldering his rifle; “why do you want an oath at all, for a thing that your own eyes has seen? Won’t you believe yourself, that another man must swear to a fact that you know to be true? You have seen me scalp the creatur’s, and if I must swear to it, it shall be before Judge Temple, who needs an oath.”

“But we have no pen or paper here, Leather-Stocking; we must go to the hut for them, or how can I write the order?”

Natty turned his simple features on the cunning magistrate with another of his laughs, as he said:

“And what should I be doing with scholars’ tools? I want no pens or paper, not knowing the use of either; and I keep none. No, no, I’ll bring the scalps into the village, squire, and you can make out the order on one of your law-books, and it will be all the better for it. The deuce take this leather on the neck of the dog, it will strangle the old fool. Can you lend me a knife, squire?”

Hiram, who seemed particularly anxious to be on good terms with his companion, unhesitatingly complied. Natty cut the thong from the neck of the hound, and, as he returned the knife to its owner, carelessly remarked:

“’Tis a good bit of steel, and has cut such leather as this very same, before now, I dare say.”

“Do you mean to charge me with letting your hounds loose?” exclaimed Hiram, with a consciousness that disarmed his caution.

“Loose!” repeated the hunter— “I let them loose myself. I always let them loose before I leave the hut.”

The ungovernable amazement with which Mr. Doolittle listened to this falsehood would have betrayed his agency in the liberation of the dogs, had Natty wanted any further confirmation; and the coolness and management of the old man now disappeared in open indignation.

“Look you here, Mr. Doolittle,” he said, striking the breech of his rifle violently on the ground; “what there is in the wigwam of a poor man like me, that one like you can crave, I don’t know; but this I tell you to your face, that you never shall put foot under the roof of my cabin with my consent, and that, if you harbor round the spot as you have done lately, you may meet with treatment that you will little relish.”

“And let me tell you, Mr. Bumppo,” said Hiram, retreating, however, with a quick step, “that I know you’ve broke the law, and that I’m a magistrate, and will make you feel it too, before you are a day older.”

“That for you and your law, too,” cried Natty, snap ping his fingers at the justice of the peace; “away with you, you varmint, before the devil tempts me to give you your desarts. Take care, if I ever catch your prowling face in the woods agin, that I don’t shoot it for an owl.”

There is something at all times commanding in honest indignation, and Hiram did not stay to provoke the wrath of the old hunter to extremities. When the intruder was out of sight, Natty proceeded to the hut, where he found all quiet as the grave. He fastened his dogs, and tapping at the door, which was opened by Edwards, asked;

“Is all safe, lad?”

“Everything,” returned the youth. “Some one attempted the lock, but it was too strong for him.”

“I know the creatur’,” said Natty, “but he’ll not trust himself within the reach of my rifle very soon — — “ What more was uttered by the Leather-Stocking, in his vexation, was rendered inaudible by the closing of the door of the cabin.

CHAPTER XXIX.

“It is noised, he hath a mass of treasure.”

— Timon of Athens.

When Marmaduke Temple and his cousin rode through the gate of the former, the heart of the father had been too recently touched with the best feelings of our nature, to leave inclination for immediate discourse. There was an importance in the air of Richard, which would not have admitted of the ordinary informal conversation of the sheriff, without violating all the rules of consistency; and the equestrians pursued their way with great diligence, for more than a mile, in profound silence. At length the soft expression of parental affection was slowly chased from the handsome features of the Judge, and was gradually supplanted by the cast of humor and benevolence that was usually seated on his brow.

“Well, Dickon,” he said, “since I have yielded myself so far implicitly to your guidance, I think the moment has arrived when I am entitled to further confidence. Why and wherefore are we journeying together in this solemn gait?”

The sheriff gave a loud hem, that rang far in the forest, and keeping his eyes fixed on objects before him like a man who is looking deep into futurity:

“There has always been one point of difference between us, Judge Temple, I may say, since our nativity,” he replied; “not that I would insinuate that you are at all answerable for the acts of Nature; for a man is no more to be condemned for the misfortunes of his birth, than he is to be commended for the natural advantages he may possess; but on one point we may be said to have differed from our births, and they, you know, occurred within two days of each other.”

“I really marvel, Richard, what this one point can be, for, to my eyes, we seem to differ so materially, and so often— “

“Mere consequences, sir,” interrupted the sheriff; “all our minor differences proceed from one cause, and that is, our opinions of the universal attainments of genius.”

“In what, Dickon?”

“I speak plain English, I believe, Judge Temple: at least I ought; for my father, who taught me, could speak — — “

“Greek and Latin,” interrupted Marmaduke. “I well know the qualifications of your family in tongues, Dickon. But proceed to the point; why are we travelling over this mountain to-day?”

“To do justice to any subject, sir, the narrator must be suffered to proceed in his own way,” continued the sheriff. “You are of opinion, Judge Temple, that a man is to be qualified by nature and education to do only one thing well, whereas I know that genius will supply the place of learning, and that a certain sort of man can do anything and everything.”

“Like yourself, I suppose,” said Marmaduke, smiling.

“I scorn personalities, sir, I say nothing of myself; but there are three men on your Patent, of the kind that I should term talented by nature for her general purposes though acting under the influence of different situations.”

“We are better off, then, than I had supposed. Who are these triumviri?”

“Why, sir, one is Hiram Doolittle; a carpenter by trade, as you know — and I need only point to the village to exhibit his merits. Then he is a magistrate, and might shame many a man, in his distribution of justice, who has had better opportunities.”

“Well, he is one,” said Marmaduke, with the air of a man that was determined not to dispute the point.

“Jotham Riddel is another.”

“Who?”

“Jotham Riddel.”

“What, that dissatisfied, shiftless, lazy, speculating fellow! he who changes his county every three years, his farm every six months, and his occupation every season! an agriculturist yesterday, a shoemaker to-day, and a school master to-morrow! that epitome of all the unsteady and profitless propensities of the settlers without one of their good qualities to counterbalance the evil! Nay, Richard, this is too bad for even — but the third.”

“As the third is not used to hearing such comments on his character, Judge Temple, I shall not name him.”

“The amount of all this, then, Dickon, is that the trio, of which you are one, and the principal, have made some important discovery.”

“I have not said that I am one, Judge Temple. As I told you before, say nothing egotistical. But a discovery has been made, and you are deeply interested in it.”

“Proceed — I am all ears.”

“No, no, ‘Duke, you are bad enough, I own, but not so bad as that, either; your ears are not quite full grown.”

The sheriff laughed heartily at his own wit, and put himself in good humor thereby, when he gratified his patient cousin with the following explanation:

“You know, ‘Duke, there is a man living on your estate that goes by the name of Natty Bumppo. Here has this man lived, by what I can learn, for more than forty years — by himself, until lately; and now with strange companions.”

“Part very true, and all very probable,” said the Judge.

“All true, sir; all true. Well, within these last few months have appeared as his companions an old Indian chief, the last, or one of the last of his tribe that is to be found in this part of the country, and a young man, who is said to be the son of some Indian agent, by a squaw.”

“Who says that?” cried Marmaduke, with an interest; that he had not manifested before.

“Who? why, common sense — common report — the hue and cry. But listen till you know all. This youth has very pretty talents — yes, what I call very pretty talents — and has been well educated, has seen very tolerable company, and knows how to behave himself when he has a mind to. Now, Judge Temple, can you tell me what has brought three such men as Indian John, Natty Bumppo, and Oliver Edwards together?” Marmaduke turned his countenance, in evident surprise, to his cousin, and replied quickly:

“Thou hast unexpectedly hit on a subject, Richard, that has often occupied my mind. But knowest thou anything of this mystery, or are they only the crude conjectures of— “

“Crude nothing, ‘Duke, crude nothing: but facts, stub-born facts. You know there are mines in these mountains; I have often heard you say that you believed in their existence.”

“Reasoning from analogy, Richard, but not with any certainty of the fact.”

“You have heard them mentioned, and have seen specimens of the ore, sir; you will not deny that! and, reasoning from analogy, as you say, if there be mines in South America, ought there not to be mines in North America too?”

“Nay, nay, I deny nothing, my cousin. I certainly have heard many rumors of the existence of mines in these hills: and I do believe that I have seen specimens of the precious metals that have been found here. It would occasion me no surprise to learn that tin and silver, or what I consider of more consequence, good coal— “

“Damn your coal,” cried the sheriff; “who wants to find coal in these forests? No, no — silver, ‘Duke; silver is the one thing needful, and silver is to be found. But listen: you are not to be told that the natives have long known the use of gold and silver; now who so likely to be acquainted where they are to be found as the ancient inhabitants of a country? I have the best reasons for believing that both Mohegan and the Leather-Stocking have been privy to the existence of a mine in this very mountain for many years.”

The sheriff had now touched his cousin in a sensitive spot; and Marmaduke lent a more attentive ear to the speaker, who, after waiting a moment to see the effect of this extraordinary development, proceeded:

“Yes, sir, I have my reasons, and at a proper time you shall know them.”

“No time is so good as the present.”

“Well, well, be attentive,” continued Richard, looking cautiously about him, to make certain that no eavesdropper was hid in the forest, though they were in constant motion. “I have seen Mohegan and the Leather-Stocking, with my own eyes — and my eyes are as good as anybody’s eyes — I have seen them, I say, both going up the mountain and coming down it, with spades and picks; and others have seen them carrying things into their hut, in a secret and mysterious manner, after dark. Do you call this a fact of importance?”

The Judge did not reply, but his brow had contracted, with a thoughtfulness that he always wore when much interested, and his eyes rested on his cousin in expectation of hearing more. Richard continued:

“It was ore. Now, sir, I ask if you can tell me who this Mr. Oliver Edwards is, that has made a part of your household since Christmas?”

Marmaduke again raised his eyes, but continued silent, shaking his head in the negative.

“That he is a half-breed we know, for Mohegan does not scruple to call him openly his kinsman; that he is well educated we know. But as to his business here — do you remember that about a month before this young man made his appearance among us, Natty was absent from home several days? You do; for you inquired for him, as you wanted some venison to take to your friends, when you went for Bess. Well, he was not to be found. Old John was left in the hut alone, and when Natty did appear, although he came on in the night, he was seen drawing one of those jumpers that they carry their grain to mill in, and to take out something with great care, that he had covered up under his bear-skins. Now let me ask you, Judge Temple, what motive could induce a man like the Leather-Stocking to make a sled, and toil with a load over these mountains, if he had nothing but his rifle or his ammunition to carry?”

“They frequently make these jumpers to convey their game home, and you say he had been absent many days.”

“How did he kill it? His rifle was in the village, to be mended. No, no — that he was gone to some unusual place is certain; that he brought back some secret utensils is more certain; and that he has not allowed a soul to approach his hut since is most certain of all.”

“He was never fond of intruders —— — “

“I know it,” interrupted Richard; “but did he drive them from his cabin morosely? Within a fortnight of his return, this Mr. Edwards appears. They spend whole days in the mountains, pretending to be shooting, but in reality exploring; the frosts prevent their digging at that time, and he avails himself of a lucky accident to get into good quarters. But even now, he is quite half of his time in that hut — many hours every night. They are smelting, ‘Duke they are smelting, and as they grow rich, you grow poor.”

“How much of this is thine own, Richard, and how much comes from others? I would sift the wheat from the chaff.”

“Part is my own, for I saw the jumper, though it was broken up and burnt in a day or two. I have told you that I saw the old man with his spades and picks. Hiram met Natty, as he was crossing the mountain, the night of his arrival with the sled, and very good-naturedly offered — Hiram is good-natured — to carry up part of his load, for the old man had a heavy pull up the back of the mountain, but he wouldn’t listen to the thing, and repulsed the offer in such a manner that the squire said he had half a mind to swear the peace against him. Since the snow has been off, more especially after the frosts got out of the ground, we have kept a watchful eye on the gentle man, in which we have found Jotham useful.” Marmaduke did not much like the associates of Richard in this business; still he knew them to be cunning and ready expedients; and as there was certainly something mysterious, not only in the connection between the old hunters and Edwards, but in what his cousin had just related, he began to revolve the subject in his own mind with more care. On reflection, he remembered various circumstances that tended to corroborate these suspicions, and, as the whole business favored one of his infirmities, he yielded the more readily to their impression. The mind of Judge Temple, at all times comprehensive, had received from his peculiar occupations a bias to look far into futurity, in his speculations on the improvements that posterity were to make in his lands. To his eye, where others saw nothing but a wilderness, towns, manufactories, bridges, canals, mines, and all the other resources of an old country were constantly presenting themselves, though his good sense suppressed, in some degree, the exhibition of these expectations.

As the sheriff allowed his cousin full time to reflect on what he had heard, the probability of some pecuniary adventure being the connecting link in the chain that brought Oliver Edwards into the cabin of Leather-Stocking appeared to him each moment to be stronger. But Marmaduke was too much in the habit of examining both sides of a subject not to perceive the objections, and he reasoned with himself aloud:

“It cannot be so, or the youth would not be driven so near the verge of poverty.”

“What so likely to make a man dig for money as being poor?” cried the sheriff.

“Besides, there is an elevation of character about Oliver that proceeds from education, which would forbid so clandestine a proceeding.”

“Could an ignorant fellow smelt?” continued Richard.

“Bess hints that he was reduced even to his last shilling when we took him into our dwelling.”

“He had been buying tools. And would he spend his last sixpence for a shot at a turkey had he not known where to get more?”

“Can I have possibly been so long a dupe? His manner has been rude to me at times, but I attributed it to his conceiving himself injured, and to his mistaking the forms of the world.”

“Haven’t you been a dupe all your life, ‘Duke, and an’t what you call ignorance of forms deep cunning, to conceal his real character?”

“If he were bent on deception, he would have concealed his knowledge, and passed with us for an inferior man.”

“He cannot. I could no more pass for a fool, myself, than I could fly. Knowledge is not to be concealed, like a candle under a bushel.”

“Richard,” said the Judge, turning to his cousin, “there are many reasons against the truth of thy conjectures, but thou hast awakened suspicions which must be satisfied. But why are we travelling here?”

“Jotham, who has been much in the mountain latterly, being kept there by me and Hiram, has made a discovery, which he will not explain, he says, for he is bound by an oath; but the amount is, that he knows where the ore lies, and he has this day begun to dig. I would not consent to the thing, ‘Duke, without your knowledge, for the land is yours; and now you know the reason of our ride. I call this a countermine, ha!”

“And where is the desirable spot?” asked the Judge with an air half comical, half serious.

“At hand; and when we have visited that, I will show you one of the places that we have found within a week, where our hunters have been amusing themselves for six months past.”

The gentlemen continued to discuss the matter, while their horses picked their way under the branches of the trees and over the uneven ground of the mountain. They soon arrived at the end of their journey, where, in truth, they found Jotham already buried to his neck in a hole that he had been digging.

Marmaduke questioned the miner very closely as to his reasons for believing in the existence of the precious metals near that particular spot; but the fellow maintained an obstinate mystery in his answers. He asserted that he had the best of reasons for what he did, and inquired of the judge what portion of the profits would fall to his own share, in the event of success, with an earnestness that proved his faith. After spending an hour near the place, examining the stones, and searching for the usual indications of the proximity of ore, the Judge remounted and suffered his cousin to lead the way to the place where the mysterious trio had been making their excavation.

The spot chosen by Jotham was on the back of the mountain that overhung the hut of Leather-Stocking, and the place selected by Natty and his companions was on the other side of the same hill, but above the road, and, of course, in an opposite direction to the route taken by the ladies in their walk.

“We shall be safe in approaching the place now,” said Richard, while they dismounted and fastened their horses; “for I took a look with the glass, and saw John and Leather-Stocking in their canoe fishing before we left home, and Oliver is in the same pursuit; but these may be nothing but shams to blind our eye; so we will be expeditious, for it would not be pleasant to be caught here by them.”

“Not on my own land?” said Marmaduke sternly. “If it be as you suspect, I will know their reasons for making this excavation.”

“Mum,” said Richard, laying a finger on his lip, and leading the way down a very difficult descent to a sort of natural cavern, which was found in the face of the rock, and was not unlike a fireplace in shape. In front of this place lay a pile of earth, which had evidently been taken from the recess, and part of which was yet fresh. An examination of the exterior of the cavern left the Judge in doubt whether it was one of Nature’s frolics that had thrown it into that shape, or whether it had been wrought by the hands of man, at some earlier period. But there could be no doubt that the whole of the interior was of recent formation, and the marks of the pick were still visible where the soft, lead-colored rock had opposed itself to the progress of the miners. The whole formed an excavation of about twenty feet in width, and nearly twice that distance in depth. The height was much greater than was required for the ordinary purposes of experiment, but this was evidently the effect of chance, as the roof of the cavern was a natural stratum of rock that projected many feet beyond the base of the pile. Immediately in front of the recess, or cave, was a little terrace, partly formed by nature, and partly by the earth that had been carelessly thrown aside by the laborers. The mountain fell off precipitously in front of the terrace, and the approach by its sides, under the ridge of the rocks, was difficult and a little dangerous. The whole was wild, rude, and apparently incomplete; for, while looking among the bushes, the sheriff found the very implements that had been used in the work.

When the sheriff thought that his cousin had examined the spot sufficiently, he asked solemnly:

“Judge Temple, are you satisfied?”

“Perfectly, that there is something mysterious and perplexing in this business. It is a secret spot, and cunningly devised, Richard; yet I see no symptoms of ore.”

“Do you expect, sir, to find gold and silver lying like pebbles on the surface of the earth? — dollars and dimes ready coined to your hands? No, no — the treasure must be sought after to be won. But let them mine; I shall countermine.”

The Judge took an accurate survey of the place, and noted in his memorandum-book such marks as were necessary to find it again in the event of Richard’s absence; when the cousins returned to their horses.

On reaching the highway they separated, the sheriff to summon twenty-four “good men and true,” to attend as thc inquest of the county, on the succeeding Monday, when Marmaduke held his stated court of “common pleas and general sessions of the peace,” and the Judge to return, musing deeply on what he had seen and heard in the course of the morning.

When the horse of the latter reached the spot where the highway fell toward the valley, the eye of Marmaduke rested, it is true, on the same scene that had, ten minutes before, been so soothing to the feelings of his daughter and her friend, as they emerged from the forest; but it rested in vacancy. He threw the reins to his sure footed beast, and suffered the animal to travel at his own gait, while he soliloquized as follows:

“There may be more in this than I at first supposed. I have suffered my feelings to blind my reason, in admitting an unknown youth in this manner to my dwelling; yet this is not the land of suspicion. I will have Leather-Stocking before me, and, by a few direct questions, extract the truth from the simple old man.”

At that instant the Judge caught a glimpse of the figures of Elizabeth and Louisa, who were slowly descending the mountain, short distance before him. He put spurs to his horse, and riding up to them, dismounted, and drove his steed along the narrow path. While the agitated parent was listening to the vivid description that his daughter gave of her recent danger, and her unexpected escape, all thoughts of mines, vested rights, and examinations were absorbed in emotion; and when the image of Natty again crossed his recollection, it was not as a law Less and depredating squatter, but as the preserver of his child.

CHAPTER XXX.

“The court awards it, and the law doth give it.”

— Merchant of Venice.

Remarkable Pettibone, who had forgotten the wound received by her pride, in contemplation of the ease and comforts of her situation, and who still retained her station in the family of judge Temple, was dispatched to the humble dwelling which Richard already styled “The Rectory,” in attendance on Louisa, who was soon consigned to the arms of her father.

In the mean time, Marmaduke and his daughter were closeted for more than an hour, nor shall we invade the sanctuary of parental love, by relating the conversation. When the curtain rises on the reader, the Judge is seen walking up and down the apartment, with a tender melancholy in his air, and his child reclining on a settee, with a flushed cheek, and her dark eyes seeming to float in crystals.

“It was a timely rescue! it was, indeed, a timely rescue, my child!” cried the Judge. “Then thou didst not desert thy friend, my noble Bess?”

“I believe I may as well take the credit of fortitude,” said Elizabeth, “though I much doubt if flight would have availed me anything, had I even courage to execute such an intention. But I thought not of the expedient.”

“Of what didst thou think, love? where did thy thoughts dwell most, at that fearful moment?”

“The beast! the beast!” cried Elizabeth, veiling her face with her hand. “Oh! I saw nothing, I thought of nothing but the beast. I tried to think of better things, but the horror was too glaring, the danger too much before my eyes.”

“Well, well, thou art safe, and we will converse no more on the unpleasant subject. I did not think such an animal yet remained in our forests; but they will stray far from their haunts when pressed by hunger, and— “

A loud knocking at the door of the apartment interrupted what he was about to utter, and he bid the applicant enter. The door was opened by Benjamin, who came in with a discontented air, as if he felt that he had a communication to make that would be out of season.

“Here is Squire Doolittle below, sir,” commenced the major-domo. “He has been standing off and on in the door-yard for the matter of a glass; and he has summat on his mind that he wants to heave up, d’ye see; but I tells him, says I, man, would you be coming aboard with your complaints, said I, when the judge has gotten his own child, as it were, out of the jaws of a lion? But damn the bit of manners has the fellow, any more than if he was one of them Guineas down in the kitchen there; and so as he was sheering nearer, every stretch he made toward the house, I could do no better than to let your honor know that the chap was in the offing.”

“He must have business of importance,” said Marmaduke: “something in relation to his office, most probably, as the court sits so shortly.”

“Ay, ay, you have it, sir,” cried Benjamin; “it’s summat about a complaint that he has to make of the old Leather-Stocking, who, to my judgment, is the better man of the two. It’s a very good sort of a man is this Master Bumppo, and he has a way with a spear, all the same as if he was brought up at the bow-oar of the captain’s barge, or was born with a boat-hook in his hand.”

“Against the Leather-Stocking!” cried Elizabeth, rising from her reclining posture.

“Rest easy, my child; some trifle, I pledge you; I believe I am already acquainted with its import Trust me, Bess, your champion shall be safe in my care. Show Mr. Doolittle in, Benjamin.”

Miss Temple appeared satisfied with this assurance, but fastened her dark eyes on the person of the architect, who profited by the permission, and instantly made his appearance.

All the impatience of Hiram seemed to vanish the instant he entered the apartment. After saluting the Judge and his daughter, he took the chair to which Marmaduke pointed, and sat for a minute, composing his straight black hair, with a gravity of demeanor that was in tended to do honor to his official station. At length he said:

“It’s likely, from what I hear, that Miss Temple had a narrow chance with the painters, on the mountain.”

Marmaduke made a gentle inclination of his head, by way of assent, but continued silent.

“I s’pose the law gives a bounty on the scalps,” continued Hiram, “in which case the Leather-Stocking will make a good job on’t.”

“It shall be my care to see that he is rewarded,” returned the Judge.

“Yes, yes, I rather guess that nobody hereabouts doubts the Judge’s generosity. Does he know whether the sheriff has fairly made up his mind to have a reading desk or a deacon’s pew under the pulpit?”

“I have not heard my cousin speak on that subject, lately,” replied Marmaduke. “I think it’s likely that we will have a pretty dull court on’t, from what I can gather. I hear that Jotham Riddel and the man who bought his betterments have agreed to leave their difference to men, and I don’t think there’ll be more than two civil cases in the calendar.”

“I am glad of it,” said the judge; “nothing gives me more pain than to see my settlers wasting their time and substance in the unprofitable struggles of the law. I hope it may prove true, sir.”

“I rather guess ‘twill be left out to men,” added Hiram, with an air equally balanced between doubt and assurance, but which judge Temple understood to mean certainty; “I some think that I am appointed a referee in the case myself; Jotham as much as told me that he should take me. The defendant, I guess, means to take Captain Hollister, and we two have partly agreed on Squire Jones for the third man.”

“Are there any criminals to be tried?” asked Marmaduke.

“There’s the counterfeiters,” returned the magistrate, “as they were caught in the act, I think it likely that they’ll be indicted, in which case it’s probable they’ll be tried.”

“Certainly, sir; I had forgotten those men. There are no more, I hope.” “Why, there is a threaten to come forward with an assault that happened at the last independence day; but I’m not sartain that the law’ll take hold on’t. There was plaguey hard words passed, but whether they struck or not I haven’t heard. There’s some folks talk of a deer or two being killed out of season, over on the west side of the Patent, by some of the squatters on the ‘Fractions.’”

“Let a complaint be made, by all means,” said the Judge; “I am determined to see the law executed to the letter, on all such depredators.”

“Why, yes, I thought the judge was of that mind; I came partly on such a business myself.”

“You!” exclaimed Marmaduke, comprehending in an instant how completely he had been caught by the other’s cunning; “and what have you to say, sir?”

“I some think that Natty Bumppo has the carcass of a deer in his hut at this moment, and a considerable part of my business was to get a search-warrant to examine.”

“You think, sir! do you know that the law exacts an oath, before I can issue such a precept? The habitation of a citizen is not to be idly invaded on light suspicion.”

“I rather think I can swear to it myself,” returned the immovable Hiram; “and Jotham is in the street, and as good as ready to come in and make oath to the same thing.”

“Then issue the warrant thyself; thou art a magistrate, Mr. Doolittle; why trouble me with the matter?”

“Why, seeing it’s the first complaint under the law, and knowing the judge set his heart on the thing, I thought it best that the authority to search should come from himself. Besides, as I’m much in the woods, among the timber, I don’t altogether like making an enemy of the Leather Stocking. Now, the Judge has a weight in the county that puts him above fear.”

Miss Temple turned her face to the callous Architect as she said’ “And what has any honest person to dread from so kind a man as Bumppo?”

“Why, it’s as easy, miss, to pull a rifle trigger on a magistrate as on a painter. But if the Judge don’t conclude to issue the warrant, I must go home and make it out myself.”

“I have not refused your application, sir,” said Marmaduke, perceiving at once that his reputation for impartiality was at stake; “go into my office, Mr. Doolittle, where I will join you, and sign the warrant.” Judge Temple stopped the remonstrances which Elizabeth was about to utter, after Hiram had withdrawn, by laying his hand on her mouth, and saying:

“It is more terrible in sound than frightful in reality, my child. I suppose that the Leather-Stocking has shot a deer, for the season is nearly over, and you say that he was hunting with his dogs when he came so timely to your assistance. But it will be only to examine his cabin, and find the animal, when you can pay the penalty out of your own pocket, Bess. Nothing short of the twelve dollars and a half will satisfy this harpy, I perceive; and surely my reputation as judge is worth that trifle.”

Elizabeth was a good deal pacified with this assurance, and suffered her father to leave her, to fulfil his promise to Hiram.

When Marmaduke left his office after executing his disagreeable duty, he met Oliver Edwards, walking up the gravelled walk in front of the mansion-house with great strides, and with a face agitated by feeling. On seeing judge Temple, the youth turned aside, and with a warmth in his manner that was not often exhibited to Marmaduke, he cried:

“I congratulate you, sir; from the bottom of my soul, I congratulate you, Judge Temple. Oh! it would have been too horrid to have recollected for a moment! I have just left the hut, where, after showing me his scalps, old Natty told me of the escape of the ladies, as the thing to be mentioned last. Indeed, indeed, sir, no words of mine can express half of what I have felt “ — the youth paused a moment, as if suddenly recollecting that he was overstepping prescribed limits, and concluded with a good deal of embarrassment— “what I have felt at this danger to Miss — Grant, and — and your daughter, sir.”

But the heart of Marmaduke was too much softened to admit his cavilling at trifles, and, without regarding the confusion of the other, he replied:

“I thank thee, thank thee, Oliver; as thou sayest, it is almost too horrid to be remembered. But come, let us hasten to Bess, for Louisa has already gone to the rectory.”

The young man sprang forward, and, throwing open a door, barely permitted the Judge to precede him, when he was in the presence of Elizabeth in a moment.

The cold distance that often crossed the demeanor of the heiress, in her intercourse with Edwards, was now entirely banished, and two hours were passed by the party, in the free, unembarrassed, and confiding manner of old and esteemed friends. Judge Temple had forgotten the suspicions engendered during his morning’s ride, and the youth and maiden conversed, laughed, and were sad by turns, as impulse directed.

At length, Edwards, after repeating his intention to do so for the third time, left the mansion-house to go to the rectory on a similar errand of friendship.

During this short period, a scene was passing at the hut that completely frustrated the benevolent intentions of Judge Temple in favor of the Leather-Stocking, and at once destroyed the short-lived harmony between the youth and Marmaduke.

When Hiram Doolittle had obtained his search-warrant, his first business was to procure a proper officer to see it executed. The sheriff was absent, summoning in person the grand inquest for the county; the deputy who resided in the village was riding on the same errand, in a different part of the settlement; and the regular constable of the township had been selected for his station from motives of charity, being lame of a leg. Hiram intended to accompany the officer as a spectator, but he felt no very strong desire to bear the brunt of the battle. It was, however, Saturday, and the sun was already turning the shadows of the pines toward the east; on the morrow the conscientious magistrate could not engage in such an expedition at the peril of his soul and long before Monday, the venison, and all vestiges of the death of the deer, might be secreted or destroyed. Happily, the lounging form of Billy Kirby met his eye, and Hiram, at all time fruitful in similar expedients, saw his way clear at once. Jotham, who was associated in the whole business, and who had left the mountain in consequence of a summons from his coadjutor, but who failed, equally with Hiram, in the unfortunate particular of nerve, was directed to summon the wood-chopper to the dwelling of the magistrate.

When Billy appeared, he was very kindly invited to take the chair in which he had already seated himself, and was treated in all respects as if he were an equal.

“Judge Temple has set his heart on putting the deer law in force,” said Hiram, after the preliminary civilities were over, “and a complaint has been laid before him that a deer has been killed. He has issued a search-warrant, and sent for me to get somebody to execute it.”

Kirby, who had no idea of being excluded from the deliberative part of any affair in which he was engaged, drew up his bushy head in a reflecting attitude, and after musing a moment, replied by asking a few questions,

“The sheriff has gone out of the way?”

“Not to be found.”

“And his deputy too?”

“Both gone on the skirts of the Patent.”

“But I saw the constable hobbling about town an hour ago.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hiram, with a coaxing smile and knowing nod, “but this business wants a man — not a cripple.”

“Why,” said Billy, laughing, “will the chap make fight?”

“He’s a little quarrelsome at times, and thinks he’s the best man in the country at rough and tumble.”

“I heard him brag once,” said Jotham, “that there wasn’t a man ‘twixt the Mohawk Flats and the Pennsylvany line that was his match at a close hug.”

“Did you?” exclaimed Kirby, raising his huge frame in his seat, like a lion stretching in his lair; “I rather guess he never felt a Varmounter’s knuckles on his backbone-But who is the chap?”

“Why,” said Jotham, “it’s— “

“It’s agin’ law to tell,” interrupted Hiram, “unless you’ll qualify to sarve. You’d be the very man to take him, Bill, and I’ll make out a special deputation in a minute, when you will get the fees.”

“What’s the fees?” said Kirby, laying his large hand on the leaves of a statute-book that Hiram had opened in order to give dignity to his office, which he turned over in his rough manner, as if he were reflecting on a subject about which he had, in truth, already decided; “will they pay a man for a broken head?”

“They’ll be something handsome,” said Hiram.

“Damn the fees,” said Billy, again laughing— “does the fellow think he’s the best wrestler in the county, though? what’s his inches?”

“He’s taller than you be,” said Jotham, “and one of the biggest— “

Talkers, he was about to add, but the impatience of Kirby interrupted him. The wood-chopper had nothing fierce or even brutal in his appearance; the character of his expression was that of good-natured vanity. It was evident he prided himself on the powers of the physical man, like all who have nothing better to boast of; and, stretching out his broad hand, with the palm downward, he said, keeping his eyes fastened on his own bones and sinews:

“Come, give us a touch of the book. I’ll swear, and you’ll see that I’m a man to keep my oath.”

Hiram did not give the wood-chopper time to change his mind, but the oath was administered without unnecessary delay. So soon as this preliminary was completed, the three worthies left the house, and proceeded by the nearest road toward the hut. They had reached the bank of the lake, and were diverging from the route of the highway, before Kirby recollected that he was now entitled to the privilege of the initiated, and repeated his question as to the name of the offender,

“Which way, which way, squire?” exclaimed the hardy wood-chopper; “I thought it was to search a house that you wanted me, not the woods. There is nobody lives on this side of the lake, for six miles, unless you count the Leather-Stocking and old John for settlers. Come, tell me the chap’s name, and I warrant me that I lead you to his clearing by a straighter path than this, for I know every sapling that grows within two miles of Templeton.”

“This is the way,” said Hiram, pointing forward and quickening his step, as if apprehensive that Kirby would desert, “and Bumppo is the man.”

Kirby stopped short, and looked from one of his companions to the other in astonishment. He then burst into a loud laugh, and cried:

“Who? Leather-Stocking! He may brag of his aim and his rifle, for he has the best of both, as I will own myself, for sin’ he shot the pigeon I knock under to him; but for a wrestle! why, I would take the creatur’ between my finger and thumb, and tie him in a bow-knot around my neck for a Barcelony. The man is seventy, and was never anything particular for strength.”

“He’s a deceiving man,” said Hiram, “like all the hunters; he is stronger than he seems; besides, he has his rifle.”

“That for his rifle!” cried Billy; “he’d no more hurt me with his rifle than he’d fly. He’s a harmless creatur’, and I must say that I think he has as good right to kill deer as any man on the Patent. It’s his main support, and this is a free country, where a man is privileged to follow any calling he likes.”

“According to that doctrine,” said Jotham, “anybody may shoot a deer.”

“This is the man’s calling, I tell you,” returned Kirby, “and the law was never made for such as he.”

“The law was made for all,” observed Hiram, who began to think that the danger was likely to fall to his own share, notwithstanding his management; “and the law is particular in noticing parjury.”

“See here, Squire Doolittle,” said the reckless woodchopper; “I don’t care the valie of a beetlering for you and your parjury too. But as I have come so far, I’ll go down and have a talk with the old man, and maybe we’ll fry a steak of the deer together.”

“Well, if you can get in peaceably, so much the better,” said the magistrate. “To my notion, strife is very unpopular; I prefar, at all times, clever conduct to an ugly temper.”

As the whole party moved at a great pace, they soon reached the hut, where Hiram thought it prudent to halt on the outside of the top of the fallen pine, which formed a chevaux-de-frise, to defend the approach to the fortress, on the side next the village. The delay was little relished by Kirby, who clapped his hands to his mouth, and gave a loud halloo that brought the dogs out of their kennel, and, almost at the same instant, the scantily-covered head of Natty from the door.

“Lie down, old fool,” cried the hunter; “do you think there’s more painters about you?”

“Ha! Leather-Stocking, I’ve an arrand with you,” cried Kirby; “here’s the good people of the State have been writing you a small letter, and they’ve hired me to ride post.”

“What would you have with me, Billy Kirby?” said Natty, stepping across his threshold, and raising his hand over his eyes, to screen them from the rays of the setting sun, while he took a survey of his visitor. “I’ve no land to clear, and Heaven knows I would set out six trees afore I would cut down one. — Down, Hector, I say; into your kennel with ye.”

“Would you, old boy?” roared Billy; “then so much the better for me. But I must do my arrand. Here’s a letter for you, Leather-Stocking. If you can read it, it’s all well, and if you can’t, here’s Squire Doolittle at hand, to let you know what it means. It seems you mistook the twentieth of July for the first of August, that’s all.”

By this time Natty had discovered the lank person of Hiram, drawn up under the cover of a high stump; and all that was complacent in his manner instantly gave way to marked distrust and dissatisfaction. He placed his head within the door of his hut, and said a few words in an undertone, when he again appeared, and continued:

“I’ve nothing for ye; so away, afore the Evil One tempts me to do you harm. I owe you no spite, Billy Kirby, and what for should you trouble an old man who has done you no harm?”

Kirby advanced through the top of the pine, to within a few feet of the hunter, where he seated himself on the end of a log, with great composure, and began to examine the nose of Hector, with whom he was familiar, from their frequently meeting in the woods, where he sometimes fed the dog from his own basket of provisions.

“You’ve outshot me, and I’m not ashamed to say it,” said the wood-chopper; “but I don’t owe you a grudge for that, Natty! though it seems that you’ve shot once too often, for the story goes that you’ve killed a buck.”

“I’ve fired but twice to-day, and both times at the painters,” returned the Leather-Stocking; “see, here are the scalps! I was just going in with them to the Judge’s to ask the bounty.”

While Natty was speaking, he tossed the ears to Kirby, who continued playing with them with a careless air, holding them to the dogs, and laughing at their movements when they scented the unusual game.

But Hiram, emboldened by the advance of the deputed constable, now ventured to approach also, and took up the discourse with the air of authority that became his commission. His first measure was to read the warrant aloud, taking care to give due emphasis to the most material parts, and concluding with the name of the Judge in very audible and distinct tones.

“Did Marmaduke Temple put his name to that bit of paper?” said Natty, shaking his head; “well, well, that man loves the new ways, and his betterments, and his lands, afore his own flesh and blood. But I won’t mistrust the gal; she has an eye like a full-grown buck! poor thing, she didn’t choose her father, and can’t help it. I know but little of the law, Mr. Doolittle; what is to be done, now you’ve read your commission?”

“Oh! it’s nothing but form, Natty,” said Hiram, endeavoring to assume a friendly aspect. “Let’s go in, and talk the thing over in reason; I dare to say that the money can be easily found, and I partly conclude, from what passed, that Judge Temple will pay it himself.”

The old hunter had kept a keen eye on the movements of his three visitors, from the beginning, and had maintained his position, just without the threshold of the cabin, with a determined manner, that showed he was not to be easily driven from his post. When Hiram drew nigher, as if expecting his proposition would be accepted, Natty lifted his hand, and motioned for him to retreat.

“Haven’t I told you more than once, not to tempt me?” he said. “I trouble no man; why can’t the law leave me to myself? Go back — go back, and tell your Judge that he may keep his bounty; but I won’t have his wasty ways brought into my hut.”

This offer, however, instead of appeasing the curiosity of Hiram, seemed to inflame it the more; while Kirby cried:

“Well, that’s fair, squire; he forgives the county his demand, and the county should forgive him the fine; it’s what I call an even trade, and should be concluded on the spot. I like quick dealings, and what’s fair ‘twixt man and man.”

“I demand entrance into this house,” said Hiram, summoning all the dignity he could muster to his assistance, “in the name of the people; and by virtue of this war rant, and of my office, and with this peace officer.”

“Stand back, stand back, squire, and don’t tempt me,” said the Leather-Stocking, motioning him to retire, with great earnestness.

“Stop us at your peril,” continued Hiram. “Billy! Jotham! close up — I want testimony.”

Hiram had mistaken the mild but determined air of Natty for submission, and had already put his foot on the threshold to enter, when he was seized unexpectedly by his shoulders, and hurled over the little bank toward the lake, to the distance of twenty feet. The suddenness of the movement, and the unexpected display of strength on the part of Natty, created a momentary astonishment in his invaders, that silenced all noises; but at the next instant Billy Kirby gave vent to his mirth in peals of laughter, that he seemed to heave up from his very soul.

“Well done, old stub!” he shouted; “the squire knowed you better than I did. Come, come, here’s a green spot; take it out like men, while Jotham and I see fair play.”

“William Kirby, I order you to do your duty,” cried Hiram, from under the bank; “seize that man; I order you to seize him in the name of the people.”

But the Leather-Stocking now assumed a more threatening attitude; his rifle was in his hand, and its muzzle was directed toward the wood-chopper.

“Stand off, I bid ye,” said Natty; “you know my aim, Billy Kirby; I don’t crave your blood, but mine and your’n both shall turn this green grass red, afore you put foot into the hut.”

While the affair appeared trifling, the wood-chopper seemed disposed to take sides with the weaker party; but, when the firearms were introduced, his manner very sensibly changed. He raised his large frame from the log, and, facing the hunter with an open front, he replied:

“I didn’t come here as your enemy, Leather-Stocking; but I don’t value the hollow piece of iron in your hand so much as a broken axe-helve; so, squire, say the word, and keep within the law, and we’ll soon see who’s the best main of the two.”

But no magistrate was to be seen! The instant the rifle was produced Hiram and Jotham vanished; and when the wood-chopper bent his eyes about him in surprise at receiving no answer, he discovered their retreating figures moving toward the village at a rate that sufficiently indicated that they had not only calculated the velocity of a rifle-bullet, but also its probable range.

“You’ve scared the creatur’s off,” said Kirby, with great contempt expressed on his broad features; “but you are not going to scare me; so, Mr. Bumppo, down with your gun, or there’ll be trouble ‘twixt us.” Natty dropped his rifle, and replied:

“I wish you no harm, Billy Kirby; but I leave it to yourself, whether an old man’s hut is to be run down by such varmint. I won’t deny the buck to you, Billy, and you may take the skin in, if you please, and show it as testimony. The bounty will pay the fine, and that ought to satisfy any man.”

“Twill, old boy, ‘twill,” cried Kirby, every shade of displeasure vanishing from his open brow at the peace-offering; “throw out the hide, and that shall satisfy the law.”

Natty entered the hut, and soon reappeared, bringing with him the desired testimonial; and the wood-chopper departed, as thoroughly reconciled to the hunter as if nothing had happened. As he paced along the margin of the lake he would burst into frequent fits of laughter, while he recollected the summerset of Hiram: and, on the whole, he thought the affair a very capital joke.

Long before Billy’ reached the village, however, the news of his danger, and of Natty’s disrespect of the law, and of Hiram’s discomfiture, were in circulation. A good deal was said about sending for the sheriff; some hints were given about calling out the posse comitatus to avenge the insulted laws; and many of the citizens were collected, deliberating how to proceed. The arrival of Billy with the skin, by removing all grounds for a search, changed the complexion of things materially. Nothing now remained but to collect the fine and assert the dignity of the people; all of which, it was unanimously agreed, could be done as well on the succeeding Monday as on Saturday night — a time kept sacred by large portion of the settlers. Accordingly, all further proceedings were suspended for six-and-thirty hours.

CHAPTER XXXI.

“And dar’st thou then

To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall.”

— Marmion.

The commotion was just subsiding, and the inhabitants of the village had begun to disperse from the little groups that had formed, each retiring to his own home, and closing his door after him, with the grave air of a man who consulted public feeling in his exterior deportment, when Oliver Edwards, on his return from the dwelling of Mr. Grant, encountered the young lawyer, who is known to the reader as Mr. Lippet. There was very little similarity in the manners or opinions of the two; but as they both belonged to the more intelligent class of a very small community, they were, of course, known to each other, and as their meeting was at a point where silence would have been rudeness, the following conversation was the result of their interview:

“A fine evening, Mr. Edwards,” commenced the lawyer, whose disinclination to the dialogue was, to say the least, very doubtful; “we want rain sadly; that’s the worst of this climate of ours, it’s either a drought or a deluge. It’s likely you’ve been used to a more equal temperature?”

“I am a native of this State,” returned Edwards, coldly.

“Well. I’ve often heard that point disputed; but it’s so easy to get a man naturalized, that it’s of little consequence where he was born. I wonder what course the Judge means to take in this business of Natty Bumppo!”

“Of Natty Bumppo!” echoed Edwards; “to what do you allude, sir?”

“Haven’t you heard!” exclaimed the other, with a look of surprise, so naturally assumed as completely to deceive his auditor; “it may turn out an ugly business. It seems that the old man has been out in the hills, and has shot a buck this morning, and that, you know, is a criminal matter in the eyes of Judge Temple.”

“Oh! he has, has he?” said Edwards, averting his face to conceal the color that collected in his sunburnt cheek. “Well, if that be all, he must even pay the fine.”

“It’s five pound currency,” said the lawyer; “could Natty muster so much money at once?”

“Could he!” cried the youth. “I am not rich, Mr. Lippet; far from it — I am poor, and I have been hoarding my salary for a purpose that lies near my heart; but, be fore that old man should lie one hour in a jail, I would spend the last cent to prevent it. Besides, he has killed two panthers, and the bounty will discharge the fine many times over.”

“Yes, yes,” said the lawyer, rubbing his hands together, with an expression of pleasure that had no artifice about it; “we shall make it out; I see plainly we shall make it out.”

“Make what out, sir? I must beg an explanation.”

“Why, killing the buck is but a small matter compared to what took place this afternoon,” continued Mr. Lippet, with a confidential and friendly air that won upon the youth, little as he liked the man. “It seems that a complaint was made of the fact, and a suspicion that there was venison in the hut was sworn to, all which is provided for in the statute, when Judge Temple granted the search warrant.”

“A search-warrant!” echoed Edwards, in a voice of horror, and with a face that should have been again averted to conceal its paleness; “and how much did they discover? What did they see?”

“They saw old Bumppo’s rifle; and that is a sight which will quiet most men’s curiosity in the woods.”

“Did they! did they!” shouted Edwards, bursting into a convulsive laugh; “so the old hero beat them back beat them back! did he?” The lawyer fastened his eyes in astonishment on the youth, but, as his wonder gave way to the thoughts that were commonly uppermost in his mind, he replied:

“It is no laughing matter, let me tell you, sir; the forty dollars of bounty and your six months of salary will be much reduced before you can get the matter fairly settled. Assaulting a magistrate in the execution of his duty, and menacing a constable with firearms at the same time, is a pretty serious affair, and is punishable with both fine and imprisonment.”

“Imprisonment!” repeated Oliver; “imprison the Leather-Stocking! no, no, sir; it would bring the old man to his grave. They shall never imprison the Leather-Stocking.”

“Well, Mr. Edwards,” said Lippet, dropping all reserve from his manner, “you are called a curious man; but if you can tell me how a jury is to be prevented from finding a verdict of guilty, if this case comes fairly before them, and the proof is clear, I shall acknowledge that you know more law than I do, who have had a license in my pocket for three years.”

By this time the reason of Edwards was getting the ascendency of his feelings, and, as he began to see the real difficulties of the case, he listened more readily to the conversation of the lawyer. The ungovernable emotion that escaped the youth, in the first moments of his surprise, entirely passed away; and, although it was still evident that he continued to be much agitated by what he had heard, he succeeded in yielding forced attention to the advice which the other uttered.

Notwithstanding the confused state of his mind, Oliver soon discovered that most of the expedients of the lawyer were grounded in cunning, and plans that required a time to execute them that neither suited his disposition nor his necessities. After, however, giving Mr. Lippet to under stand that he retained him in the event of a trial, an assurance that at once satisfied the lawyer, they parted, one taking his course with a deliberate tread in the direction of the little building that had a wooden sign over its door, with “Chester Lippet, Attorney-at-law,” painted on it; and the other pacing over the ground with enormous strides toward the mansion-house. We shall take leave of the attorney for the present, and direct the attention of the reader to the client.

When Edwards entered the hall, whose enormous doors were opened to the passage of the air of a mild evening, he found Benjamin engaged in some of his domestic avocations, and in a hurried voice inquired where Judge Temple was to be found.

“Why, the Judge has stepped into his office, with that master carpenter, Mister Doolittle; but Miss Lizzy is in that there parlor. I say, Master Oliver, we’d like to have had a bad job of that panther, or painter’s work — some calls it one, and some calls it t’other — but I know little of the beast, seeing that it is not of British growth. I said as much as that it was in the hills the last winter for I heard it moaning on the lake shore one evening in the fall, when I was pulling down from the fishing-point in the skiff. Had the animal come into open water, where a man could see where and how to work his vessel, I would have engaged the thing myself; but looking aloft among the trees is all the same to me as standing on the deck of one ship, and looking at another vessel’s tops. I never can tell one rope from another— “

“Well, well,” interrupted Edwards; “I must see Miss Temple.”

“And you shall see her, sir,” said the steward; “she’s in this here room. Lord, Master Edwards, what a loss she’d have been to the Judge! Dam’me if I know where he would have gotten such another daughter; that is, full grown, d’ye see. I say, sir, this Master Bumppo is a worthy man, and seems to have a handy way with him, with firearms and boat-hooks. I’m his friend, Master Oliver, and he and you may both set me down as the same.”

“We may want your friendship, my worthy fellow,” cried Edwards, squeezing his hand convulsively; “we may want your friendship, in which case you shall know it.”

Without waiting to hear the earnest reply that Benjamin meditated, the youth extricated himself from the vigorous grasp of the steward, and entered the parlor.

Elizabeth was alone, and still reclining on the sofa, where we last left her. A hand, which exceeded all that the ingenuity of art could model, in shape and color, veiled her eyes; and the maiden was sitting as if in deep communion with herself. Struck by the attitude and loveliness of the form that met his eye, the young man checked his impatience, and approached her with respect and caution.

“Miss Temple — Miss Temple,” he said, “I hope I do not intrude; but I am anxious for an interview, if it be only for a moment.”

Elizabeth raised her face, and exhibited her dark eyes swimming in moisture.

“Is it you, Edwards?” she said, with a sweetness in her voice, and a softness in her air, that she often used to her father, but which, from its novelty to himself, thrilled on every nerve of the youth; “how left you our poor Louisa?”

“She is with her father, happy and grateful,” said Oliver, “I never witnessed more feeling than she manifested, when I ventured to express my pleasure at her escape. Miss Temple, when I first heard of your horrid situation, my feelings were too powerful for utterance; and I did not properly find my tongue, until the walk to Mr. Grant’s had given me time to collect myself. I believe — I do believe, I acquitted myself better there, for Miss Grant even wept at my silly speeches.” For a moment Elizabeth did not reply, but again veiled her eyes with her hand. The feeling that caused the action, however, soon passed away, and, raising her face again to his gaze, she continued with a smile:

“Your friend, the Leather-Stocking, has now become my friend, Edwards; I have been thinking how I can best serve him; perhaps you, who know his habits and his wants so well, can tell me — — “

“I can,” cried the youth, with an impetuosity that startled his companion. “I can, and may Heaven reward you for the wish, Natty has been so imprudent as to for get the law, and has this day killed a deer. Nay, I believe I must share in the crime and the penalty, for I was an accomplice throughout. A complaint has been made to your father, and he has granted a search— “

“I know it all,” interrupted Elizabeth; “I know it all. The forms of the law must be complied with, however; the search must be made, the deer found, and the penalty paid. But I must retort your own question. Have you lived so long in our family not to know us? Look at me, Oliver Edwards. Do I appear like one who would permit the man that has just saved her life to linger in a jail for so small a sum as this fine? No, no, sir; my father is a judge, but he is a man and a Christian. It is all under stood, and no harm shall follow.”

“What a load of apprehension do your declarations remove!” exclaimed Edwards: “He shall not be disturbed again! your father will protect him! I have assurance, Miss Temple, that he will, and I must believe it.”

“You may have his own, Mr. Edwards,” returned Elizabeth, “for here he comes to make it.”

But the appearance of Marmaduke, who entered the apartment, contradicted the flattering anticipations of his daughter. His brow was contracted, and his manner disturbed. Neither Elizabeth nor the youth spoke; but the Judge was allowed to pace once or twice across the room without interruption, when he cried:

“Our plans are defeated, girl; the obstinacy of the Leather-Stocking has brought down the indignation of the law on his head, and it is now out of my power to avert it.”

“How? in what manner?” cried Elizabeth; “the fine is nothing surely— “

“I did not — I could not anticipate that an old, a friendless man like him, would dare to oppose the officers of justice,” interrupted the Judge, “I supposed that he would submit to the search, when the fine could have been paid, and the law would have been appeased; but now he will have to meet its rigor.”

“And what must the punishment be, sir?” asked Ed wards, struggling to speak with firmness.

Marmaduke turned quickly to the spot where the youth had withdrawn, and exclaimed:

“You here! I did not observe you. I know not what it will be, sir; it is not usual for a judge to decide until he has heard the testimony, and the jury have convicted. Of one thing, however, you may be assured, Mr. Edwards; it shall be whatever the law demands, notwithstanding any momentary weakness I may have exhibited, because the luckless man has been of such eminent service to my daughter.”

“No one, I believe, doubts the sense of justice which Judge Temple entertains!” returned Edwards bitterly.

“But let us converse calmly, sir. Will not the years, the habits, nay, the ignorance of my old friend, avail him any thing against this charge?”

“Ought they? They may extenuate, but can they ac quit? Would any society be tolerable, young man, where the ministers of justice are to be opposed by men armed with rifles? Is it for this that I have tamed the wilder ness?”

“Had you tamed the beasts that so lately threatened the life of Miss Temple, sir, your arguments would apply better.”

“Edwards!” exclaimed Elizabeth.

“Peace, my child,” interrupted the father; “the youth is unjust; but I have not given him cause. I overlook thy remark, Oliver, for I know thee to be the friend of Natty, and zeal in his behalf has overcome thy discretion.”

“Yes, he is my friend,” cried Edwards, “and I glory in the title. He is simple, unlettered, even ignorant; prejudiced, perhaps, though I feel that his opinion of the world is too true; but he has a heart, Judge Temple, that would atone for a thousand faults; he knows his friends, and never deserts them, even if it be his dog.”

“This is a good character, Mr. Edwards,” returned Marmaduke, mildly; “but I have never been so fortunate as to secure his esteem, for to me he has been uniformly repulsive; yet I have endured it, as an old man’s whim, However, when he appears before me, as his judge, he shall find that his former conduct shall not aggravate, any more than his recent services shall extenuate, his crime.”

“Crime!” echoed Edwards: “is it a crime to drive a prying miscreant from his door? Crime! Oh, no, sir; if there be a criminal involved in this affair, it is not he.”

“And who may it be, sir?” asked Judge Temple, facing the agitated youth, his features settled to their usual composure.

This appeal was more than the young man could bear. Hitherto he had been deeply agitated by his emotions; but now the volcano burst its boundaries.

“Who! and this to me!” he cried; “ask your own conscience, Judge Temple. Walk to that door, sir, and look out upon the valley, that placid lake, and those dusky mountains, and say to your own heart, if heart you have, whence came these riches, this vale, those hills, and why am I their owner? I should think, sir, that the appearance of Mohegan and the Leather-Stocking, stalking through the country, impoverished and forlorn, would wither your sight.”

Marmaduke heard this burst of passion, at first, with deep amazement; but when the youth had ended, he beckoned to his impatient daughter for silence, and replied:

“Oliver Edwards, thou forgettest in whose presence thou standest. I have heard, young man, that thou claimest descent from the native owners of the soil; but surely thy education has been given thee to no effect, if it has not taught thee the validity of the claims that have transferred the title to the whites. These lands are mine by the very grants of thy ancestry, if thou art so descended; and I appeal to Heaven for a testimony of the uses I have put them to. After this language, we must separate. I have too long sheltered thee in my dwelling; but the time has arrived when thou must quit it. Come to my office, and I will discharge the debt I owe thee. Neither shall thy present intemperate language mar thy future fortunes, if thou wilt hearken to the advice of one who is by many years thy senior.”

The ungovernable feeling that caused the violence of the youth had passed away, and he stood gazing after the retiring figure of Marmaduke, with a vacancy in his eye that denoted the absence of his mind. At length he recollected himself, and, turning his head slowly around the apartment, he beheld Elizabeth, still seated on the sofa, but with her head dropped on her bosom, and her face again concealed by her hands.

“Miss Temple,” he said — all violence had left his manner— “Miss Temple — I have forgotten myself — forgotten you. You have heard what your father has decreed, and this night I leave here. With you, at least, I would part in amity.”

Elizabeth slowly raised her face, across which a momentary expression of sadness stole; but as she left her seat, her dark eyes lighted with their usual fire, her cheek flushed to burning, and her whole air seemed to belong to another nature.

“I forgive you, Edwards, and my father will forgive you,” she said, when she reached the door. “You do not know us, but the time may come when your opinions shall change— “

“Of you! never!” interrupted the youth; “I— “

“I would speak, sir, and not listen. There is something in this affair that I do not comprehend; but tell the Leather-Stocking he has friends as well as judges in us. Do not let the old man experience unnecessary uneasiness at this rupture. It is impossible that you could increase his claims here; neither shall they be diminished by any thing you have said. Mr. Edwards, I wish you happiness, and warmer friends.”

The youth would have spoken, but she vanished from the door so rapidly, that when he reached the hall her form was nowhere to be seen. He paused a moment, in stupor, and then, rushing from the house, instead of following Marmaduke in his “office,” he took his way directly for the cabin of the hunters.

CHAPTER XXXII.

“Who measured earth, described the starry spheres,

And traced the long records of lunar years.”

— Pope.

Richard did not return from the exercise of his official duties until late in the evening of the following day. It had been one portion of his business to superintend the arrest of part of a gang of counterfeiters, that had, even at that early period, buried themselves in the woods, to manufacture their base coin, which they afterward circulated from one end of the Union to the other. The expedition had been completely successful, and about midnight the sheriff entered the village, at the head of a posse of deputies and constables, in the centre of whom rode, pinioned, four of the malefactors. At the gate of the mansion-house they separated, Mr. Jones directing his assist ants to proceed with their charge to the county jail, while he pursued his own way up the gravel walk, with the kind of self-satisfaction that a man of his organization would feel, who had really for once done a very clever thing.

“Holla! Aggy!” shouted the sheriff, when he reached the door; “where are you, you black dog? will you keep me here in the dark all night? Holla! Aggy! Brave! Brave! hoy, hoy — where have you got to, Brave? Off his watch! Everybody is asleep but myself! Poor I must keep my eyes open, that others may sleep in safety. Brave! Brave! Well, I will say this for the dog, lazy as he’s grown, that it is the first time I ever knew him to let any one come to the door after dark, without having a smell to know whether it was an honest man or not. He could tell by his nose, almost as well as I could myself by looking at them. Holla! you Agamemnon! where are you? Oh! here comes the dog at last.”

By this time the sheriff had dismounted, and observed a form, which he supposed to be that of Brave, slowly creeping out of the kennel; when, to his astonishment, it reared itself on two legs instead of four, and he was able to distinguish, by the starlight, the curly head and dark visage of the negro.

“Ha! what the devil are you doing there, you black rascal?” he cried. “Is it not hot enough for your Guinea blood in the house this warm night, but you must drive out the poor dog, and sleep in his straw?”

By this time the boy was quite awake, and, with a blubbering whine, he attempted to reply to his master.

“Oh! masser Richard! masser Richard! such a ting! such a ting! I nebber tink a could ‘appen! neber tink he die! Oh, Lor-a-gor! ain’t bury — keep ‘em till masser Richard get back — got a grabe dug— “ Here the feelings of the negro completely got the mastery, and, instead of making any intelligible explanation of the causes of his grief, he blubbered aloud.

“Eh! what! buried! grave! dead!” exclaimed Richard, with a tremor in his voice; “nothing serious? Nothing has happened to Benjamin, I hope? I know he has been bilious, but I gave him— “

“Oh, worser ‘an dat! worser ‘an dat!” sobbed the negro. “Oh! de Lor! Miss ‘Lizzy an’ Miss Grant — walk — mountain — poor Bravy ‘ — kill a lady — painter — Oh, Lor, Lor! — Natty Bumppo — tare he troat open — come a see, masser Richard — here he be — here he be.”

As all this was perfectly inexplicable to the sheriff, he was very glad to wait patiently until the black brought a lantern from the kitchen, when he followed Aggy to the kennel, where he beheld poor Brave, indeed, lying in his blood, stiff and cold, but decently covered with the great coat of the negro. He was on the point of demanding an explanation; but the grief of the black, who had fallen asleep on his voluntary watch, having burst out afresh on his waking, utterly disqualified the lad from giving one. Luckily, at this moment the principal door of the house opened, and the coarse features of Benjamin were thrust over the threshold, with a candle elevated above them, shedding its dim rays around in such a manner as to exhibit the lights and shadows of his countenance. Richard threw his bridle to the black, and, bidding him look to the horse, he entered the hall. “What is the meaning of the dead dog?” he cried.

“Where is Miss Temple?”

Benjamin made one of his square gestures, with the thumb of his left hand pointing over his right shoulder, as he answered:

“Turned in.”

“Judge Temple — where is he?”

“In his berth.”

“But explain; why is Brave dead? and what is the cause of Aggy’s grief?”

“Why, it’s all down, squire,” said Benjamin, pointing to a slate that lay on the table, by the side of a mug of toddy, a short pipe in which the tobacco was yet burning, and a prayer-book.

Among the other pursuits of Richard, he had a passion to keep a register of all passing events; and his diary, which was written in the manner of a journal, or log, book, embraced not only such circumstances as affected himself, but observations on the weather, and all the occurrences of the family, and frequently of the village. Since his appointment to the office of sheriff and his consequent absences from home, he had employed Benjamin to make memoranda on a slate, of whatever might be thought worth remembering, which, on his return, were regularly transferred to the journal with proper notations of the time, manner, and other little particulars. There was, to be sure, one material objection to the clerkship of Benjamin, which the ingenuity of no one but Richard could have overcome. The steward read nothing but his prayer-book, and that only in particular parts, and by the aid of a good deal of spelling, and some misnomers; but he could not form a single letter with a pen. This would have been an insuperable bar to journalizing with most men; but Richard invented a kind of hieroglyphical character, which was intended to note all the ordinary occurrences of a day, such as how the wind blew, whether the sun shone, or whether it rained, the hours, etc.; and for the extraordinary, after giving certain elementary lectures on the subject, the sheriff was obliged to trust to the ingenuity of the major-domo. The reader will at once perceive, that it was to this chronicle that Benjamin pointed, instead of directly answering the sheriff’s interrogatory.

When Mr. Jones had drunk a glass of toddy, he brought forth from its secret place his proper journal, and, seating himself by the table, he prepared to transfer the contents of the slate to the paper, at the same time that he appeased his curiosity. Benjamin laid one hand on the back of the sheriff’s chair, in a familiar manner, while he kept the other at liberty to make use of a forefinger, that was bent like some of his own characters, as an index to point out his meaning.

The first thing referred to by the sheriff was the diagram of a compass, cut in one corner of the slate for permanent use. The cardinal points were plainly marked on it, and all the usual divisions were indicated in such a manner that no man who had ever steered a ship could mistake them.

“Oh!” said the sheriff, seating himself down comfort ably in his chair, “you’d the wind southeast, I see, all last night I thought it would have blown up rain.”

“Devil the drop, sir,” said Benjamin; “I believe that the scuttle-butt up aloft is emptied, for there hasn’t so much water fell in the country for the last three weeks as would float Indian John’s canoe, and that draws just one inch nothing, light.”

“Well but didn’t the wind change here this morning? there was a change where I was.”

“To be sure it did, squire; and haven’t I logged it as a shift of wind?”

“I don’t see where, Benjamin— “

“Don’t see!” interrupted the steward, a little crustily; “ain’t there a mark agin’ east-and-by-nothe-half-nothe, with summat like a rising sun at the end of it, to show ’twas in the morning watch?”

“Yes, yes, that is very legible; but where is the change noted?”

“Where! why doesn’t it see this here tea-kettle, with a mark run from the spout straight, or mayhap a little crooked or so, into west-and-by-southe-half-southe? now I call this a shift of wind, squire. Well, do you see this here boar’s head that you made for me, alongside of the compass— “

“Ay, ay — Boreas —— I see. Why, you’ve drawn lines from its mouth, extending from one of your marks to the other.”

“It’s no fault of mine, Squire Dickens; ’tis your d —— d climate. The wind has been at all them there marks this very day, and that’s all round the compass, except a little matter of an Irishman’s hurricane at meridium, which you’ll find marked right up and down. Now, I’ve known a sow-wester blow for three weeks, in the channel, with a clean drizzle, in which you might wash your face and hands without the trouble of hauling in water from alongside.”

“Very well, Benjamin,” said the sheriff, writing in his journal; “I believe I have caught the idea. Oh! here’s a cloud over the rising sun — so you had it hazy in the morning?”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Benjamin.

“Ah it’s Sunday, and here are the marks for the length of the sermon — one, two, three, four — what! did Mr. Grant preach forty minutes?”

“Ay, summat like it; it was a good half-hour by my own glass, and then there was the time lost in turning it, and some little allowance for leeway in not being over-smart about it.”

“Benjamin, this is as long as a Presbyterian; you never could have been ten minutes in turning the glass!”

“Why, do you see, Squire, the parson was very solemn, and I just closed my eyes in order to think the better with myself, just the same as you’d put in the dead-lights to make all snug, and when I opened them agin I found the congregation were getting under way for home, so I calculated the ten minutes would cover the leeway after the glass was out. It was only some such matter as a cat’s nap.”

“Oh, ho! Master Benjamin, you were asleep, were you? but I’ll set down no such slander against an orthodox divine.” Richard wrote twenty-nine minutes in his journal, and continued: “Why, what’s this you’ve got opposite ten o’clock A.M.? A full moon! had you a moon visible by day? I have heard of such portents before now, but — eh! what’s this alongside of it? an hour-glass?”

“That!” said Benjamin, looking coolly over the sheriff’s shoulder, and rolling the tobacco about in his mouth with a jocular air; “why, that’s a small matter of my own. It’s no moon, squire, but only Betty Hollister’s face; for, dye see, sir, hearing all the same as if she had got up a new cargo of Jamaiky from the river, I called in as I was going to the church this morning — ten A.M. was it? — just the time — and tried a glass; and so I logged it, to put me in mind of calling to pay her like an honest man.”

“That was it, was it?” said the sheriff, with some displeasure at this innovation on his memoranda; “and could you not make a better glass than this? it looks like a death’s-head and an hour-glass.”

“Why, as I liked the stuff, squire,” returned the steward, “I turned in, homeward bound, and took t’other glass, which I set down at the bottom of the first, and that gives the thing the shape it has. But as I was there again to-night, and paid for the three at once, your honor may as well run the sponge over the whole business.”

“I will buy you a slate for your own affairs, Benjamin,” said the sheriff; “I don’t like to have the journal marked over in this manner.”

“You needn’t — you needn’t, squire; for, seeing that I was likely to trade often with the woman while this barrel lasted. I’ve opened a fair account with Betty, and she keeps her marks on the back of her bar-door, and I keeps the tally on this here bit of a stick.” As Benjamin concluded he produced a piece of wood, on which five very large, honest notches were apparent. The sheriff cast his eyes on this new ledger for a moment, and continued:

“What have we here! Saturday, two P.M. — Why here’s a whole family piece! two wine-glasses upside-down!”

“That’s two women; the one this a-way is Miss ‘Lizzy, and t’other is the parson’s young’un.”

“Cousin Bess and Miss Grant!” exclaimed the sheriff, in amazement; “what have they to do with my journal?”

“They’d enough to do to get out of the jaws of that there painter or panther,” said the immovable steward. “This here thingumy, squire, that maybe looks summat like a rat, is the beast, d’ye see; and this here t’other thing, keel uppermost, is poor old Brave, who died nobly, all the same as an admiral fighting for his king and country; and that there— “

“Scarecrow,” interrupted Richard.

“Ay, mayhap it do look a little wild or so,” continued the steward; “but to my judgment, squire, it’s the best image I’ve made, seeing it’s most like the man himself; well, that’s Natty Bumppo, who shot this here painter, that killed that there dog, who would have eaten or done worse to them here young ladies.”

“And what the devil does all this mean?” cried Richard, impatiently.

“Mean!” echoed Benjamin; “it is as true as the Boadishey’s log book— “ He was interrupted by the sheriff, who put a few direct questions to him, that obtained more intelligible answers, by which means he became possessed of a tolerably correct idea of the truth, When the wonder, and we must do Richard the justice to say, the feelings also, that were created by this narrative, had in some degree subsided, the sheriff turned his eyes again on his journal, where more inexplicable hieroglyphics met his view.

“What have we here?” he cried; “two men boxing! Has there been a breach of the peace? Ah, that’s the way, the moment my back is turned — .”

“That’s the Judge and young Master Edwards,” interrupted the steward, very cavalierly.

“How! ‘Duke fighting with Oliver! what the devil has got into you all? More things have happened within the last thirty-six hours than in the preceding six months.”

“Yes, it’s so indeed, squire,” returned the steward, “I’ve known a smart chase, and a fight at the tail of it, where less has been logged than I’ve got on that there slate. Howsomever, they didn’t come to facers, only passed a little jaw fore and aft.”

“Explain! explain!” cried Richard; “it was about the mines, ha! Ay, ay, I see it, I see it; here is a man with a pick on his shoulder. So you heard it all, Benjamin?”

“Why, yes, it was about their minds, I believe, squire,” returned the steward; “and, by what I can learn, they spoke them pretty plainly to one another. Indeed, I may say that I overheard a small matter of it myself, seeing that the windows was open, and I hard by. But this here is no pick, but an anchor on a man’s shoulder; and here’s the other fluke down his back, maybe a little too close, which signifies that the lad has got under way and left his moorings.”

“Has Edwards left the house?”

“He has.”

Richard pursued this advantage; and, after a long and close examination, he succeeded in getting out of Benjamin all that he knew, not only concerning the misunderstanding, but of the attempt to search the hut, and Hiram’s discomfiture. The sheriff was no sooner possessed of these facts, which Benjamin related with all possible tenderness to the Leather-Stocking, than, snatching up his hat, and bidding the astonished steward secure the doors and go to his bed, he left the house.

For at least five minutes, after Richard disappeared, Benjamin stood with his arms akimbo, and his eyes fastened on the door; when, having collected his astonished faculties, he prepared to execute the orders he had received.

It has been already said that the “court of common pleas and general sessions of the peace,” or, as it is commonly called, the “county court,” over which Judge Temple presided, held one of its stated sessions on the following morning. The attendants of Richard were officers who had come to the village, as much to discharge their usual duties at this court, as to escort the prisoners and the sheriff knew their habits too well, not to feel confident that he should find most, if not all of them, in the public room of the jail, discussing the qualities of the keeper’s liquors. Accordingly he held his way through the silent streets of the village, directly to the small and insecure building that contained all the unfortunate debt ors and some of the criminals of the county, and where justice was administered to such unwary applicants as were so silly as to throw away two dollars in order to obtain one from their neighbors. The arrival of four malefactors in the custody of a dozen officers was an event, at that day, in Templeton; and, when the sheriff reached the jail, he found every indication that his subordinates in tended to make a night of it.

The nod of the sheriff brought two of his deputies to the door, who in their turn drew off six or seven of the constables. With this force Richard led the way through the village, toward the bank of the lake, undisturbed by any noise, except the barking of one or two curs, who were alarmed by the measured tread of the party, and by the low murmurs that ran through their own numbers, as a few cautious questions and answers were exchanged, relative to the object of their expedition. When they had crossed the little bridge of hewn logs that was thrown over the Susquehanna, they left the highway, and struck into that field which had been the scene of the victory over the pigeons. From this they followed their leader into the low bushes of pines and chestnuts which had sprung up along the shores of the lake, where the plough had not succeeded the fall of the trees, and soon entered the forest itself. Here Richard paused and collected his troop around him.

“I have required your assistance, my friends,” he cried, in a low voice, “in order to arrest Nathaniel Bumppo, commonly called the Leather-Stocking He has assaulted a magistrate, and resisted the execution of a search-war rant, by threatening the life of a constable with his rifle. In short, my friends, he has set an example of rebellion to the laws, and has become a kind of outlaw. He is suspected of other misdemeanors and offences against private rights; and I have this night taken on myself, by the virtue of my office as sheriff, to arrest the said Bumppo, and bring him to the county jail, that he may be present and forthcoming to answer to these heavy charges before the court to-morrow morning. In executing this duty, friends and fellow-citizens, you are to use courage and discretion; courage, that you may not be daunted by any lawless attempt that this man may make with his rifle and his dogs to oppose you; and discretion, which here means caution and prudence, that he may not escape from this sudden attack — and for other good reasons that I need not mention. You will form yourselves in a complete circle around his hut, and at the word ‘advance,’ called aloud by me, you will rush forward and, without giving the criminal time for deliberation, enter his dwelling by force, and make him your prisoner. Spread yourselves for this purpose, while I shall descend to the shore with a deputy, to take charge of that point; and all communications must be made directly to me, under the bank in front of the hut, where I shall station myself and remain, in order to receive them.”

This speech, which Richard had been studying during his walk, had the effect that all similar performances produce, of bringing the dangers of the expedition immediately before the eyes of his forces. The men divided, some plunging deeper into the forest, in order to gain their stations without giving an alarm, and others Continuing to advance, at a gait that would allow the whole party to go in order; but all devising the best plan to repulse the attack of a dog, or to escape a rifle-bullet. It was a moment of dread expectation and interest.

When the sheriff thought time enough had elapsed for the different divisions of his force to arrive at their stations, he raised his voice in the silence of the forest, and shouted the watchword. The sounds played among the arched branches of the trees in hollow cadences; but when the last sinking tone was lost on the ear, in place of the expected howls of the dogs, no other noises were returned but the crackling of torn branches and dried sticks, as they yielded before the advancing steps of the officers. Even this soon ceased, as if by a common consent, when the curiosity and impatience of the sheriff getting the complete ascendency over discretion, he rushed up the bank, and in a moment stood on the little piece of cleared ground in front of the spot where Natty had so long lived, To his amazement, in place of the hut he saw only its smouldering ruins.

The party gradually drew together about the heap of ashes and the ends of smoking logs; while a dim flame in the centre of the ruin, which still found fuel to feed its lingering life, threw its pale light, flickering with the passing currents of the air, around the circle — now showing a face with eyes fixed in astonishment, and then glancing to another countenance, leaving the former shaded in the obscurity of night. Not a voice was raised in inquiry, nor an exclamation made in astonishment. The transition from excitement to disappointment was too powerful for Speech; and even Richard lost the use of an organ that was seldom known to fail him.

The whole group were yet in the fullness of their surprise, when a tall form stalked from the gloom into the circle, treading down the hot ashes and dying embers with callous feet; and, standing over the light, lifted his cap, and exposed the bare head and weather-beaten features of the Leather-Stocking. For a moment he gazed at the dusky figures who surrounded him, more in sorrow than in anger before he spoke.

“What would ye with an old and helpless man?” he said, “You’ve driven God’s creatur’s from the wilder ness, where His providence had put them for His own pleasure; and you’ve brought in the troubles and diviltries of the law, where no man was ever known to disturb another. You have driven me, that have lived forty long years of my appointed time in this very spot, from my home and the shelter of my head, lest you should put your wicked feet and wasty ways in my cabin. You’ve driven me to burn these logs, under which I’ve eaten and drunk — the first of Heaven’s gifts, and the other of the pure springs — for the half of a hundred years; and to mourn the ashes under my feet, as a man would weep and mourn for the children of his body. You’ve rankled the heart of an old man, that has never harmed you or your’n, with bitter feelings toward his kind, at a time when his thoughts should be on a better world; and you’ve driven him to wish that the beasts of the forest, who never feast on the blood of their own families, was his kindred and race; and now, when he has come to see the last brand of his hut, before it is incited into ashes, you follow him up, at midnight, like hungry hounds on the track of a worn-out and dying deer. What more would ye have? for I am here — one too many. I come to mourn, not to fight; and, if it is God’s pleasure, work your will on me.”

When the old man ended he stood, with the light glimmering around his thinly covered head, looking earnestly at the group, which receded from the pile with an involuntary movement, without the reach of the quivering rays, leaving a free passage for his retreat into the bushes, where pursuit in the dark would have been fruit less. Natty seemed not to regard this advantage, but stood facing each individual in the circle in succession, as if to see who would be the first to arrest him. After a pause of a few moments Richard began to rally his confused faculties, and, advancing, apologized for his duty, and made him his prisoner. The party flow collected, and, preceded by the sheriff, with Natty in their centre, they took their way toward the village.

During the walk, divers questions were put to the prisoner concerning his reasons for burning the hut, and whither Mohegan had retreated; but to all of them he observed a profound silence, until, fatigued with their previous duties, and the lateness of the hour, the sheriff and his followers reached the village, and dispersed to their several places of rest, after turning the key of a jail on the aged and apparently friendless Leather-Stocking.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

“Fetch here the stocks, ho!

You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend bragget,

We’ll teach you.”

— Lear.

The long days and early sun of July allowed time for a gathering of the interested, before the little bell of the academy announced that the appointed hour had arrived for administering right to the wronged, and punishment to the guilty. Ever since the dawn of day, the highways and woodpaths that, issuing from the forests, and winding among the sides of the mountains, centred in Templeton, had been thronged with equestrians and footmen, bound to the haven of justice. There was to be seen a well-clad yeoman, mounted on a sleek, switch-tailed steed, rambling along the highway, with his red face elevated in a manner that said, “I have paid for my land, and fear no man;” while his bosom was swelling with the pride of being one of the grand inquest for the county. At his side rode a companion, his equal in independence of feeling, perhaps, but his inferior in thrift, as in property and consideration. This was a professed dealer in lawsuits — a man whose name appeared in every calendar — whose substance, gained in the multifarious expedients of a settler’s change able habits, was wasted in feeding the harpies of the courts. He was endeavoring to impress the mind of the grand juror with the merits of a cause now at issue, Along with these was a pedestrian, who, having thrown a rifle frock over his shirt, and placed his best wool hat above his sunburnt visage, had issued from his retreat in the woods by a footpath, and was striving to keep company with the others, on his way to hear and to decide the disputes of his neighbors, as a petit juror. Fifty similar little knots of countrymen might have been seen, on that morning, journeying toward the shire-town on the same errand.

By ten o’clock the streets of the village were filled with busy faces; some talking of their private concerns, some listening to a popular expounder of political creeds; and others gaping in at the open stores, admiring the finery, or examining scythes, axes, and such other manufactures as attracted their curiosity or excited their admiration. A few women were in the crowd, most carrying infants, and followed, at a lounging, listless gait, by their rustic lords and masters. There was one young couple, in whom connubial love was yet fresh, walking at a respectful distance from each other; while the swain directed the timid steps of his bride, by a gallant offering of a thumb.

At the first stroke of the bell, Richard issued from the door of the “Bold Dragoon,” flourishing a sheathed sword, that he was fond of saying his ancestors had carried in one of Cromwell’s victories, and crying, in an authoritative tone, to “clear the way for the court.” The order was obeyed promptly, though not servilely, the members of the crowd nodding familiarly to the members of the procession as it passed. A party of constables with their staves followed the sheriff, preceding Marmaduke and four plain, grave-looking yeomen, who were his associates on the bench. There was nothing to distinguish these Subordinate judges from the better part of the spectators, except gravity, which they affected a little more than common, and that one of their number was attired in an old-fashioned military coat, with skirts that reached no lower than the middle of his thighs, and bearing two little silver epaulets, not half so big as a modern pair of shoulder-knots. This gentleman was a colonel of the militia, in attendance on a court-martial, who found leisure to steal a moment from his military to attend to his civil jurisdiction; but this incongruity excited neither notice nor comment. Three or four clean-shaved lawyers followed, as meek as if they were lambs going to the slaughter. One or two of their number had contrived to obtain an air of scholastic gravity by wearing spectacles. The rear was brought up by another posse of constables, and the mob followed the whole into the room where the court held its sitting.

The edifice was composed of a basement of squared logs, perforated here and there with small grated windows, through which a few wistful faces were gazing at the crowd without. Among the captives were the guilty, downcast countenances of the counterfeiters, and the simple but honest features of the Leather-Stocking. The dungeons were to be distinguished, externally, from the debtors’ apartments only by the size of the apertures, the thickness of the grates, and by the heads of the spikes that were driven into the logs as a protection against the illegal use of edge-tools. The upper story was of frame work, regularly covered with boards, and contained one room decently fitted up for the purpose of justice. A bench, raised on a narrow platform to the height of a man above the floor, and protected in front by a light railing, ran along one of its sides. In the centre was a seat, furnished with rude arms, that was always filled by the presiding judge. In front, on a level with the floor of the room, was a large table covered with green baize, and surrounded by benches; and at either of its ends were rows of seats, rising one over the other, for jury-boxes. Each of these divisions was surrounded by a railing. The remainder of the room was an open square, appropriated to the spectators.

When the judges were seated, the lawyers had taken possession of the table, and the noise of moving feet had ceased in the area, the proclamations were made in the usual form, the jurors were sworn, the charge was given, and the court proceeded to hear the business before them.

We shall not detain the reader with a description of the captious discussions that occupied the court for the first two hours, Judge Temple had impressed on the jury, in his charge, the necessity for dispatch on their part, recommending to their notice, from motives of humanity, the prisoners in the jail as the first objects of their attention. Accordingly, after the period we have mentioned had elapsed, the cry of the officer to “clear the way for the grand jury,” announced the entrance of that body. The usual forms were observed, when the foreman handed up to the bench two bills, on both of which the Judge observed, at the first glance of his eye, the name of Nathaniel Bumppo. It was a leisure moment with the court; some low whispering passed between the bench and the sheriff, who gave a signal to his officers, and in a very few minutes the silence that prevailed was interrupted by a general movement in the outer crowd, when presently the Leather-Stocking made his appearance, ushered into the criminal’s bar under the custody of two constables, The hum ceased, the people closed into the open space again, and the silence soon became so deep that the hard breathing of the prisoner was audible.

Natty was dressed in his buckskin garments, without his coat, in place of which he wore only a shirt of coarse linen-cheek, fastened at his throat by the sinew of a deer, leaving his red neck and weather-beaten face exposed and bare. It was the first time that he had ever crossed the threshold of a court of justice, and curiosity seemed to be strongly blended with his personal feelings. He raised his eyes to the bench, thence to the jury-boxes, the bar, and the crowd without, meeting everywhere looks fastened on himself. After surveying his own person, as searching the cause of this unusual attraction, he once more turned his face around the assemblage, and opened his mouth in one of his silent and remarkable laughs.

“Prisoner, remove your cap,” said Judge Temple.

The order was either unheard or unheeded.

“Nathaniel Bumppo, be uncovered,” repeated the Judge.

Natty started at the sound of his name, and, raising his face earnestly toward the bench, he said:

“Anan!”

Mr. Lippet arose from his seat at the table, and whispered in the ear of the prisoner; when Natty gave him a nod of assent, and took the deer-skin covering from his head.

“Mr. District Attorney,” said the Judge, “the prisoner is ready; we wait for the indictment.”

The duties of public prosecutor were discharged by Dirck Van der School, who adjusted his spectacles, cast a cautious look around him at his brethren of the bar, which he ended by throwing his head aside so as to catch one glance over the glasses, when he proceeded to read the bill aloud. It was the usual charge for an assault and battery on the person of Hiram Doolittle, and was couched in the ancient language of such instruments, especial care having been taken by the scribe not to omit the name of a single offensive weapon known to the law. When he had done, Mr. Van der School removed his spectacles, which he closed and placed in his pocket, seemingly for the pleasure of again opening and replacing them on his nose, After this evolution was repeated once or twice, he handed the bill over to Mr. Lippet, with a cavalier air, that said as much as “Pick a hole in that if you can.”

Natty listened to the charge with great attention, leaning forward toward the reader with an earnestness that denoted his interest; and, when it was ended, he raised his tall body to the utmost, and drew a long sigh. All eyes were turned to the prisoner, whose voice was vainly expected to break the stillness of the room.

“You have heard the presentment that the grand jury have made, Nathaniel Bumppo,” said the Judge; “what do you plead to the charge?”

The old man drooped his head for a moment in a reflecting attitude, and then, raising it, he laughed before he answered:

“That I handled the man a little rough or so, is not to be denied; but that there was occasion to make use of all the things that the gentleman has spoken of is downright untrue. I am not much of a wrestler, seeing that I’m getting old; but I was out among the Scotch-Irishers — let me see — it must have been as long ago as the first year of the old war— “

“Mr. Lippet, if you are retained for the prisoner,” interrupted Judge Temple, “instruct your client how to plead; if not, the court will assign him counsel.”

Aroused from studying the indictment by this appeal, the attorney got up, and after a short dialogue with the hunter in a low voice, he informed the court that they were ready to proceed.

“Do you plead guilty or not guilty?” said the Judge.

“I may say not guilty, with a clean conscience,” returned Natty; “for there’s no guilt in doing what’s right; and I’d rather died on the spot, than had him put foot in the hut at that moment.”

Richard started at this declaration and bent his eyes significantly on Hiram, who returned the look with a slight movement of his eyebrows.

“Proceed to open the cause, Mr. District Attorney,” continued the Judge. “Mr. Clerk, enter the plea of not guilty.”

After a short opening address from Mr. Van der School, Hiram was summoned to the bar to give his testimony. It was delivered to the letter, perhaps, but with all that moral coloring which can be conveyed under such expressions as, “thinking no harm,” “feeling it my bounden duty as a magistrate,” and “seeing that the constable was back’ard in the business.” When he had done, and the district attorney declined putting any further interrogatories, Mr. Lippet arose, with an air of keen investigation, and asked the following questions:

“Are you a constable of this county, sir?”

“No, sir,” said Hiram, “I’m only a justice-peace.”

“I ask you, Mr. Doolittle, in the face of this court, put ting it to your conscience and your knowledge of the law, whether you had any right to enter that man’s dwelling?”

“Hem!” said Hiram, undergoing a violent struggle between his desire for vengeance, and his love of legal fame: “I do suppose — that in — that is — strict law — that supposing — maybe I hadn’t a real — lawful right; but as the case was — and Billy was so back’ard — I thought I might come for’ard in the business.”

“I ask you again, sir,” continued the lawyer, following up his success, “whether this old, this friendless old man, did or did not repeatedly forbid your entrance?”

“Why, I must say,” said Hiram, “that he was considerable cross-grained; not what I call clever, seeing that it was only one neighbor wanting to go into the house of another.”

“Oh! then you own it was only meant for a neighborly visit on your part, and without the sanction of law. Remember, gentlemen, the words of the witness, ‘one neighbor wanting to enter the house of another.’ Now, sir, I ask you if Nathaniel Bumppo did not again and again order you not to enter?”

“There was some words passed between us,” said Hiram, “but I read the warrant to him aloud.”

“I repeat my question; did he tell you not to enter his habitation?”

“There was a good deal passed betwixt us — but I’ve the warrant in my pocket; maybe the court would wish to see it?”

“Witness,” said Judge Temple, “answer the question directly; did or did not the prisoner forbid your entering his hut?”

“Why, I some think— “

“Answer without equivocation,” continued the Judge sternly.

“He did.”

“And did you attempt to enter after his order?”

“I did; but the warrant was in my hand.”

“Proceed, Mr. Lippet, with your examination.”

But the attorney saw that the impression was in favor of his client, and waving his hand with a supercilious manner, as if unwilling to insult the understanding of the jury with any further defence, he replied:

“No, sir; I leave it for your honor to charge; I rest my case here.”

“Mr. District Attorney,” said the Judge, “have you anything to say?”

Mr. Van der School removed his spectacles, folded them and, replacing them once more on his nose, eyed the other bill which he held in his hand, and then said, looking at the bar over the top of his glasses; “I shall rest the prosecution here, if the court please.”

Judge Temple arose and began the charge.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “you have heard the testimony, and I shall detain you but a moment. If an officer meet with resistance in the execution of a process, he has an undoubted right to call any citizen to his assistance; and the acts of such assistant come within the protection of the law. I shall leave you to judge, gentlemen, from the testimony, how far the witness in this prosecution can be so considered, feeling less reluctance to submit the case thus informally to your decision, because there is yet another indictment to be tried, which involves heavier charges against the unfortunate prisoner.”

The tone of Marmaduke was mild and insinuating, and, as his sentiments were given with such apparent impartiality, they did not fail of carrying due weight with the jury. The grave-looking yeomen who composed this tribunal laid their heads together for a few minutes, without leaving the box, when the foreman arose, and, after the forms of the court were duly observed, he pronounced the prisoner to be “Not guilty.”

“You are acquitted of this charge, Nathaniel Bumppo,” said the Judge.

“Anan!” said Natty.

“You are found not guilty of striking and assaulting Mr. Doolittle.”

“No, no, I’ll not deny but that I took him a little roughly by the shoulders,” said Natty, looking about him with great simplicity, “and that I— “

“You are acquitted,” interrupted the Judge, “and there is nothing further to be said or done in the matter.”

A look of joy lighted up the features of the old man, who now comprehended the case, and, placing his cap eagerly on his head again, he threw up the bar of his little prison, and said, feelingly:

“I must say this for you, Judge Temple, that the law has not been so hard on me as I dreaded. I hope God will bless you for the kind things you’ve done to me this day.”

But the staff of the constable was opposed to his egress, and Mr. Lippet whispered a few words in his ear, when the aged hunter sank back into his place, and, removing his cap, stroked down the remnants of his gray and sandy locks, with an air of mortification mingled with submission.

“Mr. District Attorney,” said Judge Temple, affecting to busy himself with his minutes, “proceed with the second indictment.”

Mr. Van der School took great care that no part of the presentment, which he now read, should be lost on his auditors. It accused the prisoner of resisting the execution of a search-warrant, by force of arms, and particularized in the vague language of the law, among a variety of other weapons, the use of the rifle. This was indeed a more serious charge than an ordinary assault and battery, and a corresponding degree of interest was manifested by the spectators in its result. The prisoner was duly arraigned, and his plea again demanded. Mr. Lippet had anticipated the answers of Natty, and in a whisper advised him how to plead. But the feelings of the old hunter were awakened by some of the expressions in the indictment, and, forgetful of his caution, he exclaimed:

“’Tis a wicked untruth; I crave no man’s blood. Them thieves, the Iroquois, won’t say it to any face that I ever thirsted after man’s blood, I have fou’t as soldier that feared his Maker and his officer, but I never pulled trigger on any but a warrior that was up and awake. No man can say that I ever struck even a Mingo in his blanket. I believe there’s some who thinks there’s no God in a wilder ness!”

“Attend to your plea, Bumppo,” said the Judge; “you hear that you are accused of using your rifle against an officer of justice? Are you guilty or not guilty?”

By this time the irritated feelings of Natty had found vent: and he rested on the bar for a moment, in a musing posture, when he lifted his face, with his silent laugh, and, pointing to where the wood-chopper stood, he said:

“Would Billy Kirby be standing there, d’ye think, if I had used the rifle?”

“Then you deny it,” said Mr. Lippet; “you plead not guilty?”

“Sartain,” said Natty; “Billy knows that I never fired at all. Billy, do you remember the turkey last winter? Ah me! that was better than common firing; but I can’t shoot as I used to could.”

“Enter the plea of not guilty,” said Judge Temple, strongly affected by the simplicity of the prisoner.

Hiram was again sworn, and his testimony given on the second charge. He had discovered his former error, and proceeded more cautiously than before. He related very distinctly and, for the man, with amazing terseness, the suspicion against the hunter, the complaint, the issuing of the warrant, and the swearing in of Kirby; all of which, he affirmed, were done in due form of law. He then added the manner in which the constable had been received; and stated, distinctly, that Natty had pointed the rifle at Kirby, and threatened his life if he attempted to execute his duty. All this was confirmed by Jotham, who was observed to adhere closely to the story of the magistrate. Mr. Lippet conducted an artful cross-examination of these two witnesses, but, after consuming much time, was compelled to relinquish the attempt to obtain any advantage, in despair.

At length the District Attorney called the wood-chopper to the bar, Billy gave an extremely confused account of the whole affair, although he evidently aimed at the truth, until Mr. Van der School aided him, by asking some direct questions:

“It appears from examining the papers, that you demanded admission into the hut legally; so you were put in bodily fear by his rifle and threats?”

“I didn’t mind them that, man,” said Billy, snapping his fingers; “I should be a poor stick to mind old Leather-Stocking.”

“But I understood you to say (referring to your previous words [as delivered here in court] in the commencement of your testimony) that you thought he meant to shoot you?”

“To be sure I did; and so would you, too, squire, if you had seen a chap dropping a muzzle that never misses, and cocking an eye that has a natural squint by long practice I thought there would be a dust on’t, and my back was up at once; but Leather-Stocking gi’n up the skin, and so the matter ended.”

“Ah! Billy,” said Natty, shaking his head, “’twas a lucky thought in me to throw out the hide, or there might have been blood spilt; and I’m sure, if it had been your’n, I should have mourned it sorely the little while I have to stay.”

“Well, Leather-Stocking,” returned Billy, facing the prisoner with a freedom and familiarity that utterly disregarded the presence of the court, “as you are on the subject it may be that you’ve no— “

“Go on with your examination, Mr. District Attorney.”

That gentleman eyed the familiarity between his witness and the prisoner with manifest disgust, and indicated to the court that he was done.

“Then you didn’t feel frightened, Mr. Kirby?” said the counsel for the prisoner.

“Me! no,” said Billy, casting his eyes oven his own huge frame with evident self-satisfaction; “I’m not to be skeared so easy.”

“You look like a hardy man; where were you born, sir?”

“Varmount State; ’tis a mountaynious place, but there’s a stiff soil, and it’s pretty much wooded with beech and maple.”

“I have always heard so,” said Mr. Lippet soothingly. “You have been used to the rifle yourself in that country.”

“I pull the second best trigger in this county. I knock under to Natty Bumppo, there, sin’ he shot the pigeon.”

Leather-Stocking raised his head, and laughed again, when he abruptly thrust out a wrinkled hand, and said:

“You’re young yet, Billy, and haven’t seen the matches that I have; but here’s my hand; I bear no malice to you, I don’t.”

Mr. Lippet allowed this conciliatory offering to be accepted, and judiciously paused, while the spirit of peace was exercising its influence over the two; but the Judge interposed his authority.

“This is an improper place for such dialogues,” he said; “proceed with your examination of this witness, Mr. Lippet, or I shall order the next.”

The attorney started, as if unconscious of any impropriety, and continued:

“So you settled the matter with Natty amicably on the spot, did you?”

“He gi’n me the skin, and I didn’t want to quarrel with an old man; for my part, I see no such mighty matter in shooting a buck!”

“And you parted friends? and you would never have thought of bringing the business up before a court, hadn’t you been subpoenaed?”

“I don’t think I should; he gi’n the skin, and I didn’t feel a hard thought, though Squire Doolittle got some affronted.”

“I have done, sir,” said Mr. Lippet, probably relying on the charge of the Judge, as he again seated himself, with the air of a main who felt that his success was certain.

When Mr. Van der School arose to address the jury, he commenced by saying:

“Gentlemen of the jury, I should have interrupted the leading questions put by the prisoner’s counsel (by leading questions I mean telling him what to say), did I not feel confident that the law of the land was superior to any ad vantages (I mean legal advantages) which he might obtain by his art. The counsel for the prisoner, gentlemen, has endeavored to persuade you, in opposition to your own good sense, to believe that pointing a rifle at a constable (elected or deputed) is a very innocent affair; and that society (I mean the commonwealth, gentlemen) shall not be endangered thereby. But let me claim your attention, while we look over the particulars of this heinous offence.” Here Mr. Vain der School favored the jury with an abridgment of the testimony, recounted in such a manner as utterly to confuse the faculties of his worthy listeners. After this exhibition he closed as follows: “And now, gentlemen, having thus made plain to your senses the crime of which this unfortunate man has been guilty (unfortunate both on account of his ignorance and his guilt), I shall leave you to your own consciences; not in the least doubting that you will see the importance (notwithstanding the prisoner’s counsel [doubtless relying on your former verdict] wishes to appear so confident of success) of punishing the offender, and asserting the dignity of the laws.”

It was now the duty of the Judge to deliver his charge. It consisted of a short, comprehensive summary of the testimony, laying bare the artifice of the prisoner’s counsel, and placing the facts in so obvious a light that they could not well be misunderstood. “Living as we do, gentlemen,” he concluded, “on the skirts of society, it becomes doubly necessary to protect the ministers of the law. If you believe the witnesses, in their construction of the acts of the prisoner, it is your duty to convict him; but if you believe that the old man, who this day appears before you, meant not to harm the constable, but was acting more under the influence of habit than by the instigations of malice, it will be your duty to judge him, but to do it with lenity.”

As before, the jury did not leave their box; but, after a consultation of some little time, their foreman arose, and pronounced the prisoner Guilty.

There was but little surprise manifested in the courtroom at this verdict, as the testimony, the greater part of which we have omitted, was too clear and direct to be passed over. The judges seemed to have anticipated this sentiment, for a consultation was passing among them also, during the deliberation of the jury, and the preparatory movements of the “bench” announced the coming sentence.

“Nathaniel Bumppo,” commenced the Judge, making the customary pause.

The old hunter, who had been musing again, with his head on the bar, raised himself, and cried, with a prompt, military tone:

“Here.”

The Judge waved his hand for silence, and proceeded:

“In forming their sentence, the court have been governed as much by the consideration of your ignorance of the laws as by a strict sense of the importance of punishing such outrages as this of which you have been found guilty. They have therefore passed over the obvious punishment of whipping on the bare back, in mercy to your years; but, as the dignity of the law requires an open exhibition of the consequences of your crime, it is ordered that you be conveyed from this room to the public stocks, where you are to be confined for one hour; that you pay a fine to the State of one hundred dollars; and that you be imprisoned in the jail of this county for one calendar month, and, furthermore, that your imprisonment do not cease until the said fine shall be paid. I feel it my duty, Nathaniel Bumppo— “

“And where should I get the money?” interrupted the Leather-Stocking eagerly; “where should I get the money? you’ll take away the bounty on the painters, because I cut the throat of a deer; and how is an old man to find so much gold or silver in the woods? No, no, Judge; think better of it, and don’t talk of shutting me up in a jail for the little time I have to stay.”

“If you have anything to urge against the passing of the sentence, the court will yet hear you,” said the Judge, mildly.

“I have enough to say agin’ it,” cried Natty, grasping the bar on which his fingers were working with a convulsed motion. “Where am I to get the money? Let me out into the woods and hills, where I’ve been used to breathe the clear air, and though I’m threescore and ten, if you’ve left game enough in the country, I’ll travel night and day but I’ll make you up the sum afore the season is over. Yes, yes — you see the reason of the thing, and the wicked ness of shutting up an old man that has spent his days, as one may say, where he could always look into the windows of heaven.”

“I must be governed by the law— “

“Talk not to me of law, Marmaduke Temple,” interrupted the hunter. “Did the beast of the forest mind your laws, when it was thirsty and hungering for the blood of your own child? She was kneeling to her God for a greater favor than I ask, and he heard her; and if you now say no to my prayers, do you think he will be deaf?”

“My private feelings must not enter into— “

“Hear me, Marmaduke Temple,” interrupted the old man, with melancholy earnestness, “and hear reason. I’ve travelled these mountains when you was no judge, but an infant in your mother’s arms; and I feel as if I had a right and a privilege to travel them agin afore I die. Have you forgot the time that you come on to the lake shore, when there wasn’t even a jail to lodge in: and didn’t I give you my own bear-skin to sleep on, and the fat of a noble buck to satisfy the cravings of your hunger? Yes, yes — you thought it no sin then to kill a deer! And this I did, though I had no reason to love you, for you had never done anything but harm to them that loved and sheltered me. And now, will you shut me up in your dungeons to pay me for my kindness? A hundred dollars! Where should I get the money? No, no — there’s them that says hard things of you, Marmaduke Temple, but you ain’t so bad as to wish to see an old man die in a prison, because he stood up for the right. Come, friend, let me pass; it’s long sin’ I’ve been used to such crowds, and I crave to be in the woods agin. Don’t fear me, Judge — I bid you not to fear me; for if there’s beaver enough left on the streams, or the buckskins will sell for a shilling apiece, you shall have the last penny of the fine. Where are ye, pups? come away, dogs, come away! we have a grievous toil to do for our years, but it shall be done — yes, yes, I’ve promised it, and it shall be done!”

It is unnecessary to say that the movement of the Leather-Stocking was again intercepted by the constable; but, before he had time to speak, a bustling in the crowd, and a loud hem, drew all eyes to another part of the room.

Benjamin had succeeded in edging his way through the people, and was now seen balancing his short body, with one foot in a window and the other on a railing of the jury-box. To the amazement of the whole court, the steward was evidently preparing to speak. After a good deal of difficulty, he succeeded in drawing from his pocket a small bag, and then found utterance.

“If-so-be,” he said, “that your honor is agreeable to trust the poor fellow out on another cruise among the beasts, here’s a small matter that will help to bring down the risk, seeing that there’s just thirty-five of your Spaniards in it; and I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that they was raal British guineas, for the sake of the old boy. But ’tis as it is; and if Squire Dickens will just be so good as to overhaul this small bit of an account, and take enough from the bag to settle the same, he’s welcome to hold on upon the rest, till such time as the Leather-Stocking can grapple with them said beaver, or, for that matter, forever, and no thanks asked.”

As Benjamin concluded, he thrust out the wooden register of his arrears to the “Bold Dragoon” with one hand, while he offered his bag of dollars with the other. Astonishment at this singular interruption produced a profound stillness in the room, which was only interrupted by the sheriff, who struck his sword on the table, and cried: “Silence!”

“There must be an end to this,” said the Judge, struggling to overcome his feelings. “Constable, lead the prisoner to the stocks. Mr. Clerk, what stands next on the calendar?”

Natty seemed to yield to his destiny, for he sank his head on his chest, and followed the officer from the court room in silence. The crowd moved back for the passage of the prisoner, and when his tall form was seen descending from the outer door, a rush of the people to the scene of his disgrace followed.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

“Ha! ha! look! he wears cruel garters!” — Lear.

The punishments of the common law were still known, at the time of our tale, to the people of New York; and the whipping-post, and its companion, the stocks, were not yet supplanted by the more merciful expedients of the public prison. Immediately in front of the jail those relics of the older times were situated, as a lesson of precautionary justice to the evil-doers of the settlement.

Natty followed the constables to this spot, bowing his head in submission to a power that he was unable to op pose, and surrounded by the crowd that formed a circle about his person, exhibiting in their countenances strong curiosity. A constable raised the upper part of the stocks, and pointed with his finger to the holes where the old man was to place his feet. Without making the least objection to the punishment, the Leather-Stocking quietly seated himself on the ground, and suffered his limbs to be laid in the openings, without even a murmur; though he cast one glance about him, in quest of that sympathy that human nature always seems to require under suffering but he met no direct manifestations of pity, neither did he see any unfeeling exultation, or hear a single reproachful epithet. The character of the mob, if it could be called by such a name, was that of attentive subordination.

The constable was in the act of lowering the upper plank, when Benjamin, who had pressed close to the side of the prisoner, said, in his hoarse tone, as if seeking for some cause to create a quarrel:

“Where away, master constable, is the use of clapping a man in them here bilboes? It neither stops his grog nor hurts his back; what for is it that you do the thing?”

“’Tis the sentence of the court, Mr. Penguillium, and there’s law for it, I s’pose.”

“Ay, ay, I know that there’s law for the thing; but where away do you find the use, I say? it does no harm, and it only keeps a man by the heels for the small matter of two glasses.”

“Is it no harm, Benny Pump,” said Natty, raising his eyes with a piteous look in the face of the steward— “is it no harm to show off a man in his seventy-first year, like a tame bear, for the settlers to look on? Is it no harm to put an old soldier, that has served through the war of ‘fifty-six, and seen the enemy in the ‘seventy-six business, into a place like this, where the boys can point at him and say, I have known the time when he was a spectacle for the county? Is it no harm to bring down the pride of an honest man to be the equal of the beasts of the forest?”

Benjamin stared about him fiercely, and could he have found a single face that expressed contumely, he would have been prompt to quarrel with its owner; but meeting everywhere with looks of sobriety, and occasionally of commiseration, he very deliberately seated himself by the side of the hunter, and, placing his legs in the two vacant holes of the stocks, he said:

“Now lower away, master constable, lower away, I tell ye! If-so-be there’s such a thing hereabouts, as a man that wants to see a bear, let him look and be d — d, and he shall find two of them, and mayhap one of the same that can bite as well as growl.”

“But I have no orders to put you in the stocks, Mr. Pump,” cried the constable; “you must get up and let me do my duty.”

“You’ve my orders, and what do you need better to meddle with my own feet? so lower away, will ye, and let me see the man that chooses to open his mouth with a grin on it.”

“There can’t be any harm in locking up a creatur’ that will enter the pound,” said the constable, laughing, and closing the stocks on them both.

It was fortunate that this act was executed with decision, for the whole of the spectators, when they saw Benjamin assume the position he took, felt an inclination for merriment, which few thought it worth while to suppress. The steward struggled violently for his liberty again, with an evident intention of making battle on those who stood nearest to him; but the key was already turned, and all his efforts were vain.

“Hark ye, master constable,” he cried, “just clear away your bilboes for the small matter of a log-glass, will ye, and let me show some of them there chaps who it is they are so merry about.”

“No, no, you would go in, and you can’t come out,” returned the officer, “until the time has expired that the Judge directed for the keeping of the prisoner.”

Benjamin, finding that his threats and his struggles were useless, had good sense enough to learn patience from the resigned manner of his companion, and soon settled himself down by the side of Natty, with a contemptuousness expressed in his hard features, that showed he had substituted disgust for rage. When the violence of the steward’s feelings had in some measure subsided, he turned to his fellow-sufferer, and, with a motive that might have vindicated a worse effusion, he attempted the charitable office of consolation,

“Taking it by and large, Master Bump-ho, it’s but a small matter after all,” he said. “Now, I’ve known very good sort of men, aboard of the Boadishey, laid by the heels, for nothing, mayhap, but forgetting that they’d drunk their allowance already, when a glass of grog has come in their way. This is nothing more than riding with two anchors ahead, waiting for a turn in the tide, or a shift of wind, d’ye see, with a soft bottom and plenty of room for the sweep of your hawse. Now I’ve seen many a man, for over-shooting his reckoning, as I told ye moored head and starn, where he couldn’t so much as heave his broadside round, and mayhap a stopper clapped on his tongue too, in the shape of a pump-bolt lashed athwartship his jaws, all the same as an outrigger along side of a taffrel-rail.”

The hunter appeared to appreciate the kind intentions of the other, though he could not understand his eloquence, and, raising his humbled countenance, he attempted a smile, as he said:

“Anan!”

“’Tis nothing, I say, but a small matter of a squall that will soon blow over,” continued Benjamin. “To you that has such a length of keel, it must be all the same as nothing; thof, seeing that I am little short in my lower timbers, they’ve triced my heels up in such a way as to give me a bit of a cant. But what cares I, Master Bump-ho, if the ship strains a little at her anchor? it’s only for a dog-watch, and dam’me but she’ll sail with you then on that cruise after them said beaver. I’m not much used to small arms, seeing that I was stationed at the ammunition-boxes, being summat too low-rigged to see over the hammock-cloths; but I can carry the game, dye see, and mayhap make out to lend a hand with the traps; and if so, be you’re any way so handy with them as ye be with your boat-hook, ‘twill be but a short cruise after all, I’ve squared the yards with Squire Dickens this morning, and I shall send him word that he needn’t bear my name on the books again till such time as the cruise is over.”

“You’re used to dwell with men, Benny,” said Leather-Stocking, mournfully, “and the ways of the woods would be hard on you, if — — “

“Not a bit — not a bit,” cried the steward; “I’m none of your fair-weather chaps, Master Bump-ho, as sails only in smooth water. When I find a friend, I sticks by him, dye see. Now, there’s no better man a-going than Squire Dickens, and I love him about the same as I loves Mistress Hollister’s new keg of Jamaiky.” The steward paused, and turning his uncouth visage on the hunter, he surveyed him with a roguish leer of his eye, and gradually suffered the muscles of his hard features to relax, until his face was illuminated by the display of his white teeth, when he dropped his voice, and added; “I say, Master Leather-Stocking, ’tis fresher and livelier than any Hollands you’ll get in Garnsey. But we’ll send a hand over and ask the woman for a taste, for I’m so jammed in these here bilboes that I begin to want summat to lighten my upper works.”

Natty sighed, and gazed about him on the crowd, that already began to disperse, and which had now diminished greatly, as its members scattered in their various pursuits. He looked wistfully at Benjamin, but did not reply; a deeply-seated anxiety seeming to absorb every other sensation, and to throw a melancholy gloom over his wrinkled features, which were working with the movements of his mind.

The steward was about to act on the old principle, that silence gives consent, when Hiram Doolittle, attended by Jotham, stalked out of the crowd, across the open space, and approached the stocks. The magistrate passed by the end where Benjamin was seated, and posted himself, at a safe distance from the steward, in front of the Leather-Stocking. Hiram stood, for a moment, cowering before the keen looks that Natty fastened on him, and suffering under an embarrassment that was quite new; when having in some degree recovered himself, he looked at the heavens, and then at the smoky atmosphere, as if it were only an ordinary meeting with a friend, and said in his formal, hesitating way:

“Quite a scurcity of rain, lately; I some think we shall have a long drought on’t.”

Benjamin was occupied in untying his bag of dollars, and did not observe the approach of the magistrate, while Natty turned his face, in which every muscle was working, away from him in disgust, without answering. Rather encouraged than daunted by this exhibition of dislike, Hiram, after a short pause, continued:

“The clouds look as if they’d no water in them, and the earth is dreadfully parched. To my judgment, there’ll be short crops this season, if the rain doesn’t fail quite speedily.”

The air with which Mr. Doolittle delivered this prophetical opinion was peculiar to his species. It was a jesuitical, cold, unfeeling, and selfish manner, that seemed to say, “I have kept within the law,” to the man he had so cruelly injured. It quite overcame the restraint that the old hunter had been laboring to impose on himself, and he burst out in a warm glow of indignation.

“Why should the rain fall from the clouds,” he cried, “when you force the tears from the eyes of the old, the sick, and the poor! Away with ye — away with ye! you may be formed in the image of the Maker, but Satan dwells in your heart. Away with ye, I say! I am mournful, and the sight of ye brings bitter thoughts.”

Benjamin ceased thumbing his money, and raised his head at the instant that Hiram, who was thrown off his guard by the invectives of the hunter, unluckily trusted his person within reach of the steward, who grasped one of his legs with a hand that had the grip of a vise, and whirled the magistrate from his feet, before he had either time to collect his senses or to exercise the strength he did really possess. Benjamin wanted neither proportions nor manhood in his head, shoulders, and arms, though all the rest of his frame appeared to be originally intended for a very different sort of a man. He exerted his physical powers on the present occasion, with much discretion; and, as he had taken his antagonist at a great disadvantage, the struggle resulted very soon in Benjamin getting the magistrate fixed in a posture somewhat similar to his own, and manfully placed face to face.

“You’re a ship’s cousin, I tell ye, Master Doo-but-little,” roared the steward; “some such matter as a ship’s cousin, sir. I know you, I do, with your fair-weather speeches to Squire Dickens, to his face, and then you go and sarve out your grumbling to all the old women in the town, do ye? Ain’t it enough for any Christian, let him harbor never so much malice, to get an honest old fellow laid by the heels in this fashion, without carrying sail so hard on the poor dog, as if you would run him down as he lay at his anchors? But I’ve logged many a hard thing against your name, master, and now the time’s come to foot up the day’s work, d’ye see; so square yourself, you lubber, square yourself, and we’ll soon know who’s the better man.”

“Jotham!” cried the frightened magistrate— “Jotham! call in the constables. Mr. Penguillium, I command the peace — I order you to keep the peace.”

“There’s been more peace than love atwixt us, master,” cried the steward, making some very unequivocal demonstrations toward hostility; “so mind yourself! square your self, I say! do you smell this here bit of a sledge-hammer?”

“Lay hands on me if you dare!” exclaimed Hiram, as well as he could, under the grasp which the steward held on his throttle— “lay hands on me if you dare!”

“If you call this laying, master, you are welcome to the eggs,” roared the steward.

It becomes our disagreeable duty to record here, that the acts of Benjamin now became violent; for he darted his sledge-hammer violently on the anvil of Mr. Doolittle’s countenance, and the place became in an instant a scene of tumult and confusion. The crowd rushed in a dense circle around the spot, while some ran to the court room to give the alarm, and one or two of the more juvenile part of the multitude had a desperate trial of speed to see who should be the happy man to communicate the critical situation of the magistrate to his wife.

Benjamin worked away, with great industry and a good deal of skill, at his occupation, using one hand to raise up his antagonist, while he knocked him over with the other; for he would have been disgraced in his own estimation, had he struck a blow on a fallen adversary. By this considerate arrangement he had found means to hammer the visage of Hiram out of all shape, by the time Richard succeeded in forcing his way through the throng to the point of combat. The sheriff afterward declared that, independently of his mortification as preserver of the peace of the county, at this interruption to its harmony, he was never so grieved in his life as when he saw this breach of unity between his favorites. Hiram had in some degree become necessary to his vanity, and Benjamin, strange as it may appear, he really loved. This attachment was exhibited in the first words that he uttered.

“Squire Doolittle! Squire Doolittle! I am ashamed to see a man of your character and office forget himself so much as to disturb the peace, insult the court, and beat poor Benjamin in this manner!”

At the sound of Mr. Jones’ voice, the steward ceased his employment, and Hiram had an opportunity of raising his discomfited visage toward the mediator. Emboldened by the sight of the sheriff, Mr. Doolittle again had recourse to his lungs.

“I’ll have law on you for this,” he cried desperately; “I’ll have the law on you for this. I call on you, Mr. Sheriff, to seize this man, and I demand that you take his body into custody.”

By this time Richard was master of the true state of the case, and, turning to the steward, he said reproach fully:

“Benjamin, how came you in the stocks? I always thought you were mild and docile as a lamb. It was for your docility that I most esteemed you. Benjamin! Benjamin! you have not only disgraced yourself, but your friends, by this shameless conduct, Bless me! bless me! Mr. Doolittle, he seems to have knocked your face all of one side.”

Hiram by this time had got on his feet again, and with out the reach of the steward, when he broke forth in violent appeals for vengeance. The offence was too apparent to be passed over, and the sheriff, mindful of the impartiality exhibited by his cousin in the recent trial of the Leather-Stocking, came to the painful conclusion that it was necessary to commit his major-domo to prison. As the time of Natty’s punishment was expired, and Benjamin found that they were to be confined, for that night at least, in the same apartment, he made no very strong objection to the measure, nor spoke of bail, though, as the sheriff preceded the party of constables that conducted them to the jail, he uttered the following remonstrance:

“As to being berthed with Master Bump-ho for a night or so, it’s but little I think of it, Squire Dickens, seeing that I calls him an honest man, and one as has a handy way with boat-hooks and rifles; but as for owning that a man desarves anything worse than a double allowance, for knocking that carpenters face a-one-side, as you call it, I’ll maintain it’s agin’ reason and Christianity. If there’s a bloodsucker in this ‘ere county, it’s that very chap. Ay! I know him! and if he hasn’t got all the same as dead wood in his headworks, he knows summat of me. Where’s the mighty harm, squire, that you take it so much to heart? It’s all the same as any other battle, d’ye see sir, being broadside to broadside, only that it was foot at anchor, which was what we did in Port Pray a roads, when Suff’ring came in among us; and a suff’ring time he had of it before he got out again.”

Richard thought it unworthy of him to make any reply to this speech, but when his prisoners were safely lodged in an outer dungeon, ordering the bolts to be drawn and the key turned, he withdrew.

Benjamin held frequent and friendly dialogues with different people, through the iron gratings, during the afternoon; but his companion paced their narrow’ limits, in his moccasins, with quick, impatient treads, his face hanging on his breast in dejection, or when lifted, at moments, to the idlers at the window, lighted, perhaps, for an instant, with the childish aspect of aged forgetfulness, which would vanish directly in an expression of deep and obvious anxiety.

At the close of the day, Edwards was seen at the window, in earnest dialogue with his friend; and after he de parted it was thought that he had communicated words of comfort to the hunter, who threw himself on his pallet and was soon in a deep sleep. The curious spectators had exhausted the conversation of the steward, who had drunk good fellowship with half of his acquaintance, and, as Natty was no longer in motion, by eight o’clock, Billy Kirby, who was the last lounger at the window, retired into the “Templeton Coffee-house,” when Natty rose and hung a blanket before the opening, and the prisoners apparently retired for the night.

CHAPTER XXXV.

“And to avoid the foe’s pursuit,

With spurring put their cattle to’t;

And till all four were out of wind,

And danger too, neer looked behind.”

— Hudibras.

As the shades of evening approached, the jurors, wit nesses, and other attendants on the court began to disperse, and before nine o’clock the village was quiet, and its streets nearly deserted. At that hour Judge Temple and his daughter, followed at a short distance by Louisa Grant, walked slowly down the avenue, under the slight shadows of the young poplars, holding the following discourse:

“You can best soothe his wounded spirit, my child,” said Marmaduke; “but it will be dangerous to touch on the nature of his offence; the sanctity of the laws must be respected.”

“Surely, sir,” cried the impatient Elizabeth, “those laws that condemn a man like the Leather-Stocking to so severe a punishment, for an offence that even I must think very venial, cannot be perfect in themselves.”

“Thou talkest of what thou dost not understand, Elizabeth,” returned her father. “Society cannot exist without wholesome restraints. Those restraints cannot be inflicted without security and respect to the persons of those who administer them; and it would sound ill indeed to report that a judge had extended favor to a convicted criminal, because he had saved the life of his child.”

“I see — I see the difficulty of your situation, dear sir,” cried the daughter; “but, in appreciating the offence of poor Natty, I cannot separate the minister of the law from the man.”

“There thou talkest as a woman, child; it is not for an assault on Hiram Doolittle, but for threatening the life of a constable, who was in the performance of— “

“It is immaterial whether it be one or the other,” interrupted Miss Temple, with a logic that contained more feeling than reason; “I know Natty to be innocent, and thinking so I must think all wrong who oppress him.”

“His judge among the number! thy father, Elizabeth?”

“Nay, nay, nay; do not put such questions to me; give me my commission, father, and let me proceed to execute it.”

The Judge paused a moment, smiling fondly on his child, and then dropped his hand affectionately on her shoulder, as he answered:

“Thou hast reason, Bess, and much of it, too, but thy heart lies too near thy head, But listen; in this pocketbook are two hundred dollars. Go to the prison — there are none in this pace to harm thee — give this note to the jailer, and, when thou seest Bumppo, say what thou wilt to the poor old man; give scope to the feeling of thy warm heart; but try to remember, Elizabeth, that the laws alone remove us from the condition of the savages; that he has been criminal, and that his judge was thy father.”

Miss Temple made no reply, but she pressed the hand that held the pocket-book to her bosom, and, taking her friend by the arm, they issued together from the inclosure into the principal street of the village.

As they pursued their walk in silence, under the row of houses, where the deeper gloom of the evening effectually concealed their persons, no sound reached them, excepting the slow tread of a yoke of oxen, with the rattling of a cart, that were moving along the street in the same direction with themselves. The figure of the teamster was just discernible by the dim light, lounging by the side of his cattle with a listless air, as if fatigued by the toil of the day. At the corner, where the jail stood, the progress of the ladies was impeded, for a moment, by the oxen, who were turned up to the side of the building, and given a lock of hay, which they had carried on their necks, as a reward for their patient labor, The whole of this was so natural, and so common, that Elizabeth saw nothing to induce a second glance at the team, until she heard the teamster speaking to his cattle in a low voice:

“Mind yourself, Brindle; will you, sir! will you!” The language itself was so unusual to oxen, with which all who dwell in a new country are familiar; but there was something in the voice, also, that startled Miss Temple On turning the corner, she necessarily approached the man, and her look was enabled to detect the person of Oliver Edwards, concealed under the coarse garb of a teamster. Their eyes met at the same instant, and, not withstanding the gloom, and the enveloping cloak of Elizabeth, the recognition was mutual.

“Miss Temple!” “Mr. Edwards!” were exclaimed simultaneously, though a feeling that seemed common to both rendered the words nearly inaudible.

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Edwards, after the moment of doubt had passed; “do I see you so nigh the jail! but you are going to the rectory: I beg pardon, Miss Grant, I believe; I did not recognize you at first.”

The sigh which Louisa tittered was so faint, that it was only heard by Elizabeth, who replied quickly, “We are going not only to the jail, Mr. Edwards’ but into it. We wish to show the Leather-Stocking that we do not forget his services, and that at the same time we must be just, we are also grateful. I suppose you are on a similar errand; but let me beg that you will give us leave to precede you ten minutes. Good-night, sir; I — I — am quite sorry, Mr. Edwards, to see you reduced to such labor; I am sure my father would— “

“I shall wait your pleasure, madam,” interrupted the youth coldly. “May I beg that you will not mention my being here?”

“Certainly,” said Elizabeth, returning his bow by a slight inclination of her head, and urging the tardy Louisa forward. As they entered the jailer’s house, however, Miss Grant found leisure to whisper:

“Would it not be well to offer part of your money to Oliver? half of it will pay the fine of Bumppo; and he is so unused to hardships! I am sure my father will subscribe much of his little pittance, to place him in a station that is more worthy of him.”

The involuntary smile that passed over the features of Elizabeth was blended with an expression of deep and heartfelt pity. She did not reply, however, and the appearance of the jailer soon recalled the thoughts of both to the object of their visit.

The rescue of the ladies, and their consequent interest in his prisoner, together with the informal manners that prevailed in the country, all united to prevent any surprise on the part of the jailer, at their request for admission to Bumppo. The note of Judge Temple, however, would have silenced all objections, if he had felt them and he led the way without hesitation to the apartment that held the prisoners. The instant the key was put into the lock, the hoarse voice of Benjamin was heard, demanding:

“Yo hoy! who comes there?”

“Some visitors that you’ll be glad to see,” returned the jailer. “What have you done to the lock, that it won’t turn.”

“Handsomely, handsomely, master,” cried the steward: “I have just drove a nail into a berth alongside of this here bolt, as a stopper, d’ye see, so that Master Doo-but-little can’t be running in and breezing up another fight atwixt us: for, to my account, there’ll be but a han-yan with me soon, seeing that they’ll mulct me of my Spaniards, all the same as if I’d over-flogged the lubber. Throw your ship into the wind, and lay by for a small matter, will ye? and I’ll soon clear a passage.”

The sounds of hammering gave an assurance that the steward was in earnest, and in a short time the lock yielded, when the door was opened.

Benjamin had evidently been anticipating the seizure of his money, for he had made frequent demands on the favorite cask at the “Bold Dragoon,” during the afternoon and evening, and was now in that state which by marine imagery is called “half-seas-over.” It was no easy thing to destroy the balance of the old tar by the effects of liquor, for, as he expressed it himself, “he was too low-rigged not to carry sail in all weathers;” but he was precisely in that condition which is so expressively termed “muddy.” When he perceived who the visitors were, he retreated to the side of the room where his pallet lay, and, regardless of the presence of his young mistress, seated himself on it with an air of great sobriety, placing his back firmly against the wall.

“If you undertake to spoil my locks in this manner, Mr. Pump,” said the jailer, “I shall put a stopper, as you call it, on your legs, and tie you down to your bed.”

“What for should ye, master?” grumbled Benjamin; “I’ve rode out one squall to-day anchored by the heels, and I wants no more of them. Where’s the harm o’ doing all the same as yourself? Leave that there door free out board, and you’ll find no locking inboard, I’ll promise ye.”

“I must shut up for the night at nine,” said the jailer, “and it’s now forty-two minutes past eight.” He placed the little candle on a rough pine table, and withdrew.

“Leather-Stocking!” said Elizabeth, when the key of the door was turned on them again, “my good friend, Leather-Stocking! I have come on a message of gratitude. Had you submitted to the search, worthy old man, the death of the deer would have been a trifle, and all would have been well —— — “

“Submit to the sarch!” interrupted Natty, raising his face from resting on his knees, without rising from the corner where he had seated himself; “d’ye think gal, I would let such a varmint into my hut? No, no — I wouldn’t have opened the door to your own sweet countenance then. But they are welcome to search among the coals and ashes now; they’ll find only some such heap as is to be seen at every pot-ashery in the mountains.”

The old man dropped his face again on one hand, and seemed to be lost in melancholy.

“The hut can be rebuilt, and made better than before,” returned Miss Temple; “and it shall be my office to see it done, when your imprisonment is ended.”

“Can ye raise the dead, child?” said Natty, in a sorrowful voice: “can ye go into the place where you’ve laid your fathers, and mothers, and children, and gather together their ashes, and make the same men and women of them as afore? You do not know what ’tis to lay your head for more than forty years under the cover of the same logs, and to look at the same things for the better part of I a man’s life. You are young yet, child, but you are one of the most precious of God’s creatures. I had hoped for ye that it might come to pass, but it’s all over now; this, put to that, will drive the thing quite out of his mind for ever.”

Miss Temple must have understood the meaning of the old man better than the other listeners; for while Louisa stood innocently by her side, commiserating the griefs of the hunter, she bent her head aside, so as to conceal her features. The action and the feeling that caused it lasted but a moment.

“Other logs, and better, though, can be had, and shall be found for you, my old defender,” she continued. “Your confinement will soon be over, and, before that time arrives, I shall have a house prepared for you, where I you may spend the close of your long and harmless life in ease and plenty.”

“Ease and plenty! house!” repeated Natty, slowly. “You mean well, you mean well, and I quite mourn that it cannot be; but he has seen me a sight and a laughing-stock for— “

“Damn your stocks,” said Benjamin, flourishing his bottle with one hand, from which he had been taking hasty and repeated draughts, while he made gestures of disdain with the other: “who cares for his bilboes? There’s a leg that been stuck up on end like a jibboom for an hour, d’ye see, and what’s it the worse for’t, ha? canst tell me, what’s it the worser, ha?”

“I believe you forget, Mr. Pump, in whose presence you are,” said Elizabeth.

“Forget you, Miss Lizzy?” returned the steward; “if I do, dam’me; you are not to be forgot, like Goody Pretty-bones, up at the big house there. I say, old sharpshooter, she may have pretty bones, but I can’t say so much for her flesh, d’ye see, for she looks somewhat like anatomy with another man’s jacket on. Now for the skin of her face, it’s all the same as a new topsail with a taut bolt-rope, being snug at the leeches, but all in a bight about the inner cloths.”

“Peace — I command you to be silent, sir!” said Elizabeth.

“Ay, ay, ma’am,” returned the steward. “You didn’t say I shouldn’t drink, though.”

“We will not speak of what is to become of others,” said Miss Temple, turning again to the hunter— “but of your own fortunes, Natty. It shall be my care to see that you pass the rest of your days in ease and plenty.”

“Ease and plenty!” again repeated the Leather-Stocking; “what ease can there be to an old man, who must walk a mile across the open fields, before he can find a shade to hide him from a scorching sun! or what plenty is there where you hunt a day, and not start a buck, or see anything bigger than a mink, or maybe a stray fox! Ah! I shall have a hard time after them very beavers, for this fine. I must go low toward the Pennsylvania line in search of the creatures, maybe a hundred mile; for they are not to be got here-away. No, no — your betterments and clearings have druv the knowing things out of the country, and instead of beaver-dams, which is the nater of the animal, and according to Providence, you turn back the waters over the low grounds with your mill-dams, as if ’twas in man to stay the drops from going where He wills them to go — Benny, unless you stop your hand from going so often to your mouth, you won’t be ready to start when the time comes.

“Hark’ee, Master Bump-ho,” said the steward; “don’t you fear for Ben, When the watch is called, set me of my legs and give me the bearings and the distance of where you want me to steer, and I’ll carry sail with the best of you, I will.”

“The time has come now,” said the hunter, listening; “I hear the horns of the oxen rubbing agin’ the side of the jail.”

“Well, say the word, and then heave ahead, shipmate,” said Benjamin.

“You won’t betray us, gal?” said Natty, looking simply into the face of Elizabeth— “you won’t betray an old man, who craves to breathe the clear air of heaven? I mean no harm; and if the law says that I must pay the hundred dollars, I’ll take the season through, but it shall be forthcoming; and this good man will help me.”

“You catch them,” said Benjamin, with a sweeping gesture of his arm, “and if they get away again, call me a slink, that’s all.”

“But what mean you?” cried the wondering Elizabeth. “Here you must stay for thirty days; but I have the money for your fine in this purse. Take it; pay it in the morning, and summon patience for your mouth. I will come often to see you, with my friend; we will make up your clothes with our own hands; indeed, indeed, you shall be comfortable.”

“Would ye, children?” said Natty, advancing across the floor with an air of kindness, and taking the hand of Elizabeth, “would ye be so kearful of an old man, and just for shooting a beast which cost him nothing? Such things doesn’t run in the blood, I believe, for you seem not to forget a favor. Your little fingers couldn’t do much on a buckskin, nor be you used to push such a thread as sinews. But if he hasn’t got past hearing, he shalt hear it and know it, that he may see, like me, there is some who know how to remember a kindness.”

“Tell him nothing,” cried Elizabeth, earnestly; “if you love me, if you regard my feelings, tell him nothing. It is of yourself only I would talk, and for yourself only I act. I grieve, Leather-Stocking, that the law requires that you should be detained here so long; but, after all, it will be only a short month, and — — “

“A month?” exclaimed Natty, opening his mouth with his usual laugh, “not a day, nor a night, nor an hour, gal. Judge Temple may sintence, but he can’t keep without a better dungeon than this. I was taken once by the French, and they put sixty-two of us in a block-house, nigh hand to old Frontinac; but ’twas easy to cut through a pine log to them that was used to timber.” The hunter paused, and looked cautiously around the room, when, laughing again, he shoved the steward gently from his post, and removing the bedclothes, discovered a hole recently cut in the logs with a mallet and chisel. “It’s only a kick, and the outside piece is off, and then— “

“Off! ay, off!” cried Benjamin, rising from his stupor; “well, here’s off. Ay! ay! you catch ‘em, and I’ll hold on to them said beaver-hats.”

“I fear this lad will trouble me much,” said Natty; “‘twill be a hard pull for the mountain, should they take the scent soon, and he is not in a state of mind to run.”

“Run!” echoed the steward; “no, sheer alongside, and let’s have a fight of it.”

“Peace!” ordered Elizabeth.

“Ay, ay, ma’am.”

“You will not leave us, surely, Leather-Stocking,” continued Miss Temple; “I beseech you, reflect that you will be driven to the woods entirely, and that you are fast getting old. Be patient for a little time, when you can go abroad openly, and with honor.”

“Is there beaver to be catched here, gal?”

“If not, here is money to discharge the fine, and in a month you are free. See, here it is in gold.”

“Gold!” said Natty, with a kind of childish curiosity; “it’s long sin’ I’ve seen a gold-piece. We used to get the broad joes, in the old war, as plenty as the bears be now. I remember there was a man in Dieskau’s army, that was killed, who had a dozen of the shining things sewed up in his shirt. I didn’t handle them myself, but I seen them cut out with my own eyes; they was bigger and brighter than them be.”

“These are English guineas, and are yours,” said Elizabeth; “an earnest of what shall be done for you.”

“Me! why should you give me this treasure!” said Natty, looking earnestly at the maiden.

“Why! have you not saved my life? Did you not rescue me from the jaws of the beast?” exclaimed Elizabeth, veiling her eyes, as if to hide some hideous object from her view.

The hunter took the money, and continued turning it in his hand for some time, piece by piece, talking aloud during the operation.

“There’s a rifle, they say, out on the Cherry Valley, that will carry a hundred rods and kill. I’ve seen good guns in my day, but none quite equal to that. A hundred rods with any sartainty is great shooting! Well, well — I’m old, and the gun I have will answer my time. Here, child, take back your gold. But the hour has come; I hear him talking to the cattle, and I must be going. You won’t tell of us, gal — you won’t tell of us, will ye?”

“Tell of you!” echoed Elizabeth. “But take the money, old man; take the money, even if you go into the mountains.”

“No, no,” said Natty, shaking his head kindly; “I would not rob you so for twenty rifles. But there’s one thing you can do for me, if ye will, that no other is at hand to do.

“Name it — name it.”

“Why, it’s only to buy a canister of powder— ‘twill cost two silver dollars. Benny Pump has the money ready, but we daren’t come into the town to get it. Nobody has it but the Frenchman. ’Tis of the best, and just suits a rifle. Will you get it for me, gal? — say, will you get it for me?”

“Will I? I will bring it to you, Leather-Stocking, though I toil a day in quest of you through the woods. But where shall I find you, and how?”

“Where?” said Natty, musing a moment— “to-morrow on the Vision; on the very top of the Vision, I’ll meet you, child, just as the sun gets over our heads. See that it’s the fine grain; you’ll know it by the gloss and the price.”

“I will do it,” said Elizabeth, firmly.

Natty now seated himself, and placing his feet in the hole, with a slight effort he opened a passage through into the street. The ladies heard the rustling of hay, and well understood the reason why Edwards was in the capacity of a teamster.

“Come, Benny,” said the hunter: “‘twill be no darker to-night, for the moon will rise in an hour.”

“Stay!” exclaimed Elizabeth; “it should not be said that you escaped in the presence of the daughter of Judge Temple. Return, Leather-Stocking, and let us retire be fore you execute your plan.”

Natty was about to reply, when the approaching footsteps of the jailer announced the necessity of his immediate return. He had barely time to regain his feet, and to conceal the hole with the bedclothes, across which Benjamin very opportunely fell, before the key was turned, and the door of the apartment opened.

“Isn’t Miss Temple ready to go?” said the civil jailer; “it’s the usual hour for locking up.”

“I follow you, sir,” returned Elizabeth “good-night, Leather-Stocking.”

“It’s a fine grain, gal, and I think twill carry lead further than common. I am getting old, and can’t follow up the game with the step I used to could.”

Miss Temple waved her hand for silence, and preceded Louisa and the keeper from the apartment. The man turned the key once, and observed that he would return and secure his prisoners, when he had lighted the ladies to the street. Accordingly they parted at the door of the building, when the jailer retired to his dungeons, and the ladies walked, with throbbing hearts, toward the corner.

“Now the Leather-Stocking refuses the money,” whispered Louisa, “it can all be given to Mr. Edwards, and that added to— “

“Listen!” said Elizabeth; “I hear the rustling of the hay; they are escaping at this moment. Oh! they will be detected instantly!”

By this time they were at the corner, where Edwards and Natty were in the act of drawing the almost helpless body of Benjamin through the aperture. The oxen had started back from their hay, and were standing with their heads down the street, leaving room for the party to act in.

“Throw the hay into the cart,” said Edwards, “or they will suspect how it has been done. Quick, that they may not see it.”

Natty had just returned from executing this order, when the light of the keeper’s candle shone through the hole, and instantly his voice was heard in the jail exclaiming for his prisoners.

“What is to be done now?” said Edwards; “this drunken fellow will cause our detection, and we have not a moment to spare.”

“Who’s drunk, ye lubber?” muttered the steward.

“A break-jail! a break-jail!” shouted five or six voices from within.

“We must leave him,” said Edwards.

“‘Twouldn’t be kind, lad,” returned Natty; “he took half the disgrace of the stocks on himself to-day, and the creatur’ has feeling.”

At this moment two or three men were heard issuing from the door of the “Bold Dragoon,” and among them the voice of Billy Kirby.

“There’s no moon yet,” cried the wood-chopper; “but it’s a clear night. Come, who’s for home? Hark! what a rumpus they’re kicking up in the jail — here’s go and see what it’s about.”

“We shall be lost,” said Edwards, “if we don’t drop this man.”

At that instant Elizabeth moved close to him, and said rapidly, in a low voice:

“Lay him in the cart, and start the oxen; no one will look there.”

“There’s a woman’s quickness in the thought,” said the youth.

The proposition was no sooner made than executed. The steward was seated on the hay, and enjoined to hold his peace and apply the goad that was placed in his hand, while the oxen were urged on. So soon as this arrangement was completed, Edwards and the hunter stole along the houses for a short distance, when they disappeared through an opening that led into the rear of the buildings.

The oxen were in brisk motion, and presently the cries of pursuit were heard in the street. The ladies quickened their pace, with a wish to escape the crowd of constables and idlers that were approaching, some execrating, and some laughing at the exploit of the prisoners. In the confusion, the voice of Kirby was plainly distinguishable above all the others, shouting and swearing that he would have the fugitives, threatening to bring back Natty in one pocket, and Benjamin in the other.

“Spread yourselves, men,” he cried, as he passed the ladies, his heavy feet sounding along the street like the tread of a dozen; “spread yourselves; to the mountains; they’ll be in the mountains in a quarter of an hour, and then look out for a long rifle.”

His cries were echoed from twenty mouths, for not only the jail but the taverns had sent forth their numbers, some earnest in the pursuit, and others joining it as in sport.

As Elizabeth turned in at her father’s gate she saw the wood-chopper stop at the cart, when she gave Benjamin up for lost. While they were hurrying up the walk, two figures, stealing cautiously but quickly under the shades of the trees, met the eyes of the ladies, and in a moment Edwards and the hunter crossed their path.

“Miss Temple, I may never see you again,” exclaimed the youth; “let me thank you for all your kindness; you do not, cannot know my motives.”

“Fly! fly!” cried Elizabeth; “the village is alarmed. Do not be found conversing with me at such a moment, and in these grounds.”

“Nay, I must speak, though detection were certain.”

“Your retreat to the bridge is already cut off; before you can gain the wood your pursuers will be there. If— “

“If what?” cried the youth. “Your advice has saved me once already; I will follow it to death.”

“The street is now silent and vacant,” said Elizabeth, after a pause; “cross it, and you will find my father’s boat in the lake. It would be easy to land from it where you please in the hills.”

“But Judge Temple might complain of the trespass.”

“His daughter shall be accountable, sir.”

The youth uttered something in a low voice, that was heard only by Elizabeth, and turned to execute what she had suggested. As they were separating, Natty approached the females, and said:

“You’ll remember the canister of powder, children. Them beavers must be had, and I and the pups be getting old; we want the best of ammunition.”

“Come, Natty,” said Edwards, impatiently.

“Coming, lad, coming. God bless you, young ones, both of ye, for ye mean well and kindly to the old man.”

The ladies paused until they had lost sight of the retreating figures, when they immediately entered the mansion-house.

While this scene was passing in the walk, Kirby had overtaken the cart, which was his own, and had been driven by Edwards, without asking the owner, from the place where the patient oxen usually stood at evening, waiting the pleasure of their master.

“Woa — come hither, Golden,” he cried; “why, how come you off the end of the bridge, where I left you, dummies?”

“Heave ahead,” muttered Benjamin, giving a random blow with his lash, that alighted on the shoulder of the other.

“Who the devil be you?” cried Billy, turning round in surprise, but unable to distinguish, in the dark, the hard visage that was just peering over the cart-rails.

“Who be I? why, I’m helmsman aboard of this here craft d’ye see, and a straight wake I’m making of it. Ay, ay! I’ve got the bridge right ahead, and the bilboes dead aft: I calls that good steerage, boy. Heave ahead.”

“Lay your lash in the right spot, Mr. Benny Pump,” said the wood-chopper, “or I’ll put you in the palm of my hand and box your ears. Where be you going with my team?”

“Team!”

“Ay, my cart and oxen.”

“Why, you must know, Master Kirby, that the Leather-Stocking and I — that’s Benny Pump — you knows Ben? — well, Benny and I — no, me and Benny; dam’me if I know how ’tis; but some of us are bound after a cargo of beaver-skins, d’ye see, so we’ve pressed the cart to ship them ‘ome in. I say, Master Kirby, what a lubberly oar you pull — you handle an oar, boy, pretty much as a cow would a musket, or a lady would a marling-spike.”

Billy had discovered the state of the steward’s mind, and he walked for some time alongside of the cart, musing with himself, when he took the goad from Benjamin (who fell back on the hay and was soon asleep) and drove his cattle down the street, over the bridge, and up the mountain, toward a clearing in which he was to work the next day, without any other interruption than a few hasty questions from parties of the constables.

Elizabeth stood for an hour at the window of her room, and saw the torches of the pursuers gliding along the side of the mountain, and heard their shouts and alarms; but, at the end of that time, the last party returned, wearied and disappointed, and the village became as still as when she issued from the gate on her mission to the jail.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

“And I could weep” —

th’ Oneida chief

His descant wildly thus begun —

“But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father’s son.”

— Gertrude of Wyoming.

It was yet early on the following morning, when Elizabeth and Louisa met by appointment, and proceeded to the store of Monsieur Le Quoi, in order to redeem the pledge the former had given to the Leather-Stocking. The people were again assembling for the business of the day, but the hour was too soon for a crowd, and the ladies found the place in possession of its polite owner, Billy Kirby, one female customer, and the boy who did the duty of helper or clerk.

Monsieur Le Quoi was perusing a packet of letters with manifest delight, while the wood-chopper, with one hand thrust in his bosom, and the other in the folds of his jacket, holding an axe under his right arm, stood sympathizing in the Frenchman’s pleasure with good-natured interest. The freedom of manners that prevailed in the new settlements commonly levelled all difference in rank, and with it, frequently, all considerations of education and intelligence. At the time the ladies entered the store, they were unseen by the owner, who was saying to Kirby:

“Ah! ha! Monsieur Beel, dis lettair mak me de most happi of mans. Ah! ma chére France! I vill see you again.”

“I rejoice, monsieur, at anything that contributes to your happiness,” said Elizabeth, “but hope we are not going to lose you entirely.”

The complaisant shopkeeper changed the language to French and recounted rapidly to Elizabeth his hopes of being permitted to return to his own country. Habit had, however, so far altered the manners of this pliable person age, that he continued to serve the wood-chopper, who was in quest of some tobacco, while he related to his more gentle visitor the happy change that had taken place in the dispositions of his own countrymen.

The amount of it all was, that Mr. Le Quoi, who had fled from his own country more through terror than because he was offensive to the ruling powers in France, had succeeded at length in getting an assurance that his return to the West Indies would be unnoticed; and the Frenchman, who had sunk into the character of a country shopkeeper with so much grace, was about to emerge again from his obscurity into his proper level in society.

We need not repeat the civil things that passed between the parties on this occasion, nor recount the endless repetitions of sorrow that the delighted Frenchman expressed at being compelled to quit the society of Miss Temple. Elizabeth took an opportunity, during this expenditure of polite expressions, to purchase the powder privately of the boy, who bore the generic appellation of Jonathan. Be fore they parted, however, Mr. Le Quoi, who seemed to think that he had not said enough, solicited the honor of a private interview with the heiress, with a gravity in his air that announced the importance of the subject. After conceding the favor, and appointing a more favorable time for the meeting, Elizabeth succeeded in getting out of the store, into which the countrymen now began to enter, as usual, where they met with the same attention and bien seance as formerly.

Elizabeth and Louisa pursued their walk as far as the bridge in profound silence; but when they reached that place the latter stopped, and appeared anxious to utter something that her diffidence suppressed.

“Are you ill, Louisa?” exclaimed Miss Temple; “had we not better return, and seek another opportunity to meet the old man?”

“Not ill, but terrified. Oh! I never, never can go on that hill again with you only. I am not equal to it, in deed I am not.”

This was an unexpected declaration to Elizabeth, who, although she experienced no idle apprehension of a danger that no longer existed, felt most sensitively all the delicacy of maiden modesty. She stood for some time, deeply reflecting within herself; but, sensible it was a time for action instead of reflection, she struggled to shake off her hesitation, and replied, firmly:

“Well, then it must be done by me alone. There is no other than yourself to be trusted, or poor old Leather-Stocking will be discovered. Wait for me in the edge of these woods, that at least I may not be seen strolling in the hills by myself just now, One would not wish to create remarks, Louisa — if — if — You will wait for me, dear girl?”

“A year, in sight of the village, Miss Temple,” returned the agitated Louisa, “but do not, do not ask me to go on that hill.”

Elizabeth found that her companion was really unable to proceed, and they completed their arrangement by posting Louisa out of the observation of the people who occasionally passed, but nigh the road, and in plain view of the whole valley. Miss Temple then proceeded alone. She ascended the road which has been so often mentioned in our narrative, with an elastic and firm step, fearful that the delay in the store of Mr. Le Quoi, and the time necessary for reaching the summit, would prevent her being punctual to the appointment Whenever she pressed an opening in the bushes, she would pause for breath, or, per haps, drawn from her pursuit by the picture at her feet, would linger a moment to gaze at the beauties of the valley. The long drought had, however, changed its coat of verdure to a hue of brown, and, though the same localities were there, the view wanted the lively and cheering aspect of early summer. Even the heavens seemed to share in the dried appearance of the earth, for the sun was concealed by a haziness in the atmosphere, which looked like a thin smoke without a particle of moisture, if such a thing were possible. The blue sky was scarcely to be seen, though now, and then there was a faint lighting up in spots through which masses of rolling vapor could be discerned gathering around the horizon, as if nature were struggling to collect her floods for the relief of man. The very atmosphere that Elizabeth inhaled was hot and dry, and by the time she reached the point where the course led her from the highway she experienced a sensation like suffocation. But, disregarding her feelings, she hastened to execute her mission, dwelling on nothing but the disappointment, and even the helplessness, the hunter would experience without her aid.

On the summit of the mountain which Judge Temple had named the “Vision,” a little spot had been cleared, in order that a better view might be obtained of the village and the valley. At this point Elizabeth understood the hunter she was to meet him; and thither she urged her way, as expeditiously as the difficulty of the ascent, and the impediment of a forest, in a state of nature, would admit. Numberless were the fragments of rocks, trunks of fallen trees, and branches, with which she had to contend; but every difficulty vanished before her resolution, and, by her own watch, she stood on the desired spot several minutes before the appointed hour.

After resting a moment on the end of a log, Miss Temple cast a glance about her in quest of her old friend, but he was evidently not in the clearing; she arose and walked around its skirts, examining every place where she thought it probable Natty might deem it prudent to conceal him self. Her search was fruitless; and, after exhausting not only herself, but her conjectures, in efforts to discover or imagine his situation, she ventured to trust her voice in that solitary place.

“Natty! Leather-Stocking! old man!” she called aloud, in every direction; but no answer was given, excepting the reverberations of her own clear tones, as they were echoed in the parched forest.

Elizabeth approached the brow of the mountain, where a faint cry, like the noise produced by striking the hand against the mouth, at the same time that the breath is strongly exhaled, was heard answering to her own voice. Not doubting in the least that it was the Leather-Stocking lying in wait for her, and who gave that signal to indicate the place where he was to be found, Elizabeth descended for near a hundred feet, until she gained a little natural terrace, thinly scattered with trees, that grew in the fissures of the rocks, which were covered by a scanty soil. She had advanced to the edge of this platform, and was gazing over the perpendicular precipice that formed its face, when a rustling among the dry leaves near her drew her eyes in another direction. Our heroine certainly was startled by the object that she then saw, but a moment restored her self-possession, and she advanced firmly, and with some interest in her manner, to the spot.

Mohegan was seated on the trunk of a fallen oak, with his tawny visage turned toward her, and his eyes fixed on her face with an expression of wildness and fire, that would have terrified a less resolute female. His blanket had fallen from his shoulders, and was lying in folds around him, leaving his breast, arms, and most of his body bare. ‘The medallion of Washington reposed on his chest, a badge of distinction that Elizabeth well knew he only produced on great and solemn occasions. But the whole appearance of the aged chief was more studied than common, and in some particulars it was terrific. The long black hair was plaited on his head, failing away, so as to expose his high forehead and piercing eyes. In the enormous incisions of his ears were entwined ornaments of silver, beads, and porcupine’s quills, mingled in a rude taste, and after the Indian fashions. A large drop, composed of similar materials, was suspended from the cartilage of his nose, and, falling below his lips, rested on his chin. Streaks of red paint crossed his wrinkled brow, and were traced down his cheeks, with such variations in the lines as caprice or custom suggested. His body was also colored in the same manner; the whole exhibiting an Indian warrior prepared for some event of more than usual moment.

“John! how fare you, worthy John?” said Elizabeth, as she approached him; “you have long been a stranger in the village. You promised me a willow basket, and I have long had a shirt of calico in readiness for you.”

The Indian looked steadily at her for some time without answering, and then, shaking his head, he replied, in his low, guttural tones:

“John’s hand can make baskets no more — he wants no shirt.”

“But if he should, he will know where to come for it,” returned Miss Temple. “Indeed old John. I feel as if you had a natural right to order what you will from us.”

“Daughter,” said the Indian, “listen: Six times ten hot summers have passed since John was young tall like a pine; straight like the bullet of Hawk-eye, strong as all buffalo; spry as the cat of the mountain. He was strong, and a warrior like the Young Eagle. If his tribe wanted to track the Maquas for many suns, the eye of Chingachgook found the print of their moccasins. If the people feasted and were glad, as they counted the scalps of their enemies, it was on his pole they hung. If the squaws cried because there was no meat for their children, he was the first in the chase. His bullet was swifter than the deer. Daughter, then Chingachgook struck his tomahawk into the trees; it was to tell the lazy ones where to find him and the Mingoes — but he made no baskets.”

“Those times have gone by, old warrior,” returned Elizabeth; “since then your people have disappeared, and, in place of chasing your enemies, you have learned to fear God and to live at peace.”

“Stand here, daughter, where you can see the great spring, the wigwams of your father, and the land on the crooked river. John was young when his tribe gave away the country, in council, from where the blue mountain stands above the water, to where the Susquehanna is hid by the trees. All this, and all that grew in it, and all that walked over it, and all that fed there, they gave to the Fire-eater —— for they loved him. He was strong, and they were women, and he helped them. No Delaware would kill a deer that ran in his woods, nor stop a bird that flew over his land; for it was his. Has John lived in peace? Daughter, since John was young, he has seen the white man from Frontinac come down on his white brothers at Albany and fight. Did they fear God? He has seen his English and his American fathers burying their tomahawks in each other’s brains, for this very land. Did they fear God, and live in peace? He has seen the land pass away from the Fire-eater, and his children, and the child of his child, and a new chief set over the country. Did they live in peace who did this? did they fear God?”

“Such is the custom of the whites, John. Do not the Delawares fight, and exchange their lands for powder, and blankets, and merchandise?”

The Indian turned his dark eyes on his companion, and kept them there with a scrutiny that alarmed her a little.

“Where are the blankets and merchandise that bought the right of the Fire-eater?” he replied in a more animated voice; “are they with him in his wigwam? Did they say to him, Brother, sell us your land, and take this gold, this silver, these blankets, these rifles, or even this rum? No; they tore it front him, as a scalp is torn from an enemy; and they that did it looked not behind them, to see whether he lived or died. Do such men live in peace and fear the Great Spirit?”

“But you hardly understand the circumstances,” said Elizabeth, more embarrassed than she would own, even to herself. “If you knew our laws and customs better, you would Judge differently of our acts. Do not believe evil of my father, old Mohegan, for he is just and good.”

“The brother of Miquon is good, and he will do right. I have said it to Hawk-eye — I have said it to the Young Eagle that the brother of Miquon would do justice.”

“Whom call you the Young Eagle?” said Elizabeth, averting her face from the gaze of the Indian, as she asked the question; “whence comes he, and what are his rights?”

“Has my daughter lived so long with him to ask this question?” returned the Indian warily. “Old age freezes up the blood, as the frosts cover the great spring in winter; but youth keeps the streams of the blood open like a sun in the time of blossoms. The Young Eagle has eyes; had he no tongue?”

The loveliness to which the old warrior alluded was in no degree diminished by his allegorical speech; for the blushes of the maiden who listened covered her burning cheeks till her dark eyes seemed to glow with their reflection; but, after struggling a moment with shame, she laughed, as if unwilling to understand him seriously, and replied in pleasantry:

“Not to make me the mistress of his secret. He is too much of a Delaware to tell his secret thoughts to a woman.”

“Daughter, the Great Spirit made your father with a white skin, and he made mine with a red; but he colored both their hearts with blood. When young, it is swift and warm; but when old, it is still and cold. Is there difference below the skin? No. Once John had a woman. She was the mother of so many sons” — he raised his hand with three fingers elevated— “and she had daughters that would have made the young Delawares happy. She was kind, daughter, and what I said she did. You have different fashions; but do you think John did not love the wife of his youth — the mother of his children?”

“And what has become of your family, John — your wife and your children?” asked Elizabeth, touched by the Indian’s manner.

“Where is the ice that covered the great spring? It is melted, and gone with the waters. John has lived till all his people have left him for the land of spirits; his time has come, and he is ready.”

Mohegan dropped his head in his blanket, and sat in silence. Miss Temple knew not what to say. She wished to draw the thoughts of the old warrior from his gloomy recollections, but there was a dignity in his sorrow, and in his fortitude, that repressed her efforts to speak. After a long pause, however, she renewed the discourse by asking:

“Where is the Leather-Stocking, John? I have brought this canister of powder at his request; but he is nowhere to be seen. Will you take charge of it, and see it delivered?”

The Indian raised his head slowly and looked earnestly at the gift, which she put into his hand.

“This is the great enemy of my nation. Without this, when could the white man drive the Delawares? Daughter, the Great Spirit gave your fathers to know how to make guns and powder, that they might sweep the Indians from the land. There will soon be no red-skin in the country. When John has gone, the last will leave these hills, and his family will be dead.” The aged warrior stretched his body forward, leaning an elbow on his knee, and appeared to be taking a parting look at the objects of the vale, which were still visible through the misty atmosphere, though the air seemed to thicken at each moment around Miss Temple, who became conscious of an increased difficulty of respiration. The eye of Mohegan changed gradually from its sorrowful expression to a look of wildness that might be supposed to border on the inspiration of a prophet, as he continued: “But he will go on to the country where his fathers have met. The game shall be plenty as the Ash in the lakes. No woman shall cry for meat: no Mingo can ever come The chase shall be for children; and all just red men shall live together as brothers.”

“John! this is not the heaven of a Christian,” cried Miss Temple; “you deal now in the superstition of your forefathers.”

“Fathers! sons!” said Mohegan, with firmness.— “all gone — all gone! — have no son but the Young Eagle, and he has the blood of a white man.”

“Tell me, John,” said Elizabeth, willing to draw his thoughts to other subjects, and at the same time yielding to her own powerful interest in the youth; “who is this Mr. Edwards? why are you so fond of him, and whence does he come?”

The Indian started at the question, which evidently recalled his recollection to earth. Taking her hand, he drew Miss Temple to a seat beside him, and pointed to the country beneath them.

“See, daughter,” he said, directing her looks toward the north; “as far as your young eyes can see, it was the land of his. But immense volumes of smoke at that moment rolled over their heath, and, whirling in the eddies formed by the mountains, interposed a barrier to their sight, while he was speaking. Startled by this circumstance, Miss Temple sprang to her feet, and, turning her eyes toward the summit of the mountain, she beheld It covered by a similar canopy, while a roaring sound was heard in the forest above her like the rushing of winds.

“What means it, John?” she exclaimed: “we are enveloped in smoke, and I feel a heat like the glow of a furnace.”

Before the Indian could reply, a voice was heard crying In the woods: “John! where are you, old Mohegan! the woods are on fire, and you have but a minute for escape.”

The chief put his hand before his mouth, and, making it lay on his lips, produced the kind of noise that had attracted Elizabeth to the place, when a quick and hurried step was heard dashing through the dried underbrush and bushes, and presently Edwards rushed to his side, with horror an every feature.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

“Love rules the court, the camp, the grove.”

— Lay of the Last Minstrel.

“IT would have been sad, indeed, to lose you in such manner, my old friend,” said Oliver, catching his breath for utterance. “Up and away! even now we may be too late; the flames are circling round the point of the rock below, and, unless we can pass there, our only chance must be over the precipice. Away! away! shake off your apathy, John; now is the time of need.”

Mohegan pointed toward Elizabeth, who, forgetting her danger, had sunk back to a projection of the rock as soon as she recognized the sounds of Edwards’ voice, and said with something like awakened animation:

“Save her — leave John to die.”

“Her! whom mean you?” cried the youth, turning quickly to the place the other indicated; but when he saw the figure of Elizabeth bending toward him in an attitude that powerfully spoke terror, blended with reluctance to meet him in such a place, the shock deprived him of speech.

“Miss Temple!” he cried, when he found words; “you here! is such a death reserved for you!”

“No, no, no — no death, I hope, for any of us, Mr. Edwards,” she replied, endeavoring to speak calmly; there is smoke, but no fire to harm us. “Let us endeavor to retire.”

“Take my arm,” said Edwards; “there must be an opening in some direction for your retreat. Are you equal to the effort?”

“Certainly. You surely magnify the danger, Mr. Edwards. Lead me out the way you came.”

“I will — I will,” cried the youth, with a kind of hysterical utterance. “No, no — there is no danger — I have alarmed you unnecessarily.”

“But shall we leave the Indian — can we leave him, as he says, to die?”

An expression of painful emotion crossed the face of the young man; he stopped and cast a longing look at Mohegan but, dragging his companion after him, even against her will, he pursued his way with enormous strides toward the pass by which he had just entered the circle of flame.

“Do not regard him,” he said, in those tones that de note a desperate calmness; “he is used to the woods, and such scenes; and he will escape up the mountain — over the rock — or he can remain where he is in safety.”

“You thought not so this moment, Edwards! Do not leave him there to meet with such a death,” cried Elizabeth, fixing a look on the countenance of her conductor that seemed to distrust his sanity.

“An Indian born! who ever heard of an Indian dying by fire? An Indian cannot burn; the idea is ridiculous. Hasten, hasten, Miss Temple, or the smoke may incommodate you.”

“Edwards! your look, your eye, terrifies me! Tell me the danger; is it greater than it seems? I am equal to any trial.”

“If we reach the point of yon rock before that sheet of fire, we are safe, Miss Temple,” exclaimed the young man in a voice that burst without the bounds of his forced composure. “Fly! the struggle is for life!”

The place of the interview between Miss Temple and the Indian has already been described as one of those plat forms of rock, which form a sort of terrace in the mountains of that country, and the face of it, we have said, was both high and perpendicular. Its shape was nearly a natural arc, the ends of which blended with the mountain, at points where its sides were less abrupt in their descent. It was round one of these terminations of the sweep of the rock that Edwards had ascended, and it was toward the same place that he urged Elizabeth to a desperate exertion of speed.

Immense clouds of white smoke had been pouring over the summit of the mountain, and had concealed the approach and ravages of the element; but a crackling sound drew the eyes of Miss Temple, as she flew over the ground supported by the young man, toward the outline of smoke where she already perceived the waving flames shooting forward from the vapor, now flaring high in the air, and then bending to the earth, seeming to light into combustion every stick and shrub on which they breathed. The sight aroused them to redoubled efforts; but, unfortunately, a collection of the tops of trees, old and dried, lay directly across their course; and at the very moment when both had thought their safety insured, the warm current of the air swept a forked tongue of flame across the pile, which lighted at the touch; and when they reached the spot, the flying pair were opposed by the surly roaring of a body of fire, as if a furnace were glowing in their path. They recoiled from the heat, and stood on a point of the rock, gazing in a stupor at the flames which were spreading rap idly down the mountain, whose side, too, became a sheet of living fire. It was dangerous for one clad in the light and airy dress of Elizabeth to approach even the vicinity of the raging element; and those flowing robes, that gave such softness and grace to her form, seemed now to be formed for the instruments of her destruction.

The villagers were accustomed to resort to that hill, in quest of timber and fuel; in procuring which, it was their usage to take only the bodies of the trees, leaving the tops and branches to decay under the operations of the weather. Much of the hill was, consequently, covered with such light fuel, which, having been scorched under the sun for the last two months, was ignited with a touch. Indeed, in some cases, there did not appear to be any contact between the fire and these piles, but the flames seemed to dart from heap to heap, as the fabulous fire of the temple is represented to reillumine its neglected lamp.

There was beauty as well as terror in the sight, and Edwards and Elizabeth stood viewing the progress of the desolation, with a strange mixture of horror and interest. The former, however, shortly roused himself to new exertions, and, drawing his companion after him, they skirted the edge of the smoke, the young man penetrating frequently into its dense volumes in search of a passage, but in every instance without success. In this manner they proceeded in a semicircle around the upper part of the terrace, until arriving at the verge of the precipice opposite to the point where Edwards had ascended, the horrid conviction burst on both, at the same instant, that they were completely encircled by fire. So long as a single pass up or down the mountain was unexplored, there was hope: but when retreat seemed to be absolutely impracticable, the horror of their situation broke upon Elizabeth as powerfully as if she had hitherto considered the danger light.

“This mountain is doomed to be fatal to me!” she whispered; “we shall find our graves on it!”

“Say not so, Miss Temple; there is yet hope,” returned the youth, in the same tone, while the vacant expression of his eye contradicted his words; “let us return to the point of the rock — there is — there must be — some place about it where we can descend.

“Lead me there,” exclaimed Elizabeth; “let us leave no effort untried.” She did not wait for his compliance, but turning, retraced her steps to the brow of the precipice, murmuring to herself, in suppressed, hysterical sobs, “My father! my poor, my distracted father!”

Edwards was by her side in an instant, and with aching eyes he examined every fissure in the crags in quest of some opening that might offer facilities for flight. But the smooth, even surface of the rocks afforded hardly a resting-place for a foot, much less those continued projections which would have been necessary for a descent of nearly a hundred feet. Edwards was not slow in feeling the conviction that this hope was also futile, and, with a kind of feverish despair that still urged him to action, he turned to some new expedient.

“There is nothing left, Miss Temple,” he said, “but to lower you from this place to the rock beneath. If Natty were here, or even that Indian could be roused, their ingenuity and long practice would easily devise methods to do it; but I am a child at this moment in everything but daring. Where shall I find means? This dress of mine is so light, and there is so little of it — then the blanket of Mohegan; we must try — we must try — anything is better than to see you a victim to such a death!”

“And what will become of you?” said Elizabeth. “In deed, indeed, neither you nor John must be sacrificed to my safety.”

He heard her not, for he was already by the side of Mohegan, who yielded his blanket without a question, retaining his seat with Indian dignity and composure, though his own situation was even more critical than that of the others. The blanket was cut into shreds, and the fragments fastened together: the loose linen jacket of the youth and the light muslin shawl of Elizabeth were attached to them, and the whole thrown over the rocks with the rapidity of lightning; but the united Pieces did not reach half-way to the bottom.

“It will not do — it will not do!” cried Elizabeth; “for me there is no hope! The fire comes slowly, but certainly. See, it destroys the very earth before it!”

Had the flames spread on that rock with half the quick ness with which they leaped from bush to tree in other parts of the mountain, our painful task would have soon ended; for they would have consumed already the captives they inclosed. But the peculiarity of their situation afforded Elizabeth and her companion the respite of which they had availed themselves to make the efforts we have recorded.

The thin covering of earth on the rock supported but a scanty and faded herbage, and most of the trees that had found root in the fissures had already died, during the in tense heats of preceding summers. Those which still retained the appearance of life bore a few dry and withered leaves, while the others were merely the wrecks of pines, oaks, and maples. No better materials to feed the fire could be found, had there been a communication with the flames; but the ground was destitute of the brush that led the destructive element, like a torrent, over the remainder of the hill. As auxiliary to this scarcity of fuel, one of the large springs which abound in that country gushed out of the side of the ascent above, and, after creeping sluggishly along the level land, saturating the mossy covering of the rock with moisture, it swept around the base of the little cone that formed the pinnacle of the mountain, and, entering the canopy of smoke near one of the terminations of the terrace, found its way to the lake, not by dashing from rock to rock, but by the secret channels of the earth. It would rise to the surface, here and there, in the wet seasons, but in the droughts of summer it was to be traced only by the bogs and moss that announced the proximity of water. When the fire reached this barrier, it was compelled to pause, until a concentration of its heat could overcome the moisture, like an army awaiting the operations of a battering train, to open its way to desolation.

That fatal moment seemed now to have arrived, for the hissing steams of the spring appeared to be nearly exhausted, and the moss of the rocks was already curling under the intense heat, while fragments of bark, that yet clung to the dead trees, began to separate from their trunks, and fall to the ground in crumbling masses. The air seemed quivering with rays of heat, which might be seen playing along the parched stems of the trees. There were moments when dark clouds of smoke would sweep along the little terrace; and, as the eye lost its power, the other senses contributed to give effect to the fearful horror of the scene. At such moments, the roaring of the flames, the crackling of the furious element, with the tearing of falling branches, and occasionally the thundering echoes of some falling tree, united to alarm the victims. Of the three, however, the youth appeared much the most agitated. Elizabeth, having relinquished entirely the idea of escape, was fast obtaining that resigned composure with which the most delicate of her sex are sometimes known to meet unavoidable evils; while Mohegan, who was much nearer to the danger, maintained his seat with the invincible resignation of an Indian warrior. Once or twice the eye of the aged chief, which was ordinarily fixed in the direction of the distant hills, turned toward the young pair, who seemed doomed to so early a death, with a slight indication of pity crossing his composed features, but it would immediately revert again to its former gaze, as if already looking into the womb of futurity. Much of the time he was chanting a kind of low dirge in the Delaware tongue, using the deep and remarkable guttural tones of his people.

“At such a moment, Mr. Edwards, all earthly distinctions end,” whispered Elizabeth; “persuade John to move nearer to us — let us die together.”

“I cannot — he will not stir,” returned the youth, in the same horridly still tones. “He considers this as the happiest moment of his life, he is past seventy, and has been decaying rapidly for some time; he received some injury in chasing that unlucky deer, too, on the lake, Oh! Miss Temple, that was an unlucky chase, indeed! it has led, I fear, to this awful scene.”

The smile of Elizabeth was celestial. “Why name such a trifle now? — at this moment the heart is dead to all earthly emotions!”

“If anything could reconcile a man to this death,” cried the youth, “it would be to meet it in such company!”

“Talk not so, Edwards; talk not so,” interrupted Miss Temple. “I am unworthy of it, and it is unjust to your self. We must die; yes — yes — we must die — it is the will of God, and let us endeavor to submit like his own children.”

“Die!” the youth rather shrieked than exclaimed, “no — no — no — there must yet be hope — you, at least, must-not, shall not die.”

“In what way can we escape?” asked Elizabeth, pointing with a look of heavenly composure toward the fire “Observe! the flame is crossing the barrier of wet ground — it comes slowly, Edwards, but surely. Ah! see! the tree! the tree is already lighted!”

Her words were too true. The heat of the conflagration had at length overcome the resistance of the spring, and the fire was slowly stealing along the half-dried moss; while a dead pine kindled with the touch of a forked flame, that, for a moment, wreathed around the stem of the tree, as it whined, in one of its evolutions, under the influence of the air. The effect was instantaneous, The flames danced along the parched trunk of the pine like lightning quivering on a chain, and immediately a column of living fire was raging on the terrace. It soon spread from tree to tree, and the scene was evidently drawing to a close. The log on which Mohegan was seated lighted at its further end, and the Indian appeared to be surrounded by fire. Still he was unmoved. As his body was unprotected, his sufferings must have been great; but his fortitude was superior to all. His voice could yet be heard even in the midst of these horrors. Elizabeth turned her head from the sight, and faced the valley Furious eddies of wind were created by the heat, and, just at the moment, the canopy of fiery smoke that overhung the valley was cleared away, leaving a distinct view of the peaceful village beneath them. “My father! —— my father!” shrieked Elizabeth “Oh! this — surely might have been spared me — but I submit.”

The distance was not so great but the figure of Judge Temple could be seen, standing in his own grounds, and apparently contemplating, in perfect unconsciousness of the danger of his child, the mountain in flames. This sight was still more painful than the approaching danger; and Elizabeth again faced the hill.

“My intemperate warmth has done this!” cried Edwards, in the accents of despair. “If I had possessed but a moiety of your heavenly resignation, Miss Temple, all might yet have been well.”

“Name it not — name it not,” she said. “It is now of no avail. We must die, Edwards, we must die — let us do so as Christians. But — no — you may yet escape, perhaps. Your dress is not so fatal as mine. Fly! Leave me, An opening may yet be found for you, possibly — certainly it is worth the effort. Fly! leave me — but stay! You will see my father! my poor, my bereaved father! Say to him, then, Edwards, say to him, all that can appease his anguish. Tell him that I died happy and collected; that I have gone to my beloved mother; that the hours of this life are nothing when balanced in the scales of eternity. Say how we shall meet again. And say,” she continued, dropping her voice, that had risen with her feelings, as if conscious of her worldly weakness, “how clear, how very dear, was my love for him; that it was near, too near, to my love for God.”

The youth listened to her touching accents, but moved not. In a moment he found utterance, and replied:

“And is it me that you command to leave you! to leave you on the edge of the grave? Oh! Miss Temple, how little have you known me!” he cried, dropping on his knees at her feet, and gathering her flowing robe in his arms as if to shield her from the flames. “I have been driven to the woods in despair, but your society has tamed the lion within me. If I have wasted my time in degradation, ’twas you that charmed me to it. If I have forgotten my name and family, your form supplied the place of memory. If I have forgotten my wrongs, ’twas you that taught me charity. No — no — dearest Elizabeth, I may die with you, but I can never leave you!”

Elizabeth moved not, nor answered. It was plain that her thoughts had been raised from the earth, The recollection of her father, and her regrets at their separation, had been mellowed by a holy sentiment, that lifted her above the level of earthly things, and she was fast losing the weakness of her sex in the near view of eternity. But as she listened to these words she became once more woman. She struggled against these feelings, and smiled, as she thought she was shaking off the last lingering feeling of nature, when the world, and all its seductions, rushed again to her heart, with the sounds of a human, voice, crying in piercing tones:

“Gal! where be ye, gal! gladden the heart of an old man, if ye yet belong to ‘arth!”

“Hist!” said Elizabeth; “’tis the Leather-Stocking; he seeks me!”

“’Tis Natty!” shouted Edwards, “and we may yet be saved!”

A wide and circling flame glared on their eyes for a moment, even above the fire of the woods, and a loud report followed.

“’Tis the canister, ’tis the powder,” cried the same voice, evidently approaching them. “’Tis the canister, and the precious child is lost.”

At the next instant Natty rushed through the steams of the spring, and appeared on the terrace, without his deerskin cap, his hair burnt to his head, his shirt, of country check, black and filled with holes, and his red features of a deeper color than ever, by the heat he had encountered.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

“Even from the land of shadows, now

My father’s awful ghost appears.”

— Gertrude Of Wyoming.

For an hour after Louisa Grant was left by Miss Temple, in the situation already mentioned, she continued in feverish anxiety, awaiting the return of her friend. But as the time passed by without the reappearance of Elizabeth, the terror of Louisa gradually increased, until her alarmed fancy had conjured every species of danger that appertained to the woods, excepting the one that really existed. The heavens had become obscured by degrees, and vast volumes of smoke were pouring over the valley; but the thoughts of Louisa were still recurring to beasts, without dreaming of the real cause for apprehension. She was stationed in the edge of the low pines and chestnuts that succeed the first or large growth of the forest, and directly above the angle where the highway turned from the straight course to the village, and ascended the mountain laterally. Consequently, she commanded a view, not only of the valley, but of the road beneath her. The few travellers that passed, she observed, were engaged in earnest conversation, and frequently raised their eyes to the hill, and at length she saw the people leaving the court house, and gazing upward also. While under the influence of the alarm excited by such unusual movements, reluctant to go, and yet fearful to remain, Louisa was startled by the low, cracking, but cautious treads of some one approaching through the bushes. She was on the eve of flight, when Natty emerged from the cover, and stood at her side. The old man laughed as he shook her kindly by a hand that was passive with fear.

“I am glad to meet you here, child,” he said; “for the back of the mountain is a-fire, and it would be dangerous to go up it now, till it has been burnt over once, and the dead wood is gone. There’s a foolish man, the comrade of that varmint who has given me all this trouble, digging for ore on the east side. I told him that the kearless fellows, who thought to catch a practysed hunter in the woods after dark, had thrown the lighted pine-knots in the brush, and that ‘twould kindle like tow, and warned him to leave the hill. But he was set upon his business, and nothing short of Providence could move him, if he isn’t burnt and buried in a grave of his own digging, he’s made of salamanders. Why, what ails the child? You look as skeary as if you’d seed more painters. I wish there were more to be found! they’d count up faster than the beaver. But where’s the good child with a bad father? Did she forget her promise to the old man?”

“The hill! the hill!” shrieked Louisa; “she seeks you on the hill with the powder!”

Natty recoiled several feet at this unexpected intelligence.

“The Lord of Heaven have mercy on her! She’s on the Vision, and that’s a sheet of fire agin’ this. Child, if ye love the dear one, and hope to find a friend when ye need it most, to the village, and give the alarm. The men are used to fighting fire, and there may be a chance left, Fly! I bid ye fly! nor stop even for breath.”

The Leather-Stocking had no sooner uttered this injunction, than he disappeared in the bushes, and, when last seen by Louisa, was rushing up the mountain, with a speed that none but those who were accustomed to the toil could attain.

“Have I found ye!” the old man exclaimed, when he burst out of the smoke; “God be praised that I have found ye; but follow — there’s no time for talking.”

“My dress!” said Elizabeth; “it would be fatal to trust myself nearer to the flames in it.”

“I bethought me of your flimsy things,” cried Natty, throwing loose the folds of a covering buckskin that he carried on his arm, and wrapping her form in it, in such a manner as to envelop her whole person; “now follow, for it’s a matter of life and death to us all.”

“But John! what will become of John?” cried Edwards; “can we leave the old warrior here to perish?”

The eyes of Natty followed the direction of Edwards’ finger, where he beheld the Indian still seated as before, with the very earth under his feet consuming with fire. Without delay the hunter approached the spot, and spoke in Delaware:

“Up and away, Chingachgook! will ye stay here to burn, like a Mingo at the stake? The Moravians have teached ye better, I hope; the Lord preserve me if the powder hasn’t flashed atween his legs, and the skin of his back is roasting. Will ye come, I say; will ye follow me?”

“Why should Mohegan go?” returned the Indian, gloomily. “He has seen the days of an eagle, and his eye grows dim He looks on the valley; he looks on the water; he looks in the hunting-grounds — but he sees no Delawares. Every one has a white skin. My fathers say, from the far-off land, Come. My women, my young warriors, my tribe, say, Come. The Great Spirit says, Come. Let Mohegan die.”

“But you forget your friend,” cried Edwards,

“’Tis useless to talk to an Indian with the death-fit on him, lad,” interrupted Natty, who seized the strips of the blanket, and with wonderful dexterity strapped the passive chieftain to his own back; when he turned, and with a strength that seemed to bid defiance, not only to his years, but to his load, he led the way to the point whence he had issued. As they crossed the little terrace of rock, one of the dead trees, that had been tottering for several minutes, fell on the spot where they had stood, and filled the air with its cinders.

Such an event quickened the steps of the party, who followed the Leather-Stocking with the urgency required by the occasion.

“Tread on the soft ground,” he cried, when they were in a gloom where sight availed them but little, “and keep in the white smoke; keep the skin close on her, lad; she’s a precious one — another will be hard to be found.”

Obedient to the hunter’s directions, they followed his steps and advice implicitly; and, although the narrow pas sage along the winding of the spring led amid burning logs and falling branches, they happily achieved it in safety. No one but a man long accustomed to the woods could have traced his route through the smoke, in which respiration was difficult, and sight nearly useless; but the experience of Natty conducted them to an opening through the rocks, where, with a little difficulty, they soon descended to another terrace, and emerged at once into a tolerably clear atmosphere.

The feelings of Edwards and Elizabeth at reaching this spot may be imagined, though not easily described. No one seemed to exult more than their guide, who turned, with Mohegan still lashed to his back, and, laughing in his own manner, said:

“I knowed ‘twa the Frenchman’s powder, gal; it went so all together; your coarse grain will squib for a minute. The Iroquois had none of the best powder when I went agin’ the Canada tribes, under Sir William. Did I ever tell you the story, lad, consarning the scrimmage with— “

“For God’s sake, tell me nothing now, Natty, until we are entirely safe. Where shall we go next?”

“Why, on the platform of rock over the cave, to be sure; you will be safe enough there, or we’ll go Into It, if you be so minded.” The young man started, and appeared agitated; but, Looking around him with an anxious eye, said quickly:

“Shalt we be safe on the rock? cannot the fire reach us there, too?”

“Can’t the boy see?” said Natty, with the coolness of one accustomed to the kind of danger he had just encountered. “Had ye stayed in the place above ten minutes longer, you would both have been in ashes, but here you may stay forever, and no fire can touch you, until they burn the rocks as well as the woods.”

With this assurance, which was obviously true, they proceeded to the spot, and Natty deposited his load, placing the Indian on the ground with his back against a fragment of the rocks. Elizabeth sank on the ground, and buried her face in her hands, while her heart was swelling with a variety of conflicting emotions.

“Let me urge you to take a restorative, Miss Temple,” said Edwards respectfully; “your frame will sink else.”

“Leave me, leave me,” she said, raising her beaming eyes for a moment to his; “I feel too much for words! I am grateful, Oliver, for this miraculous escape; and next to my God to you.”

Edwards withdrew to the edge of the rock, and shouted:

“Benjamin! where are you, Benjamin?”

A hoarse voice replied, as if from the bowels of the earth:

“Hereaway, master; stowed in this here bit of a hole, which is all the time as hot as the cook’s coppers. I’m tired of my berth, d’ye see, and if-so-be that Leather Stocking has got much overhauling to do before he sails after them said beaver I’ll go into dock again, and ride out my quarantine, till I can get prottick from the law, and so hold on upon the rest of my ‘spaniolas.”

“Bring up a glass of water from the spring,” continued Edwards, “and throw a little wine in it; hasten, I entreat you!”

“I knows but little of your small drink, Master Oliver,” returned the steward, his voice issuing out of the cave into the open air, “and the Jamaikey held out no longer than to take a parting kiss with Billy Kirby, when he anchored me alongside the highway last night, where you run me down in the chase. But here’s summat of a red color that may suit a weak stomach, mayhap. That Master Kirby is no first-rate in a boat; but he’ll tack a cart among the stumps, all the same as a Lon’on pilot will back and fill, through the colliers in the Pool.”

As the steward ascended while talking, by the time he had ended his speech he appeared on the rock with the desired restoratives, exhibiting the worn-out and bloated features of a man who had run deep in a debauch, and that lately.

Elizabeth took from the hands of Edwards the liquor which he offered and then motioned to be left again to herself.

The youth turned at her bidding, and observed Natty kindly assiduous around the person of Mohegan. When their eyes met, the hunter said sorrowfully:

“His time has come, lad; see it in his eyes — when an Indian fixes his eye, he means to go but to one place; and what the wilful creatures put their minds on, they’re sure to do.”

A quick tread prevented the reply, and in a few moments, to the amazement of the whole party, Mr. Grant was seen clinging to the side of the mountain, and striving to reach the place where they stood. Oliver sprang to his assistance, and by their united efforts the worthy divine was soon placed safely among them.

“How came you added to our number?” cried Edwards. “Is the hill alive with people at a time like this?”

The hasty but pious thanksgivings of the clergyman were soon ejaculated, and, when he succeeded in collecting his bewildered senses, he replied:

“I heard that my child was seen coming to the mountain; and, when the fire broke over its summit, my uneasiness drew me up the road, where I found Louisa, in terror for Miss Temple. It was to seek her that I came into this dangerous place; and I think, but for God’s mercy, through the dogs of Natty, I should have perished in the flames myself.”

“Ay! follow the hounds, and if there’s an opening they’ll scent it out,” said Natty; “their noses be given them the same as man’s reason.”

“I did so, and they led me to this place; but, praise be to God that I see you all safe and well.”

“No, no,” returned the hunter; “safe we be, but as for well, John can’t be called in a good way, unless you’ll say that for a man that’s taking his last look at ‘arth.”

“He speaks the truth!” said the divine, with the holy awe with which he ever approached the dying; “I have been by too many death-beds, not to see that the hand of the tyrant is laid on this old warrior. Oh! how consoling it is to know that he has not rejected the offered mercy in the hour of his strength and of worldly temptations! The offspring of a race of heathens, he has in truth been ‘as a brand plucked from the burning.’”

“No, no,” returned Natty, who alone stood with him by the side of the dying warrior; “it is no burning that ails him, though his Indian feelings made him scorn to move, unless it be the burning of man’s wicked thoughts for near fourscore years; but it’s natur’ giving out in a chasm that’s run too long. — Down with ye, Hector! down, I say! Flesh Isn’t iron, that a man can live forever, and see his kith and kin driven to a far country, and he left to mourn, with none to keep him company.”

“John,” said the divine, tenderly, “do you hear me? do you wish the prayers appointed by the church, at this trying moment?”

The Indian turned his ghastly face toward the speaker, and fastened his dark eyes on him, steadily, but vacantly.

No sign of recognition was made: and in a moment he moved his head again slowly toward the vale, and began to sing, using his own language, in those low, guttural tones, that have been so often mentioned, his notes rising with his theme, till they swelled so loud as to be distinct.

“I will come! I will come! to the land of the just I will come! The Maquas I have slain! I have slain the Maquas! and the Great Spirit calls to his son. I will come! I will come to the land of the just! I will come!”

“What says he, Leather-Stocking?” Inquired the priest, with tender interest; “sings he the Redeemer’s praise?”

“No, no— ’tis his own praise that he speaks now,” said Natty, turning in a melancholy manner from the sight of his dying friend; “and a good right he has to say it all, for I know every word to be true.”

“May heaven avert such self-righteousness from his heart! Humility and penitence are the seals of Christianity; and, without feeling them deeply seated in the soul, all hope is delusive, and leads to vain expectations. Praise himself when his whole soul and body should unite to praise his Maker! John! you have enjoyed the blessings of a gospel ministry, and have been called from out a multitude of sinners and pagans, and, I trust, for a wise and gracious purpose. Do you now feel what it is to be justified by our Saviour’s death, and reject all weak and idle dependence on good works, that spring from man’s pride and vainglory?”

The Indian did not regard his interrogator, but he raised his head again, and said in a low, distinct voice:

“Who can say that the Maqous know the back of the Mohegan? What enemy that trusted in him did not see the morning? What Mingo that he chased ever sang the song of triumph? Did Mohegan ever he? No; the truth lived in him, and none else could come out of him. In his youth he was a warrior, and his moccasins left the stain of blood. In his age he was wise; his words at the council fire did not blow away with the winds.”

“Ah! he has abandoned that vain relic of paganism, his songs,” cried the divine; “what says he now? is he sensible of his lost state?”

“Lord!! man,” said Natty, “he knows his end is at hand as well as you or I; but, so far from thinking it a loss, he believes it to be a great gain. He is old and stiff, and you have made the game so scarce and shy, that better shots than him find it hard to get a livelihood. Now he thinks he shall travel where it will always be good hunting; Where no wicked or unjust Indians can go; and where he shall meet all his tribe together agin. There’s not much loss in that, to a man whose hands are hardly fit for basket-making Loss! if there be any loss, ‘twill be to me. I’m sure after he’s gone, there will be but little left for me but to follow.”

“His example and end, which, I humbly trust, shall yet be made glorious,” returned Mr. Grant, “should lead your mind to dwell on the things of another life. But I feel it to be my duty to smooth the way for the parting spirit. This is the moment, John, when the reflection that you did not reject the mediation of the Redeemer, will bring balm to your soul. Trust not to any act of former days, but lay the burden of your sins at his feet, and you have his own blessed assurance that he will not desert you.”

“Though all you say be true, and you have scriptur’ gospels for it, too,” said Natty, “you will make nothing of the Indian. He hasn’t seen a Moravian p sin’ the war; and it’s hard to keep them from going hack to their native ways. I should think ‘twould be as well to let the old man pass in peace. He’s happy now; I know it by his eye; and that’s more than I would say for the chief, sin’ the time the Delawares broke up from the head waters of their river and went west. Ah’s me! ’tis a grevious long time that, and many dark days have we seen together sin’ it.”

“Hawk-eye!” said Mohegan, rousing with the last glimmering of life. “Hawk-eye! listen to the words of your brother.”

“Yes, John,” said the hunter, in English, strongly affected by the appeal, and drawing to his side, “we have been brothers; and more so than it means in the Indian tongue. What would ye have with me, Chingachgook?”

“Hawk-eye! my fathers call me to the happy hunting grounds. The path is clear, and the eyes of Mohegan grow young. I look — but I see no white-skins; there are none to be seen but just and brave Indians. Farewell, Hawk-eye — you shall go with the Fire-eater and the Young Eagle to the white man’s heaven; but I go after my fathers. Let the bow, and tomahawk, and pipe, and the wampum of Mohegan he laid in his grave; for when he starts ‘twil be in the night, like a warrior on a war-party, and he can not stop to seek them.”

“What says he, Nathaniel?” cried Mr. Grant, earnestly, and with obvious anxiety; “does he recall the promises of the mediation? and trust his salvation to the Rock of Ages?”

Although the faith of the hunter was by no means clear, yet the fruits of early instruction had not entirely fallen in the wilderness. He believed in one Cod, and one heaven; and when the strong feeling excited by the leave-taking of his old companion, which was exhibited by the powerful working of every muscle in his weather-beaten face, suffered him to speak, he replied:

“No — no — he trusts only to the Great Spirit of the savages, and to his own good deeds. He thinks, like all his people, that he is to be young agin, and to hunt, and be happy to the end of etarnity, its pretty much the same with all colors, parson. I could never bring myself to think that I shall meet with these hounds, or my piece, in another world; though the thought of leaving them forever sometimes brings hard feelings over me, and makes me cling to life with a greater craving than beseems three-Score-and-ten.”

“The Lord in his mercy avert such a death from one who has been sealed with the sign of the cross!” cried the minister, in holy fervor. “John— “

He paused for the elements. During the period occupied by the events which we have related, the dark clouds in the horizon had continued to increase in numbers and multitude; and the awful stillness that now pervaded the air, announced a crisis in the state of the atmosphere. The flames, which yet continued to rage along the sides of the mountain, no longer whirled in uncertain currents of their own eddies, but blazed high and steadily toward the heavens. There was even a quietude in the ravages of the destructive element, as if it foresaw that a hand greater titan even its own desolating power, was about to stay its progress. The piles of smoke which lay above the valley began to rise, and were dispelling rapidly; and streaks of livid lightning were dancing through the masses of clouds that impended over the western hills. While Mr. Grant was speaking, a flash, which sent its quivering light through the gloom, laying bare the whole opposite horizon, was followed by a loud crash of thunder, that rolled away among the hills, seeming to shake the foundations of the earth to their centre. Mohegan raised him self, as if in obedience to a signal for his departure, and stretched his wasted arm toward the west. His dark face lighted with a look of joy; which, with all other expressions, gradually disappeared; the muscles stiffening as they retreated to a state of rest; a slight convulsion played, for a single instant, about his lips; and his arm slowly dropped by his side, leaving the frame of the dead warrior reposing against the rock with its glassy eyes open, and fixed on the distant hills, as if the deserted shell were tracing the flight of the spirit to its new abode.

All this Mr. Grant witnessed in silent awe; but when the last echoes of the thunder died away he clasped his bands together, with pious energy, and repeated, in the full, rich tones of assured faith;

“Lord! how unsearchable are Thy judgments; and Thy ways past finding out! ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though after my skin, worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God, whom I shall see for my self, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.”

As the divine closed this burst of devotion, he bowed his head meekly to his bosom, and looked all the dependence and humility that the inspired language expressed.

When Mr. Grant retired from the body, the hunter approached, and taking the rigid hand of his friend, looked him wistfully in the face for some time without speaking, when he gave vent to his feelings by saying, in the mournful voice of one who felt deeply:

“Red skin or white, it’s all over now! he’s to be judged by a righteous Judge, and by no laws that’s made to suit times, and new ways. Well, there’s only one more death, and the world will be left to me and the hounds, Ah’s me! a man must wait the time of God’s pleasure, but I begin to weary of life. There is scarcely a tree standing that I know, and it’s hard to find a face that I was ac-quainted with in my younger days.”

Large drops of rain now began to fall, and diffuse them selves over the dry rock, while the approach of the thunder shower was rapid and certain. The body of the Indian was hastily removed into the cave beneath, followed by the whining hounds, who missed and moaned for the look of intelligence that had always met their salutations to the chief.

Edwards made some hasty and confused excuse for not taking Elizabeth into the same place, which was now completely closed in front with logs and bark, saying some-thing that she hardly understood about its darkness, and the unpleasantness of being with the dead body. Miss Temple, however, found a sufficient shelter against the torrent of rain that fell, under the projection of a rock which overhung them, But long before the shower was over, the sounds of voices were heard below them crying aloud for Elizabeth, and men soon appeared beating the dying embers of the bushes, as they worked their way cautiously among the unextinguished brands.

At the first short cessation in the rain, Oliver conducted Elizabeth to the road, where he left her. Before parting, however, he found time to say, in a fervent manner that his companion was now at no loss to interpret.

“The moment of concealment is over, Miss Temple. By this time to-morrow, I shall remove a veil that perhaps it has been weakness to keep around me and my allaus so long. But I have had romantic and foolish wishes and weakness; and who has not, that is young and torn by conflicting passions? God bless you! I hear your father’s voice; he is coming up the road, and I would not, just now, subject myself to detention. Thank Heaven, you are safe again; that alone removes the weight of a world from my spirit!”

He waited for no answer, but sprang into the woods. Elizabeth, notwithstanding she heard the cries of her father as he called upon her name, paused until he was concealed among the smoking trees, when she turned, and in a moment rushed into the arms of her half-distracted Parent.

A carriage had been provided, into which Miss Temple hastily entered; when the cry was passed along the hill, that the lost one was found, and the people returned to the village wet and dirty, but elated with the thought that the daughter of their landlord had escaped from so horrid and untimely an end.*

* The probability of a fire in the woods similar to that here described

has been questioned.  The writer can only say that he once witnessed a

fire in another part of New York that compelled a man to desert his

wagon and horses in the highway, and in which the latter were

destroyed.  In order to estimate the probability of such an event, it

is necessary to remember the effects of a long drought in that climate

and the abundance of dead wood which is found in a forest like that

described, The fires in the American forests frequently rage to such

an extent as to produce a sensible effect on the atmosphere at a

distance of fifty miles.  Houses, barns, and fences are quite commonly

swept away in their course.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

“Selictar! unsheathe then our chief’s scimetar;

Tambourgi! thy ‘larum gives promise of war;

Ye mountains! that see us descend to the shore,

Shall view us as victors, or view us no more.”

— Byron.

The heavy showers that prevailed during the remainder of the day completely stopped the progress of the flames; though glimmering fires were observed during the night, on different parts of the hill, wherever there was a collection of fuel to feed the element. The next day the woods for ‘many miles were black and smoking, and were stripped of every vestige of brush and dead wood; but the pines and hemlocks still reared their heads proudly among the hills, and even the smaller trees of the forest retained a feeble appearance of life and vegetation.

The many tongues of rumor were busy in exaggerating the miraculous escape of Elizabeth; and a report was generally credited, that Mohegan had actually perished in the flames. This belief became confirmed, and was indeed rendered probable, when the direful intelligence reached the village that Jotham Riddel, the miner, was found in his hole, nearly dead with suffocation, and burnt to such a degree that no hopes were entertained of his life.

The public attention became much alive to the events of the last few days; and, just at this crisis, the convicted counterfeiters took the hint from Natty, and, on the night succeeding the fire, found means to cut through their log prison also, and to escape unpunished. When this news began to circulate through the village, blended with the fate of Jotham, and the exaggerated and tortured reports of the events on the hill, the popular opinion was freely expressed, as to the propriety of seizing such of the fugitives as remained within reach. Men talked of the cave as a secret receptacle of guilt; and, as the rumor of ores and metals found its way into the confused medley of conjectures, counterfeiting, and everything else that was wicked and dangerous to the peace of society, suggested themselves to the busy fancies of the populace.

While the public mind was in this feverish state, it was hinted that the wood had been set on fire by Edwards and the Leather-Stocking, and that, consequently, they alone were responsible for the damages. This opinion soon gained ground, being most circulated by those who, by their own heedlessness, had caused the evil; and there was one irresistible burst of the common sentiment that an attempt should be made to punish the offenders. Richard was by no means deaf to this appeal, and by noon he set about in earnest to see the laws executed.

Several stout young men were selected, and taken apart with an appearance of secrecy, where they received some important charge from the sheriff, immediately under the eyes, but far removed from the ears, of all in the village. Possessed of a knowledge of their duty, these youths hurried into the hills, with a bustling manner, as if the fate of the world depended on their diligence, and, at the same time, with an air of mystery as great as if they were engaged on secret matters of the state.

At twelve precisely a drum beat the “long roll” before the “Bold Dragoon,” and Richard appeared, accompanied by Captain Hollister, who was clad in Investments as commander of the “Templeton Light Infantry,” when the former demanded of the latter the aid of the posse comitatus in enforcing the laws of the country. We have not room to record the speeches of the two gentlemen on this occasion, but they are preserved in the columns of the little blue newspaper, which is yet to be found on the file, and are said to be highly creditable to the legal formula of one of the parties, and to the military precision of the other. Everything had been previously arranged, and, as the red-coated drummer continued to roll out his clattering notes, some five-and-twenty privates appeared in the ranks, and arranged themselves in the order of battle.

As this corps was composed of volunteers, and was commanded by a man who had passed the first five-and-thirty years of his life in camps and garrisons, it was the non-parallel of military science in that country, and was confidently pronounced by the judicious part of the Templeton community, to be equal in skill and appearance to any troops in the known world; in physical endowments they were, certainly, much superior! To this assertion there were but three dissenting voices, and one dissenting opinion. The opinion belonged to Marmaduke, who, however, saw no necessity for its promulgation. Of the voices, one, and that a pretty loud one’, came from the spouse of the commander himself, who frequently reproached her husband for condescending to lead such an irregular band of warriors, after he had filled the honorable station of sergeant-major to a dashing corps of Virginia cavalry through much of the recent war.

Another of these skeptical sentiments was invariably expressed by Mr. Pump, whenever the company paraded generally in some such terms as these, which were uttered with that sort of meekness that a native of the island of our forefathers is apt to assume when he condescends to praise the customs or character of her truant progeny:

“It’s mayhap that they knows summat about loading and firing, d’ye see, but as for working ship? why, a corporal’s guard of the Boadishey’s marines would back and fill on their quarters in such a manner as to surround and captivate them all in half a glass.” As there was no one to deny this assertion, the marines of the Boadicea were held in a corresponding degree of estimation.

The third unbeliever was Monsieur Le Quoi, who merely whispered to the sheriff, that the corps was one of the finest he had ever seen second only to the Mousquetaires of Le Boa Louis! However, as Mrs. Hollister thought there was something like actual service in the present appearances, and was, in consequence, too busily engaged with certain preparations of her own, to make her comments; as Benjamin was absent, and Monsieur Le Quoi too happy to find fault with anything, the corps escaped criticism and comparison altogether on this momentous day, when they certainly had greater need of self-confidence than on any other previous occasion. Marmaduke was said to be again closeted with Mr. Van der School and no interruption was offered to the movements of the troops. At two o’clock precisely the corps shouldered arms, beginning on the right wing, next to the veteran, and carrying the motion through to the left with great regularity. When each musket was quietly fixed in its proper situation, the order was given to wheel to the left, and march. As this was bringing raw troops, at once, to face their enemy, it is not to be supposed that the manoeuver was executed with their usual accuracy; but as the music struck up the inspiring air of Yankee-doodle, and Richard, accompanied by Mr. Doolittle preceded the troops boldly down the street, Captain Hollister led on, with his head elevated to forty-five degrees, with a little, low cocked hat perched on his crown, carrying a tremendous dragoon sabre at a poise, and trailing at his heels a huge steel scabbard, that had war in its very clattering. There was a good deal of difficulty in getting all the platoons (there were six) to look the same way; but, by the time they reached the defile of the bridge, the troops were in sufficiently compact order. In this manner they marched up the hill to the summit of the mountain, no other alteration taking place in the disposition of the forces, excepting that a mutual complaint was made, by the sheriff and the magistrate, of a failure in wind, which gradually’ brought these gentlemen to the rear. It will be unnecessary to detail the minute movements that succeeded. We shall briefly say, that the scouts came in and reported, that, so far from retreating, as had been anticipated, the fugitives had evidently gained a knowledge of the attack, and were fortifying for a desperate resistance. This intelligence certainly made a material change, not only in the plans of the leaders, but in the countenances of the soldiery also. The men looked at one another with serious faces, and Hiram and Richard began to consult together, apart.

At this conjuncture, they were joined by Billy Kirby, who came along the highway, with his axe under his arm, as much in advance of his team as Captain Hollister had been of his troops in the ascent. The wood-chopper was amazed at the military array, but the sheriff eagerly availed himself of this powerful reinforcement, and commanded his assistance in putting the laws in force. Billy held Mr. Jones in too much deference to object; and it was finally arranged that he should be the bearer of a summons to the garrison to surrender before they proceeded to extremities. The troops now divided, one party being led by the captain, over the Vision, and were brought in on the left of the cave, while the remainder advanced upon its right, under the orders of the lieutenant. Mr. Jones and Dr. Todd — for the surgeon was in attendance also — appeared on the platform of rock, immediately over the heads of the garrison, though out of their sight. Hiram thought this approaching too near, and he therefore accompanied Kirby along the side of the hill to within a safe distance of the fortifications, where he took shelter behind a tree. Most of the men discovered great accuracy of eye in bringing some object in range between them and their enemy, and the only two of the besiegers, who were left in plain sight of the besieged, were Captain Hollister on one side, and the wood-chopper on the other. The veteran stood up boldly to the front, supporting his heavy sword in one undeviating position, with his eye fixed firmly on his enemy, while the huge form of Billy was placed in that kind of quiet repose, with either hand thrust into his bosom, bearing his axe under his right arm, which permitted him, like his own oxen, to rest standing. So far, not a word had been exchanged between the belligerents. The besieged had drawn together a pile of black logs and branches of trees, which they had formed into a chevaux-de-frise, making a little circular abatis in front of the entrance to the cave. As the ground was steep and slippery in every direction around the place, and Benjamin appeared behind the works on one side, and Natty on the other, the arrangement was by no means contemptible, especially as the front was sufficiently guarded by the difficulty of the approach. By this time, Kirby had received his orders, and he advanced coolly along the mountain, picking his way with the same indifference as if he were pursuing his ordinary business. When he was within a hundred feet of the works, the long and much-dreaded rifle of the Leather-Stocking was seen issuing from the parapet, and his voice cried aloud:

“Keep off! Billy Kirby, keep off! I wish ye no harm; but if a man of ye all comes a step nigher, there’ll be blood spilt atwixt us. God forgive the one that draws it first, but so it must be.”

“Come, old chap,” said Billy, good-naturedly, “don’t be crabb’d, but hear what a man has got to say I’ve no consarn in the business, only to see right ‘twixt man and man; and I don’t kear the valie of a beetle-ring which gets the better; but there’s Squire Doolittle, yonder be hind the beech sapling, he has invited me to come in and ask you to give up to the law — that’s all.”

“I see the varmint! I see his clothes!” cried the indignant Natty: “and if he’ll only show so much flesh as will bury a rifle bullet, thirty to the pound, I’ll make him feel me. Go away, Billy, I bid ye; you know my aim, and I bear you no malice.”

“You over-calculate your aim, Natty,” said the other, as he stepped behind a pine that stood near him, “if you think to shoot a man through a tree with a three-foot butt. I can lay this tree right across you in ten minutes by any man’s watch, and in less time, too; so be civil — I want no more than what’s right.”

There was a simple seriousness in the countenance of Natty, that showed he was much in earnest; but it was also evident that he was reluctant to shed human blood. He answered the taunt of the wood-chopper, by saying:

“I know you drop a tree where you will, Billy Kirby; but if you show a hand, or an arm, in doing it, there’ll be bones to be set, and blood to staunch. If it’s only to get into the cave that ye want, wait till a two hours’ sun, and you may enter it in welcome; but come in now you shall not. There’s one dead body already, lying on the cold rocks, and there’s another in which the life can hardly be said to stay. If you will come in, there’ll be dead with out as well as within.”

The wood-chopper stepped out fearlessly from his cover, and cried:

“That’s fair; and what’s fair is right. He wants you to stop till it’s two hours to sundown; and I see reason in the thing. A man can give up when he’s wrong, if you don’t crowd him too hard; but you crowd a man, and he gets to be like a stubborn ox — the more you beat, the worse he kicks.”

The sturdy notions of independence maintained by Billy neither suited the emergency nor the impatience of Mr. Jones, who was burning with a desire to examine the hid den mysteries of the cave. He therefore interrupted this amicable dialogue with his own voice;

“I command you Nathaniel Bumppo, by my authority, to surrender your person to the law,” he cried. “And I command you, gentlemen, to aid me in performing my duty. Benjamin Penguillan I arrest you, and order you to follow me to the jail of the county, by virtue of this warrant.”

“I’d follow ye, Squire Dickens,” said Benjamin, removing the pipe from his month (for during the whole scene the ex-major-domo had been very composedly smoking); “ay! I’d sail in your wake, to the end of the world, if-so — be that there was such a place, where there isn’t, seeing that it’s round. Now mayhap, Master Hollister, having lived all your life on shore, you isn’t acquainted that the world, d’ye see.”

“Surrender!” interrupted the veteran, in a voice that startled his hearers, and which actually caused his own forces to recoil several paces; “surrender, Benjamin Pengullan, or expect no quarter.’”

“Damn your quarter!” said Benjamin, rising from the log on which he was seated, and taking a squint along the barrel of the swivel, which had been brought on the hill during the night, and now formed the means of defence on his side of the works. “Look you, master or captain, thof I questions if ye know the name of a rope, except the one that’s to hang ye, there’s no need of singing out, as if ye was hailing a deaf man on a topgallant yard. May-hap you think you’ve got my true name in your sheep skin; but what British sailor finds it worth while to sail in these seas, without a sham on his stern, in case of need, d’ye see. If you call me Penguillan, you calls me by the name of the man on whose hand, dye see, I hove into daylight; and he was a gentleman; and that’s more than my worst enemy will say of any of the family of Benjamin Stubbs.”

“Send the warrant round to me, and I’ll put in an alias,” cried Hiram, from behind his cover.

“Put in a jackass, and you’ll put in yourself, Mister Doo-but-little,” shouted Benjamin, who kept squinting along his little iron tube, with great steadiness.

“I give you but one moment to yield,” cried Richard. “Benjamin! Benjamin! this is not the gratitude I expected from you.”

“I tell you, Richard Jones,” said Natty, who dreaded the sheriff’s influence over his comrade; “though the canister the gal brought be lost, there’s powder enough in the cave to lift the rock you stand on. I’ll take off my roof if you don’t hold your peace.”

“I think it beneath the dignity of my office to parley further with the prisoners,” the sheriff observer to his companion, while they both retired with a precipitancy that Captain Hollister mistook for the signal to advance.

“Charge baggonet!” shouted the veteran; “march!”

Although this signal was certainly expected, it took the assailed a little by surprise, and the veteran approached the works, crying, “Courage, my brave lads! give them no quarter unless they surrender;” and struck a furious blow upward with his sabre, that would have divided the steward into moieties by subjecting him to the process of decapitation, but for the fortunate interference of the muzzle of the swivel. As it was, the gun was dismounted at the critical moment that Benjamin was applying his pipe to the priming, and in consequence some five or six dozen of rifle bullets were projected into the air, in nearly a perpendicular line. Philosophy teaches us that the atmosphere will not retain lead; and two pounds of the metal, moulded into bullets of thirty to the pound, after describing an ellipsis in their journey, returned to the earth rattling among the branches of the trees directly over the heads of the troops stationed in the rear of their captain. Much of the success of an attack, made by irregular soldiers, depends on the direction in which they are first got in motion. In the present instance it was retrograde, and in less than a minute after the bellowing report of the swivel among the rocks and caverns, the whole weight of the attack from the left rested on the prowess of the single arm of the veteran. Benjamin received a severe contusion from the recoil of his gun, which produced a short stupor, during which period the ex-steward was prostrate on the ground. Captain Hollister availed himself of this circumstance to scramble ever the breastwork and obtain a footing in the bastion — for such was the nature of the fortress, as connected with the cave. The moment the veteran found himself within the works of his enemy, he rushed to the edge of the fortification, and, waving his sabre over his head, shouted:

“Victory! come on, my brave boys, the work’s our own!”

All this was perfectly military, and was such an example as a gallant officer was in some measure bound to exhibit to his men but the outcry was the unlucky cause of turning the tide of success. Natty, who had been keeping a vigalent eye on the wood-chopper, and the enemy immediately before him, wheeled at this alarm, and was appalled at beholding his comrade on the ground, and the veteran standing on his own bulwark, giving forth the cry of victory! The muzzle of the long rifle was turned instantly toward the captain. There was a moment when the life of the old soldier was in great jeopardy but the object to shoot at was both too large and too near for the Leather-Stocking, who, instead of pulling his trigger, applied the gun to the rear of his enemy, and by a powerful shove sent him outside of the works with much greater rapidity than he had entered them. The spot on which Captain Hollister alighted was directly in front, where, as his feet touched the ground, so steep and slippery was the side of the mountain, it seemed to recede from under them. His motion was swift, and so irregular as utterly to confuse the faculties of the old soldier. During its continuance, he supposed himself to be mounted, and charging through the ranks of his enemy. At every tree he made a blow, of course, as at a foot-soldier; and just as he was making the cut “St. George” at a half burnt sapling he landed in the highway, and, to his utter amazement, at the feet of his own spouse. When Mrs. Hollister, who was toiling up the hill, followed by at least twenty curious boys, leaning with one hand on the staff with which she ordinarily walked, and bearing in the other an empty bag, witnessed this exploit of her husband, indignation immediately got the better, not only of her religion, but of her philosophy.

“Why, sargeant! is it flying ye are?” she cried— “that I should live to see a husband of mine turn his hack to an inimy! and such a one! Here I have been telling the b’ys, as we come along, all about the saige of Yorrektown, and how ye was hurted; and how ye’d be acting the same agin the day; and I mate ye retraiting jist as the first gun is fired. Och! I may trow away the bag! for if there’s plunder, ‘twill not be the wife of sich as yerself that will be privileged to be getting the same. They do say, too, there is a power of goold and silver in the place — the Lord forgive me for setting my heart on woorldly things; but what falls in the battle, there’s scriptur’ for believing, is the just property of the victor.”

“Retreating!” exclaimed the amazed veteran; “where’s my horse? he has been shot under me — I — — “

“Is the man mad?” interrupted his wife— “devil the horse do ye own, sargeant, and ye’re nothing but a shabby captain of malaishy. Oh! if the ra’al captain was here, tis the other way ye’d be riding, dear, or you would not follow your laider!”

While this worthy couple were thus discussing events, the battle began to rage more violently than ever above them. When Leather-Stocking saw his enemy fairly under headway, as Benjamin would express it, he gave his attention to the right wing of the assailants. It would have been easy for Kirby, with his powerful frame, to have seized the moment to scale the bastion, and, with his great strength, to have sent both of its defenders in pursuit of the veteran; but hostility appeared to be the passion that the wood-chopper indulged the least in at that moment, for, in a voice that was heard by the retreating left wing, he shouted:

“Hurrah well done, captain! keep it up! how he handles his bush-hook! he makes nothing of a sapling!” and such other encouraging exclamations to the flying veteran, until, overcome by mirth, the good-natured fellow seated himself on the ground, kicking the earth with delight, and giving vent to peal after peal of laughter.

Natty stood all this time in a menacing attitude, with his rifle pointed over the breastwork, watching with a quick and cautions eye the least movement of the assail ants. The outcry unfortunately tempted the ungovernable curiosity of Hiram to take a peep from behind his cover at the state of the battle. Though this evolution was performed with great caution, in protecting his front, he left, like many a better commander, his rear exposed to the attacks of his enemy. Mr. Doolittle belonged physically to a class of his countrymen, to whom Nature has denied, in their formation, the use of curved lines. Every thing about him was either straight or angular. But his tailor was a woman who worked, like a regimental contractor, by a set of rules that gave the same configuration to the whole human species. Consequently, when Mr. Doolittle leaned forward in the manner described, a loose drapery appeared behind the tree, at which the rifle of Natty was pointed with the quickness of lightning. A less experienced man would have aimed at the flowing robe, which hung like a festoon half-way to the earth; but the Leather-Stocking knew both the man and his female tailor better; and when the smart report of the rifle was heard, Kirby, who watched the whole manoeuvre in breath less expectation, saw the bark fly from the beech and the cloth, at some distance above the loose folds, wave at the same instant. No battery was ever unmasked with more promptitiude than Hiram advanced from behind the tree at this summons.

He made two or three steps, with great precision, to the front and, placing one hand on the afflicted part, stretched forth the other with a menacing air toward Natty, and cried aloud:

“Gawl darn ye: this shan’t he settled so easy; I’ll follow it up from the ‘common pleas’ to the ‘court of errors.’”

Such a shocking imprecation, from the mouth of so orderly a man as Squire Doolittle, with the fearless manner in which he exposed himself, together with, perhaps, the knowledge that Natty’s rifle was unloaded, encouraged the troops in the rear, who gave a loud shout, and fired a volley into the tree-tops, after the contents of the swivel. Animated by their own noise, the men now rushed on in earnest; and Billy Kirby, who thought the joke, good as it was, had gone far enough, was in the act of scaling the works, when Judge Temple appeared on the opposite side, exclaiming:

“Silence and peace! why do I see murder and blood shed attempted? Is not the law sufficient to protect itself, that armed bands must be gathered, as in rebellion and war, to see justice performed?”

“’Tis the posse comitatus,” shouted the sheriff, from a distant rock, “who-”

“Say rather a posse of demons. I command the peace.”

“Hold shied not blood!” cried a voice from the top of the Vision. “Hold, for the sake of Heaven, fire no more! all shall be yielded! you shall enter the cave!”

Amazement produced the desired effect. Natty, who had reloaded his piece, quietly seated himself on the logs, and rested his head on his hands, while the “Light Infantry” ceased their military movements, and waited the issue in suspense.

In less than a minute Edwards came rushing down the hill, followed by Major Hartman, with a velocity that was surprising for his years. They reached the terrace in an instant, from which the youth led the way, by the hollow in the rock, to the mouth of the cave, into which they both entered, leaving all without silent, and gazing after them with astonishment.

CHAPTER XL.

“I am dumb. Were you the doctor, and I knew you not?”

— Shakespeare.

During the five or six minutes that elapsed before the youth and Major reappeared. Judge Temple and the sheriff together with most of the volunteers, ascended to the terrace, where the latter began to express their conjectures of the result, and to recount their individual services in the conflict. But the sight of the peace-makers ascending the ravine shut every mouth.

On a rude chair, covered with undressed deer-skins, they supported a human being, whom they seated carefully and respectfully in the midst of the assembly. His head was covered by long, smooth locks of the color of snow. His dress, which was studiously neat and clean, was composed of such fabrics as none but the wealthiest classes wear, but was threadbare and patched; and on his feet were placed a pair of moccasins, ornamented in the best manner of Indian ingenuity. The outlines of his face were grave and dignified, though his vacant eye, which opened and turned slowly to the faces of those around him in unmeaning looks, too surely’ announced that the period had arrived when age brings the mental imbecility of childhood.

Natty had followed the supporters of this unexpected object to the top of the cave, and took his station at a little distance behind him, leaning no his rifle, in the midst of his pursuers, with a fearlessness that showed that heavier interests than those which affected himself were to be decided. Major Hartmann placed himself beside the aged man, uncovered, with his whole soul beaming through those eyes which so commonly danced with frolic and humor. Edwards rested with one hand familiarly but affectionately on the chair, though his heart was swelling with emotions that denied him utterance.

All eyes were gazing intently, but each tongue continued mute. At length the decrepit stranger, turning his vacant looks from face to face, made a feeble attempt to rise, while a faint smile crossed his wasted face, like an habitual effort at courtesy, as he said, in a hollow, tremulous voice:

“Be pleased to be seated, gentlemen. The council will open immediately. Each one who loves a good and virtuous king will wish to see these colonies continue loyal. Be seated — I pray you, be seated, gentlemen. The troops shall halt for the night.”

“This is the wandering of insanity!” said Marmaduke: “who will explain this scene.”

“No, sir,” said Edwards firmly, “’tis only the decay of nature; who is answerable for its pitiful condition, remains to be shown.”

“Will the gentlemen dine with us, my son?” said the old stranger, turning to a voice that he both knew and loved. “Order a repast suitable for his Majesty’s officers. You know we have the best of game always at command.”

“Who is this man?” asked Marmaduke, in a hurried voice, in which the dawnings of conjecture united with interest to put the question.

“This man,” returned Edwards calmly, his voice, how ever, gradually rising as he proceeded; “this man, sir, whom you behold hid in caverns, and deprived of every-thing that can make life desirable, was once the companion and counsellor of those who ruled your country. This man, whom you see helpless and feeble, was once a warrior, so brave and fearless, that even the intrepid natives gave him the name of the Fire-eater. This man, whom you now see destitute of even the ordinary comfort of a cabin, in which to shelter his head, was once the owner of great riches — and, Judge Temple, he was the rightful proprietor of this very soil on which we stand. This man was the father of —— — “

“This, then,” cried Marmaduke, with a powerful emotion, “this, then, is the lost Major Effingham!”

“Lost indeed,” said the youth, fixing a piercing eye on the other.

“And you! and you!” continued the Judge, articulating with difficulty.

“I am his grandson.”

A minute passed in profound silence. All eyes were fixed on the speakers, and even the old German appeared to wait the issue in deep anxiety. But the moment of agitation soon passed. Marmaduke raised his head from his bosom, where it had sunk, not in shame, but in devout mental thanksgivings, and, as large tears fell over his fine, manly face, he grasped the hand of the youth warmly, and said:

“Oliver, I forgive all thy harshness — all thy suspicions. I now see it all. I forgive thee everything, but suffering this aged man to dwell in such a place, when not only my habitation, but my fortune, were at his and thy command.”

“He’s true as ter steel!” shouted Major Hartmann; “titn’t I tell you, lat, dat Marmatuke Temple vas a friend dat woult never fail in ter dime as of neet?”

“It is true, Judge Temple, that my opinions of your conduct have been staggered by what this worthy gentle man has told me. When I found it impossible to convey my grandfather back whence the enduring love of this old man brought him, without detection and exposure, I went to the Mohawk in quest of one of his former comrades, in whose justice I had dependence. He is your friend, Judge Temple, but, if what he says be true, both my father and myself may have judged you harshly.”

“You name your father!” said Marmaduke tenderly— “was he, indeed, lost in the packet?”

“He was. He had left me, after several years of fruit less application and comparative poverty, in Nova Scotia, to obtain the compensation for his losses which the British commissioners had at length awarded. After spending a year in England, he was returning to Halifax, on his way to a government to which he had been appointed, in the West Indies, intending to go to the place where my grand father had sojourned during and since the war, and take him with us.”

“But thou!” said Marmaduke, with powerful interest; “I had thought that thou hadst perished with him.”

A flush passed over the cheeks of the young man, who gazed about him at the wondering faces of the volunteers, and continued silent. Marmaduke turned to the veteran captain, who just then rejoined his command, and said:

“March thy soldiers back again, and dismiss them, the zeal of the sheriff has much mistaken his duty. — Dr. Todd, I will thank you to attend to the injury which Hiram Doolittle has received in this untoward affair, — Richard, you will oblige me by sending up the carriage to the top of the hill. — Benjamin, return to your duty in my family.”

Unwelcome as these orders were to most of the auditors, the suspicion that they had somewhat exceeded the whole some restraints of the law, and the habitual respect with which all the commands of the Judge were received, induced a prompt compliance.

When they were gone, and the rock was left to the parties most interested in an explanation, Marmaduke, pointing to the aged Major Effingham, said to his grand son:

“Had we not better remove thy parent from this open place until my carriage can arrive?”

“Pardon me, sir, the air does him good, and he has taken it whenever there was no dread of a discovery. I know not how to act, Judge Temple; ought I, can I suffer Major Effingham to become an inmate of your family?”

“Thou shalt be thyself the judge,” said Marmaduke. “Thy father was my early friend. He intrusted his fortune to my care. When we separated he had such confidence in me that he wished on security, no evidence of the trust, even had there been time or convenience for exacting it. This thou hast heard?”

“Most truly, sir,” said Edwards, or rather Effingham as we must now call him.

“We differed in politics. If the cause of this country was successful, the trust was sacred with me, for none knew of thy father’s interest, if the crown still held its sway, it would be easy to restore the property of so loyal a subject as Colonel Effingham. Is not this plain?’”

“The premises are good, sir,” continued the youth, with the same incredulous look as before.

“Listen — listen, poy,” said the German, “Dere is not a hair as of ter rogue in ter het of Herr Tchooge.”

“We all know the issue of the struggle,” continued Marmaduke, disregarding both. “Thy grandfather was left in Connecticut, regularly supplied by thy father with the means of such a subsistence as suited his wants. This I well knew, though I never had intercourse with him, even in our happiest days. Thy father retired with the troops to prosecute his claims on England. At all events, his losses must be great, for his real estates were sold, and I became the lawful purchaser. It was not unnatural to wish that he might have no bar to its just recovery.”

“There was none, but the difficulty of providing for so many claimants.”

“But there would have been one, and an insuperable one, and I announced to the world that I held these estates, multiplied by the times and my industry, a hundredfold in value, only as his trustee. Thou knowest that I supplied him with considerable sums immediately after the war.”

“You did, until— “

“My letters were returned unopened. Thy father had much of thy own spirit, Oliver; he was sometimes hasty and rash.” The Judge continued, in a self-condemning manner; “Perhaps my fault lies the other way: I may possibly look too far ahead, and calculate too deeply. It certainly was a severe trial to allow the man whom I most loved, to think ill of me for seven years, in order that he might honestly apply for his just remunerations. But, had he opened my last letters, thou wouldst have learned the whole truth. Those I sent him to England, by what my agent writes me, he did read. He died, Oliver, knowing all, he died my friend, and I thought thou hadst died with him.”

“Our poverty would not permit us to pay for two passages,” said the youth, with the extraordinary emotion with which he ever alluded to the degraded state of his family; “I was left in the Province to wait for his return, and, when the sad news of his loss reached me, I was nearly penniless.”

“And what didst thou, boy?” asked Marmaduke in a faltering voice.

“I took my passage here in search of my grandfather; for I well knew that his resources were gone, with the half pay of my father. On reaching his abode, I learned that he had left it in secret; though the reluctant hireling, who had deserted him in his poverty, owned to my urgent en treaties, that he believed he had been carried away by an old man who had formerly been his servant. I knew at once it was Natty, for my father often— “

“Was Natty a servant of thy grandfather?” exclaimed the Judge.

“Of that too were you ignorant?” said the youth in evident surprise.

“How should I know it? I never met the Major, nor was the name of Bumppo ever mentioned to me. I knew him only as a man of the woods, and one who lived by hunting. Such men are too common to excite surprise.”

“He was reared in the family of my grandfather; served him for many years during their campaigns at the West, where he became attached to the woods; and he was left here as a kind of locum tenens on the lands that old Mohegan (whose life my grandfather once saved) induced the Delawares to grant to him when they admitted him as an honorary member of their tribe.

“This, then, is thy Indian blood?”

“I have no other,” said Edwards, smiling— “Major Effingham was adopted as the son of Mohegan, who at that time was the greatest man in his nation; and my father, who visited those people when a boy, received the name of the Eagle from them, on account of the shape of his face, as I understand. They have extended his title to me, I have no other Indian blood or breeding; though I have seen the hour, Judge Temple, when I could wish that such had been my lineage and education.”

“Proceed with thy tale,” said Marmaduke.

“I have but little more to say, sir, I followed to the lake where I had so often been told that Natty dwelt, and found him maintaining his old master in secret; for even he could not bear to exhibit to the world, in his poverty and dotage, a man whom a whole people once looked up to with respect.”

“And what did you?”

“What did I? I spent my last money in purchasing a rifle, clad myself in a coarse garb, and learned to be a hunter by the side of Leather-Stocking. You know the rest, Judge Temple.”

“Ant vere vas olt Fritz Hartmann?” said the German, reproachfully; “didst never hear a name as of olt Fritz Hartmann from ter mout of ter fader, lat?”

“I may have been mistaken, gentlemen,” returned the youth, “but I had pride, and could not submit to such an exposure as this day even has reluctantly brought to light. I had plans that might have been visionary; but, should my parent survive till autumn, I purposed taking him with me to the city, where we have distant relatives, who must have learned to forget the Tory by this time. He decays rapidly,” he continued mournfully, “and must soon lie by the side of old Mohegan.”

The air being pure, and the day fine, the party continued conversing on the rock, until the wheels of Judge Temple’s carriage were heard clattering up the side of the mountain, during which time the conversation was maintained with deep interest, each moment clearing up some doubtful action, and lessening the antipathy of the youth to Marmaduke. He no longer objected to the removal of his grand father, who displayed a childish pleasure when he found himself seated once more in a carriage. When placed in the ample hall of the mansion-house, the eyes of the aged veteran turned slowly to the objects in the apartment, and a look like the dawn of intellect would, for moments flit across his features, when he invariably offered some use less courtesies to those near him, wandering painfully in his subjects. The exercise and the change soon produced an exhaustion that caused them to remove him to his bed, where he lay for hours, evidently sensible of the change in his comforts, and exhibiting that mortifying picture of human nature, which too plainly shows that the propensities of the animal continue even after the nobler part of the creature appears to have vanished.

Until his parent was placed comfortably in bed, with Natty seated at his side, Effingham did not quit him. He then obeyed a summons to the library of the Judge, where he found the latter, with Major Hartmann, waiting for him.

“Read this paper, Oliver,” said Marmaduke to him, as he entered, “and thou wilt find that, so far from intending thy family wrong during life, it has been my care to see that justice should be done at even a later day.”

The youth took the paper, which his first glance told him was the will of the Judge. Hurried and agitated as he was, he discovered that the date corresponded with the time of the unusual depression of Marmaduke. As he proceeded, his eyes began to moisten, and the hand which held the instrument shook violently.

The will commenced with the usual forms, spun out by the ingenuity of Mr. Van der School: but, after this subject was fairly exhausted, the pen of Marmaduke became plainly visible. In clear, distinct, manly, and even eloquent language, he recounted his obligations to Colonel Effingham, the nature of their connection, and the circumstances in which they separated. He then proceeded to relate the motives of his silence, mentioning, however, large sums that he had forwarded to his friend, which had been returned with the letters unopened. After this, he spoke of his search for the grandfather who unaccountably disappeared, and his fears that the direct heir of the trust was buried in the ocean with his father.

After, in short, recounting in a clear narrative, the events which our readers must now be able to connect, he proceeded to make a fair and exact statement of the sums left in his care by Colonel Effingham. A devise of his whole estate to certain responsible trustees followed; to hold the same for the benefit, in equal moieties, of his daughter, on one part, and of Oliver Effingham, formerly a major in the army of Great Britain, and of his son Ed ward Effingham, and of his son Edward Oliver Effingham, or to the survivor of them, and the descendants of such survivor, forever, on the other part. The trust was to endure until 1810, when, if no person appeared, or could be found, after sufficient notice, to claim the moiety so devised, then a certain sum, calculating the principal and interest of his debt to Colonel Effingham, was to be paid to the heirs-at-law of the Effingham family, and the bulk of his estate was to be conveyed in fee to his daughter, or her heirs.

The tears fell from the eyes of the young man, as he read this undeniable testimony of the good faith of Marmaduke, and his bewildered gaze was still fastened on the paper, when a voice, that thrilled on every nerve, spoke near him, saying:

“Do you yet doubt us, Oliver?”

“I have never doubted you!” cried the youth, recovering his recollection and his voice, as he sprang to seize the hand of Elizabeth; “no, not one moment has my faith in you wavered.”

“And my father— “

“God bless him!”

“I thank thee, my son,” said the Judge, exchanging a warm pressure of the hand with the youth; “but we have both erred: thou hast been too hasty, and I have been too slow. One-half of my estates shall be thine as soon as they can be conveyed to thee; and, if what my suspicions tell me be true, I suppose the other must follow speedily.” He took the hand which he held, and united it with that of his daughter, and motioned toward the door to the Major.

“I telt you vat, gal!” said the old German, good-humoredly; “if I vas as I vas ven I servit mit his grand-fader on ter lakes, ter lazy tog shouldn’t vin ter prize as for nottin’.”

“Come, come, old Fritz,” said the Judge; “you are seventy, not seventeen; Richard waits for you with a bowl of eggnog, in the hall.”

“Richart! ter duyvel!” exclaimed the other, hastening out of the room; “he makes ter nog as for ter horse vilt show ter sheriff mit my own hants! Ter duyvel! I pelieve he sweetens mit ter Yankee melasses!”

Marmaduke smiled and nodded affectionately at the young couple, and closed the door after them. If any of our readers expect that we are going to open it again, for their gratification, they are mistaken.

The tete-a-tete continued for a very unreasonable time — how long we shall not say; but it was ended by six o’clock in the evening, for at that hour Monsieur Le Quoi made his appearance agreeably to the appointment of the preceding day, and claimed the ear of Miss Temple. He was admitted; when he made an offer of his hand, with much suavity, together with his “amis beeg and leet’, his père, his mere and his sucreboosh.” Elizabeth might, possibly, have previously entered into some embarrassing and binding engagements with Oliver, for she declined the tender of all, in terms as polite, though perhaps a little more decided, than those in which they were made.

The Frenchman soon joined the German and the sheriff in the hall, who compelled him to take a seat with them at the table, where, by the aid of punch, wine, and egg nog, they soon extracted from the complaisant Monsieur Le Quoi the nature of his visit, it was evident that he had made the offer, as a duty which a well-bred man owed to a lady in such a retired place, before he had left the country, and that his feelings were but very little, if at all, interested in the matter. After a few potations, the waggish pair persuaded the exhilarated Frenchman that there was an inexcusable partiality in offering to one lady, and not extending a similar courtesy to another. Consequently, about nine, Monsieur Le Quoi sallied forth to the rectory, on a similar mission to Miss Grant, which proved as successful as his first effort in love.

When he returned to the mansion-house, at ten, Richard and the Major were still seated at the table. They at tempted to persuade the Gaul, as the sheriff called him, that he should next try Remarkable Pettibone. But, though stimulated by mental excitement and wine, two hours of abstruse logic were thrown away on this subject; for he declined their advice, with a pertinacity truly astonishing in so polite a man.

When Benjamin lighted Monsieur Le Quoi from the door, he said, at parting:

“If-so-be, Mounsheer, you’d run alongside Mistress Pettybones, as the Squire Dickens was bidding ye, ’tis my notion you’d have been grappled; in which case, d’ye see, you mought have been troubled in swinging clear agin in a handsome manner; for thof Miss Lizzy and the parson’s young ‘un be tidy little vessels, that shoot by a body on a wind, Mistress Remarkable is summat of a galliot fashion: when you once takes ‘em in tow, they doesn’t like to be cast off agin.”

CHAPTER XLI.

“Yes, sweep ye on! —

We will not leave,

For them who triumph those who grieve.

With that armada gay

Be laughter loud, and jocund shout —

But with that skill Abides the minstrel tale.”

— Lord of the Isles.

The events of our tale carry us through the summer; and after making nearly the circle of the year, we must conclude our labors in the delightful month of October. Many important incidents had, however, occurred in the intervening period; a few of which it may be necessary to recount.

The two principal were the marriage of Oliver and Elizabeth, and the death of Major Effingham. They both took place early in September; and the former preceded the latter only a few days. The old man passed away like the last glimmering of a taper; and, though his death cast a melancholy over the family, grief could not follow such an end. One of the chief concerns of Marmaduke was to reconcile the even conduct of a magistrate with the course that his feelings dictated to the criminals. The day succeeding the discovery at the cave, however, Natty and Benjamin re-entered the jail peaceably, where they continued, well fed and comfortable, until the return of an express to Albany, who brought the governor’s pardon to the Leather-Stocking. In the mean time, proper means were employed to satisfy Hiram for the assaults on his person; and on the same day the two comrades issued together into society again, with their characters not at all affected by the imprisonment.

Mr. Doolittle began to discover that neither architecture nor his law was quite suitable to the growing wealth and intelligence of the settlement; and after exacting the last cent that was attainable in his compromise, to use the language of the country he “pulled up stakes,” and proceeded farther west, scattering his professional science and legal learning through the land; vestiges of both of which are to be discovered there even to the present hour.

Poor Jotham, whose life paid the forfeiture of his folly, acknowledged, before he died, that his reasons for believing in a mine were extracted from the lips of a sibyl, who, by looking in a magic glass, was enabled to discover the hidden treasures of the earth. Such superstition was frequent in the new settlements; and, after the first surprise was over, the better part of the community forgot the subject. But, at the same time that it removed from the breast of Richard a lingering suspicion of the acts of the three hunter, it conveyed a mortifying lesson to him, which brought many quiet hours, in future, to his cousin Marmaduke. It may be remembered that the sheriff confidently pronounced this to be no “visionary” scheme, and that word was enough to shut his lips, at any time within the next ten years.

Monsieur Le Quoi, who has been introduced to our readers because no picture of that country would be faithful without some such character, found the island of Martinique, and his “sucreboosh,” in possession of the English but Marmaduke and his family were much gratified in soon hearing that he had returned to his bureau, in Paris; where he afterward issued yearly bulletins of his happiness, and of his gratitude to his friends in America.

With this brief explanation, we must return to our narrative. Let the American reader imagine one of our mildest October mornings, when the sun seems a ball of silvery fire, and the elasticity of the air is felt while it is inhaled, imparting vigor and life to the whole system; the weather, neither too warm nor too cold, but of that happy temperature which stirs the blood, without bringing the lassitude of spring. It was on such a morning, about the middle of the month, that Oliver entered the hall where Elizabeth was issuing her usual orders for the day, and requesting her to join him in a short excursion to the lakeside. The tender melancholy in the manner of her husband caught the attention of Elizabeth, who instantly abandoned her concerns, threw a light shawl across her shoulders, and, concealing her raven hair under a gypsy hat, and took his arm, and submitted herself, without a question, to his guidance. They crossed the bridge, and had turned from the highway, along the margin of the lake, before a word was exchanged. Elizabeth well knew, by the direction, the object of the walk, and respected the feelings of her companion too much to indulge in untimely conversation. But when they gained the open fields, and her eye roamed over the placid lake, covered with wild fowl already journeying from the great northern waters to seek a warmer sun, but lingering to play in the limpid sheet of the Otsego, and to the sides of the mountain, which were gay with the thousand dyes of autumn, as if to grace their bridal, the swelling heart of the young wife burst out in speech.

“This is not a time for silence, Oliver!” she said, clinging more fondly to his arm; “everything in Nature seems to speak the praises of the Creator; why should we, who have so much to be grateful for, be silent?”

“Speak on!” said her husband, smiling; “I love the sounds of your voice. You must anticipate our errand hither: I have told you my plans: how do you like them?”

“I must first see them,” returned his wife. “But I have had my plans, too; it is time I should begin to divulge them.”

“You! It is something for the comfort of my old friend, Natty, I know.”

“Certainly of Natty; but we have other friends besides the Leather-Stocking to serve. Do you forget Louisa and her father?”

“No, surely; have I not given one of the best farms in the county to the good divine? As for Louisa, I should wish you to keep her always near us.”

“You do!” said Elizabeth, slightly compressing her lips; “but poor Louisa may have other views for herself; she may wish to follow my example, and marry.”

“I don’t think it,” said Effingham, musing a moment, “really don’t know any one hereabouts good enough for her.”

“Perhaps not her; but there are other places besides Templeton, and other churches besides ‘New St. Paul’s.’”

“Churches, Elizabeth! you would not wish to lose Mr. Grant, surely! Though simple, he is an excellent man I shall never find another who has half the veneration for my orthodoxy. You would humble me from a saint to a very common sinner.”

“It must be done, sir,” returned the lady, with a half-concealed smile, “though it degrades you from an angel to a man.”

“But you forget the farm?”

“He can lease it, as others do. Besides, would you have a clergyman toil in the fields?”

“Where can he go? You forget Louisa.”

“No, I do not forget Louisa,” said Elizabeth, again compressing her beautiful lips. “You know, Effingham, that my father has told you that I ruled him, and that I should rule you. I am now about to exert my power.”

“Anything, anything, dear Elizabeth, but not at the expense of us all: not at the expense of your friend.”

“How do you know, sir, that it will be so much at the expense of my friend?” said the lady, fixing her eyes with a searching look on his countenance, where they met only the unsuspecting expression of manly regret.

“How do I know it? Why, it is natural that she should regret us.”

“It is our duty to struggle with our natural feelings,” returned the lady; “and there is but little cause to fear that such a spirit as Louisa’s will not effect it.”

“But what is your plan?”

“Listen, and you shall know. My father has procured a call for Mr. Grant, to one of the towns on the Hudson where he can live more at his ease than in journeying through these woods; where he can spend the evening of his life in comfort and quiet; and where his daughter may meet with such society, and form such a connection, as may be proper for one of her years and character.”

“Bess! you amaze me! I did not think you had been such a manager!”

“Oh! I manage more deeply than you imagine, sir,” said the wife, archly smiling again; “but it is thy will and it is your duty to submit — for a time at least.”

Effingham laughed; but, as they approached the end of their walk, the subject was changed by common consent.

The place at which they arrived was the little spot of level ground where the cabin of the Leather-Stocking had so long stood. Elizabeth found it entirely cleared of rubbish, and beautifully laid down in turf, by the removal of sods, which, in common with the surrounding country, had grown gay, under the influence of profuse showers, as if a second spring had passed over the land. This little place was surrounded by a circle of mason-work, and they entered by a small gate, near which, to the surprise of both, the rifle of Natty was leaning against the wall. Hector and the slut reposed on the grass by its side, as if conscious that, however altered, they were lying on the ground and were surrounded by objects with which they were familiar. The hunter himself was stretched on the earth, before a head-stone of white marble, pushing aside with his fingers the long grass that had already sprung up from the luxuriant soil around its base, apparently to lay bare the inscription. By the side of this stone, which was a simple slab at the head of a grave, stood a rich monument, decorated with an urn and ornamented with the chisel.

Oliver and Elizabeth approached the graves with a light tread, unheard by the old hunter, whose sunburnt face was working, and whose eyes twinkled as if something impeded their vision. After some little time Natty raised himself slowly from the ground, and said aloud:

“Well, well — I’m bold to say it’s all right! There’s something that I suppose is reading; but I can’t make anything of it; though the pipe and the tomahawk, and the moccasins, be pretty well — pretty well, for a man that, I dares to say, never seed ‘ither of the things. Ah’s me! there they lie, side by side, happy enough! Who will there be to put me in the ‘arth when my time comes?”

“When that unfortunate hour arrives, Natty, friends shall not be wanting to perform the last offices for you,” said Oliver, a little touched at the hunter’s soliloquy.

The old man turned, without manifesting surprise, for he had got the Indian habits in this particular, and, running his hand under the bottom of his nose, seemed to wipe away his sorrow with the action.

“You’ve come out to see the graves, children, have ye?” he said; “well, well, they’re wholesome sights to young as well as old.”

“I hope they are fitted to your liking,” said Effingham, “no one has a better right than yourself to be consulted in the matter.”

“Why, seeing that I ain’t used to fine graves,” returned the old man, “it is but little matter consarning my taste. Ye laid the Major’s head to the west, and Mohegan’s to the east, did ye, lad?”

“At your request it was done.”

“It’s so best,” said the hunter; “they thought they had to journey different ways, children: though there is One greater than all, who’ll bring the just together, at His own time, and who’ll whiten the skin of a blackamoor, and place him on a footing with princes.”

“There is but little reason to doubt that,” said Elizabeth, whose decided tones were changed to a soft, melancholy voice; “I trust we shall all meet again, and be happy together.”

“Shall we, child, shall we?” exclaimed the hunter, with unusual fervor, “there’s comfort in that thought too. But before I go, I should like to know what ’tis you tell these people, that be flocking into the country like pigeons in the spring, of the old Delaware, and of the bravest white man that ever trod the hills?”

Effingham and Elizabeth were surprised at the manner of the Leather-Stocking, which was unusually impressive and solemn; but, attributing it to the scene, the young man turned to the monument, and read aloud:

“Sacred to the memory of Oliver Effingham Esquire, formally a Major in his B. Majesty’s 60th Foot; a soldier of tried valor; a subject of chivalrous loyalty; and a man of honesty. To these virtues he added the graces of a Christian. The morning of his life was spent in honor, wealth, and power; but its evening was obscured by poverty, neglect, and disease, which were alleviated only by the tender care of his old, faithful, and upright friend and attendant Nathaniel Bumppo. His descendants rest this stone to the virtues of the master, and to the enduring gratitude of the servant.”

The Leather-Stocking started at the sound of his own name, and a smile of joy illuminated his wrinkled features, as he said:

“And did ye say It, lad? have you then got the old man’s name cut in the stone, by the side of his master’s! God bless ye, children! ’twas a kind thought, and kindness goes to the heart as Life shortens.”

Elizabeth turned her back to the speakers. Effingham made a fruitless effort before he succeeded in saying:

“It is there cut in plain marble; but it should have been written in letters of gold!”

“Show me the name, boy,” said Natty, with simple eagerness; “let me see my own name placed in such honor. ’Tis a gin’rous gift to a man who leaves none of his name and family behind him in a country where he has tarried so long.”

Effingham guided his finger to the spot, and Natty followed the windings of the letters to the end with deep interest, when he raised himself from the tomb, and said:

“I suppose it’s all right; and it’s kindly thought, and kindly done! But what have ye put over the red-skin?”

“You shall hear: This stone is raised to the memory of an Indian Chief of the Delaware tribe, who was known by the several names of John Mohegan Mohican —— — ‘“

“Mo-hee-can, lad, they call theirselves! ‘hecan.”

“Mohican; and Chingagook— “

“‘Gach, boy; ‘gach-gook; Chingachgook, which interpreted, means Big-sarpent. The name should be set down right, for an Indian’s name has always some meaning in it.”

“I will see it altered. ‘He was the last of his people who continued to inhabit this country; and it may be said of him that his faults were those of an Indian, and his virtues those of a man.’”

“You never said truer word, Mr. Oliver; ah’s me! if you had knowed him as I did, in his prime, in that very battle where the old gentleman, who sleeps by his side saved his life, when them thieves, the Iroquois, had him at the stake, you’d have said all that, and more too. I cut the thongs with this very hand, and gave him my own tomahawk and knife, seeing that the rifle was always my fav’rite weapon. He did lay about him like a man! I met him as I was coming home from the trail, with eleven Mingo scalps on his pole. You needn’t shudder, Madam Effingham, for they was all from shaved heads and warriors. When I look about me, at these hills, where I used to could count sometimes twenty smokes, curling over the tree-tops, from the Delaware camps, it raises mournful thoughts, to think that not a red-skin is left of them all; unless it be a drunken vagabond from the Oneidas, or them Yankee Indians, who, they say, be moving up from the seashore; and who belong to none of Gods creatures, to my seeming, being, as it were, neither fish nor flesh — neither white man nor savage. Well, well! the time has come at last, and I must go — — “

“Go!” echoed Edwards, “whither do you go?”

The Leather-Stocking; who had imbibed unconsciously, many of the Indian qualities, though he always thought of himself as of a civilized being, compared with even the Delawares, averted his face to conceal the workings of his muscles, as he stooped to lift a large pack from behind the tomb, which he placed deliberately on his shoulders.

“Go!” exclaimed Elizabeth, approaching him with a hurried step; “you should not venture so far in the woods alone, at your time of life, Natty; indeed, it Is Imprudent, He is bent, Effingham, on some distant hunting.”

“What Mrs. Effingham tells you is true, Leather-Stocking,” said Edwards; “there can be no necessity for your submitting to such hardships now. So throw aside your pack, and confine your hunt to the mountains near us, if you will go.”

“Hardship! ’tis a pleasure, children, and the greatest that is left me on this side the grave.”

“No, no; you shall not go to such a distance,” cried Elizabeth, laying her white hand on his deer-skin pack— “I am right! I feel his camp-kettle, and a canister of powder! He must not be suffered to wander so far from us, Oliver; remember how suddenly Mohegan dropped away.”

“I knowed the parting would come hard, children — I knowed it would!” said Natty, “and so I got aside to look at the graves by myself, and thought if I left ye the keep sake which the Major gave me, when we first parted in the woods, ye wouldn’t take it unkind, but would know that, let the old man’s body go where it might, his feelings stayed behind him.”

“This means something more than common,” exclaimed the youth. “Where is it, Natty, that you purpose going?”

The hunter drew nigh him with a confident, reasoning air, as If what he had to say would silence all objections, and replied:

“Why, lad, they tell me that on the big lakes there’s the best of hunting, and a great range without a white man on it unless it may be one like myself. I’m weary of living in clearings, and where the hammer is sounding in my ears from sunrise to sundown. And though I’m much bound to ye both, children — I wouldn’t say it if It was not true — I crave to go into the woods agin — I do.”

“Woods!” echoed Elizabeth, trembling with her feelings; “do you not call these endless forests woods?”

“Ah! child, these be nothing to a man that’s used to the wilderness. I have took but little comfort sin’ your father come on with his settlers; but I wouldn’t go far, while the life was in the body that lies under the sod there. But now he’s gone, and Chingachgook Is gone; and you be both young and happy. Yes! the big house has rung with merriment this month past! And now I thought was the time to get a little comfort in the close of my days. Woods! indeed! I doesn’t call these woods, Madam Effingham, where I lose myself every day of my life in the clearings.”

“If there be anything wanting to your comfort, name it, Leather-Stocking; if it be attainable it is yours.”

“You mean all for the best, lad, I know; and so does madam, too; but your ways isn’t my ways. ’Tis like the dead there, who thought, when the breath was in them, that one went east, and one went west, to find their heavens; but they’ll meet at last, and so shall we, children. Yes, and as you’ve begun, and we shall meet in the land of the just at last.”

“This is so new! so unexpected!” said Elizabeth, in almost breathless excitement; “I had thought you meant to live with us and die with us, Natty.”

“Words are of no avail,” exclaimed her husband: “the habits of forty years are not to be dispossessed by the ties of a day. I know you too well to urge you further, Natty; unless you will let me build you a hut on one of the distant hills, where we can sometimes see you, and know that you are comfortable.”

“Don’t fear for the Leather-Stocking, children; God will see that his days be provided for, and his indian happy. I know you mean all for the best, but our ways doesn’t agree. I love the woods, and ye relish the face of man; I eat when hungry, and drink when a-dry; and ye keep stated hours and rules; nay, nay, you even over-feed the dogs, lad, from pure kindness; and hounds should be gaunty to run well. The meanest of God’s creatures be made for some use, and I’m formed for the wilderness, If ye love me, let me go where my soul craves to be agin!”

The appeal was decisive; and not another word of en treaty for him to remain was then uttered; but Elizabeth bent her head to her bosom and wept, while her husband dashed away the tears from his eyes; and, with hands that almost refused to perform their office, he procured his pocket-book, and extended a parcel of bank-notes to the hunter.

“Take these,” he said, “at least take these; secure them about your person, and in the hour of need they will do you good service.”

The old man took the notes, and examined them with curious eye.

“This, then, is some of the new-fashioned money that they’ve been making at Albany, out of paper! It can’t be worth much to they that hasn’t larning! No, no, lad —— take back the stuff; it will do me no sarvice, I took kear to get all the Frenchman’s powder afore he broke up, and they say lead grows where I’m going, it isn’t even fit for wads, seeing that I use none but leather! — Madam Effingham, let an old man kiss your hand, and wish God’s choicest blessings on you and your’n.”

“Once more let me beseech you, stay!” cried Elizabeth. “Do not, Leather-Stocking, leave me to grieve for the man who has twice rescued me from death, and who has served those I love so faithfully. For my sake, if not for your own, stay. I shall see you in those frightful dreams that still haunt my nights, dying in poverty and age, by the side of those terrific beasts you slew. There will be no evil, that sickness, want, and solitude can inflict, that my fancy will not conjure as your fate. Stay with us, old man, if not for your own sake, at least for ours.”

“Such thoughts and bitter dreams, Madam Effingham,” returned the hunter, solemnly, “will never haunt an innocent parson long. They’ll pass away with God’s pleasure. And if the cat-a-mounts be yet brought to your eyes in sleep, tis not for my sake, but to show you the power of Him that led me there to save you. Trust in God, madam, and your honorable husband, and the thoughts for an old man like me can never be long nor bitter. I pray that the Lord will keep you in mind — the Lord that lives in clearings as well as in the wilderness — and bless you, and all that belong to you, from this time till the great day when the whites shall meet the red-skins in judgement, and justice shall be the law, and not power.”

Elizabeth raised her head, and offered her colorless cheek to his salute, when he lifted his cap and touched it respectfully. His hand was grasped with convulsive fervor by the youth, who continued silent. The hunter prepared himself for his journey, drawing his belt tighter, and wasting his moments in the little reluctant movements of a sorrowful departure. Once or twice he essayed to speak, but a rising in his throat prevented it. At length he shouldered his rifle, and cried with a clear huntsman’s call that echoed through the woods: “He-e-e-re, he-e-e-re, pups — away, dogs, away! — ye’ll be footsore afore ye see the end of the journey!”

The hounds leaped from the earth at this cry, and scenting around the grave and silent pair, as if conscious of their own destination, they followed humbly at the heels of their master. A short pause succeeded, during which even the youth concealed his face on his grandfather’s tomb. When the pride of manhood, however, had sup pressed the feelings of nature, he turned to renew his en treaties, but saw that the cemetery was occupied only by himself and his wife.

“He is gone!” cried Effingham.

Elizabeth raised her face, and saw the old hunter standing looking back for a moment, on the verge of the wood. As he caught their glances, he drew his hard hand hastily across his eyes again, waved it on high for an adieu, and, uttering a forced cry to his dogs, who were crouching at his feet, he entered the forest.

This was the last they ever saw of the Leather-Stocking, whose rapid movements preceded the pursuit which Judge Temple both ordered and conducted. He had gone far toward the setting sun — the foremost in that band of pioneers who are opening the way for the march of the nation across the continent.

THE PILOT

A TALE OF THE SEA

Cooper’s fourth novel was published in 1824. Like The Spy, it is set during the American Revolution, but shifts the focus of that struggle from land to sea. Its protagonist is John Paul Jones, an American sea pilot, who undertakes a series of dramatic raids on the British coast. The brooding Jones is aided in his adventures by the forthright seaman ‘Long’ Tom Coffin of Nantucket, a romantic figure whose symbiotic relationship with the sea resembles the frontiersman’s instinctive relationship with the American landscape displayed by Natty Bumppo and Harvey Birch in Cooper’s previous novels.

Drawing on his own naval experience, Cooper aimed to produce a novel of the sea which was exciting and romantic, whilst also remaining technically accurate – an ambition formed whilst reading what he saw as the woefully inaccurate seamanship displayed in Sir Walter Scott’s recent The Pirate.

Title page of the first edition

CONTENTS

PREFACE.

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXV

As a young man, Cooper enjoyed a distinguished career as a Midshipman in the U.S. navy and he drew on his experiences for his popular sea stories.

TO WILLIAM BRANFORD SHUBRICK, ESQ.,

U. S. NAVY.

MY DEAR SHUBRICK,

Each year brings some new and melancholy chasm in what is now the brief list of my naval friends and former associates. War, disease, and the casualties of a hazardous profession have made fearful inroads in the limited number; while the places of the dead are supplied by names that to me are those of strangers. With the consequences of these sad changes before me, I cherish the recollection of those with whom I once lived in close familiarity with peculiar interest, and feel a triumph in their growing reputations, that is but little short of their own honest pride.

But neither time nor separation has shaken our intimacy: and I know that in dedicating to you this volume, I tell you nothing new, when I add that it is a tribute paid to an enduring friendship, by

Your old Messmate,

THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

It is probable a true history of human events would show that a far larger proportion of our acts are the results of sudden impulses and accident, than of that reason of which we so much boast. However true, or false, this opinion may be in more important matters, it is certainly and strictly correct as relates to the conception and execution of this book.

The Pilot was published in 1823. This was not long after the appearance of “The PIRATE,” a work which, it is hardly necessary to remind the reader, has a direct connection with the sea. In a conversation with a friend, a man of polished taste and extensive reading, the authorship of the Scottish novels came under discussion. The claims of Sir Walter were a little distrusted, on account of the peculiar and minute information that the romances were then very generally thought to display. The Pirate was cited as a very marked instance of this universal knowledge, and it was wondered where a man of Scott’s habits and associations could have become so familiar with the sea. The writer had frequently observed that there was much looseness in this universal knowledge, and that the secret of its success was to be traced to the power of creating that resemblance, which is so remarkably exhibited in those world-renowned fictions, rather than to any very accurate information on the part of their author. It would have been hypercritical to object to the Pirate, that it was not strictly nautical, or true in its details; but, when the reverse was urged as a proof of what, considering the character of other portions of the work, would have been most extraordinary attainments, it was a sort of provocation to dispute the seamanship of the Pirate, a quality to which the book has certainly very little just pretension. The result of this conversation was a sudden determination to produce a work which, if it had no other merit, might present truer pictures of the ocean and ships than any that are to be found in the Pirate. To this unpremeditated decision, purely an impulse, is not only the Pilot due, but a tolerably numerous school of nautical romances that have succeeded it.

The author had many misgivings concerning the success of the undertaking, after he had made some progress in the work; the opinions of his different friends being anything but encouraging. One would declare that the sea could not be made interesting; that it was tame, monotonous, and without any other movement than unpleasant storms, and that, for his part, the less he got of it the better. The women very generally protested that such a book would have the odor of bilge water, and that it would give them the maladie de mer. Not a single individual among all those who discussed the merits of the project, within the range of the author’s knowledge, either spoke, or looked, encouragingly. It is probable that all these persons anticipated a signal failure.

So very discouraging did these ominous opinions get to be that the writer was, once or twice, tempted to throw his manuscript aside, and turn to something new. A favorable opinion, however, coming from a very unexpected quarter, put a new face on the matter, and raised new hopes. Among the intimate friends of the writer was an Englishman, who possessed most of the peculiar qualities of the educated of his country. He was learned even, had a taste that was so just as always to command respect, but was prejudiced, and particularly so in all that related to this country and its literature. He could never be persuaded to admire Bryant’s Water-Fowl, and this mainly because if it were accepted as good poetry, it must be placed at once amongst the finest fugitive pieces of the language. Of the Thanatopsis he thought better, though inclined to suspect it of being a plagiarism. To the tender mercies of this one-sided critic, who had never affected to compliment the previous works of the author, the sheets of a volume of the Pilot were committed, with scarce an expectation of his liking them. The reverse proved to be the case; — he expressed himself highly gratified, and predicted a success for the book which it probably never attained.

Thus encouraged, one more experiment was made, a seaman being selected for the critic. A kinsman, a namesake, and an old messmate of the author, one now in command on a foreign station, was chosen, and a considerable portion of the first volume was read to him. There is no wish to conceal the satisfaction with which the effect on this listener was observed. He treated the whole matter as fact, and his criticisms were strictly professional, and perfectly just. But the interest he betrayed could not be mistaken. It gave a perfect and most gratifying assurance that the work would be more likely to find favor with nautical men than with any other class of readers.

The Pilot could scarcely be a favorite with females. The story has little interest for them, nor was it much heeded by the author of the book, in the progress of his labors. His aim was to illustrate vessels and the ocean, rather than to draw any pictures of sentiment and love. In this last respect, the book has small claims on the reader’s attention, though it is hoped that the story has sufficient interest to relieve the more strictly nautical features of the work.

It would be affectation to deny that the Pilot met with a most unlooked-for success. The novelty of the design probably contributed a large share of this result. Sea-tales came into vogue, as a consequence; and, as every practical part of knowledge has its uses, something has been gained by letting the landsman into the secrets of the seaman’s manner of life. Perhaps, in some small degree, an interest has been awakened in behalf of a very numerous, and what has hitherto been a sort of proscribed class of men, that may directly tend to a melioration of their condition.

It is not easy to make the public comprehend all the necessities of a service afloat. With several hundred rude beings confined within the narrow limits of a vessel, men of all nations and of the lowest habits, it would be to the last degree indiscreet to commence their reformation by relaxing the bonds of discipline, under the mistaken impulses of a false philanthropy. It has a lofty sound, to be sure, to talk about American citizens being too good to be brought under the lash, upon the high seas; but he must have a very mistaken notion who does not see that tens of thousands of these pretending persons on shore, even, would be greatly benefited by a little judicious flogging. It is the judgment in administering, and not the mode of punishment, that requires to be looked into; and, in this respect, there has certainly been a great improvement of late years. It is seldom, indeed, that any institution, practice, or system, is improved by the blind interference of those who know nothing about it. Better would it be to trust to the experience of those who have long governed turbulent men, than to the impulsive experiments of those who rarely regard more than one side of a question, and that the most showy and glittering; having, quite half of the time, some selfish personal end to answer.

There is an uneasy desire among a vast many well-disposed persons to get the fruits of the Christian Faith, without troubling themselves about the Faith itself. This is done under the sanction of Peace Societies, Temperance and Moral Reform Societies, in which the end is too often mistaken for the means. When the Almighty sent His Son on earth, it was to point out the way in which all this was to be brought about, by means of the Church; but men have so frittered away that body of divine organization, through their divisions and subdivisions, all arising from human conceit, that it is no longer regarded as the agency it was so obviously intended to be, and various contrivances are to be employed as substitutes for that which proceeded directly from the Son of God!

Among the efforts of the day, however, there is one connected with the moral improvement of the sailor that commands our profound respect. Cut off from most of the charities of life for so large a portion of his time, deprived altogether of association with the gentler and better portions of the other sex, and living a man in a degree proscribed, amid the many signs of advancement that distinguish the age, it was time that he should be remembered and singled out, and become the subject of combined and Christian philanthropy. There is much reason to believe that the effort, now making in the right direction and under proper auspices, will be successful; and that it will cause the lash to be laid aside in the best and most rational manner, — by rendering its use unnecessary.

COOPERSTOWN, August 20, 1829.

CHAPTER I

“Sullen waves, incessant rolling,

Rudely dash’d against her sides.”

Song

A single glance at the map will make the reader acquainted with the position of the eastern coast of the Island of Great Britain, as connected with the shores of the opposite continent. Together they form the boundaries of the small sea that has for ages been known to the world as the scene of maritime exploits, and as the great avenue through which commerce and war have conducted the fleets of the northern nations of Europe. Over this sea the islanders long asserted a jurisdiction, exceeding that which reason concedes to any power on the highway of nations, and which frequently led to conflicts that caused an expenditure of blood and treasure, utterly disproportioned to the advantages that can ever arise from the maintenance of a useless and abstract right. It is across the waters of this disputed ocean that we shall attempt to conduct our readers, selecting a period for our incidents that has a peculiar interest for every American, not only because it was the birthday of his nation, but because it was also the era when reason and common sense began to take the place of custom and feudal practices in the management of the affairs of nations.

Soon after the events of the revolution had involved the kingdoms of France and Spain, and the republics of Holland, in our quarrel, a group of laborers was collected in a field that lay exposed to the winds of the ocean, on the north-eastern coast of England. These men were lightening their toil, and cheering the gloom of a day in December, by uttering their crude opinions on the political aspects of the times. The fact that England was engaged in a war with some of her dependencies on the other side of the Atlantic had long been known to them, after the manner that faint rumors of distant and uninteresting events gain on the ear; but now that nations, with whom she had been used to battle, were armed against her in the quarrel, the din of war had disturbed the quiet even of these secluded and illiterate rustics. The principal speakers, on the occasion, were a Scotch drover, who was waiting the leisure of the occupant of the fields, and an Irish laborer, who had found his way across the Channel, and thus far over the island, in quest of employment.

“The Nagurs wouldn’t have been a job at all for ould England, letting alone Ireland,” said the latter, “if these French and Spanishers hadn’t been troubling themselves in the matter. I’m sure its but little reason I have for thanking them, if a man is to kape as sober as a praist at mass, for fear he should find himself a souldier, and he knowing nothing about the same.”

“Hoot! mon! ye ken but little of raising an airmy in Ireland, if ye mak’ a drum o’ a whiskey keg,” said the drover, winking to the listeners. “Noo, in the north, they ca’ a gathering of the folk, and follow the pipes as graciously as ye wad journey kirkward o’ a Sabbath morn. I’ve seen a’ the names o’ a Heeland raj’ment on a sma’ bit paper, that ye might cover wi’ a leddy’s hand. They war’ a’ Camerons and M’Donalds, though they paraded sax hundred men! But what ha’ ye gotten here! That chield has an ow’r liking to the land for a seafaring body; an’ if the bottom o’ the sea be onything like the top o’t, he’s in gr’at danger o’ a shipwreck!”

This unexpected change in the discourse drew all eyes on the object toward which the staff of the observant drover was pointed. To the utter amazement of every individual present, a small vessel was seen moving slowly round a point of land that formed one of the sides of the little bay, to which the field the laborers were in composed the other. There was something very peculiar in the externals of this unusual visitor, which added in no small degree to the surprise created by her appearance in that retired place. None but the smallest vessels, and those rarely, or, at long intervals, a desperate smuggler, were ever known to venture so close to the land, amid the sand-bars and sunken rocks with which that immediate coast abounded. The adventurous mariners who now attempted this dangerous navigation in so wanton, and, apparently, so heedless a manner, were in a low black schooner, whose hull seemed utterly disproportioned to the raking masts it upheld, which, in their turn, supported a lighter set of spars, that tapered away until their upper extremities appeared no larger than the lazy pennant, that in vain endeavored to display its length in the light breeze.

The short day of that high northern latitude was already drawing to a close, and the sun was throwing his parting rays obliquely across the waters, touching the gloomy waves here and there with streaks of pale light. The stormy winds of the German Ocean were apparently lulled to rest; and, though the incessant rolling of the surge on the shore heightened the gloomy character of the hour and the view, the light ripple that ruffled the sleeping billows was produced by a gentle air, that blew directly from the land. Notwithstanding this favorable circumstance, there was something threatening in the aspect of the ocean, which was speaking in hollow but deep murmurs, like a volcano on the eve of an eruption, that greatly heightened the feelings of amazement and dread with which the peasants beheld this extraordinary interruption to the quiet of their little bay. With no other sails spread to the action of the air than her heavy mainsail, and one of those light jibs that projected far beyond her bows, the vessel glided over the water with a grace and facility that seemed magical to the beholders, who turned their wondering looks from the schooner to each other in silent amazement. At length the drover spoke in a low solemn voice:

“He’s a bold chield that steers her! and if that bit craft has wood in her bottom, like the brigantines that ply between Lon’on and the Frith at Leith, he’s in mair danger than a prudent mon could wish. Ay! he’s by the big rock that shows his head when the tide runs low, but it’s no mortal man who can steer long in the road he’s journeying and not speedily find land wi’ water a-top o’t.”

The little schooner, however, still held her way among the rocks and sand-pits, making such slight deviations in her course as proved her to be under the direction of one who knew his danger, until she entered as far into the bay as prudence could at all justify, when her canvas was gathered into folds, seemingly without the agency of hands, and the vessel, after rolling for a few minutes on the long billows that hove in from the ocean, swung round in the currents of the tide, and was held by her anchor.

The peasants now began to make their conjectures more freely concerning the character and object of their visitor; some intimating that she was engaged in contraband trade, and others that her views were hostile, and her business war. A few dark hints were hazarded on the materiality of her construction, for nothing of artificial formation, it was urged, would be ventured by men in such a dangerous place, at a time when even the most inexperienced landsman was enabled to foretell the certain gale. The Scotchman, who, to all the sagacity of his countrymen, added no small portion of their superstition, leaned greatly to the latter conclusion, and had begun to express this sentiment warily with reverence, when the child of Erin, who appeared not to possess any very definite ideas on the subject interrupted him, by exclaiming:

“Faith! there’s two of them! a big and a little! sure the bogles of the saa likes good company the same as any other Christians!”

“Twa!” echoed the drover; “twa! ill luck bides o’ some o’ ye. Twa craft a sailing without hand to guide them, in sic a place as this, whar’ eyesight is na guid enough to show the dangers, bodes evil to a’ that luik thereon. Hoot! she’s na yearling the tither! Luik, mon! luik! she’s a gallant boat, and a gr’at:” he paused, raised his pack from the ground, and first giving one searching look at the objects of his suspicions, he nodded with great sagacity to the listeners, and continued, as he moved slowly towards the interior of the country, “I should na wonder if she carried King George’s commission aboot her: weel, weel, I wull journey upward to the town, and ha’ a crack wi’ the good mon; for they craft have a suspeecious aspect, and the sma’ bit thing wu’ld nab a mon quite easy, and the big ane wu’ld hold us a’ and no feel we war’ in her.”

This sagacious warning caused a general movement in the party, for the intelligence of a hot press was among the rumors of the times. The husbandmen collected their implements of labor, and retired homewards; though many a curious eye was bent on the movements of the vessels from the distant hills, but very few of those not immediately interested in the mysterious visitors ventured to approach the little rocky cliffs that lined the bay.

The vessel that occasioned these cautious movements was a gallant ship, whose huge hull, lofty masts, and square yards loomed in the evening’s haze, above the sea, like a distant mountain rising from the deep. She carried but little sail, and though she warily avoided the near approach to the land that the schooner had attempted, the similarity of their movements was sufficiently apparent to warrant the conjecture that they were employed on the same duty. The frigate, for the ship belonged to this class of vessels, floated across the entrance of the little bay, majestically in the tide, with barely enough motion through the water to govern her movements, until she arrived opposite to the place where her consort lay, when she hove up heavily into the wind, squared the enormous yards on her mainmast, and attempted, in counteracting the power of her sails by each other, to remain stationary; but the light air that had at no time swelled her heavy canvas to the utmost began to fail, and the long waves that rolled in from the ocean ceased to be ruffled with the breeze from the land. The currents and the billows were fast sweeping the frigate towards one of the points of the estuary, where the black heads of the rocks could be seen running far into the sea, and in their turn the mariners of the ship dropped an anchor to the bottom, and drew her sails in festoons to the yards. As the vessel swung round to the tide, a heavy ensign was raised to her peak, and a current of air opening for a moment its folds, the white field and red cross, that distinguish the flag of England, were displayed to view. So much even the wary drover had loitered at a distance to behold; but when a boat was launched from either vessel, he quickened his steps, observing to his wondering and amused companions, that “they craft were a’thegither mair bonny to luik on than to abide wi’.”

A numerous crew manned the barge that was lowered from the frigate, which, after receiving an officer, with an attendant youth, left the ship, and moved with a measured stroke of its oars directly towards the head of the bay. As it passed at a short distance from the schooner a light whale-boat, pulled by four athletic men, shot from her side, and rather dancing over than cutting through the waves, crossed her course with a wonderful velocity. As the boats approached each other, the men, in obedience to signals from their officers, suspended their efforts, and for a few minutes they floated at rest, during which time there was the following dialogue:

“Is the old man mad!” exclaimed the young officer in the whale-boat, when his men had ceased rowing; “does he think that the bottom of the Ariel is made of iron, and that a rock can’t knock a hole in it! or does he think she is manned with alligators, who can’t be drowned!”

A languid smile played for a moment round the handsome features of the young man, who was rather reclining than sitting in the stern-sheets of the barge, as he replied:

“He knows your prudence too well, Captain Barnstable, to fear either the wreck of your vessel or the drowning of her crew. How near the bottom does your keel lie?”

“I am afraid to sound,” returned Barnstable. “I have never the heart to touch a lead-line when I see the rocks coming up to breathe like so many porpoises.”

“You are afloat!” exclaimed the other, with a vehemence that denoted an abundance of latent fire.

“Afloat!” echoed his friend; “ay, the little Ariel would float in air!” As he spoke, he rose in the boat, and lifting his leathern sea-cap from his head, stroked back the thick clusters of black locks which shadowed his sun-burnt countenance, while he viewed his little vessel with the complacency of a seaman who was proud of her qualities. “But it’s close work, Mr. Griffith, when a man rides to a single anchor in a place like this, and at such a nightfall. What are the orders?”

“I shall pull into the surf and let go a grapnel; you will take Mr. Merry into your whale-boat, and try to drive her through the breakers on the beach.”

“Beach!” retorted Barnstable; “do you call a perpendicular rock of a hundred feet in height a beach!”

“We shall not dispute about terms,” said Griffith, smiling, “but you must manage to get on the shore; we have seen the signal from the land, and know that the pilot, whom we have so long expected, is ready to come off.”

Barnstable shook his head with a grave air, as he muttered to himself, “This is droll navigation; first we run into an unfrequented bay that is full of rocks, and sandpits, and shoals, and then we get off our pilot. But how am I to know him?”

“Merry will give you the password, and tell you where to look for him. I would land myself, but my orders forbid it. If you meet with difficulties, show three oar-blades in a row, and I will pull in to your assistance. Three oars on end and a pistol will bring the fire of my muskets, and the signal repeated from the barge will draw a shot from the ship.”

“I thank you, I thank you,” said Barnstable, carelessly; “I believe I can fight my own battles against all the enemies we are likely to fall in with on this coast. But the old man is surely mad, I would — — “

“You would obey his orders if he were here, and you will now please to obey mine,” said Griffith, in a tone that the friendly expression of his eye contradicted. “Pull in, and keep a lookout for a small man in a drab pea-jacket; Merry will give you the word; if he answer it, bring him off to the barge.”

The young men now nodded familiarly and kindly to each other, and the boy who was called Mr. Merry having changed his place from the barge to the whale-boat, Barnstable threw himself into his seat, and making a signal with his hand, his men again bent to their oars. The light vessel shot away from her companion, and dashed in boldly towards the rocks; after skirting the shore for some distance in quest of a favorable place, she was suddenly turned, and dashing over the broken waves, was run upon a spot where a landing could be effected in safety.

In the mean time the barge followed these movements, at some distance, with a more measured progress, and when the whale-boat was observed to be drawn up alongside of a rock, the promised grapnel was cast into the water, and her crew deliberately proceeded to get their firearms in a state for immediate service. Everything appeared to be done in obedience to strict orders that must have been previously communicated; for the young man, who has been introduced to the reader by the name of Griffith, seldom spoke, and then only in the pithy expressions that are apt to fall from those who are sure of obedience. When the boat had brought up to her grapnel, he sunk back at his length on the cushioned seats of the barge, and drawing his hat over his eyes in a listless manner, he continued for many minutes apparently absorbed in thoughts altogether foreign to his present situation. Occasionally he rose, and would first bend his looks in quest of his companions on the shore, and then, turning his expressive eyes toward the ocean, the abstracted and vacant air, that so often usurped the place of animation and intelligence in his countenance, would give place to the anxious and intelligent look of a seaman gifted with an experience beyond his years. His weather beaten and hardy crew, having made their dispositions for offence, sat in profound silence, with their hands thrust into the bosoms of their jackets, but with their eyes earnestly regarding every cloud that was gathering in the threatening atmosphere, and exchanging looks of deep care, whenever the boat rose higher than usual on one of those long heavy groundswells, that were heaving in from the ocean with increasing rapidity and magnitude.

CHAPTER II

— — “A horseman’s coat shall hide

thy taper shape and comeliness of side:

And with a bolder stride and looser air,

Mingled with men, a man thou must appear.”

Prior.

When the whale-boat obtained the position we have described, the young lieutenant, who, in consequence of commanding a schooner, was usually addressed by the title of captain, stepped on the rocks, followed by the youthful midshipman, who had quitted the barge to aid in the hazardous duty of their expedition.

“This is, at best, but a Jacob’s ladder we have to climb,” said Barnstable, casting his eyes upward at the difficult ascent, “and it’s by no means certain that we shall be well received, when we get up, even though we should reach the top.”

“We are under the guns of the frigate,” returned the boy; “and you remember, sir, three oar-blades and a pistol, repeated from the barge, will draw her fire.”

“Yes, on our own heads. Boy, never be so foolish as to trust a long shot. It makes a great smoke and some noise, but it’s a terrible uncertain manner of throwing old iron about. In such a business as this, I would sooner trust Tom Coffin and his harpoon to back me, than the best broadside that ever rattled out of the three decks of a ninety-gun ship. Come, gather your limbs together, and try if you can walk on terra firma, Master Coffin.”

The seaman who was addressed by this dire appellation arose slowly from the place where he was stationed as cockswain of the boat, and seemed to ascend high in air by the gradual evolution of numberless folds in his body. When erect, he stood nearly six feet and as many inches in his shoes, though, when elevated in his perpendicular attitude, there was a forward inclination about his head and shoulders that appeared to be the consequence of habitual confinement in limited lodgings. His whole frame was destitute of the rounded outlines of a well-formed man, though his enormous hands furnished a display of bones and sinews which gave indication of gigantic strength. On his head he wore a little, low, brown hat of wool, with an arched top, that threw an expression of peculiar solemnity and hardness over his hard visage, the sharp prominent features of which were completely encircled by a set of black whiskers that began to be grizzled a little with age. One of his hands grasped, with a sort of instinct, the staff of a bright harpoon, the lower end of which he placed firmly on the rock, as, in obedience to the order of his commander, he left the place where, considering his vast dimensions, he had been established in an incredibly small space.

As soon as Captain Barnstable received this addition to his strength, he gave a few precautionary orders to the men in the boat, and proceeded to the difficult task of ascending the rocks. Notwithstanding the great daring and personal agility of Barnstable, he would have been completely baffled in this attempt, but for the assistance he occasionally received from his cockswain, whose prodigious strength and great length of limbs enabled him to make exertions which it would have been useless for most men to attempt. When within a few feet of the summit, they availed themselves of a projecting rock to pause for consultation and breath, both of which seemed necessary for their further movements.

“This will be but a bad place for a retreat, if we should happen to fall in with enemies,” said Barnstable. “Where are we to look for this pilot, Mr. Merry, or how are we to know him; and what certainty have you that he will not betray us?”

“The question you are to put to him is written on this bit of paper,” returned the boy, as he handed the other the word of recognition; “we made the signal on the point of the rock at yon headland, but, as he must have seen our boat, he will follow us to this place. As to his betraying us, he seems to have the confidence of Captain Munson, who has kept a bright lookout for him ever since we made the land.”

“Ay,” muttered the lieutenant, “and I shall have a bright lookout kept on him now we are on the land. I like not this business of hugging the shore so closely, nor have I much faith in any traitor. What think you of it, Master Coffin?”

The hardy old seaman, thus addressed, turned his grave visage on his commander, and replied with a becoming gravity:

“Give me a plenty of sea-room, and good canvas, where there is no occasion for pilots at all, sir. For my part, I was born on board a chebacco-man, and never could see the use of more land than now and then a small island to raise a few vegetables, and to dry your fish — I’m sure the sight of it always makes me feel uncomfortable, unless we have the wind dead off shore.”

“Ah! Tom, you are a sensible fellow,” said Barnstable, with an air half comic, half serious. “But we must be moving; the sun is just touching those clouds to seaward, and God keep us from riding out this night at anchor in such a place as this.”

Laying his hand on a projection of the rock above him, Barnstable swung himself forward, and following this movement with a desperate leap or two, he stood at once on the brow of the cliff. His cockswain very deliberately raised the midshipman after his officer, and proceeding with more caution but less exertion, he soon placed himself by his side.

When they reached the level land that lay above the cliffs and began to inquire, with curious and wary eyes, into the surrounding scenery, the adventurers discovered a cultivated country, divided in the usual manner, by hedges and walls. Only one habitation for man, however, and that a small dilapidated cottage, stood within a mile of them, most of the dwellings being placed as far as convenience would permit from the fogs and damps of the ocean.

“Here seems to be neither anything to apprehend, nor the object of our search,” said Barnstable, when he had taken the whole view in his survey: “I fear we have landed to no purpose, Mr. Merry. What say you, long Tom; see you what we want?”

“I see no pilot, sir,” returned the cockswain; “but it’s an ill wind that blows luck to nobody; there is a mouthful of fresh meat stowed away under that row of bushes, that would make a double ration to all hands in the Ariel.”

The midshipman laughed, as he pointed out to Barnstable the object of the cockswain’s solicitude, which proved to be a fat ox, quietly ruminating under a hedge near them.

“There’s many a hungry fellow aboard of us,” said the boy, merrily, “who would be glad to second long Tom’s motion, if the time and business would permit us to slay the animal.”

“It is but a lubber’s blow, Mr. Merry,” returned the cockswain, without a muscle of his hard face yielding, as he struck the end of his harpoon violently against the earth, and then made a motion toward poising the weapon; “let Captain Barnstable but say the word, and I’ll drive the iron through him to the quick; I’ve sent it to the seizing in many a whale, that hadn’t a jacket of such blubber as that fellow wears.”

“Pshaw! you are not on a whaling-voyage, where everything that offers is game,” said Barnstable, turning himself pettishly away from the beast, as if he distrusted his own forbearance; “but stand fast! I see some one approaching behind the hedge. Look to your arms, Mr. Merry, — the first thing we hear may be a shot.”

“Not from that cruiser,” cried the thoughtless lad; “he is a younker, like myself, and would hardly dare run down upon such a formidable force as we muster.”

“You say true, boy,” returned Barnstable, relinquishing the grasp he held on his pistol. “He comes on with caution, as if afraid. He is small, and is in drab, though I should hardly call it a pea-jacket — and yet he may be our man. Stand you both here, while I go and hail him.”

As Barnstable walked rapidly towards the hedge, that in part concealed the stranger, the latter stopped suddenly, and seemed to be in doubt whether to advance or to retreat. Before he had decided on either, the active sailor was within a few feet of him.

“Pray, sir,” said Barnstable, “what water have we in this bay?”

The slight form of the stranger started, with an extraordinary emotion, at this question, and he shrunk aside involuntarily, as if to conceal his features, before he answered, in a voice that was barely audible:

“I should think it would be the water of the German Ocean.”

“Indeed! you must have passed no small part of your short life in the study of geography, to be so well informed,” returned the lieutenant; “perhaps, sir, your cunning is also equal to telling me how long we shall sojourn together, if I make you a prisoner, in order to enjoy the benefit of your wit?”

To this alarming intimation, the youth who was addressed made no reply; but as he averted his face, and concealed it with both his hands, the offended seaman, believing that a salutary impression had been made upon the fears of his auditor, was about to proceed with his interrogatories. The singular agitation of the stranger’s frame, however, caused the lieutenant to continue silent a few moments longer, when, to his utter amazement, he discovered that what he had mistaken for alarm was produced by an endeavor, on the part of the youth, to suppress a violent fit of laughter.

“Now, by all the whales in the sea,” cried Barnstable, “but you are merry out of season, young gentleman. It’s quite bad enough to be ordered to anchor in such a bay as this with a storm brewing before my eyes, without landing to be laughed at by a stripling who has not strength to carry a beard if he had one, when I ought to be getting an offing for the safety of both body and soul. But I’ll know more of you and your jokes, if I take you into my own mess, and am giggled out of my sleep for the rest of the cruise.”

As the commander of the schooner concluded, he approached the stranger, with an air of offering some violence, but the other shrank back from his extended arm, and exclaimed, with a voice in which real terror had gotten the better of mirth:

“Barnstable! dear Barnstable! would you harm me?”

The sailor recoiled several feet, at this unexpected appeal, and rubbing his eyes, he threw the cap from his head, before he cried:

“What do I hear! and what do I see! There lies the Ariel — and yonder is the frigate. Can this be Katherine Plowden!”

His doubts, if any doubts remained, were soon removed, for the stranger sank on the bank at her side, in an attitude in which female bashfulness was beautifully contrasted with her attire, and gave vent to her mirth in an uncontrollable burst of merriment.

From that moment, all thoughts of his duty, and the pilot, or even of the Ariel, appeared to be banished from the mind of the seaman, who sprang to her side, and joined in her mirth, though he hardly knew why or wherefore.

When the diverted girl had in some degree recovered her composure, she turned to her companion, who had sat good-naturedly by her side, content to be laughed at, and said:

“But this is not only silly, but cruel to others. I owe you an explanation of my unexpected appearance, and perhaps, also, of my extraordinary attire.”

“I can anticipate everything,” cried Barnstable; “you heard that we were on the coast, and have flown to redeem the promises you made me in America. But I ask no more; the chaplain of the frigate— “

“May preach as usual, and to as little purpose,” interrupted the disguised female; “but no nuptial benediction shall be pronounced over me, until I have effected the object of this hazardous experiment. You are not usually selfish, Barnstable; would you have me forgetful of the happiness of others?”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“My poor, my devoted cousin. I heard that two vessels answering the description of the frigate and the Ariel were seen hovering on the coast, and I determined at once to have a communication with you. I have followed your movements for a week, in this dress, but have been unsuccessful till now. To-day I observed you to approach nearer to the shore than usual, and happily, by being adventurous, I have been successful.”

“Ay, God knows we are near enough to the land! But does Captain Munson know of your wish to get on board his ship?”

“Certainly not — none know of it but yourself. I thought that if Griffith and you could learn our situation, you might be tempted to hazard a little to redeem us from our thraldom. In this paper I have prepared such an account as will, I trust, excite all your chivalry, and by which you may govern your movements.”

“Our movements!” interrupted Barnstable. “You will pilot us in person.”

“Then there’s two of them!” said a hoarse voice near them.

The alarmed female shrieked as she recovered her feet, but she still adhered, with instinctive dependence, to the side of her lover. Barnstable, who recognized the tones of his cockswain, bent an angry brow on the sober visage that was peering at them above the hedge, and demanded the meaning of the interruption.

“Seeing you were hull down, sir, and not knowing but the chase might lead you ashore, Mr. Merry thought it best to have a lookout kept. I told him that you were overhauling the mail-bags of the messenger for the news, but as he was an officer, sir, and I nothing but a common hand, I did as he ordered.”

“Return, sir, where I commanded you to remain,” said Barnstable, “and desire Mr. Merry to wait my pleasure.”

The cockswain gave the usual reply of an obedient seaman; but before he left the hedge, he stretched out one of his brawny arms towards the ocean, and said, in tones of solemnity suited to his apprehensions and character:

“I showed you how to knot a reef-point, and pass a gasket, Captain Barnstable, nor do I believe you could even take two half-hitches when you first came aboard of the Spalmacitty. These be things that a man is soon expart in, but it takes the time of his nat’ral life to larn to know the weather. There be streaked wind-galls in the offing, that speak as plainly to all that see them, and know God’s language in the clouds, as ever you spoke through a trumpet, to shorten sail; besides, sir, don’t you hear the sea moaning as if it knew the hour was at hand when it was to wake up from its sleep!”

“Ay, Tom,” returned his officer, walking to the edge of the cliffs, and throwing a seaman’s glance at the gloomy ocean, “’tis a threatening night indeed; but this pilot must be had — and— “

“Is that the man?” interrupted the cockswain, pointing toward a man who was standing not far from them, an attentive observer of their proceedings, the same time that he was narrowly watched himself by the young midshipman. “God send that he knows his trade well, for the bottom of a ship will need eyes to find its road out of this wild anchorage.”

“That must indeed be the man!” exclaimed Barnstable, at once recalled to his duty. He then held a short dialogue with his female companion, whom he left concealed by the hedge, and proceeded to address the stranger. When near enough to be heard, the commander of the schooner demanded:

“What water have you in this bay?”

The stranger, who seemed to expect this question, answered without the least hesitation:

“Enough to take all out in safety, who have entered with confidence.”

“You are the man I seek,” cried Barnstable; “are you ready to go off?”

“Both ready and willing,” returned the pilot, “and there is need of haste. I would give the best hundred guineas that ever were coined for two hours more use of that sun which has left us, or for even the time of this fading twilight.”

“Think you our situation so bad?” said the lieutenant. “Follow this gentleman to the boat then; I will join you by the time you can descend the cliffs. I believe I can prevail on another hand to go off with us.”

“Time is more precious now than any number of hands,” said the pilot, throwing a glance of impatience from under his lowering brows, “and the consequences of delay must be visited on those who occasion it.”

“And, sir, I will meet the consequences with those who have a right to inquire into my conduct,” said Barnstable, haughtily.

With this warning and retort they separated; the young officer retracing his steps impatiently toward his mistress, muttering his indignation in suppressed execrations, and the pilot, drawing the leathern belt of his pea-jacket mechanically around his body, as he followed the midshipman and cockswain to their boat, in moody silence.

Barnstable found the disguised female who had announced herself as Katherine Plowden, awaiting his return, with intense anxiety depicted on every feature of her intelligent countenance. As he felt all the responsibility of his situation, notwithstanding his cool reply to the pilot, the young man hastily drew an arm of the apparent boy, forgetful of her disguise, through his own, and led her forward.

“Come, Katherine,” he said, “the time urges to be prompt.”

“What pressing necessity is there for immediate departure?” she inquired, checking his movements by withdrawing herself from his side.

“You heard the ominous prognostic of my cockswain on the weather, and I am forced to add my own testimony to his opinion. ’Tis a crazy night that threatens us, though I cannot repent of coming into the bay, since it has led to this interview.”

“God forbid that we should either of us have cause to repent of it,” said Katherine, the paleness of anxiety chasing away the rich bloom that had mantled the animated face of the brunette. “But you have the paper — follow its directions, and come to our rescue; you will find us willing captives, if Griffith and yourself are our conquerors.”

“What mean you, Katherine!” exclaimed her lover; “you at least are now in safety— ‘twould be madness to tempt your fate again. My vessel can and shall protect you, until your cousin is redeemed; and then, remember, I have a claim on you for life.”

“And how would you dispose of me in the interval?” said the young maiden, retreating slowly from his advances.

“In the Ariel — by heaven, you shall be her commander; I will bear that rank only in name.”

“I thank you, thank you, Barnstable, but distrust my abilities to fill such a station,” she said, laughing, though the color that again crossed her youthful features was like the glow of a summer’s sunset, and even her mirthful eyes seemed to reflect their tints. “Do not mistake me, saucy one. If I have done more than my sex will warrant, remember it was through a holy motive, and if I have more than a woman’s enterprise, it must be — — “

“To lift you above the weakness of your sex,” he cried, “and to enable you to show your noble confidence in me.”

“To fit me for, and to keep me worthy of being one day your wife.” As she uttered these words she turned and disappeared, with a rapidity that eluded his attempts to detain her, behind an angle of the hedge, that was near them. For a moment, Barnstable remained motionless, through surprise, and when he sprang forward in pursuit, he was able only to catch a glimpse of her light form, in the gloom of the evening, as she again vanished in a little thicket at some distance.

Barnstable was about to pursue, when the air lighted with a sudden flash, and the bellowing report of a cannon rolled along the cliffs, and was echoed among the hills far inland.

“Ay, grumble away, old dotard!” the disappointed young sailor muttered to himself, while he reluctantly obeyed the signal; “you are in as great a hurry to get out of your danger as you were to run into it.”

The quick reports of three muskets from the barge beneath where he stood urged him to quicken his pace, and as he threw himself carelessly down the rugged and dangerous passes of the cliffs, his experienced eye beheld the well-known lights displayed from the frigate, which commanded “the recall of all her boats.”

CHAPTER III.

In such a time as this it is not meet

That every nice offence should bear its comment.

Shakespeare

The cliffs threw their dark shadows wide on the waters, and the gloom of the evening had so far advanced as to conceal the discontent that brooded over the ordinarily open brow of Barnstable as he sprang from the rocks into the boat, and took his seat by the side of the silent pilot. “Shove off,” cried the lieutenant, in tones that his men knew must be obeyed. “A seaman’s curse light on the folly that exposes planks and lives to such navigation; and all to burn some old timberman, or catch a Norway trader asleep! give way, men, give way!”

Notwithstanding the heavy and dangerous surf that was beginning to tumble in upon the rocks in an alarming manner, the startled seamen succeeded in urging their light boat over the waves, and in a few seconds were without the point where danger was most to be apprehended. Barnstable had seemingly disregarded the breakers as they passed, but sat sternly eyeing the foam that rolled by them in successive surges, until the boat rose regularly on the long seas, when he turned his looks around the bay in quest of the barge.

“Ay, Griffith has tired of rocking in his pillowed cradle,” he muttered, “and will give us a pull to the frigate, when we ought to be getting the schooner out of this hard-featured landscape. This is just such a place as one of your sighing lovers would doat on; a little land, a little water, and a good deal of rock. Damme, long Tom, but I am more than half of your mind, that an island now and then is all the terra firma that a seaman needs.”

“It’s reason and philosophy, sir,” returned the sedate cockswain; “and what land there is, should always be a soft mud, or a sandy ooze, in order that an anchor might hold, and to make soundings sartin. I have lost many a deep-sea, besides hand leads by the dozen, on rocky bottoms; but give me the roadstead where a lead comes up light and an anchor heavy. There’s a boat pulling athwart our forefoot, Captain Barnstable; shall I run her aboard or give her a berth, sir?”

“’Tis the barge!” cried the officer; “Ned has not deserted me, after all!”

A loud hail from the approaching boat confirmed this opinion, and in a few seconds the barge and whale-boat were again rolling by each other’s side. Griffith was no longer reclining on the cushions of his seats, but spoke earnestly, and with a slight tone of reproach in his manner.

“Why have you wasted so many precious moments, when every minute threatens us with new dangers? I was obeying the signal, but I heard your oars, and pulled back to take out the pilot. Have you been successful?”

“There he is; and if he finds his way out, through the shoals, he will earn a right to his name. This bids fair to be a night when a man will need a spy-glass to find the moon. But when you hear what I have seen on those rascally cliffs, you will be more ready to excuse my delay, Mr. Griffith.”

“You have seen the true man, I trust, or we incur this hazard to an evil purpose.”

“Ay, I have seen him that is a true man, and him that is not,” replied Barnstable, bitterly; “you have the boy with you, Griffith — ask him what his young eyes have seen.”

“Shall I!” cried the young midshipman, laughing; “then I have seen a little clipper, in disguise, out sail an old man-of-war’s man in a hard chase, and I have seen a straggling rover in long-togs as much like my cousin — — “

“Peace, gabbler!” exclaimed Barnstable in a voice of thunder; “would you detain the boats with your silly nonsense at a time like this? Away into the barge, sir, and if you find him willing to hear, tell Mr. Griffith what your foolish conjectures amount to, at your leisure.”

The boy stepped lightly from the whale-boat to the barge, whither the pilot had already preceded him, and, as he sunk, with a mortified air, by the side of Griffith, he said, in a low voice:

“And that won’t be long, I know, if Mr. Griffith thinks and feels on the coast of England as he thought and felt at home.”

A silent pressure of his hand was the only reply that the young lieutenant made, before he paid the parting compliments to Barnstable, and directed his men to pull for their ship.

The boats were separating, and the plash of the oars was already heard, when the voice of the pilot was for the first time raised in earnest.

“Hold!” he cried; “hold water, I bid ye!”

The men ceased their efforts at the commanding tones of his voice, and turning toward the whale-boat, he continued:

“You will get your schooner under way immediately, Captain Barnstable, and sweep into the offing with as little delay as possible. Keep the ship well open from the northern headland, and as you pass us, come within hail.”

“This is a clean chart and plain sailing, Mr. Pilot,” returned Barnstable; “but who is to justify my moving without orders, to Captain Munson? I have it in black and white, to run the Ariel into this feather-bed sort of a place, and I must at least have it by signal or word of mouth from my betters, before my cutwater curls another wave. The road may be as hard to find going out as it was coming in — and then I had daylight as well as your written directions to steer by.”

“Would you lie there to perish on such a night?” said the pilot, sternly. “Two hours hence, this heavy swell will break where your vessel now rides so quietly.”

“There we think exactly alike; but if I get drowned now, I am drowned according to orders; whereas, if I knock a plank out of the schooner’s bottom, by following your directions, ‘twill be a hole to let in mutiny, as well as sea-water. How do I know but the old man wants another pilot or two.”

“That’s philosophy,” muttered the cockswain of the whale-boat, in a voice that was audible: “but it’s a hard strain on a man’s conscience to hold on in such an anchorage!”

“Then keep your anchor down, and follow it to the bottom,” said the pilot to himself; “it’s worse to contend with a fool than a gale of wind; but if — — “

“No, no, sir — no fool neither,” interrupted Griffith. “Barnstable does not deserve that epithet, though he certainly carries the point of duty to the extreme. Heave up at once, Mr. Barnstable, and get out of this bay as fast as possible.”

“Ah! you don’t give the order with half the pleasure with which I shall execute it; pull away, boys — the Ariel shall never lay her bones in such a hard bed, if I can help it.”

As the commander of the schooner uttered these words with a cheering voice, his men spontaneously shouted, and the whale-boat darted away from her companion, and was soon lost in the gloomy shadows cast from the cliffs.

In the mean time, the oarsmen of the barge were not idle, but by strenuous efforts they forced the heavy boat rapidly through the water, and in a few minutes she ran alongside of the frigate. During this period the pilot, in a voice which had lost all the startling fierceness and authority it had manifested in his short dialogue with Barnstable, requested Griffith to repeat to him, slowly, the names of the officers that belonged to his ship. When the young lieutenant had complied with this request, he observed to his companion:

“All good men and true, Mr. Pilot; and though this business in which you are just now engaged may be hazardous to an Englishman, there are none with us who will betray you. We need your services, and as we expect good faith from you, so shall we offer it to you in exchange.”

“And how know you that I need its exercise?” asked the pilot, in a manner that denoted a cold indifference to the subject.

“Why, though you talk pretty good English, for a native,” returned Griffith, “yet you have a small bur-r-r in your mouth that would prick the tongue of a man who was born on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“It is but of little moment where a man is born, or how he speaks,” returned the pilot, coldly, “so that he does his duty bravely and in good faith.”

It was perhaps fortunate for the harmony of this dialogue, that the gloom, which had now increased to positive darkness, completely concealed the look of scornful irony that crossed the handsome features of the young sailor, as he replied: “True, true, so that he does his duty, as you say, in good faith. But, as Barnstable observed, you must know your road well to travel among these shoals on such a night as this. Know you what water we draw?”

“’Tis a frigate’s draught, and I shall endeavor to keep you in four fathoms; less than that would be dangerous.”

“She’s a sweet boat!” said Griffith, “and minds her helm as a marine watches the eye of his sergeant at a drill; but you must give her room in stays, for she fore-reaches, as if she would put out the wind’s eye.”

The pilot attended, with a practised ear, to this description of the qualities of the ship that he was about to attempt extricating from an extremely dangerous situation. Not a syllable was lost on him; and when Griffith had ended, he remarked, with the singular coldness that pervaded his manner:

“That is both a good and a bad quality in a narrow channel. I fear it will be the latter to-night, when we shall require to have the ship in leading-strings.”

“I suppose we must feel our way with the lead?” said Griffith.

“We shall need both eyes and leads,” returned the pilot, recurring insensibly to his soliloquizing tone of voice. “I have been both in and out in darker nights than this, though never with a heavier draught than a half-two.”

“Then, by heaven, you are not fit to handle that ship among these rocks and breakers!” exclaimed Griffith; “your men of a light draught never know their water; ’tis the deep keel only that finds a channel; — pilot! pilot! beware how you trifle with us ignorantly; for ’tis a dangerous experiment to play at hazards with an enemy.”

“Young man, you know not what you threaten, nor whom,” said the pilot sternly, though his quiet manner still remained undisturbed; “you forget that you have a superior here, and that I have none.”

“That shall be as you discharge your duty,” said Griffith; “for if — — “

“Peace!” interrupted the pilot; “we approach the ship, let us enter in harmony.”

He threw himself back on the cushions when he had said this; and Griffith, though filled with the apprehensions of suffering, either by great ignorance or treachery on the part of his companion, smothered his feelings so far as to be silent, and they ascended the side of the vessel in apparent cordiality.

The frigate was already riding on lengthened seas, that rolled in from the ocean at each successive moment with increasing violence, though her topsails still hung supinely from her yards; the air, which continued to breathe occasionally from the land, being unable to shake the heavy canvas of which they were composed.

The only sounds that were audible, when Griffith and the pilot had ascended to the gangway of the frigate, were produced by the sullen dashing of the sea against the massive bows of the ship, and the shrill whistle of the boatswain’s mate as he recalled the side-boys, who were placed on either side of the gangway to do honor to the entrance of the first lieutenant and his companion.

But though such a profound silence reigned among the hundreds who inhabited the huge fabric, the light produced by a dozen battle-lanterns, that were arranged in different parts of the decks, served not only to exhibit faintly the persons of the crew, but the mingled feeling of curiosity and care that dwelt on most of their countenances.

Large groups of men were collected in the gangways, around the mainmast, and on the booms of the vessel, whose faces were distinctly visible, while numerous figures, lying along the lower yards or bending out of the tops, might be dimly traced in the background, all of whom expressed by their attitudes the interest they took in the arrival of the boat.

Though such crowds were collected in other parts of the vessel, the quarter-deck was occupied only by the officers, who were disposed according to their several ranks, and were equally silent and attentive as the remainder of the crew. In front stood a small collection of young men, who, by their similarity of dress, were the equals and companions of Griffith, though his juniors in rank. On the opposite side of the vessel was a larger assemblage of youths, who claimed Mr. Merry as their fellow. Around the capstan three or four figures were standing, one of whom wore a coat of blue, with the scarlet facings of a soldier, and another the black vestments of the ship’s chaplain. Behind these, and nearer the passage to the cabin from which he had just ascended, stood the tall, erect form of the commander of the vessel.

After a brief salutation between Griffith and the junior officers, the former advanced, followed slowly by the pilot, to the place where he was expected by his veteran commander. The young man removed his hat entirely, as he bowed with a little more than his usual ceremony, and said:

“We have succeeded, sir, though not without more difficulty and delay than were anticipated.”

“But you have not brought off the pilot,” said the captain, “and without him, all our risk and trouble have been in vain.”

“He is here,” said Griffith, stepping aside, and extending his arm towards the man that stood behind him, wrapped to the chin in his coarse pea-jacket, and his face shadowed by the falling rims of a large hat, that had seen much and hard service.

“This!” exclaimed the captain; “then there is a sad mistake — this is not the man I would have, seen, nor can another supply his place.”

“I know not whom you expected, Captain Munson,” said the stranger, in a low, quiet voice; “but if you have not forgotten the day when a very different flag from that emblem of tyranny that now hangs over yon taffrail was first spread to the wind, you may remember the hand that raised it.”

“Bring here the light!” exclaimed the commander, hastily.

When the lantern was extended towards the pilot, and the glare fell strong on his features, Captain Munson started, as he beheld the calm blue eye that met his gaze, and the composed but pallid countenance of the other. Involuntarily raising his hat, and baring his silver locks, the veteran cried:

“It is he! though so changed — — “

“That his enemies did not know him,” interrupted the pilot, quickly; then touching the other by the arm as he led him aside, he continued, in a lower tone, “neither must his friends, until the proper hour shall arrive.”

Griffith had fallen back to answer the eager questions of his messmates, and no part of this short dialogue was overheard by the officers, though it was soon perceived that their commander had discovered his error, and was satisfied that the proper man had been brought on board his vessel. For many minutes the two continued to pace a part of the quarter-deck, by themselves, engaged in deep and earnest discourse.

As Griffith had but little to communicate, the curiosity of his listeners was soon appeased, and all eyes were directed toward that mysterious guide, who was to conduct them from a situation already surrounded by perils, which each moment not only magnified in appearance, but increased in reality.

CHAPTER IV.

— — “Behold the threaden sails,

Borne with the invisible and creeping winds,

Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea,

Breasting the lofty surge.”

Shakespeare.

It has been already explained to the reader, that there were threatening symptoms in the appearance of the weather to create serious forebodings of evil in the breast of a seaman. When removed from the shadows of the cliffs, the night was not so dark but objects could be discerned at some little distance, and in the eastern horizon there was a streak of fearful light impending over the gloomy waters, in which the swelling outline formed by the rising waves was becoming each moment more distinct, and, consequently, more alarming. Several dark clouds overhung the vessel, whose towering masts apparently propped the black vapor, while a few stars were seen twinkling, with a sickly flame, in the streak of clear sky that skirted the ocean. Still, light currents of air occasionally swept across the bay, bringing with them the fresh odor from the shore, but their flitting irregularity too surely foretold them to be the expiring breath of the land breeze. The roaring of the surf, as it rolled on the margin of the bay, produced a dull, monotonous sound, that was only Interrupted at times by a hollow bellowing, as a larger wave than usual broke violently against some cavity in the rock. Everything, in short, united to render the scene gloomy and portentous, without creating instant terror, for the ship rose easily on the long billows, without even straightening the heavy cable that held her to her anchor.

The higher officers were collected around the capstan, engaged in earnest discourse about their situation and prospects, while some of the oldest and most favored seamen would extend their short walk to the hallowed precincts of the quarter-deck, to catch, with greedy ears, the opinions that fell from their superiors. Numberless were the uneasy glances that were thrown from both officers and men at their commander and the pilot, who still continued their secret communion in a distant part of the vessel. Once, an ungovernable curiosity, or the heedlessness of his years, led one of the youthful midshipmen near them; but a stern rebuke from his captain sent the boy, abashed and cowering, to hide his mortification among his fellows. This reprimand was received by the elder officers as an intimation that the consultation which they beheld was to be strictly inviolate; and, though it by no means suppressed the repeated expressions of their impatience, it effectually prevented an interruption to the communications, which all, however, thought were unreasonably protracted for the occasion.

“This is no time to be talking over bearings and distances,” observed the officer next in rank to Griffith; “but we should call the hands up, and try to kedge her off while the sea will suffer a boat to live.”

“‘Twould be a tedious and bootless job to attempt warping a ship for miles against a head-beating sea,” returned the first lieutenant; “but the land-breeze yet flutters aloft, and if our light sails would draw, with the aid of this ebb tide we might be able to shove her from the shore.”

“Hail the tops, Griffith,” said the other, “and ask if they feel the air above; ‘twill be a hint at least to set the old man and that lubberly pilot in motion.”

Griffith laughed as he complied with the request, and when he received the customary reply to his call, he demanded in a loud voice:

“Which way have you the wind, aloft?”

“We feel a light catspaw, now and then, from the land, sir,” returned the sturdy captain of the top; “but our topsail hangs in the clewlines, sir, without winking.”

Captain Munson and his companion suspended their discourse while this question and answer were exchanged, and then resumed their dialogue as earnestly as if it had received no interruption.

“If it did wink, the hint would be lost on our betters,” said the officer of the marines, whose ignorance of seamanship added greatly to his perception of the danger, but who, from pure idleness, made more jokes than any other man in the ship. “That pilot would not receive a delicate intimation through his ears, Mr. Griffith; suppose you try him by the nose.”

“Faith, there was a flash of gunpowder between us in the barge,” returned the first lieutenant, “and he does not seem a man to stomach such hints as you advise. Although he looks so meek and quiet, I doubt whether he has paid much attention to the book of Job.”

“Why should he?” exclaimed the chaplain, whose apprehensions at least equaled those of the marine, and with a much more disheartening effect; “I am sure it would have been a great waste of time: there are so many charts of the coast, and books on the navigation of these seas, for him to study, that I sincerely hope he has been much better employed.”

A loud laugh was created at this speech among the listeners, and it apparently produced the effect that was so long anxiously desired, by putting an end to the mysterious conference between their captain and the pilot. As the former came forward towards his expecting crew, he said, is the composed, steady manner that formed the principal trait in his character:

“Get the anchor, Mr. Griffith, and make sail on the ship; the hour has arrived when we must be moving.”

The cheerful “Ay! ay! sir!” of the young lieutenant was hardly uttered, before the cries of half a dozen midshipmen were heard summoning the boatswain and his mates to their duty.

There was a general movement in the living masses that clustered around the mainmast, on the booms, and in the gangways, though their habits of discipline held the crew a moment longer in suspense. The silence was first broken by the sound of the boatswain’s whistle, followed by the hoarse cry of “All hands, up anchor, ahoy!” — the former rising on the night air, from its first low mellow notes to a piercing shrillness that gradually died away on the waters; and the latter bellowing through every cranny of the ship, like the hollow murmurs of distant thunder.

The change produced by the customary summons was magical. Human beings sprang out from between the guns, rushed up the hatches, threw themselves with careless activity from the booms, and gathered from every quarter so rapidly, that in an instant the deck of the frigate was alive with men. The profound silence, that had hitherto been only interrupted by the low dialogue of the officers, was now changed for the stern orders of the lieutenants, mingled with the shriller cries of the midshipmen, and the hoarse bawling of the boatswain’s crew, rising above the tumult of preparation and general bustle.

The captain and the pilot alone remained passive, in this scene of general exertion; for apprehension had even stimulated that class of officers which is called “idlers” to unusual activity, though frequently reminded by their more experienced messmates that, instead of aiding, they retarded the duty of the vessel. The bustle, however, gradually ceased, and in a few minutes the same silence pervaded the ship as before.

“We are brought-to, sir,” said Griffith, who stood overlooking the scene, holding in one hand a short speaking, trumpet, and grasping with the other one of the shrouds of the ship, to steady himself in the position he had taken on a gun.

“Heave round, sir,” was the calm reply.

“Heave round!” repeated Griffith, aloud.

“Heave round!” echoed a dozen eager voices at once, and the lively strains of a fife struck up a brisk air, to enliven the labor. The capstan was instantly set in motion, and the measured tread of the seamen was heard, as they stamped the deck in the circle of their march. For a few minutes no other sounds were heard, if we except the voice of an officer, occasionally cheering the sailors, when it was announced that they “were short;” or, in other words, that the ship was nearly over her anchor.

“Heave and pull,” cried Griffith; when the quivering notes of the whistle were again succeeded by a general stillness in the vessel.

“What is to be done now, sir?” continued the lieutenant; “shall we trip the anchor? There seems not a breath of air; and as the tide runs slack, I doubt whether the sea do not heave the ship ashore.”

There was so much obvious truth in this conjecture, that all eyes turned from the light and animation afforded by the decks of the frigate, to look abroad on the waters, in a vain desire to pierce the darkness, as if to read the fate of their apparently devoted ship from the aspect of nature.

“I leave all to the pilot,” said the captain, after he had stood a short time by the side of Griffith, anxiously studying the heavens and the ocean. “What say you, Mr. Gray?”

The man who was thus first addressed by name was leaning over the bulwarks, with his eyes bent in the same direction as the others; but as he answered he turned his face towards the speaker, and the light from the deck fell full upon his quiet features, which exhibited a calmness bordering on the supernatural, considering his station and responsibility.

“There is much to fear from this heavy ground-swell,” he said, in the same unmoved tones as before; “but there is certain destruction to us, if the gale that is brewing in the east finds us waiting its fury in this wild anchorage. All the hemp that ever was spun into cordage would not hold a ship an hour, chafing on these rocks, with a northeaster pouring its fury on her. If the powers of man can compass it, gentlemen, we must get an offing, and that speedily.”

“You say no more, sir, than the youngest boy in the ship can see for himself,” said Griffith— “ha! here comes the schooner!”

The dashing of the long sweeps in the water was now plainly audible, and the little Ariel was seen through the gloom, moving heavily under their feeble impulse. As she passed slowly under the stern of the frigate, the cheerful voice of Barnstable was first heard, opening the communications between them.

“Here’s a night for spectacles, Captain Munson!” he cried; “but I thought I heard your fife, sir. I trust in God, you do not mean to ride it out here till morning?”

“I like the berth as little as yourself, Mr. Barnstable,” returned the veteran seaman, in his calm manner, in which anxiety was, however, beginning to grow evident. “We are short; but are afraid to let go our hold of the bottom, lest the sea cast us ashore. How make you out the wind?”

“Wind!” echoed the other; “there is not enough to blow a lady’s curl aside. If you wait, sir, till the land-breeze fills your sails, you will wait another moon. I believe I’ve got my eggshell out of that nest of gray-caps; but how it has been done in the dark, a better man than myself must explain.”

“Take your directions from the pilot, Mr. Barnstable,” returned his commanding officer, “and follow them strictly and to the letter.”

A deathlike silence, in both vessels, succeeded this order; for all seemed to listen eagerly to catch the words that fell from the man on whom, even the boys now felt, depended their only hopes for safety. A short time was suffered to elapse, before his voice was heard, in the same low but distinct tones as before:

“Your sweeps will soon be of no service to you,” he said, “against the sea that begins to heave in; but your light sails will help them to get you out. So long as you can head east-and-by-north, you are doing well, and you can stand on till you open the light from that northern headland, when you can heave to and fire a gun; but if, as I dread, you are struck aback before you open the light, you may trust to your lead on the larboard tack; but beware, with your head to the southward, for no lead will serve you there.”

“I can walk over the same ground on one tack as on the other,” said Barnstable, “and make both legs of a length.”

“It will not do,” returned the pilot. “If you fall off a point to starboard from east-and-by-north, in going large, you will find both rocks and points of shoals to bring you up; and beware, as I tell you, of the starboard tack.”

“And how shall I find my way? you will let me trust to neither time, lead, nor log.”

“You must trust to a quick eye and a ready hand. The breakers only will show you the dangers, when you are not able to make out the bearings of the land. Tack in season, sir, and don’t spare the lead when you head to port.”

“Ay, ay,” returned Barnstable, in a low muttering voice. “This is a sort of blind navigation with a vengeance, and all for no purpose that I can see — see! damme, eyesight is of about as much use now as a man’s nose would be in reading the Bible.”

“Softly, softly, Mr. Barnstable,” interrupted his commander — for such was the anxious stillness in both vessels that even the rattling of the schooner’s rigging was heard, as she rolled in the trough of the sea— “the duty on which Congress has sent us must be performed, at the hazard of our lives.”

“I don’t mind my life, Captain Munson,” said Barnstable, “but there is a great want of conscience in trusting a vessel in such a place as this. However, it is a time to do, and not to talk. But if there be such danger to an easy draught of water, what will become of the frigate? had I not better play jackal, and try and feel the way for you?”

“I thank you,” said the pilot; “the offer is generous, but would avail us nothing. I have the advantage of knowing the ground well, and must trust to my memory and God’s good favor. Make sail, make sail, sir, and if you succeed, we will venture to break ground.”

The order was promptly obeyed, and in a very short time the Ariel was covered with canvas. Though no air was perceptible on the decks of the frigate, the little schooner was so light that she succeeded in stemming her way over the rising waves, aided a little by the tide; and in a few minutes her low hull was just discernible in the streak of light along the horizon, with the dark outline of her sails rising above the sea, until their fanciful summits were lost in the shadows of the clouds.

Griffith had listened to the foregoing dialogue, like the rest of the junior officers, in profound silence; but when the Ariel began to grow indistinct to the eye, he jumped lightly from the gun to the deck, and cried:

“She slips off, like a vessel from the stocks! Shall I trip the anchor, sir, and follow?”

“We have no choice,” replied his captain. “You hear the question, Mr. Gray? shall we let go the bottom?”

“It must be done, Captain Munson; we may want more drift than the rest of this tide to get us to a place of safety,” said the pilot “I would give five years from a life that I know will be short, if the ship lay one mile further seaward.”

This remark was unheard by all, except the commander of the frigate, who again walked aside with the pilot, where they resumed their mysterious communications. The words of assent were no sooner uttered, however, than Griffith gave forth from his trumpet the command to “heave away!” Again the strains of the fife were followed by the tread of the men at the capstan. At the same time that the anchor was heaving up, the sails were loosened from the yards, and opened to invite the breeze. In effecting this duty, orders were thundered through the trumpet of the first lieutenant, and executed with the rapidity of thought. Men were to be seen, like spots in the dim light from the heavens, lying on every yard or hanging as in air, while strange cries were heard issuing from every part of the rigging and each spar of the vessel. “Ready the foreroyal,” cried a shrill voice, as if from the clouds; “ready the foreyard,” uttered the hoarser tones of a seaman beneath him; “all ready aft, sir,” cried a third, from another quarter; and in a few moments the order was given to “let fall.”

The little light which fell from the sky was now excluded by the falling canvas, and a deeper gloom was cast athwart the decks of the ship, that served to render the brilliancy of the lanterns even vivid, while it gave to objects outboard a more appalling and dreary appearance than before.

Every individual, excepting the commander and his associate, was now earnestly engaged in getting the ship under way. The sounds of “we’re away” were repeated by a burst from fifty voices, and the rapid evolutions of the capstan announced that nothing but the weight of the anchor was to be lifted. The hauling of cordage, the rattling of blocks, blended with the shrill calls of the boatswain and his mates, succeeded; and though to a landsman all would have appeared confusion and hurry, long practice and strict discipline enabled the crew to exhibit their ship under a cloud of canvas, from her deck to the trucks, in less time than we have consumed in relating it.

For a few minutes, the officers were not disappointed by the result; for though the heavy sails flapped lazily against the masts, the light duck on the loftier spars swelled outwardly, and the ship began sensibly to yield to their influence.

“She travels! she travels!” exclaimed Griffith joyously; “ah! the hussy! she has as much antipathy to the land as any fish that swims: it blows a little gale aloft yet!”

“We feel its dying breath,” said the pilot, in low, soothing tones, but in a manner so sudden as to startle Griffith, at whose elbow they were unexpectedly uttered. “Let us forget, young man, everything but the number of lives that depend, this night, on your exertions and my knowledge.”

“If you be but half as able to exhibit the one as I am willing to make the other, we shall do well,” returned the lieutenant, in the same tone. “Remember, whatever may be your feelings, that we are on an enemy’s coast, and love it not enough to wish to lay our bones there.”

With this brief explanation they separated, the vessel requiring the constant and close attention of the officer to her movements.

The exultation produced in the crew by the progress of their ship through the water was of short duration; for the breeze that had seemed to await their motions, after forcing the vessel for a quarter of a mile, fluttered for a few minutes amid their light canvas, and then left them entirely. The quartermaster, whose duty it was to superintend the helm, soon announced that he was losing the command of the vessel, as she was no longer obedient to her rudder. This ungrateful intelligence was promptly communicated to his commander by Griffith, who suggested the propriety of again dropping an anchor.

“I refer you to Mr. Gray,” returned the captain; “he is the pilot, sir, and with him rests the safety of the vessel.”

“Pilots sometimes lose ships as well as save them,” said Griffith: “know you the man well, Captain Munson, who holds all our lives in his keeping, and so coolly as if he cared but little for the venture?”

“Mr. Griffith, I do know him; he is, in my opinion, both competent and faithful. Thus much I tell you, to relieve your anxiety; more you must not ask; — but is there not a shift of wind?”

“God forbid!” exclaimed his lieutenant; “if that northeaster catches us within the shoals, our case will be desperate indeed!”

The heavy rolling of the vessel caused an occasional expansion, and as sudden a reaction, in their sails, which left the oldest seaman in the ship in doubt which way the currents of air were passing, or whether there existed any that were not created by the flapping of their own canvas. The head of the ship, however, began to fall off from the sea, and notwithstanding the darkness, it soon became apparent that she was driving in, bodily, towards the shore.

During these few minutes of gloomy doubt, Griffith, by one of those sudden revulsions of the mind that connect the opposite extremes of feeling, lost his animated anxiety, and elapsed into the listless apathy that so often came over him, even in the most critical moments of trial and danger. He was standing with one elbow resting on his capstan, shading his eyes from the light of the battle-lantern that stood near him with one hand, when he felt a gentle pressure of the other, that recalled his recollection. Looking affectionately, though still recklessly, at the boy who stood at his side, he said:

“Dull music, Mr. Merry.”

“So dull, sir, that I can’t dance to it,” returned the midshipman. “Nor do I believe there is a man in the ship who would not rather hear ‘The girl I left behind me,’ than those execrable sounds.”

“What sounds, boy? The ship is as quiet as the Quaker meeting in the Jerseys, before your good old grandfather used to break the charm of silence with his sonorous voice.”

“Ah! laugh at my peaceable blood, if thou wilt, Mr. Griffith,” said the arch youngster, “but remember, there is a mixture of it in all sorts of veins. I wish I could hear one of the old gentleman’s chants now, sir; I could always sleep to them, like a gull in the surf. But he that sleeps to-night, with that lullaby, will make a nap of it.”

“Sounds! I hear no sounds, boy, but the flapping aloft; even that pilot, who struts the quarter-deck like an admiral, has nothing to say.”

“Is not that a sound to open a seaman’s ear?”

“It is in truth a heavy roll of the surf, lad, but the night air carries it heavily to our ears. Know you not the sounds of the surf yet, younker?”

“I know it too well, Mr. Griffith, and do not wish to know it better. How fast are we tumbling in towards that surf, sir?”

“I think we hold our own,” said Griffith, rousing again; “though we had better anchor. Luff, fellow, luff — you are broadside to the sea!”

The man at the wheel repeated his former intelligence, adding a suggestion, that he thought the ship “was gathering stern way.”

“Haul up your courses, Mr. Griffith,” said Captain Munson, “and let us feel the wind.”

The rattling of the blocks was soon heard, and the enormous sheets of canvas that hung from the lower yards were instantly suspended “in the brails.” When this change was effected, all on board stood silent and breathless, as if expecting to learn their fate by the result. Several contradictory opinions were, at length, hazarded among the officers, when Griffith seized the candle from the lantern, and springing on one of the guns, held it on high, exposed to the action of the air. The little flame waved, with uncertain glimmering, for a moment, and then burned steadily, in a line with the masts. Griffith was about to lower his extended arm, when, feeling a slight sensation of coolness on his hand, he paused, and the light turned slowly toward the land, flared, flickered, and finally deserted the wick.

“Lose not a moment, Mr. Griffith,” cried the pilot aloud; “clew up and furl everything but your three topsails, and let them be double-reefed. Now is the time to fulfill your promise.”

The young man paused one moment, in astonishment, as the clear, distinct tones of the stranger struck his ears so unexpectedly; but turning his eyes to seaward, he sprang on the deck, and proceeded to obey the order, as if life and death depended on his dispatch.

CHAPTER V.

“She rights! she rights, boys! ware off shore!”

Song.

The extraordinary activity of Griffith, which communicated itself with promptitude to the crew, was produced by a sudden alteration in the weather. In place of the well-defined streak along the horizon, that has been already described, an immense body of misty light appeared to be moving in, with rapidity, from the ocean, while a distinct but distant roaring announced the sure approach of the tempest that had so long troubled the waters. Even Griffith, while thundering his orders through the trumpet, and urging the men, by his cries, to expedition, would pause, for instants, to cast anxious glances in the direction of the coming storm; and the faces of the sailors who lay on the yards were turned, instinctively, towards the same quarter of the heavens, while they knotted the reef-points, or passed the gaskets that were to confine the unruly canvas to the prescribed limits.

The pilot alone, in that confused and busy throng, where voice rose above voice, and cry echoed cry, in quick succession, appeared as if he held no interest in the important stake. With his eye steadily fixed on the approaching mist, and his arms folded together in composure, he stood calmly waiting the result.

The ship had fallen off, with her broadside to the sea, and was become unmanageable, and the sails were already brought into the folds necessary to her security, when the quick and heavy fluttering of canvas was thrown across the water, with all the gloomy and chilling sensations that such sounds produce, where darkness and danger unite to appall the seaman.

“The schooner has it!” cried Griffith: “Barnstable has held on, like himself, to the last moment. — God send that the squall leave him cloth enough to keep him from the shore!”

“His sails are easily handled,” the commander observed, “and she must be over the principal danger. We are falling off before it, Mr. Gray; shall we try a cast of the lead?”

The pilot turned from his contemplative posture, and moved slowly across the deck before he returned any reply to this question — like a man who not only felt that everything depended on himself, but that he was equal to the emergency.

“’Tis unnecessary,” he at length said; “‘twould be certain destruction to be taken aback; and it is difficult to say, within several points, how the wind may strike us.”

“’Tis difficult no longer,” cried Griffith; “for here it comes, and in right earnest!”

The rushing sounds of the wind were now, indeed, heard at hand; and the words were hardly past the lips of the young lieutenant, before the vessel bowed down heavily to one side, and then, as she began to move through the water, rose again majestically to her upright position, as if saluting, like a courteous champion, the powerful antagonist with which she was about to contend. Not another minute elapsed, before the ship was throwing the waters aside, with a lively progress, and, obedient to her helm, was brought as near to the desired course as the direction of the wind would allow. The hurry and bustle on the yards gradually subsided, and the men slowly descended to the deck, all straining their eyes to pierce the gloom in which they were enveloped, and some shaking their heads, in melancholy doubt, afraid to express the apprehensions they really entertained. All on board anxiously waited for the fury of the gale; for there were none so ignorant or inexperienced in that gallant frigate, as not to know that as yet they only felt the infant effects of the wind. Each moment, however, it increased in power, though so gradual was the alteration, that the relieved mariners began to believe that all their gloomy forebodings were not to be realized. During this short interval of uncertainty, no other sounds were heard than the whistling of the breeze, as it passed quickly through the mass of rigging that belonged to the vessel, and the dashing of the spray that began to fly from her bows, like the foam of a cataract.

“It blows fresh,” cried Griffith, who was the first to speak in that moment of doubt and anxiety; “but it is no more than a capful of wind after all. Give us elbow-room, and the right canvas, Mr. Pilot, and I’ll handle the ship like a gentleman’s yacht, in this breeze.”

“Will she stay, think ye, under this sail?” said the low voice of the stranger.

“She will do all that man, in reason, can ask of wood and iron,” returned the lieutenant; “but the vessel don’t float the ocean that will tack under double-reefed topsails alone, against a heavy sea. Help her with her courses, pilot, and you shall see her come round like a dancing-master.”

“Let us feel the strength of the gale first,” returned the man who was called Mr. Gray, moving from the side of Griffith to the weather gangway of the vessel, where he stood in silence, looking ahead of the ship, with an air of singular coolness and abstraction.

All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of the frigate, when her anchor was secured, and as the first mist of the gale had passed over, it was succeeded by a faint light that was a good deal aided by the glittering foam of the waters, which now broke in white curls around the vessel in every direction. The land could be faintly discerned, rising like a heavy bank of black fog above the margin of the waters, and was only distinguishable from the heavens by its deeper gloom and obscurity. The last rope was coiled, and deposited in its proper place, by the seamen, and for several minutes the stillness of death pervaded the crowded decks. It was evident to every one, that their ship was dashing at a prodigious rate through the waves; and as she was approaching, with such velocity, the quarter of the bay where the shoals and dangers were known to be situated, nothing but the habits of the most exact discipline could suppress the uneasiness of the officers and men within their own bosoms. At length the voice of Captain Munson was heard, calling to the pilot:

“Shall I send a hand into the chains, Mr. Gray,” he said, “and try our water?”

Although this question was asked aloud, and the interest it excited drew many of the officers and men around him, in eager impatience for his answer, it was unheeded by the man to whom it was addressed. His head rested on his hand, as he leaned over the hammock-cloths of the vessel, and his whole air was that of one whose thoughts wandered from the pressing necessity of their situation. Griffith was among those who had approached the pilot; and after waiting a moment, from respect, to hear the answer to his commander’s question, he presumed on his own rank, and leaving the circle that stood at a little distance, stepped to the side of the mysterious guardian of their lives.

“Captain Munson desires to know whether you wish a cast of the lead?” said the young officer, with a little impatience of manner. No immediate answer was made to this repetition of the question, and Griffith laid his hand unceremoniously on the shoulder of the other, with an intent to rouse him before he made another application for a reply, but the convulsive start of the pilot held him silent in amazement.

“Fall back there,” said the lieutenant, sternly; to the men, who were closing around them in compact circle; “away with you to your stations, and see all clear for stays.” The dense mass of heads dissolved, at this order, like the water of one of the waves commingling with the ocean, and the lieutenant and his companions were left by themselves.

“This is not a time for musing, Mr. Gray,” continued Griffith; “remember our compact, and look to your charge — is it not time to put the vessel in stays? of what are you dreaming?”

The pilot laid his hand on the extended arm of the lieutenant, and grasped it with a convulsive pressure, as he answered:

“’Tis a dream of reality. You are young, Mr. Griffith, nor am I past the noon of life; but should you live fifty years longer, you never can see and experience what I have encountered in my little period of three-and-thirty years!”

A good deal astonished at this burst of feeling, so singular at such a moment, the young sailor was at a loss for a reply; but as his duty was uppermost in his thoughts, he still dwelt on the theme that most interested him.

“I hope much of your experience has been on this coast, for the ship travels lively,” he said, “and the daylight showed us so much to dread, that we do not feel over-valiant in the dark. How much longer shall we stand on, upon this tack?”

The pilot turned slowly from the side of the vessel, and walked towards the commander of the frigate, as he replied, in a tone that seemed deeply agitated by his melancholy reflections:

“You have your wish, then; much, very much of my early life was passed on this dreaded coast. What to you is all darkness and gloom, to me is as light as if a noon-day sun shone upon it. But tack your ship, sir, tack your ship; I would see how she works before we reach the point where she must behave well, or we perish.”

Griffith gazed after him in wonder, while the pilot slowly paced the quarter-deck, and then, rousing from his trance, gave forth the cheering order that called each man to his station, to perform the desired evolution. The confident assurances which the young officer had given to the pilot respecting the qualities of his vessel and his own ability to manage her, were fully realized by the result. The helm was no sooner put a-lee, than the huge ship bore up gallantly against the wind, and, dashing directly through the waves, threw the foam high into the air, as she looked boldly into the very eye of the wind; and then, yielding gracefully to its power, she fell off on the other tack, with her head pointed from those dangerous shoals that she had so recently approached with such terrifying velocity. The heavy yards swung round, as if they had been vanes to indicate the currents of the air; and in a few moments the frigate again moved, with stately progress, through the water, leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side of the bay, but advancing towards those that offered equal danger on the other.

During this time the sea was becoming more agitated, and the violence of the wind was gradually increasing. The latter no longer whistled amid the cordage of the vessel, but it seemed to howl, surlily, as it passed the complicated machinery that the frigate obtruded on its path. An endless succession of white surges rose above the heavy billows, and the very air was glittering with the light that was disengaged from the ocean. The ship yielded, each moment, more and more before the storm, and in less than half an hour from the time that she had lifted her anchor, she was driven along with tremendous fury by the full power of a gale of wind. Still the hardy and experienced mariners who directed her movements held her to the course that was necessary to their preservation, and still Griffith gave forth, when directed by their unknown pilot, those orders that turned her in the narrow channel where alone safety was to be found.

So far, the performance of his duty appeared easy to the stranger, and he gave the required directions in those still, calm tones, that formed so remarkable a contrast to the responsibility of his situation. But when the land was becoming dim, in distance as well as darkness, and the agitated sea alone was to be discovered as it swept by them in foam, he broke in upon the monotonous roaring of the tempest with the sounds of his voice, seeming to shake off his apathy, and rouse himself to the occasion.

“Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith,” he cried; “here we get the true tide and the real danger. Place the best quartermaster of your ship in those chains, and let an officer stand by him, and see that he gives us the right water.”

“I will take that office on myself,” said the captain; “pass a light into the weather main-chains.”

“Stand by your braces!” exclaimed the pilot, with startling quickness. “Heave away that lead!”

These preparations taught the crew to expect the crisis, and every officer and man stood in fearful silence, at his assigned station, awaiting the issue of the trial. Even the quartermaster at the cun gave out his orders to the men at the wheel, in deeper and hoarser tones than usual, as if anxious not to disturb the quiet and order of the vessel.

While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate, the piercing cry of the leadsman, as he called “By the mark seven,” rose above the tempest, crossed over the decks, and appeared to pass away to leeward, borne on the blast like the warnings of some water-spirit.

“’Tis well,” returned the pilot, calmly; “try it again.”

The short pause was succeeded by another cry, “And a half-five!”

“She shoals! she shoals!” exclaimed Griffith: “keep her a good full.”

“Ay! you must hold the vessel in command, now,” said the pilot, with those cool tones that are most appalling in critical moments because they seem to denote most preparation and care.

The third call, “By the deep four,” was followed by a prompt direction from the stranger to tack.

Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the pilot, in issuing the necessary orders to execute this manoeuvre.

The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position into which she had been forced by the tempest, and the sails were shaking violently, as if to release themselves from their confinement, while the ship stemmed the billows, when the well-known voice of the sailing-master was heard shouting from the forecastle:

“Breakers! breakers, dead ahead!”

This appalling sound seemed yet to be lingering about the ship, when a second voice cried:

“Breakers on our lee bow!”

“We are in a bite of the shoals, Mr. Gray,” cried the commander. “She loses her way; perhaps an anchor might hold her.”

“Clear away that best bower!” shouted Griffith through his trumpet.

“Hold on!” cried the pilot, in a voice that reached the very hearts of all who heard him; “hold on everything.”

The young man turned fiercely to the daring stranger who thus defied the discipline of his vessel, and at once demanded:

“Who is it that dares to countermand my orders? Is it not enough that you run the ship into danger, but you must interfere to keep her there? If another word — — “

“Peace, Mr. Griffith,” interrupted the captain, bending from the rigging, his gray locks blowing about in the wind and adding a look of wildness to the haggard care that he exhibited by the light of his lantern; “yield the trumpet to Mr. Gray; he alone can save us.”

Griffith threw his speaking-trumpet on the deck, and as he walked proudly away, muttered in bitterness of feeling:

“Then all is lost, indeed! and among the rest the foolish hopes with which I visited this coast.”

There was, however, no time for reply; the ship had been rapidly running into the wind, and as the efforts of the crew were paralyzed by the contradictory orders they had heard, she gradually lost her way, and in a few seconds all her sails were taken aback.

Before the crew understood their situation the pilot had applied the trumpet to his mouth, and in a voice that rose above the tempest, he thundered forth his orders. Each command was given distinctly, and with a precision that showed him to be master of his profession. The helm was kept fast, the head-yards swung up heavily against the wind, and the vessel was soon whirling round on her heel, with a retrograde movement.

Griffith was too much of a seaman not to perceive that the pilot had seized, with a perception almost intuitive, the only method that promised to extricate the vessel from her situation. He was young, impetuous, and proud — but he was also generous. Forgetting his resentment and his mortification, he rushed forward among the men, and, by his presence and example, added certainty to the experiment. The ship fell off slowly before the gale, and bowed her yards nearly to the water, as she felt the blast pouring its fury on her broadside, while the surly waves beat violently against her stern, as if in reproach at departing from her usual manner of moving.

The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard, steady and calm, and yet so clear and high as to reach every ear; and the obedient seamen whirled the yards at his bidding in despite of the tempest, as if they handled the toys of their childhood. When the ship had fallen off dead before the wind, her head-sails were shaken, her after-yards trimmed, and her helm shifted, before she had time to run upon the danger that had threatened, as well to leeward as to windward. The beautiful fabric, obedient to her government, threw her bows up gracefully towards the wind again; and, as her sails were trimmed, moved out from among the dangerous shoals, in which she had been embayed, as steadily and swiftly as she had approached them.

A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded the accomplishment of this nice manoeuvre, but there was no time for the usual expressions of surprise. The stranger still held the trumpet, and continued to lift his voice amid the howlings of the blast, whenever prudence or skill required any change in the management of the ship. For an hour longer there was a fearful struggle for their preservation, the channel becoming at each step more complicated, and the shoals thickening around the mariners on every side. The lead was cast rapidly, and the quick eye of the pilot seemed to pierce the darkness with a keenness of vision that exceeded human power. It was apparent to all in the vessel that they were under the guidance of one who understood the navigation thoroughly, and their exertions kept pace with their reviving confidence. Again and again the frigate appeared to be rushing blindly on shoals where the sea was covered with foam, and where destruction would have been as sudden as it was certain, when the clear voice of the stranger was heard warning them of the danger, and inciting them to their duty. The vessel was implicitly yielded to his government; and during those anxious moments when she was dashing the waters aside, throwing the spray over her enormous yards, each ear would listen eagerly for those sounds that had obtained a command over the crew that can only be acquired, under such circumstances, by great steadiness and consummate skill. The ship was recovering from the inaction of changing her course, in one of those critical tacks that she had made so often, when the pilot, for the first time, addressed the commander of the frigate, who still continued to superintend the all-important duty of the leadsman.

“Now is the pinch,” he said, “and if the ship behaves well, we are safe — but if otherwise, all we have yet done will be useless.”

The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains at this portentous notice, and calling to his first lieutenant, required of the stranger an explanation of his warning.

“See you yon light on the southern headland?” returned the pilot; “you may know it from the star near it? — by its sinking, at times, in the ocean. Now observe the hummock, a little north of it, looking like a shadow in the horizon— ’tis a hill far inland. If we keep that light open from the hill, we shall do well — but if not, we surely go to pieces.”

“Let us tack again,” exclaimed the lieutenant.

The pilot shook his head, as he replied:

“There is no more tacking or box-hauling to be done tonight. We have barely room to pass out of the shoals on this course; and if we can weather the ‘Devil’s Grip,’ we clear their outermost point — but if not, as I said before, there is but an alternative.”

“If we had beaten out the way we entered,” exclaimed Griffith, “we should have done well.”

“Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so,” returned the pilot, calmly. “Gentlemen, we must be prompt; we have but a mile to go, and the ship appears to fly. That topsail is not enough to keep her up to the wind; we want both jib and mainsail.”

“’Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvas in such a tempest!” observed the doubtful captain.

“It must be done,” returned the collected stranger; “we perish without it — see the light already touches the edge of the hummock; the sea casts us to leeward.”

“It shall be done,” cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet from the hand of the pilot.

The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as soon as issued; and, everything being ready, the enormous folds of the mainsail were trusted loose to the blast. There was an instant when the result was doubtful; the tremendous threshing of the heavy sail seemed to bid defiance to all restraint, shaking the ship to her centre; but art and strength prevailed, and gradually the canvas was distended, and bellying as it filled, was drawn down to its usual place by the power of a hundred men. The vessel yielded to this immense addition of force, and bowed before it like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the measure was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger, that seemed to burst from his inmost soul.

“She feels it! she springs her luff! observe,” he said, “the light opens from the hummock already: if she will only bear her canvas we shall go clear.”

A report, like that of a cannon, interrupted his exclamation, and something resembling a white cloud was seen drifting before the wind from the head of the ship, till it was driven into the gloom far to leeward.

“’Tis the jib, blown from the bolt-ropes,” said the commander of the frigate. “This is no time to spread light duck — but the mainsail may stand it yet.”

“The sail would laugh at a tornado,” returned the lieutenant; “but the mast springs like a piece of steel.”

“Silence all!” cried the pilot. “Now, gentlemen, we shall soon know our fate. Let her luff — luff you can!”

This warning effectually closed all discourse, and the hardy mariners, knowing that they had already done all in the power of man to insure their safety, stood in breathless anxiety, awaiting the result. At a short distance ahead of them the whole ocean was white with foam, and the waves, instead of rolling on in regular succession, appeared to be tossing about in mad gambols. A single streak of dark billows, not half a cable’s length in width, could be discerned running into this chaos of water; but it was soon lost to the eye amid the confusion of the disturbed element. Along this narrow path the vessel moved more heavily than before, being brought so near the wind as to keep her sails touching. The pilot silently proceeded to the wheel, and, with his own hands, he undertook the steerage of the ship. No noise proceeded from the frigate to interrupt the horrid tumult of the ocean; and she entered the channel among the breakers, with the silence of a desperate calmness. Twenty times, as the foam rolled away to leeward, the crew were on the eve of uttering their joy, as they supposed the vessel past the danger; but breaker after breaker would still heave up before them, following each other into the general mass, to check their exultation. Occasionally, the fluttering of the sails would be heard; and when the looks of the startled seamen were turned to the wheel, they beheld the stranger grasping its spokes, with his quick eye glancing from the water to the canvas. At length the ship reached a point where she appeared to be rushing directly into the jaws of destruction, when suddenly her course was changed, and her head receded rapidly from the wind. At the same instant the voice of the pilot was heard shouting:

“Square away the yards! — in mainsail!”

A general burst from the crew echoed, “Square away the yards!” and, quick as thought, the frigate was seen gliding along the channel before the wind. The eye had hardly time to dwell on the foam, which seemed like clouds driving in the heavens, and directly the gallant vessel issued from her perils, and rose and fell on the heavy waves of the sea.

The seamen were yet drawing long breaths, and gazing about them like men recovered from a trance, when Griffith approached the man who had so successfully conducted them through their perils. The lieutenant grasped the hand of the other, as he said:

“You have this night proved yourself a faithful pilot, and such a seaman as the world cannot equal.”

The pressure of the hand was warmly returned by the unknown mariner, who replied:

“I am no stranger to the seas, and I may yet find my grave in them. But you, too, have deceived me; you have acted nobly, young man, and Congress — — “

“What of Congress?” asked Griffith, observing him to pause.

“Why, Congress is fortunate if it has many such ships as this,” said the stranger, coldly, walking away toward the commander.

Griffith gazed after him a moment in surprise; but, as his duty required his attention, other thoughts soon engaged his mind.

The vessel was pronounced to be in safety. The gale was heavy and increasing, but there was a clear sea before them; and as she slowly stretched out into the bosom of the ocean, preparations were made for her security during its continuance. Before midnight, everything was in order. A gun from the Ariel soon announced the safety of the schooner also, which had gone out by another and an easier channel, that the frigate had not dared to attempt; when the commander directed the usual watch to be set, and the remainder of the crew to seek their necessary repose.

The captain withdrew with the mysterious pilot to his own cabin. Griffith gave his last order; and renewing his charge to the officer instructed with the care of the vessel, he wished him a pleasant watch, and sought the refreshment of his own cot. For an hour the young lieutenant lay musing on the events of the day. The remark of Barnstable would occur to him, in connection with the singular comment of the boy; and then his thoughts would recur to the pilot, who, taken from the hostile shores of Britain, and with her accent on his tongue, had served them so faithfully and so well. He remembered the anxiety of Captain Munson to procure this stranger, at the very hazard from which they had just been relieved, and puzzled himself with conjecturing why a pilot was to be sought at such a risk. His more private feelings would then resume their sway, and the recollection of America, his mistress, and his home, mingled with the confused images of the drowsy youth. The dashing of the billows against the side of the ship, the creaking of guns and bulkheads, with the roaring of the tempest, however, became gradually less and less distinct, until nature yielded to necessity, and the young man forgot even the romantic images of his love, in the deep sleep of a seaman.

CHAPTER VI.

— — “The letter! ay! the letter!

’Tis there a woman loves to speak her wishes;

It spares the blushes of the love-sick maiden.

And every word’s a smile, each line a tongue.”

Duo.

The slumbers of Griffith continued till late on the following morning, when he was awakened by the report of a cannon, issuing from the deck above him. He threw himself, listlessly, from his cot, and perceiving the officer of marines near him, as his servant opened the door of his stateroom, he inquired, with some little interest in his manner, if “the ship was in chase of anything, that a gun was fired?”

“’Tis no more than a hint to the Ariel,” the soldier replied, “that there is bunting abroad for them to read. It seems as if all hands were asleep on board her, for we have shown her signal, these ten minutes, and she takes us for a collier, I believe, by the respect she pays it.”

“Say, rather, that she takes us for an enemy, and is wary,” returned Griffith. “Brown Dick has played the English so many tricks himself, that he is tender of his faith.”

“Why, they have shown him a yellow flag over a blue one, with a cornet, and that spells Ariel, in every signal-book we have; surely he can’t suspect the English of knowing how to read Yankee.”

“I have known Yankees read more difficult English,” said Griffith, smiling; “but, in truth, I suppose that Barnstable has been, like myself, keeping a dead reckoning of his time, and his men have profited by the occasion. She is lying to, I trust.”

“Ay! like a cork in a mill-pond, and I dare say you are right. Give Barnstable plenty of sea-room, a heavy wind, and but little sail, and he will send his men below, put that fellow he calls long Tom at the tiller, and follow himself, and sleep as quietly as I ever could at church.”

“Ah! yours is a somniferous orthodoxy, Captain Manual,” said the young sailor, laughing, while he slipped his arms into the sleeves of a morning round-about, covered with the gilded trappings of his profession; “sleep appears to come most naturally to all you idlers. But give me a passage, and I will go up, and call the schooner down to us in the turning of an hour-glass.”

The indolent soldier raised himself from the leaning posture he had taken against the door of the stateroom, and Griffith proceeded through the dark wardroom, up the narrow stairs that led him to the principal battery of the ship, and thence, by another and broader flight of steps to the open deck.

The gale still blew strong, but steadily; the blue water of the ocean was rising in mimic mountains, that were crowned with white foam, which the wind, at times, lifted from its kindred element, to propel in mist, through the air, from summit to summit. But the ship rode on these agitated billows with an easy and regular movement that denoted the skill with which her mechanical powers were directed.

The day was bright and clear, and the lazy sun, who seemed unwilling to meet the toil of ascending to the meridian, was crossing the heavens with a southern inclination, that hardly allowed him to temper the moist air of the ocean with his genial heat. At the distance of a mile, directly in the wind’s eye, the Ariel was seen obeying the signal which had caused the dialogue we have related. Her low black hull was barely discernible, at moments, when she rose to the crest of a larger wave than common; but the spot of canvas that she exposed to the wind was to be seen, seeming to touch the water on either hand, as the little vessel rolled amid the seas. At times she was entirely hid from view, when the faint lines of her raking masts would again be discovered, issuing, as it were, from the ocean, and continuing to ascend, until the hull itself would appear, thrusting its bows into the air, surrounded by foam, and apparently ready to take its flight into another element.

After dwelling a moment on the beautiful sight we have attempted to describe, Griffith cast his eyes upward to examine, with the keenness of a seaman, the disposition of things aloft, and then turned his attention to those who were on the deck of the frigate.

His commander stood, in his composed manner, patiently awaiting the execution of his order by the Ariel, and at his side was placed the stranger who had so recently acted such a conspicuous part in the management of the ship. Griffith availed himself of daylight and his situation to examine the appearance of this singular being more closely than the darkness and confusion of the preceding night had allowed. He was a trifle below the middle size in stature, but his form was muscular and athletic, exhibiting the finest proportions of manly beauty. His face appeared rather characterized by melancholy and thought, than by that determined decision which he had so powerfully displayed in the moments of their most extreme danger; but Griffith well knew that it could also exhibit looks of the fiercest impatience. At present, it appeared, to the curious youth, when compared to the glimpses he had caught by the lights of their lanterns, like the ocean at rest, contrasted with the waters around him. The eyes of the pilot rested on the deck, or, when they did wander, it was with uneasy and rapid glances. The large pea-jacket, that concealed most of his other attire, was as roughly made, and of materials as coarse, as that worn by the meanest seaman in the vessel; and yet it did not escape the inquisitive gaze of the young lieutenant, that it was worn with an air of neatness and care that was altogether unusual in men of his profession. The examination of Griffith ended here, for the near approach of the Ariel attracted the attention of all on the deck of the frigate to the conversation that was about to pass between their respective commanders.

As the little schooner rolled along under their stern, Captain Munson directed his subordinate to leave his vessel and repair on board the ship. As soon as the order was received, the Ariel rounded to, and drawing ahead into the smooth water occasioned by the huge fabric that protected her from the gale, the whale-boat was again launched from her decks, and manned by the same crew that had landed on those shores which were now faintly discerned far to leeward, looking like blue clouds on the skirts of the ocean.

When Barnstable had entered his boat, a few strokes of the oars sent it, dancing over the waves, to the side of the ship. The little vessel was then veered off to a distance, where it rode in safety under the care of a boat-keeper, and the officer and his men ascended the side of the lofty frigate.

The usual ceremonials of reception were rigidly observed by Griffith and his juniors, when Barnstable touched the deck; and though every hand was ready to be extended toward the reckless seaman, none presumed to exceed the salutations of official decorum, until a short and private dialogue had taken place between him and their captain.

In the mean time, the crew of the whale-boat passed forward, and mingled with the seamen of the frigate, with the exception of the cockswain, who established himself in one of the gangways, where he stood in the utmost composure, fixing his eyes aloft, and shaking his head in evident dissatisfaction, as he studied the complicated mass of rigging above him. This spectacle soon attracted to his side some half-dozen youths, with Mr. Merry at their head, who endeavored to entertain their guest in a manner that should most conduce to the indulgence of their own waggish propensities.

The conversation between Barnstable and his superior soon ended; when the former, beckoning to Griffith, passed the wondering group who had collected around the capstan, awaiting his leisure to greet him more cordially, and led the way to the wardroom, with the freedom of one who felt himself no stranger. As this unsocial manner formed no part of the natural temper or ordinary deportment of the man, the remainder of the officers suffered their first lieutenant to follow him alone, believing that duty required that their interview should be private. Barnstable was determined that it should be so, at all events; for he seized the lamp from the mess-table, and entered the stateroom of his friend, closing the door behind them and turning the key. When they were both within its narrow limits — pointing to the only chair the little apartment contained, with a sort of instinctive deference to his companion’s rank — the commander of the schooner threw himself carelessly on a sea-chest; and, placing the lamp on the table, he opened the discourse as follows:

“What a night we had of it! Twenty times I thought I could see the sea breaking over you; and I had given you over as drowned men, or, what is worse, as men driven ashore, to be led to the prison-ships of these islanders, when I saw your lights in answer to my gun. Had you hoisted the conscience of a murderer, you wouldn’t have relieved him more than you did me, by showing that bit of tallow and cotton, tipped with flint and steel. But, Griffith, I have a tale to tell of a different kind — — “

“Of how you slept when you found yourself in deep water, and how your crew strove to outdo their commander, and how all succeeded so well that there was a gray-head on board here, that began to shake with displeasure,” interrupted Griffith; “truly, Dick, you will get into lubberly habits on board that bubble in which you float about, where all hands go to sleep as regularly as the inhabitants of a poultry-yard go to roost.”

“Not so bad, not half so bad, Ned,” returned the other, laughing; “I keep as sharp a discipline as if we wore a flag. To be sure, forty men can’t make as much parade as three or four hundred; but as for making or taking in sail, I am your better any day.”

“Ay, because a pocket-handkerchief is sooner opened and shut than a table-cloth. But I hold it to be un-seamanlike to leave any vessel without human eyes, and those open, to watch whether she goes east or west, north or south.”

“And who is guilty of such a dead man’s watch?”

“Why, they say aboard here, that when it blows hard, you seat the man you call long Tom by the side of the tiller, tell him to keep her head to sea, and then pipe all hands to their night-caps, where you all remain, comfortably stowed in your hammocks, until you are awakened by the snoring of your helmsman.”

“’Tis a damned scandalous insinuation,” cried Barnstable, with an indignation that he in vain attempted to conceal. “Who gives currency to such a libel, Mr. Griffith?”

“I had it of the marine,” said his friend, losing the archness that had instigated him to worry his companion, in the vacant air of one who was careless of everything; “but I don’t believe half of it myself — I have no doubt you all had your eyes open last night, whatever you might have been about this morning.”

“Ah! this morning! there was an oversight, indeed! But I was studying a new signal-book, Griffith, that has a thousand times more interest for me than all the bunting you can show, from the head to the heel of your masts.”

“What! have you found out the Englishman’s private talk?”

“No, no,” said the other, stretching forth his hand, and grasping the arm of his friend. “I met last night one on those cliffs, who has proved herself what I always believed her to be, and loved her for, a girl of quick thought and bold spirit.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Of Katherine — — “

Griffith started from his chair involuntarily at the sound of this name, and the blood passed quickly through the shades of his countenance, leaving it now pale as death, and then burning as if oppressed by a torrent from his heart. Struggling to overcome an emotion, which he appeared ashamed to betray even to the friend he most loved, the young man soon recovered himself so far as to resume his seat, when he asked, gloomily:

“Was she alone?”

“She was; but she left with me this paper and this invaluable book, which is worth a library of all other works.”

The eye of Griffith rested vacantly on the treasure that the other valued so highly, but his hand seized eagerly the open letter which was laid on the table for his perusal. The reader will at once understand that it was in the handwriting of a female, and that it was the communication Barnstable had received from his betrothed on the cliffs. Its contents were as follows:

“Believing that Providence may conduct me where we shall meet, or whence I may be able to transmit to you this account, I have prepared a short statement of the situation of Cecila Howard and myself; not, however, to urge you and Griffith to any rash or foolish hazards, but that you may both sit down, and, after due consultation, determine what is proper for our relief.

“By this time, you must understand the character of Colonel Howard too well to expect he will ever consent to give his niece to a rebel. He has already sacrificed to his loyalty, as he calls it (but I whisper to Cecilia, ’tis his treason), not only his native country, but no small part of his fortune also. In the frankness of my disposition (you know my frankness, Barnstable, but too well!), I confessed to him, after the defeat of the mad attempt Griffith made to carry off Cecilia, in Carolina, that I had been foolish enough to enter into some weak promise to the brother officer who had accompanied the young sailor in his traitorous visits to the plantation. Heigho! I sometimes think it would have been better for us all, if your ship had never been chased into the river, or, after she was there, if Griffith had made no attempt to renew his acquaintance with my cousin. The colonel received the intelligence as such a guardian would hear that his ward was about to throw away thirty thousand dollars and herself on a traitor to his king and country. I defended you stoutly: said that you had no king, as the tie was dissolved; that America was your country, and that your profession was honorable; but it would not all do. He called you rebel; that I was used to. He said you were a traitor; that, in his vocabulary, amounts to the same thing. He even hinted that you were a coward; and that I knew to be false, and did not hesitate to tell him so. He used fifty opprobrious terms that I cannot remember; but among others were the beautiful epithets of ‘disorganizer,’ ‘leveller, ‘democrat,’ and ‘jacobin’ (I hope he did not mean a monk!). In short, he acted Colonel Howard in a rage. But as his dominion does not, like that of his favorite kings, continue from generation to generation, and one short year will release me from his power, and leave me mistress of my own actions — that is, if your fine promises are to be believed — I bore it all very well, being resolved to suffer anything but martyrdom, rather than abandon Cecilia. She, dear girl, has much more to distress her than I can have; she is not only the ward of Colonel Howard, but his niece and his sole heir. I am persuaded this last circumstance makes no difference in either her conduct or her feelings; but he appears to think it gives him a right to tyrannize over her on all occasions. After all, Colonel Howard is a gentleman when you do not put him in a passion, and, I believe, a thoroughly honest man; and Cecilia even loves him. But a man who is driven from his country, in his sixtieth year, with the loss of near half his fortune, is not apt to canonize those who compel the change.

“It seems that when the Howards lived on this island, a hundred years ago, they dwelt in the county of Northumberland. Hither, then, he brought us, when political events, and his dread of becoming the uncle to a rebel, induced him to abandon America, as he says, forever. We have been here now three months, and for two-thirds of that time we lived in tolerable comfort; but latterly, the papers have announced the arrival of the ship and your schooner in France; and from that moment as strict a watch has been kept over us as if we had meditated a renewal of the Carolina flight. The colonel, on his arrival here, hired an old building, that is, part house, part abbey, part castle, and all prison; because it is said to have once belonged to an ancestor of his. In this delightful dwelling there are many cages that will secure more uneasy birds than we are. About a fortnight ago an alarm was given in a neighboring village which is situated on the shore, that two American vessels, answering your description, had been seen hovering along the coast; and, as people in this quarter dream of nothing but that terrible fellow, Paul Jones, it was said that he was on board one of them. But I believe that Colonel Howard suspects who you really are. He was very minute in his inquiries, I hear; and since then has established a sort of garrison in the house, under the pretence of defending it against marauders, like those who are said to have laid my Lady Selkirk under contribution.

“Now, understand me, Barnstable; on no account would I have you risk yourself on shore; neither must there be blood spilt, if you love me; but that you may know what sort of a place we are confined in, and by whom surrounded, I will describe both our prison and the garrison. The whole building is of stone, and not to be attempted with slight means. It has windings and turnings, both internally and externally, that would require more skill than I possess to make intelligible; but the rooms we inhabit are in the upper or third floor of a wing, that you may call a tower, if you are in a romantic mood, but which, in truth, is nothing but a wing. Would to God I could fly with it! If any accident should bring you in sight of the dwelling, you will know our rooms by the three smoky vanes that whiffle about its pointed roof, and also, by the windows in that story being occasionally open. Opposite to our windows, at the distance of half a mile, is a retired unfrequented ruin, concealed, in a great measure, from observation by a wood, and affording none of the best accommodations, it is true, but shelter in some of its vaults or apartments. I have prepared, according to the explanations you once gave me on this subject, a set of small signals, of differently colored silks, and a little dictionary of all the phrases that I could imagine as useful to refer to, properly numbered to correspond with the key and the flags, all of which I shall send you with this letter. You must prepare your own flags, and of course I retain mine, as well as a copy of the key and book. If opportunity should ever offer, we can have, at least, a pleasant discourse together; you from the top of the old tower in the ruins, and I from the east window of my dressing-room! But now for the garrison. In addition to the commandant, Colonel Howard, who retains all the fierceness of his former military profession, there is, as his second in authority, that bane of Cecilia’s happiness, Kit Dillon, with his long Savannah face, scornful eyes of black, and skin of the same color. This gentleman, you know, is a distant relative of the Howards, and wishes to be more nearly allied. He is poor, it is true, but then, as the colonel daily remarks, he is a good and loyal subject, and no rebel. When I asked why he was not in arms in these stirring times, contending for the prince he loves so much, the colonel answers that it is not his profession, that he has been educated for the law, and was destined to fill one of the highest judicial stations in the colonies, and that he hoped he should yet live to see him sentence certain nameless gentlemen to condign punishment. This was consoling, to be sure; but I bore it. However, he left Carolina with us, and here he is, and here he is likely to continue, unless you can catch him, and anticipate his judgment on himself. The colonel has long desired to see this gentleman the husband of Cecilia, and since the news of your being on the coast, the siege has nearly amounted to a storm. The consequences are, that my cousin at first kept her room, and then the colonel kept her there, and even now she is precluded from leaving the wing we inhabit. In addition to these two principal jailers, we have four men-servants, two black and two white; and an officer and twenty soldiers from the neighboring town are billeted on us, by particular desire, until the coast is declared free from pirates! yes, that is the musical name they give you — and when their own people land, and plunder, and rob, and murder the men and insult the women, they are called heroes! It’s a fine thing to be able to invent names and make dictionaries — and it must be your fault, if mine has been framed for no purpose. I declare, when I recollect all the insulting and cruel things I hear in this country of my own and her people, it makes me lose my temper and forget my sex; but do not let my ill humor urge you to anything rash; remember your life, remember their prisons, remember your reputation, but do not, do not forget your

“KATHERINE PLOWDEN.

“P.S. I had almost forgotten to tell you, that in the signal-book you will find a more particular description of our prison, where it stands, and a drawing of the grounds, etc.”

When Griffith concluded this epistle, he returned it to the man to whom it was addressed, and fell back in his chair, in an attitude that denoted deep reflection.

“I knew she was here, or I should have accepted the command offered to me by our commissioners in Paris,” he at length uttered; “and I thought that some lucky chance might throw her in my way; but this is bringing us close, indeed! This intelligence must be acted on, and that promptly. Poor girl, what does she not suffer in such a situation!”

“What a beautiful hand she writes!” exclaimed Barnstable; “’tis as clear, and as pretty, and as small, as her own delicate fingers. Griff, what a log-book she would keep!”

“Cecilia Howard touch the coarse leaves of a log-book!” cried the other in amazement; but perceiving Barnstable to be poring over the contents of his mistress’ letter, he smiled at their mutual folly, and continued silent. After a short time spent in cool reflection, Griffith inquired of his friend the nature and circumstances of his interview with Katherine Plowden. Barnstable related it, briefly, as it occurred, in the manner already known to the reader.

“Then,” said Griffith, “Merry is the only one, besides ourselves, who knows of this meeting, and he will be too chary of the reputation of his kinswoman to mention it.”

“Her reputation needs no shield, Mr. Griffith,” cried her lover; “’tis as spotless as the canvas above your head, and — — “

“Peace, dear Richard; I entreat your pardon; my words may have conveyed more than I intended; but it is important that our measures should be secret, as well as prudently concerted.”

“We must get them both off,” returned Barnstable, forgetting his displeasure the moment it was exhibited, “and that, too, before the old man takes it into his wise head to leave the coast. Did you ever get a sight of his instructions, or does he keep silent?”

“As the grave. This is the first time we have left port, that he has not conversed freely with me on the nature of the cruise; but not a syllable has been exchanged between us on the subject, since we sailed from Brest.”

“Ah! that is your Jersey bashfulness,” said Barnstable; “wait till I come alongside him, with my eastern curiosity, and I pledge myself to get it out of him in an hour.”

“‘Twill be diamond cut diamond, I doubt,” said Griffith, laughing; “you will find him as acute at evasion, as you can possibly be at a cross-examination.”

“At any rate, he gives me a chance to-day; you know, I suppose, that he sent for me to attend a consultation of his officers on important matters.”

“I did not,” returned Griffith, fixing his eyes intently on the speaker; “what has he to offer?”

“Nay, that you must ask your pilot; for while talking to me, the old man would turn and look at the stranger, every minute, as if watching for signals how to steer.”

“There is a mystery about that man, and our connection with him, that I cannot fathom,” said Griffith. “But I hear the voice of Manual calling for me; we are wanted in the cabin. Remember, you do not leave the ship without seeing me again.”

“No, no, my dear fellow; from the public we must retire to another private consultation.”

The young men arose, and Griffith, throwing off the roundabout in which he had appeared on deck, drew on a coat of more formal appearance, and taking a sword carelessly in his hand, they proceeded together along the passage already described, to the gun-deck, where they entered, with the proper ceremonials, into the principal cabin of the frigate.

CHAPTER VII

“Sempronius, speak.”

Cato.

The arrangements for the consultation were brief and simple. The veteran commander of the frigate received his officers with punctilious respect; and pointing to the chairs that were placed around the table, which was a fixture in the centre of his cabin, he silently seated himself, and his example was followed by all without further ceremony. In taking their stations, however, a quiet but rigid observance was paid to the rights of seniority and rank. On the right of the captain was placed Griffith, as next in authority; and opposite to him was seated the commander of the schooner. The officer of marines, who was included in the number, held the next situation in point of precedence, the same order being observed to the bottom of the table, which was occupied by a hard-featured, square-built, athletic man, who held the office of sailing-master. When order was restored, after the short interruption of taking their places, the officer who had required the advice of his inferiors opened the business on which he demanded their opinions.

“My instructions direct me, gentlemen,” he said, “after making the coast of England, to run the land down — — “

The hand of Griffith was elevated respectfully for silence, and the veteran paused, with a look that inquired the reason of his interruption.

“We are not alone,” said the lieutenant, glancing his eye toward the part of the cabin where the pilot stood, leaning on one of the guns, in an attitude of easy indulgence.

The stranger moved not at this direct hint; neither did his eye change from its close survey of a chart that lay near him on the deck. The captain dropped his voice to tones of cautious respect, as he replied:

“’Tis only Mr. Gray. His services will be necessary on the occasion, and therefore nothing need be concealed from him.”

Glances of surprise were exchanged among the young men; but Griffith bowing his silent acquiescence in the decision of his superior, the latter proceeded:

“I was ordered to watch for certain signals from the headlands that we made, and was furnished with the best of charts, and such directions as enabled us to stand into the bay we entered last night. We have now obtained a pilot, and one who has proved himself a skilful man; such a one, gentlemen, as no officer need hesitate to rely on, in any emergency, either on account of his integrity or his knowledge.”

The veteran paused, and turned his looks on the countenances of the listeners, as if to collect their sentiments on this important point. Receiving no other reply than the one conveyed by the silent inclinations of the heads of his hearers, the commander resumed his explanations, referring to an open paper in his hand:

“It is known to you all, gentlemen, that the unfortunate question of retaliation has been much agitated between the two governments, our own and that of the enemy. For this reason, and for certain political purposes, it has become an object of solicitude with our commissioners in Paris to obtain a few individuals of character from the enemy, who may be held as a check on their proceedings, while at the same time it brings the evils of war, from our own shores, home to those who have caused it. An opportunity now offers to put this plan in execution, and I have collected you, in order to consult on the means.”

A profound silence succeeded this unexpected communication of the object of their cruise. After a short pause, their captain added, addressing himself to the sailing-master:

“What course would you advise me to pursue, Mr. Boltrope?”

The weather beaten seaman who was thus called on to break through the difficulties of a knotty point with his opinion, laid one of his short, bony hands on the table, and began to twirl an inkstand with great industry, while with the other he conveyed a pen to his mouth, which was apparently masticated with all the relish that he could possibly have felt had it been a leaf from the famous Virginian weed. But perceiving that he was expected to answer, after looking first to his right hand and then to his left, he spoke as follows, in a hoarse, thick voice, in which the fogs of the ocean seemed to have united with sea-damps and colds to destroy everything like melody:

“If this matter is ordered, it is to be done, I suppose,” he said; “for the old rule runs, ‘obey orders, if you break owners’; though the maxim which says, ‘one hand for the owner, and t’other for yourself,’ is quite as good, and has saved many a hearty fellow from a fall that would have balanced the purser’s books. Not that I mean a purser’s books are not as good as any other man’s; but that when a man is dead, his account must be closed, or there will be a false muster. Well, if the thing is to be done, the next question is, how is it to be done? There is many a man that knows there is too much canvas on a ship, who can’t tell how to shorten sail. Well, then, if the thing is really to be done, we must either land a gang to seize them, or we must show false lights and sham colors, to lead them off to the ship. As for landing, Captain Munson, I can only speak for one man, and that is myself; which is to say, that if you run the ship with her jib-boom into the king of England’s parlor-windows, why, I’m consenting, nor do I care how much of his crockery is cracked in so doing; but as to putting the print of my foot on one of his sandy beaches, if I do, that is always speaking for only one man, and saving your presence, may I hope to be d — d.”

The young men smiled as the tough old seaman uttered his sentiments so frankly, rising with his subject, to that which with him was the climax of all discussion; but his commander, who was but a more improved scholar from the same rough school, appeared to understand his arguments entirely, and without altering a muscle of his rigid countenance, he required the opinion of the junior lieutenant.

The young man spoke firmly, but modestly, though the amount of what he said was not much more distinct than that uttered by the master, and was very much to the same purpose, with the exception that he appeared to entertain no personal reluctance to trusting himself on dry ground.

The opinions of the others grew gradually more explicit and clear, as they ascended in the scale of rank, until it came to the turn of the captain of marines to speak. There was a trifling exhibition of professional pride about the soldier, in delivering his sentiments on a subject that embraced a good deal more of his peculiar sort of duty than ordinarily occurred in the usual operations of the frigate.

“It appears to me, sir, that the success of this expedition depends altogether upon the manner in which it is conducted.” After this lucid opening, the soldier hesitated a moment, as if to collect his ideas for a charge that should look down all opposition, and proceeded. “The landing, of course, will be effected on a fair beach, under cover of the frigate’s guns, and could it be possibly done, the schooner should be anchored in such a manner as to throw in a flanking fire on the point of debarkation. The arrangements for the order of march must a good deal depend on the distance to go over; though I should think, sir, an advanced party of seamen, to act as pioneers for the column of marines, should be pushed a short distance in front, while the baggage and baggage-guard might rest upon the frigate, until the enemy was driven into the interior, when it could advance without danger. There should be flank-guards, under the orders of two of the oldest midshipmen; and a light corps might be formed of the topmen to co-operate with the marines. Of course, sir, Mr. Griffith will lead, in person, the musket-men and boarders, armed with their long pikes, whom I presume he will hold in reserve, as I trust my military claims and experience entitle me to the command of the main body.”

“Well done, field-marshal!” cried Barnstable, with a glee that seldom regarded time or place; “you should never let salt-water mould your buttons; but in Washington’s camp, ay! and in Washington’s tent, you should swing your hammock in future. Why, sir, do you think we are about to invade England?”

“I know that every military movement should be executed with precision, Captain Barnstable,” returned the marine. “I am too much accustomed to hear the sneers of the sea-officers, to regard what I know proceeds from ignorance. If Captain Munson is disposed to employ me and my command in this expedition, I trust he will discover that marines are good for something more than to mount guard and pay salutes.” Then, turning haughtily from his antagonist, he continued to address himself to their common superior, as if disdaining further intercourse with one who, from the nature of the case, must be unable to comprehend the force of what he said. “It will be prudent, Captain Munson, to send out a party to reconnoitre, before we march; and as it may be necessary to defend ourselves in case of a repulse, I would beg leave to recommend that a corps be provided with entrenching tools, to accompany the expedition. They would be extremely useful, sir, in assisting to throw up field-works; though, I doubt not, tools might be found in abundance in this country, and laborers impressed for the service, on an emergency.”

This was too much for the risibility of Barnstable, who broke forth in a fit of scornful laughter, which no one saw proper to interrupt; though Griffith, on turning his head to conceal the smile that was gathering on his own face, perceived the fierce glance which the pilot threw at the merry seaman, and wondered at its significance and impatience. When Captain Munson thought that the mirth of the lieutenant was concluded, he mildly desired his reasons for amusing himself so exceedingly with the plans of the marine.

“’Tis a chart for a campaign!” cried Barnstable, “and should be sent off express to Congress, before the Frenchmen are brought into the field!”

“Have you any better plan to propose, Mr. Barnstable?” inquired the patient commander.

“Better! ay, one that will take no time, and cause no trouble, to execute it,” cried the other; “’tis a seaman’s job, sir, and must be done with a seaman’s means.”

“Pardon me, Captain Barnstable,” interrupted the marine, whose jocular vein was entirely absorbed in his military pride; “if there be service to be done on shore, I claim it as my right to be employed.”

“Claim what you will, soldier; but how will you carry on the war with a parcel of fellows who don’t know one end of a boat from the other?” returned the reckless sailor. “Do you think that a barge or a cutter is to be beached in the same manner you ground firelock, by word of command? No, no, Captain Manual — I honor your courage, for I have seen it tried, but d — e if — — “

“You forget, we wait for your project, Mr. Barnstable,” said the veteran.

“I crave your patience, sir; but no project is necessary. Point out the bearings and distance of the place where the men you want are to be found, and I will take the heel of the gale, and run into the land, always speaking for good water and no rocks. Mr. Pilot, you will accompany me, for you carry as true a map of the bottom of these seas in your head as ever was made of dry ground. I will look out for good anchorage; or if the wind should blow off shore, let the schooner stand off and on, till we should be ready to take the broad sea again. I would land, out of my whaleboat, with long Tom and a boat’s crew, and finding out the place you will describe, we shall go up, and take the men you want, and bring them aboard. It’s all plain sailing; though, as it is a well-peopled country, it may be necessary to do our shore work in the dark.”

“Mr. Griffith, we only wait for your sentiments,” proceeded the captain, “when, by comparing opinions, we may decide on the most prudent course.”

The first lieutenant had been much absorbed in thought during the discussion of the subject, and might have been, on that account, better prepared to give his opinion with effect. Pointing to the man who yet stood behind him, leaning on a gun, he commenced by asking:

“Is it your intention that man shall accompany the party?”

“It is.”

“And from him you expect the necessary information, sir, to guide our movements?”

“You are altogether right.”

“If, sir, he has but a moiety of the skill on the land that he possesses on the water, I will answer for his success,” returned the lieutenant, bowing slightly to the stranger, who received the compliment by a cold inclination of his head. “I must desire the indulgence of both Mr. Barnstable and Captain Manual,” he continued, “and claim the command as of right belonging to my rank.”

“It belongs naturally to the schooner,” exclaimed the impatient Barnstable.

“There may be enough for us all to do,” said Griffith, elevating a finger to the other, in a manner and with an impressive look that was instantly comprehended. “I neither agree wholly with the one nor the other of these gentlemen. ’Tis said that, since our appearance on the coast, the dwellings of many of the gentry are guarded by small detachments of soldiers from the neighboring towns.”

“Who says it?” asked the pilot, advancing among them with a suddenness that caused a general silence.

“I say it, sir,” returned the lieutenant, when the momentary surprise had passed away.

“Can you vouch for it?”

“I can.”

“Name a house, or an individual, that is thus protected?”

Griffith gazed at the man who thus forgot himself in the midst of a consultation like the present, and yielding to his native pride, hesitated to reply. But mindful of the declarations of his captain and the recent services of the pilot, he at length said, with a little embarrassment of manner:

“I know it to be the fact, in the dwelling of a Colonel Howard, who resides but a few leagues to the north of us.”

The stranger started at the name, and then raising his eye keenly to the face of the young man, appeared to study his thoughts in his varying countenance. But the action, and the pause that followed, were of short continuance. His lip slightly curled, whether in scorn or with a concealed smile, would have been difficult to say, so closely did it resemble both, and as he dropped quietly back to his place at the gun, he said:

“’Tis more than probable you are right, sir; and if I might presume to advise Captain Munson, it would be to lay great weight on your opinion.”

Griffith turned, to see if he could comprehend more meaning in the manner of the stranger than his words expressed, but his face was again shaded by his hand, and his eyes were once more fixed on the chart with the same vacant abstraction as before.

“I have said, sir, that I agree wholly neither with Mr. Barnstable nor Captain Manual,” continued the lieutenant, after a short pause. “The command of this party is mine, as the senior officer, and I must beg leave to claim it. I certainly do not think the preparation that Captain Manual advises necessary; neither would I undertake the duty with as little caution as Mr. Barnstable proposes. If there are soldiers to be encountered, we should have soldiers to oppose them; but as it must be sudden boat-work, and regular evolutions must give place to a seaman’s bustle, a sea-officer should command. Is my request granted, Captain Munson?”

The veteran replied, without hesitation:

“It is, sir; it was my intention to offer you the service, and I rejoice to see you accept it so cheerfully.”

Griffith with difficulty concealed the satisfaction with which he listened to his commander, and a radiant smile illumined his pale features, when he observed:

“With me then, sir, let the responsibility rest. I request that Captain Manual, with twenty men, may be put under my orders, if that gentleman does not dislike the duty.” The marine bowed, and cast a glance of triumph at Barnstable. “I will take my own cutter, with her tried crew, go on board the schooner, and when the wind lulls, we will run in to the land, and then be governed by circumstances.”

The commander of the schooner threw back the triumphant look of the marine, and exclaimed, in his joyous manner:

‘“Tis a good plan, and done like a seaman, Mr. Griffith. Ay, ay, let the schooner be employed; and if it be necessary, you shall see her anchored in one of their duck-ponds, with her broadside to bear on the parlor-windows of the best house in the island! But twenty marines! they will cause a jam in my little craft.”

“Not a man less than twenty would be prudent,” returned Griffith. “More service may offer than that we seek.”

Barnstable well understood his allusion, but still he replied:

“Make it all seamen, and I will give you room for thirty. But these soldiers never know how to stow away their arms and legs, unless at a drill. One will take the room of two sailors; they swing their hammocks athwart-ships, heads to leeward, and then turn out wrong end uppermost at the call. Why, damn it, sir, the chalk and rottenstone of twenty soldiers will choke my hatches!”

“Give me the launch, Captain Munson!” exclaimed the indignant marine, “and we will follow Mr. Griffith in an open boat, rather than put Captain Barnstable to so much inconvenience.”

“No, no, Manual,” cried the other, extending his muscular arm across the table, with an open palm, to the soldier; “you would all become so many Jonahs in uniform, and I doubt whether the fish could digest your cartridge-boxes and bayonet-belts. You shall go with me, and learn, with your own eyes, whether we keep the cat’s watch aboard the Ariel that you joke about.”

The laugh was general, at the expense of the soldier, if we except the pilot and the commander of the frigate. The former was a silent, and apparently an abstracted, but in reality a deeply interested listener to the discourse; and there were moments when he bent his looks on the speakers, as if he sought more in their characters than was exhibited by the gay trifling of the moment. Captain Munson seldom allowed a muscle of his wrinkled features to disturb their repose; and if he had not the real dignity to repress the untimely mirth of his officers, he had too much good nature to wish to disturb their harmless enjoyments. He expressed himself satisfied with the proposed arrangements, and beckoned to his steward to place before them the usual beverage, with which all their consultations concluded.

The sailing-master appeared to think that the same order was to be observed in their potations as in council, and helping himself to an allowance which retained its hue even in its diluted state, he first raised it to the light, and then observed:

“This ship’s water is nearly the color of rum itself; if it only had its flavor, what a set of hearty dogs we should be! Mr. Griffith, I find you are willing to haul your land-tacks aboard. Well, it’s natural for youth to love the earth; but there is one man, and he is sailing-master of this ship, who saw land enough last night, to last him a twelvemonth. But if you will go, here’s a good land-fall, and a better offing to you. Captain Munson, my respects to you. I say, sir, if we should keep the ship more to the south’ard, it’s my opinion, and that’s but one man’s, we should fall in with some of the enemy’s homeward bound West-Indiamen, and find wherewithal to keep the life in us when we see fit to go ashore ourselves.”

As the tough old sailor made frequent application of the glass to his mouth with one hand, and kept a firm hold of the decanter with the other, during this speech, his companions were compelled to listen to his eloquence, or depart with their thirst unassuaged. Barnstable, however, quite coolly dispossessed the tar of the bottle, and mixing for himself a more equal potation, observed, in the act:

“That is the most remarkable glass of grog you have, Boltrope, that I ever sailed with; it draws as little water as the Ariel, and is as hard to find the bottom. If your spirit-room enjoys the same sort of engine to replenish it, as you pump out your rum, Congress will sail this frigate cheaply.”

The other officers helped themselves with still greater moderation, Griffith barely moistening his lips, and the pilot rejecting the offered glass altogether. Captain Munson continued standing, and his officers, perceiving that their presence was no longer necessary, bowed, and took their leave. As Griffith was retiring last, he felt a hand laid lightly on his shoulder, and turning, perceived that he was detained by the pilot.

“Mr. Griffith,” he said, when they were quite alone with the commander of the frigate, “the occurrences of the last night should teach us confidence in each other; without it, we go on a dangerous and fruitless errand.”

“Is the hazard equal?” returned the youth. “I am known to all to be the man I seem — am in the service of my country — belong to a family, and enjoy a name, that is a pledge for my loyalty to the cause of America — and yet I trust myself on hostile ground, in the midst of enemies, with a weak arm, and under circumstances where treachery would prove my ruin. Who and what is the man who thus enjoys your confidence, Captain Munson? I ask the question less for myself than for the gallant men who will fearlessly follow wherever I lead.”

A shade of dark displeasure crossed the features of the stranger, at one part of this speech, and at its close he sank into deep thought. The commander, however, replied:

“There is a show of reason in your question, Mr. Griffith — and yet you are not the man to be told that implicit obedience is what I have a right to expect. I have not your pretensions, sir, by birth or education, and yet Congress have not seen proper to overlook my years and services. I command this frigate — — “

“Say no more,” interrupted the pilot “There is reason in his doubts, and they shall be appeased. I like the proud and fearless eye of the young man, and while he dreads a gibbet from my hands, I will show him how to repose a noble confidence. Read this, sir, and tell me if you distrust me now?”

While the stranger spoke, he thrust his hand into the bosom of his dress, and drew forth a parchment, decorated with ribands, and bearing a massive seal, which he opened, and laid on the table before the youth. As he pointed with his finger impressively to different parts of the writing, his eye kindled with a look of unusual fire, and there was a faint tinge discernible on his pallid features when he spoke.

“See!” he said, “royalty itself does not hesitate to bear witness in my favor, and that is not a name to occasion dread to an American.”

Griffith gazed with wonder at the fair signature of the unfortunate Louis, which graced the bottom of the parchment; but when his eye obeyed the signal of the stranger, and rested on the body of the instrument, he started back from the table, and fixing his animated eyes on the pilot, he cried, while a glow of fiery courage flitted across his countenance:

“Lead on! I’ll follow you to death!”

A smile of gratified exultation struggled around the lips of the stranger, who took the arm of the young man and led him into a stateroom, leaving the commander of the frigate standing, in his unmoved and quiet manner, a spectator of, but hardly an actor in, the scene.

CHAPTER VIII.

“Fierce bounding, forward sprang the ship

Like a greyhound starting from the slip,

To seize his flying prey.”

Lord of the Isles.

Although the subject of the consultation remained a secret with those whose opinions were required, yet enough of the result leaked out among the subordinate officers, to throw the whole crew into a state of eager excitement. The rumor spread itself along the decks of the frigate, with the rapidity of an alarm, that an expedition was to attempt the shore on some hidden service, dictated by the Congress itself; and conjectures were made respecting its force and destination, with all that interest which might be imagined would exist among the men whose lives or liberties were to abide the issue. A gallant and reckless daring, mingled with the desire of novelty, however, was the prevailing sentiment among the crew, who would have received with cheers the intelligence that their vessel was commanded to force the passage of the united British fleet. A few of the older and more prudent of the sailors were exceptions to this thoughtless hardihood, and one or two, among whom the cockswain of the whale-boat was the most conspicuous, ventured to speak doubtingly of all sorts of land service, as being of a nature never to be attempted by seamen.

Captain Manual had his men paraded in the weather-gangway, and after a short address, calculated to inflame their military ardor and patriotism, acquainted them that he required twenty volunteers, which was in truth half their number, for a dangerous service. After a short pause, the company stepped forward, like one man, and announced themselves as ready to follow him to the end of the world. The marine cast a look over his shoulder, at this gratifying declaration, in quest of Barnstable; but observing that the sailor was occupied with some papers on a distant part of the quarter-deck, he proceeded to make a most impartial division among the candidates for glory; taking care at the same time to cull his company in such a manner as to give himself the flower of his men, and, consequently, to leave the ship the refuse.

While this arrangement was taking place, and the crew of the frigate was in this state of excitement, Griffith ascended to the deck, his countenance flushed with unusual enthusiasm, and his eyes beaming with a look of animation and gayety that had long been strangers to the face of the young man. He was giving forth the few necessary orders to the seamen he was to take with him from the ship, when Barnstable again motioned him to follow, and led the way once more to the stateroom.

“Let the wind blow its pipe out,” said the commander of the Ariel, when they were seated; “there will be no landing on the eastern coast of England till the sea goes down. But this Kate was made for a sailor’s wife! See, Griffith, what a set of signals she has formed, out of her own cunning head.”

“I hope your opinion may prove true, and that you may be the happy sailor who is to wed her,” returned the other. “The girl has indeed discovered surprising art in this business! Where could she have learnt the method and system so well?”

“Where! why, where she learnt better things; how to prize a whole-hearted seaman, for instance. Do you think that my tongue was jammed in my mouth, all the time we used to sit by the side of the river in Carolina, and that we found nothing to talk about!”

“Did you amuse your mistress with treatises on the art of navigation, and the science of signals?” said Griffith, smiling.

“I answered her questions, Mr. Griffith, as any civil man would to a woman he loved. The girl has as much curiosity as one of my own townswomen who has weathered cape forty without a husband, and her tongue goes like a dog-vane in a calm, first one way and then another. But here is her dictionary. Now own, Griff, in spite of your college learning and sentimentals, that a woman of ingenuity and cleverness is a very good sort of a helpmate.”

“I never doubted the merits of Miss Plowden,” said the other, with a droll gravity that often mingled with his deeper feelings, the result of a sailor’s habits, blended with native character. “But this indeed surpasses all my expectations! Why, she has, in truth, made a most judicious selection of phrases. ‘No. 168. **** indelible;’ ‘169. **** end only with life;’ ‘170. **** I fear yours misleads me;’ ‘171. — — ‘“

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Barnstable, snatching the book from before the laughing eyes of Griffith; “what folly, to throw away our time now on such nonsense! What think you of this expedition to the land?”

“That it may be the means of rescuing the ladies, though it fail in making the prisoners we anticipate.”

“But this pilot! you remember that he holds us by our necks, and can run us all up to the yard-arm of some English ship, whenever he chooses to open his throat at their threats or bribes.”

“It would have been better that he should have cast the ship ashore, when he had her entangled in the shoals; it would have been our last thought to suspect him of treachery then,” returned Griffith, “I follow him with confidence, and must believe that we are safer with him than we should be without him.”

“Let him lead to the dwelling of his fox-hunting ministers of state,” cried Barnstable, thrusting his book of signals into his bosom: “but here is a chart that will show us the way to the port we wish to find. Let my foot once more touch terra firma, and you may write craven against my name, if that laughing vixen slips her cable before my eyes, and shoots into the wind’s eye again like a flying-fish chased by a dolphin. Mr. Griffith, we must have the chaplain with us to the shore.”

“The madness of love is driving you into the errors of the soldier. Would you lie by to hear sermons, with a flying party like ours?”

“Nay, nay, we must lay to for nothing that is not unavoidable; but there are so many tacks in such a chase, when one has time to breathe, that we might as well spend our leisure in getting that fellow to splice us together. He has a handy way with a prayer book, and could do the job as well as a bishop; and I should like to be able to say, that this is the last time these two saucy names, which are written at the bottom of this letter, should ever be seen sailing in the company of each other.”

“It will not do,” said his friend, shaking his head, and endeavoring to force a smile which his feelings suppressed; “it will not do, Richard; we must yield our own inclinations to the service of our country; nor is this pilot a man who will consent to be led from his purpose.”

“Then let him follow his purpose alone,” cried Barnstable. “There is no human power, always saving my superior officer, that shall keep me from throwing abroad these tiny signals, and having a private talk with my dark-eyed Kate. But for a paltry pilot! he may luff and bear away as he pleases, while I shall steer as true as a magnet for that old ruin, where I can bring my eyes to bear on that romantic wing and three smoky vanes. Not that I’ll forget my duty? no, I’ll help you catch the Englishman; but when that is done, hey! for Katherine Plowden and my true love!”

“Hush, madcap! the wardroom holds long ears, and our bulkheads grow thin by wear. I must keep you and myself to our duty. This is no children’s game that we play; it seems the commissioners at Paris have thought proper to employ a frigate in the sport.”

Barnstable’s gayety was a little repressed by the grave manner of his companion; but after reflecting a moment, he started on his feet, and made the usual movements for departure.

“Whither?” asked Griffith, gently detaining his impatient friend.

“To old Moderate; I have a proposal to make that may remove every difficulty.”

“Name it to me, then; I am in his council, and may save you the trouble and mortification of a refusal.”

“How many of those gentry does he wish to line his cabin with?”

“The pilot has named no less than six, all men of rank and consideration with the enemy. Two of them are peers, two more belong to the commons’ house of parliament, one is a general, and the sixth, like ourselves, is a sailor, and holds the rank of captain. They muster at a hunting-seat near the coast, and, believe me, the scheme is not without its plausibility.”

“Well, then, there are two apiece for us. You follow the pilot, if you will; but let me sheer off for this dwelling of Colonel Howard, with my cockswain and boat’s crew. I will surprise his house, release the ladies, and on my way back, lay my hands on two of the first lords I fall in with. I suppose, for our business, one is as good as another.”

Griffith could not repress a faint laugh, while he replied:

“Though they are said to be each other’s peers, there is, I believe, some difference even in the quality of lords. England might thank us for ridding her of some among them. Neither are they to be found like beggars, under every hedge. No, no, the men we seek must have something better than their nobility to recommend them to our favor. But let us examine more closely into this plan and map of Miss Plowden; something may occur that shall yet bring the place within our circuit, like a contingent duty of the cruise.”

Barnstable reluctantly relinquished his own wild plan to the more sober judgment of his friend, and they passed an hour together, inquiring into the practicability, and consulting on the means, of making their public duty subserve the purpose of their private feelings.

The gale continued to blow heavily during the whole of that morning; but toward noon the usual indications of better weather became apparent. During these few hours of inaction in the frigate, the marines, who were drafted for service on the land, moved through the vessel with a busy and stirring air, as if they were about to participate in the glory and danger of the campaign their officer had planned, while the few seamen who were to accompany the expedition steadily paced the deck, with their hands thrust into the bosoms of their neat blue jackets, or occasionally stretched toward the horizon, as their fingers traced, for their less experienced shipmates, the signs of an abatement in the gale among the driving clouds. The last lagger among the soldiers had appeared, with his knapsack on his back, in the lee gangway, where his comrades were collected, armed and accoutered for the strife, when Captain Munson ascended to the quarter-deck, accompanied by the stranger and his first lieutenant. A word was spoken by the latter in a low voice to a midshipman, who skipped gayly along the deck, and presently the shrill call of the boatswain was beard, preceding the hoarse cry of:

“Away there, you Tigers, away!”

A smart roll of the drum followed, and the marines paraded, while the six seamen who belonged to the cutter that owned so fierce a name made their preparations for lowering their little bark from the quarter of the frigate into the troubled sea. Everything was conducted in the most exact order, and with a coolness and skill that bade defiance to the turbulence of the angry elements. The marines were safely transported from the ship to the schooner, under the favoring shelter of the former, though the boat appeared, at times, to be seeking the cavities of the ocean, and again to be riding in the clouds, as she passed from one vessel to the other.

At length it was announced that the cutter was ready to receive the officers of the party. The pilot walked aside and held private discourse, for a few moments, with the commander, who listened to his sentences with marked and singular attention. When their conference was ended, the veteran bared his gray head to the blasts, and offered his hand to the other, with a seaman’s frankness, mingled with the deference of an inferior. The compliment was courteously returned by the stranger, who turned quickly on his heel, and directed the attention of those who awaited his movements, by a significant gesture, to the gangway.

“Come, gentlemen, let us go,” said Griffith, starting from a reverie, and bowing his hasty compliments to his brethren in arms.

When it appeared that his superiors were ready to enter the boat, the boy, who, by nautical courtesy, was styled Mr. Merry, and who had been ordered to be in readiness, sprang over the side of the frigate, and glided into the cutter, with the activity of a squirrel. But the captain of marines paused, and cast a meaning glance at the pilot, whose place it was to precede him. The stranger, as he lingered on the deck, was examining the aspect of the heavens, and seemed unconscious of the expectations of the soldier, who gave vent to his impatience, after a moment’s detention, by saying:

“We wait for you, Mr. Gray.”

Aroused by the sound of his name, the pilot glanced his quick eye on the speaker, but instead of advancing, he gently bent his body, as he again signed toward the gangway with his hand. To the astonishment not only of the soldier, but of all who witnessed this breach of naval etiquette, Griffith bowed low, and entered the boat with the same promptitude as if he were preceding an admiral. Whether the stranger became conscious of his want of courtesy, or was too indifferent to surrounding objects to note occurrences, he immediately followed himself, leaving to the marine the post of honor. The latter, who was distinguished for his skill in all matters of naval or military etiquette, thought proper to apologize, at a fitting time, to the first lieutenant for suffering his senior officer to precede him into a boat, but never failed to show a becoming exultation, when he recounted the circumstance, by dwelling on the manner in which he had brought down the pride of the haughty pilot.

Barnstable had been several hours on board his little vessel, which was every way prepared for their reception; and as soon as the heavy cutter of the frigate was hoisted on her deck, he announced that the schooner was ready to sail. It has been already intimated that the Ariel belonged to the smallest class of sea-vessels; and as the symmetry of her construction reduced even that size in appearance, she was peculiarly well adapted to the sort of service in which she was about to be employed. Notwithstanding her lightness rendered her nearly as buoyant as a cork, and at times she actually seemed to ride on the foam, her low decks were perpetually washed by the heavy seas that dashed against her frail sides, and she tossed and rolled in the hollows of the waves, In a manner that compelled even the practised seamen who trod her decks to move with guarded steps. Still she was trimmed and cleared with an air of nautical neatness and attention that afforded the utmost possible room for her dimensions; and, though in miniature, she wore the trappings of war as proudly as if the metal she bore was of a more fatal and dangerous character. The murderous gun, which, since the period of which we are writing, has been universally adopted in all vessels of inferior size, was then in the infancy of its invention, and was known to the American mariner only by reputation, under the appalling name of a “smasher.” Of a vast calibre, though short and easily managed, its advantages were even in that early day beginning to be appreciated, and the largest ships were thought to be unusually well provided with the means of offence, when they carried two or three cannon of this formidable invention among their armament. At a later day, this weapon has been improved and altered, until its use has become general in vessels of a certain size, taking its appellation from the Carron, on the banks of which river it was first moulded. In place of these carronades, six light brass cannon were firmly lashed to the bulwarks of the Ariel, their brazen throats blackened by the sea-water, which so often broke harmlessly over these engines of destruction. In the centre of the vessel, between her two masts, a gun of the same metal, but of nearly twice the length of the other, was mounted on a carriage of a new and singular construction, which admitted of its being turned in any direction, so as to be of service in most of the emergencies that occur in naval warfare.

The eye of the pilot examined this armament closely and then turned to the well-ordered decks, the neat and compact rigging, and the hardy faces of the fine young crew, with manifest satisfaction. Contrary to what had been his practice during the short time he had been with them, he uttered his gratification freely and aloud.

“You have a tight boat, Mr. Barnstable,” he said, “and a gallant-looking crew. You promise good service, sir, in time of need, and that hour may not be far distant.”

“The sooner the better,” returned the reckless sailor; “I have not had an opportunity of scaling my guns since we quitted Brest, though we passed several of the enemy’s cutters coming up channel, with whom our bulldogs longed for a conversation. Mr. Griffith will tell you, pilot, that my little sixes can speak, on occasion, with a voice nearly as loud as the frigate’s eighteens.”

“But not to as much purpose,” observed Griffith; “‘vox et praeterea nihil,’ as we said at school.”

“I know nothing of your Greek and Latin, Mr. Griffith,” retorted the commander of the Ariel; “but if you mean that those seven brass playthings won’t throw a round-shot as far as any gun of their size and height above the water, or won’t scatter grape and canister with any blunderbuss in your ship, you may possibly find an opportunity that will convince you to the contrary, before we part company.”

“They promise well,” said the pilot, who was evidently, ignorant of the good understanding that existed between the two officers, and wished to conciliate all under his directions; “and I doubt not they will argue the leading points of a combat with good discretion. I see that you have christened them — I suppose for their respective merits. They are indeed expressive names!”

“’Tis the freak of an idle moment,” said Barnstable, laughing, as he glanced his eye to the cannon, above which were painted the several quaint names of “boxer,” “plumper,” “grinder,” “scatterer,” “exterminator” and nail-driver.”

“Why have you thrown the midship gun without the pale of your baptism?” asked the pilot; “or do you know it by the usual title of the ‘old woman’?”

“No, no, I have no such petticoat terms on board me,” cried the other; “but move more to starboard, and you will see its style painted on the cheeks of the carriage; it’s a name that need not cause them to blush either.”

“’Tis a singular epithet, though not without some meaning!”

“It has more than you, perhaps, dream of, sir. That worthy seaman whom you see leaning against the foremast, and who would serve, on occasion, for a spare spar himself, is the captain of that gun, and more than once has decided some warm disputes with John Bull, by the manner in which he has wielded it. No marine can trail his musket more easily than my cockswain can train his nine-pounder on an object; and thus from their connection, and some resemblance there is between them in length, it has got the name which you perceive it carries — that of ‘long Tom.’”

The pilot smiled as he listened, but turning away from the speaker, the deep reflection that crossed his brow but too plainly showed that he trifled only from momentary indulgence; and Griffith intimated to Barnstable, that as the gale was sensibly abating they would pursue the object of their destination.

Thus recalled to his duty, the commander of the schooner forgot the delightful theme of expatiating on the merits of his vessel, and issued the necessary orders to direct their movements. The little schooner slowly obeyed the impulse of her helm, and fell off before the wind, when the folds of her square-sail, though limited by a prudent reef, were opened to the blasts, and she shot away from her consort, like a meteor dancing across the waves. The black mass of the frigate’s hull soon sunk in distance; and long before the sun had fallen below the hills of England, her tall masts were barely distinguishable by the small cloud of sail that held the vessel to her station. As the ship disappeared, the land seemed to issue out of the bosom of the deep; and so rapid was their progress, that the dwellings of the gentry, the humbler cottages, and even the dim lines of the hedges, became gradually more distinct to the eyes of the bold mariners, until they were beset with the gloom of evening, when the whole scene faded from their view in the darkness of the hour, leaving only the faint outline of the land visible in the tract before them, and the sullen billows of the ocean raging with appalling violence in their rear.

Still the little Ariel held on her way, skimming the ocean like a water-fowl seeking its place of nightly rest, and shooting in towards the land as fearlessly as if the dangers of the preceding night were already forgotten. No shoals or rocks appeared to arrest her course, and we must leave her gliding into the dark streak that was thrown from the high and rocky cliffs, that lined a basin of bold entrance, where the mariners often sought and found a refuge from the dangers of the German Ocean.

CHAPTER IX.

“Sirrah! how dare you leave your barley-broth

To come in armor thus, against your king?”

Drama.

The large irregular building inhabited by Colonel Howard well deserved the name it had received from the pen of Katherine Plowden. Notwithstanding the confusion in its orders, owing to the different ages in which its several parts had been erected, the interior was not wanting in that appearance of comfort which forms the great characteristic of English domestic life. Its dark and intricate mazes of halls, galleries, and apartments were all well provided with good and substantial furniture; and whatever might have been the purposes of their original construction, they were now peacefully appropriated to the service of a quiet and well-ordered family.

There were divers portentous traditions of cruel separations and blighted loves, which always linger, like cobwebs, around the walls of old houses, to be heard here also, and which, doubtless, in abler hands, might easily have been wrought up into scenes of high interest and delectable pathos. But our humbler efforts must be limited by an attempt to describe man as God has made him, vulgar and unseemly as he may appear to sublimated faculties, to the possessors of which enviable qualifications we desire to say, at once, that we are determined to eschew all things supernaturally refined, as we would the devil. To all those, then, who are tired of the company of their species we would bluntly insinuate, that the sooner they throw aside our pages, and seize upon those of some more highly gifted bard, the sooner will they be in the way of quitting earth, if not of attaining heaven. Our business is solely to treat of man, and this fair scene on which he acts, and that not in his subtleties, and metaphysical contradictions, but in his palpable nature, that all may understand our meaning as well as ourselves — whereby we may manifestly reject the prodigious advantage of being thought a genius, by perhaps foolishly refusing the mighty aid of incomprehensibility to establish such a character.

Leaving the gloomy shadows of the cliffs, under which the little Ariel had been seen to steer, and the sullen roaring of the surf along the margin of the ocean, we shall endeavor to transport the reader to the dining parlor of St. Ruth’s Abbey, taking the evening of the same day as the time for introducing another collection of those personages, whose acts and characters it has become our duty to describe.

The room was not of very large dimensions, and every part was glittering with the collected light of half a dozen Candles, aided by the fierce rays that glanced from the grate, which held a most cheerful fire of sea-coal. The mouldings of the dark oak wainscoting threw back upon the massive table of mahogany streaks of strong light, which played among the rich fluids that were sparkling on the board in mimic haloes. The outline of this picture of comfort was formed by damask curtains of a deep red, and enormous oak chairs with leathern backs and cushioned seats, as if the apartment were hermetically sealed against the world and its chilling cares.

Around the table, which still stood in the centre of the floor, were seated three gentlemen, in the easy enjoyment of their daily repast. The cloth had been drawn, and the bottle was slowly passing among them, as if those who partook of its bounty well knew that neither the time nor the opportunity would be wanting for their deliberate indulgence in its pleasures.

At one end of the table an elderly man was seated, who performed whatever little acts of courtesy the duties of a host would appear to render necessary, in a company where all seemed to be equally at their ease and at home. This gentleman was in the decline of life, though his erect carriage, quick movements, and steady hand, equally denoted that it was an old age free from the usual infirmities. In his dress, he belonged to that class whose members always follow the fashions of the age anterior to the one in which they live, whether from disinclination to sudden changes of any kind, or from the recollections of a period which, with them, has been hallowed by scenes and feelings that the chilling evening of life can neither revive nor equal. Age might possibly have thrown its blighting frosts on his thin locks, but art had labored to conceal the ravages with the nicest care. An accurate outline of powder covered not only the parts where the hair actually remained, but wherever nature had prescribed that hair should grow. His countenance was strongly marked in features, if not in expression, exhibiting, on the whole, a look of noble integrity and high honor, which was a good deal aided in its effect by the lofty receding forehead, that rose like a monument above the whole, to record the character of the aged veteran. A few streaks of branching red mingled with a swarthiness of complexion, that was rendered more conspicuous by the outline of unsullied white, which nearly surrounded his prominent features.

Opposite to the host, who it will at once be understood was Colonel Howard, was the thin yellow visage of Mr. Christopher Dillon, that bane to the happiness of her cousin, already mentioned by Miss Plowden.

Between these two gentlemen was a middle-aged hard-featured man, attired in the livery of King George, whose countenance emulated the scarlet of his coat, and whose principal employment, at the moment, appeared to consist in doing honor to the cheer of his entertainer.

Occasionally, a servant entered or left the room in silence, giving admission, however, through the opened door, to the rushing sounds of the gale, as the wind murmured amid the angles and high chimneys of the edifice.

A man, in the dress of a rustic, was standing near the chair of Colonel Howard, between whom and the master of the mansion a dialogue had been maintained which closed as follows. The colonel was the first to speak, after the curtain is drawn from between the eyes of the reader and the scene:

“Said you, farmer, that the Scotchman beheld the vessels with his own eyes?”

The answer was a simple negative.

“Well, well,” continued the colonel, “you can withdraw.”

The man made a rude attempt at a bow, which being returned by the old soldier with formal grace, he left the room. The host turning to his companions, resumed the subject.

“If those rash boys have really persuaded the silly dotard who commands the frigate, to trust himself within the shoals on the eve of such a gale as this, their case must have been hopeless indeed! Thus may rebellion and disaffection ever meet with the just indignation of Providence! It would not surprise me, gentleman, to hear that my native land had been engulfed by earthquakes, or swallowed by the ocean, so awful and inexcusable has been the weight of her transgressions! And yet it was a proud and daring boy who held the second station in that ship! I knew his father well, and a gallant gentleman he was, who, like my own brother, the parent of Cecilia, preferred to serve his master on the ocean rather than on the land. His son inherited the bravery of his high spirit, without its loyalty. One would not wish to have such a youth drowned, either.”

This speech, which partook much of the nature of a soliloquy, especially toward its close, called for no immediate reply; but the soldier, having held his glass to the candle, to admire the rosy hue of its contents, and then sipped of the fluid so often that nothing but a clear light remained to gaze at, quietly replaced the empty vessel on the table, and, as he extended an arm toward the blushing bottle, he spoke, in the careless tones of one whose thoughts were dwelling on another theme:

“Ay, true enough, sir; good men are scarce, and, as you say, one cannot but mourn his fate, though his death be glorious; quite a loss to his majesty’s service, I dare say, it will prove.”

“A loss to the service of his majesty!” echoed the host— “his death glorious! no, Captain Borroughcliffe, the death of no rebel can be glorious; and how he can be a loss to his majesty’s service, I myself am quite at a loss to understand.”

The soldier, whose ideas were in that happy state of confusion that renders it difficult to command the one most needed, but who still, from long discipline, had them under a wonderful control for the disorder of his brain, answered, with great promptitude:

“I mean the loss of his example, sir. It would have been so appalling to others to have seen the young man executed instead of shot in battle.”

“He is drowned, sir.”

“Ah! that is the next thing to being hanged; that circumstance had escaped me.”

“It is by no means certain, sir, that the ship and schooner that the drover saw are the vessels you take them to have been,” said Mr. Dillon, in a harsh, drawling tone of voice. “I should doubt their daring to venture so openly on the coast, and in the direct track of our vessels of war.”

“These people are our countrymen, Christopher, though they are rebels,” exclaimed the colonel. “They are a hardy and brave nation. When I had the honor of serving his majesty, some twenty years since, it was my fortune to face the enemies of my king in a few small affairs, Captain Borroughcliffe; such as the siege of Quebec, and the battle before its gates, a trifling occasion at Ticonderoga, and that unfortunate catastrophe of General Braddock — with a few others. I must say, sir, in favor of the colonists that they played a manful game on the latter day; and this gentleman who now heads the rebels sustained a gallant name among us for his conduct in that disastrous business. He was a discreet, well-behaved young man, and quite a gentleman. I have never denied that Mr. Washington was very much of a gentleman.”

“Yes!” said the soldier, yawning, “he was educated among his majesty’s troops, and he could hardly be other wise. But I am quite melancholy about this unfortunate drowning, Colonel Howard. Here will be an end of my vocation, I suppose; and I am far from denying that your hospitality has made these quarters most agreeable to me.”

“Then, sir, the obligation is only mutual,” returned the host, with a polite inclination of his head: “but gentlemen who, like ourselves, have been made free of the camp, need not bandy idle compliments about such trifles. If it were my kinsman Dillon, now, whose thoughts ran more on Coke upon Littleton than on the gayeties of a mess-table and a soldier’s life, he might think such formalities as necessary as his hard words are to a deed. Come, Borroughcliffe, my dear fellow, I believe we have given an honest glass to each of the royal family (God bless them all!), let us swallow a bumper to the memory of the immortal Wolfe.”

“An honest proposal, my gallant host, and such a one as a soldier will never decline,” returned the captain, who roused himself with the occasion. “God bless them all! say I, in echo; and if this gracious queen of ours ends as famously as she has begun, ‘twill be such a family of princes as no other army of Europe can brag of around a mess-table.”

“Ay, ay, there is some consolation in that thought, in the midst of this dire rebellion of my countrymen. But I’ll vex myself no more with the unpleasant recollections; the arms of my sovereign will soon purge that wicked land of the foul stain.”

“Of that there can be no doubt,” said Borroughcliffe, whose thoughts still continued a little obscured by the sparkling Madeira that had long lain ripening under a Carolinian sun; “these Yankees fly before his majesty’s regulars, like so many dirty clowns in a London mob before a charge of the horse-guards.”

“Pardon me, Captain Borroughcliffe,” said his host, elevating his person to more than its usually erect attitude; “they may be misguided, deluded, and betrayed, but the comparison is unjust. Give them arms and give them discipline, and he who gets an inch of their land from them, plentiful as it is, will find a bloody day on which to take possession.”

“The veriest coward in Christendom would fight in country where wine brews itself into such a cordial as this,” returned the cool soldier. “I am a living proof that you mistook my meaning; for had not those loose-flapped gentlemen they call Vermontese and Hampshire-granters (God grant them his blessing for the deed) finished two-thirds of my company, I should not have been at this day under your roof, a recruiting instead of a marching officer; neither should I have been bound up in a covenant, like the law of Moses, could Burgoyne have made head against their long-legged marchings and countermarchings. Sir, I drink their healths, with all my heart; and with such a bottle of golden sunshine before me, rather than displease so good a friend, I will go through Gates’ whole army, regiment by regiment, company by company, or, if you insist on the same, even man by man, in a bumper.”

“On no account would I tax your politeness so far,” returned the colonel, abundantly mollified by this ample concession; “I stand too much your debtor, Captain Borroughcliffe, for so freely volunteering to defend my house against the attacks of my piratical, rebellious, and misguided countrymen, to think of requiring such a concession.”

“Harder duty might be performed, and no favors asked, my respectable host,” returned the soldier. “Country quarters are apt to be dull, and the liquor is commonly execrable; but in such a dwelling as this, a man can rock himself in the very cradle of contentment. And yet there is one subject of complaint, that I should disgrace my regiment did I not speak of — for it is incumbent on me, both as a man and a soldier, to be no longer silent.”

“Name it, sir, freely, and its cause shall be as freely redressed,” said the host in some amazement.

“Here we three sit, from morning to night,” continued the soldier; “bachelors all, well provisioned and better liquored, I grant you, but like so many well-fed anchorites, while two of the loveliest damsels in the island pine in solitude within a hundred feet of us, without tasting the homage of our sighs. This, I will maintain, is a reproach both to your character, Colonel Howard, as an old soldier and to mine as a young one. As to our old friend, Coke on top of Littleton here, I leave him to the quiddities of the law to plead his own cause.”

The brow of the host contracted for a moment, and the sallow cheek of Dillon, who had sat during the dialogue in a sullen silence, appeared to grow even livid; but gradually the open brow of the veteran resumed its frank expression, and the lips of the other relaxed into a Jesuitical sort of a smile, that was totally disregarded by the captain, who amused himself with sipping his wine while he waited for an answer, as if he analyzed each drop that crossed his palate.

After an embarrassing pause of a moment, Colonel Howard broke the silence:

“There is reason in Borroughcliffe’s hint, for such I take it to be — — “

“I meant it for a plain, matter-of-fact complaint,” interrupted the soldier.

“And you have cause for it,” continued the colonel. “It is unreasonable, Christopher, that the ladies should allow their dread of these piratical countrymen of ours to exclude us from their society, though prudence may require that they remain secluded in their apartments. We owe the respect to Captain Borroughcliffe, that at least we admit him to the sight of the coffee-urn in an evening.”

“That is precisely my meaning,” said the captain: “as for dining with them, why, I am well provided for here; but there is no one knows how to set hot water a hissing in so professional a manner as a woman. So forward, my dear and honored colonel, and lay your injunctions on them, that they command your humble servant and Mr. Coke unto Littleton to advance and give the countersign of gallantry.”

Dillon contracted his disagreeable features into something that was intended for a satirical smile, before he spoke as follows:

“Both the veteran Colonel Howard and the gallant Captain Borroughcliffe may find it easier to overcome the enemies of his majesty in the field than to shake a woman’s caprice. Not a day has passed these three weeks, that I have not sent my inquiries to the door of Miss Howard as became her father’s kinsman, with a wish to appease her apprehensions of the pirates; but little has she deigned me In reply, more than such thanks as her sex and breeding could not well dispense with.”

“Well, you have been, as fortunate as myself, and why you should be more so, I see no reason,” cried the soldier, throwing a glance of cool contempt at the other: “fear whitens the cheek, and ladies best love to be seen when the roses flourish rather than the lilies.”

“A woman is never so interesting, Captain Borroughcliffe,” said the gallant host, “as when she appears to lean on man for support; and he who does not feel himself honored by the trust is a disgrace to his species.”

“Bravo! my honored sir, a worthy sentiment, and spoken like a true soldier; but I have heard much of the loveliness of the ladies of the abbey since I have been in my present quarters, and I feel a strong desire to witness beauty encircled by such loyalty as could induce them to flee their native country, rather than to devote their charms to the rude keeping of the rebels.”

The colonel looked grave, and for a moment fierce, but the expression of his displeasure soon passed away in a smile of forced gayety, and, as he cheerfully rose from his seat, he cried:

“You shall be admitted this very night, and this instant, Captain Borroughcliffe, We owe it, sir, to your services here, as well as in the field, and those forward girls shall be humored no longer. Nay, it is nearly two weeks since I have seen my ward myself; nor have I laid my eyes on my niece but twice in all that time, Christopher, I leave the captain under your good care while I go seek admission into the cloisters, we call that part of, the building the cloisters, because it holds our nuns, sir! You will pardon my early absence from the table, Captain Borroughcliffe.”

“I beg it may not be mentioned; you leave an excellent representative behind you, sir,” cried the soldier, taking in the lank figure of Mr. Dillon in a sweeping glance, that terminated with a settled gaze on his decanter. “Make my devoirs to the recluses, and say all that your own excellent wit shall suggest as an apology for my impatience, Mr. Dillon, I meet you in a bumper to their healths and in their honor.”

The challenge was coldly accepted; and while these gentlemen still held their glasses to their lips, Colonel Howard left the apartment, bowing low, and uttering a thousand excuses to his guest, as he proceeded, and even offering a very unnecessary apology of the same effect to his habitual inmate, Mr. Dillon.

“Is fear so very powerful within these old walls,” said the soldier, when the door closed behind their host, “that your ladies deem it necessary to conceal themselves before even an enemy is known to have landed?”

Dillon coldly replied:

“The name of Paul Jones is terrific to all on this coast, I believe; nor are the ladies of St. Ruth singular in their apprehensions.”

“Ah! the pirate has bought himself a desperate name since the affair of Flamborough Head. But let him look to’t, if he trusts himself in another Whitehaven expedition, while there is a detachment of the —— th in the neighborhood, though the men should be nothing better than recruits.”

“Our last accounts leave him safe in the court of Louis,” returned his companion; “but there are men as desperate as himself, who sail the ocean under the rebel flag, and from one or two of them we have had much reason to apprehend the vengeance of disappointed men. It is they that we hope we lost in this gale.”

“Hum! I hope they were dastards, or your hopes are a little unchristian, and — — “

He would have proceeded, but the door opened, and his orderly entered, and announced that a sentinel had detained three men, who were passing along the highway, near the abbey, and who, by their dress, appeared to be seamen.

“Well, let them pass,” cried the captain; “what, have we nothing to do better than to stop passengers, like footpads on the king’s highway! Give them of your canteens, and let the rascals pass. Your orders were to give the alarm if any hostile party landed on the coast, not to detain peaceable subjects on their lawful business.”

“I beg your honor’s pardon,” returned the sergeant; “but these men seemed lurking about the grounds for no good, and as they kept carefully aloof from the place where our sentinel was posted, until to-night, Downing thought it looked suspiciously and detained them.”

“Downing is a fool, and it may go hard with him for his officiousness. What have you done with the men?”

“I took them to the guardroom in the east wings your honor.”

“Then feed them; and hark ye, sirrah! liquor them well, that we hear no complaints, and let them go.”

“Yes, sir, yes, your honor shall be obeyed; but there is a straight, soldierly-looking fellow among them, that I think might be persuaded to enlist, if he were detained till morning. I doubt, sir, by his walk, but he has served already.”

“Ha! what say you!” cried the captain, pricking up his ears like a hound who hears a well-known cry; “served, think ye, already?”

“There are signs about him, your honor, to that effect An old soldier is seldom deceived in such a thing; and considering his disguise, for it can be no other, and the place where we took him, there is no danger of a have-us corpses until he is tied to us by the laws of the kingdom.”

“Peace, you knave!” said Borroughcliffe, rising, and making a devious route toward the door; “you speak in the presence of my lord chief justice that is to be, and should not talk lightly of the laws. But still you say reason: give me your arm, sergeant, and lead the way to the east wing; my eyesight is good for nothing in such a dark night. A soldier should always visit his guard before the tattoo beats.”

After emulating the courtesy of their host, Captain Borroughcliffe retired on this patriotic errand, leaning on his subordinate in a style of most familiar condescension. Dillon continued at the table, endeavoring to express the rancorous feelings of his breast by a satirical smile of contempt, that was necessarily lost on all but himself, as a large mirror threw back the image of his morose and unpleasant features.

But we must precede the veteran colonel in his visits to the “cloisters.”

CHAPTER X.

— — “And kindness like their own

Inspired those eyes, affectionate and glad,

That seem’d to love whate’er they looked upon;

Whether with Hebe’s mirth her features shone,

Or if a shade more pleasing them o’ercast —

Yet so becomingly th’ expression past,

That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.”

Gertrude of Wyoming.

The western wing of St. Ruth house or abbey, as the building was indiscriminately called, retained but few vestiges of the uses to which it had been originally devoted. The upper apartments were small and numerous, extending on either side of a long, low, and dark gallery, and might have been the dormitories of the sisterhood who were said to have once inhabited that portion of the edifice; but the ground-floor had been modernized, as it was then called, about a century before, and retained just enough of its ancient character to blend the venerable with what was thought comfortable in the commencement of the reign of the third George. As this wing had been appropriated to the mistress of the mansion, ever since the building had changed its spiritual character for one of a more carnal nature, Colonel Howard continued the arrangement, when he became the temporary possessor of St. Ruth, until, in the course of events, the apartments which had been appropriated for the accommodation and convenience of his niece were eventually converted into her prison. But as the severity of the old veteran was as often marked by an exhibition of his virtues as of his foibles, the confinement and his displeasure constituted the sole subjects of complaint that were given to the young lady. That our readers may be better qualified to judge of the nature of their imprisonment, we shall transport them, without further circumlocution, into the presence of the two females, whom they must be already prepared to receive.

The withdrawing-room of St. Ruth’s was an apartment which, tradition said, had formerly been the refectory of the little bevy of fair sinners who sought a refuge within its walls from the temptations of the world. Their number was not large, nor their entertainments very splendid, or this limited space could not have contained them. The room, however, was of fair dimensions, and an air of peculiar comfort, mingled with chastened luxury, was thrown around it, by the voluminous folds of the blue damask curtains that nearly concealed the sides where the deep windows were placed, and by the dark leathern hangings, richly stamped with cunning devices in gold, that ornamented the two others. Massive couches in carved mahogany, with chairs of a similar material and fashion, all covered by the same rich fabric that composed the curtains, together with a Turkey carpet, over the shaggy surface of which all the colors of the rainbow were scattered in bright confusion, united to relieve the gloomy splendor of the enormous mantel, deep heavy cornices, and the complicated carvings of the massive woodwork which cumbered the walls. A brisk fire of wood was burning on the hearth, in compliment to the willful prejudice of Miss Plowden, who had maintained, in her most vivacious manner, that sea-coal was “only tolerable for blacksmiths and Englishmen.” In addition to the cheerful blaze from the hearth, two waxen lights, in candlesticks of massive silver, were lending their aid to enliven the apartment. One of these was casting its rays brightly along the confused colors of the carpet on which it stood, flickering before the active movements of the form that played around it with light and animated inflections. The posture of this young lady was infantile in grace, and, with one ignorant of her motives, her employment would have been obnoxious to the same construction. Divers small square pieces of silk, strongly contrasted to each other in color, lay on every side of her, and were changed, as she kneeled on the floor, by her nimble hands, into as many different combinations as if she was humoring the fancies of her sex, or consulting the shades of her own dark but rich complexion in the shop of a mercer. The close satin dress of this young female served to display her small figure in its true proportions, while her dancing eyes of jet black shamed the dyes of the Italian manufacturer by their superior radiance. A few ribbons of pink, disposed about her person with an air partly studied, and yet carelessly coquettish, seemed rather to reflect than lend the rich bloom that mantled around her laughing countenance, leaving to the eye no cause to regret that she was not fairer.

Another female figure, clad in virgin white, was reclining on the end of a distant couch. The seclusion in which they lived might have rendered this female a little careless of her appearance, or, what was more probable, the comb had been found unequal to its burden; for her tresses, which rivaled the hue and gloss of the raven, had burst from their confinement, and, dropping over her shoulders, fell along her dress in rich profusion, finally resting on the damask of the couch, in dark folds, like glittering silk. A small hand, which seemed to blush at its own naked beauties, supported her head, embedded in the volumes of her hair, like the fairest alabaster set in the deepest ebony. Beneath the dark profusion of her curls, which, notwithstanding the sweeping train that fell about her person, covered the summit of her head, lay a low spotless forehead of dazzling whiteness, that was relieved by two arches so slightly and truly drawn that they appeared to have been produced by the nicest touches of art. The fallen lids and long silken lashes concealed the eyes that rested on the floor, as if their mistress mused in melancholy. The remainder of the features of this maiden were of a kind that is most difficult to describe, being neither regular nor perfect in their several parts, yet harmonizing and composing a whole that formed an exquisite picture of female delicacy and loveliness. There might or there might not have been a tinge of slight red in her cheeks, but it varied with each emotion of her bosom, even as she mused in quiet, now seeming to steal insidiously over her glowing temples, and then leaving on her face an almost startling paleness. Her stature, as she reclined, seemed above the medium height of womanhood, and her figure was rather delicate than full, though the little foot that rested on the damask cushion before her displayed a rounded outline that any of her sex might envy.

“Oh! I’m as expert as if I were signal officer to the lord high admiral of this realm!” exclaimed the laughing female on the floor, clapping her hands together in girlish exultation. “I do long, Cecilia, for an opportunity to exhibit my skill.”

While her cousin was speaking, Miss Howard raised her head, with a faint smile, and as she turned her eyes toward the other, a spectator might have been disappointed, but could not have been displeased, by the unexpected change the action produced in the expression of her countenance.

Instead of the piercing black eyes that the deep color of her tresses would lead him to expect, he would have beheld two large, mild, blue orbs, that seemed to float in a liquid so pure as to be nearly invisible and which were more remarkable for their tenderness and persuasion, than for the vivid flashes that darted from the quick glances of her companion.

“The success of your mad excursion to the seaside, my cousin, has bewildered your brain,” returned Cecilia; “but I know not how to conquer your disease, unless we prescribe salt water for the remedy, as in some other cases of madness.”

“Ah! I am afraid your nostrum would be useless,” cried Katherine; “it has failed to wash out the disorder from the sedate Mr. Richard Barnstable, who has had the regimen administered to him through many a hard gale, but who continues as fair a candidate for Bedlam as ever. Would you think it, Cicely, the crazy one urged me, in the ten minutes’ conversation we held together on the cliffs, to accept of his schooner as a shower-bath!”

“I can think that your hardihood might encourage him to expect much, but surely he could not have been serious in such a proposal!”

“Oh! to do the wretch justice, he did say something of a chaplain to consecrate the measure, but there was boundless impudence in the thought. I have not, nor shall I forget it, or forgive him for it, these six-and-twenty years. What a fine time he must have had of it, in his little Ariel, among the monstrous waves we saw tumbling in upon the shore to-day, coz! I hope they will wash his impudence out of him! I do think the man cannot have had a dry thread about him, from sun to sun. I must believe it as a punishment for his boldness, and, be certain, I shall tell him of it. I will form half a dozen signals, this instant, to joke at his moist condition, in very revenge.”

Pleased with her own thoughts, and buoyant with the secret hope that Her adventurous undertaking would be finally crowned with complete success, the gay girl shook her black locks, in infinite mirth, and tossed the mimic flags gaily around her person, as she was busied in forming new combinations, in order to amuse herself with her lover’s disastrous situation. But the features of her cousin clouded with the thoughts that were excited by her remarks, and she replied, in a tone that bore some little of the accents of reproach:

“Katherine! Katherine! can you jest when there is so much to apprehend? Forget you what Alice Dunscombe told us of the gale, this morning? and that she spoke of two vessels, a ship and a schooner, that had been seen venturing with fearful temerity within the shoals, only six miles from the abbey, and that unless God in his gracious providence had been kind to them, there was but little doubt that their fate would be a sad one? Can you, that know so well who and what these daring mariners are, be merry about the self-same winds that caused their danger?”

The thoughtless, laughing girl was recalled to her recollection by this remonstrance, and every trace of mirth vanished from her countenance, leaving a momentary death-like paleness crossing her face, as she clasped her hands before her, and fastened her keen eyes vacantly on the splendid pieces of silk that now lay unheeded around her. At this critical moment the door of the room slowly opened, and Colonel Howard entered the apartment with an air that displayed a droll mixture of stern indignation, with a chivalric and habitual respect to the sex.

“I solicit your pardon, young ladies, for the interruption,” he said; “I trust, however, that an old man’s presence can never be entirely unexpected In the drawing-room of his wards.”

As he bowed, the colonel seated himself on the end of the couch, opposite to the place where his niece had been reclining, for Miss Howard had risen at his entrance, and continued standing until her uncle had comfortably disposed of himself. Throwing a glance which was not entirely free from self-commendation around the comfortable apartment, the veteran proceeded, in the same tone as before:

“You are not without the means of making any guest welcome, nor do I see the necessity of such constant seclusion from the eyes of the world as you thus rigidly practise.”

Cecilia looked timidly at her uncle, with surprise, before she returned an answer to his remark.

“We certainly owe much to your kind attention, dear sir,” she at length uttered; “but is our retirement altogether voluntary?”

“How can it be otherwise! are you not mistress of this mansion, madam? In selecting the residence where your and, permit me to add, my ancestors so long dwelt in credit and honor, I have surely been less governed by any natural pride that I might have entertained on such a subject, than by a desire to consult your comfort and happiness. Everything appears to my aged eyes as if we ought not to be ashamed to receive our friends within these walls. The cloisters of St. Ruth, Miss Howard, are not entirely bare, neither are their tenants wholly unworthy to be seen.”

“Open, then, the portals of the abbey, sir, and your niece will endeavor to do proper credit to the hospitality of its master.”

“That was spoken like Harry Howard’s daughter, frankly and generously!” cried the old soldier, insensibly edging himself nearer to his niece. “If my brother had devoted himself to the camp, instead of the sea, Cecilia, he would have made one of the bravest and ablest generals in his majesty’s service — poor Harry! he might have been living at this very day, and at this moment leading the victorious troops of his sovereign through the revolted colonies in triumph. But he is gone, Cecilia, and has left you behind him, as his dear representative, to perpetuate our family and to possess what little has been left to us from the ravages of the times.”

“Surely, dear sir,” said Cecilia, taking his hand, which, had unconsciously approached her person, and pressing it to her lips, “we have no cause to complain of our lot in respect to fortune, though it may cause us bitter regret that so few of us are left to enjoy it.”

“No, no, no,” said Katherine, in a low, hurried voice; “Alice Dunscombe is and must be wrong; Providence would never abandon brave men to so cruel a fate!”

“Alice Dunscombe is here to atone for her error, if she has fallen into one,” said a quiet, subdued voice, in which the accents of a provincial dialect, however, were slightly perceptible, and which, in its low tones, wanted that silvery clearness that gave so much feminine sweetness to the words of Miss Howard, and which even rang melodiously in the ordinarily vivacious strains of her cousin.

The surprise created by these sudden interruptions caused a total suspension of the discourse. Katherine Plowden, who had continued kneeling in the attitude before described, arose, and as she looked about her in momentary confusion, the blood again mantled her face with the fresh and joyous springs of life. The other speaker advanced steadily into the middle of the room; and after returning, with studied civility, the low bow of Colonel Howard, seated herself in silence on the opposite couch. The manner of her entrance, her reception, and her attire, sufficiently denoted that the presence of this female was neither unusual nor unwelcome. She was dressed with marked simplicity, though with a studied neatness, that more than compensated for the absence of ornaments. Her age might not have much exceeded thirty, but there was an adoption of customs in her attire that indicated she was not unwilling to be thought older. Her fair flaxen hair was closely confined by a dark bandeau, such as was worn in a nation farther north by virgins only, over which a few curls strayed, in a manner that showed the will of their mistress alone restrained their luxuriance. Her light complexion had lost much of its brilliancy, but enough still remained to assert its original beauty and clearness. To this description might be added, fine, mellow, blue eyes; beautifully white, though large teeth; a regular set of features, and a person that was clad in a dark lead-colored silk, which fitted her full, but gracefully moulded form with the closest exactness.

Colonel Howard paused a moment after this lady was seated, and then turning himself to Katherine with an air that became stiff and constrained by attempting to seem extremely easy, he said:

“You no sooner summon Miss Alice, but she appears, Miss Plowden — ready and (I am bold to say, Miss Alice) able to defend herself against all charges that her worst enemies can allege against her.”

“I have no charges to make against Miss Dunscombe,” said Katherine, pettishly, “nor do I wish to have dissensions created between me and my friends, even by Colonel Howard.”

“Colonel Howard will studiously avoid such offences in future,” said the veteran, bowing; and turning stiffly to the others, he continued: “I was just conversing with my niece as you entered, Miss Alice, on the subject of her immuring herself like one of the veriest nuns who ever inhabited these cloisters. I tell her, madam, that neither her years, nor my fortune, nor, indeed, her own, for the child of Harry Howard was not left penniless, require that we should live as if the doors of the world were closed against us, or there was no other entrance to St. Ruth’s but through those antiquated windows. Miss Plowden, I feel it to be my duty to inquire why those pieces of silk are provided in such an unusual abundance, and in so extraordinary a shape?”

“To make a gala dress for the ball you are about to give, sir,” said Katherine, with a saucy smile that was only checked by the reproachful glance of her cousin. “You have taste In a lady’s attire, Colonel Howard; will not this bright yellow form a charming relief to my brown face, while this white and black relieve one another, and this pink contrasts so sweetly with black eyes? Will not the whole form a turban fit for an empress to wear?”

As the arch maiden prattled on in this unmeaning manner, her rapid fingers entwined the flags in a confused maze, which she threw over her head in a form not unlike the ornament for which she intimated it was intended. The veteran was by far too polite to dispute a lady’s taste, and he renewed the dialogue, with his slightly awakened suspicion completely quieted by her dexterity and artifice. But although it was not difficult to deceive Colonel Howard in matters of female dress, the case was very different with Alice Dunscombe, This lady gazed with a steady eye and reproving countenance on the fantastical turban, until Katherine threw herself by her side, and endeavored to lead her attention to other subjects, by her playful motions and whispered questions.

“I was observing, Miss Alice,” continued the colonel, “that although the times had certainly inflicted some loss on my estate, yet we were not so much reduced as to be unable to receive our friends in a manner that would not disgrace the descendants of the ancient possessors of St. Ruth. Cecilia, here, my brother Harry’s daughter, is a young lady that any uncle might be proud to exhibit, and I would have her, madam, show your English dames that we rear no unworthy specimens of the parent stock on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“You have only to declare your pleasure, my good uncle,” said Miss Howard, “and it shall be executed.”

“Tell us how we can oblige you, sir,” continued Katherine, “and if it be in any manner that will relieve the tedium of this dull residence, I promise you at least one cheerful assistant to your scheme.”

“You speak fair,” cried the colonel, “and like two discreet and worthy girls! Well, then, our first step shall be to send a message to Dillon and the captain, and invite them to attend your coffee. I see the hour approaches.”

Cecilia made no reply, but looked distressed, and dropped her mild eyes to the carpet; Miss Plowden took it upon herself to answer:

“Nay, sir, that would be for them to proceed in the matter; as your proposal was that the first step should be ours, suppose we all adjourn to your part of the house, and do the honors of the tea-table in your drawing-room, instead of our own. I understand, sir, that you have had an apartment fitted up for that purpose in some style; a woman’s taste might aid your designs, however.”

“Miss Plowden, I believe I intimated to you some time since,” said the displeased colonel, “that so long as certain suspicious vessels were known to hover on this coast, I should desire that you and Miss Howard would confine yourselves to this wing.”

“Do not say that we confine ourselves,” said Katherine, “but let it be spoken in plain English, that you confine us here.”

“Am I a jailer, madam, that you apply such epithets to my conduct? Miss Alice must form strange conclusions of our manners, if she receive her impressions from your very singular remarks. I — — “

“All measures adopted from a dread of the ship and the schooner that ran within the Devil’s Grip, yester-eve, may be dispensed with now,” interrupted Miss Dunscombe, in a melancholy, reflecting tone. “There are few living who know the dangerous paths that can conduct even the smallest craft in safety from the land, with daylight and fair winds; but when darkness and adverse gales oppose them, the chance for safety lies wholly in God’s kindness.”

“There is truly much reason to believe they are lost,” returned the veteran, in a voice in which no exultation was apparent.

“They are not lost!” exclaimed Katherine, with startling energy, leaving her seat, and walking across the room to join Cecilia, with an air that seemed to elevate her little figure to the height of her cousin. “They are skilful and they are brave, and what gallant sailors can do will they do, and successfully; besides, in what behalf would a just Providence sooner exercise its merciful power, than to protect the daring children of an oppressed country, while contending against tyranny and countless wrongs?”

The conciliating disposition of the colonel deserted him, as he listened. His own black eyes sparkled with a vividness unusual for his years, and his courtesy barely permitted the lady to conclude, ere he broke forth:

“What sin, madam, what damning crime, would sooner call down the just wrath of heaven on the transgressors, than the act of foul rebellion? It was this crime, madam, that deluged England in blood in the reign of the first Charles; it is this crime that has dyed more fields red than all the rest of man’s offences united; it has been visited on our race as a condign punishment, from the days of the deservedly devoted Absalom, down to the present time; in short, it lost heaven forever to some of the most glorious of its angels, and there is much reason to believe that it is the one unpardonable sin named in the holy gospels.”

“I know that you have authority for believing it to be the heavy enormity that you mention, Colonel Howard,” said Miss Dunscombe, anticipating the spirited reply of Katherine, and willing to avert it; she hesitated an instant, and then drawing a heavy shivering sigh, she continued, in a voice that grew softer as she spoke: “’tis indeed a crime of magnitude, and one that throws the common blackslidings of our lives, speaking by comparison, into the sunshine of his favor. Many there are who sever the dearest ties of this life, by madly rushing into its sinful vortex; for I fain think the heart grows hard with the sight of human calamity, and becomes callous to the miseries its owner inflicts; especially where we act the wrongs on our own kith and kin, regardless who or how many that are dear to us suffer by our evil deeds. It is, besides, Colonel Howard, a dangerous temptation, to one little practiced in the great world, to find himself suddenly elevated into the seat of power; and if it does not lead to the commission of great crimes, it surely prepares the way to it, by hardening the heart.”

“I hear you patiently, Miss Alice,” said Katherine, dancing her little foot, in affected coolness; “for you neither know of whom nor to whom you speak. But Colonel Howard has not that apology. Peace, Cecilia, for I must speak! Believe them not, dear girl; there is not a wet hair on their heads. For you, Colonel Howard, who must recollect that the sister’s son of the mothers of both your niece and myself is on board that frigate, there is an appearance of cruelty in using such language.”

“I pity the boy! from my soul I pity him!” exclaimed the veteran, “he is a child, and has followed the current that is sweeping our unhappy colonies down the tide of destruction. There are others in that vessel who have no excuse of ignorance to offer. There is a son of my old acquaintance, and the bosom friend of my brother Harry, Cecilia’s father, dashing Hugh Griffith, as we called him. The urchins left home together and were rated on board one of his majesty’s vessels on the same day. Poor Harry lived to carry a broad pennant in the service, and Hugh died in command of a frigate. This boy, too! He was a nurtured on board his father’s vessel, and learned, from his majesty’s discipline, how to turn his arms against his king. There is something shockingly unnatural in that circumstance. Miss Alice, ’tis the child inflicting a blow on the parent. ’Tis such men as these, with Washington at their heads, who maintain the bold front this rebellion wears.”

“There are men, who have never won the servile livery of Britain, sir, whose names are as fondly cherished in America as any that she boasts of,” said Katherine, proudly; “ay, sir, and those who would gladly oppose the bravest officers in the British fleet.”

“I contend not against your misguided reason,” said Colonel Howard, rising with cool respect. “A young lady who ventures to compare rebels with gallant gentlemen engaged in their duty to their prince, cannot escape the imputation of possessing a misguided reason. No man — I speak not of women, who cannot be supposed so well versed in human nature — but no man who has reached the time of life that entitles him to be called by that name, can consort with these disorganizers, who would destroy everything that is sacred — these levellers, who would pull down the great, to exalt the little — these jacobins, who — who — — “

“Nay, sir, if you are at a loss for opprobrious epithets,” said Katherine, with provoking coolness, “call on Mr. Christopher Dillon for assistance; he waits your pleasure at the door.”

Colonel Howard turned in amazement, forgetting his angry declamations at this unexpected intelligence, and beheld, in reality, the sombre visage of his kinsman, who stood holding the door in his hand, apparently as much surprised at finding himself in the presence of the ladies, as they themselves could be at his unusual visit.

CHAPTER XI.

“Prithee, Kate, let’s stand aside, and see the end of this controversy.”

Shakspeare.

During the warm discussions of the preceding chapter, Miss Howard had bowed her pale face to the arm of the couch, and sat an unwilling and distressed listener to the controversy; but now that another, and one whom she thought an unauthorized, intruder on her privacy was announced, she asserted the dignity of her sex as proudly, though with something more of discretion, than her cousin could possibly have done. Rising from her seat, she inquired:

“To what are we indebted for so unexpected a visit from Mr. Dillon? Surely he must know that we are prohibited going to the part of the dwelling where he resides, and I trust Colonel Howard will tell him that common justice requires we should be permitted to be private.”

The gentleman replied, in a manner in which malignant anger was sufficiently mingled with calculating humility:

“Miss Howard will think better of my intrusion, when she knows that I am come on business of importance to her uncle.”

“Ah! that may alter the case, Kit; but the ladies must have the respect that is due to their sex. I forgot, somehow, to have myself announced; but that Borroughcliffe leads me deeper into my Madeira than I have been accustomed to go, since the time when my poor brother Harry, with his worthy friend, Hugh Griffith — the devil seize Hugh Griffith, and all his race — your pardon, Miss Alice — what is your business with me, Mr. Dillon?”

“I bear a message from Captain Borroughcliffe. You may remember that, according to your suggestions, the sentinels were to be changed every night, sir.”

“Ay! ay! we practised that in our campaign against Montcalm; ’twas necessary to avoid the murders of their Indians, who were sure, Miss Alice, to shoot down a man at his post, if he were placed two nights running in the same place.”

“Well, sir, your prudent precautions have not been thrown away,” continued Dillon, moving farther into the apartment, as if he felt himself becoming a more welcome guest as he proceeded; “the consequences are, that we have already made three prisoners.”

“Truly it has been a most politic scheme!” exclaimed Katherine Plowden, with infinite contempt. “I suppose, as Mr. Christopher Dillon applauds it so highly, that it has some communion with the law! and that the redoubtable garrison of St. Ruth are about to reap the high glory of being most successful thief-takers!”

The sallow face of Dillon actually became livid as he replied, and his whole frame shook with the rage he vainly endeavored to suppress.

“There may be a closer communion with the law, and its ministers, perhaps, than Miss Plowden can desire,” he said; “for rebellion seldom finds favor in any Christian code.”

“Rebellion!” exclaimed the Colonel; “and what has this detention of three vagabonds to do with rebellion, Kit? Has the damnable poison found its way across the Atlantic? — your pardon — Miss Alice — but this is a subject on which you can feel with me; I know your sentiments on the allegiance that is due to our anointed sovereign. Speak, Mr. Dillon, are we surrounded by another set of Demons! if so, we must give ourselves to the work and rally round our prince; for this island is the main pillar of his throne.”

“I cannot say that there is any appearance at present, of an intention to rise in this island,” said Dillon, with demure gravity; “though the riots in London warrant any precautionary measures on the part of his majesty’s ministers, even to a suspension of the habeas corpus. But you have had your suspicions concerning two certain vessels that have been threatening the coast, for several days past, in a most piratical manner?”

The little foot of Katherine played rapidly on the splendid carpet, but she contented herself with bestowing a glance of the most sovereign contempt on the speaker, as if she disdained any further reply. With the Colonel, however, this was touching a theme that lay nearest his heart, and he answered, in a manner worthy of the importance of the subject:

“You speak like a sensible man, and a loyal subject, Mr. Dillon. The habeas corpus, Miss Alice, was obtained in the reign of King John, along with Magna Charta, for the security of the throne, by his majesty’s barons; some of my own blood were of the number, which alone would be a pledge that the dignity of the crown was properly consulted. As to our piratical countrymen, Christopher, there is much reason to think that the vengeance of an offended Providence has already reached them. Those who know the coast well tell me that without a better pilot than an enemy would be likely to procure, it would be impossible for any vessel to escape the shoals among which they entered, on a dark night, and with an adverse gale; the morning has arrived, and they are not to be seen!”

“But be they friends or be they enemies, sir,” continued Dillon, respectfully, “there is much reason to think that we have now in the abbey those who can tell us something of their true character; for the men we have detained carry with them the appearance of having just landed, and wear not only the dress but the air of seamen.”

“Of seamen!” echoed Katherine, a deadly paleness chasing from her cheeks the bloom which indignation had heightened.

“Of seamen, Miss Plowden,” repeated Dillon, with malignant satisfaction, but concealing it under an air of submissive respect.

“I thank you, sir, for so gentle a term,” replied the young lady, recollecting herself, and recovering her presence of mind in the same instant; “the imagination of Mr. Dillon is so apt to conjure the worst, that he is entitled to our praise for so far humoring our weakness, as not to alarm us with the apprehensions of their being pirates.”

“Nay, madam, they may yet deserve that name,” returned the other, coolly; “but my education has instructed me to hear the testimony before I pronounce sentence.”

“Ah! that the boy has found in his Coke upon Littleton,” cried the Colonel; “the law is a salutary corrective to human infirmities, Miss Alice; and among other things, it teaches patience to a hasty temperament. But for this cursed, unnatural rebellion, madam, the young man would at this moment have been diffusing its blessings from a judicial chair in one of the colonies — ay! and I pledge myself, to all alike, black and white, red and yellow, with such proper distinctions as nature has made between the officer and the private. Keep a good heart, kinsman; we shall yet find a time! the royal arms have many hands and things look better at the last advices. But come, we will proceed to the guard-room and put these stragglers to the question; runaways, I’ll venture to predict, from one of his majesty’s cruisers, or perhaps honest subjects engaged in supplying the service with men. Come, Kit, come, let us go, and — — “

“Are we then to lose the company of Colonel Howard so soon?” said Katherine, advancing to her guardian, with an air of blandishment and pleasantry. “I know that he too soon forgets the hasty language of our little disputes, to part in anger, if, indeed, he will even quit us till he has tasted of our coffee.”

The veteran turned to the speaker of this unexpected address, and listened with profound attention. When she had done, he replied, with a good deal of softness in his tones:

“Ah! provoking one! you know me too well, to doubt my forgiveness; but duty must be attended to, though even a young lady’s smiles tempt me to remain. Yes, yes, child, you, too, are the daughter of a very brave and worthy seaman; but you carry your attachment to that profession too far, Miss Plowden — you do, indeed you do.”

Katherine might have faintly blushed; but the slight smile, which mingled with the expression of her shame, gave to her countenance a look of additional archness, and she laid her hand lightly on the sleeve of her guardian, to detain him, as she replied:

“Yet why leave us, Colonel Howard? It is long since we have seen you in the cloisters, and you know you come as a father; tarry, and you may yet add confessor to the title.”

“I know thy sins already, girl,” said the worthy colonel, unconsciously yielding to her gentle efforts to lead him back to his seat; “they are, deadly rebellion in your heart to your prince, a most inveterate propensity to salt water, and a great disrespect to the advice and wishes of an old fellow whom your father’s will and the laws of the realm have made the guardian of your person and fortune.”

“Nay, say not the last, dear sir,” cried Katherine; “for there is not a syllable you have ever said to me on that foolish subject, that I have forgotten. Will you resume your seat again? Cecilia, Colonel Howard consents to take his coffee with us.”

“But you forget the three men, honest Kit there, and our respectable guest, Captain Borroughcliffe.”

“Let honest Kit stay there, if he please; you may send a request to Captain Borroughcliffe to join our party; I have a woman’s curiosity to see the soldier; and as for the three men— “ she paused, and affected to muse a moment, when she continued, as if struck by an obvious thought— “yes, and the men can be brought in and examined here; who knows but they may have been wrecked in the gale, and need our pity and assistance, rather than deserve your suspicions.”

“There is a solemn warning in Miss Plowden’s conjecture, that should come home to the breasts of all who live on this wild coast,” said Alice Dunscombe; “I have known many a sad wreck among the hidden shoals, and when the wind has blown but a gentle gale, compared to last night’s tempest. The wars, and the uncertainties of the times, together with man’s own wicked passions, have made great havoc with those who knew well the windings of the channels among the ‘Ripples.’ Some there were who could pass, as I have often heard, within a fearful distance of the ‘Devil’s Grip,’ the darkest night that ever shadowed England; but all are now gone of that daring set, either by the hand of death, or, what is even as mournful, by unnatural banishment from the land of their fathers.”

“This war has then probably drawn off most of them, for your recollections must be quite recent, Miss Alice,” said the veteran; “as many of them were engaged in the business of robbing his majesty’s revenue, the country is in some measure requited for the former depredations, by their present services, and at the same time it is happily rid of their presence. Ah! madam, ours is a glorious constitution, where things are so nicely balanced, that, as in the physical organization of a healthy, vigorous man, the baser parts are purified in the course of things, by its own wholesome struggles.”

The pale features of Alice Dunscombe became slightly tinged with red, as the colonel proceeded, nor did the faint glow entirely leave her pallid face, until she had said:

“There might have been some who knew not how to respect the laws of the land, for such are never wanting: but there were others, who, however guilty they might be in many respects, need not charge themselves with that mean crime, and yet who could find the passages that lie hid from common eyes, beneath the rude waves, as well as you could find the way through the halls and galleries of the Abbey, with a noonday sun shining upon its vanes and high chimneys.”

“Is it your pleasure, Colonel Howard, that we examine the three men, and ascertain whether they belong to the number of these gifted pilots?” said Christopher Dillon, who was growing uneasy at his awkward situation, and who hardly deemed it necessary to conceal the look of contempt which he cast at the mild Alice, while he spoke; “perhaps we may gather information enough from them, to draw a chart of the coast that may gain us credit with my lords of the Admiralty.”

This unprovoked attack on their unresisting and unoffending guest brought the rich blood to the very temples of Miss Howard, who rose, and addressed herself to her kinsman, with a manner that could not easily be mistaken any more than it could be condemned:

“If Mr. Dillon will comply with the wishes of Colonel Howard, as my cousin has expressed them, we shall not, at least, have to accuse ourselves of unnecessarily detaining men who probably are more unfortunate than guilty.”

When she concluded, Cecilia walked across the apartment and took a seat by the side of Alice Dunscombe, with whom she began to converse, in a low, soothing tone of voice. Mr. Dillon bowed with a deprecating humility, and having ascertained that Colonel Howard chose to give an audience, where he sat, to the prisoners, he withdrew to execute his mission, secretly exulting at any change that promised to lead to a renewal of an intercourse that might terminate more to his advantage, than the lofty beauty whose favor he courted was, at present, disposed to concede.

“Christopher is a worthy, serviceable, good fellow,” said the colonel, when the door closed, “and I hope to live yet to see him clad in ermine. I would not be understood literally, but figuratively; for furs would but ill comport with the climate of the Carolinas. I trust I am to be consulted by his majesty’s ministers when the new appointments shall be made for the subdued colonies, and he may safely rely on my good word being spoken in his favor. Would he not make an excellent and independent ornament of the bench, Miss Plowden?”

Katherine compressed her lips a little as she replied.

“I must profit by his own discreet rules, and see testimony to that effect, before I decide, sir. But listen!” The young lady’s color changed rapidly, and her eyes became fixed in a sort of feverish gaze on the door. “He has at least been active; I hear the heavy tread of men already approaching.”

“Ah! it is he certainly; justice ought always to be prompt as well as certain, to make it perfect; like a drumhead court-martial, which, by the way, is as summary a sort of government as heart could wish to live under. If his majesty’s ministers could be persuaded to introduce into the revolted colonies — — “

“Listen!” interrupted Katherine, in a voice which bespoke her deep anxiety; “they draw near!”

The sound of footsteps was in fact now so audible as to induce the colonel to suspend the delivery of his plan for governing the recovered provinces. The long, low gallery, which was paved with a stone flagging, soon brought the footsteps of the approaching party more distinctly to their ears, and presently a low tap at the door announced their arrival. Colonel Howard arose, with the air of one who was to sustain the principal character in the ensuing interview, and bade them enter. Cecilia and Alice Dunscombe merely cast careless looks at the opening door, indifferent to the scene; but the quick eye of Katherine embraced, at a glance, every figure in the group. Drawing a long, quivering breath, she fell back on the couch, and her eyes again lighted with their playful expression, as she hummed a low rapid air, with a voice in which even the suppressed tones were liquid melody.

Dillon entered, preceding the soldier, whose gait had become more steady, and in whose rigid eye a thoughtful expression had taken the place of its former vacant gaze. In short, something had manifestly restored to him a more complete command of his mental powers, although he might not have been absolutely sobered. The rest of the party continued in the gallery, while Mr. Dillon presented the renovated captain to the colonel, when the latter did him the same kind office with the ladies.

“Miss Plowden,” said the veteran, for she offered first in the circle, “this is my friend, Captain Borroughcliffe: he has long been ambitious of this honor, and I have no doubt his reception will be such as to leave him no cause to repent he has been at last successful.”

Katherine smiled, and answered with ambiguous emphasis:

“I know not how to thank him sufficiently for the care he has bestowed on our poor persons.”

The soldier looked steadily at her for a moment, with an eye that seemed to threaten a retaliation in kind, ere he replied:

“One of those smiles, madam, would be an ample compensation for services that are more real than such as exist only in intention.”

Katherine bowed with more complacency than she usually bestowed on those who wore the British uniform; and they proceeded to the next.

“This is Miss Alice Dunscombe, Captain Borroughcliffe, daughter of a very worthy clergyman who was formerly the curate of this parish, and a lady who does us the pleasure of giving us a good deal of her society, though far less than we all wish for.”

The captain returned the civil inclination of Alice, and the colonel proceeded:

“Miss Howard, allow me to present Captain Borroughcliffe, a gentleman who, having volunteered to defend St. Ruth in these critical times, merits all the favor of its mistress.”

Cecilia gracefully rose, and received her guest with sweet complacency. The soldier made no reply to the customary compliments that she uttered, but stood an instant gazing at her speaking countenance, and then, laying his hand involuntarily on his breast, bowed nearly to his sword-hilt.

These formalities duly observed, the colonel declared his readiness to receive the prisoners. As the door was opened by Dillon, Katherine cast a cool and steady look at the strangers, and beheld the light glancing along the arms of the soldiers who guarded them. But the seamen entered alone; while the rattling of arms, and the heavy dash of the muskets on the stone pavement, announced that it was thought prudent to retain a force at hand, to watch these secret intruders on the grounds of the abbey.

CHAPTER XII.

“Food for powder; they’ll fill a pit as well as better.”

Falstaff.

The three men who now entered the apartment appeared to be nothing daunted by the presence into which they were ushered, though clad in the coarse and weather-beaten vestments of seamen who had been exposed to recent and severe duty. They silently obeyed the direction of the soldier’s finger, and took their stations in a distant corner of the room, like men who knew the deference due to rank, at the same time that the habits of their lives had long accustomed them to encounter the vicissitudes of the world. With this slight preparation Colonel Howard began the business of examination.

“I trust ye are all good and loyal subjects,” the veteran commenced, with a considerate respect for innocence, “but the times are such that even the most worthy characters become liable to suspicion; and, consequently, if our apprehensions should prove erroneous, you must overlook the mistake, and attribute it to the awful condition into which rebellion has plunged this empire. We have much reason to fear that some project is about to be undertaken on the coast by the enemy, who has appeared, we know, with a frigate and schooner; and the audacity of the rebels is only equaled by their shameless and wicked disrespect for the rights of the sovereign.”

While Colonel Howard was uttering his apologetic preamble, the prisoners fastened their eyes on him with much interest; but when he alluded to the apprehended attack, the gaze of two of them became more keenly attentive, and, before he concluded, they exchanged furtive glances of deep meaning. No reply was made, however, and after a short pause, as if to allow time for his words to make a proper impression, the veteran continued:

“We have no evidence, I understand, that you are in the smallest degree connected with the enemies of this country; but as you have been found out of the king’s highway, or, rather, on a by-path, which I must confess is frequently used by the people of the neighborhood, but which is nevertheless nothing but a by-path, it becomes no more than what self-preservation requires of us, to ask you a few such questions as I trust will be satisfactorily answered. To use your own nautical phrases, ‘From whence came ye, pray?’ and ‘whither are ye bound?’”

A low, deep voice replied:

“From Sunderland, last, and bound, overland, to Whitehaven.”

This simple and direct answer was hardly given, before the attention of the listeners was called to Alice Dunscombe, who uttered a faint shriek, and rose from her seat involuntarily, while her eyes seemed to roll fearfully, and perhaps a little wildly, round the room.

“Are you ill, Miss Alice?” said the sweet, soothing tones of Cecilia Howard; “you are, indeed you are: lean on me, that I may lead you to your apartment.”

“Did you hear it, or was it only fancy?” she answered, her cheek blanched to the whiteness of death, and her whole frame shuddering as if in convulsions; “say, did you hear it, too?”

“I have heard nothing but the voice of my uncle, who is standing near you, anxious, as we all are, for your recovery from this dreadful agitation.”

Alice still gazed wildly from face to face. Her eye did not rest satisfied with dwelling on those who surrounded her, but surveyed, with a sort of frantic eagerness, the figures and appearance of the three men, who stood in humble patience, the silent and unmoved witnesses of this extraordinary scene. At length she veiled her eyes with both her hands, as if to shut out some horrid vision, and then removing them, she smiled languidly, as she signed for Cecilia to assist her from the room. To the polite and assiduous offers of the gentlemen, she returned no other thanks than those conveyed in her looks and gestures; but when the sentinels who paced the gallery were passed, and the ladies were alone, she breathed a long, shivering sigh, and found an utterance.

“’Twas like a voice from the silent grave!” she said, “but it could be no more than mockery. No, no, ’tis a just punishment for letting the image of the creature fill the place that should be occupied only with the Creator. Ah! Miss Howard, Miss Plowden, ye are both young — in the pride of your beauty and loveliness — but little do ye know, and less do ye dread, the temptations and errors of a sinful world.”

“Her thoughts wander!” whispered Katherine, with anxious tenderness, “some awful calamity has affected her intellect!”

“Yes, it must be; my sinful thoughts have wandered, and conjured sounds that it would have been dreadful to hear in truth, and within these walls,” said Alice, more composedly, smiling with a ghastly expression, as she gazed on the two beautiful, solicitous maidens who supported her yielding person. “But the moment of weakness is passed, and I am better; aid me to my room, and return, that you may not interrupt the reviving harmony between yourselves and Colonel Howard. I am now better — nay, I am quite restored.”

“Say not so, dear Miss Alice,” returned Cecilia; “your face denies what your kindness to us induces you to utter; ill, very ill, you are, nor shall even your own commands induce me to leave you.”

“Remain, then,” said Miss Dunscombe, bestowing a look of grateful affection on her lovely supporter; “and while our Katherine returns to the drawing-room, to give the gentlemen their coffee, you shall continue with me, as my gentle nurse.”

By this time they had gained the apartment, and Katherine, after assisting her cousin to place Alice on her bed, returned to do the honors of the drawing-room.

Colonel Howard ceased his examination of the prisoners, at her entrance, to inquire, with courtly solicitude, after the invalid; and, when his questions were answered, he again proceeded, as follows:

“This is what the lads would call plain sailing, Borroughcliffe: they are out of employment in Sunderland, and have acquaintances and relatives in Whitehaven, to whom they are going for assistance and labor. All very probable, and perfectly harmless.”

“Nothing more so, my respectable host,” returned the jocund soldier; “but it seemeth a grievous misfortune that a trio of such flesh and blood should need work wherewithal to exercise their thews and sinews, while so many of the vessels of his majesty’s fleet navigate the ocean in quest of the enemies of old England.”

“There is truth in that; much truth in your remark,” cried the colonel. “What say you, my lads, will you fight the Frenchmen and the Don —— ay! and even my own rebellious and infatuated countrymen? Nay, by heaven, it is not a trifle that shall prevent his majesty from possessing the services of three such heroes. Here are five guineas apiece for you the moment that you put foot on board the Alacrity cutter; and that can easily be done, as she lies at anchor this very night, only two short leagues to the south of this, in a small port, where she is riding out the gale as snugly as if she were in a corner of this room.”

One of the men affected to gaze at the money with longing eyes, while he asked, as if weighing the terms of the engagement:

“Whether the Alacrity was called a good sea-boat, and was thought to give a comfortable berth to her crew?”

“Comfortable!” echoed Borroughcliffe; “for that matter, she is called the bravest cutter in the navy. You have seen much of the world, I dare say; did you ever see such a place as the marine arsenal at Carthagena, in old Spain?”

“Indeed I have, sir,” returned the seaman, in a cool, collected tone.

“Ah! you have! well, did you ever meet with a house in Paris that they call the Tuileries? because it’s a dog-kennel to the Alacrity.”

“I have even fallen in with the place you mention, sir,” returned the sailor; “and must own the berth quite good enough for such as I am, if it tallies with your description.”

“The deuce take these blue-jackets,” muttered Borroughcliffe, addressing himself unconsciously to Miss Plowden, near whom he happened to be at the time; “they run their tarry countenances into all the corners of the earth, and abridge a man most lamentably in his comparisons. Now, who the devil would have thought that fellow had ever put his sea-green eyes on the palace of King Louis?”

Katherine heeded not his speech, but sat eying the prisoners with a confused and wavering expression of countenance, while Colonel Howard renewed the discourse, by exclaiming:

“Come, come, Borroughcliffe, let us give the lads no tales for a recruit, but good, plain, honest English — God bless the language, and the land for which it was first made, too! There is no necessity to tell these men, if they are, what they seem to be, practical seamen, that a cutter of ten guns contains all the room and accommodation of a palace.”

“Do you allow nothing for English oak and English comfort, mine host?” said the immovable captain; “do you think, good sir, that I measure fitness and propriety by square and compass, as if I were planning Solomon’s temple anew? All I mean to say is, that the Alacrity is a vessel of singular compactness and magical arrangement of room. Like the tent of that handsome brother of the fairy, in the Arabian Nights, she is big or she is little, as occasion needeth; and now, hang me, if I don’t think I have uttered more in her favor than her commander would say to help me to a recruit, though no lad in the three kingdoms should appear willing to try how a scarlet coat would suit his boorish figure.”

“That time has not yet arrived, and God forbid that it ever should, while the monarch needs a soldier in the field to protect his rights. But what say ye, my men? you have heard the recommendation that Captain Borroughcliffe has given of the Alacrity, which is altogether true — after making some allowances for language. Will ye serve? shall I order you a cheering glass a man, and lay by the gold, till I hear from the cutter that you are enrolled under the banners of the best of kings?”

Katherine Plowden, who hardly seemed to breathe, so close and intent was the interest with which she regarded the seamen, fancied she observed lurking smiles on their faces; but if her conjectures were true, their disposition to be merry went no further, and the one who had spoken hitherto replied, in the same calm manner as before:

“You will excuse us if we decline shipping in the cutter, sir; we are used to distant voyages and large vessels, whereas the Alacrity is kept at coast duty, and is not of a size to lay herself alongside of a Don or a Frenchman with a double row of teeth.”

“If you prefer that sort of sport, you must to the right about for Yarmouth; there you will find ships that will meet anything that swims,” said the colonel.

“Perhaps the gentlemen would prefer abandoning the cares and dangers of the ocean for a life of ease and gayety,” said the captain. “The hand that has long dallied with a marlinspike may be easily made to feel a trigger, as gracefully as a lady touches the keys of her piano. In short, there is and there is not a great resemblance between the life of a sailor and that of a soldier. There are no gales of wind, nor short allowances, nor reefing topsails, nor shipwrecks, among soldiers; and, at the same time, there is just as much, or even more, grog-drinking, jollifying, care-killing fun around a canteen and an open knapsack, than there is on the end of a mess-chest, with a full can and a Saturday-night’s breeze. I have crossed the ocean several times, and I must own that a ship, in good weather, is very much the same as a camp or comfortable barracks; mind, I say only in very good weather.”

“We have no doubt that all you say is true, sir,” observed the spokesman of the three; “but what to you may seem a hardship, to us is pleasure. We have faced too many a gale to mind a capful of wind, and should think ourselves always in the calm latitudes in one of your barracks, where there is nothing to do but to eat our grub and to march a little fore and aft a small piece of green earth. We hardly know one end of a musket from the other.”

“No!” said Borroughcliffe, musing; and then advancing with a quick step toward them, he cried, in a spirited manner: “Attention! right! dress!”

The speaker, and the seaman next him, gazed at the captain in silent wonder; but the third individual of the party, who had drawn himself a little aside, as if willing to be unnoticed, or perhaps pondering on his condition, involuntarily started at this unexpected order, and erecting himself, threw his head to the right as promptly as if he had been on a parade-ground.

“Oho! ye are apt scholars, gentlemen, and ye can learn, I see,” continued Borroughcliffe. “I feel it to be proper that I detain these men till to-morrow morning, Colonel Howard; and yet I would give them better quarters than the hard benches of the guard-room.”

“Act your pleasure. Captain Borroughcliffe,” returned the host, “so you do but your duty to our royal master. They shall not want for cheer, and they can have a room over the servants’ offices in the south side of the abbey.”

“Three rooms, my colonel, three rooms must be provided, though I give up my own.”

“There are several-small empty apartments there, where blankets might be taken, and the men placed for safe-keeping, if you deem it necessary; though, to me, they seem like good, loyal tars, whose greatest glory it would be to serve their prince, and whose chief pleasure would consist in getting alongside of a Don or a Monsieur.”

“We shall discuss these matters anon,” said Borroughcliffe, dryly. “I see Miss Plowden begins to look grave at our abusing her patience so long, and I know that cold coffee is, like withered love, but a tasteless sort of a beverage. Come, gentlemen, en avant! you have seen the Tuileries, and must have heard a little French. Mr. Christopher Dillon, know you where these three small apartments are ‘situate, lying, and being,’ as your parchments read?”

“I do, sir,” said the complying lawyer, “and shall take much pleasure in guiding you to them. I think your decision that of a prudent and sagacious officer, and much doubt whether Durham Castle, or some other fortress, will be thought too big to hold them, ere long.”

As this speech was uttered while the men were passing from the room, its effect on them was unnoticed; but Katherine Plowden, who was left for a few moments by herself, sat and pondered over what she had seen and heard, with a thoughtfulness of manner that was not usual to her gay and buoyant spirits. The sounds of the retiring footsteps, however, gradually grew fainter, and the return of her guardian alone recalled the recollection of the young lady to the duties of her situation.

While engaged in the little offices of the tea-table, Katherine threw many furtive glances at the veteran; but, although he seemed to be musing, there was nothing austere or suspicious in his frank, open countenance, “There is much useless trouble taken with these wandering seamen, sir,” said Katherine, at length; “it seems to be the particular province of Mr. Christopher Dillon to make all that come in contact with him excessively uncomfortable.”

“And what has Kit to do with the detention of the men?”

“What! why, has he not undertaken to stand godfather to their prisons? — by a woman’s patience, I think, Colonel Howard, this business will gain a pretty addition to the names of St. Ruth. It is already called a house, an abbey, a place, and by some a castle; let Mr. Dillon have his way for a month, and it will add jail to the number.”

“Kit is not so happy as to possess the favor of Miss Plowden; but still Kit is a worthy fellow, and a good fellow, and a sensible fellow; ay! and what is of more value than all these put together, Miss Katherine, Mr. Christopher Dillon is a faithful and loyal subject to his prince. His mother was my cousin-german, madam, and I cannot say how soon I may call him my nephew. The Dillons are of good Irish extraction, and I believe that even Miss Plowden will admit that the Howards have some pretensions to a name.”

“Ah! it is those very things called names that I most allude to,” said Katherine, quickly, “But an hour since you were indignant, my dear guardian, because you suspected that I insinuated you ought to write jailer behind the name of Howard, and even now you submit to have the office palmed upon you.”

“You forget, Miss Katherine Plowden, that it is the pleasure of one of his majesty’s officers to detain these men.”

“But I thought that the glorious British constitution, which you so often mention,” interrupted the young lady, spiritedly, “gives liberty to all who touch these blessed shores; you know, sir, that out of twenty blacks that you brought with you, how few remain; the rest having fled on the wings of the spirit of British liberty!”

This was touching a festering sore in the colonel’s feelings, and his provoking ward well knew the effects her observation was likely to produce. Her guardian did not break forth in a violent burst of rage, or furnish those manifestations of his ire that he was wont to do on less important subjects; but he arose, with all his dignity concentred in a look, and, after making a violent effort to restrain his feelings within the bounds necessary to preserve the decorum of his exit, he ventured a reply:

“That the British constitution is glorious, madam, is most true. That this island is the sole refuge where liberty has been able to find a home, is also true. The tyranny and oppression of the Congress, which are grinding down the colonies to the powder of desolation and poverty, are not worthy the sacred name. Rebellion pollutes all that it touches, madam. Although it often commences under the sanction of holy liberty, it ever terminates in despotism. The annals of the world, from the time of the Greeks and Romans down to the present day, abundantly prove it. There was that Julius Caesar — he was one of your people’s men, and he ended a tyrant. Oliver Cromwell was another — a rebel, a demagogue, and a tyrant. The gradations, madam, are as inevitable as from childhood to youth, and from youth to age. As for the little affair that you have been pleased to mention, of the — of the — of my private concerns, I can only say that the affairs of nations are not to be judged of by domestic incidents, any more than domestic occurrences are to be judged of by national politics.” The colonel, like many a better logician, mistook his antithesis for argument, and paused a moment to admire his own eloquence; but the current of his thoughts, which always flowed in torrents on this subject, swept him along in its course, and he continued: “Yes, madam, here, and here alone, is true liberty to be found. With this solemn asseveration, which is not lightly made, but which is the result of sixty years’ experience, I leave you. Miss Plowden; let it be a subject of deep reflection with you, for I too well understand your treacherous feelings not to know that your political errors encourage your personal foibles; reflect, for your own sake, if you love not only your own happiness, but your respectability and standing in the world. As for the black hounds that you spoke of, they are a set of rebellious, mutinous, ungrateful rascals; and if ever I meet one of the damned — — “

The colonel had so far controlled his feelings, as to leave the presence of the lady before he broke out into the bitter invectives we have recorded, and Katherine stood a minute, pressing her forefinger on her lips, listening to his voice as it grumbled along the gallery, until the sounds were finally excluded by the closing of a distant door. The willful girl then shook her dark locks, and a smile of arch mischief blended with an expression of regret in her countenance, as she spoke to herself, while with hurried hands she threw her tea equipage aside in a confused pile:

“It was perhaps a cruel experiment, but it has succeeded. Though prisoners ourselves, we are at least left free for the remainder of this night. These mysterious sailors must be examined more closely. If the proud eye of Edward Griffith was not glaring under the black wig of one of them, I am no judge of features; and where has Master Barnstable concealed his charming visage? for neither of the others could be he. But now for Cecilia.”

Her light form glided from the room, while she was yet speaking; and flitting along the dimly lighted passages, it disappeared in one of those turnings that led to the more secret apartments of the abbey.

CHAPTER XIII.

“How! Lucia, wouldst them have me sink away

In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love?”

Cato.

The reader must not imagine that the world stood still during the occurrence of the scenes we have related. By the time the three seamen were placed in as many different rooms, and a sentinel was stationed in the gallery common to them all, in such a manner as to keep an eye on his whole charge at once, the hour had run deep into the night. Captain Borroughcliffe obeyed a summons from the colonel, who made him an evasive apology for the change in their evening’s amusement, and challenged his guest to a renewal of the attack on the Madeira. This was too grateful a theme to be lightly discussed by the captain; and the abbey clock had given forth as many of its mournful remonstrances as the division of the hours would permit, before they separated. In the mean time, Mr. Dillon became invisible; though a servant, when questioned by the host on the subject, announced that “he believed Mr. Christopher had chosen to ride over to —— , to be in readiness to join the hunt, on the morning, with the dawn.” While the gentlemen were thus indulging themselves in the dining-parlor, and laughing over the tales of other times and hard campaigns, two very different scenes occurred in other parts of the building.

When the quiet of the abbey was only interrupted by the howling of the wind, or by the loud and prolonged laughs which echoed through the passages from the joyous pair, who were thus comfortably established by the side of the bottle, a door was gently opened on one of the galleries of the “cloisters,” and Katherine Plowden issued from it, wrapped in a close mantle, and holding in her hand a chamber-lamp, which threw its dim light faintly along the gloomy walls in front, leaving all behind her obscured in darkness. She was, however, soon followed by two other female figures, clad in the same manner, and provided with similar lights. When all were in the gallery, Katherine drew the door softly to, and proceeded in front to lead the way.

“Hist!” said the low, tremulous voice of Cecilia, “they are yet up in the other parts of the house; and if it be as you suspect, our visit would betray them, and prove the means of their certain destruction.”

“Is the laugh of Colonel Howard in his cups so singular and unknown to your ear, Cecilia, that you know it not?” said Katherine with a little spirit; “or do you forget that on such occasions he seldom leaves himself ears to hear, or eyes to see with? But follow me; it is as I suspect — it must be as I suspect; and unless we do something to rescue them, they are lost, unless they have laid a deeper scheme than is apparent.”

“It is a dangerous road ye both journey,” added the placid tones of Alice Dunscombe; “but ye are young, and ye are credulous.”

“If you disapprove of our visit,” said Cecilia, “it cannot be right, and we had better return.”

“No, no: I have said nought to disapprove of your present errand. If God has put the lives of those in your custody whom ye have taught yourselves to look up to with love and reverence, such as woman is bound to yield to one man, he has done it for no idle purpose. Lead us to their doors, Katherine; let us relieve our doubts, at least.”

The ardent girl did not wait for a second bidding, but she led them, with light and quick steps, along the gallery, until they reached its termination, where they descended to the basement floor by a flight of narrow steps; and carefully opening a small door, emerged into the open air. They now stood on a small plat of grass, which lay between the building and the ornamental garden, across which they moved rapidly, concealing their lights, and bending their shrinking forms before the shivering blasts that poured their fury upon them from the ocean. They soon reached a large but rough addition to the buildings, that concealed its plain architecture behind the more labored and highly finished parts of the edifice, into which they entered through a massive door that stood ajar, as if to admit them.

“Chloe has been true to my orders,” whispered Katherine, as they passed out of the chilling air; “now, if all the servants are asleep, our chance to escape unnoticed amounts to certainty.”

It became necessary to go through the servants’ hall, which they effected unobserved, as it had but one occupant, an aged black man, who, being posted with his ear within two feet of a bell, in this attitude had committed himself to a deep sleep. Gliding through this hall, they entered divers long and intricate passages, all of which seemed as familiar to Katherine as they were unknown to her companions, until they reached another flight of steps, which they ascended. They were now near their goal, and stopped to examine whether any or what difficulties were likely to be opposed to their further progress.

“Now, indeed, our case seems hopeless,” whispered Katherine, as they stood, concealed by the darkness, in one end of an extremely long, narrow passage; “here is the sentinel in the building, instead of being, as I had supposed, under the windows; what is to be done now?”

“Let us return,” said Cecilia, in the same manner; “my influence with my uncle is great, even though he seems unkind to us at times. In the morning I will use it to persuade him to free them, on receiving their promise to abandon all such attempts in future.”

“In the morning it will be too late,” returned Katherine; “I saw that demon, Kit Dillon, mount his horse, under the pretence of riding to the great hunt of to-morrow, but I know his malicious eye too well to be deceived in his errand. He is silent that he may be sure; and if to-morrow comes, and finds Griffith within these walls, he will be condemned to a scaffold.”

“Say no more,” said Alice Dunscombe, with singular emotion; “some lucky circumstance may aid us with this sentinel.”

As she spoke, she advanced: they had not proceeded far, before the stern voice of the soldier challenged the party.

“’Tis no time to hesitate,” whispered Katherine: “we are the ladies of the abbey, looking to our domestic affairs,” she continued aloud, “and think it a little remarkable that we are to encounter armed men, while going through our own dwelling.”

The soldier respectfully presented his musket, and replied:

“My orders are to guard the doors of these three rooms, ladies; we have prisoners in them, and as for anything else, my duty will be to serve you all in my power.”

“Prisoners!” exclaimed Katherine, in affected surprise; “does Captain Borroughcliffe make St. Ruth’s Abbey a jail! Of what offences are the poor men guilty?”

“I know not, my lady; but, as they are sailors, I suppose they have run from his majesty’s service.”

“This is singular, truly! and why are they not sent to the county prison?”

“This must be examined into,” said Cecilia, dropping the mantle from before her face. “As mistress of this house, I claim a right to know whom its walls contain; you will oblige me by opening the doors, for I see you have the keys suspended from your belt.”

The sentinel hesitated. He was greatly awed by the presence and beauty of the speakers, but a still voice reminded him of his duty. A lucky thought, however, interposed to relieve him from his dilemma, and at the same time to comply with the request, or rather order, of the lady. As he handed her the keys, he said:

“Here they are, my lady; my orders are to keep the prisoners in, not to keep any one out. When you are done with them, you will please to return them to me, if it be only to save a poor fellow’s eye; for unless the door is kept locked, I shall not dare to look about me for a moment.”

Cecilia promised to return the keys, and she had applied one of them to a lock with a trembling hand, when Alice Dunscombe arrested her arm, and addressed the soldier.

“Say you there are three? — are they men in years?”

“No, my lady, all good serviceable lads, who couldn’t do better than to serve his majesty, or, as it may prove, worse than to run from their colors.”

“But are their years and appearance similar? I ask; for I have a friend who has been guilty of some boyish tricks, and has tried the seas, I hear, among other foolish hazards.”

“There is no boy here. In the far room on the left is a smart, soldier-looking chap, of about thirty, who the captain thinks has carried a musket before now; on him I am charged to keep a particular eye. Next to him is as pretty a looking youth as eyes could wish to see, and it makes one feel mournful to think what he must come to, if he has really deserted his ship. In the room near you, is a smaller, quiet little body, who might make a better preacher than a sailor, or a soldier either, he has such a gentle way with him.”

Alice covered her eyes with her hand a moment, and then recovering herself, proceeded:

“Gentleness may do more with the unfortunate men than fear; here is a guinea; withdraw to the far end of the passage, where you can watch them as well as here, while we enter, and endeavor to make them confess who and what they really are.”

The soldier took the money, and after looking about him in a little uncertainty, he at length complied, as it was obviously true they could only escape by passing him, near the flight of steps. When he was beyond hearing, Alice Dunscombe turned to her companions, and a slight glow appeared in feverish spots on her cheeks, as she addressed them:

“It would be idle to attempt to hide from you, that I expect to meet the individual whose voice I must have heard in reality to-night, instead of only imaginary sounds, as I vainly, if not wickedly, supposed. I have many reasons for changing my opinion, the chief of which is, that he is leagued with the rebellious Americans in this unnatural war. Nay, chide me not, Miss Plowden; you will remember that I found my being on this island. I come here on no vain or weak errand, Miss Howard, but to spare human blood.” She paused, as if struggling to speak calmly. “But no one can witness the interview except our God.”

“Go, then,” said Katherine, secretly rejoicing at her determination, “while we inquire into the characters of the others.”

Alice Dunscombe turned the key; and gently opening the door, she desired her companions to tap for her, as they returned, and then instantly disappeared in the apartment.

Cecilia and her cousin proceeded to the next door, which they opened in silence, and entered cautiously into the room. Katherine Plowden had so far examined into the arrangements of Colonel Howard, as to know that at the same time he had ordered blankets to be provided for the prisoners, he had not thought it necessary to administer any further to the accommodations of men who had apparently made their beds and pillows of planks for the greater part of their lives.

The ladies accordingly found the youthful sailor whom they sought, with his body rolled in the shaggy covering, extended at his length along the naked boards, and buried in a deep sleep. So timid were the steps of his visitors, and so noiseless was their entrance, that they approached even to his side without disturbing his slumbers. The head of the prisoner lay rudely pillowed on a billet of wood, one hand protecting his face from its rough surface, and the other thrust in his bosom, where it rested, with a relaxed grasp, on the handle of a dirk. Although he slept, and that heavily, yet his rest was unnatural and perturbed. His breathing was hard and quick, and something like the low, rapid murmurings of a confused utterance mingled with his respiration. The moment had now arrived when the character of Cecilia Howard appeared to undergo an entire change. Hitherto she had been led by her cousin, whose activity and enterprise seemed to qualify her so well for the office of guide; but now she advanced before Katherine, and, extending her lamp in such a manner as to throw the light across the face of the sleeper, she bent to examine his countenance, with keen and anxious eyes.

“Am I right?” whispered her cousin.

“May God, in His infinite compassion, pity and protect him!” murmured Cecilia, her whole frame involuntarily shuddering, as the conviction that she beheld Griffith flashed across her mind. “Yes, Katherine, it is he, and presumptuous madness has driven him here. But time presses; he must be awakened, and his escape effected at every hazard.”

“Nay, then, delay no longer, but rouse him from his sleep.”

“Griffith! Edward Griffith!” said the soft tones of Cecilia, “Griffith, awake!”

“Your call is useless, for they sleep nightly among tempests and boisterous sounds,” said Katherine; “but I have heard it said that the smallest touch will generally cause one of them to stir.”

“Griffith!” repeated Cecilia, laying her fair hand timidly on his own.

The flash of lightning is not more nimble than the leap that the young man made to his feet, which he no sooner gained, than his dirk gleamed in the light of the lamps, as he brandished it fiercely with one hand, while with the other he extended a pistol, in a menacing attitude, towards his disturbers.

“Stand back!” he exclaimed; “I am your prisoner only as a corpse.”

The fierceness of his front, and the glaring eyeballs, that tolled wildly around, him, appalled Cecilia, who shrank back in fear, dropping her mantle from her person, but still keeping her mild eyes fastened on his countenance with a confiding gaze, that contradicted her shrinking attitude, as she replied:

“Edward, it is I; Cecilia Howard, come to save you from destruction; you are known even through your ingenious disguise.”

The pistol and the dirk fell together on the blanket of the young sailor, whose looks instantly lost their disturbed expression in a glow of pleasure.

“Fortune at length favors me!” he cried. “This is kind, Cecilia; more than I deserve, and much more than I expected. But you are not alone.”

“’Tis my cousin Kate; to her piercing eyes you owe your detection, and she has kindly consented to accompany me, that we might urge you to — nay, that we might, if necessary, assist you to fly. For ’tis cruel folly, Griffith, thus to tempt your fate.”

“Have I tempted it, then, in vain! Miss Plowden, to you I must appeal for an answer and a justification.”

Katherine looked displeased; but after a moment’s hesitation she replied:

“Your servant, Mr. Griffith; I perceive that the erudite Captain Barnstable has not only succeeded in spelling through my scrawl, but he has also given it to all hands for perusal.”

“Now you do both him and me injustice,” said Griffith; “it surely was not treachery to show me a plan in which I was to be a principal actor.”

“Ah! doubtless your excuses are as obedient to your calls as your men,” returned the young lady; “but how comes it that the hero of the Ariel sends a deputy to perform a duty that is so peculiarly his own? Is he wont to be second in rescues?”

“Heaven forbid that you should think so meanly of him for a moment! We owe you much, Miss Plowden; but we may have other duties. You know that we serve our common country, and have a superior with us, whose beck is our law.”

“Return, then, Mr. Griffith, while you may, to the service of our bleeding country,” said Cecilia, “and, after the joint efforts of her brave children have expelled the intruders from her soil, let us hope there shall come a time when Katherine and myself may be restored to our native homes.”

“Think you, Miss Howard, to how long a period the mighty arm of the British king may extend that time? We shall prevail; a nation fighting for its dearest rights must ever prevail; but ’tis not the work of a day, for a people, poor, scattered, and impoverished as we have been, to beat down a power like that of England; surely you forget, that in bidding me to leave you with such expectations, Miss Howard, you doom me to an almost hopeless banishment!”

“We must trust to the will of God,” said Cecilia; “if he ordain that America is to be free only after protracted sufferings, I can aid her but with my prayers; but you have an arm and an experience, Griffith, that might do her better service; waste not your usefulness, then, in visionary schemes for private happiness, but seize the moments as they offer, and return to your ship, if indeed it is yet in safety, and endeavor to forget this mad undertaking, and, for a time, the being who has led you to the adventure.”

“This is a reception that I had not anticipated,” returned Griffith; “for though accident, and not intention, has thrown me into your presence this evening, I did hope that, when I again saw the frigate, it would be in your company, Cecilia.”

“You cannot justly reproach me, Mr. Griffith, with your disappointment; for I have not uttered or authorized a syllable that could induce you or any one to believe that I would consent to quit my uncle.”

“Miss Howard will not think me presumptuous, if I remind her that there was a time when she did not think me unworthy to be entrusted with her person and happiness.”

A rich bloom mantled on the face of Cecilia, as she replied:

“Nor do I now, Mr. Griffith; but you do well to remind me of my former weakness, for the recollection of its folly and imprudence only adds to my present strength.”

“Nay,” interrupted her eager lover, “if I intended a reproach, or harbored a boastful thought, spurn me from you forever, as unworthy of your favor.”

“I acquit you of both much easier than I can acquit myself of the charge of weakness and folly,” continued Cecilia; “but there are many things that have occurred, since we last met, to prevent a repetition of such inconsiderate rashness on my part. One of them is,” she added, smiling sweetly, “that I have numbered twelve additional months to my age, and a hundred to my experience. Another, and perhaps a more important one, is, that my uncle then continued among the friends of his youth, surrounded by those whose blood mingles with his own; but here he lives a stranger; and, though he finds some consolation in dwelling in a building where his ancestors have dwelt before him, yet he walks as an alien through its gloomy passages, and would find the empty honor but a miserable compensation for the kindness and affection of one whom he has loved and cherished from her infancy.”

“And yet he is opposed to you in your private wishes, Cecilia, unless my besotted vanity has led me to believe what it would now be madness to learn was false; and in your opinions of public things, you are quite as widely separated. I should think there could be but little happiness dependent on a connection where there is no one feeling entertained in common.”

“There is, and an all-important one,” said Miss Howard; “’tis our love. He is my kind, my affectionate, and, unless thwarted by some evil cause, my indulgent uncle and guardian, — and I am his brother Harry’s child. This tie is not easily to be severed, Mr. Griffith; though, as I do not wish to see you crazed, I shall not add, that your besotted vanity has played you false; but surely, Edward, it is possible to feel a double tie, and so to act as to discharge our duties to both. I never, never can or will consent to desert my uncle, a stranger as he is in the land whose rule he upholds so blindly. You know not this England, Griffith; she receives her children from the colonies with cold and haughty distrust, like a jealous stepmother, who is wary of the favors that she bestows on her fictitious offspring.”

“I know her in peace, and I know her in war,” said the young sailor, proudly, “and can add, that she is a haughty friend, and a stubborn foe; but she grapples now with those who ask no more of her than an open sea and an enemy’s favors. But this determination will be melancholy tidings for me to convey to Barnstable.”

“Nay,” said Cecilia, smiling, “I cannot vouch for others who have no uncles, and who have an extra quantity of ill humor and spleen against this country, its people, and its laws, although profoundly ignorant of them all.”

“Is Miss Howard tired of seeing me under the tiles of St. Ruth?” asked Katherine. “But hark! are there not footsteps approaching along the gallery?”

They listened, in breathless silence, and soon heard distinctly the approaching tread of more than one person. Voices were quite audible, and before they had time to consult on what was best to be done, the words of the speakers were distinctly heard at the door of their own apartment.

“Ay! he has a military air about him, Peters, that will make him a prize; come, open the door.”

“This is not his room, your honor,” said the alarmed soldier; “he quarters in the last room in the gallery.”

“How know you that, fellow? come, produce the key, and open the way for me; I care not who sleeps here; there is no saying but I may enlist them all three.”

A single moment of dreadful incertitude succeeded, when the sentinel was heard saying, in reply to this peremptory order:

“I thought your honor wanted to see the one with the black stock, and so left the rest of the keys at the other end of the passage; but — — “

“But nothing, you loon; a sentinel should always carry his keys about him, like a jailer; follow, then, and let me see the lad who dresses so well to the right.”

As the heart of Katherine began to beat less vehemently, she said:

“’Tis Borroughcliffe, and too drunk to see that we have left the key in the door; but what is to be done? we have but a moment for consultation.”

“As the day dawns,” said Cecilia, “quickly, I shall send here, under the pretence of conveying you food, my own woman — — “

“There is no need of risking anything for my safety,” interrupted Griffith; “I hardly think we shall be detained, and if we are, Barnstable is at hand with a force that would scatter these recruits to the four winds of heaven.”

“Ah! that would lead to bloodshed, and scenes of horror!” exclaimed Cecilia.

“Listen!” cried Katherine, “they approach again!”

A man now stopped, once more, at their door, which was opened softly, and the face of the sentinel was thrust into the apartment.

“Captain Borroughcliffe is on his rounds, and for fifty of your guineas I would not leave you here another minute.”

“But one word more,” said Cecilia.

“Not a syllable, my lady, for my life,” returned the man; “the lady from the next room waits for you, and in mercy to a poor fellow go back where you came from.”

The appeal was unanswerable, and they complied, Cecilia saying, as they left the room:

“I shall send you food in the morning, young man, and directions how to take the remedy necessary to your safety.”

In the passage they found Alice Dunscombe, with her face concealed in her mantle; and, it would seem, by the heavy sighs that escaped from her, deeply agitated by the interview which she had just encountered.

But as the reader may have some curiosity to know what occurred to distress this unoffending lady so sensibly, we shall detain the narrative, to relate the substance of that which passed between her and the individual whom she sought.

CHAPTER XIV.

“As when a lion in his den,

Hath heard the hunters’ cries,

And rushes forth to meet his foes,

So did the Douglas rise— “

Percy.

Alice Dunscombe did not find the second of the prisoners buried, like Griffith, in sleep, but he was seated on one of the old chairs that were in the apartment, with his back to the door, and apparently looking through the small window, on the dark and dreary scenery over which the tempest was yet sweeping in its fury. Her approach was unheeded, until the light from her lamp glared across his eyes, when he started from his musing posture, and advanced to meet her. He was the first to speak.

“I expected this visit,” he said, “when I found that you recognized my voice; and I felt a deep assurance in my breast, that Alice Dunscombe would never betray me.”

His listener, though expecting this confirmation of her conjectures, was unable to make an immediate reply, but she sank into the seat he had abandoned, and waited a few moments, as if to recover her powers.

“It was, then, no mysterious warning! no airy voice that mocked my ear; but a dread reality!” she at length said. “Why have you thus braved the indignation of the laws of your country? On what errand of fell mischief has your ruthless temper again urged you to embark?”

“This is strong and cruel language, coming from you to me, Alice Dunscombe,” returned the stranger, with cool asperity, “and the time has been when I should have been greeted, after a shorter absence, with milder terms.”

“I deny it not; I cannot, if I would, conceal my infirmity from myself or you; I hardly wish it to continue unknown to the world. If I have once esteemed you, if I have plighted to you my troth, and in my confiding folly forgot my higher duties, God has amply punished me for the weakness in your own evil deeds.”

“Nay, let not our meeting be embittered with useless and provoking recriminations,” said the other; “for we have much to say before you communicate the errand of mercy on which you have come hither. I know you too well, Alice, not to see that you perceive the peril in which I am placed, and are willing to venture something for my safety. Your mother — does she yet live?”

“She is gone in quest of my blessed father,” said Alice, covering her pale face with her hands; “they have left me alone, truly; for he, who was to have been all to me, was first false to his faith, and has since become unworthy of my confidence.”

The stranger became singularly agitated, his usually quiet eye glancing hastily from the floor to the countenance of his companion, as he paced the room with hurried steps; at length he replied:

“There is much, perhaps, to be said in explanation, that you do not know. I left the country, because I found in it nothing but oppression and injustice, and I could not invite you to become the bride of a wanderer, without either name or fortune. But I have now the opportunity of proving my truth. You say you are alone; be so no longer, and try how far you were mistaken in believing that I should one day supply the place to you of both father and mother.”

There is something soothing to a female ear in the offer of even protracted justice, and Alice spoke with less of acrimony in her tones, during the remainder of their conference, if not with less of severity in her language.

“You talk not like a man whose very life hangs but on a thread that the next minute may snap asunder. Whither would you lead me? Is it to the Tower at London?”

“Think not that I have weakly exposed my person without a sufficient protection,” returned the stranger with cool indifference; “there are many gallant men who only wait my signal, to crush the paltry force of this officer like a worm beneath my feet.”

“Then has the conjecture of Colonel Howard been true I and the manner in which the enemy’s vessels have passed the shoals is no longer a mystery! you have been their pilot!”

“I have.”

“What! would ye pervert the knowledge gained in the springtime of your guileless youth to the foul purpose of bringing desolation to the doors of those you once knew and respected! John! John! is the image of the maiden whom in her morning of beauty and simplicity I believe you did love, so faintly impressed, that it cannot soften your hard heart to the misery of those among whom she has been born, and who compose her little world?”

“Not a hair of theirs shall be touched, not a thatch shall blaze, nor shall a sleepless night befall the vilest among them — and all for your sake, Alice! England comes to this contest with a seared conscience, and bloody hands, but all shall be forgotten for the present, when both opportunity and power offer to make her feel our vengeance, even in her vitals. I came on no such errand.”

“What, then, has led you blindly into snares, where all your boasted aid would avail you nothing? for, should I call aloud your name, even here, in the dark and dreary passages of this obscure edifice, the cry would echo through the country ere the morning, and a whole people would be found in arms to punish your audacity.”

“My name has been sounded, and that in no gentle strains,” returned the Pilot, scornfully, “when a whole people have quailed at it, the craven cowardly wretches flying before the man they had wronged. I have lived to bear the banners of the new republic proudly in sight of the three kingdoms, when practised skill and equal arms have in vain struggled to pluck it down. Ay! Alice, the echoes of my guns are still roaring among your eastern hills, and would render my name more appalling than inviting to your sleeping yeomen.”

“Boast not of the momentary success that the arm of God has yielded to your unhallowed efforts,” said Alice; “for a day of severe and heavy retribution must follow: nor flatter yourself with the idle hope that your name, terrible as ye have rendered it to the virtuous, is sufficient, of itself, to drive the thoughts of home, and country, and kin, from all who hear it. — Nay, I know not that even now, in listening to you, I am not forgetting a solemn duty, which would teach me to proclaim your presence, that the land might know that her unnatural son is a dangerous burden in her bosom.”

The Pilot turned quickly in his short walk; and, after reading her countenance, with the expression of one who felt his security, he said in gentler tones:

“Would that be Alice Dunscombe? would that be like the mild, generous girl whom I knew in my youth? But I repeat, the threat would fail to intimidate, even if you were capable of executing it. I have said that it is only to make the signal, to draw around me a force sufficient to scatter these dogs of soldiers to the four winds of heaven.”

“Have you calculated your power justly, John?” said Alice, unconsciously betraying her deep interest in his safety. “Have you reckoned the probability of Mr. Dillon’s arriving, accompanied by an armed band of horsemen, with the morning’s sun? for it’s no secret in the abbey that he is gone in quest of such assistance.”

“Dillon!” exclaimed the Pilot, starting; “who is he? and on what suspicion does he seek this addition to your guard?”

“Nay, John, look not at me, as if you would know the secrets of my heart. It was not I who prompted him to such a step; you cannot for a moment think that I would betray you! But too surely he has gone; and, as the night wears rapidly away, you should be using the hour of grace to effect our own security.”

“Fear not for me, Alice,” returned the Pilot proudly, while a faint smile struggled around his compressed lip: “and yet I like not this movement either. How call you his name? Dillon! is he a minion of King George?”

“He is, John, what you are not, a loyal subject of his sovereign lord the king; and, though a native of the revolted colonies, he has preserved his virtue uncontaminated amid the corruptions and temptations of the times.”

“An American! and disloyal to the liberties of the human race! By Heaven, he had better not cross me; for if my arm reach him, it shall hold him forth as a spectacle of treason to the world.”

“And has not the world enough of such a spectacle in yourself? Are ye not, even now, breathing your native air, though lurking through the mists of the island, with desperate intent against its peace and happiness?”

A dark and fierce expression of angry resentment flashed from the eyes of the Pilot, and even his iron frame seemed to shake with emotion, as he answered:

“Call you his dastardly and selfish treason, aiming, as it does, to aggrandize a few, at the expense of millions, a parallel case to the generous ardor that impels a man to fight in the defence of sacred liberty? I might tell you that I am armed in the common cause of my fellow-subjects and countrymen; that though an ocean divided us in distance, yet are we a people of the same blood, and children of the same parents, and that the hand which oppresses one inflicts an injury on the other. But I disdain all such narrow apologies. I was born on this orb, and I claim to be a citizen of it. A man with a soul not to be limited by the arbitrary boundaries of tyrants and hirelings, but one who has the right as well as the inclination to grapple with oppression, in whose name so ever it is exercised, or in whatever hollow and specious shape it founds its claim to abuse our race.”

“Ah! John, John, though this may sound like reason to rebellious ears, to mine it seemeth only as the ravings of insanity. It is in vain ye build up your new and disorganizing systems of rule, or rather misrule, which are opposed to all that the world has ever yet done, or ever will see done in peace and happiness. What avail your subtleties and false reasonings against the heart? It is the heart which tells us where our home is, and how to love it.”

“You talk like a weak and prejudiced woman, Alice,” said the Pilot, more composedly; “and one who would shackle nations with the ties that bind the young and feeble of your own sex together.”

“And by what holier or better bond can they be united?” said Alice. “Are not the relations of domestic life of God’s establishing, and have not the nations grown from families, as branches spread from the stem, till the tree overshadows the land? ’Tis an ancient and sacred tie that binds man to his nation; neither can it be severed without infamy.”

The Pilot smiled disdainfully, and throwing open the rough exterior of his dress, he drew forth, in succession, several articles, while a glowing pride lighted his countenance, as he offered them singly to her notice.

“See, Alice!” he said, “call you this infamy! This broad sheet of parchment is stamped with a seal of no mean importance, and it bears the royal name of the princely Louis also! And view this cross! decorated as it is with jewels, the gift of the same illustrious hand; it is not apt to be given to the children of infamy, neither is it wise or decorous to stigmatize a man who has not been thought unworthy to consort with princes and nobles by the opprobrious name of the ‘Scotch Pirate.’”

“And have ye not earned the title, John, by ruthless deeds and bitter animosity? I could kiss the baubles ye show me, if they were a thousand times less splendid, had they been laid upon your breast by the hands of your lawful prince; but now they appear to my eyes as indelible blots upon your attainted name. As for your associates, I have heard of them; and it seemeth that a queen might be better employed than encouraging by her smiles the disloyal subjects of other monarchs, though even her enemies. God only knows when His pleasure may suffer a spirit of disaffection to rise up among the people of her own nation, and then the thought that she has encouraged rebellion may prove both bitter and unwelcome.”

“That the royal and lovely Antoinette has deigned to repay my services with a small portion of her gracious approbation is not among the least of my boasts,” returned the Pilot, in affected humility, while secret pride was manifested even in his lofty attitude. “But venture not a syllable in her dispraise, for you know not whom you censure. She is less distinguished by her illustrious birth and elevated station, than by her virtues and loveliness. She lives the first of her sex in Europe — the daughter of an emperor, the consort of the most powerful king, and the smiling and beloved patroness of a nation who worship at her feet. Her life is above all reproach, as it is above all earthly punishment, were she so lost as to merit it; and it has been the will of Providence to place her far beyond the reach of all human misfortunes.”

“Has it placed her above human errors, John? Punishment is the natural and inevitable consequence of sin; and unless she can say more than has ever fallen to the lot of humanity to say truly, she may yet be made to feel the chastening arm of One, to whose eyes all her pageantry and power are as vacant as the air she breathes — so insignificant must it seem when compared to his own just rule! But if you vaunt that you have been permitted to kiss the hem of the robes of the French queen, and have been the companion of high-born and flaunting ladies, clad in their richest array, can ye yet say to yourself, that amid them all ye have found one whose tongue has been bold to tell you the truth, or whose heart has sincerely joined in her false professions?”

“Certainly none have met me with the reproaches that I have this night received from Alice Dunscombe, after a separation of six long years,” returned the Pilot.

“If I have spoken to you the words of holy truth, John, let them not be the less welcome, because they are strangers to your ears. Oh! think that she who has thus dared to use the language of reproach to one whose name is terrible to all who live on the border of this island, is led to the rash act by no other motive than interest in your eternal welfare.”

“Alice! Alice! you madden me with these foolish speeches! Am I a monster to frighten unprotected women and helpless children? What mean these epithets, as coupled with my name? Have you, too, lent a credulous ear to the vile calumnies with which the policy of your rulers has ever attempted to destroy the fair fame of those who oppose them, and those chiefly who oppose them with success? My name may be terrible to the officers of the royal fleet, but where and how have I earned a claim to be considered formidable to the helpless and unoffending?”

Alice Dunscombe cast a furtive and timid glance at the Pilot, which spoke even stronger than her words, as she replied:

“I know not that all which is said of you and your deeds is true. I have often prayed, in bitterness and sorrow, that a tenth part of that which is laid to your charge may not be heaped on your devoted head at the great and final account. But, John, I have known you long and well, and Heaven forbid, that on this solemn occasion, which may be the last, the last of our earthly interviews, I should be found wanting in Christian duty, through a woman’s weakness. I have often thought, when I have heard the gall of bitter reproach and envenomed language hurled against your name, that they who spoke so rashly, little understood the man they vituperated. But, though ye are at times, and I may say almost always, as mild and even as the smoothest sea over which ye have ever sailed, yet God has mingled in your nature a fearful mixture of fierce passions, which, roused, are more like the southern waters when troubled with the tornado. It is difficult for me to say how far this evil spirit may lead a man, who has been goaded by fancied wrongs to forget his country and home, and who is suddenly clothed with power to show his resentments.”

The Pilot listened with rooted attention, and his piercing eye seemed to reach the seat of those thoughts which she but half expressed; still he retained the entire command of himself, and answered, more in sorrow than in anger:

“If anything could convert me to your own peaceful and unresisting opinions, Alice, it would be the reflections that offer themselves at this conviction, that even you have been led by the base tongues of my dastardly enemies, to doubt my honor and conduct. What is fame, when a man can be thus traduced to his nearest friends? But no more of these childish reflections! they are unworthy of myself, my office, and the sacred cause in which I have enlisted!”

“Nay, John, shake them not off,” said Alice, unconsciously laying her hand on his arm; “they are as the dew to the parched herbage, and may freshen the feelings of your youth, and soften the heart that has grown hard, if hard it be, more by unnatural indulgence than its own base inclinations.”

“Alice Dunscombe,” said the Pilot, approaching her with solemn earnestness, “I have learnt much this night, though I came not in quest of such knowledge. You have taught me how powerful is the breath of the slanderer, and how frail is the tenure by which we hold our good names. Full twenty times have I met the hirelings of your prince in open battle, fighting ever manfully under that flag which was first raised to the breeze by my own hands, and which, I thank my God, I have never yet seen lowered an inch; but with no one act of cowardice or private wrong in all that service can I reproach myself; and yet, how am I rewarded! The tongue of the vile calumniator is keener than the sword of the warrior, and leaves a more indelible scar!”

“Never have ye uttered a truer sentiment, John, and God send that ye may encourage such thoughts to your own eternal advantage,” said Alice, with engaging interest “You say that you have risked your precious life in twenty combats, and observe how little of Heaven’s favor is bestowed on the abettors of rebellion! They tell me that the world has never witnessed a more desperate and bloody struggle than this last, for which your name has been made to sound to the furthermost ends of the isle.”

“‘Twill be known wherever naval combats are spoken of!” interrupted the Pilot, the melancholy which had begun to lower in his countenance giving place to a look of proud exultation.

“And yet its fancied glory cannot shield your name from wrong, nor are the rewards of the victor equal, in a temporal sense, to those which the vanquished has received. Know you that our gracious monarch, deeming your adversary’s cause so sacred, has extended to him his royal favor?”

“Ay! he has dubbed him knight!” exclaimed the Pilot with a scornful and bitter laugh: “let him be again furnished with a ship, and me with another opportunity, and I promise him an earldom, if being again vanquished can constitute a claim!”

“Speak not so rashly, nor vaunt yourself of possessing a protecting power that may desert you, John, when you most need it, and least expect the change,” returned his companion; “the battle is not always to the strong, neither is the race to the swift.”

“Forget you, my good Alice, that your words will admit of a double meaning? Has the battle been to the strong! Though you say not well in denying the race to the swift. Yes, yes, often and again have the dastards escaped me by their prudent speed! Alice Dunscombe, you know not a thousandth part of the torture that I have been made to feel, by high-born miscreants, who envy the merit they cannot equal, and detract from the glory of deeds that they dare not attempt to emulate. How have I been cast upon the ocean, like some unworthy vessel that is commissioned to do a desperate deed, and then to bury itself in the ruin it has made! How many malignant hearts have triumphed as they beheld my canvas open, thinking that it was spread to hasten me to a gibbet, or to a tomb in the bosom of the ocean! but I have disappointed them!”

The eyes of the Pilot no longer gazed with their piercing and settled meaning; but they flashed with a fierce and wild pleasure, as he continued, in a louder voice:

“Yes, bitterly have I disappointed them! Oh! the triumph over my fallen enemies has been tame to this heartfelt exultation which places me immeasurably above those false and craven hypocrites! I begged, I implored, the Frenchmen, for the meanest of their craft, which possessed but the common qualities of a ship of war; I urged the policy and necessity of giving me such a force, for even then I promised to be found in harm’s way; but envy and jealousy robbed me of my just dues, and of more than half my glory. They call me pirate! If I have claim to the name, it was furnished more by the paltry outfit of my friends, than by any act towards my enemies!”

“And do not these recollections prompt you to return to your allegiance, to your prince and native land, John?” said Alice, in a subdued voice.

“Away with the silly thought!” interrupted the Pilot, recalled to himself as if by a sudden conviction of the weakness he had betrayed; “it is ever thus where men are made conspicuous by their works — but to your visit — I have the power to rescue myself and companions from this paltry confinement, and yet I would not have it done with violence, for your sake. Bring you the means of doing it in quiet?”

“When the morning arrives, you will all be conducted to the apartment where we first met. — This will be done at the solicitation of Miss Howard, under the plea of compassion and justice, and with the professed object of inquiring into your situations. Her request will not be refused; and while your guard is stationed at the door, you will be shown, by another entrance, through the private apartments of the wing, to a window, whence you can easily leap to the ground, where a thicket is at hand; afterwards we shall trust your safety to your own discretion.”

“And if this Dillon, of whom you have spoken, should suspect the truth, how will you answer to the law for aiding our escape?”

“I believe he little dreams who is among the prisoners,” said Alice, musing, “though he may have detected the character of one of your companions. But it is private feeling, rather than public spirit, that urges him on.”

“I have suspected something of this,” returned the Pilot, with a smile, that crossed those features where ungovernable passions that had so lately been exhibited, with an effect that might be likened to the last glimmering of an expiring conflagration, serving to render the surrounding ruin more obvious. “This young Griffith has led me from my direct path with his idle imprudence, and it is right that his mistress should incur some risk. But with you, Alice, the case is different; here you are only a guest, and it is unnecessary that you should be known in the unfortunate affair. Should my name get abroad, this recreant American, this Colonel Howard, will find all the favor he has purchased by advocating the cause of tyranny necessary to protect him from the displeasure of the ministry.”

“I fear to trust so delicate a measure to the young discretion of my amiable friend,” said Alice, shaking her head.

“Remember, that she has her attachment to plead in her excuse; but dare you say to the world that you still remember, with gentle feelings, the man whom you stigmatize with such opprobrious epithets?”

A slight color gleamed over the brow of Alice Dunscombe, as she uttered, in a voice that was barely audible:

“There is no longer a reason why the world should know of such a weakness, though it did exist.” And, as the faint glow passed away, leaving her face pale nearly as the hue of death, her eyes kindled with unusual fire, and she added: “They can but take my life, John; and that I am ready to lay down in your service!”

“Alice!” exclaimed the softened Pilot, “my kind, my gentle Alice— “

The knock of the sentinel at the door was heard at this critical moment. Without waiting for a reply to his summons, the man entered the apartment; and, in hurried language, declared the urgent necessity that existed for the lady to retire. A few brief remonstrances were uttered by both Alice and the Pilot, who wished to comprehend more clearly each other’s intentions relative to the intended escape: but the fear of personal punishment rendered the soldier obdurate, and a dread of exposure at length induced the lady to comply. She arose, and was leaving the apartment with lingering steps, when the Pilot, touching her hand, whispered to her impressively:

“Alice, we meet again before I leave this island forever?”

“We meet in the morning, John,” she returned in the same tone of voice, “in the apartments of Miss Howard.”

He dropped her hand, and she glided from the room, when the impatient sentinel closed the door, and silently turned the key on his prisoner. The Pilot remained in a listening attitude, until the light footsteps of the retiring pair were no longer audible, when he paced his confined apartment with perturbed steps, occasionally pausing to look out at the driving clouds and the groaning oaks that were trembling and rocking their broad arms in the fitful gusts of the gale. In a few minutes the tempest in his own passions had gradually subsided to the desperate and still calmness that made him the man he was; when he again seated himself where Alice had found him, and began to muse on the events of the times, from which the transition to projecting schemes of daring enterprise and mighty consequences was but the usual employment of his active and restless mind.

CHAPTER XV.

“Sir And.. I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I’ve reason

good enough.”

Twelfth Night.

The countenance of Captain Borroughcliffe, when the sentinel admitted him to the apartment he had selected, was in that state of doubtful illumination, when looks of peculiar cunning blend so nicely with the stare of vacancy, that the human face is rendered not unlike an April day, now smiling and inviting, and at the next moment clouded and dreary. It was quite apparent that the soldier had an object for his unexpected visit, by the importance of his air and the solemnity of the manner with which he entered on the business. He waved his hand for the sentinel to retire, with lofty dignity, and continued balancing his body, during the closing of the door, and while a sound continued audible to his confused faculties, with his eyes fixed in the direction of the noise, with that certain sort of wise look that in many men supplies the place of something better. When the captain felt himself secure from interruption, he moved round with quick military precision, in order to face the man of whom he was in quest. Griffith had been sleeping, though uneasily and with watchfulness; and the Pilot had been calmly awaiting the visit which it seemed he had anticipated; but their associate, who was no other than Captain Manual, of the marines, was discovered in a very different condition from either. Though the weather was cool and the night tempestuous, he had thrown aside his pea-jacket, with most of his disguise, and was sitting ruefully on his blanket, wiping, with one hand, the large drops of sweat from his forehead, and occasionally grasping his throat with the other, with a kind of convulsed mechanical movement. He stared wildly at his visitor, though his entrance produced no other alteration in these pursuits than a more diligent application of his handkerchief and a more frequent grasping of his naked neck, as if he were willing to ascertain, by actual experiment, what degree of pressure the part was able to sustain, without exceeding a given quantity of inconvenience.

“Comrade, I greet ye!” said Borroughcliffe, staggering to the side of his prisoner, where he seated himself with an entire absence of ceremony: “Comrade, I greet ye! Is the kingdom in danger, that gentlemen traverse the island in the uniform of the regiment of incognitus, incognitii, ‘torum — damme, how I forget my Latin! Say, my fine fellow, are you one of these ‘torums?”

Manual breathed a little hard, which, considering the manner he had been using his throat, was a thing to be expected; but, swallowing his apprehensions, he answered with more spirit than his situation rendered prudent or the occasion demanded.

“Say what you will of me, and treat me as you please, I defy any man to call me Tory with truth.”

“You are no ‘torum! Well, then, the war-office has got up a new dress! Your regiment must have earned their facings in storming some water battery, or perhaps it has done duty as marines. Am I right?”

“I’ll not deny it,” said Manual, more stoutly; “I have served as a marine for two years, though taken from the line of — — “

“The army,” said Borroughcliffe, interrupting a most damning confession of which “state line” the other had belonged to. “I kept a dog-watch, myself, once, on board the fleet of my Lord Howe; but it is a service that I do not envy any man. Our afternoon parades were dreadfully unsteady, for it’s a time, you know, when a man wants solid ground to stand on. However, I purchased my company with some prize-money that fell in my way, and I always remember the marine service with gratitude. But this is dry work. I have put a bottle of sparkling Madeira in my pocket, with a couple of glasses, which we will discuss while we talk over more important matters. Thrust your hand into my right pocket; I have been used to dress to the front so long, that it comes mighty awkward to me to make this backward motion, as if it were into a cartridge-box.”

Manual, who had been at a loss how to construe the manner of the other, perceived at once a good deal of plain English in this request, and he dislodged one of Colonel Howard’s dusty bottles, with a dexterity that denoted the earnestness of his purpose. Borroughcliffe had made a suitable provision of glasses; and extracting the cork in a certain scientific manner, he tendered to his companion a bumper of the liquor, before another syllable was uttered by either of the expectants. The gentlemen concluded their draughts with a couple of smacks, that sounded not unlike the pistols of two practised duellists, though certainly a much less alarming noise, when the entertainer renewed the discourse.

“I like one of your musty-looking bottles, that is covered with dust and cobwebs, with a good southern tan on it,” he said. “Such liquor does not abide in the stomach, but it gets into the heart at once, and becomes blood in the beating of a pulse. But how soon I knew you! That sort of knowledge is the freemasonry of our craft. I knew you to be the man you are, the moment I laid eyes on you in what we call our guard-room; but I thought I would humor the old soldier who lives here, by letting him have the formula of an examination, as a sort of deference to his age and former rank. But I knew you the instant I saw you. I have seen you before!”

The theory of Borroughcliffe, in relation to the incorporation of wine with the blood, might have been true in the case of the marine, whose whole frame appeared to undergo a kind of magical change by the experiment of drinking, which, the reader will understand, was diligently persevered in while a drop remained in the bottle. The perspiration no longer rolled from his brow, neither did his throat manifest that uneasiness which had rendered such constant external applications necessary; but he settled down into an air of cool but curious interest, which, in some measure, was the necessary concomitant of his situation.

“We may have met before, as I have been much in service, and yet I know not where you could have seen me,” said Manual. “Were you ever a prisoner of war?”

“Hum! not exactly such an unfortunate devil; but a sort of conventional non-combatant. I shared the hardships, the glory, the equivocal victories (where we killed and drove countless numbers of rebels — who were not), and, woe is me! the capitulation of Burgoyne. But let that pass-which was more than the Yankees would allow us to do. You know not where I could have seen you? I have seen you on parade, in the field, in battle and out of battle, in camp, in barracks; in short, everywhere but in a drawing-room. No, no; I have never seen you before this night in a drawing-room!”

Manual stared in a good deal of wonder and some uneasiness at these confident assertions, which promised to put his life in no little jeopardy; and it is to be supposed that the peculiar sensation about the throat was revived, as he made a heavy draught, before he said:

“You will swear to this — Can you call me by name?”

“I will swear to it in any court in Christendom,” said the dogmatical soldier; “and your name is — is — Fugleman!”

“If it is, I’ll be damn’d!” exclaimed the other, with exulting precipitation.

“Swear not!” said Borroughcliffe, with a solemn air; “for what mattereth an empty name! Call thyself by what appellation thou wilt, I know thee. Soldier is written on thy martial front; thy knee bendeth not; nay, I even doubt if the rebellious member bow in prayer — — “

“Come, sir,” interrupted Manual, a little sternly; “no more of this trifling, but declare your will at once. Rebellious member, indeed! These fellows will call the skies of America rebellious heavens shortly!”

“I like thy spirit, lad,” returned the undisturbed Borroughcliffe; “it sits as gracefully on a soldier as his sash and gorget; but it is lost on an old campaigner. I marvel, however, that thou takest such umbrage at my slight attack on thy orthodoxy. I fear the fortress must be weak, where the outworks are defended with such a waste of unnecessary courage!”

“I know not why or wherefore you have paid me this visit, Captain Borroughcliffe,” said Manual, with a laudable discretion, which prompted him to reconnoitre the other’s views a little, before he laid himself more open; “if captain be your rank, and Borroughcliffe be your name. But this I do know, that if it be only to mock me in my present situation, it is neither soldier like nor manly; and it is what, in other circumstances, might be attended by some hazard.”

“Hum!” said the other, with his immovable coolness; “I see you set the wine down as nothing, though the king drinks not as good; for the plain reason that the sun of England cannot find its way through the walls of Windsor Castle as easily as the sun of Carolina can warm a garret covered with cedar shingles. But I like your spirit more and more. So draw yourself up in battle array, and let us have another charge at this black bottle, when I shall lay before your military eyes a plan of the whole campaign.”

Manual first bestowed an inquiring glance on his companion; when, discovering no other expression than foolish cunning, which was fast yielding before the encroaching footsteps of stupid inebriety, he quietly placed himself in the desired position. The wine was drunk, when Borroughcliffe proceeded to open his communications more unreservedly.

“You are a soldier, and I am a soldier. That you are a soldier, my orderly could tell; for the dog has both seen a campaign, and smelt villanous saltpetre, when compounded according to a wicked invention; but it required the officer to detect the officer. Privates do not wear such linen as this, which seemeth to me an unreasonably cool attire for the season; nor velvet stocks, with silver buckles; nor is there often the odorous flavor of sweet-scented pomatum to be discovered around their greasy locks. In short, thou art both soldier and officer.”

“I confess it,” said Manual; “I hold the rank of captain, and shall expect the treatment of one.”

“I think I have furnished you with wine fit for a general,” returned Borroughcliffe; “but have your own way. Now, it would be apparent to men, whose faculties had not been rendered clear by such cordials as this dwelling aboundeth with, that when you officers journey through the island, clad in the uniform incognitorum, which in your case means the marine corps, that something is in the wind of more than usual moment. Soldiers owe their allegiance to their prince, and next to him to war, women, and wine. Of war, there is none in the realm; of women, plenty; but wine, I regret to say, that is, good wine, grows both scarce and dear. Do I speak to the purpose, comrade?”

“Proceed,” said Manual, whose eyes were not less attentive than his ears, in a hope to discover whether his true character were understood.

“En avant! in plain English, forward march! Well, then, the difficulty lies between women and wine; which, when the former are pretty, and the latter rich, is a very agreeable sort of an alternative. That it is not wine of which you are in quest, I must believe, my comrade captain, or you would not go on the adventure in such shabby attire. You will excuse me, but who would think of putting anything better than their Port before a man in a pair of tarred trousers? No! no! Hollands, green-and-yellow Hollands, is a potation good enough to set before one of the present bearing.”

“And yet I have met with him who has treated me to the choicest of the south-side Madeira!”

“Know you the very side from which the precious fluid comes! That looks more in favor of the wine. But, after all, woman, dear capricious woman, who one moment fancies she sees a hero in regimentals, and the next a saint in a cassock; and who always sees something admirable in a suitor, whether he be clad in tow or velvet — woman is at the bottom of this mysterious masquerading. Am I right, comrade!”

By this time Manual had discovered that he was safe, and he returned to the conversation with a revival of all his ready wits, which had been strangely paralyzed by his previous disorder in the region of the throat. First bestowing a wicked wink on his companion, and a look that would have outdone the wisest aspect of Solomon, he replied;

“Ah! woman has much to answer for!”

“I knew it,” exclaimed Borroughcliffe; “and this confession only confirms me in the good opinion I have always entertained of myself. If his majesty has any particular wish to close this American business, let him have a certain convention burnt, and a nameless person promoted, and we shall see! But, answer as you love truth; is it a business of holy matrimony, or a mere dalliance with the sweets of Cupid?”

“Of honest wedlock,” said Manual, with an air as serious as if Hymen already held him in his fetters.

“’Tis honest! Is there money?”

“Is there money?” repeated Manual, with a sort of contemptuous echo. “Would a soldier part with his liberty, but with his life, unless the chains were made of gold?”

“That’s the true military doctrine!” cried the other; “faith, you have some discretion in your amphibious corps, I find! But why this disguise? are the ‘seniors grave,’ as well as ‘potent and reverend?’ Why this disguise, I again ask?”

“Why this disguise!” repeated Manual, coolly: “Is there any such thing as love in your regiment without disguise? With us, it is a regular symptom of the disease.”

“A most just and discreet description of the passion, my amphibious comrade!” said the English officer; “and yet the symptoms in your case are attended by some very malignant tokens. Does your mistress love tar?”

“No; but she loveth me; and, of course, whatever attire I choose to appear in.”

“Still discreet and sagacious! and yet only a most palpable feint to avoid my direct attack. You have heard of such a place as Gretna Green, a little to the north of this, I dare say, my aquatic comrade. Am I right?”

“Gretna Green!” said Manual, a little embarrassed by his ignorance; “some parade-ground, I suppose?”

“Ay, for those who suffer under the fire of Master Cupid. A parade-ground! well, there is some artful simplicity in that! But all will not do with an old campaigner. It is a difficult thing to impose on an old soldier, my water-battery. Now listen and answer; and you shall see what it is to possess a discernment — therefore deny nothing. You are in love?”

“I deny nothing,” said Manual, comprehending at once that this was his safest course.

“Your mistress is willing, and the money is ready, but the old people say, halt!”

“I am still mute!”

“Tis prudent. You say march — Gretna Green is the object; and your flight is to be by water!”

“Unless I can make my escape by water, I shall never make it,” said Manual, with another sympathetic movement with his hand to his throat.

“Keep mute; you need tell me nothing. I can see into a mystery that is as deep as a well, to-night. Your companions are hirelings; perhaps your shipmates; or men to pilot you on this expedition!”

“One is my shipmate, and the other is our pilot,” said Manual, with more truth than usual.

“You are well provided. One thing more, and I shall become mute in my turn. Does she whom you seek lie in this house?”

“She does not; she lies but a short distance from this place; and I should be a happy fellow could I but once more put foot — — “

“Eyes on her. Now listen, and you shall have your wish. You possess the ability to march yet, which, considering the lateness of the hour, is no trifling privilege; open that window — is it possible to descend from it?”

Manual eagerly complied, but he turned from the place in disappointment.

“It would be certain death to attempt the leap. The devil only could escape from it.”

“So I should think,” returned Borroughcliffe, dryly. “You must be content to pass for that respectable gentleman for the rest of your days, in St. Ruth’s Abbey. For through that identical hole must you wing your flight on the pinions of love.”

“But how! The thing is impossible.”

“In imagination only. There is some stir, a good deal of foolish apprehension, and a great excess of idle curiosity, among certain of the tenants of this house, on your account. They fear the rebels, who, we all know, have not soldiers enough to do their work neatly at home, and who, of course, would never think of sending any here. You wish to be snug — I wish to serve a brother in distress. Through that window you must be supposed to fly — no matter how; while by following me you can pass the sentinel, and retire peaceably, like any other mortal, on your own two stout legs.”

This was a result that exceeded all that Manual had anticipated from their amicable but droll dialogue; and the hint was hardly given, before he threw on the garments that agitation had before rendered such encumbrances; and in less time than we have taken to relate it, the marine was completely equipped for his departure. In the mean time, Captain Borroughcliffe raised himself to an extremely erect posture, which he maintained with the inflexibility of a rigid martinet. When he found himself established on his feet, the soldier intimated to his prisoner that he was ready to proceed. The door was instantly opened by Manual, and together they entered the gallery.

“Who comes there?” cried the sentinel, with a vigilance and vigor that he intended should compensate for his previous neglect of duty.

“Walk straight, that he may see you,” said Borroughcliffe, with much philosophy.

“Who goes there?” repeated the sentinel, throwing his musket to a poise, with a rattling sound that echoed along the naked walls.

“Walk crooked,” added Borroughcliffe, “that if he fire he may miss.”

“We shall be shot at, with this folly,” muttered Manual.

“We are friends, and your officer is one of us.”

“Stand, friends — advance, officer, and give the counter-sign,” cried the sentinel.

“That is much easier said than done,” returned his captain; “forward, Mr. Amphibious, you can walk like a postman — move to the front, and proclaim the magical word, ‘loyalty;’ ’tis a standing countersign, ready furnished to my hands by mine hosts the colonel; your road is then clear before you — but hark — — “

Manual made an eager step forward, when, recollecting himself, he turned, and added: “My assistants, the seamen! I can do nothing without them.”

“Lo! the keys are in the doors, ready for my admission,” said the Englishman; “turn them, and bring out your forces.”

Quick as thought, Manual was in the room of Griffith, to whom he briefly communicated the situation of things, when he reappeared in the passage, and then proceeded on a similar errand to the room of the Pilot.

“Follow, and behave as usual,” he whispered; “say not a word, but trust all to me.”

The Pilot arose, and obeyed these instructions without asking a question, with the most admirable coolness.

“I am now ready to proceed,” said Manual, when they had joined Borroughcliffe.

During the short time occupied in these arrangements, the sentinel and his captain had stood looking at each other with great military exactitude, the former ambitious of manifesting his watchfulness, the latter awaiting the return of the marine. The captain now beckoned to Manual to advance and give the countersign.

“Loyalty,” whispered Manual, when he approached the sentinel. But the soldier had been allowed time to reflect; and as he well understood the situation of his officer, he hesitated to allow the prisoner to pass, After a moment’s pause, he said:

“Advance, friends.” At this summons the whole party moved to the point of his bayonet; when the man continued: “The prisoners have the countersign, Captain Borroughcliffe, but I dare not let them pass.”

“Why not?” asked the captain; “am I not here, sirrah? do you not know me?”

“Yes, sir, I know your honor, and respect your honor; but I was posted here by my sergeant, and ordered not to let these men pass out on any account.”

“That’s what I call good discipline,” said Borroughcliffe, with an exulting laugh; “I knew the lad would not mind me any more than that he would obey the orders of that lamp. Here are no slaves of the lamp, my amphibious comrade; drill ye your marines in this consummate style to niceties?”

“What means this trifling?” said the Pilot, sternly.

“Ah! I thought I should turn the laugh on you,” cried Manual, affecting to join in the mirth; “we know all these things well, and we practise them in our corps; but though the sentinel cannot know you, the sergeant will; so let him be called and orders be given through him to the man on post, that we may pass out.”

“Your throat grows uneasy, I see,” said Borroughcliffe; “you crave, another bottle of the generous fluid. Well, it shall be done. Sentinel, you can throw up yon window, and give a call to the sergeant.”

“The outcry will ruin us,” said the Pilot, in a whisper to Griffith.

“Follow me,” said the young sailor. The sentinel was turning to execute the orders of his captain as Griffith spoke, when springing forward, in an instant he wrenched the musket from his hands; a heavy blow with its butt felled the astonished soldier to the floor; then, poising his weapon, Griffith exclaimed:

“Forward! we can clear our own way now!”

“On!” said the Pilot, leaping lightly over the prostrate soldier, a dagger gleaming in one hand and a pistol presented in the other.

Manual was by his side in an instant, armed in a similar manner; and the three rushed together from the building, without meeting any one to oppose their flight.

Borroughcliffe was utterly unable to follow; and so astounded was he by this sudden violence, that several minutes passed before he was restored to the use of his speech, a faculty which seldom deserted him. The man had recovered his senses and his feet, however; and the two stood gazing at each other in mute condolence. At length the sentinel broke the silence:

“Shall I give the alarm, your honor?”

“I rather think not, Peters. I wonder if there be any such thing as gratitude or good-breeding in the marine corps!”

“I hope your honor will remember that I did my duty, and that I was disarmed while executing your orders.”

“I can remember nothing about it, Peters, except that it is rascally treatment, and such as I shall yet make this amphibious aquatic gentleman answer for. But lock the door-look as if nothing had happened, and — — “

“Ah! your honor, that is not so easily done as your honor may please to think. I have not any doubt but there is the print of the breech of a musket stamped on my back and shoulders, as plainly to be seen as that light.”

“Then look as you please; but hold your peace, sirrah. Here is a crown to buy a plaster. I heard the dog throw away your musket on the stairs — go seek it, and return to your post; and when you are relieved, act as if nothing had happened. I take the responsibility on myself.”

The man obeyed; and when he was once more armed, Borroughcliffe, a good deal sobered by the surprise, made the best of his way to his own apartment, muttering threats and execrations against the “corps of marines and the whole race,” as he called them, “of aquatic amphibii.”

CHAPTER XVI.

“Away! away! the covey’s fled the cover;

Put forth the dogs, and let the falcon fly —

I’ll spend some leisure in the keen pursuit,

Nor longer waste my hours in sluggish quiet.”

The soldier passed the remainder of the night in the heavy sleep of a bacchanalian, and awoke late on the following morning, only when aroused by the entrance of his servant. When the customary summons had induced the captain to unclose his eyelids, he arose in his bed, and after performing the usual operation of a diligent friction on his organs of vision, he turned sternly to his man, and remarked with an ill-humor that seemed to implicate the innocent servant in the fault which his master condemned:

“I thought, sirrah, that I ordered Sergeant Drill not to let a drumstick touch a sheepskin while we quartered in the dwelling of this hospitable old colonel! Does the fellow despise my commands? or does he think the roll of a drum, echoing through the crooked passages of St. Ruth, a melody that is fit to disturb the slumbers of its inmates?”

“I believe, sir,” returned the man, “it was the wish of Colonel Howard himself, that on this occasion the sergeant should turn out the guard by the roll of the drum.”

“The devil it was! — I see the old fellow loves to tickle the drum of his own ear now and then with familiar sounds; but have you had a muster of the cattle from the farmyard too, as well as a parade of the guard? I hear the trampling of feet, as if the old abbey were a second ark, and all the beasts of the field were coming aboard of us!”

“’Tis nothing but the party of dragoons from —— , who are wheeling into the courtyard, sir, where the colonel has gone out to receive them.”

“Courtyard! light dragoons!” repeated Borroughcliffe, in amazement; “and has it come to this, that twenty stout fellows of the —— th are not enough to guard such a rookery as this old abbey, against the ghosts and northeast storms, but we must have horse to reinforce us? Hum! I suppose some of these booted gentlemen have heard of this South Carolina Madeira.”

“Oh, no, sir!” cried his man; “it is only the party that Mr. Dillon went to seek last evening, after you saw fit, sir, to put the three pirates in irons.”

“Pirates in irons,” said Borroughcliffe, again passing his hands over his eyes, though in a more reflecting manner than before: “ha! oh! I remember to have put three suspicious looking rascals in the black-hole, or some such place; but what can Mr. Dillon, or the light dragoons, have to do with these fellows?”

“That we do not know, sir; but it is said below, sir, as some suspicions had fallen on their being conspirators and rebels from the colonies, and that they were great officers and Tories in disguise; some said that one was General Washington, and others that it was only three members of the Yankee parliament, come over to get our good old English fashions to set themselves up with.”

“Washington! Members of Congress! Go — go, simpleton, and learn how many these troopers muster, and what halt they make; but stay, place my clothes near me. Now, do as I bid you, and if the dragoon officer enquire for me, make my respects, and tell him I shall be with him soon. Go, fellow; go.”

When the man left the room, the captain, while he proceeded with the business of the toilet, occasionally gave utterance to the thoughts that crowded on his recollection, after the manner of a soliloquy.

“Ay! my commission to a half-pay ensigncy, that some of these lazy fellows, who must have a four-legged beast to carry them to the wars, have heard of the ‘south side.’ South side! I believe I must put an advertisement in the London Gazette, calling that amphibious soldier to an account If he be a true man, he will not hide himself under his incognito, but will give me a meeting. If that should fail, damme, I’ll ride across to Yarmouth, and call out the first of the mongrel breed that I fall in with. ‘Sdeath! Was ever such an insult practised on a gentleman and a soldier before? Would that I only knew his name! Why, if the tale should get abroad, I shall be the standing joke of the mess-table, until some greater fool than myself can be found. It would cost me at least six duels to get rid of it. No, no; not a trigger will I pull in my own regiment about the silly affair: but I’ll have a crack at some marine in very revenge; for that is no more than reasonable. That Peters! if the scoundrel should dare whisper anything of the manner in which he was stamped with the breech of the musket! I can’t flog him for it; but if I don’t make it up to him the first time he gives me a chance, I am ignorant of the true art of balancing regimental accounts.”

By the time the recruiting officer had concluded this soliloquy, which affords a very fair exposition of the current of his thoughts, he was prepared to meet the new comers, and he accordingly descended to the courtyard, as in duty bound, to receive them in his proper person. Boroughcliffe encountered his host, in earnest conversation with a young man in a cavalry uniform, in the principal entrance of the abbey, and was greeted by the former with:

“A good morning to you, my worthy guard and protector! here is rare news for your loyal ears. It seems that our prisoners are enemies to the king in disguise; and, Cornet Fitzgerald — Captain Borroughcliffe, of the — th, permit me to make you acquainted with Mr. Fitzgerald of the — th light dragoons.” While the soldiers exchanged their salutations, the old man continued: “The cornet has been kind enough to lead down a detachment of his troop to escort the rogues up to London, or some other place, where they will find enough good and loyal officers to form a court-martial, that can authorize their execution as spies. Christopher Dillon, my worthy kinsman, Kit, saw into their real characters at a glance; while you and I, like two unsuspecting boys, thought the rascals would have made fit men to serve the king. But Kit has an eye and a head that few enjoy like him, and I would that he might receive his dues at the English bar.”

“It is to be desired, sir,” said Borroughcliffe, with a grave aspect, that was produced chiefly by his effort to give effect to his sarcasm, but a little, also, by the recollection of the occurrences that were yet to be explained; “but what reason has Mr. Christopher Dillon to believe that the three seamen are more or less than they seem?”

“I know not what; but a good and sufficient reason, I will venture my life,” cried the colonel; “Kit is a lad for reasons, which you know is the foundation of his profession, and knows how to deliver them manfully in the proper place; but you know, gentlemen, that the members of the bar cannot assume the open and bold front that becomes a soldier, without often endangering the cause in which they are concerned. No, no; trust me, Kit has his reasons, and in good time will he deliver them.”

“I hope, then,” said the captain carelessly, “that it may be found that we have had a proper watch on our charge, Colonel Howard; I think you told me the windows were too high for an escape in that direction, for I had no sentinel outside of the building.”

“Fear nothing, my worthy friend,” cried his host; “unless your men have slept, instead of watching, we have them safe; but, as it will be necessary to convey them away before any of the civil authority can lay hands on them, let us proceed to the rear, and unkennel the dogs. A party of the horse might proceed at once with them to —— , while we are breaking our fasts. It would be no very wise thing to allow the civilians to deal with them, for they seldom have a true idea of the nature of the crime.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said the young officer of horse; “I was led to believe, by Mr. Dillon, that we might meet with a party of the enemy in some little force, and that I should find a pleasanter duty than that of a constable; besides, sir, the laws of the realm guarantee to the subject a trial by his peers, and it is more than I dare do to carry the men to the barracks, without first taking them before a magistrate.”

“Ay! you speak of loyal and dutiful subjects,” said the colonel; “and, as respects them, doubtless, you are right; but such privileges are withheld from enemies and traitors.”

“It must be first proved that they are such, before they can receive the treatment or the punishment that they merit,” returned the young man, a little positively, who felt the more confidence, because he had only left the Temple the year before. “If I take charge of the men at all, it will be only to transfer them safely to the civil authority.”

“Let us go and see the prisoners,” cried Borroughcliffe, with a view to terminate a discussion that was likely to wax warm, and which he knew to be useless; “perhaps they may quietly enroll themselves under the banners of our sovereign, when all other interference, save that of wholesome discipline, will become unnecessary.”

“Nay, if they are of a rank in life to render such a step probable,” returned the cornet, “I am well content that the matter should be thus settled. I trust, however, that Captain Borroughcliffe will consider that the — th light dragoons has some merit in this affair, and that we are far short of our numbers in the second squadron.”

“We shall not be difficult at a compromise,” returned the captain; “there is one apiece for us, and a toss of a guinea shall determine who has the third man. Sergeant! follow, to deliver over your prisoners, and relieve your sentry.”

As they proceeded in compliance with this arrangement, to the building in the rear, Colonel Howard, who made one of the party, observed:

“I dispute not the penetration of Captain Borroughcliffe, but I understand Mr. Christopher Dillon that there is reason to believe one of these men, at least, to be of a class altogether above that of a common soldier; in which case, your plans may fall to the ground.”

“And who does he deem the gentleman to be?” asked Borroughcliffe— “a Bourbon in disguise, or a secret representative of the rebel congress?”

“Nay, nay: he said nothing more; my kinsman Kit keeps a close mouth whenever Dame Justice is about to balance her scales. There are men who may be said to have been born to be soldiers; of which number I should call the Earl Cornwallis, who makes such head against the rebels in the two Carolinas; others seem to be intended by nature for divines, and saints on earth, such as their graces of York and Canterbury; while another class appears as if it were impossible for them to behold things unless with discriminating, impartial, and disinterested eyes; to which I should say, belong my Lord Chief Justice Mansfield, and my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon. I trust, gentlemen, that when the royal arms have crushed this rebellion, his majesty’s ministers will see the propriety of extending the dignity of the peerage to the colonies, as a means of reward to the loyal, and a measure of policy to prevent further disaffection; in which case I hope to see my kinsman decorated with the ermine of justice bordering the mantle of a peer.”

“Your expectations, my excellent sir, are right reasonable; as I doubt not your kinsman will become, at some future day, that which he is not at present, unhappily for his deserts, right honorable,” said Borroughcliffe. “But be of good heart, sir; from what I have seen of his merits, I doubt not that the law will yet have its revenge in due season, and that we shall be properly edified and instructed how to attain elevation in life, by the future exaltation of Mr. Christopher Dillon; though by what title he is to be then known, I am at a loss to say.”

Colonel Howard was too much occupied with his own ex-parte views of the war and things in general, to observe the shrewd looks that were exchanged between the soldiers; but he answered with perfect simplicity:

“I have reflected much on that point, and have come to the opinion, that as he has a small estate on that river, he should, cause his first barony to be known by the title of ‘Pedee.’”

“Barony!” echoed Borroughcliffe; “I trust the new nobles of a new world will disdain the old worn-out distinctions of a hackneyed universe — eschew all baronies, mine host, and cast earldoms and dukedoms to the shades. The immortal Locke has unlocked his fertile mind to furnish you with appellations suited to the originality of your condition and the nature of your country. Ah! here comes the Cacique of Pedee, in his proper person!”

As Borroughcliffe spoke, they were ascending the flight of stone steps which led to the upper apartments, where the prisoners were still supposed to be confined; and, at the same moment, the sullen, gloomy features of Dillon were seen as he advanced along the lower passage, with an expression of malicious exultation hovering above his dark brow, that denoted his secret satisfaction. As the hours passed away the period had come round when the man who had been present at the escape of Griffith and his friends was again posted to perform the duty of sentinel. As this soldier well knew the situation of his trust, he was very coolly adjusted, with his back against the wall, endeavoring to compensate himself for his disturbed slumbers during the night, when the sounds of the approaching footsteps warned him to assume the appearance of watchfulness.

“How, now, fellow!” cried Borroughcliffe; “what have you to say to your charge!”

“I believe the men sleep, your honor; for I have heard no noises from the rooms since I relieved the last sentinel.”

“The lads are weary, and are right to catch what sleep they can in their comfortable quarters,” returned the captain. “Stand to your arms, sirrah! and throw back your shoulders; and do not move like a crab, or a train-band corporal; do you not see an officer of horse coming up? Would you disgrace your regiment?”

“Ah! your honor, Heaven only knows whether I shall ever get my shoulders even again.”

“Buy another plaster,” said Borroughcliffe, slipping a shilling into his hand; “observe, you know nothing but your duty.”

“Which is, your honor — — “

“To mind me, and be silent. But here comes the sergeant with his guard: he will relieve you.”

The rest of the party stopped at the other end of the gallery, to allow the few files of soldiers who were led by the orderly to pass them, when they all moved towards the prison in a body. The sentinel was relieved in due military style; when Dillon placed his hand on one of the doors, and said, with a malicious sneer:

“Open here first, Mr. Sergeant; this cage holds the man we most want.”

“Softly, softly, my Lord Chief Justice, and most puissant Cacique,” said the captain; “the hour has not yet come to empanel a jury of fat yeomen, and no man must interfere with my boys but myself.”

“The rebuke is harsh, I must observe, Captain Borroughcliffe,” said the colonel, “but I pardon it because it is military. No, no, Kit these nice points must be left to martial usages. Be not impatient, my cousin; I doubt not the hour will come, when you shall hold the scales of justice and satisfy your loyal longings on many a traitor. Zounds! I could almost turn executioner myself in such a cause!”

“I can curb my impatience, sir,” returned Dillon, with hypocritical meekness, and great self-command, though his eyes were gleaming with savage exultation. “I beg pardon of Captain Borroughcliffe, if, in my desire to render the civil authority superior to the military, I have trespassed on your customs.”

“You see, Borroughcliffe!” exclaimed the colonel, exultingly, “the lad is ruled by an instinct in all matters of law and justice. I hold it to be impossible that a man thus endowed can ever become a disloyal subject. But our breakfast waits, and Mr. Fitzgerald has breathed his horse this cool morning; let us proceed at once to the examination.”

Borroughcliffe motioned to the sergeant to open the door, when the whole party entered the vacant room.

“Your prisoner has escaped!” cried the cornet, after a single moment employed in making sure of the fact.

“Never! it must not, shall not be!” cried Dillon, quivering with rage, as he glanced his eyes furiously around the apartment; “here has been treachery! and foul treason to the king!”

“By whom committed, Mr. Christopher Dillon?” said Borroughcliffe, knitting his brow, and speaking in a suppressed tone: “dare you, or any man living, charge treason to the — th!”

A very different feeling from rage appeared now to increase the shivering propensities of the future judge, who at once perceived it was necessary to moderate his passion; and he returned, as it were by magic, to his former plausible and insinuating manner, as he replied:

“Colonel Howard will understand the cause of my warm feelings, when I tell him that this very room contained, last night, that disgrace to his name and country, as well as traitor to his king, Edward Griffith, of the rebel navy.”

“What!” exclaimed the colonel, starting, “has that recreant youth dared to pollute the threshold of St. Ruth with his footstep? but you dream, Kit; there would be too much hardihood in the act.”

“It appears not, sir,” returned the other; “for though in this very apartment he most certainly was, he is here no longer. And yet from this window, though open, escape would seem to be impossible, even with much assistance.”

“If I thought that the contumelious boy had dared to be guilty of such an act of gross impudence,” cried the colonel, “I should be tempted to resume my arms, in my old age, to punish his effrontery. What! is it not enough that he entered my dwelling in the colony, availing himself of the distraction of the times, with an intent to rob me of my choicest jewel — ay! gentlemen, even of my brother Harry’s daughter — but that he must also invade this hallowed island with a like purpose, thus thrusting his treason, as it were, into the presence of his abused prince! No, no, Kit, thy loyalty misleads thee; he has never dared to do the deed!”

“Listen, sir, and you shall be convinced,” returned the pliant Christopher, “I do not wonder at your unbelief; but as a good testimony is the soul of justice, I cannot resist its influence. You know, that two vessels, corresponding in appearance to the two rebel cruisers that annoyed us so much in the Carolinas, have been seen on the coast for several days, which induced us to beg the protection of Captain Borroughcliffe. Three men are found, the day succeeding that on which we hear that these vessels came within the shoals, stealing through the grounds of St. Ruth, in sailors’ attire. They are arrested, and in the voice of one of them, sir, I immediately detected that of the traitor Griffith. He was disguised, it is true, and cunningly so; but when a man has devoted his whole life to the business of investigating truth,” he added, with an air of much modesty, “it is difficult to palm any disguise on his senses.”

Colonel Howard was strongly impressed with the probability of these conjectures, and the closing appeal confirmed him immediately in his kinsman’s opinion, while Borroughcliffe listened with deep interest to the speakers, and more than once bit his lip with vexation. When Dillon concluded, the soldier exclaimed:

“I’ll swear there was a man among them who has been used to the drill.”

“Nothing more probable, my worthy friend,” said Dillon; “for as the landing was never made without some evil purpose, rely on it, he came not unguarded or unprotected. I dare say, the three were all officers, and one of them might have been of the marines. That they had assistance is certain, and it was because I felt assured they had a force secreted at hand, that I went in quest of the reinforcement.”

There was so much plausibility, and, in fact, so much truth in all this, that conviction was unwillingly admitted by Borroughcliffe, who walked aside a moment to conceal the confusion which, in spite of his ordinary inflexibility of countenance, he felt was manifesting itself in his rubric visage, while he muttered:

“The amphibious dog! he was a soldier, but a traitor and an enemy. No doubt he will have a marvelous satisfaction in delighting the rebellious ears of his messmates, by rehearsing the manner in which he poured cold water down the back of one Borroughcliffe, of the — th, who was amusing him, at the same time, by pouring good, rich, south-side Madeira down his own rebellious throat. I have a good mind to exchange my scarlet coat for a blue jacket, on purpose to meet the sly rascal on the other element, where we can discuss the matter over again. Well, sergeant, do you find the other two?”

“They are gone together, your honor,” returned the orderly, who just then re-entered from an examination of the other apartments; “and unless the evil one helped them off, it’s a mysterious business to me.”

“Colonel Howard,” said Borroughcliffe, gravely, “your precious south-side cordial must be banished from the board, regularly with the cloth, until I have my revenge; for satisfaction of this insult is mine to claim, and I seek it this instant Go, Drill; detail a guard for the protection of the house, and feed the rest of your command, then beat the general, and we will take the field. Ay! my worthy veteran host, for the first time since the days of the unlucky Charles Stuart, there shall be a campaign in the heart of England.”

“Ah! rebellion, rebellion! accursed, unnatural, unholy rebellion, caused the calamity then and now!” exclaimed the colonel.

“Had I not better take a hasty refreshment for my men and their horses?” asked the cornet; “and then make a sweep for a few miles along the coast? It may be my luck to encounter the fugitives, or some part of their force.”

“You have anticipated my very thoughts,” returned Borroughcliffe. “The Cacique of Pedee may close the gates of St. Ruth, and, by barring the windows, and arming the servants, he can make a very good defence against an attack, should they think proper to assail our fortress; after he has repulsed them, leave it to me to cut off their retreat.”

Dillon but little relished this proposal; for he thought an attempt to storm the abbey would be the most probable course adopted by Griffith, in order to rescue his mistress; and the jurist had none of the spirit of a soldier in his composition. In truth, it was this deficiency that had induced him to depart in person, the preceding night, in quest of the reinforcement, instead of sending an express on the errand, But the necessity of devising an excuse for a change in this dangerous arrangement was obviated by Colonel Howard, who exclaimed, as soon as Borroughcliffe concluded his plan:

“To me, Captain Borroughcliffe, belongs, of right, the duty of defending St. Ruth, and it shall be no boy’s play to force my works; but Kit would rather try his chance in the open field, I know, Come, let us to our breakfast, and then he shall mount, and act as a guide to the horse, along the difficult passes of the seashore.”

“To breakfast then let it be,” cried the captain; “I distrust not my new commander of the fortress; and in the field the Cacique forever! We follow you, my worthy host.”

This arrangement was hastily executed in all its parts. The gentlemen swallowed their meal in the manner of men who ate only to sustain nature, and as a duty; after which the whole house became a scene of bustling activity. The troops were mustered and paraded; Borroughcliffe, setting apart a guard for the building, placed himself at the head of the remainder of his little party, and they moved out of the courtyard in open order, and at quick time. Dillon joyfully beheld himself mounted on one of the best of Colonel Howard’s hunters, where he knew that he had the control, in a great measure, of his own destiny; his bosom throbbing with a powerful desire to destroy Griffith, while he entertained a lively wish to effect his object without incurring any personal risk. At his side was the young cornet, seated with practised grace in his saddle, who, after giving time for the party of foot-soldiers to clear the premises, glanced his eye along the few files he led, and then gave the word to move. The little division of horse wheeled briskly into open column, and the officer touching his cap to Colonel Howard, they dashed through the gateway together, and pursued their route towards the seaside at a hand-gallop.

The veteran lingered a few minutes, while the clattering of hoofs was to be heard, or the gleam of arms was visible, to hear and gaze at sounds and sights that he still loved; after which, he proceeded, in person, and not without a secret enjoyment of the excitement, to barricade the doors and windows, with an undaunted determination of making, in case of need, a stout defence.

St. Ruth lay but a short two miles from the ocean; to which numerous roads led, through the grounds of the abbey, which extended to the shore. Along one of these paths Dillon conducted his party, until, after a few minutes of hard riding, they approached the cliffs, when, posting his troopers under cover of a little copse, the cornet rode in advance with his guide, to the verge of the perpendicular rocks, whose bases were washed by the foam that still whitened the waters from the surges of the subsiding sea.

The gale had broken before the escape of the prisoners; and as the power of the eastern tempest had gradually diminished, a light current from the south, that blew directly along the land, prevailed; and, though the ocean still rolled in fearful billows, their surfaces were smooth, and they were becoming, at each moment, less precipitous and more regular. The eyes of the horsemen were cast in vain over the immense expanse of water that was glistening brightly under the rays of the sun, which had just risen from its bosom, in quest of some object or distant sail that might confirm their suspicions, or relieve their doubts. But everything of that description appeared to have avoided the dangerous navigation during the violence of the late tempest, and Dillon, was withdrawing his eyes in disappointment from the vacant view, when, as they fell towards the shore, he beheld that which caused him to exclaim:

“There they go! and, by heaven, they will escape!”

The cornet looked in the direction of the other’s finger, when he beheld, at a short distance from the land, and apparently immediately under his feet, a little boat that looked like a dark shell upon the water, rising and sinking amid the waves, as if the men it obviously contained were resting on their oars in idle expectation.

“’Tis they!” continued Dillon; “or, what is more probable, it is their boat waiting to convey them to their vessel; no common business would induce seamen to lie in this careless manner, within such a narrow distance of the surf.”

“And what is to be done? They cannot be made to feel horse where they are; nor would the muskets of the foot be of any use. A light three-pounder would do its work handsomely on them!”

The strong desire which Dillon entertained to intercept, or rather to destroy, the party, rendered him prompt at expedients. After a moment of musing, he replied:

“The runaways must yet be on the land; and by scouring the coast, and posting men at proper intervals, their retreat can easily be prevented; in the mean time I will ride under the spur to —— bay, where one of his majesty’s cutters now lies at anchor. It is but half an hour of hard riding, and I can be on board of her. The wind blows directly in her favor; and if we can once bring her down behind that headland, we shall infallibly cut off or sink these midnight depredators.”

“Off, then!” cried the cornet, whose young blood was boiling for a skirmish; “you will at least drive them to the shore, where I can deal with them.”

The words were hardly uttered, before Dillon, after galloping furiously along the cliffs, and turning short into a thick wood that lay in his route, was out of sight. The loyalty of this gentleman was altogether of a calculating nature, and was intimately connected with what he considered his fealty to himself. He believed that the possession of Miss Howard’s person and fortune were advantages that would much more than counterbalance any elevation that he was likely to obtain by the revolution of affairs in his native colony. He considered Griffith as the only natural obstacle to his success; and he urged his horse forward with a desperate determination to work the ruin of the young sailor before another sun had set. When a man labors in an evil cause, with such feelings, and with such incentives, he seldom slights or neglects his work; and Mr. Dillon, accordingly, was on board the Alacrity several minutes short of the time in which he had promised to perform the distance.

The plain old seaman, who commanded the cutter, listened to his tale with cautious ears; and examined into the state of the weather, and other matters connected with his duty, with the slow and deliberate decision of one who had never done much to acquire a confidence in himself, and who had been but niggardly rewarded for the little he had actually performed.

As Dillon was urgent, however, and the day seemed propitious, he at length decided to act as he was desired, and the cutter was accordingly gotten under way.

A crew of something less than fifty men moved with no little of their commander’s deliberation; but as the little vessel rounded the point behind which she had been anchored, her guns were cleared, and the usual preparations were completed for immediate and actual service.

Dillon, sorely against his will, was compelled to continue on board, in order to point out the place where the suspecting boatmen were expected, to be entrapped. Everything being ready, when they had gained a safe distance from the land, the Alacrity was kept away before the wind, and glided along the shore with a swift and easy progress that promised a speedy execution of the business in which her commander had embarked.

CHAPTER XVII.

“Pol. Very like a whale.”

Shakespeare.

Notwithstanding the object of their expedition was of a public nature, the feelings which had induced both Griffith and Barnstable to accompany the Pilot with so much willingness, it will easily be seen, were entirely personal. The short intercourse that he had maintained with his associates enabled the mysterious leader of their party to understand the characters of his two principal officers so thoroughly, as to induce him, when he landed, with the purpose of reconnoitering to ascertain whether the objects of his pursuit still held their determination to assemble at the appointed hour, to choose Griffith and Manual as his only associates, leaving Barnstable in command of his own vessel, to await their return, and to cover their retreat. A good deal of argument, and some little of the authority of his superior officer, was necessary to make Barnstable quietly acquiesce in this arrangement; but as his good sense told him that nothing should be unnecessarily hazarded, until the moment to strike the final blow had arrived, he became gradually more resigned; taking care, however, to caution Griffith to reconnoiter the abbey while his companion was reconnoitering —— house. It was the strong desire of Griffith to comply with this injunction, which carried them a little out of their proper path, and led to the consequences that we have partly related. The evening of that day was the time when the Pilot intended to complete his enterprise, thinking to entrap his game while enjoying the festivities that usually succeed their sports; and an early hour in the morning was appointed, when Barnstable should appear at the nearest point to the abbey, to take off his countrymen, in order that they might be as little as possible subjected to the gaze of their enemies by daylight. If they failed to arrive at the appointed time, his instructions were to return to his schooner, which lay snugly embayed in a secret and retired haven, that but few ever approached, either by land or water.

While the young cornet still continued gazing at the whale-boat (for it was the party from the schooner that he saw), the hour expired for the appearance of Griffith and his companions; and Barnstable reluctantly determined to comply with the letter of his instructions, and leave them to their own sagacity and skill to regain the Ariel. The boat had been suffered to ride in the edge of the surf, since the appearance of the sun; and the eyes of her crew were kept anxiously fixed on the cliffs, though in vain, to discover the signal that was to call them to the place of landing. After looking at his watch for the twentieth time, and as often casting glances of uneasy dissatisfaction towards the shore, the lieutenant exclaimed:

“A charming prospect, this, Master Coffin, but rather too much poetry in it for your taste; I believe you relish no land that is of a harder consistency than mud!”

“I was born on the waters, sir,” returned the cockswain, from his snug abode, where he was bestowed with his usual economy of room, “and it’s according to all things for a man to love his native soil. I’ll not deny, Captain Barnstable, but I would rather drop my anchor on a bottom that won’t broom a keel, though, at the same time, I harbor no great malice against dry land.”

“I shall never forgive it, myself, if any accident has befallen Griffith in this excursion,” rejoined the lieutenant; “his Pilot may be a better man on the water than on terra firma, long Tom.”

The cockswain turned his solemn visage, with an extraordinary meaning, towards his commander, before he replied:

“For as long a time as I have followed the waters, sir, and that has been ever since I’ve drawn my rations, seeing that I was born while the boat was crossing Nantucket shoals, I’ve never known a pilot come off in greater need, than the one we fell in with, when we made that stretch of two on the land, in the dog-watch of yesterday.”

“Ay! the fellow has played his part like a man; the occasion was great, and it seems that he was quite equal to his work.”

“The frigate’s people tell me, sir, that he handled the ship like a top,” continued the cockswain; “but she is a ship that is a nateral inimy of the bottom!”

“Can you say as much for this boat, Master Coffin?” cried Barnstable: “keep her out of the surf, or you’ll have us rolling in upon the beach, presently, like an empty water-cask; you must remember that we cannot all wade, like yourself in two-fathom water.”

The cockswain cast a cool glance at the crests of foam that were breaking over the tops of the billows, within a few yards of where their boat was riding, and called aloud to his men:

“Pull a stroke or two; away with her into dark water.”

The drop of the oars resembled the movements of a nice machine, and the light boat skimmed along the water like a duck that approaches to the very brink of some imminent danger, and then avoids it, at the most critical moment, apparently without an effort. While this necessary movement was making, Barnstable arose, and surveyed the cliffs with keen eyes, and then turning once more in disappointment from his search, he said:

“Pull more from the land, and let her run down at an easy stroke to the schooner. Keep a lookout at the cliffs, boys; it is possible that they are stowed in some of the holes in the rocks, for it’s no daylight business they are on.”

The order was promptly obeyed, and they had glided along for nearly a mile in this manner, in the most profound silence, when suddenly the stillness was broken by a heavy rush of air, and a dash of the water, seemingly at no great distance from them.

“By heaven, Tom,” cried Barnstable, starting, “there is the blow of a whale!”

“Ay, ay, sir,” returned the cockswain with undisturbed composure; “here is his spout not half a mile to seaward; the easterly gale has driven the creatur to leeward, and he begins to find himself in shoal water. He’s been sleeping, while he should have been working to windward!”

“The fellow takes it coolly, too! he’s in no hurry to get an offing!”

“I rather conclude, sir,” said the cockswain, rolling over his tobacco in his mouth very composedly, while his little sunken eyes began to twinkle with pleasure at the sight, “the gentleman has lost his reckoning, and don’t know which way to head to take himself back into blue water.”

“Tis a finback!” exclaimed the lieutenant; “he will soon make headway, and be off.”

“No, sir, ’tis a right-whale,” answered Tom; “I saw his spout; he threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as a Christian would wish to look at. He’s a raal oil-butt, that fellow!”

Barnstable laughed, turned himself away from the tempting sight, and tried to look at the cliffs; and then unconsciously bent his longing eyes again on the sluggish animal, who was throwing his huge carcass, at times, for many feet from the water, in idle gambols. The temptation for sport, and the recollection of his early habits, at length prevailed over his anxiety in behalf of his friends, and the young officer inquired of his cockswain:

“Is there any whale-line in the boat, to make fast to that harpoon which you bear about with you in fair weather or foul?”

“I never trust the boat from the schooner without part of a shot, sir,” returned the cockswain; “there if something nateral in the sight of a tub to my old eyes.”

Barnstable looked at his watch, and again at the cliffs, when he exclaimed, in joyous tones:

“Give strong way, my hearties! There seems nothing better to be done; let us have a stroke of a harpoon at that impudent rascal.”

The men shouted spontaneously, and the old cockswain suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while the whale-boat sprang forward like a courser for the goal. During the few minutes they were pulling towards their game, long Tom arose from his crouching attitude in the stern-sheets, and transferred his huge form to the bows of the boat, where he made such preparations to strike the whale as the occasion required. The tub, containing about half of a whale-line, was placed at the feet of Barnstabie, who had been preparing an oar to steer with in place of the rudder, which was unshipped, in order that, if necessary, the boat might be whirled round when not advancing.

Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the monster of the deep, who continued to amuse himself with throwing the water in two circular spouts high into the air, occasionally flourishing the broad flukes of his tail with a graceful but terrific force, until the hardy seamen were within a few hundred feet of him, when he suddenly cast his head downward and, without an apparent effort, reared his immense body for many feet above the water, waving his tail violently, and producing a whizzing noise, that sounded like the rushing of winds.

The cockswain stood erect, poising his harpoon, ready for the blow; but when he beheld the creature assume this formidable attitude, he waved his hand to his commander, who instantly signed to his men to cease rowing. In this situation the sportsmen rested a few moments, while the whale, struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, the noise of which re-echoed along the cliffs, like the hollow reports of so many cannon. After this wanton exhibition of his terrible strength, the monster sank again into his native element, and slowly disappeared from the eyes of his pursuers.

“Which way did he head, Tom?” cried Barnstable, the moment the whale was out of sight.

“Pretty much up and down, sir,” returned the cockswain, whose eye was gradually brightened with the excitement of the sport; “he’ll soon run his nose against the bottom if he stands long on that course, and will be glad to get another snuff of pure air; send her a few fathoms to starboard, sir, and I promise we shall not be out of his track.”

The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved true; for in a few moments the water broke near them, and another spout was cast into the air, when the huge animal rushed for half his length in the same direction, and fell on the sea with a turbulence and foam equal to that which is produced by the launching of a vessel, for the first time, into its proper element. After this evolution the whale rolled heavily, and seemed to rest for further efforts.

His slightest movements were closely watched by Barnstable and his cockswain, and when he was in a state of comparative rest, the former gave a signal to his crew to ply their oars once more. A few long and vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up to the broadside of the whale, with its bows pointing towards one of the fins, which was, at times, as the animal yielded sluggishly to the action of the waves, exposed to view. The cockswain poised his harpoon with much precision, and then darted it from him with a violence that buried the iron in the blubber of their foe. The instant the blow was made, long Tom shouted, with singular earnestness:

“Starn all!”

“Stern all!” echoed Barnstable; when the obedient seamen, by united efforts, forced the boat in a backward direction beyond the reach of any blow from their formidable antagonist. The alarmed animal, however, meditated no such resistance; ignorant of his own power, and of the insignificance of his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. One moment of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of the iron, when he cast his huge tail into the air, with a violence that threw the sea around him into increased commotion, and then disappeared with the quickness of lightning, amid a cloud of foam.

“Snub him!” shouted Barnstable; “hold on, Tom; he rises already.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the composed cockswain, seizing the line, which was running out of the boat with a velocity that rendered such a manoeuvre rather hazardous, and causing it to yield more gradually round the large loggerhead that was placed in the bows of the boat for that purpose. Presently the line stretched forward, and rising to the surface with tremulous vibrations, it indicated the direction in which the animal might be expected to reappear. Barnstable had cast the bows of the boat towards that point, before the terrified and wounded victim rose once more to the surface, whose time was, however, no longer wasted in his sports, but who cast the waters aside as he forced his way, with prodigious velocity, along the surface. The boat was dragged violently in his wake, and cut through the billows with a terrific rapidity, that at moments appeared to bury the slight fabric in the ocean. When long Tom beheld his victim throwing his spouts on high again, he pointed with exultation to the jetting fluid, which was streaked with the deep red of blood, and cried:

“Ay! I’ve touched the fellow’s life! it must be more than two foot of blubber that stops my iron from reaching the life of any whale that ever sculled the ocean!”

“I believe you have saved yourself the trouble of using the bayonet you have rigged for a lance,” said his commander, who entered into the sport with all the ardor of one whose youth had been chiefly passed in such pursuits: “feel your line, Master Coffin; can we haul alongside of our enemy? I like not the course he is steering, as he tows us from the schooner.”

“’Tis the creatur’s way, sir,” said the cockswain; “you know they need the air in their nostrils, when they run, the same as a man; but lay hold, boys, and let’s haul up to him.”

The seamen now seized the whale-line, and slowly drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of the fish, whose progress became sensibly less rapid, as he grew weak with the loss of blood. In a few minutes he stopped running, and appeared to roll uneasily on the water, as if suffering the agony of death.

“Shall we pull in, and finish him, Tom?” cried Barnstable; “a few sets from your bayonet would do it.”

The cockswain stood examining his game with cool discretion, and replied to this interrogatory:

“No, sir, no — he’s going into his flurry; there’s no occasion for disgracing ourselves by using a soldier’s weapon in taking a whale. Starn off, sir, starn off! the creater’s in his flurry!”

The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly obeyed, and the boat cautiously drew off to a distance, leaving to the animal a clear space, while under its dying agonies. From a state of perfect rest, the terrible monster threw its tail on high, as when in sport, but its blows were trebled in rapidity and violence, till all was hid from view by a pyramid of foam, that was deeply dyed with blood. The roarings of the fish were like the bellowing of a herd of bulls; and to one who was ignorant of the fact, it would have appeared as if a thousand monsters were engaged in deadly combat behind the bloody mist that obscured the view. Gradually, these effects subsided, and when the discolored water again settled down to the long and regular swell of the ocean, the fish was seen, exhausted, and yielding passively to its fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass rolled to one side; and when the white and glistening skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen well knew that their victory was achieved.

“What’s to be done now?” said Barnstable, as he stood and gazed with a diminished excitement at their victim; “he will yield no food, and his carcass will probably drift to land, and furnish our enemies with the oil.”

“If I had but that creatur in Boston Bay,” said the cockswain, “it would prove the making of me; but such is my luck forever! Pull up, at any rate, and let me get my harpoon and line — the English shall never get them while old Tom Coffin can blow.”

“Don’t speak too fast,” said the strokesman of the boat; “whether he get your iron or not, here he comes in chase!”

“What mean you, fellow?” cried Barnstable.

“Captain Barnstable can look for himself,” returned the seaman, “and tell whether I speak truth.”

The young sailor turned, and saw the Alacrity bearing down before the wind, with all her sails set, as she rounded a headland, but a short half-league to windward of the place where the boat lay.

“Pass that glass to me,” said the captain, with steady composure. “This promises us work in one of two ways: if she be armed, it has become our turn to run; if not, we are strong enough to carry her.”

A very brief survey made the experienced officer acquainted with the true character of the vessel in sight; and, replacing the glass with much coolness, he said:

“That fellow shows long arms, and ten teeth, besides King George’s pennant from his topmast-head. Now, my lads, you are to pull for your lives; for whatever may be the notions of Master Coffin on the subject of his harpoon, I have no inclination to have my arms pinioned by John Bull, though his majesty himself put on the irons.”

The men well understood the manner and meaning of their commander; and, throwing aside their coats, they applied themselves in earnest to their task. For half an hour a profound silence reigned in the boat, which made an amazing progress. But many circumstances conspired to aid the cutter; she had a fine breeze, with smooth water, and a strong tide in her favor; and, at the expiration of the time we have mentioned, it was but too apparent that the distance between the pursued and the pursuers was lessened nearly by half. Barnstable preserved his steady countenance, but there was an expression of care gathering around his dark brow, which indicated that he saw the increasing danger of their situation.

“That fellow has long legs, Master Coffin,” he said, in a cheerful tone; “your whale-line must go overboard, and the fifth oar must be handled by your delicate hands.”

Tom arose from his seat, and proceeding forward, he cast the tub and its contents together into the sea, when he seated himself at the bow oar, and, bent his athletic frame with amazing vigor to the task.

“Ah! there is much of your philosophy in that stroke, long Tom,” cried his commander; “keep it up, boys; and if we gain nothing else, we shall at least gain time for deliberation. Come, Master Coffin, what think you! We have three resources before us, let us hear which is jour choice; first, we can turn and fight and be sunk; secondly, we can pull to the land, and endeavor to make good our retreat to the schooner in that manner; and thirdly, we can head to the shore, and possibly, by running under the guns of that fellow, get the wind of him, and keep the air in our nostrils, after the manner of the whale. Damn the whale! but for the tow the black rascal gave us, we should have been out of sight of this rover!”

“If we fight,” said Tom, with quite as much composure as his commander manifested, “we shall be taken or sunk; if we land, sir, I shall be taken for one man, as I never could make any headway on dry ground; and if we try to get the wind of him by pulling under the cliffs, we shall be cut off by a parcel of lubbers that I can see running along their edges, hoping, I dare say, that they shall be able to get a skulking shot at a boat’s crew of honest seafaring men.”

“You speak with as much truth as philosophy, Tom,” said Barnstable, who saw his slender hopes of success curtailed by the open appearance of the horse and foot on the cliffs. “These Englishmen have not slept the last night, and I fear Griffith and Manual will fare but badly. That fellow brings a capful of wind down with him— ’tis just his play, and he walks like a race-horse. Ha! he begins to be in earnest!”

While Barnstable was speaking, a column of white smoke was seen issuing from the bows of the cutter; and as the report of a cannon was wafted to their ears, the shot was seen skipping from wave to wave, tossing the water in spray, and flying to a considerable distance beyond them. The seamen cast cursory glances in the direction of the passing ball, but it produced no manifest effect in either their conduct or appearance. The cockswain, who scanned its range with an eye of more practice than the rest, observed, “That’s a lively piece for its metal, and it speaks with a good clear voice; but if they hear it aboard the Ariel, the man who fired it will be sorry it wasn’t born dumb.”

“You are the prince of philosophers, Master Coffin!” cried Barnstable; “there is some hope in that; let the Englishmen talk away, and, my life on it, the Ariels don’t believe it is thunder; hand me a musket — I’ll draw another shot.”

The piece was given to Barnstable, who discharged it several times, as if to taunt their enemies; and the scheme was completely successful. Goaded by the insults, the cutter discharged gun after gun at the little boat, throwing the shot frequently so near as to wet her crew with the spray, but without injuring them in the least. The failure of these attempts of the enemy excited the mirth of the reckless seamen, instead of creating any alarm; and whenever a shot came nearer than common, the cockswain would utter some such expression as:

“A ground swell, a long shot, and a small object, make a clean target;” or, “A man must squint straight to hit a boat.”

As, notwithstanding their unsuccessful gunnery, the cutter was constantly gaining on the whale-boat, there was a prospect of a speedy termination of the chase, when the report of a cannon was thrown back like an echo from one of the Englishman’s discharges, and Barnstable and his companions had the pleasure of seeing the Ariel stretching slowly out of the little bay where she had passed the night, with the smoke of the gun of defiance curling above her taper masts.

A loud and simultaneous shout of rapture was given by the lieutenant and all his boat’s crew, at this cheering sight, while the cutter took in all her light sails, and, as she hauled up on a wind, she fired a whole broadside at the successful fugitives. Many stands of grape, with several round shot, flew by the boat and fell upon the water near them, raising a cloud of foam, but without doing any injury.

“She dies in a flurry,” said Tom, casting his eyes at the little vortex into which the boat was then entering.

“If her commander be a true man,” cried Barnstable, “he’ll not leave us on so short an acquaintance. Give way, my souls! give way! I would see more of this loquacious cruiser.”

The temptation for exertion was great, and it was not disregarded by the men; in a few minutes the whale-boat reached the schooner, when the crew of the latter received their commander and his companions with shouts and cheers that rang across the waters, and reached the ears of the disappointed spectators on the verge of the cliffs.

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Thus guided on their course they bore,

Until they near’d the mainland shore;

When frequent on the hollow blast,

Wild shouts of merriment were cast.”

Lord of the Isles.

The joyful shouts and hearty cheers of the Ariel’s crew continued for some time after her commander had reached her deck. Barnstable answered the congratulations of his officers by cordial shakes of the hand; and after waiting for the ebullition of delight among the seamen to subside a little, he beckoned with an air of authority for silence.

“I thank you, my lads, for your good-will,” he said, when all were gathered around him in deep attention; “they have given us a tough chase, and if you had left us another mile to go, we had been lost. That fellow is a king’s cutter; and though his disposition to run to leeward is a good deal mollified, yet he shows signs of fight. At any rate, he is stripping off some of his clothes, which looks as if he were game. Luckily for us, Captain Manual has taken all the marines ashore with him, (though what he has done with them, or himself, is a mystery,) or we should have had our decks lumbered with live cattle; but, as it is, we have a good working breeze, tolerably smooth water, and a dead match! There is a sort of national obligation on us to whip that fellow; and therefore, without more words about the matter, let us turn to and do it, that we may get our breakfasts.”

To this specimen of marine eloquence the crew cheered as usual, the young men burning for the combat, and the few old sailors who belonged to the schooner shaking their heads with infinite satisfaction, and swearing by sundry strange oaths that their captain “could talk, when there was need of such thing, like the best dictionary that ever was launched.”

During this short harangue and the subsequent comments, the Ariel had been kept, under a cloud of canvas, as near to the wind as she could lie; and as this was her best sailing, she had stretched swiftly out from the land, to a distance whence the cliffs and the soldiers, who were spread along their summits, became plainly visible. Barnstable turned his glass repeatedly from the cutter to the shore, as different feelings predominated in his breast, before he again spoke.

“If Mr. Griffith is stowed away among those rocks,” he at length said, “he shall see as pretty an argument discussed, in as few words, as he ever listened to, provided the gentlemen in yonder cutter have not changed their minds as to the road they intend to journey — what think you, Mr. Merry?”

“I wish with all my heart and soul, sir,” returned the fearless boy, “that Mr. Griffith was safe aboard us; it seems the country is alarmed, and God knows what will happen if he is taken! As to the fellow to windward, he’ll find it easier to deal with the Ariel’s boat than with her mother; but he carries a broad sail; I question if he means to show play.”

“Never doubt him, boy,” said Barnstable, “he is working off the shore, like a man of sense, and besides, he has his spectacles on, trying to make out what tribe of Yankee Indians we belong to. You’ll see him come to the wind presently, and send a few pieces of iron down this way, by way of letting us know where to find him. Much as I like your first lieutenant, Mr. Merry, I would rather leave him on the land this day, than see him on my decks. I want no fighting captain to work this boat for me! But tell the drummer, sir, to beat to quarters.”

The boy, who was staggering under the weight of his melodious instrument, had been expecting this command, and, without waiting for the midshipman to communicate the order, he commenced that short rub-a-dub air, that will at any time rouse a thousand men from the deepest sleep, and cause them to fly to their means of offence with a common soul. The crew of the Ariel had been collected in groups studying the appearance of the enemy, cracking their jokes, and waiting only for this usual order to repair to the guns; and at the first tap of the drum, they spread with steadiness to the different parts of the little vessel, where their various duties called them. The cannon were surrounded by small parties of vigorous and athletic young men; the few marines were drawn up in array with muskets; the officers appeared in their boarding-caps, with pistols stuck in their belts, and naked sabres in their hands. Barnstable paced his little quarter-deck with a firm tread, dangling a speaking-trumpet by its lanyard on his forefinger, or occasionally applying the glass to his eye, which, when not in use, was placed under one arm, while his sword was resting against the foot of the mainmast; a pair of heavy ship’s pistols were thrust into his belt also; and piles of muskets, boarding-pikes, and naked sabres were placed on different parts of the deck. The laugh of the seamen was heard no longer, and those who spoke uttered their thoughts only in low and indistinct whispers.

The English cutter held her way from the land, until she got an offing of more than two miles, when she reduced her sails to a yet smaller number; and, heaving into the wind, she fired a gun in a direction opposite to that which pointed to the Ariel.

“Now I would wager a quintal of codfish, Master Coffin,” said Barnstable, “against the best cask of porter that was ever brewed in England, that fellow believes a Yankee schooner can fly in the wind’s eye! If he wishes to speak to us, why don’t he give his cutter a little sheet, and come down?”

The cockswain had made his arrangements for the combat, with much more method and philosophy than any other man in the vessel. When the drum beat to quarters, he threw aside his jacket, vest, and shirt, with as little hesitation as if he stood under an American sun, and with all the discretion of a man who had engaged in an undertaking that required the free use of his utmost powers. As he was known to be a privileged individual in the Ariel, and one whose opinions, in all matters of seamanship, were regarded as oracles by the crew, and were listened to by his commander with no little demonstration of respect, the question excited no surprise. He was standing at the breech of his long gun, with his brawny arms folded on a breast that had been turned to the color of blood by long exposure, his grizzled locks fluttering in the breeze, and his tall form towering far above the heads of all near him.

“He hugs the wind, sir, as if it was his sweetheart,” was his answer; “but he’ll let go his hold soon; and if he don’t, we can find a way to make him fall to leeward.”

“Keep a good full!” cried the commander, in a stern voice; “and let the vessel go through the water. That fellow walks well, long Tom; but we are too much for him on a bowline; though, if he continue to draw ahead in this manner, it will be night before we can get alongside him.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” returned the cockswain; “them cutters carries a press of canvas when they seem to have but little; their gafts are all the same as young booms, and spread a broad head to their mainsails. But it’s no hard matter to knock a few cloths out of their bolt-ropes, when she will both drop astarn and to leeward.”

“I believe there is good sense in your scheme, this time,” said Barnstable; “for I am anxious about the frigate’s people — though I hate a noisy chase; speak to him, Tom, and let us see if he will answer.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” cried the cockswain, sinking his body in such a manner as to let his head fall to a level with the cannon that he controlled, when, after divers orders and sundry movements to govern the direction of the piece, he applied a match, with a rapid motion, to the priming. An immense body of white smoke rushed from the muzzle of the cannon, followed by a sheet of vivid fire, until, losing its power, it yielded to the wind, and, as it rose from the water, spread like a cloud, and, passing through the masts of the schooner, was driven far to leeward, and soon blended in the mists which were swiftly scudding before the fresh breezes of the ocean.

Although many curious eyes were watching this beautiful sight from the cliffs, there was too little of novelty in the exhibition to attract a single look of the crew of the schooner from the more important examination of the effect of the shot on their enemy. Barnstable sprang lightly on a gun, and watched the instant when the ball would strike, with keen interest, while long Tom threw himself aside from the line of the smoke with a similar intention; holding one of his long arms extended toward his namesake, with a finger on the vent, and supporting his frame by placing the hand of the other on the deck, as his eyes glanced through an opposite port-hole, in an attitude that most men might have despaired of imitating with success.

“There go the chips!” cried Barnstable. “Bravo! Master Coffin, you never planted iron in the ribs of an English man with more judgment. Let him have another piece of it; and if he like the sport, we’ll play a game of long bowls with him!”

“Ay, ay, sir,” returned the cockswain, who, the instant he witnessed the effects of his shot, had returned to superintend the reloading of his gun; “if he holds on half an hour longer, I’ll dub him down to our own size, when we can close, and make an even fight of it.”

The drum of the Englishman was now, for the first time, heard rattling across the waters, and echoing the call to quarters, that had already proceeded from the Ariel.

“Ay! you have sent him to his guns!” said Barnstable; “we shall now hear more of it; wake him up, Tom — wake him up.”

“We shall start him on end, or put him to sleep altogether, shortly,” said the deliberate cockswain, who never allowed himself to be at all hurried, even by his commander. My shot are pretty much like a shoal of porpoises, and commonly sail in each other’s wake. Stand by — heave her breech forward — so; get out of that, you damned young reprobate, and let my harpoon alone!”

“What are you at, there, Master Coffin?” cried Barnstable; “are you tongue-tied?”

“Here’s one of the boys skylarking with my harpoon in the lee-scuppers, and by and by, when I shall want it most, there’ll be a no-man’s land to hunt for it in.”

“Never mind the boy, Tom; send him aft here to me, and I’ll polish his behavior; give the Englishman some more iron.”

“I want the little villain to pass up my cartridges,” returned the angry old seaman; “but if you’ll be so good, sir, as to hit him a crack or two, now and then, as he goes by you to the magazine, the monkey will learn his manners, and the schooner’s work will be all the better done for it. A young herring-faced monkey! to meddle with a tool ye don’t know the use of. If your parents had spent more of their money on your edication, and less on your outfit, you’d ha’ been a gentleman to what ye are now.”

“Hurrah! Tom, hurrah!” cried Barnstable, a little impatiently; “is your namesake never to open his throat again!”

“Ay, ay, sir; all ready,” grumbled the cockswain; “depress a little; so — so; a damned young baboon-behaved curmudgeon; overhaul that forward fall more; stand by with your match — but I’ll pay him! — fire!” This was the actual commencement of the fight; for as the shot of Tom Coffin traveled, as he had intimated, very much in the same direction, their enemy found the sport becoming too hot to be endured in silence, and the report of the second gun from the Ariel was instantly followed by that of the whole broadside of the Alacrity. The shot of the cutter flew in a very good direction, but her guns were too light to give them efficiency at that distance; and as one or two were heard to strike against the bends of the schooner, and fall back, innocuously, into the water, the cockswain, whose good-humor became gradually restored as the combat thickened, remarked with his customary apathy:

“Them count for no more than love-taps — does the Englishman think that we are firing salutes!”

“Stir him up, Tom! every blow you give him will help to open his eyes,” cried Barnstable, rubbing his hands with glee, as he witnessed the success of his efforts to close.

Thus far the cockswain and his crew had the fight, on the part of the Ariel, altogether to themselves, the men who were stationed at the smaller and shorter guns standing in perfect idleness by their sides; but in ten or fifteen minutes the commander of the Alacrity, who had been staggered by the weight of the shot that had struck him, found that it was no longer in his power to retreat, if he wished it; when he decided on the only course that was left for a brave man to pursue, and steered boldly in such a direction as would soonest bring him in contact with his enemy, without exposing his vessel to be raked by his fire. Barnstable watched each movement of his foe with eagle eyes, and when the vessel had got within a lessened distance, he gave the order for a general fire to be opened. The action now grew warm and spirited on both sides. The power of the wind was counteracted by the constant explosion of the cannon; and, instead of driving rapidly to leeward, a white canopy of curling smoke hung above the Ariel, or rested on the water, lingering in her wake, so as to mark the path by which she was approaching to a closer and still deadlier struggle. The shouts of the young sailors, as they handled their instruments of death, became more animated and fierce, while the cockswain pursued his occupation with the silence and skill of one who labored in a regular vocation. Barnstable was unusually composed and quiet, maintaining the grave deportment of a commander on whom rested the fortunes of the contest, at the same time that his dark eyes were dancing with the fire of suppressed animation.

“Give it them!” he occasionally cried, in a voice that might be heard amid the bellowing of the cannon; “never mind their cordage, my lads; drive home their bolts, and make your marks below their ridge-ropes.”

In the mean time the Englishman played a manful game.

He had suffered a heavy loss by the distant cannonade, which no metal he possessed could retort upon his enemy; but he struggled nobly to repair the error in judgment with which he had begun the contest. The two vessels gradually drew nigher to each other, until they both entered into the common cloud created by their fire, which thickened and spread around them in such a manner as to conceal their dark hulls from the gaze of the curious and interested spectators on the cliffs. The heavy reports of the cannon were now mingled with the rattling of muskets and pistols, and streaks of fire might be seen glancing like flashes of lightning through the white cloud which enshrouded the combatants; and many minutes of painful uncertainty followed, before the deeply interested soldiers, who were gazing at the scene, discovered on whose banners victory had alighted.

We shall follow the combatants into their misty wreath, and display to the reader the events as they occurred.

The fire of the Ariel was much the most quick and deadly, both because she had suffered less, and her men were less exhausted; and the cutter stood desperately on to decide the combat, after grappling, hand to hand. Barnstable anticipated her intention and well understood her commander’s reason for adopting this course; but he was not a man to calculate coolly his advantages, when pride and daring invited him to a more severe trial. Accordingly, he met the enemy half-way, and, as the vessels rushed together, the stern of the schooner was secured to the bows of the cutter, by the joint efforts of both parties. The voice of the English commander was now plainly to be heard, in the uproar, calling to his men to follow him.

“Away there, boarders! repel boarders on the starboard quarter!” shouted Barnstable, through his trumpet.

This was the last order that the gallant young sailor gave with this instrument; for, as he spoke, he cast it from him, and, seizing his sabre, flew to the spot where the enemy was about to make his most desperate effort. The shouts, execrations, and tauntings of the combatants, now succeeded to the roar of the cannon, which could be used no longer with effect, though the fight was still maintained with spirited discharges of the small-arms.

“Sweep him from his decks!” cried the English commander, as he appeared on his own bulwarks, surrounded by a dozen of his bravest men; “drive the rebellious dogs into the sea!”

“Away there, marines!” retorted Barnstable, firing his pistol at the advancing enemy; “leave not a man of them to sup his grog again.”

The tremendous and close volley that succeeded this order nearly accomplished the command of Barnstable to the letter, and the commander of the Alacrity, perceiving that he stood alone, reluctantly fell back on the deck of his own vessel, in order to bring on his men once more.

“Board her! graybeards and boys, idlers and all!” shouted Barnstable, springing in advance of his crew — a powerful arm arrested the movement of the dauntless seaman, and before he had time to recover himself, he was drawn violently back to his own vessel by the irresistible grasp of his cockswain.

“The fellow’s in his flurry,” said Tom, “and it wouldn’t be wise to go within reach of his flukes; but I’ll just step ahead and give him a set with my harpoon.”

Without waiting for a reply, the cockswain reared his tall frame on the bulwarks, and was in the attitude of stepping on board of his enemy, when a sea separated the vessels, and he fell with a heavy dash of the waters into the ocean. As twenty muskets and pistols were discharged at the instant he appeared, the crew of the Ariel supposed his fall to be occasioned by his wounds, and were rendered doubly fierce by the sight, and the cry of their commander to:

“Revenge long Tom! board her! long Tom or death!”

They threw themselves forward in irresistible numbers, and forced a passage, with much bloodshed, to the forecastle of the Alacrity. The Englishman was overpowered, but still remained undaunted — he rallied his crew, and bore up most gallantly to the fray. Thrusts of pikes and blows of sabres were becoming close and deadly, while muskets and pistols were constantly discharged by those who were kept at a distance by the pressure of the throng of closer combatants.

Barnstable led his men in advance, and became a mark of peculiar vengeance to his enemies, as they slowly yielded before his vigorous assaults. Chance had placed the two commanders on opposite sides of the cutter’s deck, and the victory seemed to incline towards either party, whenever these daring officers directed the struggle in person. But the Englishman, perceiving that the ground he maintained in person was lost elsewhere, made an effort to restore the battle, by changing his position, followed by one or two of his best men. A marine, who preceded him, leveled his musket within a few feet of the head of the American commander, and was about to fire, when Merry glided among the combatants, and passed his dirk into the body of the man, who fell at the blow; shaking his piece, with horrid imprecations, the wounded soldier prepared to deal his vengeance on his youthful assailant, when the fearless boy leaped within its muzzle, and buried his own keen weapon in his heart.

“Hurrah!” shouted the unconscious Barnstable, from the edge of the quarter-deck, where, attended by a few men, he was driving all before him. “Revenge! — long Tom and victory!”

“We have them!” exclaimed the Englishman; “handle your pikes! we have them between two fires.”

The battle would probably have terminated very differently from what previous circumstances had indicated, had not a wild-looking figure appeared in the cutter’s channels at that moment, issuing from the sea, and gaining the deck at the same instant. It was long Tom, with his iron visage rendered fierce by his previous discomfiture, and his grizzled locks drenched with the briny element from which he had risen, looking like Neptune with his trident. Without speaking, he poised his harpoon, and, with a powerful effort, pinned the unfortunate Englishman to the mast of his own vessel.

“Starn all!” cried Tom by a sort of instinct, when the blow was struck; and catching up the musket of the fallen marine, he dealt out terrible and fatal blows with its butt on all who approached him, utterly disregarding the use of the bayonet on its muzzle. The unfortunate commander of the Alacrity brandished his sword with frantic gestures, while his eyes rolled in horrid wildness, when he writhed for an instant in his passing agonies, and then, as his head dropped lifeless upon his gored breast, he hung against the spar, a spectacle of dismay to his crew, A few of the Englishmen stood chained to the spot in silent horror at the sight, but most of them fled to their lower deck, or hastened to conceal themselves in the secret parts of the vessel, leaving to the Americans the undisputed possession of the Alacrity.

Two-thirds of the cutter’s crew suffered either in life or limbs, by this short struggle; nor was the victory obtained by Barnstable without paying the price of several valuable lives. The first burst of conquest was not, however, the moment to appreciate the sacrifice, and loud and reiterated shouts proclaimed the exultation of the conquerors. As the flush of victory subsided, however, recollection returned, and Barnstable issued such orders as humanity and his duty rendered necessary. While the vessels were separating, and the bodies of the dead and wounded were removing, the conqueror paced the deck of his prize, as if lost in deep reflection. He passed his hand, frequently, across his blackened and blood-stained brow, while his eyes would rise to examine the vast canopy of smoke that was hovering above the vessels, like a dense fog exhaling from the ocean. The result of his deliberations was soon announced to the crew.

“Haul down all your flags,” he cried; “set the Englishman’s colors again, and show the enemy’s jack above our ensign in the Ariel.”

The appearance of the whole channel-fleet within half gunshot would not have occasioned more astonishment among the victors than this extraordinary mandate. The wondering seamen suspended their several employments, to gaze at the singular change that was making in the flags, those symbols that were viewed with a sort of reverence; but none presumed to comment openly on the procedure except long Tom, who stood on the quarter-deck of the prize, straightening the pliable iron of the harpoon which he had recovered with as much care and diligence as if it were necessary to the maintenance of their conquest. Like the others, however, he suspended his employment when he heard this order, and manifested no reluctance to express his dissatisfaction at the measure.

“If the Englishmen grumble at the fight, and think it not fair play,” muttered the old cockswain, “let us try it over again, sir; as they are somewhat short of hands, they can send a boat to the land, and get off a gang of them lazy riptyles, the soldiers, who stand looking at us, like so many red lizards crawling on a beach, and we’ll give them another chance; but damme, if I see the use of whipping them, if this is to be the better end of the matter.”

“What’s that you’re grumbling there, like a dead northeaster, you horse-mackerel?” said Barnstable; “where are our friends and countrymen who are on the land? Are we to leave them to swing on gibbets or rot in dungeons?”

The cockswain listened with great earnestness, and when his commander had spoken, he struck the palm of his broad hand against his brawny thigh, with a report like a pistol, and answered:

“I see how it is, sir; you reckon the red-coats have Mr. Griffith in tow. Just run the schooner into shoal water, Captain Barnstable, and drop an anchor, where we can get the long gun to bear on them, and give me the whale-boat and five or six men to back me — they must have long legs if they get an offing before I run them aboard!”

“Fool! do you think a boat’s crew could contend with fifty armed soldiers?”

“Soldiers!” echoed Tom, whose spirits had been strongly excited by the conflict, snapping his fingers with ineffable disdain; “that for all the soldiers that were ever rigged: one whale could kill a thousand of them! and here stands the man that has killed his round hundred of whales!”

“Pshaw, you grampus, do you turn braggart in your old age?”

“It’s no bragging, sir, to speak a log-book truth! but if Captain Barnstable thinks that old Tom Coffin carries a speaking-trumpet for a figure-head, let him pass the word forrard to man the boats.”

“No, no, my old master at the marlinspike,” said Barnstable, kindly, “I know thee too well, thou brother of Neptune! but shall we not throw the bread-room dust in those Englishmen’s eyes, by wearing their bunting a while, till something may offer to help our captured countrymen.”

The cockswain shook his head and cogitated a moment, as if struck with sundry new ideas, when he answered:

“Ay, ay, sir; that’s blue-water philosophy: as deep as the sea! Let the riptyles clew up the corners of their mouths to their eyebrows, now! when they come to hear the ra’al Yankee truth of the matter, they will sheet them down to their leather neckcloths!”

With this reflection the cockswain was much consoled, and the business of repairing damages and securing the prize proceeded without further interruption on his part. The few prisoners who were unhurt were rapidly transferred to the Ariel. While Barnstable was attending to this duty, an unusual bustle drew his eyes to one of the hatchways, where he beheld a couple of his marines dragging forward a gentleman, whose demeanor and appearance indicated the most abject terror. After examining the extraordinary appearance of this individual, for a moment, in silent amazement, the lieutenant exclaimed:

“Who have we here? some amateur in fights! an inquisitive, wonder-seeking non-combatant, who has volunteered to serve his king, and perhaps draw a picture, or write a book, to serve himself! Pray, sir, in what capacity did you serve in this vessel?”

The captive ventured a sidelong glance at his interrogator, in whom he expected to encounter Griffith, but perceiving that it was a face he did not know, he felt a revival of confidence that enabled him to reply:

“I came here by accident; being on board the cutter at the time her late commander determined to engage you. It was not in his power to land me, as I trust you will not hesitate to do; your conjecture of my being a non-combatant— “

“Is perfectly true,” interrupted Barnstable; “it requires no spyglass to read that name written on you from stem to stern: but for certain weighty reasons— “

He paused to turn at a signal given him by young Merry, who whispered eagerly, in his ear:

“’Tis Mr. Dillon, kinsman of Colonel Howard; I’ve seen him often, sailing in the wake of my cousin Cicely.”

“Dillon!” exclaimed Barnstable, rubbing his hands with pleasure; “what, Kit of that name! he with ‘the Savannah face, eyes of black, and skin of the same color?’ he’s grown a little whiter with fear; but he’s a prize, at this moment, worth twenty Alacrities!”

These exclamations were made in a low voice, and at some little distance from the prisoner, whom he now approached and addressed:

“Policy, and consequently duty, require that I should detain you for a short time, sir; but you shall have a sailor’s welcome to whatever we possess, to lessen the weight of captivity.”

Barnstable precluded any reply, by bowing to his captive, and turning away to superintend the management of his vessels. In a short time it was announced that they were ready to make sail, when the Ariel and her prize were brought close to the wind, and commenced beating slowly along the land, as if intending to return to the bay whence the latter had sailed that morning. As they stretched in to the shore on the first tack, the soldiers on the cliffs rent the air with their shouts and acclamations, to which Barnstable, pointing to the assumed symbols that were fluttering in the breeze from his masts, directed his crew to respond in the most cordial manner. As the distance, and the want of boats, prevented any further communication, the soldiers, after gazing at the receding vessels for a time, disappeared from the cliffs, and were soon lost from the sight of the adventurous mariners. Hour after hour was consumed in the tedious navigation, against an adverse tide, and the short day was drawing to a close, before they approached the mouth of their destined haven. While making one of their numerous stretches to and from the land, the cutter, in which Barnstable continued, passed the victim of their morning’s sport, riding on the water, the waves curling over his huge carcass as on some rounded rock, and already surrounded by the sharks, who were preying on his defenceless body.

“See! Master Coffin,” cried the lieutenant, pointing out the object to his cockswain as they glided by it, “the shovel-nosed gentlemen are regaling daintily: you have neglected the Christian’s duty of burying your dead.”

The old seaman cast a melancholy look at the dead whale and replied:

“If I had the creatur in Boston Bay, or on the Sandy Point of Munny-Moy, ‘twould be the making of me! But riches and honor are for the great and the larned, and there’s nothing left for poor Tom Coffin to do but to veer and haul on his own rolling-tackle, that he may ride out on the rest of the gale of life without springing any of his old spars.”

“How now, long Tom!” cried his officer, “these rocks and cliffs will shipwreck you on the shoals of poetry yet; you grow sentimental!”

“Them rocks might wrack any vessel that struck them,” said the literal cockswain; “and as for poetry, I wants none better than the good old song of Captain Kidd; but it’s enough to raise solemn thoughts in a Cape Poge Indian, to see an eighty-barrel whale devoured by shirks— ’tis an awful waste of property! I’ve seen the death of two hundred of the creaturs, though it seems to keep the rations of poor old Tom as short as ever.”

The cockswain walked aft, while the vessel was passing the whale, and seating himself on the taffrail, with his face resting gloomily on his bony hand, he fastened his eyes on the object of his solicitude, and continued to gaze at it with melancholy regret, while it was to be seen glistening in the sunbeams, as it rolled its glittering side of white into the air, or the rays fell unreflected on the black and rougher coat of the back of the monster. In the mean time, the navigators diligently pursued their way for the haven we have mentioned, into which they steered with every appearance of the fearlessness of friends, and the exultation of conquerors.

A few eager and gratified spectators lined the edges of the small bay, and Barnstable concluded his arrangement for deceiving the enemy, by admonishing his crew that they were now about to enter on a service that would require their utmost intrepidity and sagacity.

CHAPTER XIX

“Our trumpet called you to this gentle parle.”

King John.

As Griffith and his companions rushed from the offices of St. Ruth into the open air, they encountered no one to intercept their flight, or communicate the alarm. Warned by the experience of the earlier part of the same night, they avoided the points where they knew the sentinels were posted, though fully prepared to bear down all resistance, and were soon beyond the probability of immediate detection. They proceeded, for the distance of half a mile, with rapid strides, and with the stern and sullen silence of men who expected to encounter immediate danger, resolved to breast it with desperate resolution; but, as they plunged into a copse that clustered around the ruin which has been already mentioned, they lessened their exertions to a more deliberate pace, and a short but guarded dialogue ensued “We have had a timely escape,” said Griffith; “I would much rather have endured captivity, than have been the cause of introducing confusion and bloodshed in the peaceful residence of Colonel Howard.”

“I would, sir, that you had been of this opinion some hours earlier,” returned the Pilot, with a severity in his tones that even conveyed more meaning than his words.

“I may have forgotten my duty, sir, in my anxiety to enquire into the condition of a family in whom I feel a particular interest,” returned Griffith, in a manner in which pride evidently struggled with respect; “but this is not a time for regrets; I apprehend that we follow you on an errand of some moment, where actions would be more acceptable than any words of apology. What is your pleasure now?”

“I much fear that our project will be defeated,” said the Pilot, gloomily; “the alarm will spread with the morning fogs, and there will be musterings of the yeomen, and consultations of the gentry, that will drive all thoughts of amusement from their minds. The rumor of a descent will, at any time, force sleep from the shores of this island, to at least ten leagues inland.”

“Ay, you have probably passed some pleasant nights, with your eyes open, among them, yourself, Master Pilot,” said Manual; “they may thank the Frenchman, Thurot, in the old business of ‘56, and our own daredevil, the bloody Scotchman, as the causes of their quarters being so often beaten up. After all, Thurot, with his fleet, did no more than bully them a little, and the poor fellow was finally extinguished by a few small cruisers, like a drummer’s boy under a grenadier’s cap; but honest Paul sang a different tune for his countrymen to dance to, and— “

“I believe you will shortly dance yourself, Manual,” interrupted Griffith, quickly, “and in very pleasure that you have escaped an English prison.”

“Say, rather, an English gibbet,” continued the elated marine; “for had a court-martial or a court-civil discussed the manner of our entrance into this island, I doubt whether we should have fared better than the daredevil himself, honest — — “

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the impatient Griffith; “enough of this nonsense, Captain Manual: we have other matters to discuss now. What course have you determined to pursue, Mr. Gray?”

The Pilot started, like a man aroused from a deep musing, at this question, and after a pause of a moment he spoke in a low tone of voice, as if still under the influence of deep and melancholy feeling:

“The night has already run into the morning watch, but the sun is backward to show himself in this latitude in the heart of winter. — I must depart, my friends, to rejoin you some ten hours hence: it will be necessary to look deeper into our scheme before we hazard anything, and no one can do the service but myself: where shall we meet again?”

“I have reason to think that there is an unfrequented ruin at no great distance from us,” said Griffith; “perhaps we might find both shelter and privacy among its deserted walls.”

“The thought is good,” returned the Pilot, “and ‘twill answer a double purpose. Could you find the place where you put the marines in ambush, Captain Manual?”

“Has a dog a nose? and can he follow a clean scent?” exclaimed the marine; “do you think, Signor Pilota, that a general ever puts his forces in an ambuscade where he can’t find them himself? ‘Fore God! I knew well enough where the rascals lay snoring on their knapsacks, some half an hour ago, and I would have given the oldest majority in Washington’s army to have had them where a small intimation from myself could have brought them in line ready dressed for a charge. I know not how you fared, gentlemen, but, with me, the sight of twenty such vagabonds would have been a joyous spectacle; we would have tossed that Captain Borroughcliffe and his recruits on the point of our bayonets, as the devil would pitch — — “

“Come, come, Manual,” said Griffith, a little angrily, “you constantly forget our situation and our errand; can you lead your men hither without discovery, before the day dawns?”

“I want but the shortest half-hour that a bad watch ever traveled over to do it in.”

“Then follow, and I will appoint a place of secret rendezvous,” rejoined Griffith; “Mr. Gray can learn our situation at the same time.”

The Pilot was seen to beckon, through the gloom of the night, for his companions to come forward; when they proceeded, with cautious steps, in quest of the desired shelter. A short search brought them in contact with a part of the ruinous walls, which spread over a large surface, and which, in places, reared their black fragments against the sky, casting a deeper obscurity across the secret recesses of the wood.

“This will do,” said Griffith, when they had skirted for some distance the outline of the crumbling fabric; “bring up your men to this point, where I will meet you, and conduct them to some more secret place, for which I shall search during your absence.”

“A perfect paradise, after the cable-tiers of the Ariel!” exclaimed Manual; “I doubt not but a good spot might be selected among these trees for a steady drill, — a thing my soul has pined after for six long months.”

“Away, away!” cried Griffith; “here is no place for idle parades; if we find shelter from discovery and capture until you shall be needed in a deadly struggle, ‘twill be well.”

Manual was slowly retracing his steps to the skirts of the wood, when he suddenly turned, and asked:

“Shall I post a small picket, a mere corporal’s guard, in the open ground in front, and make a chain of sentinels to our works?”

“We have no works — we want no sentinels,” returned his impatient commander; “our security is only to be found in secrecy. Lead up your men under the cover of the trees, and let those three bright stars be your landmarks — bring them in a range with the northern corner of the wood — — “

“Enough, Mr. Griffith,” interrupted Manual; “a column of troops is not to be steered like a ship, by compass, and bearings and distances; — trust me, sir, the march shall be conducted with proper discretion, though in a military manner.”

Any reply or expostulation was prevented by the sudden disappearance of the marine, whose retreating footsteps were heard for several moments, as he moved at a deliberate pace through the underwood. During this short interval, the Pilot stood reclining against the corner of the ruins in profound silence; but when the sounds of Manual’s march were no longer audible, he advanced from under the deeper shadows of the wall, and approached his youthful companion.

“We are indebted to the marine for our escape,” he said; “I hope we are not to suffer by his folly.”

“He is what Barnstable calls a rectangular man,” returned Griffith, “and will have his way in matters of his profession, though a daring companion in a hazardous expedition. If we can keep him from exposing us by his silly parade, we shall find him a man who will do his work like a soldier, sir, when need happens.”

“’Tis all I ask; until the last moment, he and his command must be torpid; for if we are discovered, any attempt of ours, with some twenty bayonets and a half-pike or two, would be useless against the force that would be brought to crush us.”

“The truth of your opinion is too obvious,” returned Griffith; “these fellows will sleep a week at a time in a gale at sea, but the smell of the land wakes them up, and I fear ‘twill be hard to keep them close during the day.”

“It must be done, sir, by the strong hand of force,” said the Pilot sternly, “if it cannot be done by admonition; if we had no more than the recruits of that drunken martinet to cope with, it would be no hard task to drive them into the sea; but I learned in my prison that horse are expected on the shore with the dawn; there is one they call Dillon, who is on the alert to do us mischief.”

“The miscreant!” muttered Griffith; “then you also have had communion, sir, with some of the inmates of St. Ruth?”

“It behooves a man who is embarked in a perilous enterprise to seize all opportunities to learn his hazard,” said the Pilot, evasively: “if the report be true, I fear we have but little hopes of succeeding in our plans.”

“Nay, then, let us take the advantage of the darkness to regain the schooner; the coasts of England swarm with hostile cruisers, and a rich trade is flowing into the bosom of this island from the four quarters of the world; we shall not seek long for a foe worthy to contend with, nor for the opportunities to cut up the Englishman in his sinews of war — his wealth.”

“Griffith,” returned the Pilot, in his still, low tones, that seemed to belong to a man who never knew ambition, nor felt human passion, “I grow sick of this struggle between merit and privileged rank. It is in vain that I scour the waters which the King of England boastingly calls his own, and capture his vessels in the very mouths of his harbors, if my reward is to consist only of isolated promises, and hollow professions: but your proposition is useless to me; I have at length obtained a ship of a size sufficient to convey my person to the shores of honest, plain-dealing America; and I would enter the hall of Congress, on my return, attended by a few of the legislators of this learned isle, who think they possess the exclusive privilege to be wise, and virtuous, and great.”

“Such a retinue might doubtless be grateful both to your own feelings and those who would receive you,” said Griffith, modestly; “but would it effect the great purposes of our struggle? or is it an exploit, when achieved, worth the hazard you incur?”

Griffith felt the hand of the Pilot on his own, pressing it with a convulsive grasp, as he replied, in a voice, if possible, even more desperately calm than his former tones:

“There is a glory in it, young man; if it be purchased with danger, it shall be rewarded by fame! It is true, I wear your republican livery, and call the Americans my brothers; but it is because you combat in behalf of human nature. Were your cause less holy, I would not shed the meanest drop that flows in English veins to serve it; but now, it hallows every exploit that is undertaken in its favor, and the names of all who contend for it shall belong to posterity. Is there no merit in teaching these proud islanders that the arm of liberty can pluck them from the very empire of their corruption and oppression?”

“Then let me go and ascertain what we most wish to know; you have been seen there, and might attract— “

“You little know me,” interrupted the Pilot; “the deed is my own. If I succeed, I shall claim the honor, and it is proper that I incur the hazard; if I fail, it will be buried in oblivion, like fifty others of my schemes, which, had I power to back me, would have thrown this kingdom in consternation, from the lookouts on the boldest of its headlands, to those on the turrets of Windsor Castle. But I was born without nobility of twenty generations to corrupt my blood and deaden my soul, and am not trusted by the degenerate wretches who rule the French marine.”

“’Tis said that ships of two decks are building from our own oak,” said Griffith, “and you have only to present yourself in America, to be employed most honorably.”

“Ay! the republics cannot doubt the man who has supported their flag, without lowering it an inch, in so many bloody conflicts! I do go there, Griffith, but my way lies on this path; my pretended friends have bound my hands often, but my enemies, never — neither shall they now. Ten hours will determine all I wish to know, and with you I trust the safety of the party till my return: be vigilant, but be prudent”

“If you should not appear at the appointed hour,” exclaimed Griffith, as he beheld the Pilot turning to depart, “where am I to seek, and how serve you?”

“Seek me not, but return to your vessel; my earliest years were passed on this coast, — and I can leave the island, should it be necessary, as I entered it, aided by this disguise and my own knowledge: in such an event, look to your charge, and forget me entirely.”

Griffith could distinguish the silent wave of his hand when the Pilot concluded, and the next instant he was left alone. For several minutes the young man continued where he had been standing, musing on the singular endowments and restless enterprise of the being with whom chance had thus unexpectedly brought him in contact, and with whose fate and fortune his own prospects had, by the intervention of unlooked-for circumstances, become intimately connected. When the reflections excited by recent occurrences had passed away, he entered within the sweeping circle of the ruinous walls, and, after a very cursory survey of the state of the dilapidated building, he was satisfied that it contained enough secret places to conceal his men, until the return of the Pilot should warn them that the hour had come when they must attempt the seizure of the devoted sportsmen, or darkness should again facilitate their return to the Ariel. It was now about the commencement of that period of deep night which seamen distinguish as the morning watch, and Griffith ventured to the edge of the little wood, to listen if any sounds or tumult indicated that they were pursued. On reaching a point where his eye could faintly distinguish distant objects, the young man paused, and bestowed a close and wary investigation on the surrounding scene.

The fury of the gale had sensibly abated, but a steady current of sea air was rushing through the naked branches of the oaks, lending a dreary and mournful sound to the gloom of the dim prospect. At the distance of a short half mile, the confused outline of the pile of St. Ruth rose proudly against the streak of light which was gradually increasing above the ocean, and there were moments when the young seaman even fancied he could discern the bright caps that topped the waves of his own disturbed element. The long, dull roar of the surf, as it tumbled heavily on the beach or dashed with unbroken violence against the hard boundary of rocks, was borne along by the blasts distinctly to his ears. It was a time and a situation to cause the young seaman to ponder deeply on the changes and chances of his hazardous profession. Only a few short hours had passed since he was striving with his utmost skill, and with all his collected energy, to guide the enormous fabric, in which so many of his comrades were now quietly sleeping on the broad ocean, from that very shore on which he now stood in cool indifference to the danger. The recollection of home, America, his youthful and enduring passion, and the character and charms of his mistress, blended in a sort of wild and feverish confusion, which was not, however, without its pleasures, in the ardent fancy of the young man; and he was slowly approaching, step by step, toward the Abbey, when the sound of footsteps, proceeding evidently from the measured tread of disciplined men, reached his ears. He was instantly recalled to his recollection by this noise, which increased as the party deliberately approached; and in a few moments he was able to distinguish a line of men, marching in order towards the edge of the wood, from which he had himself so recently issued. Retiring rapidly under the deeper shadow of the trees, he waited until it was apparent the party intended to enter under its cover also, when he ventured to speak.

“Who comes? and on what errand?” he cried, “A skulker, and to burrow like a rabbit, or jump from hole to hole, like a wharf-rat!” said Manual, sulkily; “here have I been marching, within half musket shot of the enemy, without daring to pull a trigger even on their outposts, because our muzzles are plugged with that universal extinguisher of gunpowder, called prudence. ‘Fore God! Mr. Griffith, I hope you may never feel the temptation to do an evil deed, which I felt just now, to throw a volley of small shot into that dog-kennel of a place, if it were only to break its windows and let in the night air upon the sleeping sot, who is dozing away the fumes of some as good, old south-side — hark ye, Mr. Griffith, one word in your ear.”

A short conference took place between he two officers, apart from the men, at the close of which, as they rejoined the party, Manual might be heard urging his plans on the reluctant ears of Griffith in the following words:

“I could carry the old dungeon without waking one of the snorers; and consider, sir, we might get a stock of as rich cordial from its cellars as ever oiled the throat of a gentleman!”

“’Tis idle, ’tis idle,” said Griffith impatiently; “we are not robbers of hen-roosts, nor wine-gaugers, to be prying into the vaults of the English gentry, Captain Manual; but honorable men, employed in the sacred cause of liberty and our country. Lead your party into the ruin, and let them seek their rest; we may have work for them with the dawn.”

“Evil was the hour when I quitted the line of the army, to place a soldier under the orders of an awkward squad of tarry jackets!” muttered Manual, as he proceeded to execute an order that was delivered with an air of authority that he knew must be obeyed. “As pretty an opportunity for a surprise and a forage thrown away, as ever crossed the path of a partisan! but, by all the rights of man! I’ll have an encampment in some order. Here, you sergeant, detail a corporal and three men for a picket, and station them ii the skirts of this wood. We shall have a sentinel in advance of our position, and things shall be conducted with some air of discipline.”

Griffith heard this order with great inward disgust; but as he anticipated the return of the Pilot before the light could arrive to render his weak exposure of their situation apparent, he forbore exercising his power to alter the arrangement. Manual had, therefore, the satisfaction of seeing his little party quartered, as he thought, in military manner, before he retired with Griffith and his men into one of the vaulted apartments of the ruin, which, by its open and broken doors, invited their entrance. Here the marines disposed themselves to rest, while the two officers succeeded in passing the tedious hours, without losing their characters for watchfulness by conversing with each other, or, at whiles, suffering their thoughts to roam in the very different fields which fancy would exhibit to men of such differing characters. In this manner hour after hour passed, in listless quiet or sullen expectation, until the day had gradually advanced, and it became dangerous to keep the sentinels and picket in a situation where they were liable to be seen by any straggler who might be passing near the wood. Manual remonstrated against any alteration, as being entirely unmilitary, for he was apt to carry his notions of tactics to extremes whenever he came in collision with a sea officer: but in this instance his superior was firm, and the only concession the captain could obtain was the permission to place a solitary sentinel within a few feet of the vault, though under the cover of the crumbling walls of the building itself. With this slight deviation in their arrangements, the uneasy party remained for several hours longer, impatiently awaiting the period when they should be required to move.

The guns first fired from the Alacrity had been distinctly audible and were pronounced by Griffith, whose practised ear detected the metal of the piece that was used, as not proceeding from the schooner. When the rapid though distant rumbling of the spirited cannonade became audible, it was with difficulty that Griffith could restrain either his own feelings or the conduct of his companions within those bounds that prudence and their situation required. The last gun was, however, fired, and not a man had left the vault, and conjectures as to the result of the fight succeeded to those which had been made on the character of the combatants during the action. Some of the marines would raise their heads from the fragments which served them as the pillows on which they were seeking disturbed and stolen slumbers, and after listening to the cannon would again compose themselves to sleep, like men who felt no concern in a contest in which they did not participate. Others, more alive to events and less drowsy, lavishly expended their rude jokes on those who were engaged in the struggle, or listened with a curious interest to mark the progress of the battle, by the uncertain index of its noise. When the fight had been some time concluded, Manual indulged his ill-humor more at length:

“There has been a party of pleasure within a league of us, Mr. Griffith,” he said, “at which, but for our present subterraneous quarters, we might have been guests, and thus laid some claim to the honor of sharing in the victory. But it is not too late to push the party on as far as the cliffs, where we shall be in sight of the vessels, and we may possibly establish a claim to our share of the prize-money.”

“There is but little wealth to be gleaned from the capture of a king’s cutter,” returned Griffith; “and there would be less honor were Barnstable encumbered with our additional and useless numbers.”

“Useless!” repeated Manual; “there is much good service to be got out of twenty-three well-drilled and well-chosen marines: look at those fellows, Mr. Griffith, and then tell me if you think them an encumbrance in the hour of need.”

Griffith smiled, and glanced his eye over the sleeping group, — for when the firing had ceased the whole party had again sought their repose, — and he could not help admiring the athletic and sinewy limbs that lay scattered around the gloomy vault, in every posture that ease or whim dictated. From the stout frames of the men, his glance was directed to the stack of firearms, from whose glittering tubes and polished bayonets strong rays of light were reflected, even in that dark apartment. Manual followed the direction of his eyes, and watched the expression of his countenance with inward exultation; but he had the forbearance to await his reply before he manifested his feeling more openly.

“I know them to be true men,” said Griffith, “when needed, but — hark! what says he?”

“Who goes there? what noise is that?” repeated the sentinel who was placed at the entrance of the vault.

Manual and Griffith sprang at the same instant from their places of rest, and stood, unwilling to create the slightest sounds, listening with the most intense anxiety to catch the next indications of the cause of their guardian’s alarm. A short stillness, like that of death, succeeded, during which Griffith whispered:

“’Tis the Pilot! his hour has been long passed.”

The words were hardly spoken, when the clashing of steel in fierce and sudden contact was heard, and at the next instant the body of the sentinel fell heavily along the stone steps that led to the open air, and rolled lifelessly to their feet, with the bayonet that had caused his death projecting from a deep wound in his breast.

“Away, away! sleepers away!” shouted Griffith.

“To arms!” cried Manual in a voice of thunder.

The alarmed marines, suddenly aroused from their slumbers at these thrilling cries, sprang on their feet in a confused cluster, and at that fatal moment a body of living fire darted into the vault, which re-echoed with the reports of twenty muskets. The uproar, the smoke, and the groans which escaped from many of his party, could not restrain Griffith another instant: his pistol was fired through the cloud which concealed the entrance of the vault, and he followed the leaden messenger, trailing a half-pike, and shouting to his men:

“Come on! follow, my lads; they are nothing but soldiers.”

Even while he spoke, the ardent young seaman was rushing up the narrow passage; but as he gained the open space, his foot struck the writhing body of the victim of his shot, and he was precipitated headlong into a group of armed men.

“Fire! Manual, fire!” shouted the infuriated prisoner; “fire, while you have them in a cluster.”

“Ay, fire, Mr. Manual,” said Borroughcliffe, with great coolness, “and shoot your own officer: hold him up, boys! hold him up in front; the safest place is nighest to him.”

“Fire!” repeated Griffith, making desperate efforts to release himself from the grasp of five or six men; “fire, and disregard me.”

“If he do, he deserves to be hung,” said Borroughcliffe; “such fine fellows are not sufficiently plenty to be shot at like wild beasts in chains. Take him from before the mouth of the vault, boys, and spread yourselves to your duty.”

At the time Griffith issued from the cover, Manual was mechanically employed in placing his men in order; and the marines, accustomed to do everything in concert and array, lost the moment to advance. The soldiers of Borroughcliffe reloaded their muskets, and fell back behind different portions of the wall, where they could command the entrance to the vault with their fire, without much exposure to themselves. This disposition was very coolly reconnoitered by Manual in person, through some of the crevices in the wall, and he hesitated to advance against the force he beheld while so advantageously posted. In this situation several shots were fired by either party, without effect, until Borroughcliffe, perceiving the inefficacy of that mode of attack, summoned the garrison of the vault to a parley.

“Surrender to the forces of his majesty, King George the Third,” he cried, “and I promise you quarter.”

“Will you release your prisoner, and give us free passage to our vessels?” asked Manual; “the garrison to march out with all the honors of war, and officers to retain their side-arms?”

“Inadmissible,” returned Borroughcliffe, with great gravity; “the honor of his majesty’s arms, and the welfare of the realm, forbid such a treaty: but I offer you safe quarters and honorable treatment.”

“Officers to retain their side-arms, your prisoner to be released, and the whole party to return to America, on parole, not to serve until exchanged?”

“Not granted,” said Borroughcliffe. “The most that I can yield is a good potation of the generous south-side; and if you are the man I take you for, you will know how to prize such an offer.”

“In what capacity do you summon us to yield? as men entitled to the benefit of the laws of arms, or as rebels to your king?”

“Ye are rebels all, gentlemen,” returned the deliberate Borroughcliffe, “and as such ye must yield; though so far as good treatment and good fare goes, you are sure of it while in my power; in all other respects you lie at the mercy of his most gracious majesty.”

“Then let his majesty show his gracious face, and come and take us, for I’ll be — — “

The asseveration of the marine was interrupted by Griffith, whose blood had sensibly cooled, and whose generous feelings were awakened in behalf of his comrades, now that his own fate seemed decided.

“Hold, Manual,” he cried, “make no rash oaths: Captain Borroughcliffe, I am Edward Griffith, a lieutenant in the navy of the United American States, and I pledge you my honor to a parole — — “

“Release him,” said Borroughcliffe.

Griffith advanced between the two parties, and spoke so as to be heard by both:

“I propose to descend to the vault, and ascertain the loss and present strength of Captain Manual’s party: if the latter be not greater than I apprehend, I shall advise him to a surrender on the usual conditions of civilized nations.”

“Go,” said the soldier; “but stay; is he a half-and-half — an amphibious — pshaw! I mean a marine?”

“He is, sir, a captain in that corps — — “

“The very man,” interrupted Borroughcliffe; “I thought I recollected the liquid sounds of his voice. It will be well to speak to him of the good fare of St. Ruth; and you may add, that I know my man: I shall besiege, instead of storming him, with the certainty of a surrender when his canteen is empty. The vault he is in holds no such beverage as the cellars of the Abbey.”

Griffith smiled, in spite of the occasion and his vexation; and making a slight inclination of his head he passed into the vault, giving notice to his friends, by his voice, in order to apprise them who approached.

He found six of the marines, including the sentinel, lying dead on the ragged pavement, and four others wounded, but stifling their groans, by the order of their commander, that they might not inform the enemy of his weakness. With the remainder of his command Manual had entrenched himself behind the fragment of a wall that intersected the vault, and, regardless of the dismaying objects before him, maintained as bold a front, and as momentous an air, as if the fate of a walled town depended on his resolution and ingenuity.

“You see, Mr. Griffith,” he cried, when the young sailor approached this gloomy but really formidable arrangement, “that nothing short of artillery can dislodge me: as for that drinking Englishman above, let him send down his men by platoons of eight or ten, and I’ll pile them up on those steps, four and five deep.”

“But artillery can and will be brought, if it should be necessary,” said Griffith; “and there is not the least chance of your eventual escape: it may be possible for you to destroy a few of the enemy, but you are too humane to wish to do it unnecessarily.”

“No doubt,” returned Manual with a grim smile; “and yet methinks I could find present pleasure in shooting seven of them — yes, just seven, which is one more than they have struck off my roster.”

“Remember your own wounded,” added Griffith; “they suffer for want of aid, while you protract a useless defence.”

A few smothered groans from the sufferers seconded this appeal, and Manual yielded, though with a very ill grace, to the necessity of the case.

“Go, then, and tell him that we will surrender as prisoners of war,” he said, “on the conditions that he grants me my side-arms, and that suitable care shall be taken of the sick — be particular to call them sick — for some lucky accident may yet occur before the compact is ratified, and I would not have him learn our loss.”

Griffith, without waiting for a second bidding, hastened to Borroughcliffe with his intelligence.

“His side-arms!” repeated the soldier, when the other had done; “what are they, I pray thee — a marlinespike! For if his equipments be no better than thine own, my worthy prisoner, there is little need to quarrel about their ownership.”

“Had I but ten of my meanest men, armed with such half-pikes, and Captain Borroughcliffe and his party were put at deadly strife with us,” retorted Griffith, “he might find occasion to value our weapons more highly.”

“Four such fiery gentlemen as yourself would have routed my command,” returned Borroughcliffe, with undisturbed composure. “I trembled for my ranks when I saw you coming out of the smoke like a blazing comet from behind a cloud! and I shall never think of somersets without returning inward thanks to their inventor. But our treaty is made; let your comrades come forth and pile their arms.”

Griffith communicated the result to the captain of marines, when the latter led the remnant of his party out of his sunken fortress into the open air.

The men, who had manifested throughout the whole business that cool subordination and unyielding front, mixed with the dauntless spirit that to this day distinguishes the corps of which they were members, followed their commander in sullen silence, and stacked their arms with as much regularity and precision as if they had been ordered to relieve themselves after a march. When this necessary preliminary had been observed, Borroughcliffe unmasked his forces, and our adventurers found themselves once more in the power of the enemy, and under circumstances which rendered the prospect of a speedy release from their captivity nearly hopeless.

CHAPTER XX.

If your father will do me any honor, so;

If not, let him kill the next Percy himself:

I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.

Falstaff.

Manual cast sundry discontented and sullen looks from his captors to the remnant of his own command, while the process of pinioning the latter was conducted, with much discretion, under the directions of Sergeant Drill, when meeting, in one of his dissatisfied glances, with the pale and disturbed features of Griffith, he gave vent to his ill-humor, by saying:

“This results from neglecting the precautions of military discipline. Had the command been with men, who, I may say, without boasting, have been accustomed to the duties of the field, proper pickets would have been posted, and instead of being caught like so many rabbits in a burrow, to be smoked out with brimstone, we should have had an open field for the struggle; or we might have possessed ourselves of these walls, which I could have made good for two hours at least, against the best regiment that ever wore King George’s facings.”

“Defend the outworks before retreating to the citadel!” cried Borroughcliffe; “’tis the game of war, and shows science: but had you kept closer to your burrow, the rabbits might now have all been frisking about in that pleasant abode. The eyes of a timid hind were greeted this morning, while journeying near this wood, with a passing sight of armed men in strange attire; and as he fled, with an intent of casting himself into the sea, as fear will sometimes urge one of his kind to do, he luckily encountered me on the cliffs, who humanely saved his life, by compelling him to conduct us hither. There is often wisdom in science, my worthy contemporary in arms; but there is sometimes safety in ignorance.”

“You have succeeded, sir, and have a right to be pleasant,” said Manual, seating himself gloomily on a fragment of the ruin, and fastening his looks on the melancholy spectacle of the lifeless bodies, as they were successively brought from the vault and placed at his feet; “but these men have been my own children, and you will excuse me if I cannot retort your pleasantries. Ah! Captain Borroughcliffe, you are a soldier, and know how to value merit. I took those very fellows, who sleep on these stones so quietly, from the hands of nature, and made them the pride of our art. They were no longer men, but brave lads, who ate and drank, wheeled and marched, loaded and fired, laughed or were sorrowful, spoke or were silent, only at my will. As for soul, there was but one among them all, and that was in my keeping! Groan, my children, groan freely now; there is no longer a reason to be silent. I have known a single musket-bullet cut the buttons from the coats of five of them in a row, without raising the skin of a man! I could ever calculate, with certainty, how many it would be necessary to expend in all regular service; but this accursed banditti business has robbed me of the choicest of my treasures. You stand at ease now, my children; groan, it will soften your anguish.”

Borroughcliffe appeared to participate, in some degree, in the feelings of his captive, and he made a few appropriate remarks in the way of condolence, while he watched the preparations that were making by his own men to move. At length his orderly announced that substitutes for barrows were provided to sustain the wounded, and inquired if it were his pleasure to return to their quarters.

“Who has seen the horse?” demanded the captain; “which way did they march? Have they gained any tidings of the discovery of this party of the enemy?”

“Not from us, your honor,” returned the sergeant; “they had ridden along the coast before we left the cliffs, and it was said their officer intended to scour the shore for several miles, and spread the alarm.”

“Let him; it is all such gay gallants are good for. Drill, honor is almost as scarce an article with our arms just now as promotion. We seem but the degenerate children of the heroes of Poictiers; — you understand me, sergeant?”

“Some battle fou’t by his majesty’s troops against the French, your honor,” returned the orderly, a little at a loss to comprehend the expression of his officer’s eye.

“Fellow, you grow dull on victory,” exclaimed Borroughcliffe: “come hither, I would give you orders. Do you think, Mister Drill, there is more honor, or likely to be more profit, in this little morning’s amusement than you and I can stand under?”

“I should not, your honor: we have both pretty broad shoulders — — “

“That are not weakened by undue burdens of this nature,” Interrupted his captain, significantly: “if we let the news of this affair reach the ears of those hungry dragoons, they would charge upon us open-mouthed, like a pack of famished beagles, and claim at least half the credit, and certainly all the profit.”

“But, your honor, there was not a man of them even — — “

“No matter, Drill; I’ve known troops that have been engaged, and have suffered, cheated out of their share of victory by a well-worded despatch. You know, fellow, that in the smoke and confusion of a battle, a man can only see what passes near him, and common prudence requires that he only mention in his official letters what he knows can’t be easily contradicted. Thus your Indians, and, indeed, all allies, are not entitled to the right of a general order, any more than to the right of a parade. Now, I dare say, you have heard of a certain battle of Blenheim?”

“Lord! your honor, ’tis the pride of the British army, that and the Culloden! ’Twas when the great Corporal John beat the French king, and all his lords and nobility, with half his nation in arms to back him.”

“Ay! there is a little of the barrack readings in the account, but it is substantially true; know you how many French were in the field that day, Mister Drill?”

“I have never seen the totals of their muster, sir, in print; but, judging by the difference betwixt the nations, I should suppose some hundreds of thousands.”

“And yet, to oppose this vast army, the duke had only ten or twelve thousand well-fed Englishmen! You look astounded, sergeant!”

“Why, your honor, that does seem rather an over-match for an old soldier to swallow; the random shot would sweep away so small a force.”

“And yet the battle was fought, and the victory won! but the Duke of Marlborough had a certain Mr. Eugene, with some fifty or sixty thousand High-Dutchers, to back him. You never heard of Mr. Eugene?”

“Not a syllable, your honor; I always thought that Corporal John — — “

“Was a gallant and great general; you thought right, Mister Drill. So would a certain nameless gentleman be also, if his majesty would sign a commission to that effect. However, a majority is on the high road to a regiment, and with even a regiment a man is comfortable! In plain English, Mister Drill, we must get our prisoners into the abbey with as little noise as possible, in order that the horse may continue their gambols along the coast, without coming to devour our meal. All the fuss must be made at the war-office: for that trifle you may trust me; I think I know who holds a quill that is as good in its way as the sword he wears. Drill is a short name, and can easily be written within the folds of a letter.”

“Lord, your honor!” said the gratified halberdier, “I’m sure such an honor is more — but your honor can ever command me!”

“I do; and it is to be close, and to make your men keep close, until it shall be time to speak, when I pledge myself there shall be noise enough.” Borroughcliffe shook his head, with a grave air, as he continued: “It has been a devil of a bloody fight, sergeant! look at the dead and wounded; a wood on each flank — supported by a ruin in the centre. Oh! ink — ink can be spilt on the details with great effect. Go, fellow, and prepare to march.”

Thus enlightened on the subject of his commander’s ulterior views, the non-commissioned agent of the captain’s wishes proceeded to give suitable instructions to the rest of the party, and to make the more immediate preparations for a march. The arrangements were soon completed. The bodies of the slain were left unsheltered, the seclusion of the ruin being deemed a sufficient security against the danger of any discovery, until darkness should favor their removal, In conformity with Borroughcliffe’s plan to monopolize the glory. The wounded were placed on rude litters composed of the muskets and blankets of the prisoners, when the conquerors and vanquished moved together in a compact body from the ruin, in such a manner as to make the former serve as a mask to conceal the latter from the curious gaze of any casual passenger. There was but little, indeed, to apprehend on this head, for the alarm and terror, consequent on the exaggerated reports that flew through the country, effectually prevented any intruders on the usually quiet and retired domains of St. Ruth.

The party was emerging from the wood, when the cracking of branches, and rustling of dried leaves, announced, however, that an interruption of some sort was about to occur.

“If it should be one of their rascally patrols!” exclaimed Borroughcliffe, with very obvious displeasure; “they trample like a regiment of cavalry! but, gentlemen, you will acknowledge yourselves, that we were retiring from the field of battle when we met the reinforcement, if it should prove to be such.”

“We are not disposed, sir, to deny you the glory of having achieved your victory single-handed,” said Griffith, glancing his eyes uneasily in the direction of the approaching sounds, expecting to see the Pilot issue from the thicket in which he seemed to be entangled, instead of any detachment of his enemies.

“Clear the way, Caesar!” cried a voice at no great distance from them; “break through the accursed vines on my right, Pompey! — press forward, my fine fellows, or we may be too late to smell even the smoke of the fight.”

“Hum!” ejaculated the captain, with his philosophic indifference of manner entirely re-established, “this must be a Roman legion just awoke from a trance of some seventeen centuries, and that the voice of a centurion. We will halt, Mister Drill, and view the manner of an ancient march!”

While the captain was yet speaking, a violent effort disengaged the advancing party from the thicket of brambles in which they had been entangled, when two blacks, each bending under a load of firearms, preceded Colonel Howard, into the clear space where Borroughcliffe had halted his detachment. Some little time was necessary to enable the veteran to arrange his disordered dress, and to remove the perspiring effects of the unusual toil from his features, before he could observe the addition to the captain’s numbers.

“We heard you fire,” cried the old soldier, making, at the same time, the most diligent application of his bandana, “and I determined to aid you with a sortie, which, when judiciously timed, has been the means of raising many a siege; though, had Montcalm rested quietly within his walls, the plains of Abr’am might never have drunk his blood.”

“Oh! his decision was soldierly, and according to all rules of war,” exclaimed Manual; “and had I followed his example, this day might have produced a different tale!”

“Why, who have we here!” cried the colonel, in astonishment; “who is it that pretends to criticise battles and sieges, dressed in such a garb?”

“Tis a dux incognitorum, my worthy host,” said Borroughcliffe; “which means, in our English language, a captain of marines in the service of the American Congress.”

“What! have you then met the enemy? ay! and by the fame of the immortal Wolfe, you have captured them!” cried the delighted veteran. “I was pressing on with a part of my garrison to your assistance, for I had seen that you were marching in this direction, and even the report of a few muskets was heard.”

“A few!” interrupted the conqueror; “I know not what you call a few, my gallant and ancient friend: you may possibly have shot at each other by the week in the days of Wolfe, and Abercrombie, and Braddock; but I too have seen smart firing, and can hazard an opinion in such matters There was as pretty a roll made by firearms at the battles on the Hudson as ever rattled from a drum; it is all over, and many live to talk of it, but this has been the most desperate affair, for the numbers, I ever was engaged in! I speak always with a reference to the numbers. The wood is pretty well sprinkled with dead; and we have contrived to bring off a few of the desperately wounded with us, as you may perceive.”

“Bless me!” exclaimed the surprised veteran, “that such an engagement should happen within musket-shot of the abbey, and I know so little of it! My faculties are on the wane, I fear, for the time has been when a single discharge would rouse me from the deepest sleep.”

“The bayonet is a silent weapon,” returned the composed captain, with a significant wave of his hand; “’tis the Englishman’s pride, and every experienced officer knows that one thrust from it is worth the fire of a whole platoon.”

“What, did you come to the charge!” cried the colonel; “by the Lord, Borroughcliffe, my gallant young friend, I would have given twenty tierces of rice, and two able-bodied negroes, to have seen the fray!”

“It would have been a pleasant spectacle to witness, sans disputation,” returned the captain; “but victory is ours without the presence of Achilles, this time. I have them, all that survive the affair; at least, all that have put foot on English soil.”

“Ay! and the king’s cutter has brought in the schooner!” added Colonel Howard. “Thus perish all rebellion for ever more! Where’s Kit? my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon; I would ask him what the laws of the realm next prescribe to loyal subjects. Here will be work for the jurors of Middlesex, Captain Borroughcliffe, if not for a secretary of state’s warrant. Where is Kit, my kinsman; the ductile, the sagacious, the loyal Christopher?”

“The Cacique ‘non est,’ as more than one bailiff has said of sundry clever fellows in our regiment, when there has been a pressing occasion for their appearance,” said the soldier; “but the cornet of horse has given me reason to believe that his provincial lordship, who repaired on board the cutter to give intelligence of the position of the enemy, continued there to share the dangers and honors of naval combat.”

“Ay, ’tis like him!” cried the colonel, rubbing his hands with glee; “’tis like him! he has forgotten the law and his peaceful occupations, at the sounds of military preparation, and has carried the head of a statesman into the fight, with the ardor and thoughtlessness of a boy.”

“The Cacique is a man of discretion,” observed the captain, with all his usual dryness of manner, “and will, doubtless, recollect his obligations to posterity and himself, though he be found entangled in the mazes of a combat. But I marvel that he does not return, for some time has now elapsed since the schooner struck her flag, as my own eyes have witnessed.”

“You will pardon me, gentlemen,” said Griffith, advancing towards them with uncontrollable interest; “but I have unavoidably heard part of your discourse, and cannot think you will find it necessary to withhold the whole truth from a disarmed captive: say you that a schooner has been captured this morning?”

“It is assuredly true,” said Borroughcliffe, with a display of nature and delicacy in his manner that did his heart infinite credit; “but I forbore to tell you, because I thought your own misfortunes would be enough for one time. Mr. Griffith, this gentleman is Colonel Howard, to whose hospitality you will be indebted for some favors before we separate.”

“Griffith!” echoed the colonel, in quick reply, “Griffith! what a sight for my old eyes to witness! — the child of worthy, gallant, loyal Hugh Griffith a captive, and taken in arms against his prince! Young man, young man, what would thy honest father, what would his bosom friend, my own poor brother Harry, have said, had it pleased God that they had survived to witness this burning shame and lasting stigma on thy respectable name?”

“Had my father lived, he would now have been upholding the independence of his native land,” said the young man, proudly. “I wish to respect even the prejudices of Colonel Howard, and beg he will forbear urging a subject on which I fear we never shall agree.”

“Never, while thou art to be found in the ranks of rebellion!” cried the colonel. “Oh! boy! boy! how I could have loved and cherished thee, if the skill and knowledge obtained in the service of thy prince were now devoted to the maintenance of his unalienable rights! I loved thy father, worthy Hugh, even as I loved my own brother Harry.”

“And his son should still be dear to you,” interrupted Griffith, taking the reluctant hand of the colonel into both his own.

“Ah, Edward, Edward!” continued the softened veteran, “how many of my day-dreams have been destroyed by thy perversity! nay, I know not that Kit, discreet and loyal as he is, could have found such a favor in my eyes as thyself; there is a cast of thy father in that face and smile, Ned, that might have won me to anything short of treason — and then Cicely, provoking, tender, mutinous, kind affectionate, good Cicely, would have been a link to unite us forever.”

The youth cast a hasty glance at the deliberate Borroughcliffe, who, if he had obeyed the impatient expression of his eye, would have followed the party that was slowly bearing the wounded towards the abbey, before he yielded to his feelings, and answered:

“Nay, sir; let this then be the termination of our misunderstanding — your lovely niece shall be that link, and you shall be to me as your friend Hugh would have been had he lived, and to Cecilia twice a parent.”

“Boy, boy,” said the veteran, averting his face to conceal the working of his muscles, “you talk idly; my word is now plighted to my kinsman Kit, and thy scheme is impracticable.”

“Nothing is impracticable, sir, to youth and enterprise, when aided by age and experience like yours,” returned Griffith; “this war must soon terminate.”

“This war!” echoed the colonel, shaking loose the grasp which Griffith held on his arm; “ay! what of this war, young man? Is it not an accursed attempt to deny the rights of our gracious sovereign, and to place tyrants, reared in kennels, on the throne of princes! a scheme to elevate the wicked at the expense of the good! a project to aid unrighteous ambition, under the mask of sacred liberty and the popular cry of equality! as if there could be liberty without order! or equality of rights, where the privileges of the sovereign are not as sacred as those of the people!”

“You judge us harshly, Colonel Howard,” said Griffith.

“I judge you!” interrupted the old soldier, who, by this time, thought the youth resembled any one rather than his friend Hugh; “it is not my province to judge you at all; if it were! — but the time will come, the time will come. I am a patient man, and can wait the course of things; yes, yes, age cools the blood, and we learn to suppress the passions and impatience of youth: but if the ministry would issue a commission of justice for the colonies, and put the name of old George Howard in it, I am a dog, if there should be a rebel alive in twelve months. Sir,” turning sternly to Borroughcliffe, “in such a case, I could prove a Roman, and hang — hang — yes, I do think, sir, I could hang my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon!”

“Spare the Cacique such unnatural elevation before his time,” returned the captain with a grave wave of the hand: “behold,” pointing towards the wood, “there is a more befitting subject for the gallows! Mr. Griffith, yonder man calls himself your comrade?”

The eyes of Colonel Howard and Griffith followed the direction of his finger, and the latter instantly recognized the Pilot, standing in the skirts of the wood, with his arms folded, apparently surveying the condition of his friends.

“That man,” said Griffith, in confusion, and hesitating to utter even the equivocal truth that suggested itself, “that man does not belong to our ship’s company.”

“And yet he has been seen in your company,” returned the incredulous Borroughcliffe; “he was the spokesman in last night’s examination, Colonel Howard, and, doubtless, commands the rear-guard of the rebels.”

“You say true,” cried the veteran; “Pompey! Caesar! present! fire!”

The blacks started at the sudden orders of their master, of whom they stood in the deepest awe; and, presenting their muskets, they averted their faces, and, shutting their eyes, obeyed the bloody mandate.

“Charge!” shouted the colonel, flourishing the ancient sword with which he had armed himself, and pressing forward with all the activity that a recent fit of the gout would allow, “charge, and exterminate the dogs with the bayonet! push on, Pompey — dress, boys, dress.”

“If your friend stands this charge,” said Borroughcliffe to Griffith, with unmoved composure, “his nerves are made of iron; such a charge would break the Coldstreams; with Pompey in the ranks!”

“I trust in God,” cried Griffith, “he will have forbearance enough to respect the weakness of Colonel Howard! — he presents a pistol!”

“But he will not fire; the Romans deem it prudent to halt; nay, by heaven, they countermarch to the rear. Holla! Colonel Howard, my worthy host, fall back on your reinforcements; the wood is full of armed men; they cannot escape us; I only wait for the horse to cut off the retreat.”

The veteran, who had advanced within a short distance of the single man who thus deliberately awaited the attack, halted at this summons; and by a glance of his eye, ascertained that he stood alone. Believing the words of Borroughcliffe to be true, he slowly retired, keeping his face manfully towards his enemy, until he gained the support of the captain.

“Recall the troops, Borroughcliffe!” he cried, “and let us charge into the wood; they will fly before his majesty’s arms like guilty scoundrels, as they are. As for the negroes, I’ll teach the black rascals to desert their master at such a moment. They say Fear is pale, but, damme, Borroughcliffe, if I don’t believe his skin is black.”

“I have seen him of all colors; blue, white, black, and particolored,” said the captain. “I must take the command of matters on myself, however, my excellent host; let us retire into the abbey, and trust me to cut off the remainder of the rebels.”

In this arrangement the colonel reluctantly acquiesced, and the three followed the soldier to the dwelling, at a pace that was adapted to the infirmities of its master. The excitement of the onset, and the current of his ideas, had united, however, to banish every amicable thought from the breast of the colonel, and he entered the abbey with a resolute determination of seeing justice dealt to Griffith and his companions, even though it should push them to the foot of the gallows.

As the gentlemen disappeared from his view, among the shrubbery of the grounds, the Pilot replaced the weapon that was hanging from his hand, in his bosom, and, turning with a saddened and thoughtful brow, he slowly re-entered the wood.

CHAPTER XXI

— — “When these prodigies

Do so conjointly meet, let not men say.

These are their reasons, — They are natural,

For, I believe they are portentous things

Unto the climate that they point upon.”

Casca.

The reader will discover, by referring to the time consumed in the foregoing events, that the Ariel, with her prize, did not anchor in the bay already mentioned, until Griffith and his party had been for several hours in the custody of their enemies. The supposed capture of the rebel schooner was an incident that excited but little interest, and no surprise, among a people who were accustomed to consider their seamen as invincible; and Barnstable had not found it a difficult task to practise his deception on the few rustics whom curiosity induced to venture alongside the vessels during the short continuance of daylight. When, however, the fogs of evening began to rise along the narrow basin, and the curvatures of its margin were lost in the single outline of its dark and gloomy border, the young seaman thought it time to apply himself in earnest to his duty. The Alacrity, containing all his own crew, together with the Ariel’s wounded, was gotten silently under way; and driving easily before the heavy air that swept from the land, she drifted from the harbor, until the open sea lay before her, when her sails were spread, and she continued to make the best of her way in quest of the frigate. Barnstable had watched this movement with breathless anxiety; for on an eminence that completely commanded the waters to some distance, a small but rude battery had been erected for the purpose of protecting the harbor against the depredations and insults of the smaller vessels of the enemy; and a guard of sufficient force to manage the two heavy guns it contained was maintained in the work at all times. He was ignorant how far his stratagem had been successful, and it was only when he heard the fluttering of the Alacrity’s canvas, as she opened it to the breeze, he felt that he was yet secure.

“‘Twill reach the Englishmen’s ears,” said the boy Merry, who stood on the forecastle of the schooner, by the side of his commander, listening with breathless interest to the sounds; “they set a sentinel on the point, as the sun went down, and if he is a trifle better than a dead man, or a marine asleep, he will suspect something is wrong.”

“Never!” returned Barnstable, with a long breath, that announced all his apprehensions were removed; “he will be more likely to believe it a mermaid fanning herself this cool evening, than to suspect the real fact. What say you, Master Coffin? will the soldier smell the truth?”

“They’re a dumb race,” said the cockswain, casting his eyes over his shoulders, to ascertain that none of their own marine guard was near him; “now, there was our sergeant, who ought to know something, seeing that he has been afloat these four years, maintained, dead in the face and eyes of what every man, who has ever doubled Good Hope, knows to be true, that there was no such vessel to be fallen in with in them seas, as the Flying Dutchman! and then, again, when I told him that he was a ‘know-nothing,’ and asked him if the Dutchman was a more unlikely thing than that there should be places where the inhabitants split the year into two watches, and had day for six months, and night the rest of the time, the greenhorn laughed in my face, and I do believe he would have told me I lied, but for one thing.”

“And what might that be?” asked Barnstable, gravely.

“Why, sir,” returned Tom, stretching his bony fingers, as he surveyed his broad palm, by the little light that remained, “though I am a peaceable man, I can be roused.”

“And you have seen the Flying Dutchman?”

“I never doubled the east cape; though I can find my way through Le Maire in the darkest night that ever fell from the heavens; but I have seen them that have seen her, and spoken her, too.”

“Well, be it so; you must turn flying Yankee, yourself, to-night, Master Coffin. Man your boat at once, sir, and arm your crew.”

The cockswain paused a moment before he proceeded to obey this unexpected order, and, pointing towards the battery, he inquired, with infinite phlegm:

“For shore-work, sir? Shall we take the cutlashes and pistols? or shall we want the pikes?”

“There may be soldiers in our way, with their bayonets,” said Barnstable, musing; “arm as usual, but throw a few long pikes into the boat; and harkye, Master Coffin, out with your tub and whale-line: for I see you have rigged yourself anew in that way.”

The cockswain, who was moving from the forecastle, turned short at this new mandate, and with an air of remonstrance, ventured to say:

“Trust an old whaler, Captain Barnstable, who has been used to these craft all his life. A whale-boat is made to pull with a tub and line in it, as naturally as a ship is made to sail with ballast, and — — “

“Out with it, out with it,” interrupted the other, with an impatient gesture, that his cockswain knew signified a positive determination. Heaving a sigh at what he deemed his commander’s prejudice, Tom applied himself without further delay to the execution of the orders. Barnstable laid his hand familiarly on the shoulder of the boy, and led him to the stern of his little vessel, in profound silence. The canvas hood that covered the entrance to the cabin was thrown partly aside; and by the light of the lamp that was burning in the small apartment, it was easy to overlook, from the deck, what was passing beneath them. Dillon sat supporting his head with his two hands, in a manner that shaded his face, but in an attitude that denoted deep and abstracted musing.

“I would that I could see the face of my prisoner,” said Barnstable, in an undertone, that was audible only to his companion. “The eye of a man is a sort of lighthouse, to tell one how to steer into the haven of his confidence, boy.”

“And sometimes a beacon, sir, to warn you there is no safe anchorage near him,” returned the ready boy.

“Rogue!” muttered Barnstable, “your cousin Kate spoke there.”

“If my cousin Plowden were here, Mr. Barnstable, I know that her opinion of yon gentleman would not be at all more favorable.”

“And yet, I have determined to trust him! Listen, boy, and tell me if I am wrong; you have a quick wit, like some others of your family, and may suggest something advantageous.” The gratified midshipman swelled with the conscious pleasure of possessing his commander’s confidence, and followed to the taffrail, over which Barnstable leaned, while he delivered the remainder of his communication. “I have gathered from the ‘longshoremen who have come off this evening, to stare at the vessel which the rebels have been able to build, that a party of seamen and marines have been captured in an old ruin near the Abbey of St. Ruth, this very day.”

“’Tis Mr. Griffith!” exclaimed the boy.

“Ay! the wit of your cousin Katherine was not necessary to discover that. Now, I have proposed to this gentleman with the Savannah face, that he should go into the abbey, and negotiate an exchange. I will give him for Griffith, and the crew of the Alacrity for Manual’s command and the Tigers.”

“The Tigers!” cried the lad, with emotion; “have they got my Tigers, too? Would to God that Mr. Griffith had permitted me to land!”

“It was no boy’s work they were about, and room was scarcer in their boat than live lumber. But this Mr. Dillon has accepted my proposition, and has pledged himself that Griffith shall return within an hour after he is permitted to enter the Abbey; will he redeem his honor from the pledge?”

“He may,” said Merry, musing a moment; “for I believe he thinks the presence of Mr. Griffith under the same roof with Miss Howard a thing to be prevented, if possible; he may be true in this instance, though he has a hollow look.”

“He has bad-looking lighthouses, I will own,” said Barnstable; “and yet he is a gentleman, and promises fair; ’tis unmanly to suspect him in such a matter, and I will have faith! Now listen, sir. The absence of older heads must throw great responsibility on your young shoulders; watch that battery as closely as if you were at the mast-head of your frigate, on the lookout for an enemy; the instant you see lights moving in it, cut, and run into the offing; you will find me somewhere under the cliffs, and you will stand off and on, keeping the abbey in sight, until you fall in with us.”

Merry gave an attentive ear to these and divers other solemn injunctions that he received from his commander, who, having sent the officer next to himself in authority in charge of the prize (the third in command being included in the list of the wounded), was compelled to entrust his beloved schooner to the vigilance of a lad whose years gave no promise of the experience and skill that he actually possessed.

When his admonitory instructions were ended, Barnstable stepped again to the opening in the cabin-hood, and, for a single moment before he spoke, once more examined the countenance of his prisoner, with a keen eye. Dillon had removed his hands from before his sallow features; and, as if conscious of the scrutiny his looks were to undergo, had concentrated the whole expression of his forbidding aspect in a settled gaze of hopeless submission to his fate. At least, so thought his captor, and the idea touched some of the finer feelings in the bosom of the generous young seaman. Discarding, instantly, every suspicion of his prisoner’s honor, as alike unworthy of them both, Barnstable summoned him, in a cheerful voice, to the boat. There was a flashing of the features of Dillon, at this call, which gave an indefinable expression to his countenance, that again startled the sailor; but it was so very transient, and could so easily be mistaken for a smile of pleasure at his promised liberation, that the doubts it engendered passed away almost as speedily as the equivocal expression itself. Barnstable was in the act of following his companion into the boat, when he felt himself detained by a slight hold of his arm.

“What would you have?” he asked of the midshipman, who had given him the signal.

“Do not trust too much to that Dillon, sir,” returned the anxious boy, in a whisper; “if you had seen his face, as I did, when the binnacle light fell upon it, as he came up the cabin ladder, you would put no faith in him.”

“I should have seen no beauty,” said the generous lieutenant, laughing; “but there is long Tom, as hard-featured a youth of two score and ten as ever washed in brine, who has a heart as big, ay, bigger than that of a kraaken. A bright watch to you, boy, and remember a keen eye on the battery.” As he was yet speaking, Barnstable crossed the gunwale of his little vessel, and it was not until he was seated by the side of his prisoner that he continued, aloud: “Cast the stops off your sails, Mr. Merry, and see all clear to make a run of everything; recollect, you are short-handed, sir. God bless ye! and d’ye hear? if there is a man among you who shuts more than one eye at a time, I’ll make him, when I get back, open both wider than if Tom Coffin’s friend, the Flying Dutchman, was booming down upon him. God bless ye, Merry, my boy; give ‘em the square-sail, if this breeze off-shore holds on till morning: — shove off.”

As Barnstable gave the last order, he fell back on his seat, and, drawing back his boat-cloak around him maintained a profound silence, until they had passed the two small headlands that fanned the mouth of the harbor. The men pulled, with muffled oars, their long, vigorous strokes, and the boat glided with amazing rapidity past the objects that could be yet indistinctly seen along the dim shore. When, however, they had gained the open ocean, and the direction of their little bark was changed to one that led them in a line with the coast, and within the shadows of the cliffs, the cockswain, deeming that the silence was no longer necessary to their safety, ventured to break it, as follows:

“A square-sail is a good sail to carry on a craft, dead afore it, and in a heavy sea; but if fifty years can teach a man to know the weather, it’s my judgment that should the Ariel break ground after the night turns at eight bells, she’ll need her mainsail to hold her up to her course.”

The lieutenant started at this sudden interruption, and casting his cloak from his shoulders, he looked abroad on the waters, as if seeking those portentous omens which disturbed the imagination of his cockswain.

“How now, Tom,” he said, sharply, “have ye turned croaker in your old age? what see you, to cause such an old woman’s ditty?”

“’Tis no song of an old woman,” returned the cockswain with solemn earnestness, “but the warning of an old man; and one who has spent his days where there were no hills to prevent the winds of heaven from blowing on him, unless they were hills of salt water and foam. I judge, sir, there’ll be a heavy northeaster setting in upon us afore the morning watch is called.”

Barnstable knew the experience of his old messmate too well not to feel uneasiness at such an opinion, delivered in so confident a manner; but after again surveying the horizon, the heavens, and the ocean, he said, with a continued severity of manner:

“Your prophecy is idle, this time, Master Coffin; everything looks like a dead calm. This swell is what is left from the last blow; the mist overhead is nothing but the nightly fog, and you can see, with own eyes, that it is driving seaward; even this land-breeze is nothing but the air of the ground mixing with that of the ocean; it is heavy with dew and fog, but it’s as sluggish as a Dutch galliot.”

“Ay, sir, it is damp, and there is little of it,” rejoined Tom; “but as it comes only from the shore, so it never goes far on the water, It is hard to learn the true signs of the weather, Captain Barnstable, and none get to know them well, but such as study little else or feel but little else. There is only One who can see the winds of heaven, or who can tell when a hurricane is to begin, or where it will end. Still, a man isn’t like a whale or a porpoise, that takes the air in his nostrils, and never knows whether it is a southeaster or a northwester that he feeds upon. Look, broad-off to leeward, sir; see the streak of clear sky shining under the mists; take an old seafaring man’s word for it, Captain Barnstable, that whenever the light shines out of the heavens in that fashion, ’tis never done for nothing; besides, the sun set in a dark bank of clouds, and the little moon we had was dry and windy.”

Barnstable listened attentively, and with increasing concern, for he well knew that his cockswain possessed a quick and almost unerring judgment of the weather, notwithstanding the confused medley of superstitious omens and signs with which it was blended; but again throwing himself back in his boat, he muttered:

“Then let it blow; Griffith is worth a heavier risk, and if the battery can’t be cheated, it can be carried.”

Nothing further passed on the state of the weather. Dillon had not ventured a single remark since he entered the boat, and the cockswain had the discretion to understand that his officer was willing to be left to his own thoughts. For nearly an hour they pursued their way with diligence; the sinewy seamen, who wielded the oars, urging their light boat along the edge of the surf with unabated velocity, and apparently with untired exertions. Occasionally, Barnstable would cast an inquiring glance at the little inlets that they passed, or would note, with a seaman’s eye, the small portions of sandy beach that were scattered here and there along the rocky boundaries of the coast. One in particular, a deeper inlet than common, where a run of fresh water was heard gurgling as it met the tide, he pointed out to his cockswain, by significant but silent gestures, as a place to be especially noted. Tom, who understood the signal as intended for his own eye alone, made his observations on the spot with equal taciturnity, but with all the minuteness that would distinguish one long accustomed to find his way, whether by land or water, by landmarks and the bearings of different objects. Soon after this silent communication between the lieutenant and his cockswain, the boat was suddenly turned, and was in the act of dashing upon the spit of sand before it, when Barnstable checked the movement by his voice:

“Hold water!” he said; “’tis the sound of oars!”

The seamen held their boat at rest, while a deep attention was given to the noise that had alarmed the ears of their commander.

“See, sir,” said the cockswain, pointing towards the eastern horizon; “it is just rising into the streak of light to seaward of us — now it settles in the trough — ah! here you have it again!”

“By heavens!” cried Barnstable, “’tis a man-of-war’s stroke it pulls; I saw the oar-blades as they fell! and, listen to the sound! neither your fisherman nor your smuggler pulls such a regular oar.”

Tom had bowed his head nearly to the water, in the act of listening, and now raising himself, he spoke with confidence:

“That is the Tiger; I know the stroke of her crew as well as I do of my own. Mr. Merry has made them learn the new-fashioned jerk, as they dip their blades, and they feather with such a roll in their rullocks! I could swear to the stroke.”

“Hand me the night-glass,” said his commander, impatiently. “I can catch them, as they are lifted into the streak. You are right, by every star in our flag, Tom! — but there is only one man in her stern-sheets. By my good eyes, I believe it is that accursed Pilot, sneaking from the land, and leaving Griffith and Manual to die in English prisons. To shore with you — beach her at once!”

The order was no sooner given than it was obeyed, and in less than two minutes the impatient Barnstable, Dillon, and the cockswain, were standing together on the sands.

The impression he had received, that his friends were abandoned to their fate by the Pilot, urged the generous young seaman to hasten the departure of his prisoner, as he was fearful every moment might interpose some new obstacle to the success of his plans.

“Mr. Dillon,” he said, the instant they were landed, “I exact no new promise — your honor is already plighted — — “

“If oaths can make it stronger,” interrupted Dillon, “I will take them.”

“Oaths cannot — the honor of a gentleman is, at all times, enough. I shall send my cockswain with you to the abbey, and you will either return with him, in person, within two hours, or give Mr. Griffith and Captain Manual to his guidance. Proceed, sir, you are conditionally free; there is an easy opening by which to ascend the cliffs.”

Dillon once more thanked his generous captor, and then proceeded to force his way up the rough eminence.

“Follow, and obey his instructions,” said Barnstable to his cockswain, aloud.

Tom, long accustomed to implicit obedience, handled his harpoon, and was quietly following in the footsteps of his new leader, when he felt the hand of the lieutenant on his shoulder.

“You saw where the brook emptied over the hillock of sand?” said Barnstable, in an undertone.

Tom nodded assent.

“You will find us there riding without the surf— ‘Twill not do to trust too much to an enemy.”

The cockswain made a gesture of great significance with his weapon, that was intended to indicate the danger their prisoner would incur should he prove false; when, applying the wooden end of the harpoon to the rocks, he ascended the ravine at a rate that soon brought him to the side of his companion.

CHAPTER XXII

“Ay marry, let me have him to sit under;

He’s like to be a cold soldier.”

Falstaff.

Barnstable lingered on the sands for a few minutes, until the footsteps of Dillon and the cockswain were no longer audible, when he ordered his men to launch their boat once more into the surf. While the seamen pulled leisurely towards the place he had designated as the point where he would await the return of Tom, the lieutenant first began to entertain serious apprehensions concerning the good faith of his prisoner. Now that Dillon was beyond his control, his imagination presented, in very vivid colors, several little circumstances in the other’s conduct, which might readily excuse some doubts of his good faith; and, by the time they had reached the place of rendezvous, and had cast a light grapnel into the sea, his fears had rendered him excessively uncomfortable. Leaving the lieutenant to his reflections on this unpleasant subject, we shall follow Dillon and his fearless and unsuspecting companion in their progress towards St. Ruth.

The mists to which Tom had alluded in his discussion with his commander on the state of the weather appeared to be settling nearer to the earth, and assuming more decidedly the appearance of a fog, hanging above them in sluggish volumes, but little agitated by the air. The consequent obscurity added deeply to the gloom of the night, and it would have been difficult for one less acquainted than Dillon with the surrounding localities to find the path which led to the dwelling of Colonel Howard. After some little search, this desirable object was effected; and the civilian led the way, with rapid strides, towards the abbey.

“Ay, ay!” said Tom, who followed his steps, and equaled his paces, without any apparent effort, “you shore people have an easy way to find your course and distance, when you get into the track. I was once left by the craft I belonged to, in Boston, to find my way to Plymouth, which is a matter of fifteen leagues, or thereaway; and so, finding nothing was bound up the bay, after lying-by for a week, I concluded to haul aboard my land tacks. I spent the better part of another week in a search for some hooker, on board which I might work my passage across the country, for money was as scarce then with old Tom Coffin as it is now, and is likely to be, unless the fisheries get a good luff soon; but it seems that nothing but your horse-flesh, and horned cattle, and jackasses, are privileged to do the pulling and hauling in your shore-hookers; and I was forced to pay a week’s wages for a berth, besides keeping a banyan on a mouthful of bread and cheese, from the time we hove up in Boston, till we came to in Plymouth town.”

“It was certainly an unreasonable exaction on the part of the wagoners, from a man in your situation,” said Dillon, in a friendly, soothing tone of voice, that denoted a willingness to pursue the conversation.

“My situation was that of a cabin passenger,” returned the cockswain; “for there was but one hand forward, besides the cattle I mentioned — that was he who steered — and an easy berth he had of it; for there his course lay atween walls of stone and fences: and, as for his reckoning, why, they had stuck up bits of stone on an end, with his day’s work footed up, ready to his hand, every half league or so. Besides, the landmarks were so plenty, that a man with half an eye might steer her, and no fear of getting to leeward.”

“You must have found yourself as it were in a new world,” observed Dillon.

“Why, to me it was pretty much the same as if I had been set afloat in a strange country, though I may be said to be a native of those parts, being born on the coast. I had often heard shoremen say, that there was as much ‘arth as water in the world, which I always set down as a rank lie, for I’ve sailed with a flowing sheet months an-end without falling in with as much land or rock as would answer a gull to lay its eggs on; but I will own, that atween Boston and Plymouth, we were out of sight of water for as much as two full watches!”

Dillon pursued this interesting subject with great diligence; and by the time they reached the wall, which enclosed the large paddock that surrounded the abbey, the cockswain was deeply involved in a discussion of the comparative magnitude of the Atlantic Ocean and the continent of America.

Avoiding the principal entrance to the building, through the great gates which communicated with the court in front, Dillon followed the windings of the wall until it led them to a wicket, which he knew was seldom closed for the night until the hour for general rest had arrived. Their way now lay in the rear of the principal edifice, and soon conducted them to the confused pile which contained the offices. The cockswain followed his companion with a confiding reliance on his knowledge and good faith, that was somewhat increased by the freedom of communication that had been maintained during their walk from the cliffs. He did not perceive anything extraordinary in the other’s stopping at the room, which had been provided as a sort of barracks for the soldiers of Captain Borroughcliffe. A conference which took place between Dillon and the sergeant was soon ended, when the former beckoned to the cockswain to follow, and taking a circuit round the whole of the offices, they entered the abbey together, by the door through which the ladies had issued when in quest of the three prisoners, as has been already related. — After a turn or two among the narrow passages of that part of the edifice, Tom, whose faith in the facilities of land navigation began to be a little shaken, found himself following his guide through a long, dark gallery, that was terminated at the end toward which they were approaching, by a half-open door, that admitted a glimpse into a well-lighted and comfortable apartment. To this door Dillon hastily advanced, and, throwing it open, the cockswain enjoyed a full view of the very scene that we described in introducing Colonel Howard to the acquaintance of the reader, and under circumstances of great similitude. The cheerful fire of coal, the strong and glaring lights, the tables of polished mahogany, and the blushing fluids, were still the same in appearance, while the only perceptible change was in the number of those who partook of the cheer. The master of the mansion and Borroughcliffe were seated opposite to each other, employed in discussing the events of the day, and diligently pushing to and fro the glittering vessel, that contained a portion of the generous liquor they both loved so well; a task which each moment rendered lighter.

“If Kit would but return,” exclaimed the veteran, whose back was to the opening door, “bringing with, him his honest brows encircled, as they will be or ought to be, with laurel, I should be the happiest old fool, Borroughcliffe, in his majesty’s realm of Great Britain!”

The captain, who felt the necessity for the unnatural restraint he had imposed on his thirst to be removed by the capture of his enemies, pointed towards the door with one hand, while he grasped the sparkling reservoir of the “south side” with the other, and answered:

“Lo! the Cacique himself! his brow inviting the diadem — ha! who have we in his highness’ train? By the Lord, sir Cacique, if you travel with a body-guard of such grenadiers, old Frederick of Prussia himself will have occasion to envy you the corps! a clear six-footer in nature’s stockings! and the arms as unique as the armed!”

The colonel did not, however, attend to half of his companion’s exclamations, but turning, he beheld the individual he had so much desired, and received him with a delight proportioned to the unexpectedness of the pleasure. For several minutes, Dillon was compelled to listen to the rapid questions of his venerable relative, to all of which he answered with a prudent reserve, that might, in some measure, have been governed by the presence of the cockswain. Tom stood with infinite composure, leaning on his harpoon, and surveying, with a countenance where wonder was singularly blended with contempt, the furniture and arrangements of an apartment that was far more splendid than any he had before seen. In the mean time, Borroughcliffe entirely disregarded the private communications that passed between his host and Dillon, which gradually became more deeply interesting, and finally drew them to a distant corner of the apartment, but taking a most undue advantage of the absence of the gentleman, who had so lately been his boon companion, he swallowed one potation after another, as if a double duty had devolved on him, in consequence of the desertion of the veteran. Whenever his eye did wander from the ruby tints of his glass, it was to survey with unrepressed admiration the inches of the cockswain, about whose stature and frame there were numberless excellent points to attract the gaze of a recruiting officer. From this double pleasure, the captain was, however, at last summoned, to participate in the councils of his friends.

Dillon was spared the disagreeable duty of repeating the artful tale he had found it necessary to palm on the colonel, by the ardor of the veteran himself, who executed the task in a manner that gave to the treachery of his kinsman every appearance of a justifiable artifice and of unshaken zeal in the cause of his prince. In substance, Tom was to be detained as a prisoner, and the party of Barnstable were to be entrapped, and of course to share a similar fate. The sunken eye of Dillon cowered before the steady gaze which Borroughcliffe fastened on him, as the latter listened to the plaudits the colonel lavished on his cousin’s ingenuity; but the hesitation that lingered in the soldier’s manner vanished when he turned to examine their unsuspecting prisoner, who was continuing his survey of the apartment, while he innocently imagined the consultations he witnessed were merely the proper and preparatory steps to his admission into the presence of Mr. Griffith.

“Drill,” said Borroughcliffe, aloud, “advance, and receive your orders.” The cockswain turned quickly at this sudden mandate, and, for the first time, perceived that he had been followed into the gallery by the orderly and two files of the recruits, armed. “Take this man to the guard-room, and feed him, and see that he dies not of thirst.”

There was nothing alarming in this order; and Tom was following the soldiers, in obedience to a gesture from their captain, when their steps were arrested in the gallery, by the cry of “Halt!”

“On recollection, Drill,” said Borroughcliffe, in a tone from which all dictatorial sounds were banished, “show the gentleman into my own room, and see him properly supplied.”

The orderly gave such an intimation of his comprehending the meaning of his officer, as the latter was accustomed to receive, when Borroughcliffe returned to his bottle, and the cockswain followed his guide, with an alacrity and good will that were not a little increased by the repeated mention of the cheer that awaited him.

Luckily for the impatience of Tom, the quarters of the captain were at hand, and the promised entertainment by no means slow in making its appearance. The former was an apartment that opened from a lesser gallery, which communicated with the principal passage already mentioned; and the latter was a bountiful but ungarnished supply of that staple of the British Isles, called roast beef; of which the kitchen of Colonel Howard was never without a due and loyal provision, — The sergeant, who certainly understood one of the signs of his captain to imply an attack on the citadel of the cockswain’s brain, mingled, with his own hands, a potation that he styled a rummer of grog, and which he thought would have felled the animal itself that Tom was so diligently masticating, had it been alive and in its vigor. Every calculation that was made on the infirmity of the cockswain’s intellect, under the stimulus of Jamaica, was, however, futile. He swallowed glass after glass, with prodigious relish, but, at the same time, with immovable steadiness; and the eyes of the sergeant, who felt it incumbent to do honor to his own cheer, were already glistening in his head, when, happily for the credit of his heart, a tap at the door announced the presence of his captain, and relieved him from the impending disgrace of being drunk blind by a recruit.

As Borroughcliffe entered the apartment, he commanded his orderly to retire, adding:

“Mr. Dillon will give you instructions, which you are implicitly to obey.”

Drill, who had sense enough remaining to apprehend the displeasure of his officer, should the latter discover his condition, quickened his departure, and the cockswain soon found himself alone with the captain. The vigor of Tom’s attacks on the remnant of the sirloin was now much abated, leaving in its stead that placid quiet which is apt to linger about the palate long after the cravings of the appetite have been appeased. He had seated himself on one of the trunks of Borroughcliffe, utterly disdaining the use of a chair; and, with the trencher in his lap, was using his own jack-knife on the dilapidated fragment of the ox, with something of that nicety with which the female ghoul of the Arabian Tales might be supposed to pick her rice with the point of her bodkin. The captain drew a seat nigh the cockswain; and, with a familiarity and kindness infinitely condescending, when the difference in their several conditions is considered, he commenced the following dialogue:

“I hope you have found your entertainment to your liking, Mr. a-a-I must own my ignorance of your name.”

“Tom,” said the cockswain, keeping his eyes roaming over the contents of the trencher; “commonly called long Tom, by my shipmates.”

“You have sailed with discreet men, and able navigators, it will seem, as they understood longitude so well,” rejoined the captain; “but you have a patronymic — I would say another name?”

“Coffin,” returned the cockswain; “I’m called Tom, when there is any hurry, such as letting go the haulyards, or a sheet; long Tom, when they want to get to windward of an old seaman, by fair weather; and long Tom Coffin, when they wish to hail me, so that none of my cousins of the same name, about the islands, shall answer; for I believe the best man among them can’t measure much over a fathom, taking him from his headworks to his heel.”

“You are a most deserving fellow,” cried Borroughcliffe, “and it is painful to think to what a fate the treachery of Mr. Dillon has consigned you.”

The suspicions of Tom, if he ever entertained any, were lulled to rest too effectually by the kindness he had received, to be awakened by this equivocal lament; he therefore, after renewing his intimacy with the rummer, contented himself by saying, with a satisfied simplicity:

“I am consigned to no one, carrying no cargo but this Mr. Dillon, who is to give me Mr. Griffith in exchange, or go back to the Ariel himself, as my prisoner.”

“Ah! my good friend, I fear you will find, when the time comes to make this exchange, that he will refuse to do either.”

“But, I’ll be d —— d if he don’t do one of them! My orders are to see it done, and back he goes; or Mr. Griffith, who is as good a seaman, for his years, as ever trod a deck, slips his cable from this here anchorage.”

Borroughcliffe affected to eye his companion with great commiseration; an exhibition of compassion that was, however, completely lost on the cockswain, whose nerves were strung to their happiest tension by his repeated libations, while his wit was, if anything, quickened by the same cause, though his own want of guile rendered him slow to comprehend its existence in others. Perceiving it necessary to speak plainly, the captain renewed the attack in a more direct manner:

“I am sorry to say that you will not be permitted to return to the Ariel; and that your commander, Mr. Barnstable, will be a prisoner within the hour; and, in fact, that your schooner will be taken before the morning breaks.”

“Who’ll take her?” asked the cockswain with a grim smile, on whose feelings, however, this combination of threatened calamities was beginning to make some impression.

“You must remember that she lies immediately under the heavy guns of a battery that can sink her in a few minutes; an express has already been sent to acquaint the commander of the work with the Ariel’s true character; and as the wind has already begun to blow from the ocean, her escape is impossible.”

The truth, together with its portentous consequences, now began to glare across the faculties of the cockswain. He remembered his own prognostics on the weather, and the helpless situation of the schooner, deprived of more than half her crew, and left to the keeping of a boy, while her commander himself was on the eve of captivity. The trencher fell from his lap to the floor, his head sunk on his knees, his face was concealed between his broad palms, and, in spite of every effort the old seaman could make to conceal his emotion, he fairly groaned aloud.

For a moment, the better feelings of Borroughcliffe prevailed, and he paused as he witnessed this exhibition of suffering in one whose head was already sprinkled with the marks of time; but his habits, and the impressions left by many years passed in collecting victims for the wars, soon resumed their ascendency, and the recruiting officer diligently addressed himself to an improvement of his advantage.

“I pity from my heart the poor lads whom artifice or mistaken notions of duty may have led astray, and who will thus be taken in arms against their sovereign; but as they are found in the very island of Britain, they must be made examples to deter others. I fear that, unless they can make their peace with government, they will all be condemned to death.”

“Let them make their peace with God, then; your government can do but little to clear the log-account of a man whose watch is up for this world.”

“But, by making their peace with those who have the power, their lives may be spared,” said the captain, watching, with keen eyes, the effect his words produced on the cockswain.

“It matters but little, when a man hears the messenger pipe his hammock down for the last time; he keeps his watch in another world, though he goes below in this. But to see wood and iron, that has been put together after such moulds as the Ariel’s, go into strange hands, is a blow that a man may remember long after the purser’s books have been squared against his name for ever! I would rather that twenty shot should strike my old carcass, than one should hull the schooner that didn’t pass out above her water-line.”

Borroughcliffe replied, somewhat carelessly, “I may be mistaken, after all; and, instead of putting any of you to death, they may place you all on board the prison-ships, where you may yet have a merry time of it these ten or fifteen years to come.”

“How’s that, shipmate!” cried the cockswain, with a start; “a prison-ship, d’ye say? you may tell them they can save the expense of one man’s rations by hanging him, if they please, and that is old Tom Coffin.”

“There is no answering for their caprice: to-day they may order a dozen of you to be shot for rebels; to-morrow they may choose to consider you as prisoners of war, and send you to the hulks for a dozen years.”

“Tell them, brother, that I’m a rebel, will ye? and ye’ll tell ‘em no lie — one that has fou’t them since Manly’s time, in Boston Bay, to this hour. I hope the boy will blow her up! it would be the death of poor Richard Barnstable to see her in the hands of the English!”

“I know of one way,” said Borroughcliffe, affecting to muse, “and but one, that will certainly avert the prison-ship; for, on second thoughts, they will hardly put you to death.”

“Name it, friend,” cried the cockswain, rising from his seat in evident perturbation, “and if it lies in the power of man, it shall be done.”

“Nay,” said the captain, dropping his hand familiarly on the shoulder of the other, who listened with the most eager attention, “’tis easily done, and no dreadful thing in itself; you are used to gunpowder, and know its smell from otto of roses!”

“Ay, ay,” cried the impatient old seaman; “I have had it flashing under my nose by the hour; what then?”

“Why, then, what I have to propose will be nothing to a man like you — you found the beef wholesome, and the grog mellow!”

“Ay, ay, all well enough; but what is that to an old sailor?” asked the cockswain, unconsciously grasping the collar of Borroughcliffe’s coat, in his agitation; “what then?”

The captain manifested no displeasure at this unexpected familiarity, but with suavity as he unmasked the battery, from behind which he had hitherto carried on his attacks.

“Why, then, you have only to serve your king as you have before served the Congress — and let me be the man to show you your colors.”

The cockswain stared at the speaker intently, but it was evident he did not clearly comprehend the nature of the proposition, and the captain pursued the subject:

“In plain English, enlist in my company, my fine fellow, and your life and liberty are both safe.”

Tom did not laugh aloud, for that was a burst of feeling in which he was seldom known to indulge; but every feature of his weatherbeaten visage contracted into an expression of bitter, ironical contempt. Borroughcliffe felt the iron fingers, that still grasped his collar, gradually tightening about his throat, like a vice; and, as the arm slowly contracted, his body was drawn, by a power that it was in vain to resist, close to that of the cockswain, who, when their faces were within a foot of each other, gave vent to his emotions in words:

“A messmate, before a shipmate; a shipmate, before a stranger; a stranger, before a dog — but a dog before a soldier!”

As Tom concluded, his nervous arm was suddenly extended to the utmost, the fingers relinquishing their grasp at the same time; and, when Borroughcliffe recovered his disordered faculties, he found himself in a distant corner of the apartment, prostrate among a confused pile of chairs, tables, and wearing-apparel. In endeavoring to rise from this humble posture, the hand of the captain fell on the hilt of his sword, which had been included in the confused assemblage of articles produced by his overthrow.

“How now, scoundrel!” he cried, baring the glittering weapon, and springing on his feet; “you must be taught your distance, I perceive.”

The cockswain seized the harpoon which leaned against the wall, and dropped its barbed extremity within a foot of the breast of his assailant, with an expression of the eye that denoted the danger of a nearer approach. The captain, however, wanted not for courage, and stung to the quick by the insult he had received, he made a desperate parry, and attempted to pass within the point of the novel weapon of his adversary. The slight shock was followed by a sweeping whirl of the harpoon, and Borroughchffe found himself without arms, completely at the mercy of his foe. The bloody intentions of Tom vanished with his success; for, laying aside his weapon, he advanced upon his antagonist, and seized him with an open palm. One more struggle, in which the captain discovered his incompetency to make any defence against the strength of a man who managed him as if he had been a child, decided the matter. When the captain was passive in the hands of his foe, the cockswain produced sundry pieces of sennit, marline, and ratlin-stuff, from his pockets, which appeared to contain as great a variety of small cordage as a boatswain’s storeroom, and proceeded to lash the arms of the conquered soldier to the posts of his bed, with a coolness that had not been disturbed since the commencement of hostilities, a silence that seemed inflexible, and a dexterity that none but a seaman could equal. When this part of his plan was executed, Tom paused a moment, and gazed around him as if in quest of something. The naked sword caught his eye, and, with this weapon in his hand, he deliberately approached his captive, whose alarm prevented his observing that the cockswain had snapped the blade asunder from the handle, and that he had already encircled the latter with marline.

“For God’s sake,” exclaimed Borroughcliffe, “murder me not in cold blood!”

The silver hilt entered his mouth as the words issued from it, and the captain found, while the line was passed and repassed in repeated involutions across the back of his neck, that he was in a condition to which he often subjected his own men, when unruly, and which is universally called being “gagged.” The cockswain now appeared to think himself entitled to all the privileges of a conqueror; for, taking the light in his hand, he commenced a scrutiny into the nature and quality of the worldly effects that lay at his mercy. Sundry articles, that belonged to the equipments of a soldier, were examined, and cast aside with great contempt, and divers garments of plainer exterior were rejected as unsuited to the frame of the victor. He, however, soon encountered two articles, of a metal that is universally understood. But uncertainty as to their use appeared greatly to embarrass him. The circular prongs of these curiosities were applied to either hand, to the wrists, and even to the nose, and the little wheels at their opposite extremity were turned and examined with as much curiosity and care as a savage would expend on a watch, until the idea seemed to cross the mind of the honest seaman, that they formed part of the useless trappings of a military man; and he cast them aside also, as utterly worthless. Borroughcliffe, who watched every movement of his conqueror, with a good-humor that would have restored perfect harmony between them, could he but have expressed half what he felt, witnessed the safety of a favorite pair of spurs with much pleasure, though nearly suffocated by the mirth that was unnaturally repressed. At length, the cockswain found a pair of handsomely mounted pistols, a sort of weapon with which he seemed quite familiar. They were loaded, and the knowledge of that fact appeared to remind Tom of the necessity of departing, by bringing to his recollection the danger of his commander and of the Ariel. He thrust the weapons into the canvas belt that encircled his body, and, grasping his harpoon, approached the bed, where Borroughcliffe was seated in duresse.

“Harkye, friend,” said the cockswain, “may the Lord forgive you, as I do, for wishing to make a soldier of a seafaring man, and one who has followed the waters since he was an hour old, and one who hopes to die off soundings, and to be buried in brine. I wish you no harm, friend; but you’ll have to keep a stopper on your conversation till such time as some of your messmates call in this way, which I hope will be as soon after I get an offing as may be.”

With these amicable wishes, the cockswain departed, leaving Borroughcliffe the light, and the undisturbed possession of his apartment, though not in the most easy or the most enviable situation imaginable. The captain heard the bolt of his lock turn, and the key rattle as the cockswain withdrew it from the door — two precautionary steps, which clearly indicated that the vanquisher deemed it prudent to secure his retreat, by insuring the detention of the vanquished for at least a time.

CHAPTER XXIII.

“Whilst vengeance, in the lurid air,

Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare —

Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see;

And look not madly wild, like thee!”

Collins.

It is certain that Tom Coffin had devised no settled plan of operations, when he issued from the apartment of Borroughcliffe, if we except a most resolute determination to make the best of his way to the Ariel, and to share her fate, let it be either to sink or swim. But this was a resolution much easier formed by the honest seaman than executed, in his present situation. He would have found it less difficult to extricate a vessel from the dangerous shoals of the “Devil’s Grip,” than to thread the mazes of the labyrinth of passages, galleries, and apartments, in which he found himself involved. He remembered, as he expressed it to himself, in a low soliloquy, “to have run into a narrow passage from the main channel, but whether he had sheered to the starboard or larboard hand” was a material fact that had entirely escaped his memory. Tom was in that part of the building that Colonel Howard had designated as the “cloisters,” and in which, luckily for him, he was but little liable to encounter any foe, the room occupied by Borroughcliffe being the only one in the entire wing that was not exclusively devoted to the service of the ladies. The circumstance of the soldier’s being permitted to invade this sanctuary was owing to the necessity, on the part of Colonel Howard, of placing either Griffith, Manual, or the recruiting officer, in the vicinity of his wards, or of subjecting his prisoners to a treatment that the veteran would have thought unworthy of his name and character. This recent change in the quarters of Borroughcliffe operated doubly to the advantage of Tom, by lessening the chance of the speedy release of his uneasy captive, as well as by diminishing his own danger. Of the former circumstance he was, however, not aware: and the consideration of the latter was a sort of reflection to which the cockswain was, in no degree, addicted.

Following, necessarily, the line of the wall, he soon emerged from the dark and narrow passage in which he had first found himself, and entered the principal gallery, that communicated with all the lower apartments of that wing, as well as with the main body of the edifice. An open door, through which a strong light was glaring, at a distant end of this gallery, instantly caught his eye, and the old seaman had not advanced many steps towards it, before he discovered that he was approaching the very room which had so much excited his curiosity, and by the identical passage through which he had entered the abbey. To turn, and retrace his steps, was the most obvious course for any man to take who felt anxious to escape; but the sounds of high conviviality, bursting from the cheerful apartment, among which the cockswain thought he distinguished the name of Griffith, determined Tom to advance and reconnoitre the scene more closely. The reader will anticipate that when he paused in the shadow, the doubting old seaman stood once more near the threshold which he had so lately crossed, when conducted to the room of Borroughcliffe. The seat of that gentleman was now occupied by Dillon, and Colonel Howard had resumed his wonted station at the foot of the table. The noise was chiefly made by the latter, who had evidently been enjoying a more minute relation of the means by which his kinsman had entrapped his unwary enemy.

“A noble ruse!” cried the veteran, as Tom assumed his post, in ambush; “a most noble and ingenious ruse, and such a one as would have baffled Caesar! He must have been a cunning dog, that Caesar; but I do think, Kit, you would have been too much for him; hang me, if I don’t think you would have puzzled Wolfe himself, had you held Quebec, instead of Montcalm! Ah, boy, we want you in the colonies, with the ermine over your shoulders; such men as you, cousin Christopher, are sadly, sadly wanted there to defend his majesty’s rights.”

“Indeed, dear sir, your partiality gives me credit for qualities I do not possess,” said Dillon, dropping his eyes, perhaps with a feeling of conscious unworthiness, but with an air of much humility; “the little justifiable artifice — — “

“Ay! there lies the beauty of the transaction,” interrupted the colonel, shoving the bottle from him, with the free, open air of a man who never harbored disguise; “you told no lie; no mean deception, that any dog, however base and unworthy, might invent; but you practised a neat, a military, a — a — yes, a classical deception on your enemy; a classical deception, that is the very term for it! such a deception as Pompey, or Mark Antony, or — or — you know those old fellows’ names, better than I do, Kit; but name the cleverest fellow that ever lived in Greece or Rome, and I shall say he is a dunce compared to you. ’Twas a real Spartan trick, both simple and honest.”

It was extremely fortunate for Dillon, that the animation of his aged kinsman kept his head and body in such constant motion, during this apostrophe, as to intercept the aim that the cockswain was deliberately taking at his head with one of Borroughcliffe’s pistols; and perhaps the sense of shame which induced him to sink his face on his hands was another means of saving his life, by giving the indignant old seaman time for reflection.

“But you have not spoken of the ladies,” said Dillon, after a moment’s pause; “I should hope they have borne the alarm of the day like kinswomen of the family of Howard.”

The colonel glanced his eyes around him, as if to assure himself they were alone, and dropped his voice, as he answered:

“Ah, Kit! they have come to, since this rebel scoundrel, Griffith, has been brought into the abbey; we were favored with the company of even Miss Howard, in the dining-room, to-day. There was a good deal of ‘dear uncleing,’ and ‘fears that my life might be exposed by the quarrels and skirmishes of these desperadoes who have landed;’ as if an old fellow, who served through the whole war, from ‘56 to ‘63, was afraid to let his nose smell gunpowder any more than if it were snuff! But it will be a hard matter to wheedle an old soldier out of his allegiance! This Griffith goes to the Tower, at least, Mr. Dillon.”

“It would be advisable to commit his person to the civil authority, without delay.”

“To the constable of the Tower, the Earl Cornwallis, a good and loyal nobleman, who is, at this moment, fighting the rebels in my own native province, Christopher,” interrupted the colonel; “that will be what I call retributive justice; but,” continued the veteran, rising with an air of gentlemanly dignity, “it will not do to permit even the constable of the Tower of London to surpass the master of St. Ruth in hospitality and kindness to his prisoners. I have ordered suitable refreshments to their apartments, and it is incumbent on me to see that my commands have been properly obeyed. Arrangements must also be made for the reception of this Captain Barnstable, who will, doubtless, soon be here.”

“Within the hour, at farthest,” said Dillon, looking uneasily at his watch.

“We must be stirring, boy,” continued the colonel, moving towards the door that led to the apartments of his prisoners; “but there is a courtesy due to the ladies, as well as to those unfortunate violators of the laws — go, Christopher, convey my kindest wishes to Cecilia; she don’t deserve them, the obstinate vixen, but then she is my brother Harry’s child! and while there, you arch dog, plead your own cause. Mark Antony was a fool to you at a ‘ruse,’ and yet Mark was one of your successful suitors, too; there was that Queen of the Pyramids— “

The door closed on the excited veteran, at these words, and Dillon was left standing by himself, at the side of the table, musing, as if in doubt, whether to venture on the step that his kinsman had proposed, or not.

The greater part of the preceding discourse was unintelligible to the cockswain, who had waited its termination with extraordinary patience, in hopes he might obtain some information that he could render of service to the captives. Before he had time to decide on what was now best for him to do, Dillon suddenly determined to venture himself in the cloisters; and, swallowing a couple of glasses of wine in a breath, he passed the hesitating cockswain, who was concealed by the opening door, so closely as to brush his person, and moved down the gallery with those rapid strides which men who act under the impulse of forced resolutions are very apt to assume, as if to conceal their weakness from themselves. — Tom hesitated no longer; but aiding the impulse given to the door by Dillon, as he passed, so as to darken the passage, he followed the sounds of the other’s footsteps, while he trod in the manner already described, the stone pavement of the gallery. Dillon paused an instant at the turning that led to the room of Borroughcliffe, but whether irresolute which way to urge his steps, or listening to the incautious and heavy tread of the cockswain, is not known; if the latter, he mistook them for the echoes of his own footsteps, and moved forward again without making any discovery.

The light tap which Dillon gave on the door of the withdrawing-room of the cloisters was answered by the soft voice of Cecilia Howard herself, who bid the applicant enter. There was a slight confusion evident in the manner of the gentleman as he complied with the bidding, and in its hesitancy, the door was, for an instant, neglected.

“I come, Miss Howard,” said Dillon, “by the commands of your uncle, and, permit me to add, by my own— “

“May Heaven shield us!” exclaimed Cecilia, clasping her hands in affright, and rising involuntarily from her couch, “are we, too, to be imprisoned and murdered?”

“Surely Miss Howard will not impute to me— “ Dillon paused, observing that the wild looks, not only of Cecilia, but of Katherine and Alice Dunscombe, also, were directed at some other object, and turning, to his manifest terror he beheld the gigantic frame of the cockswain, surmounted by an iron visage fixed in settled hostility, in possession of the only passage from the apartment.

“If there’s murder to be done,” said Tom, after surveying the astonished group with a stern eye, “it’s as likely this here liar will be the one to do it, as another; but you have nothing to fear from a man who has followed the seas too long, and has grappled with too many monsters, both fish and flesh, not to know how to treat a helpless woman. None, who know him, will say that Thomas Coffin ever used uncivil language, or unseamanlike conduct, to any of his mother’s kind.”

“Coffin!” exclaimed Katherine, advancing with a more confident air, from the corner into which terror had driven her with her companions.

“Ay, Coffin,” continued the old sailor, his grim features gradually relaxing, as he gazed on her bright looks; “’tis a solemn word, but it’s a word that passes over the shoals, among the islands, and along the cape, oftener than any other. My father was a Coffin, and my mother was a Joy; and the two names can count more flukes than all the rest in the island together; though the Worths, and the Gar’ners, and the Swaines, dart better harpoons, and set truer lances, than any men who come from the weather-side of the Atlantic.”

Katherine listened to this digression in honor of the whalers of Nantucket, with marked complacency; and, when he concluded, she repeated slowly:

“Coffin! this, then, is long Tom!”

“Ay, ay, long Tom, and no sham in the name either,” returned the cockswain, suffering the stern indignation that had lowered around his hard visage to relax into a low laugh as he gazed on her animated features; “the Lord bless your smiling face and bright black eyes, young madam! you have heard of old long Tom, then? Most likely, ’twas something about the blow he strikes at the fish — ah! I’m old and I’m stiff, now, young madam, but afore I was nineteen, I stood at the head of the dance, at a ball on the cape, and that with a partner almost as handsome as yourself — ay! and this was after I had three broad flukes logg’d against my name.”

“No,” said Katherine, advancing in her eagerness a step or two nigher to the old tar, her cheeks flushing while she spoke, “I had heard of you as an instructor in a seaman’s duty, as the faithful cockswain, nay, I may say, as the devoted companion and friend, of Mr. Richard Barnstable — but, perhaps, you come now as the bearer of some message or letter from that gentleman.”

The sound of his commander’s name suddenly revived the recollection of Coffin, and with it all the fierce sternness of his manner returned. Bending his eyes keenly on the cowering form of Dillon, he said, in those deep, harsh tones, that seem peculiar to men who have braved the elements, until they appear to have imbided some of their roughest qualities:

“Liar! how now? what brought old Tom Coffin into these shoals and narrow channels? was it a letter? Ha! but by the Lord that maketh the winds to blow, and teacheth the lost mariner how to steer over the wide waters, you shall sleep this night, villain, on the planks of the Ariel; and if it be the will of God that beautiful piece of handicraft is to sink at her moorings, like a worthless hulk, ye shall still sleep in her; ay, and a sleep that shall not end, till they call all hands, to foot up the day’s work of this life, at the close of man’s longest voyage.”

The extraordinary vehemence, the language, the attitude of the old seaman, commanding in its energy, and the honest indignation that shone in every look of his keen eyes, together with the nature of the address, and its paralyzing effect on Dillon, who quailed before it like the stricken deer, united to keep the female listeners, for many moments, silent through amazement. During this brief period, Tom advanced upon his nerveless victim, and lashing his arms together behind his back, he fastened him, by a strong cord, to the broad canvas belt that he constantly wore around his own body, leaving to himself, by this arrangement, the free use of his arms and weapons of offence, while he secured his captive.

“Surely,” said Cecilia, recovering her recollection the first of the astonished group, “Mr. Barnstable has not commissioned you to offer this violence to my uncle’s kinsman, under the roof of Colonel Howard? — Miss Plowden, your friend has strangely forgotten himself in this transaction, if this man acts in obedience to his order!”

“My friend, my cousin Howard,” returned Katharine, “would never commission his cockswain, or any one, to do an unworthy deed. Speak, honest sailor; why do you commit this outrage on the worthy Mr. Dillon, Colonel Howard’s kinsman, and a cupboard cousin of St. Ruth’s Abbey?”

“Nay, Katherine— “

“Nay, Cecilia, be patient, and let the stranger have utterance; he may solve the difficulty altogether.”

The cockswain, understanding that an explanation was expected from his lips, addressed himself to the task with an energy suitable both to the subject and to his own feelings. In a very few words, though a little obscured by his peculiar diction, he made his listeners understand the confidence that Barnstable had reposed in Dillon, and the treachery of the latter. They heard him with increased astonishment, and Cecilia hardly allowed him time to conclude, before she exclaimed:

“And did Colonel Howard, could Colonel Howard listen to this treacherous project!”

“Ay, they spliced it together among them,” returned Tom; “though one part of this cruise will turn out but badly.”

“Even Borroughcliffe, cold and hardened as he appears to be by habit, would spurn at such dishonor,” added Miss Howard.

“But Mr. Barnstable?” at length Katherine succeeded in saying, when her feelings permitted her utterance, “said you not that soldiers were in quest of him?”

“Ay, ay, young madam,” the cockswain replied, smiling with grim ferocity, “they are in chase, but he has shifted his anchorage, and even if they should find him, his long pikes would make short work of a dozen redcoats. The Lord of tempests and calms have mercy, though, on the schooner! Ah, young madam she, is as lovely to the eyes of an old seafaring man as any of your kind can be to human nature!”

“But why this delay? — away then, honest Tom, and reveal the treachery to your commander; you may not yet be too late — why delay a moment?”

“The ship tarries for want of a pilot. — I could carry three fathom over the shoals of Nantucket, the darkest night that ever shut the windows of heaven, but I should be likely to run upon breakers in this navigation. As it was, I was near getting into company that I should have had to fight my way out of.”

“If that be all, follow me,” cried the ardent Katherine; “I will conduct you to a path that leads to the ocean, without approaching the sentinels.”

Until this moment, Dillon had entertained a secret expectation of a rescue, but when he heard this proposal he felt his blood retreating to his heart, from every part of his agitated frame, and his last hope seemed wrested from him. Raising himself from the abject shrinking attitude, in which both shame and dread had conspired to keep him as though he had been fettered to the spot, he approached Cecilia, and cried, in tones of horror:

“Do not, do not consent, Miss Howard, to abandon me to the fury of this man! Your uncle, your honorable uncle, even now applauded and united with me in my enterprise, which is no more than a common artifice in war.”

“My uncle would unite, Mr. Dillon, in no project of deliberate treachery like this,” said Cecilia, coldly.

“He did, I swear by — — “

“Liar!” interrupted the deep tones of the cockswain.

Dillon shivered with agony and terror, while the sounds of this appalling voice sunk into his inmost soul; but as the gloom of the night, the secret ravines of the cliffs, and the turbulence of the ocean flashed across his imagination, he again yielded to a dread of the horrors to which he should be exposed, in encountering them at the mercy of his powerful enemy, and he continued his solicitations:

“Hear me, once more hear me — Miss Howard, I beseech you, hear me! Am I not of your own blood and country? will you see me abandoned to the wild, merciless, malignant fury of this man, who will transfix me with that — oh, God! if you had but seen the sight I beheld in the Alacrity! — hear me. Miss Howard; for the love you bear your Maker, intercede for me! Mr. Griffith shall be released — — “

“Liar!” again interrupted the cockswain.

“What promises he?” asked Cecilia, turning her averted face once more at the miserable captive.

“Nothing at all that will be fulfilled,” said Katherine; “follow, honest Tom, and I, at least, will conduct you in good faith.”

“Cruel, obdurate Miss Plowden; gentle, kind Miss Alice, you will not refuse to raise your voice in my favor; your heart is not hardened by any imaginary dangers to those you love.”

“Nay, address not me,” said Alice, bending her meek eyes to the floor; “I trust your life is in no danger; and I pray that he who has the power will have the mercy to see you unharmed.”

“Away,” said Tom, grasping the collar of the helpless Dillon, and rather carrying than leading him into the gallery: “if a sound, one-quarter as loud as a young porpoise makes when he draws his first breath, comes from you, villain, you shall see the sight of the Alacrity over again. My harpoon keeps its edge well, and the old arm can yet drive it to the seizing.”

This menace effectually silenced even the hard, perturbed breathings of the captive, who, with his conductor, followed the light steps of Katherine through some of the secret mazes of the building, until, in a few minutes, they issued through a small door into the open air. Without pausing to deliberate, Miss Plowden led the cockswain through the grounds, to a different wicket from the one by which he had entered the paddock, and pointing to the path, which might be dimly traced along the faded herbage, she bade God bless him, in a voice that discovered her interest in his safety, and vanished from his sight like an aerial being.

Tom needed no incentive to his speed, now that his course lay so plainly before him, but loosening his pistols in his belt, and poising his harpoon, he crossed the fields at a gait that compelled his companion to exert his utmost powers, in the way of walking, to equal. Once or twice, Dillon ventured to utter a word or two; but a stern “silence” from the cockswain warned him to cease, until perceiving that they were approaching the cliffs, he made a final effort to obtain his liberty, by hurriedly promising a large bribe. The cockswain made no reply, and the captive was secretly hoping that his scheme was producing its wonted effects, when he unexpectedly felt the keen cold edge of the barbed iron of the harpoon pressing against his breast, through the opening of his ruffles, and even raising the skin.

“Liar!” said Tom; “another word, and I’ll drive it through your heart!”

From that moment, Dillon was as silent as the grave. They reached the edge of the cliffs, without encountering the party that had been sent in quest of Barnstable, and at a point near where they had landed. The old seaman paused an instant on the verge of the precipice, and cast his experienced eyes along the wide expanse of water that lay before him. The sea was no longer sleeping, but already in heavy motion, and rolling its surly waves against the base of the rocks on which he stood, scattering their white crests high in foam. The cockswain, after bending his looks along the whole line of the eastern horizon, gave utterance to a low and stifled groan; and then, striking the staff of his harpoon violently against the earth, he pursued his way along the very edge of the cliffs, muttering certain dreadful denunciations, which the conscience of his appalled listener did not fail to apply to himself. It appeared to the latter, that his angry and excited leader sought the giddy verge of the precipice with a sort of wanton recklessness, so daring were the steps that he took along its brow, notwithstanding the darkness of the hour, and the violence of the blasts that occasionally rushed by them, leaving behind a kind of reaction, that more than once brought the life of the manacled captive in imminent jeopardy. But it would seem the wary cockswain had a motive for this apparently inconsiderate desperation. When they had made good quite half the distance between the point where Barnstable had landed and that where he had appointed to meet his cockswain, the sounds of voices were brought indistinctly to their ears, in one of the momentary pauses of the rushing winds, and caused the cockswain to make a dead stand in his progress. He listened intently for a single minute, when his resolution appeared to be taken. He turned to Dillon and spoke; though his voice was suppressed and low, it was deep and resolute.

“One word, and you die; over the cliffs! You must take a seaman’s ladder: there is footing on the rocks, and crags for your hands. Over the cliff, I bid ye, or I’ll cast ye into the sea, as I would a dead enemy!”

“Mercy, mercy!” implored Dillon; “I could not do it in the day; by this light I shall surely perish.”

“Over with ye!” said Tom, “or — — “

Dillon waited for no more, but descended, with trembling steps, the dangerous precipice that lay before him. He was followed by the cockswain, with a haste that unavoidably dislodged his captive from the trembling stand he had taken on the shelf of a rock, who, to his increased horror found himself dangling in the air, his body impending over the sullen surf, that was tumbling in with violence upon the rocks beneath him. An involuntary shriek burst from Dillon, as he felt his person thrust from the narrow shelf; and his cry sounded amidst the tempest, like the screechings of the spirit of the storm.

“Another such a call, and I cut your tow-line, villain,” said the determined seaman, “when nothing short of eternity will bring you up.”

The sounds of footsteps and voices were now distinctly audible, and presently a party of armed men appeared on the edges of the rocks, directly above them.

“It was a human voice,” said one of them, “and like a man in distress.”

“It cannot be the men we are sent in search of,” returned Sergeant Drill; “for no watchword that I ever heard sounded like that cry.”

“They say that such cries are often heard in storms along this coast,” said a voice that was uttered with less of military confidence than the two others: “and they are thought to come from drowned seamen.”

A feeble laugh arose among the listeners, and one or two forced jokes were made at the expense of their superstitious comrade; but the scene did not fail to produce its effect on even the most sturdy among the unbelievers in the marvelous; for, after a few more similar remarks, the whole party retired from the cliffs, at a pace that might have been accelerated by the nature of their discourse. The cockswain, who had stood all this time, firm as the rock which supported him, bearing up not only his own weight, but the person of Dillon also, raised his head above the brow of the precipice, as they withdrew, to reconnoitre, and then, drawing up the nearly insensible captive, and placing him in safety on the bank, he followed himself. Not a moment was wasted in unnecessary explanations, but Dillon found himself again urged forward, with the same velocity as before. In a few minutes they gained the desired ravine, down which Tom plunged with a seaman’s nerve, dragging his prisoner after him, and directly they stood where the waves rose to their feet, as they flowed far and foaming across the sands. — The cockswain stooped so low as to bring the crest of the billows in a line with the horizon, when he discovered the dark boat, playing in the outer edge of the surf.

“What hoa! Ariels there!” shouted Tom, in a voice that the growing tempest carried to the ears of the retreating soldiers, who quickened their footsteps, as they listened to sounds which their fears taught them to believe supernatural.

“Who hails?” cried the well-known voice of Barnstable.

“Once your master, now your servant,” answered the cockswain with a watchword of his own invention.

“’Tis he,” returned the lieutenant; “veer away, boys, veer away. You must wade into the surf.”

Tom caught Dillon in his arms; and throwing him, like a cork, across his shoulder, he dashed into the streak of foam that was bearing the boat on its crest, and before his companion had time for remonstrance or entreaty, he found himself once more by the side of Barnstable.

“Who have we here?” asked the lieutenant; “this is not Griffith!”

“Haul out and weigh your grapnel,” said the excited cockswain; “and then, boys, if you love the Ariel, pull while the life and the will is left in you.”

Barnstable knew his man, and not another question was asked, until the boat was without the breakers, now skimming the rounded summits of the waves, or settling into the hollows of the seas, but always cutting the waters asunder, as she urged her course, with amazing velocity, towards the haven where the schooner had been left at anchor. Then, in a few but bitter sentences, the cockswain explained to his commander the treachery of Dillon, and the danger of the schooner.

“The soldiers are slow at a night muster,” Tom concluded; “and from what I overheard, the express will have to make a crooked course, to double the head of the bay, so that, but for this northeaster, we might weather upon them yet; but it’s a matter that lies altogether in the will of Providence. Pull, my hearties, pull — everything depends on your oars to-night.”

Barnstable listened in deep silence to this unexpected narration, which sounded in the ears of Dillon like his funeral knell. At length, the suppressed voice of the lieutenant was heard, also, uttering:

“Wretch! if I should cast you into the sea, as food for the fishes, who could blame me? But if my schooner goes to the bottom, she shall prove your coffin!”

CHAPTER XXIV.

“Had I been any god of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth, ere

It should the good ship so have swallowed.”

Tempest.

The arms of Dillon were released from their confinement by the cockswain, as a measure of humane caution against accidents, when they entered the surf; and the captive now availed himself of the circumstance to bury his features in the folds of his attire, when he brooded over the events of the last few hours with that mixture of malignant passion and pusillanimous dread of the future, that formed the chief ingredients in his character. From this state of apparent quietude neither Barnstable nor Tom seemed disposed to rouse him by their remarks, for both were too much engaged with their own gloomy forebodings, to indulge in any unnecessary words. An occasional ejaculation from the former, as if to propitiate the spirit of the storm, as he gazed on the troubled appearance of the elements, or a cheering cry from the latter to animate his crew, alone were heard amid the sullen roaring of the waters, and the mournful whistling of the winds that swept heavily across the broad waste of the German Ocean. There might have been an hour consumed thus, in a vigorous struggle between the seamen and the growing billows, when the boat doubled the northern headland of the desired haven, and shot, at once, from its boisterous passage along the margin of the breakers into the placid waters of the sequestered bay, The passing blasts were still heard rushing above the high lands that surrounded, and, in fact, formed, the estuary; but the profound stillness of deep night pervaded the secret recesses, along the unruffled surface of its waters. The shadows of the hills seemed to have accumulated, like a mass of gloom, in the centre of the basin, and though every eye involuntarily turned to search, it was in vain that the anxious seamen endeavored to discover their little vessel through its density. While the boat glided into this quiet scene, Barnstable anxiously observed:

“Everything is as still as death.”

“God send it is not the stillness of death!” ejaculated the cockswain. “Here, here,” he continued, speaking in a lower tone, as if fearful of being overheard, “here she lies, sir, more to port; look into the streak of clear sky above the marsh, on the starboard hand of the wood, there; that long black line is her maintopmast; I know it by the rake; and there is her night-pennant fluttering about that bright star; ay, ay, sir, there go our own stars aloft yet, dancing among the stars in the heavens! God bless her! God bless her! she rides as easy and as quiet as a gull asleep!”

“I believe all in her sleep too,” returned his commander. “Ha! by heaven, we have arrived in good time: the soldiers are moving!”

The quick eye of Barnstable had detected the glimmering of passing lanterns, as they flitted across the embrasures of the battery, and at the next moment the guarded but distinct sounds of an active bustle on the decks of the schooner were plainly audible. The lieutenant was rubbing his hands together, with a sort of ecstasy, that probably will not be understood by the great majority of our readers, while long Tom was actually indulging in a paroxysm of his low spiritless laughter, as these certain intimations of the safety of the Ariel, and of the vigilance of her crew, were conveyed to their ears; when the whole hull and taper spars of their floating home became unexpectedly visible, and the sky, the placid basin, and the adjacent hills, were illuminated by a flash as sudden and as vivid as the keenest lightning. Both Barnstable and his cockswain seemed instinctively to strain their eyes towards the schooner, with an effort to surpass human vision; but ere the rolling reverberations of the report of a heavy piece of ordnance from the heights had commenced, the dull, whistling rush of the shot swept over their heads, like the moaning of a hurricane, and was succeeded by the plash of the waters, which was followed, in a breath, by the rattling of the mass of iron, as it bounded with violent fury from rock to rock, shivering and tearing the fragments that lined the margin of the bay.

“A bad aim with the first gun generally leaves your enemy clean decks,” said the cockswain, with his deliberate sort of philosophy; “smoke makes but dim spectacles; besides, the night always grows darkest as you call off the morning watch.”

“That boy is a miracle for his years!” rejoined the delighted lieutenant. “See, Tom, the younker has shifted his berth in the dark, and the Englishmen have fired by the day-range they must have taken, for we left him in a direct line between the battery and yon hummock! What would have become of us, if that heavy fellow had plunged upon our decks, and gone out below the water-line?”

“We should have sunk into English mud, for eternity, as sure as our metal and kentledge would have taken us down,” responded Tom; “such a point-blanker would have torn off a streak of our wales, outboard, and not even left the marines time to say a prayer! — tend bow there!”

It is not to be supposed that the crew of the whale-boat continued idle during this interchange of opinions between the lieutenant and his cockswain; on the contrary, the sight of their vessel acted on them like a charm, and, believing that all necessity for caution was now over, they had expended their utmost strength in efforts that had already brought them, as the last words of Tom indicated, to the side of the Ariel. Though every nerve of Barnstable was thrilling with the excitement produced by his feelings passing from a state of the most doubtful apprehension to that of a revived and almost confident hope of effecting his escape, he assumed the command of his vessel with all that stern but calm authority, that seamen find is most necessary to exert in the moments of extremest danger. Any one of the heavy shot that their enemies continued to hurl from their heights into the darkness of the haven he well knew must prove fatal to them, as it would, unavoidably, pass through the slight fabric of the Ariel, and open a passage to the water that no means he possessed could remedy. — His mandates were, therefore, issued with a full perception of the critical nature of the emergency, but with that collectedness of manner, and intonation of voice, that were best adapted to enforce a ready and animated obedience. Under this impulse, the crew of the schooner soon got their anchor freed from the bottom, and, seizing their sweeps, they forced her by their united efforts directly in the face of the battery, under that shore whose summit was now crowned with a canopy of smoke, that every discharge of the ordnance tinged with dim colors, like the faintest tints that are reflected from the clouds towards a setting sun. So long as the seamen were enabled to keep their little bark under the cover of the hill, they were, of course, safe; but Barnstable perceived, as they emerged from its shadow, and were drawing nigh the passage which led into the ocean, that the action of his sweeps would no longer avail them against the currents of air they encountered, neither would the darkness conceal their movements from his enemy, who had already employed men on the shore to discern the position of the schooner. Throwing off at once, therefore, all appearance of disguise, he gave forth the word to spread the canvas of his vessel, in his ordinary cheerful manner.

“Let them do their worst now, Merry,” he added; “we have brought them to a distance that I think will keep their iron above water, and we have no dodge about us, younker!”

“It must be keener marksmen than the militia, or volunteers, or fencibles, or whatever they call themselves, behind yon grass-bank, to frighten the saucy Ariel from the wind,” returned the reckless boy; “but why have you brought Jonah aboard us again, sir? Look at him by the light of the cabin lamp; he winks at every gun, as if he expected the shot would hull his own ugly yellow physiognomy. And what tidings have we, sir, from Mr. Griffith and the marine?”

“Name him not,” said Barnstable, pressing the shoulder on which he lightly leaned, with a convulsive grasp, that caused the boy to yield with pain; “name him not, Merry; I want my temper and my faculties at this moment undisturbed, and thinking of the wretch unfits me for my duty. But, there will come a time! Go forward, sir; we feel the wind, and have a narrow passage to work through.”

The boy obeyed a mandate which was given in the usual prompt manner of their profession, and which, he well understood, was intended to intimate that the distance which years and rank had created between them, but which Barnstable often chose to forget while communing with Merry, was now to be resumed. The sails had been loosened and set; and, as the vessel approached the throat of the passage, the gale, which was blowing with increasing violence, began to make a very sensible impression on the light bark. The cockswain, who, in the absence of most of the inferior officers, had been acting, on the forecastle, the part of one who felt, from his years and experience, that he had some right to advise, if not to command, at such a juncture, now walked to the station which his commander had taken, near the helmsman, as if willing to place himself in the way of being seen.

“Well, Master Coffin,” said Barnstable, who well understood the propensity his old shipmate had to commune with him on all important occasions, “what think you of the cruise now? Those gentlemen on the hill make a great noise, but I have lost even the whistling of their shot; one would think they could see our sails against the broad band of light which is opening to seaward.”

“Ay, ay, sir, they see us, and mean to hit us too; but we are running across their fire, and that with a ten-knot breeze; but, when we heave in stays, and get in a line with their guns, we shall see, and it may be feel, more of their work than we do now; a thirty-two an’t trained as easily as a fowling-piece or a ducking-gun.”

Barnstable was struck with the truth of this observation; but as there existed an immediate necessity for placing the schooner in the very situation to which the other alluded, he gave his orders at once, and the vessel came about, and ran with her head pointing towards the sea, in as short a time as we have taken to record it.

“There, they have us now, or never,” cried the lieutenant, when the evolution was completed. “If we fetch to windward off the northern point, we shall lay out into the offing, and in ten minutes we might laugh at Queen Anne’s pocket-piece, which, you know, old boy, sent a ball from Dover to Calais.”

“Ay, sir, I’ve heard of the gun,” returned the grave seaman, “and a lively piece it must have been, if the straits were always of the same width they are now. But I see that, Captain Barnstable, which is more dangerous than a dozen of the heaviest cannon that were ever cast can be, at half a league’s distance. The water is bubbling through our lee scuppers, already, sir.”

“And what of that? hav’n’t I buried her guns often, and yet kept every spar in her without crack or splinter?”

“Ay, ay, sir, you have done it, and can do it again, where there is sea-room, which is all that a man wants for comfort in this life. But when we are out of these chops, we shall be embayed, with a heavy northeaster setting dead into the bight; it is that which I fear, Captain Barnstable, more than all the powder and ball in the whole island.”

“And yet, Tom, the balls are not to be despised, either; those fellows have found out their range, and send their iron within hail again: we walk pretty fast, Mr. Coffin; but a thirty-two can cut-travel us, with the best wind that ever blew.”

Tom threw a cursory glance towards the battery, which had renewed its fire with a spirit that denoted they saw their object, as he answered:

“It is never worth a man’s while to strive to dodge a shot; for they are all commissioned to do their work, the same as a ship is commissioned to cruise in certain latitudes: but for the winds and the weather, they are given for a seafaring man to guard against, by making or shortening sail, as the case may be. Now, the headland to the southward stretches full three leagues to windward, and the shoals lie to the north; among which God keep us from ever running this craft again!”

“We will beat her out of the bight, old fellow,” cried the lieutenant; “we shall have a leg of three leagues in length to do it in.”

“I have known longer legs too short,” returned the cockswain, shaking his head; “a tumbling sea, with a lee-tide, on a lee-shore, makes a sad lee-way.”

The lieutenant was in the act of replying to this saying with a cheerful laugh, when the whistling of a passing shot was instantly succeeded by a crash of splintered wood; and at the next moment the head of the mainmast, after tottering for an instant in the gale, fell towards the deck, bringing with it the mainsail, and the long line of topmast, that had been bearing the emblems of America, as the cockswain had expressed it, among the stars of the heavens.

“That was a most unlucky hit!” Barnstable suffered to escape him in the concern of the moment; but, instantly resuming all his collectedness of manner and voice, he gave his orders to clear the wreck, and secure the fluttering canvas.

The mournful forebodings of Tom seemed to vanish with the appearance of a necessity for his exertions, and he was foremost among the crew in executing the orders of their commander. The loss of all the sail on the mainmast forced the Ariel so much from her course, as to render it difficult to weather the point, that jutted, under her lee, for some distance into the ocean. This desirable object was, however, effected by the skill of Barnstable, aided by the excellent properties of his vessel; and the schooner, borne down by the power of the gale, from whose fury she had now no protection, passed heavily along the land, heading as far as possible from the breakers, while the seamen were engaged in making their preparations to display as much of their mainsail as the stump of the mast would allow them to spread. The firing from the battery ceased, as the Ariel rounded the little promontory; but Barnstable, whose gaze was now bent intently on the ocean, soon perceived that, as his cockswain had predicted, he had a much more threatening danger to encounter, in the elements. When their damages were repaired, so far as circumstances would permit, the cockswain returned to his wonted station near the lieutenant; and after a momentary pause, during which his eyes roved over the rigging with a seaman’s scrutiny, he resumed the discourse.

“It would have been better for us that the best man in the schooner should have been dubb’d of a limb, by that shot, than that the Ariel should have lost her best leg; a mainsail close-reefed may be prudent canvas as the wind blows, but it holds a poor luff to keep a craft to windward.”

“What would you have, Tom Coffin?” retorted his commander. “You see she draws ahead, and off-shore; do you expect a vessel to fly in the very teeth of the gale? or would you have me ware and beach her at once?”

“I would have nothing, nothing, Captain Barnstable,” returned the old seaman, sensibly touched at his commander’s displeasure; “you are as able as any man that ever trod a plank to work her into an offing; but, sir, when that soldier-officer told me of the scheme to sink the Ariel at her anchor, there were such feelings come athwart my philosophy as never crossed it afore. I thought I saw her a wrack, as plainly, ay, as plainly as you may see the stump of that mast; and, I will own it, for it’s as natural to love the craft you sail in as it is to love one’s self, I will own that my manhood fetched a heavy lee-lurch at the sight.”

“Away with ye, ye old sea-croaker! forward with ye, and see that the head-sheets are trimmed flat. But hold! Come hither, Tom; if you have sights of wrecks, and sharks, and other beautiful objects, keep them stowed in your own silly brain; don’t make a ghost-parlor of my forecastle. The lads begin to look to leeward, now, oftener than I would have them. Go, sirrah, go, and take example from Mr. Merry, who is seated on your namesake there, and is singing as if he were a chorister in his father’s church.”

“Ah, Captain Barnstable, Mr. Merry is a boy, and knows nothing, so fears nothing. But I shall obey your orders, sir; and if the men fall astarn this gale, it sha’n’t be for anything they’ll hear from old Tom Coffin.”

The cockswain lingered a moment, notwithstanding his promised obedience, and then ventured to request that:

“Captain Barnstable would please call Mr. Merry from the gun; for I know, from having followed the seas my natural life, that singing in a gale is sure to bring the wind down upon a vessel the heavier; for He who rules the tempests is displeased that man’s voice shall be heard when he chooses to send his own breath on the water.”

Barnstable was at a loss whether to laugh at his cockswain’s infirmity, or to yield to the impression which his earnest and solemn manner had a powerful tendency to produce, amid such a scene. But making an effort to shake off the superstitious awe that he felt creeping around his own heart, the lieutenant relieved the mind of the worthy old seaman so far as to call the careless boy from his perch, to his own side; where respect for the sacred character of the quarter-deck instantly put an end to the lively air he had been humming. Tom walked slowly forward, apparently much relieved by the reflection that he had effected so important an object.

The Ariel continued to struggle against the winds and ocean for several hours longer, before the day broke on the tempestuous scene, and the anxious mariners were enabled to form a more accurate estimate of their real danger. As the violence of the gale increased, the canvas of the schooner had been gradually reduced, until she was unable to show more than was absolutely necessary to prevent her driving helplessly on the land. Barnstable watched the appearance of the weather, as the light slowly opened upon them, with an intense anxiety, which denoted that the presentiments of the cockswain were no longer deemed idle. On looking to windward, he beheld the green masses of water that were rolling in towards the land, with a violence that seemed irresistible, crowned with ridges of foam; and there were moments when the air appeared filled with sparkling gems, as the rays of the rising sun fell upon the spray that was swept from wave to wave. Towards the land the view was still more appalling. The cliffs, but a short half-league under the lee of the schooner, were, at all times, nearly hid from the eye by the pyramids of water, which the furious element, so suddenly restrained in its violence, cast high into the air, as if seeking to overleap the boundaries that nature had fixed to its dominion. The whole coast, from the distant headland at the south to the well-known shoals that stretched far beyond their course in the opposite direction, displayed a broad belt of foam, into which it would have been certain destruction for the proudest ship that ever swam to enter. Still the Ariel floated on the billows, lightly and in safety, though yielding to the impulses of the waters, and, at times, appearing to be engulfed in the yawning chasm which apparently opened beneath her to receive the little fabric. The low rumor of acknowledged danger had found its way through the schooner, and the seamen, after fastening their hopeless looks on the small spot of canvas that they were still able to show to the tempest, would turn to view the dreary line of coast, that seemed to offer so gloomy an alternative. Even Dillon, to whom the report of their danger had found its way, crept from his place of concealment in the cabin, and moved about the decks unheeded, devouring, with greedy ears, such opinions as fell from the lips of the sullen mariners.

At this moment of appalling apprehension, the cockswain exhibited the calmest resignation. He knew all had been done that lay in the power of man, to urge their little vessel from the land, and it was now too evident to his experienced eyes that it had been done in vain; but, considering himself as a sort of fixture in the schooner, he was quite prepared to abide her fate, be it for better or for worse. The settled look of gloom that gathered around the frank brow of Barnstable was in no degree connected with any considerations of himself; but proceeded from that sort of parental responsibility, from which the sea-commander is never exempt. The discipline of the crew, however, still continued perfect and unyielding. There had, it is true, been a slight movement made by one or two of the older seamen, which indicated an intention to drown the apprehensions of death in ebriety; but Barnstable had called for his pistols, in a tone that checked the procedure instantly, and, although the fatal weapons were, untouched by him, left to lie exposed on the capstan, where they had been placed by his servant, not another symptom of insubordination appeared among the devoted crew. There was even what to a landsman might seem an appalling affectation of attention to the most trifling duties of the vessel; and the men who, it should seem, ought to be devoting the brief moments of their existence to the mighty business of the hour, were constantly called to attend to the most trivial details of their profession. Ropes were coiled, and the slightest damages occasioned by the waves, which, at short intervals, swept across the low decks of the Ariel, were repaired, with the same precision and order as if she yet lay embayed in the haven from which she had just been driven. In this manner the arm of authority was kept extended over the silent crew, not with the vain desire to preserve a lingering though useless exercise of power, but with a view to maintain that unity of action that now could alone afford them even a ray of hope.

“She can make no head against this sea, under that rag of canvas,” said Barnstable, gloomily, addressing the cockswain, who, with folded arms and an air of cool resignation, was balancing his body on the verge of the quarter-deck, while the schooner was plunging madly into waves that nearly buried her in their bosom: “the poor little thing trembles like a frightened child, as she meets the water.”

Tom sighed heavily, and shook his head, before he answered:

“If we could have kept the head of the mainmast an hour longer, we might have got an offing, and fetched to windward of the shoals; but as it is, sir, mortal man can’t drive a craft to windward — she sets bodily in to land, and will be in the breakers in less than an hour, unless God wills that the wind shall cease to blow.”

“We have no hope left us, but to anchor; our ground tackle may yet bring her up.”

Tom turned to his commander, and replied, solemnly, and with that assurance of manner that long experience only can give a man in moments of great danger:

“If our sheet-cable was bent to our heaviest anchor, this sea would bring it home, though nothing but her launch was riding by it. A northeaster in the German Ocean must and will blow itself out; nor shall we get the crown of the gale until the sun falls over the land. Then, indeed, it may lull; for the winds do often seem to reverence the glory of the heavens too much to blow their might in its very face!”

“We must do our duty to ourselves and the country,” returned Barnstable. “Go, get the two bowers spliced, and have a kedge bent to a hawser: we’ll back our two anchors together, and veer to the better end of two hundred and forty fathoms; it may yet bring her up. See all clear there for anchoring and cutting away the mast! we’ll leave the wind nothing but a naked hull to whistle over.”

“Ay, if there was nothing but the wind, we might yet live to see the sun sink behind them hills,” said the cockswain; “but what hemp can stand the strain of a craft that is buried, half the time, to her foremast in the water?”

The order was, however, executed by the crew, with a sort of desperate submission to the will of their commander; and when the preparations were completed, the anchors and kedge were dropped to the bottom, and the instant that the Ariel tended to the wind, the axe was applied to the little that was left of her long, raking masts. The crash of the falling spars, as they came, in succession, across the decks of the vessel, appeared to produce no sensation amid that scene of complicated danger; but the seamen proceeded in silence to their hopeless duty of clearing the wrecks. Every eye followed the floating timbers, as the waves swept them away from the vessel, with a sort of feverish curiosity, to witness the effect produced by their collision with those rocks that lay so fearfully near them; but long before the spars entered the wide border of foam, they were hid from view by the furious element in which they floated. It was now felt by the whole crew of the Ariel, that their last means of safety had been adopted; and, at each desperate and headlong plunge the vessel took into the bosom of the seas that rolled upon her forecastle, the anxious seamen thought that they could perceive the yielding of the iron that yet clung to the bottom, or could hear the violent surge of the parting strands of the cable, that still held them to their anchors. While the minds of the sailors were agitated with the faint hopes that had been excited by the movements of their schooner, Dillon had been permitted to wander about the deck unnoticed: his rolling eyes, hard breathing, and clenched hands excited no observation among the men, whose thoughts were yet dwelling on the means of safety. But now, when, with a sort of frenzied desperation, he would follow the retiring waters along the decks, and venture his person nigh the group that had collected around and on the gun of the cockswain, glances of fierce or of sullen vengeance were cast at him, that conveyed threats of a nature that he was too much agitated to understand.

“If ye are tired of this world, though your time, like my own, is probably but short in it,” said Tom to him, as he passed the cockswain in one of his turns, “you can go forward among the men; but if ye have need of the moments to foot up the reck’ning of your doings among men, afore ye’re brought to face your Maker, and hear the log-book of Heaven, I would advise you to keep as nigh as possible to Captain Barnstable or myself.”

“Will you promise to save me if the vessel is wrecked?” exclaimed Dillon, catching at the first sounds of friendly interest that had reached his ears since he had been recaptured; “Oh! If you will, I can secure your future ease, yes, wealth, for the remainder of your days!”

“Your promises have been too ill kept afore this, for the peace of your soul,” returned the cockswain, without bitterness, though sternly; “but it is not in me to strike even a whale that is already spouting blood.”

The intercessions of Dillon were interrupted by a dreadful cry, that arose among the men forward, and which sounded with increased horror, amid the roarings of the tempest. The schooner rose on the breast of a wave at the same instant, and, falling off with her broadside to the sea, she drove in towards the cliffs, like a bubble on the rapids of a cataract.

“Our ground-tackle has parted,” said Tom, with his resigned patience of manner undisturbed; “she shall die as easy as man can make her!” — While he yet spoke, he seized the tiller, and gave to the vessel such a direction as would be most likely to cause her to strike the rocks with her bows foremost.

There was, for one moment, an expression of exquisite anguish betrayed in the dark countenance of Barnstable; but, at the next, it passed away, and he spoke cheerfully to his men:

“Be steady, my lads, be calm; there is yet a hope of life for you — our light draught will let us run in close to the cliffs, and it is still falling water — see your boats clear, and be steady.”

The crew of the whale-boat, aroused by this speech from a sort of stupor, sprang into their light vessel, which was quickly lowered into the sea, and kept riding on the foam, free from the sides of the schooner, by the powerful exertions of the men. The cry for the cockswain was earnest and repeated, but Tom shook his head, without replying, still grasping the tiller, and keeping his eyes steadily bent on the chaos of waters into which they were driving. The launch, the largest boat of the two, was cut loose from the “gripes,” and the bustle and exertion of the moment rendered the crew insensible to the horror of the scene that surrounded them. But the loud hoarse call of the cockswain, to “look out — secure yourselves!” suspended even their efforts, and at that instant the Ariel settled on a wave that melted from under her, heavily on the rocks. The shock was so violent, as to throw all who disregarded the warning cry from their feet, and the universal quiver that pervaded the vessel was like the last shudder of animated nature. For a time long enough to breathe, the least experienced among the men supposed the danger to be past; but a wave of great height followed the one that had deserted them, and raising the vessel again, threw her roughly still farther on the bed of rocks, and at the same time its crest broke over her quarter, sweeping the length of her decks with a fury that was almost resistless. The shuddering seamen beheld their loosened boat driven from their grasp, and dashed against the base of the cliffs, where no fragment of her wreck could be traced, at the receding of the waters. But the passing billow had thrown the vessel into a position which, in some measure, protected her decks from the violence of those that succeeded it.

“Go, my boys, go,” said Barnstable, as the moment of dreadful uncertainty passed; “you have still the whale-boat, and she, at least, will take you nigh the shore. Go into her, my boys. God bless you, God bless you all! You have been faithful and honest fellows, and I believe he will not yet desert you; go, my friends, while there is a lull.”

The seamen threw themselves, in a mass, into the light vessel, which nearly sank under the unusual burden; but when they looked around them, Barnstable and Merry, Dillon and the cockswain, were yet to be seen on the decks of the Ariel. The former was pacing, in deep and perhaps bitter melancholy, the wet planks of the schooner, while the boy hung, unheeded, on his arm, uttering disregarded petitions to his commander to desert the wreck. Dillon approached the side where the boat lay, again and again, but the threatening countenances of the seamen as often drove him back in despair. Tom had seated himself on the heel of the bowsprit, where he continued, in an attitude of quiet resignation, returning no other answers to the loud and repeated calls of his shipmates, than by waving his hand towards the shore.

“Now hear me,” said the boy, urging his request, to tears; “if not for my sake, or for your own sake, Mr. Barnstable, or for the hope of God’s mercy, go into the boat, for the love of my cousin Katherine.”

The young lieutenant paused in his troubled walk, and for a moment he cast a glance of hesitation at the cliffs; but, at the next instant, his eyes fell on the ruin of his vessel, and he answered:

“Never, boy, never; if my hour has come, I will not shrink from my fate.”

“Listen to the men, dear sir; the boat will be swamped, alongside the wreck, and their cry is, that without you they will not let her go.”

Barnstable motioned to the boat, to bid the boy enter it, and turned away in silence.

“Well,” said Merry, with firmness, “if it be right that a lieutenant shall stay by the wreck, it must also be right for a midshipman; shove off; neither Mr. Barnstable nor myself will quit the vessel.”

“Boy, your life has been entrusted to my keeping, and at my hands will it be required,” said his commander, lifting the struggling youth, and tossing him into the arms of the seamen. “Away with ye, and God be with you; there is more weight in you now than can go safe to land.”

Still the seamen hesitated, for they perceived the cockswain moving, with a steady tread, along the deck, and they hoped he had relented, and would yet persuade the lieutenant to join his crew. But Tom, imitating the example of his commander, seized the latter suddenly in his powerful grasp, and threw him over the bulwarks with an irresistible force. At the same moment he cast the fast of the boat from the pin that held it, and, lifting his broad hands high into the air, his voice was heard in the tempest:

“God’s will be done with me,” he cried. “I saw the first timber of the Ariel laid, and shall live just long enough to see it turn out of her bottom; after which I wish to live no longer.”

But his shipmates were swept far beyond the sounds of his voice, before half these words were uttered. All command of the boat was rendered impossible, by the numbers it contained, as well as the raging of the surf; and, as it rose on the white crest of a wave, Tom saw his beloved little craft for the last time. It fell into a trough of the sea, and in a few moments more its fragments were ground into splinters on the adjacent rocks. The cockswain still remained where he had cast off the rope, and beheld the numerous heads and arms that appeared rising, at short intervals, on the waves; some making powerful and well-directed efforts to gain the sands, that were becoming visible as the tide fell, and others wildly tossed in the frantic movements of helpless despair. The honest old seaman gave a cry of joy, as he saw Barnstable issue from the surf, bearing the form of Merry in safety to the sands, where, one by one, several seamen soon appeared also, dripping and exhausted. Many others of the crew were carried, in a similar manner, to places of safety; though, as Tom returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he could not conceal from his reluctant eyes the lifeless forms that were, in other spots, driven against the rocks with a fury that soon left them but few of the outward vestiges of humanity.

Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their dreadful station. The former stood in a kind of stupid despair, a witness of the scene we have related; but as his curdled blood began again to flow more warmly through his heart, he crept close to the side of Tom, with that sort of selfish feeling that makes even hopeless misery more tolerable, when endured in participation with another.

“When the tide falls,” he said, in a voice that betrayed the agony of fear, though his words expressed the renewal of hope, “we shall be able to walk to land.”

“There was One and only One to whose feet the waters were the same as a dry dock,” returned the cockswain; “and none but such as have his power will ever be able to walk from these rocks to the sands.” The old seaman paused, and turning his eyes, which exhibited a mingled expression of disgust and compassion, on his companion, he added, with reverence: “Had you thought more of Him in fair weather, your case would be less to be pitied in this tempest.”

“Do you still think there is much danger?” asked Dillon.

“To them that have reason to fear death. Listen! do you hear that hollow noise beneath ye?”

“’Tis the wind driving by the vessel!”

“’Tis the poor thing herself,” said the affected cockswain, “giving her last groans. The water is breaking up her decks, and, in a few minutes more, the handsomest model that ever cut a wave will be like the chips that fell from her timbers in framing!”

“Why then did you remain here!” cried Dillon, wildly.

“To die in my coffin, if it should be the will of God,” returned Tom. “These waves, to me, are what the land is to you; I was born on them, and I have always meant that they should be my grave.”

“But I — I,” shrieked Dillon, “I am not ready to die! — I cannot die! — I will not die!”

“Poor wretch!” muttered his companion; “you must go, like the rest of us; when the death-watch is called, none can skulk from the muster.”

“I can swim,” Dillon continued, rushing with frantic eagerness to the side of the wreck. “Is there no billet of wood, no rope, that I can take with me?”

“None; everything has been cut away, or carried off by the sea. If ye are about to strive for your life, take with ye a stout heart and a clean conscience, and trust the rest to God!”

“God!” echoed Dillon, in the madness of his frenzy; “I know no God! there is no God that knows me!”

“Peace!” said the deep tones of the cockswain, in a voice that seemed to speak in the elements; “blasphemer, peace!”

The heavy groaning, produced by the water in the timbers of the Ariel, at that moment added its impulse to the raging feelings of Dillon, and he cast himself headlong into the sea.

The water, thrown by the rolling of the surf on the beach, was necessarily returned to the ocean, in eddies, in different places favorable to such an action of the element. Into the edge of one of these countercurrents, that was produced by the very rocks on which the schooner lay, and which the watermen call the “undertow,” Dillon had, unknowingly, thrown his person; and when the waves had driven him a short distance from the wreck, he was met by a stream that his most desperate efforts could not overcome. He was a light and powerful swimmer, and the struggle was hard and protracted. With the shore immediately before his eyes, and at no great distance, he was led, as by a false phantom, to continue his efforts, although they did not advance him a foot. The old seaman, who at first had watched his motions with careless indifference, understood the danger of his situation at a glance; and, forgetful of his own fate, he shouted aloud, in a voice that was driven over the struggling victim to the ears of his shipmates on the sands:

“Sheer to port, and clear the undertow! Sheer to the southward!”

Dillon heard the sounds, but his faculties were too much obscured by terror to distinguish their object; he, however, blindly yielded to the call, and gradually changed his direction, until his face was once more turned towards the vessel. The current swept him diagonally by the rocks, and he was forced into an eddy, where he had nothing to contend against but the waves, whose violence was much broken by the wreck. In this state, he continued still to struggle, but with a force that was too much weakened to overcome the resistance he met. Tom looked around him for a rope, but all had gone over with the spars, or been swept away by the waves. At this moment of disappointment, his eyes met those of the desperate Dillon. Calm and inured to horrors as was the veteran seaman, he involuntarily passed his hand before his brow, to exclude the look of despair he encountered; and when, a moment afterwards, he removed the rigid member, he beheld the sinking form of the victim as it gradually settled in the ocean, still struggling, with regular but impotent strokes of the arms and feet, to gain the wreck, and to preserve an existence that had been so much abused in its hour of allotted probation.

“He will soon know his God, and learn that his God knows him!” murmured the cockswain to himself. As he yet spoke, the wreck of the Ariel yielded to an overwhelming sea, and, after an universal shudder, her timbers and planks gave way, and were swept towards the cliffs, bearing the body of the simple-hearted cockswain among the ruins.

CHAPTER XXV.

“Let us think of them that sleep

Full many a fathom deep,

By the wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore!”

Campbell.

Long and dreary did the hours appear to Barnstable, before the falling tide had so far receded as to leave the sands entirely exposed to his search for the bodies of his lost shipmates. Several had been rescued from the wild fury of the waves themselves; and one by one, as the melancholy conviction that life had ceased was forced on the survivors, they had been decently interred in graves dug on the very margin of that element on which they had passed their lives. But still the form longest known and most beloved was missing, and the lieutenant paced the broad space that was now left between the foot of the cliffs and the raging ocean, with hurried strides and a feverish eye, watching and following those fragments of the wreck that the sea still continued to cast on the beach. Living and dead, he now found that of those who had lately been in the Ariel, only two were missing. Of the former he could muster but twelve, besides Merry and himself, and his men had already interred more than half that number of the latter, which, together, embraced all who had trusted their lives to the frail keeping of the whale-boat.

“Tell me not, boy, of the impossibility of his being safe,” said Barnstable, in deep agitation, which he in vain struggled to conceal from the anxious youth, who thought it unnecessary to follow the uneasy motions of his commander, as he strode along the sands. “How often have men been found floating on pieces of wreck, days after the loss of their vessel? and you can see, with your own eyes, that the falling water has swept the planks this distance; ay, a good half-league from where she struck. Does the lookout from the top of the cliffs make no signal of seeing him yet?”

“None, sir, none; we shall never see him again. The men say that he always thought it sinful to desert a wreck, and that he did not even strike out once for his life, though he has been known to swim an hour, when a whale has stove his boat. God knows, sir,” added the boy, hastily dashing a tear from his eye, by a stolen movement of his hand, “I loved Tom Coffin better than any foremast man in either vessel. You seldom came aboard the frigate but we had him in the steerage among us reefers, to hear his long yarns, and share our cheer. We all loved him, Mr. Barnstable; but love cannot bring the dead to life again.”

“I know it, I know it,” said Barnstable, with a huskiness in his voice that betrayed the depth of his emotion. “I am not so foolish as to believe in impossibilities; but while there is a hope of his living, I will never abandon poor Tom Coffin to such a dreadful fate. Think, boy, he may, at this moment, be looking at us, and praying to his Maker that he would turn our eyes upon him; ay, praying to his God, for Tom often prayed, though he did it in his watch, standing, and in silence.”

“If he had clung to life so strongly,” returned the midshipman, “he would have struggled harder to preserve it.”

Barnstable stopped short in his hurried walk, and fastened a look of opening conviction on his companion; but, as he was about to speak in reply, the shouts of the seamen reached his ears, and, turning, they saw the whole party running along the beach, and motioning, with violent gestures, to an intermediate point in the ocean. The lieutenant and Merry hurried back, and, as they approached the men, they distinctly observed a human figure, borne along by the waves, at moments seeming to rise above them, and already floating in the last of the breakers. They had hardly ascertained so much, when a heavy swell carried the inanimate body far upon the sands, where it was left by the retiring waters.

“’Tis my cockswain!” cried Barnstable, rushing to the spot. He stopped suddenly, however, as he came within view of the features, and it was some little time before he appeared to have collected his faculties sufficiently to add, in tones of deep horror: “What wretch is this, boy! His form is unmutilated, and yet observe the eyes! they seem as if the sockets would not contain them, and they gaze as wildly as if their owner yet had life — the hands are open and spread, as though they would still buffet the waves!”

“The Jonah! the Jonah!” shouted the seamen, with savage exultation, as they successively approached the corpse; “away with his carrion into the sea again! give him to the sharks! let him tell his lies in the claws of the lobsters!”

Barnstable had turned away from the revolting sight, in disgust; but when he discovered these indications of impotent revenge in the remnant of his crew, he said, in that voice which all respected and still obeyed:

“Stand back! back with ye, fellows! Would you disgrace your manhood and seamanship, by wreaking your vengeance on him whom God has already in judgment!” A silent, but significant, gesture towards the earth succeeded his words, and he walked slowly away.

“Bury him in the sands, boys,” said Merry, when his commander was at some little distance; “the next tide will unearth him.”

The seamen obeyed his orders, while the midshipman rejoined his commander, who continued to pace along the beach, occasionally halting to throw his uneasy glances over the water, and then hurrying onward, at a rate that caused his youthful companion to exert his greatest power to maintain the post he had taken at his side. Every effort to discover the lost cockswain was, however, after two hours’ more search, abandoned as fruitless; and with reason, for the sea was never known to give up the body of the man who might be emphatically called its own dead.

“There goes the sun, already dropping behind the cliffs,” said the lieutenant, throwing himself on a rock; “and the hour will soon arrive to set the dog-watches; but we have nothing left to watch over, boy; the surf and rocks have not even left us a whole plank that we may lay our heads on for the night.”

“The men have gathered many articles on yon beach, sir,” returned the lad; “they have found arms to defend ourselves with, and food to give us strength to use them.”

“And who shall be our enemy?” asked Barnstable, bitterly; “shall we shoulder our dozen pikes, and carry England by boarding?”

“We may not lay the whole island under contribution,” continued the boy, anxiously, watching the expression of his commander’s eye; “but we may still keep ourselves in work until the cutter returns from the frigate. I hope, sir, you do not think our case so desperate, as to intend yielding as prisoners.”

“Prisoners!” exclaimed the lieutenant; “no, no, lad, it has not got to that, yet! England has been able to wreck my craft, I must concede; but she has, as yet, obtained no other advantage over us. She was a precious model, Merry! the cleanest run, and the neatest entrance, that art ever united on the stem and stern of the same vessel! Do you remember the time, younker, when I gave the frigate my top-sails, in beating out of the Chesapeake? I could always do it, in smooth water, with a whole-sail breeze. But she was a frail thing! a frail thing, boy, and could bear but little.”

“A mortar-ketch would have thumped to pieces where she lay,” returned the midshipman.

“Ay, it was asking too much of her, to expect she could hold together on a bed of rocks. Merry, I loved her; dearly did I love her; she was my first command, and I knew and loved every timber and bolt in her beautiful frame!”

“I believe it is as natural, sir, for a seaman to love the wood and iron in which he has floated over the depths of the ocean for so many days and nights,” rejoined the boy, “as it is for a father to love the members of his own family.”

“Quite, quite, ay, more so,” said Barnstable, speaking as if he were choked by emotion. Merry felt the heavy grasp of the lieutenant on his slight arm, while his commander continued, in a voice that gradually increased in power, as his feelings predominated; “and yet, boy, a human being cannot love the creature of his own formation as he does the works of God. A man can never regard his ship as he does his shipmates. I sailed with him, boy, when everything seemed bright and happy, as at your age; when, as he often expressed it, I knew nothing and feared nothing. I was then a truant from an old father and a kind mother, and he did that for me which no parents could have done in my situation — he was my father and mother on the deep! — hours, days, even months, has he passed in teaching me the art of our profession; and now, in my manhood, he has followed me from ship to ship, from sea to sea, and has only quitted me to die, where I should have died — as if he felt the disgrace of abandoning the poor Ariel to her fate, by herself!”

“No — no — no— ’twas his superstitious pride!” interrupted Merry, but perceiving that the head of Barnstable had sunk between his hands, as if he would conceal his emotion, the boy added no more; but he sat respectfully watching the display of feeling that his officer in vain endeavored to suppress. Merry felt his own form quiver with sympathy at the shuddering which passed through Barnstable’s frame; and the relief experienced by the lieutenant himself was not greater than that which the midshipman felt, as the latter beheld large tears forcing their way through the other’s fingers, and falling on the sands at his feet. They were followed by a violent burst of emotion, such as is seldom exhibited in the meridian of life; but which, when it conquers the nature of one who has buffeted the chances of the world with the loftiness of his sex and character, breaks down every barrier, and seems to sweep before it, like a rushing torrent, all the factitious defences which habit and education have created to protect the pride of manhood. Merry had often beheld the commanding severity of the lieutenant’s manner in moments of danger, with deep respect; he had been drawn towards him by kindness and affection, in times of gayety and recklessness: but he now sat for many minutes profoundly silent, regarding his officer with sensations that were nearly allied to awe. The struggle with himself was long and severe in the bosom of Barnstable; but, at length, the calm of relieved passions succeeded to his emotion. When he arose from the rock, and removed his hands from his features, his eye was hard and proud, his brow lightly contracted, and he spoke in a voice so harsh, that it startled his companion:

“Come, sir; why are we here and idle? are not yon poor fellows looking up to us for advice and orders how to proceed in this exigency? Away, away, Mr. Merry; it is not a time to be drawing figures, in the sand with your dirk; the flood-tide will soon be in, and we may be glad to hide our heads in some cavern among these rocks. Let us be stirring, sir, while we have the sun, and muster enough food and arms to keep life in us, and our enemies off us, until we can once more get afloat.”

The wondering boy, whose experience had not yet taught him to appreciate the reaction of the passions, started at this unexpected summons to his duty, and followed Barnstable towards the group of distant seamen. The lieutenant, who was instantly conscious how far pride had rendered him unjust, soon moderated his long strides, and continued in milder tones, which were quickly converted into his usual frank communications, though they still remained tinged with a melancholy, that time only could entirely remove:

“We have been unlucky, Mr. Merry, but we need not despair — these lads have gotten together abundance of supplies, I see; and, with our arms, we can easily make ourselves masters of some of the enemy’s smaller craft, and find our way back to the frigate, when this gale has blown itself out. We must keep ourselves close, though, or we shall have the redcoats coming down upon us, like so many sharks around a wreck. Ah! God bless her, Merry! There is not such a sight to be seen on the whole beach as two of her planks holding together.”

The midshipman, without adverting to this sudden allusion to their vessel, prudently pursued the train of ideas in which his commander had started.

“There is an opening into the country, but a short distance south of us, where a brook empties into the sea,” he said. “We might find a cover in it, or in the wood above, into which it leads, until we can have a survey of the coast, or can seize some vessel to carry us off.”

“There would be a satisfaction in waiting till the morning watch, and then carrying that accursed battery, which took off the better leg of the poor Ariel!” said the lieutenant— “the thing might be done, boy, and we could hold the work, too, until the Alacrity and the frigate draw in to land.”

“If you prefer storming works to boarding vessels, there is a fortress of stone, Mr. Barnstable, which lies directly on our beam. I could see it through the haze, when I was on the cliffs, stationing the lookout — and ——

“And what, boy? speak without a fear; this is a time for free consultation.”

“Why, sir, the garrison might not all be hostile — we should liberate Mr. Griffith and the marines; besides — — “

“Besides what, sir?”

“I should have an opportunity, perhaps, of seeing my cousin Cecilia and my cousin Katherine.”

The countenance of Barnstable grew animated as he listened, and he answered with something of his usual cheerful manner:

“Ay, that, indeed, would be a work worth carrying! And the rescuing of our shipmates, and the marines, would read like a thing of military discretion — ha! boy! all the rest would be incidental, younker; like the capture of the fleet, after you have whipped the convoy.”

“I do suppose, sir, that if the abbey be taken, Colonel Howard will own himself a prisoner of war.”

“And Colonel Howard’s wards! now there is good sense in this scheme of thine, Master Merry, and I will give it proper reflection. But here are our poor fellows; speak cheeringly to them, sir, that we may hold them in temper for our enterprise.”

Barnstable and the midshipman joined their shipwrecked companions, with that air of authority which is seldom wanting between the superior and the inferior, in nautical intercourse, but at the same time with a kindness of speech and looks, that might have been a little increased by their critical situation. After partaking of the food which had been selected from among the fragments that still lay scattered, for more than a mile, along the beach, the lieutenant directed the seamen to arm themselves with such weapons as offered, and also to make sufficient provision, from the schooner’s stores, to last them for four-and-twenty hours longer. These orders were soon executed; and the whole party, led by Barnstable and Merry, proceeded along the foot of the cliffs, in quest of the opening in the rocks, through which the little rivulet found a passage to the ocean. The weather contributed, as much as the seclusion of the spot to prevent any discovery of the small party, which pursued its object with a disregard of caution that might, under other circumstances, have proved fatal to its safety. Barnstable paused in his march when they had all entered the deep ravine, and ascended nearly to the brow of the precipice, that formed one of its sides, to take a last and more scrutinizing survey of the sea. His countenance exhibited the abandonment of all hope, as his eye moved slowly from the northern to the southern boundary of the horizon, and he prepared to pursue his march, by moving, reluctantly, up the stream, when the boy, who still clung to his side, exclaimed joyously:

“Sail ho! — It must be the frigate in the offing!”

“A sail!” repeated his commander; “where away do you see a sail in this tempest? Can there be another as hardy and unfortunate as ourselves!”

“Look to the starboard hand of the point of rock to windward!” cried the boy; “now you lose it — ah! now the sun falls upon it! ’tis a sail, sir, as sure as canvas can be spread in such a gale!”

“I see what you mean,” returned the other, “but it seems a gull, skimming the sea! nay, now it rises, indeed, and shows itself like a bellying topsail: pass up that glass, lads; here is a fellow in the offing who may prove a friend.”

Merry waited the result of the lieutenant’s examination with youthful impatience, and did not fail to ask immediately:

“Can you make it out, sir? is it the ship or the cutter?”

“Come, there seemeth yet some hope left for us, boy,” returned Barnstable, closing the glass; “’tis a ship lying-to under her maintopsail. If one might but dare to show himself on these heights, he would raise her hull, and make sure of her character! But I think I know her spars, though even her topsail dips, at times, when there is nothing to be seen but her bare poles; and they shortened by her top-gallantmasts.”

“One would swear,” said Merry, laughing, as much through the excitement produced by this intelligence, as at his conceit, “that Captain Munson would never carry wood aloft, when he can’t carry canvas. I remember, one night, Mr. Griffith was a little vexed, and said, around the capstan, he believed the next order would be to rig in the bowsprit, and house lowermasts!”

“Ay, ay, Griffith is a lazy dog, and sometimes gets lost in the fogs of his own thoughts,” said Barnstable; “and I suppose old Moderate was in a breeze. However, this looks as if he were in earnest; he must have kept the ship away, or she would never have been where she is; I do verily believe the old gentleman remembers that he has a few of his officers and men on this accursed island. This is well, Merry; for should we take the abbey, we have a place at hand in which to put our prisoners.”

“We must have patience till the morning,” added the boy, “for no boat would attempt to land in such a sea.”

“No boat could land! The best boat that ever floated, boy, has sunk in these breakers! But the wind lessens, and before morning the sea will fall. Let us on, and find a berth for our poor lads, where they can be made more comfortable.”

The two officers now descended from their elevation, and led the way still farther up the deep and narrow dell, until, as the ground rose gradually before them, they found themselves in a dense wood, on a level with the adjacent country.

“Here should be a ruin at hand, if I have a true reckoning, and know my courses and distances,” said Barnstable; “I have a chart about me that speaks of such a landmark.”

The lieutenant turned away from the laughing expression of the boy’s eye, as the latter archly inquired:

“Was it made by one who knows the coast well, sir? Of was it done by some schoolboy, to learn his maps, as the girls work samplers?”

“Come, younker, no sampler of your impudence. But look ahead; can you see any habitation that has been deserted?”

“Ay, sir, here is a pile of stones before us, that looks as dirty and ragged as if it was a soldier’s barrack; can this be what you seek?”

“Faith, this has been a whole town in its day! we should call it a city in America, and furnish it with a mayor, aldermen, and recorder — you might stow old Faneuil Hall in one of its lockers.”

With this sort of careless dialogue, which Barnstable engaged in, that his men might discover no alteration in his manner, they approached the mouldering walls that had proved so frail a protection to the party under Griffith.

A short time was passed in examining the premises, when the wearied seamen took possession of one of the dilapidated apartments, and disposed themselves to seek that rest of which they had been deprived by the momentous occurrences of the past night.

Barnstable waited until the loud breathing of the seamen assured him that they slept, when he aroused the drowsy boy, who was fast losing his senses in the same sort of oblivion, and motioned him to follow. Merry arose, and they stole together from the apartment, with guarded steps, and penetrated more deeply into the gloomy recesses of the place.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Mercury. “I permit thee to be Sosia again.”

Dryden,

We must leave the two adventurers winding their way among the broken piles, and venturing boldly beneath the tottering arches of the ruin, to accompany the reader, at the same hour, within the more comfortable walls of the abbey; where, it will be remembered, Borroughcliffe was left in a condition of very equivocal ease. As the earth had, however, in the interval, nearly run its daily round, circumstances had intervened to release the soldier from his confinement — and no one, ignorant of the fact, would suppose that the gentleman who was now seated at the hospitable board of Colonel Howard, directing, with so much discretion, the energies of his masticators to the delicacies of the feast, could read, in his careless air and smiling visage, that those foragers of nature had been so recently condemned, for four long hours, to the mortification of discussing the barren subject of his own sword-hilt. Borroughcliffe, however, maintained not only his usual post, but his well-earned reputation at the table, with his ordinary coolness of demeanor; though at times there were fleeting smiles that crossed his military aspect, which sufficiently indicated that he considered the matter of his reflection to be of a particularly ludicrous character. In the young man who sat by his side, dressed in the deep-blue jacket of a seaman, with the fine white linen of his collar contrasting strongly with the black silk handkerchief that was tied with studied negligence around his neck, and whose easy air and manner contrasted still more strongly with this attire, the reader will discover Griffith. The captive paid much less devotion to the viands than his neighbor, though he affected more attention to the business of the table than he actually be stowed, with a sort of consciousness that it would relieve the blushing maiden who presided. The laughing eyes of Katherine Plowden were glittering by the side of the mild countenance of Alice Dunscombe, and, at times, were fastened in droll interest on the rigid and upright exterior that Captain Manual maintained, directly opposite to where she was seated. A chair had, also, been placed for Dillon — of course it was vacant.

“And so, Borroughcliffe,” cried Colonel Howard, with a freedom of voice, and a vivacity in his air, that announced the increasing harmony of the repast, “the sea-dog left you nothing to chew but the cud of your resentment!”

“That and my sword-hilt,” returned the immovable recruiting officer. “Gentlemen, I know not how your Congress rewards military achievements; but if that worthy fellow were in my company, he should have a halberd within a week — spurs I would not offer him, for he affects to spurn their use.”

Griffith smiled, and bowed in silence to the liberal compliment of Borroughcliffe; but Manual took on himself the task of replying:

“Considering the drilling the man has received, the conduct has been well enough, sir; though a well-trained soldier would not only have made prisoners, but he would have secured them.”

“I perceive, my good comrade, that your thoughts are running on the exchange,” said Borroughcliffe, good-humoredly; “we will fill, sir, and, by permission of the ladies, drink to a speedy restoration of rights to both parties — the status quo ante bellum!”

“With all my heart!” cried the colonel; “and Cicely and Miss Katherine will pledge the sentiment in a woman’s sip; will ye not, my fair wards? — Mr. Griffith, I honor this proposition of yours, which will not only liberate yourself, but restore to us my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon. Kit had imagined the thing well; ha! Borroughcliffe! ’twas ingeniously contrived, but the fortune of war interposed itself to his success; and yet it is a deep and inexplicable mystery to me, how Kit should have been conveyed from the abbey with so little noise, and without raising the alarm.”

“Christopher is a man who understands the philosophy of silence, as well as that of rhetoric,” returned Borroughcliffe, “and must have learned in his legal studies, that it is sometimes necessary to conduct matters sub silentio. You smile at my Latin, Miss Plowden; but really, since I have become an inhabitant of this monkish abode, my little learning is stimulated to unwonted efforts — nay, you are pleased to be yet more merry! I used the language, because silence is a theme in which you ladies take but little pleasure.”

Katherine, however, disregarded the slight pique that was apparent in the soldier’s manner; but, after following the train of her own thoughts in silent enjoyment for a moment longer, she seemed to yield to their drollery, and laughed until her dark eyes flashed with merriment. Cecilia did not assume the severe gravity with which she sometimes endeavored to repress, what she thought, the unseasonable mirth of her cousin; and the wondering Griffith fancied, as he glanced his eye from one to the other, that he could discern a suppressed smile playing among the composed features of Alice Dunscombe. Katherine, however, soon succeeded in repressing the paroxysm, and, with an air of infinitely comic gravity, she replied to the remark of the soldier:

“I think I have heard of such a process in nautical affairs as towing; but I must appeal to Mr. Griffith for the correctness of the term.”

“You could not speak with more accuracy,” returned the young sailor, with a look that sent the conscious blood to the temples of the lady, “though you had made marine terms your study.”

“The profession requires less thought, perhaps, than you imagine, sir; but is this towing often done, as Captain Borroughcliffe — I beg his pardon — as the monks have it, sub silentio?”

“Spare me, fair lady,” cried the captain, “and we will establish a compact of mutual grace; you to forgive my learning, and I to suppress my suspicions.”

“Suspicions, sir, is a word that a lady must defy.”

“And defiance a challenge that a soldier can never receive; so I must submit to talk English, though the fathers of the church were my companions. I suspect that Miss Plowden has it in her power to explain the manner of Mr. Christopher Dillon’s departure.”

The lady did not reply, but a second burst of merriment succeeded, of a liveliness and duration quite equal to the former.

“How’s this?” exclaimed the colonel; “permit me to say, Miss Plowden, your mirth is very extraordinary! I trust no disrespect has been offered to my kinsman? Mr. Griffith, our terms are, that the exchange shall only be made on condition that equally good treatment has been extended to the parties!”

“If Mr. Dillon can complain of no greater evil than that of being laughed at by Miss Plowden, sir, he has reason to call himself a happy fellow.”

“I know not, sir; God forbid that I should forget what is due to my guests, gentlemen! — but ye have entered my dwelling as foes to my prince.”

“But not to Colonel Howard, sir.”

“I know no difference, Mr. Griffith. King George or Colonel Howard — Colonel Howard or King George. Our feelings, our fortunes, and our fate, are as one; with the mighty odds that Providence has established between the prince and his people! I wish no other fortune than to share, at an humble distance, the weal or woe of my sovereign!”

“You are not called upon, dear sir, to do either, by the thoughtlessness of us ladies,” said Cecilia, rising; “but here comes one who should turn our thoughts to a more important subject — our dress.”

Politeness induced Colonel Howard, who both loved and respected his niece, to defer his remarks to another time: and Katherine, springing from her chair with childish eagerness, flew to the side of her cousin, who was directing a servant that had announced the arrival of one of those erratic venders of small articles, who supply, in remote districts of the country, the places of more regular traders, to show the lad into the dining-parlor. The repast was so far ended as to render this interruption less objectionable; and as all felt the object of Cecilia to be the restoration of harmony, the boy was ushered into the room without further delay. The contents of his small basket, consisting chiefly of essences, and the smaller articles of female economy, were playfully displayed on the table by Katherine, who declared herself the patroness of the itinerant youth, and who laughingly appealed to the liberality of the gentlemen in behalf of her protégé.

“You perceive, my dear guardian, that the boy must be loyal; for he offers, here, perfume, that is patronized by no less than two royal dukes: do suffer me to place a box aside, for your especial use: you consent; I see it in your eye. And, Captain Borroughcliffe, as you appear to be forgetting the use of your own language, here is even a hornbook for you! How admirably provided he seems to be. You must have had St. Ruth in view, when you laid in your stock, child?”

“Yes, my lady,” the boy replied, with a bow that was studiously awkward; “I have often heard of the grand ladies that dwell in the old abbey, and I have journeyed a few miles beyond my rounds, to gain their custom.”

“And surely they cannot disappoint you. Miss Howard, that is a palpable hint to your purse; and I know not that even Miss Alice can escape contribution, in these troublesome times. Come, aid me, child; what have you to recommend, in particular, to the favor of these ladies?”

The lad approached the basket, and rummaged its contents, for a moment, with the appearance of deep mercenary interest; and then, without lifting his hand from the confusion he had caused, he said, while he exhibited something within the basket to the view of his smiling observer:

“This, my lady.”

Katharine started, and glanced her eyes, with a piercing look, at the countenance of the boy, and then turned them uneasily from face to face, with conscious timidity. Cecilia had effected her object, and had resumed her seat in silent abstraction — Alice was listening to the remarks of Captain Manual and the host, as they discussed the propriety of certain military usages — Griffith seemed to hold communion with his mistress, by imitating her silence; but Katharine, in her stolen glances, met the keen look of Borroughcliffe, fastened on her face, in a manner that did not fail instantly to suspend the scrutiny.

“Come, Cecilia,” she cried, after a pause of a moment, “we trespass too long on the patience of the gentlemen; not only to keep possession of our seats, ten minutes after the cloth has been drawn! but even to introduce our essences, and tapes, and needles, among the Madeira, and — shall I add, cigars, colonel?”

“Not while we are favored with the company of Miss Plowden, certainly.”

“Come, my coz; I perceive the colonel is growing particularly polite, which is a never-failing sign that he tires of our presence.”

Cecilia rose, and was leading the way to the door, when Katherine turned to the lad, and added:

“You can follow us to the drawing-room, child, where we can make our purchases, without exposing the mystery of our toilets.”

“Miss Plowden has forgotten my hornbook, I believe,” said Borroughcliffe, advancing from the standing group who surrounded the table; “possibly I can find some work in the basket of the boy, better fitted for the improvement of a grown-up young gentleman than this elementary treatise.”

Cecilia, observing him to take the basket from the lad, resumed her seat, and her example was necessarily followed by Katherine; though not without some manifest indications of vexation.

“Come hither, boy, and explain the uses of your wares. This is soap, and this a penknife, I know; but what name do you affix to this?”

“That? that is tape,” returned the lad, with an impatience that might very naturally be attributed to the interruption that was thus given to his trade.

“And this?”

“That?” repeated the stripling, pausing, with a hesitation between sulkiness and doubt; “that?— “

“Come, this is a little ungallant!” cried Katherine; “to keep three ladies dying with impatience to possess themselves of their finery, while you detain the boy, to ask the name of a tambouring-needle!”

“I should apologize for asking questions that are so easily answered; but perhaps he will find the next more difficult to solve,” returned Borroughcliffe, placing the subject of his inquiries in the palm of his hand, in such a manner as to conceal it from all but the boy and himself, “This has a name too; what is it?”

“That? — that — is sometimes called — white-line.”

“Perhaps you mean a white lie?”

“How, sir!” exclaimed the lad, a little fiercely, “a lie!”

“Only a white one,” returned the captain. “What do you call this. Miss Dunscombe?”

“We call it bobbin, sir, generally, in the north,” said the placid Alice.

“Ay, bobbin, or white-line; they are the same thing,” added the young trader.

“They are? I think, now, for a professional man, you know but little of the terms of your art,” observed Borroughcliffe, with an affectation of irony; “I never have seen a youth of your years who knew less. What names, now, would you affix to this, and this, and this?”

While the captain was speaking he drew from his pockets the several instruments that the cockswain had made use of the preceding night to secure his prisoner.

“That,” exclaimed the lad, with the eagerness of one who would vindicate his reputation, “is rattlin-stuff; and this is marline; and that is sennit.”

“Enough, enough,” said Borroughcliffe; “you have exhibited sufficient knowledge to convince me that you do know something of your trade, and nothing of these articles. Mr. Griffith, do you claim this boy?”

“I believe I must, sir,” said the young sea-officer, who had been intently listening to the examination. “On whatever errand you have now ventured here, Mr. Merry, it is useless to affect further concealment.”

“Merry!” exclaimed Cecilia Howard; “is it you, then, my cousin? Are you, too, fallen into the power of your enemies! was it not enough that— “

The young lady recovered her recollection in time to suppress the remainder of the sentence, though the grateful expression of Griffith’s eye sufficiently indicated that he had, in his thoughts, filled the sentence with expressions abundantly flattering to his own feelings.

“How’s this, again!” cried the colonel; “my two wards embracing and fondling a vagrant, vagabond peddler, before my eyes! Is this treason, Mr. Griffith? Or what means the extraordinary visit of this young gentleman?”

“Is it extraordinary, sir,” said Merry himself, losing his assumed awkwardness in the ease and confidence of one whose faculties had been early exercised, “that a boy like myself, destitute of mother and sisters, should take a like risk on himself, to visit the only two female relatives he has in the world?”

“Why this disguise, then? surely, young gentleman, it was unnecessary to enter the dwelling of old George Howard on such an errand clandestinely, even though your tender years have been practised on, to lead you astray from your allegiance. Mr. Griffith and Captain Manual must pardon me, if I express sentiments, at my own table, that they may find unpleasant; but this business requires us to be explicit.”

“The hospitality of Colonel Howard is unquestionable,” returned the boy; “but he has a great reputation for his loyalty to the crown.”

“Ay, young gentleman; and, I trust, with some justice.”

“Would it, then, be safe, to entrust my person in the hands of one who might think it his duty to detain me?”

“This is plausible enough, Captain Borroughcliffe, and I doubt not the boy speaks with candor. I would, now, that my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon, were here, that I might learn if it would be misprision of treason to permit this youth to depart, unmolested, and without exchange?”

“Inquire of the young gentleman, after the Cacique,” returned the recruiting officer, who, apparently satisfied in producing the exposure of Merry, had resumed his seat at the table; “perhaps he is, in verity, an ambassador, empowered to treat on behalf of his highness.”

“How say you?” demanded the colonel; “do you know anything of my kinsman?”

The anxious eyes of the whole party were fastened on the boy for many moments, witnessing the sudden change from careless freedom to deep horror expressed in his countenance. At length he uttered in an undertone the secret of Dillon’s fate.

“He is dead.”

“Dead!” repeated every voice in the room.

“Yes, dead!” said the boy, gazing at the pallid faces of those who surrounded him.

A long and fearful silence succeeded the announcement of this intelligence, which was only interrupted by Griffith, who said:

“Explain the manner of his death, sir, and where his body lies.”

“His body lies interred in the sands,” returned Merry, with a deliberation that proceeded from an opening perception that, if he uttered too much, he might betray the loss of the Ariel, and, consequently, endanger the liberty of Barnstable.

“In the sands?” was echoed from every part of the room.

“Ay, in the sands; but how he died, I cannot explain.”

“He has been murdered!” exclaimed Colonel Howard, whose command of utterance was now amply restored to him; “he has been treacherously, and dastardly, and basely murdered!”

“He has not been murdered,” said the boy, firmly; “nor did he meet his death among those who deserve the name either of traitors or of dastards.”

“Said you not that he was dead? that my kinsman was buried in the sands of the seashore?”

“Both are true, sir— “

“And you refuse to explain how he met his death, and why he has been thus ignominiously interred?”

“He received his interment by my orders, sir; and if there be ignominy about his grave, his own acts have heaped it on him. As to the manner of his death, I cannot, and will not speak.”

“Be calm, my cousin,” said Cecilia, in an imploring voice; “respect the age of my uncle, and remember his strong attachment to Mr. Dillon.”

The veteran had, however, so far mastered his feelings, as to continue the dialogue with more recollection.

“Mr. Griffith,” he said, “I shall not act hastily — you and your companions will be pleased to retire to your several apartments. I will so far respect the son of my brother Harry’s friend as to believe your parole will be sacred. Go, gentlemen; you are unguarded.”

The two prisoners bowed low to the ladies and their host, and retired. Griffith, however, lingered a moment on the threshold, to say:

“Colonel Howard, I leave the boy to your kindness and consideration. I know you will not forget that his blood mingles with that of one who is most dear to you.”

“Enough, enough, sir,” said the veteran, waving his hand to him to retire: “and you, ladies; this is not a place for you, either.”

“Never will I quit this child,” said Katherine, “while such a horrid imputation lies on him. Colonel Howard, act your pleasure on us both, for I suppose you have the power; but his fate shall be my fate.”

“There is, I trust, some misconception in this melancholy affair,” said Borroughcliffe, advancing into the centre of the agitated group; “and I should hope, by calmness and moderation, all may yet be explained; young gentleman, you have borne arms, and must know, notwithstanding your youth, what it is to be in the power of your enemies?”

“Never,” returned the proud boy; “I am a captive for the first time.”

“I speak, sir, in reference to our power.”

“You may order me to a dungeon; or, as I have entered the abbey in disguise, possibly to a gibbet.”

“And is that a fate to be met so calmly by one so young?”

“You dare not do it, Captain Borroughcliffe,” cried Katherine, involuntarily throwing an arm around the boy, as if to shield him from harm; “you would blush to think of such a cold-blooded act of vengeance, Colonel Howard.”

“If we could examine the young man, where the warmth of feeling which these ladies exhibit might not be excited,” said the captain, apart to his host, “we should gain important intelligence.”

“Miss Howard, and you, Miss Plowden,” said the veteran, in a manner that long habit had taught his wards to respect, “your young kinsman is not in the keeping of savages, and you can safely confide him to my custody. I am sorry that we have so long kept Miss Alice standing, but she will find relief on the couches of your drawing-room, Cecilia.”

Cecilia and Katherine permitted themselves to be conducted to the door by their polite but determined guardian, where he bowed to their retiring persons, with the exceeding courtesy that he never failed to use, when in the least excited.

“You appear to know your danger, Mr. Merry,” said Borroughcliffe, after the door was closed; “I trust you also know what duty would dictate to one in my situation.”

“Do it, sir,” returned the boy; “you have a king to render an account to, and I have a country.”

“I may have a country also,” said Borroughcliffe, with a calmness that was not in the least disturbed by the taunting air with which the youth delivered himself. “It is possible for me, however, to be lenient, even merciful, when the interests of that prince, to whom you allude, are served — you came not on this enterprise alone, sir?”

“Had I come better attended, Captain Borroughcliffe might have heard these questions, instead of putting them.”

“I am happy, sir, that your retinue has been so small: and yet even the rebel schooner called the Ariel might have furnished you with a more becoming attendance. I cannot but think that you are not far distant from your friends.”

“He is near his enemies, your honor,” said Sergeant Drill, who had entered the room unobserved; “for here is a boy who says he has been seized in the old ruin, and robbed of his goods and clothes; and, by his description, this lad should be the thief.”

Borroughcliffe signed to the boy, who stood in the background, to advance; and he was instantly obeyed, with all that eagerness which a sense of injury on the part of the sufferer could excite. The tale of this unexpected intruder was soon told, and was briefly this:

He had been assaulted by a man and a boy (the latter was in presence), while arranging his effects, in the ruin, preparatory to exhibiting them to the ladies of the abbey, and had been robbed of such part of his attire as the boy had found necessary for his disguise, together with his basket of valuables. He had been put into an apartment of an old tower, by the man, for safe keeping; but as the latter frequently ascended to its turret, to survey the country, he had availed himself of this remissness, to escape; and, to conclude, he demanded a restoration of his property, and vengeance for his wrongs.

Merry heard his loud and angry details with scornful composure, and before the offended peddler was through his narrative, he had divested himself of the borrowed garments, which he threw to the other with singular disdain.

“We are beleaguered, mine host! beset! besieged!” cried Borroughcliffe, when the other had ended. “Here is a rare plan to rob us of our laurels! ay, and of our rewards! but, hark ye, Drill! they have old soldiers to deal with, and we shall look into the matter. One would wish to triumph on foot; you understand me? — there was no horse in the battle. Go, fellow, I see you grow wiser; take this young gentleman — and remember he is a young gentleman — put him in safe keeping, but see him supplied with all he wants.”

Borroughcliffe bowed politely to the haughty bend of the body with which Merry, who now began to think himself a martyr to his country, followed the orderly from the room.

“There is mettle in the lad!” exclaimed the captain; “and if he live to get a beard, ‘twill be a hardy dog who ventures to pluck it. I am glad, mine host, that this ‘wandering Jew’ has arrived, to save the poor fellow’s feelings, for I detest tampering with such a noble spirit. I saw, by his eye, that he had squinted oftener over a gun than through a needle!”

“But they have murdered my kinsman! — the loyal, the learned, the ingenious Mr. Christopher Dillon!”

“If they have done so, they shall be made to answer it,” said Borroughcliffe, reseating himself at the table, with a coolness that furnished an ample pledge of the impartiality of his judgment; “but let us learn the facts, before we do aught hastily.”

Colonel Howard was fain to comply with so reasonable a proposition, and he resumed his chair, while his companion proceeded to institute a close examination of the peddler boy.

We shall defer, until the proper time may arrive, recording the result of his inquiries; but shall so satisfy the curiosity of our readers, as to tell them that the captain learned sufficient to convince him a very serious attempt was meditated on the abbey; and, as he thought, enough also to enable him to avert the danger.

CHAPTER XXVII.

— “I have not seen

So likely an ambassador of love.”

Merchant of Venice.

Cecilia and Katherine separated from Alice Dunscombe in the lower gallery of the cloisters; and the cousins ascended to the apartment which was assigned them as a dressing-room. The intensity of feeling that was gradually accumulating in the breasts of the ladies, as circumstances brought those in whom their deepest interests were centred into situations of extreme delicacy, if not of actual danger, perhaps, in some measure, prevented them from experiencing all that concern which the detection and arrest of Merry might be supposed to excite. The boy, like themselves, was an only child of one of those three sisters, who caused the close connection of so many of our characters; and his tender years had led his cousins to regard him with an affection that exceeded the ordinary interest of such an affinity; but they knew that in the hands of Colonel Howard his person was safe, though his liberty might be endangered. When the first emotions, therefore, which were created by his sudden appearance after so long an absence had subsided, their thoughts were rather occupied by the consideration of what consequences, to others, might proceed from his arrest, than by any reflections on the midshipman’s actual condition. Secluded from the observations of any strange eyes, the two maidens indulged their feelings, without restraint, according to their several temperaments. Katherine moved to and fro in the apartment, with feverish anxiety, while Miss Howard, by concealing her countenance under the ringlets of her luxuriant dark hair, and shading her eyes with a fair hand, seemed to be willing to commune with her thoughts more quietly.

“Barnstable cannot be far distant,” said the former, after a few minutes had passed; “for he never would have sent that child on such an errand, by himself!”

Cecilia raised her mild blue eyes to the countenance of her cousin, as she answered:

“All thoughts of an exchange must now be abandoned; and perhaps the persons of the prisoners will be held as pledges, to answer for the life of Dillon.”

“Can the wretch be dead? or is it merely a threat, or some device of that urchin? He is a forward child, and would not hesitate to speak and act boldly, on emergency.”

“He is dead!” returned Cecilia, veiling her face again in horror; “the eyes of the boy, his whole countenance, confirmed his words! I fear, Katherine, that Mr. Barnstable has suffered his resentment to overcome his discretion, when he learned the treachery of Dillon; surely, surely, through the hard usages of war may justify so dreadful a revenge on an enemy, it was unkind to forget the condition of his own friends!”

“Mr. Barnstable has done neither, Miss Howard,” said Katherine, checking her uneasy footsteps, her light form swelling with pride; “Mr. Barnstable is equally incapable of murdering an enemy or of deserting a friend!”

“But retaliation is neither deemed nor called murder, by men in arms.”

“Think it what you will, call it what you will, Cecilia Howard, I will pledge my life, that Richard Barnstable has to answer for the blood of none but the open enemies of his country.”

“The miserable man may have fallen a sacrifice to the anger of that terrific seaman, who led him hence as a captive!”

“That terrific seaman, Miss Howard, has a heart as tender as your own. He is — — “

“Nay, Katherine,” interrupted Cecilia, “you chide me unkindly; let us not add to our unavoidable misery, by such harsh contention.”

“I do not contend with you, Cecilia; I merely defend the absent and the innocent from your unkind suspicions, my cousin.”

“Say, rather, your sister,” returned Miss Howard, their hands involuntarily closing upon each other, “for we are surely sisters! But let us strive to think of something less horrible. Poor, poor Dillon! now that he has met a fate so terrible, I can even fancy him less artful and more upright than we had thought him! You agree with me, Katherine, I see by your countenance, and we will dwell no longer on the subject. — Katherine! my cousin Kate, what see you?”

Miss Plowden, as she relinquished her pressure of the hand of Cecilia, had renewed her walk with a more regulated step; but she was yet making her first turn across the room, when her eyes became keenly set on the opposite window, and her whole frame was held in an attitude of absorbed attention. The rays of the setting sun fell bright upon her dark glances, which seemed fastened on some distant object, and gave an additional glow to the mantling color that was slowly stealing, across her cheeks, to her temples. Such a sudden alteration in the manner and appearance of her companion had not failed to catch the attention of Cecilia, who, in consequence, interrupted herself by the agitated question we have related. Katherine slowly beckoned her companion to her side, and, pointing in the direction of the wood that lay in view, she said:

“See yon tower, in the ruin! Do you observe those small spots of pink and yellow that are fluttering above its walls?”

“I do. They are the lingering remnants of the foliage of some tree; but they want the vivid tints which grace the autumn of our own dear America!”

“One is the work of God, and the other has been produced by the art of man. Cecilia, those are no leaves, but they are my own childish signals, and without doubt Barnstable himself is on that ruined tower. Merry cannot, will not, betray him!”

“My life should be a pledge for the honor of our little cousin,” said Cecilia. “But you have the telescope of my uncle at hand, ready for such an event! one look through it will ascertain the truth— “

Katherine sprang to the spot where the instrument stood, and with eager hands she prepared it for the necessary observation.

“It is he!” she cried, the instant her eye was put to the glass. “I even see his head above the stones. How unthinking to expose himself so unnecessarily!”

“But what says he, Katherine?” exclaimed Cecilia; “you alone can interpret his meaning.”

The little book which contained the explanations of Miss Plowden’s signals was now hastily produced, and its leaves rapidly run over in quest of the necessary number.

“Tis only a question to gain my attention. I must let him know he is observed.”

When Katherine, as much to indulge her secret propensities as with any hope of its usefulness, had devised this plan for communicating with Barnstable, she had, luckily, not forgotten to arrange the necessary means to reply to his interrogatories. A very simple arrangement of some of the ornamental cords of the window-curtains enabled her to effect this purpose; and her nimble fingers soon fastened the pieces of silk to the lines, which were now thrown into the air, when these signals in miniature were instantly displayed in the breeze.

“He sees them!” cried Cecilia, “and is preparing to change his flags.”

“Keep then your eye on him, my cousin, and tell me the colors that he shows, with their order, and I will endeavor to read his meaning.”

“He is as expert as yourself! There are two more of them fluttering above the stones again: the upper is white, and the lower black.”

“White over black,” repeated Katherine, rapidly, to herself, as she turned the leaves of her book.— “‘My messenger: has he been seen?’ — To that we must answer the unhappy truth. Here it is — yellow, white, and red— ‘He is a prisoner.’ How fortunate that I should have prepared such a question and answer. What says he, Cecilia, to this news?”

“He is busy making his changes, dear. Nay, Katherine, you shake so violently as to move the glass! Now he is done; ’tis yellow over black, this time.”

“‘Griffith, or who?’ He does not understand us; but I had thought of the poor boy, in making out the numbers — ah! here it is; yellow, green, and red— ‘My cousin Merry’ — he cannot fail to understand us now.”

“He has already taken in his flags. The news seems to alarm him, for he is less expert than before. He shows them now — they are green, red, and yellow.”

“The question is, ‘Am I safe?’ ’Tis that which made him tardy, Miss Howard,” continued Katherine. “Barnstable is ever slow to consult his safety. But how shall I answer him? should we mislead him now, how could we ever forgive ourselves!”

“Of Andrew Merry there is no fear,” returned Cecilia; “and I think if Captain Borroughcliffe had any intimation of the proximity of his enemies, he would not continue at the table.”

“He will stay there while wine will sparkle, and man can swallow,” said Katherine; “but we know, by sad experience, that he is a soldier on an emergency; and yet, I’ll trust to his ignorance this time — here, I have an answer: ‘You are yet safe, but be wary.’”

“He reads your meaning with a quick eye, Katherine; and he is ready with his answer too: he shows green over white, this time. Well! do you not hear me? ’tis green over white. Why, you are dumb — what says he, dear?”

Still Katherine answered not, and her cousin raised her eyes from the glass, and beheld her companion gazing earnestly at the open page, while the glow which excitement had before brought to her cheek was increased to a still deeper bloom.

“I hope your blushes and his signals are not ominous, Kate,” added Cecilia; “can green imply his jealousy, as white does your purity? what says he, coz?”

“He talks, like yourself, much nonsense,” said Katherine, turning to her flags, with a pettish air, that was singularly contradicted by her gratified countenance; “but the situation of things requires that I should talk to Barnstable more freely.”

“I can retire,” said Cecilia, rising from her chair with a grave manner.

“Nay, Cecilia, I do not deserve these looks— ’tis you who exhibit levity now! But you can perceive for yourself that evening is closing in, and that some other medium for conversation, besides the eyes, may be adopted. — Here is a signal, which will answer: ‘When the abbey clock strikes nine, come with care to the wicket, which opens, at the east side of the paddock, on the road: until then, keep secret.’ I had prepared this very signal, in case an interview should be necessary.”

“Well, he sees it,” returned Cecilia, who had resumed her place by the telescope, “and seems disposed to obey you, for I no longer discern his flags or his person.”

Miss Howard now arose from before the glass, her observations being ended; but Katherine did not return the instrument to its corner, without fastening one long and anxious look through it, on what now appeared to be the deserted tower. The interest and anxiety produced by this short and imperfect communication between Miss Plowden and her lover did not fail to excite reflections in both the ladies, that furnished materials to hold them in earnest discourse, until the entrance of Alice Dunscombe announced that their presence was expected below. Even the unsuspecting Alice, on entering, observed a change in the countenances and demeanor of the two cousins, which betrayed that their secret conference had not been entirely without contention. The features of Cecilia were disturbed and anxious, and their expression was not unlike melancholy; while the dark flashing eye, flushed temples, and proud, determined step of Katherine exhibited in an equal, if not a greater degree, a very different emotion. As no reference to the subject of their conversation was, however, made by either of the young ladies after the entrance of Alice, she led the way, in silence, to the drawing-room.

The ladies were received, by Colonel Howard and Borroughcliffe, with marked attention. In the former there were moments when a deep gloom would, in spite of his very obvious exertions to the contrary, steal over his open, generous countenance; but the recruiting officer maintained an air of immovable coolness and composure. Twenty times did he detect the piercing looks of Katherine fastened on him, with an intentness that a less deliberative man might have had the vanity to misinterpret; but even this flattering testimonial of his power to attract failed to disturb his self-possession. It was in vain that Katherine endeavored to read his countenance, where everything was fixed in military rigidity, though his deportment appeared more than usually easy and natural. Tired at length with her fruitless scrutiny, the excited girl turned her gaze upon the clock: to her amazement, she discovered that it was on the stroke of nine, and, disregarding a deprecating glance from her cousin, she arose and quitted the apartment. Borroughcliffe opened the door for her exit, and, while the lady civilly bowed her head in acknowledgment of his attention, their eyes once more met; but she glided quickly by him, and found herself alone in the gallery. Katherine hesitated, more than a minute, to proceed, for she thought she had detected in that glance a lurking expression, that manifested conscious security mingled with secret design. It was not her nature, however, to hesitate, when circumstances required that she should be both prompt and alert; and, throwing over her slight person a large cloak, that was in readiness for the occasion, she stole warily from the building.

Although Katherine suspected most painfully that Borroughcliffe had received intelligence that might prove dangerous to her lover, she looked around her in vain, on gaining the open air, to discover any alteration in the arrangements for the defence of the abbey, which might confirm her suspicions, or the knowledge of which might enable her to instruct Barnstable how to avoid the secret danger. Every disposition remained as it had been since the capture of Griffith and his companion. She heard the heavy, quick steps of the sentinel, who was posted beneath their windows, endeavoring to warm himself on his confined post; and as she paused to listen, she also detected the rattling of arms from the soldier who, as usual, guarded the approach of that part of the building where his comrades were quartered. The night had set in cloudy and dark, although the gale had greatly subsided towards the close of the day; still the wind swept heavily, and, at moments, with a rushing noise, among the irregular walls of the edifice; and it required the utmost nicety of ear to distinguish even these well-known sounds, among such accompaniments. When Katherine, however, was satisfied that her organs had not deceived her, she turned an anxious eye in the direction of what Borroughcliffe called his “barracks.” Everything in that direction appeared so dark and still as to create a sensation of uneasiness, by its very quiet. It might be the silence of sleep that now pervaded the ordinarily gay and mirthful apartment! or it might be the stillness of a fearful preparation! There was no time, however, for further hesitation, and Katherine drew her cloak more closely about her form, and proceeded with light and guarded steps to the appointed spot. As she approached the wicket the clock struck the hour, and she again paused, while the mournful sounds were borne by her on the wind, as if expecting that each stroke on the bell would prove a signal to unmask some secret design of Borroughcliffe. As the last vibration melted away, she opened the little gate, and issued on the highway. The figure of a man sprang forward from behind an angle of the wall, as she appeared; and while her heart was still throbbing with the suddenness of the alarm, she found herself in the arms of Barnstable. After the first few words of recognition and pleasure which the young sailor uttered, he acquainted his mistress with the loss of his schooner, and the situation of the survivors.

“And now, Katherine,” he concluded, “you have come, I trust, never to quit me; or, at most, to return no more to that old abbey, unless it be to aid in liberating Griffith, and then to join me again forever.”

“Why, truly, there is so much to tempt a young woman to renounce her home and friends, in the description you have just given of your condition, that I hardly know how to refuse your request, Barnstable. You are very tolerably provided with a dwelling in the ruin; and I suppose certain predatory schemes are to be adopted to make it habitable! St. Ruth is certainly well supplied with the necessary articles, but whether we should not be shortly removed to the Castle at York, or the jail at Newcastle, is a question that I put to your discretion.”

“Why yield your thoughts to such silly subjects, lovely trifler!” said Barnstable, “when the time and the occasion both urge us to be in earnest?”

“It is a woman’s province to be thrifty, and to look after the comforts of domestic life,” returned his mistress; “and I would discharge my functions with credit. But I feel you are vexed, for to see your dark countenance is out of the question, on such a night. When do you propose to commence housekeeping, if I should yield to your proposals?”

“I have not concluded relating my plans, and your provoking wit annoys me! The vessel I have taken will unquestionably come into the land, as the gale dies; and I intend making my escape in her, after beating this Englishman, and securing the liberty of Miss Howard and yourself. I could see the frigate in the offing, even before we left the cliffs.”

“This certainly sounds better!” rejoined Katherine, in a manner that indicated she was musing on their prospects; “and yet there may exist some difficulties in the way that you little suspect.”

“Difficulties there are none — there can be none.”

“Speak not irreverently of the mazes of love, Mr. Barnstable. When was it ever known to exist unfettered or unembarrassed? Even I have an explanation to ask of you, that I would much rather let alone.

“Of me! ask what you will, or how you will; I am a careless, unthinking fellow, Miss Plowden; but to you I have little to answer for — unless a foolish sort of adoration be an offence against your merits.”

Barnstable felt the little hand that was supported on his arm, pressing the limb, as Katharine replied, in a tone so changed from its former forced levity, that he started as the first sounds reached his ears. “Merry has brought in a horrid report!” she said; “I would I could believe it untrue! but the looks of the boy, and the absence of Dillon, both confirm it.”

“Poor Merry! he too has fallen into the trap! but they shall yet find one who is too cunning for them. Is it to the fate of that wretched Dillon that you allude?”

“He was a wretch,” continued Katherine, in the same voice, “and he deserved much punishment at your hands, Barnstable; but life is the gift of God, and is not to be taken whenever human vengeance would appear to require a victim.”

“His life was taken by Him who bestowed it,” said the sailor. “Is it Katherine Plowden who would suspect me of the deed of a dastard!”

“I do not suspect you — I did not suspect you,” cried Katherine; “I will never suspect any evil of you again. You are not, you cannot be angry with me, Barnstable? Had you heard the cruel suspicions of my cousin Cecilia, and had your imagination been busy in portraying your wrongs and the temptations to forget mercy, like mine, even while my tongue denied your agency in the suspected deed, you would — you would at least have learned how much easier it is to defend those we love against the open attacks of others, than against our own jealous feelings.”

“Those words, love and jealousy, will obtain your acquittal,” cried Barnstable, in his natural voice; and, after uttering a few more consoling assurances to Katherine, whose excited feelings found vent in tears, he briefly related the manner of Dillon’s death.

“I had hoped I stood higher in the estimation of Miss Howard than to be subjected to even her suspicions,” he said, when he had ended his explanation. “Griffith has been but a sorry representative of our trade, if he has left such an opinion of its pursuits.”

“I do not know that Mr. Griffith would altogether have escaped my conjectures, had he been the disappointed commander, and you the prisoner,” returned Katherine; “you know not how much we have both studied the usages of war, and with what dreadful pictures of hostages, retaliations, and military executions our minds are stored! but a mountain is raised off my spirits, and I could almost say that I am now ready to descend the valley of life in your company.”

“It is a discreet determination, my good Katherine, and God bless you for it; the companion may not be so good as you deserve, but you will find him ambitious of your praise. Now let us devise means to effect our object.”

“Therein lies another of my difficulties. Griffith, I much fear, will not urge Cecilia to another flight, against her — her — what shall I call it, Barnstable — her caprice, or her judgment? Cecilia will never consent to desert her uncle, and I cannot muster the courage to abandon my poor cousin, in the face of the world, in order to take shelter with even Mr. Richard Barnstable!”

“Speak you from the heart now, Katherine?”

“Very nearly — if not exactly.”

“Then have I been cruelly deceived! It is easier to find a path in the trackless ocean, without chart or compass, than to know the windings of a woman’s heart!”

“Nay, nay, foolish man; you forget that I am but small, and how very near my head is to my heart; too nigh, I fear, for the discretion of their mistress! but is there no method of forcing Griffith and Cecilia to their own good, without undue violence?”

“It cannot be done; he is my senior in rank, and the instant I release him he will claim the command. A question might be raised, at a leisure moment, on the merits of such a claim — but even my own men are, as you know, nothing but a draft from the frigate, and they would not hesitate to obey the orders of the first lieutenant, who is not a man to trifle on matters of duty.”

“Tis vexatious, truly,” said Katherine, “that all my well-concerted schemes in behalf of this wayward pair should be frustrated by their own willful conduct! But after all, have you justly estimated your strength, Barnstable? are you certain that you would be successful, and that without hazard, too, if you should make the attempt?”

“Morally, and what is better, physically certain. My men are closely hid, where no one suspects an enemy to lie; they are anxious for the enterprise, and the suddenness of the attack will not only make the victory sure, but it will be rendered bloodless. You will aid us in our entrance, Katherine; I shall first secure this recruiting officer, and his command will then surrender without striking a blow. Perhaps, after all, Griffith will hear reason; if he do not, I will not yield my authority to a released captive, without a struggle.”

“God send that there shall be no fighting!” murmured his companion, a little appalled at the images his language had raised before her imagination; “and, Barnstable, I enjoin you, most solemnly, by all your affection for me, and by everything you deem most sacred, to protect the person of Colonel Howard at every hazard. There must be no excuse, no pretence, for even an insult to my passionate, good, obstinate, but kind old guardian. I believe I have given him already more trouble than I am entitled to give any one, and Heaven forbid that I should cause him any serious misfortune!”

“He shall be safe, and not only he, but all that are with him, as you will perceive, Katherine, when you hear my plan. Three hours shall not pass over my head before you will see me master of that old abbey. Griffith, ay, Griffith, must be content to be my inferior, until we get afloat again.”

“Attempt nothing unless you feel certain of being able to maintain your advantage, not only against your enemies, but also against your friends,” said the anxious Katherine. “Rely on it, both Cecilia and Griffith are refining so much on their feelings, that neither will be your ally.”

“This comes of passing the four best years of his life within walls of brick, poring over Latin grammars and syntaxes, and such other nonsense, when he should have been rolling them away in a good box of live-oak, and studying, at most, how to sum up his day’s work, and tell where his ship lies after a blow. Your college learning may answer well enough for a man who has to live by his wits, but it can be of little use to one who is never afraid to read human nature, by looking his fellow-creatures full in the face, and whose hand is as ready as his tongue. I have generally found the eye that was good at Latin was dull at a compass, or in a night squall: and yet, Griff is a seaman; though I have heard him even read the Testament in Greek! Thank God, I had the wisdom to run away from school the second day they undertook to teach me a strange tongue, and I believe I am the more honest man, and the better seaman, for my ignorance!”

“There is no telling what you might have been, Barnstable, under other circumstances,” retorted his mistress, with a playfulness of manner that she could not always repress, though it was indulged at the expense of him she most loved; “I doubt not but, under proper training, you would have made a reasonably good priest.”

“If you talk of priests, Katherine, I shall remind you that we carry one in the ship. But listen to my plan: we may talk further of priestcraft when an opportunity may offer.”

Barnstable then proceeded to lay before his mistress a project he had formed for surprising the abbey that night, which was so feasible that Katharine, notwithstanding her recent suspicions of Borroughcliffe’s designs, came gradually to believe it would succeed. The young seaman answered her objections with the readiness of an ardent mind, bent on executing its purposes, and with a fertility of resources that proved he was no contemptible enemy, in matters that required spirited action. Of Merry’s remaining firm and faithful he had no doubt; and although he acknowledged the escape of the peddler boy, he urged that the lad had seen no other of his party besides himself, whom he mistook for a common marauder.

As the disclosure of these plans was frequently interrupted by little digressions, connected with the peculiar motions of the lovers, more than an hour flew by, before they separated. But Katherine at length reminded him how swiftly the time was passing, and how much remained to be done, when he reluctantly consented to see her once more through the wicket, where they parted.

Miss Plowden adopted the same precaution in returning to the house she had used on leaving it; and she was congratulating herself on its success, when her eye caught a glimpse of the figure of a man, who was apparently following at some little distance, in her footsteps, and dogging her motions. As the obscure form, however, paused also when she stopped to give it an alarmed, though inquiring look, and then slowly retired towards the boundary of the paddock, Katherine, believing it to be Barnstable watching over her safety, entered the abbey, with every idea of alarm entirely lost in the pleasing reflection of her lover’s solicitude.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

“He looks abroad, and soon appears,

O’er Horncliffe-hill, a plump of spears,

Beneath a pennon gay.”

Marmion.

The sharp sounds of the supper-bell were ringing along the gallery, as Miss Plowden gained the gloomy passage; and she quickened her steps to join the ladies, in order that no further suspicions might be excited by her absence. — Alice Dunscombe was already proceeding to the dining parlor, as Katherine passed through the door of the drawing-room; but Miss Howard had loitered behind, and was met by her cousin alone.

“You have then been so daring as to venture, Katherine!” exclaimed Cecilia.

“I have,” returned the other, throwing herself into a chair, to recover her agitation— “I have, Cecilia; and I have met Barnstable, who will soon be in the abbey, and its master.”

The blood which had rushed to the face of Cecilia on first seeing her cousin now retreated to her heart, leaving every part of her fine countenance of the whiteness of her polished temples, as she said:

“And we are to have a night of blood!”

“We are to have a night of freedom, Miss Howard; freedom to you, and to me: to Andrew Merry, to Griffith and to his companion!”

“What freedom more than we now enjoy Katherine, is needed by two young women? Think you I can remain silent, and see my uncle betrayed before my eyes? his life perhaps endangered!”

“Your own life and person will not be held more sacred, Cecilia Howard, than that of your uncle. If you will condemn Griffith to a prison, and perhaps to a gibbet, betray Barnstable, as you have threatened — an opportunity will not be wanting at the supper-table, whither I shall lead the way, since the mistress of the house appears to forget her duty.”

Katharine arose, and with a firm step and proud eye she moved along the gallery to the room where their presence was expected by the rest of the family. Cecilia followed in silence, and the whole party immediately took their several places at the board.

The first few minutes were passed in the usual attentions of the gentlemen to the ladies, and the ordinary civilities of the table; during which Katherine had so far regained the equanimity of her feelings, as to commence a watchful scrutiny of the manners and looks of her guardian and Borroughcliffe, in which she determined to persevere until the eventful hour when she was to expect Barnstable should arrive. Colonel Howard had, however, so far got the command of himself, as no longer to betray his former abstraction. In its place Katherine fancied, at moments, that she could discover a settled look of conscious security, mingled a little with an expression of severe determination; such as, in her earlier days, she had learned to dread as sure indications of the indignant, but upright, justice of an honorable mind. Borroughcliffe, on the other hand, was cool, polite, and as attentive to the viands as usual, with the alarming exception of discovering much less devotion to the Pride of the Vineyards than he commonly manifested on such occasions. In this manner the meal passed by, and the cloth was removed, though the ladies appeared willing to retain their places longer than was customary. Colonel Howard, filling up the glasses of Alice Dunscombe and himself, passed the bottle to the recruiting officer, and, with a sort of effort that was intended to rouse the dormant cheerfulness of his guests, cried:

“Come Borroughcliffe, the ruby lips of your neighbors would be still more beautiful, were they moistened with this rich cordial, and that, too, accompanied by some loyal sentiment. Miss Alice is ever ready to express her fealty to her sovereign; in her name, I can give the health of his most sacred majesty, with defeat and death to all traitors!”

“If the prayers of an humble subject, and one of a sex that has but little need to mingle in the turmoil of the world, and that has less right to pretend to understand the subtleties of statesmen, can much avail a high and mighty prince like him who sits on the throne, then will he never know temporal evil,” returned Alice, meekly; “but I cannot wish death to any one, not even to my enemies, if any I have, and much less to a people who are the children of the same family with myself.”

“Children of the same family!” the colonel repeated, slowly, and with a bitterness of manner that did not fail to attract the painful interest of Katherine: “children of the same family! Ay! even as Absalom was the child of David, or as Judas was of the family of the holy Apostles! But let it pass unpledged — let it pass. The accursed spirit of rebellion has invaded my dwelling, and I no longer know where to find one of my household that has not been assailed by its malign influence!”

“Assailed I may have been among others,” returned Alice; “but not corrupted, if purity, in this instance, consists in loyalty— “

“What sound is that?” interrupted the colonel, with startling suddenness. “Was it not the crash of some violence, Captain Borroughcliffe?”

“It may have been one of my rascals who has met with a downfall in passing from the festive board — where you know I regale them to-night, in honor of our success — to his blanket,” returned the captain, with admirable indifference; “or it may be the very spirit of whom you have spoken so freely, my host, that has taken umbrage at your remarks, and is passing from the hospitable walls of St. Ruth into the open air, without submitting to the small trouble of ascertaining the position of doors. In the latter case there may be some dozen perches or so of wall to replace in the morning.”

The colonel, who had risen, glanced his eyes uneasily from the speaker to the door, and was evidently but little disposed to enter into the pleasantry of his guest.

“There are unusual noises, Captain Borroughcliffe, in the grounds of the abbey, if not in the building itself,” he said advancing with a fine military air from the table to the centre of the room, “and as master of the mansion I will inquire who it is that thus unseasonably disturbs these domains. If as friends, they shall have welcome, though their visit be unexpected; and if enemies, they shall also meet with such a reception as will become an old soldier!”

“No, no,” cried Cecilia, entirely thrown off her guard by the manner and language of the veteran and rushing into his arms. “Go not out, my uncle; go not into the terrible fray, my kind, my good uncle! you are old, you have already done more than your duty; why should you be exposed to danger?”

“The girl is mad with terror, Borroughcliffe,” cried the colonel, bending his glistening eyes fondly on his niece, “and you will have to furnish my good-for-nothing, gouty old person with a corporal’s guard, to watch my nightcap, or the silly child will have an uneasy pillow, till the sun rises once more. But you do not stir, sir?”

“Why should I?” cried the captain; “Miss Plowden yet deigns to keep me company, and it is not in the nature of one of the — th to desert his bottle and his standard at the same moment. For, to a true soldier, the smiles of a lady are as imposing in the parlor as the presence of his colors in the field.”

“I continue undisturbed, Captain Borroughcliffe,” said Katherine, “because I have not been an inhabitant, for so many months, of St. Ruth, and not learned to know the tunes which the wind can play among its chimneys and pointed roofs. The noise which has taken Colonel Howard from his seat, and which has so unnecessarily alarmed my cousin Cicely, is nothing but the Æolian harp of the abbey sounding a double bass.”

The captain fastened on her composed countenance, while she was speaking, a look of open admiration, that brought, though tardily, the color more deeply to her cheeks: and he answered with something extremely equivocal, both in his emphasis and his air:

“I have avowed my allegiance, and I will abide by it. So long as Miss Plowden will deign to bestow her company, so long will she find me among her most faithful and persevering attendants, come who may, or what will.”

“You compel me to retire,” returned Katherine, rising, “whatever may have been my gracious intentions in the matter; for even female vanity must crimson, at an adoration so profound as that which can chain Captain Borroughcliffe to a supper-table! As your alarm has now dissipated, my cousin, will you lead the way? Miss Alice and myself attend you.”

“But not into the paddock, surely, Miss Plowden,” said the captain; “the door, the key of which you have just turned, communicates with the vestibule. This is the passage to the drawing-room.”

The lady faintly laughed, as if in derision of her own forgetfulness, while she bowed her acknowledgment, and moved towards the proper passage: she observed:

“The madness of fear has assailed some, I believe, who have been able to affect a better disguise than Miss Howard.”

“Is it the fear of present danger, or of that which is in reserve?” asked the captain; “but, as you have stipulated so generously in behalf of my worthy host here, and of one, also, who shall be nameless, because he has not deserved such a favor at your hands, your safety shall be one of my especial duties in these times of peril.”

“There is peril, then!” exclaimed Cecilia; “your looks announce it. Captain Borroughcliffe! The changing countenance of my cousin tells me that my fears are too true!”

The soldier had now risen also, and, casting aside the air of badinage, which he so much delighted in, he came forward into the centre of the apartment, with the manner of one who felt it was time to be serious.

“A soldier is ever in peril, when the enemies of his king are at hand, Miss Howard,” he answered: “and that such is now the case, Miss Plowden can testify, if she will. But you are the allies of both parties — retire, then, to your own apartments, and await the result of the struggle which is at hand.”

“You speak of danger and hidden perils,” said Alice Dunscombe; “know ye aught that justifies your fears?”

“I know all,” Borroughcliffe coolly replied.

“All!” exclaimed Katherine.

“All!” echoed Alice, in tones of horror, “If, then, you know all, you must know his desperate courage, and powerful hand, when opposed — yield in quiet, and he will not harm ye. Believe me, believe one who knows his very nature, that no lamb can be more gentle than he would be with unresisting women; nor any lion more fierce, with his enemies!”

“As we happen not to be of the feminine gender,” returned Borroughcliffe, with an air somewhat splenetic, “we must abide the fury of the king of beasts. His paw is, even now, at the outer door; and, if my orders have been obeyed, his entrance will be yet easier than that of the wolf to the respectable female ancestor of the little Red-riding-hood.”

“Stay your hand for one single moment!” said Katherine, breathless with interest; “you are the master of my secret, Captain Borroughcliffe, and bloodshed may be the consequence. I can yet go forward, and, perhaps, save many inestimable lives. Pledge to me your honor, that they who come hither as your enemies, this night, shall depart in peace, and I will pledge to you my life for the safety of the abbey.”

“Oh! hear her, and shed not human blood!” cried Cecilla.

A loud crash interrupted further speech, and the sounds of heavy footsteps were heard in the adjoining room, as if many men were alighting on its floor, in quick succession. Borroughcliffe drew back, with great coolness, to the opposite side of the large apartment, and took a sheathed sword from the table where it had been placed; at the same moment the door was burst open, and Barnstable entered alone, but heavily armed.

“You are my prisoners, gentlemen,” said the sailor, as he advanced; “resistance is useless, and without it you shall receive favor. Ha, Miss Plowden! my advice was that you should not be present at this scene.”

“Barnstable, we are betrayed!” cried the agitated Katherine. “But it is not yet too late. Blood has not yet been spilt, and you can retire, without that dreadful alternative, with honor. Go, then, delay not another moment; for should the soldiers of Captain Borroughcliffe come to the rescue of their commander, the abbey would be a scene of horror!”

“Go you away; go, Katherine,” said her lover, with impatience; “this is no place for such as you. But, Captain Borroughcliffe, if such be your name, you must perceive that resistance is in vain. I have ten good pikes in this outer room, in twenty better hands, and it will be madness to fight against such odds.”

“Show me your strength,” said the captain, “that I may take counsel with mine honor.”

“Your honor shall be appeased, my brave soldier, for such is your bearing, though your livery is my aversion, and your cause most unholy! Heave ahead, boys! but hold your hands for orders.”

The party of fierce-looking sailors whom Barnstable led, on receiving this order, rushed into the room in a medley; but, notwithstanding the surly glances, and savage characters of their dress and equipments, they struck no blow, nor committed any act of hostility. The ladies shrank back appalled, as this terrific little band took possession of the hall; and even Borroughcliffe was seen to fall back towards a door which, in some measure, covered his retreat. The confusion of this sudden movement had not yet subsided, when sounds of strife were heard rapidly approaching from a distant part of the building, and presently one of the numerous doors of the apartment was violently opened, when two of the garrison of the abbey rushed into the hall, vigorously pressed by twice their number of seamen, seconded by Griffith, Manual, and Merry, who were armed with such weapons of offence as had presented themselves to their hands, at their unexpected liberation. There was a movement on the part of the seamen who were already in possession of the room, that threatened instant death to the fugitives; but Barnstable beat down their pikes with his sword, and sternly ordered them to fall back. Surprise produced the same pacific result among the combatants; and as the soldiers hastily sought a refuge behind their own officers, and the released captives, with their liberators, joined the body of their friends, the quiet of the hall, which had been so rudely interrupted, was soon restored.

“You see, sir,” said Barnstable, after grasping the hands of Griffith and Manual in a warm and cordial pressure, “that all my plans have succeeded. Your sleeping guard are closely watched in their barracks by one party; our officers are released and your sentinels cut off by another; while, with a third, I hold the centre of the abbey, and am, substantially, in possession of your own person. In consideration, therefore, of what is due to humanity, and to the presence of these ladies, let there be no struggle! I shall impose no difficult terms, nor any long imprisonment.”

The recruiting officer manifested a composure throughout the whole scene that would have excited some uneasiness in his invaders, had there been opportunity for minute observation; but his countenance now gradually assumed an appearance of anxiety, and his head was frequently turned, as if listening for further and more important interruptions. He answered, however, to this appeal with his ordinary deliberation.

“You speak of conquests, sir, before they are achieved. My venerable host and myself are not so defenceless as you may chose to imagine.” While speaking he threw aside the cloth of a side table, from beneath which the colonel and himself were instantly armed with a brace of pistols each. “Here are the death-warrants of four of your party, and these brave fellows at my back can account for two more. I believe, my transatlantic warrior, that we are now something in the condition of Cortes and the Mexicans, when the former overran part of your continent — I being Cortes, armed with artificial thunder and lightning, and you the Indians, with nothing but your pikes and sling, and such other antediluvian inventions. Shipwrecks and seawater are fatal dampers of gunpowder!”

“That we are unprovided with firearms, I will not deny,” said Barnstable; “but we are men who are used, from infancy, to depend on our good right arms for life and safety, and we know how to use them, though we should even grapple with death! As for the trifles in your hands, gentlemen, you are not to suppose that men who are trained to look in at one end of a thirty-two pounder, loaded with grape, while the match is put to the other, will so much as wink at their report, though you fired them by fifties. What say you, boys, is a pistol a weapon to repel boarders?”

The discordant and disdainful laughs that burst from the restrained seamen were a sufficient pledge of their indifference to so trifling a danger. Borroughcliffe noted their hardened boldness, and taking the supper bell, which was lying near him, he rang it, for a minute, with great violence. The heavy tread of trained footsteps soon followed this extraordinary summons; and presently the several doors of the apartment were opened, and filled with armed soldiers, wearing the livery of the English crown.

“If you hold these smaller weapons in such vast contempt,” said the recruiting officer, when he perceived that his men had possessed themselves of all the avenues, “it is in my power to try the virtue of some more formidable. After this exhibition of my strength, gentlemen, I presume you cannot hesitate to submit as prisoners of war.”

The seamen had been formed in something like military array, by the assiduity of Manual, during the preceding dialogue; and as the different doors had discovered fresh accessions to the strength of the enemy, the marine industriously offered new fronts, until the small party was completely arranged in a hollow square, that might have proved formidable in a charge, bristled as it was with the deadly pikes of the Ariel.

“Here has been some mistake,” said Griffith, after glancing his eye at the formidable array of the soldiers; “I take precedence of Mr. Barnstable, and I shall propose to you, Captain Borroughcliffe, terms that may remove this scene of strife from the dwelling of Colonel Howard.”

“The dwelling of Colonel Howard,” cried the veteran, “is the dwelling of his king, or of the meanest servant of the crown! so, Borroughcliffe, spare not the traitors on my behalf; accept no other terms than such unconditional submission as is meet to exact from the rebellious subjects of the anointed of the Lord.”

While Griffith spoke, Barnstable folded his arms, in affected composure, and glanced his eyes expressively at the shivering Katherine, who, with her companions, still continued agitated spectators of all that passed, chained to the spot by their apprehensions; but to this formidable denunciation of the master of the abbey he deemed proper to reply:

“Now, by every hope I have of sleeping again on salt water, old gentleman if it were not for the presence of these three trembling females, I should feel tempted to dispute, at once, the title of his majesty. You may make such a covenant as you will with Mr. Griffith, but if it contain one syllable about submission to your king, or of any other allegiance than that which I owe to the Continental Congress, and the State of Massachusetts, you may as well consider the terms violated at once; for not an article of such an agreement will I consider as binding on me, or on any that shall choose to follow me as leader.”

“Here are but two leaders, Mr. Barnstable,” interrupted the haughty Griffith; “the one of the enemy, and the other of the arms of America. Captain Borroughclffe, to you, as the former, I address myself. The great objects of the contest which now unhappily divides England from her ancient colonies can be, in no degree, affected by the events of this night; while, on the other hand, by a rigid adherence to military notions, much private, evil and deep domestic calamity must follow any struggle in such a place. We have but to speak, sir, and these rude men, who already stand impatiently handling their instruments of death, will aim them at each other’s lives; and who can say that he shall be able to stay their hands when and where he will. I know you to be a soldier, and that you are not yet to learn how much easier it is to stimulate to blood than to glut vengeance.”

Borroughcliffe, unused to the admission of violent emotions, and secure in the superiority of his own party, both in numbers and equipments, heard him with the coolest composure to the end, and then answered in his customary manner:

“I honor your logic, sir. Your premises are indisputable, and the conclusion most obvious. Commit then these worthy tars to the good keeping of honest Drill, who will see their famished natures revived by divers eatables and a due proportion of suitable fluids; while we can discuss the manner in which you are to return to the colonies, around a bottle of liquor, which my friend Manual there assures me has come from the sunny side of the island of Madeira, to be drunk in a bleak corner of that of Britain. By my palate! but the rascals brighten at the thought. They know by instinct, sir, that a shipwrecked mariner is a fitter companion to a ration of beef and a pot of porter than to such unsightly things as bayonets and boarding-pikes!”

“Trifle, not unseasonably!” exclaimed the impatient young sailor. “You have the odds in numbers, but whether it will avail you much in a deadly struggle of hand to hand, is a question you must put to your prudence: we stand not here to ask terms, but to grant them. You must be brief, sir; for the time is wasting while we delay.”

“I have offered to you the means of obtaining, in perfection, the enjoyment of the three most ancient of the numerous family of the arts — eating, drinking, and sleeping! What more do you require?”

“That you order these men, who fill the pass to the outer door, to fall back and give us room. I would take, in peace, these armed men from before the eyes of those who are unused to such sights. Before you oppose this demand, think how easily these hardy fellows could make a way for themselves, against your divided force.”

“Your companion, the experienced Captain Manual, will tell you that such a manoeuvre would be very unmilitary with a superior body in your rear!”

“I have not leisure, sir, for this folly,” cried the indignant Griffith. “Do you refuse us an unmolested retreat from the abbey?”

“I do.”

Griffith turned with a look of extreme emotion to the ladies, and beckoned to them to retire, unable to give utterance to his wishes in words. After a moment of deep silence, however, he once more addressed Borroughcliffe in the tones of conciliation.

“If Manual and myself will return to our prisons, and submit to the will of your government,” he said, “can the rest of the party return to the frigate unmolested?”

“They cannot,” replied the soldier, who, perceiving that the crisis approached, was gradually losing his artificial deportment in the interest of the moment. “You, and all others who willingly invade the peace of these realms, must abide the issue!”

“Then God protect the innocent and defend the right!”

“Amen.”

“Give way, villains!” cried Griffith, facing the party that held the outer door; “give way, or you shall be riddled with our pikes!”

“Show them your muzzles, men!” shouted Borroughcliffe, “but pull no trigger till they advance.”

There was an instant of bustle and preparation, in which the rattling of firearms blended with the suppressed execrations and threats of the intended combatants; and Cecilia and Katherine had both covered their faces to veil the horrid sight that was momentarily expected, when Alice Dunscombe advanced, boldly, between the points of the threatening weapons, and spoke in a voice that stayed the hands that were already uplifted.

“Hear me, men! if men ye be, and not demons, thirsting for each other’s blood; though ye walk abroad in the semblance of Him who died that ye might be elevated to the rank of angels! Call ye this war? Is this the glory that is made to warm the hearts of even silly and confiding women? Is the peace of families to be destroyed to gratify your wicked lust for conquest, and is life to be taken in vain, in order that ye may boast of the foul deed in your wicked revels? Fall back, then, ye British soldiers! if ye be worthy of that name, and give passage to a woman; and remember that the first shot that is fired will be buried in her bosom!”

The men, thus enjoined, shrank before her commanding mien, and a way was made for her exit through that very door which Griffith had, in vain, solicited might be cleared for himself and party. But Alice, instead of advancing, appeared to have suddenly lost the use of those faculties which had already effected so much. Her figure seemed rooted to the spot where she had spoken, and her eyes were fixed in a Settled gaze, as if dwelling on some horrid object, While she yet stood in this attitude of unconscious helplessness, the doorway became again darkened, and the figure of the Pilot was seen on its threshold, clad, as usual, in the humble vestments of his profession, but heavily armed with the weapons of naval war. For an instant, he stood a silent spectator of the scene; and then advanced calmly, but with searching eyes, into the centre of the apartment.

CHAPTER XXIX.

“Don Pedro. Welcome, Signior: you are almost come to part almost a fray.”

Much Ado About Nothing.

“Down with your arms, you Englishmen!” said the daring intruder; “and you, who fight in the cause of sacred liberty, stay your hands, that no unnecessary blood may flow. Yield yourself, proud Briton, to the power of the Thirteen Republics!”

“Ha!” exclaimed Borroughcliffe, grasping a pistol, with an air of great resolution, “the work thickens — I had not included this man in my estimate of their numbers. Is he a Samson, that his single arm can change the face of things so suddenly! Down with your own weapon, you masquerader! or, at the report of this pistol, your body shall be made a target for twenty bullets.”

“And thine for a hundred!” returned the Pilot.— “Without there! wind your call, fellow, and bring in our numbers. We will let this confident gentleman feel his weakness.”

He had not done speaking, before the shrill whistle of a boatswain rose gradually on the ears of the listeners, until the sense of hearing became painfully oppressed by the piercing sounds that rang under the arched roof of the hall, and penetrated even to the most distant recesses of the abbey. A tremendous rush of men followed, who drove in before them the terrified fragment of Borroughcliffe’s command, that had held the vestibule; and the outer room became filled with a dark mass of human bodies.

“Let them hear ye, lads!” cried their leader; “the abbey is your own!”

The roaring of a tempest was not louder than the shout that burst from his followers, who continued their cheers, peal on peal, until the very roof of the edifice appeared to tremble with their vibrations. Numerous dark and shaggy heads were seen moving around the passage; some cased in the iron-bound caps of the frigate’s boarders, and others glittering with the brazen ornaments of her marine guard. The sight of the latter did not fail to attract the eye of Manual, who rushed among the throng, and soon reappeared, followed by a trusty band of his own men, who took possession of the post held by the soldiers of Borroughcliffe, while the dialogue was continued between the leaders of the adverse parties.

Thus far Colonel Howard had yielded to his guest, with a deep reverence for the principles of military subordination, the functions of a commander; but, now that affairs appeared to change so materially, he took on himself the right to question these intruders into his dwelling.

“By what authority, sir,” the colonel demanded, “is it that you dare thus to invade the castle of a subject of this realm? Do you come backed by the commission of the lord lieutenant of the county, or has your warrant the signature of his majesty’s secretary for the home department?”

“I bear no commission from any quarter,” returned the Pilot; “I rank only an humble follower of the friends of America; and having led these gentlemen into danger, I have thought it my duty to see them extricated. They are now safe; and the right to command all that hear me rests with Mr. Griffith, who is commissioned by the Continental Congress for such service.”

When he had spoken, he fell back from the position he occupied in the centre of the room, to one of its sides, where, leaning his body against the wainscot, he stood a silent observer of what followed.

“It appears, then, that it is to you, degenerate son of a most worthy father, that I must repeat my demand,” continued the veteran. “By what right is my dwelling thus rudely assailed? and why is my quiet and the peace of those I protect so daringly violated?”

“I might answer you, Colonel Howard, by saying that it is according to the laws of arms, or rather in retaliation for the thousand evils that your English troops have inflicted between Maine and Georgia; but I wish not to increase the unpleasant character of this scene, and I therefore will tell you that our advantage shall be used with moderation. The instant that our men can be collected, and our prisoners properly secured, your dwelling shall be restored to your authority. We are no freebooters, sir; and you will find it so after our departure. Captain Manual, draw off your guard into the grounds, and make your dispositions for a return march to our boats — let the boarders fall back, there! out with ye! out with ye — tumble out, you boarders!”

The amicable order of the young lieutenant, which was delivered after the stern, quick fashion of his profession, operated on the cluster of dark figures that were grouped around the door like a charm; and as the men whom Barnstable had led followed their shipmates into the courtyard, the room was now left to such only as might be termed the gentlemen of the invading party, and the family of Colonel Howard.

Barnstable had continued silent since his senior officer had assumed the command, listening most attentively to each syllable that fell from either side; but now that so few remained, and the time pressed, he spoke again:

“If we are to take boat so soon, Mr. Griffith, it would be seemly that due preparations should be made to receive the ladies, who are to honor us with their presence; shall I take that duty on myself?”

The abrupt proposal produced a universal surprise in his hearers; though the abashed and conscious expression of Katherine Plowden’s features sufficiently indicated that to her, at least, it was not altogether unexpected. The long silence that succeeded the question was interrupted by Colonel Howard.

“Ye are masters, gentlemen; help yourselves to whatever best suits your inclinations. My dwelling, my goods, and my wards, are alike at your disposal — or, perhaps Miss Alice here, good and kind Miss Alice Dunscombe, may suit the taste of some among ye! Ah! Edward Griffith! Edward Griffith! little did I ever— “

“Breathe not that name in levity again, thou scoffer, or even your years may prove a feeble protection!” said a stern, startling voice from behind. All eyes turned involuntarily at the unexpected sounds, and the muscular form of the Pilot was seen resuming its attitude of repose against the wall, though every fibre of his frame was working with suppressed passion.

When the astonished looks of Griffith ceased to dwell on this extraordinary exhibition of interest in his companion, they were turned imploringly towards the fair cousins, who still occupied the distant corner, whither fear had impelled them.

“I have said that we are not midnight marauders, Colonel Howard,” he replied: “but if any there be here, who will deign to commit themselves to our keeping, I trust it will not be necessary to say, at this hour, what will be their reception.”

“We have not time for unnecessary compliments,” cried the impatient Barnstable; “here is Merry, who, by years and blood, is a suitable assistant for them, in arranging their little baggage — what say you, urchin, can you play the lady’s maid on emergency?”

“Ay, sir, and better than I acted the peddler boy,” cried the gay youngster; “to have my merry cousin Kate and my good cousin Cicely for shipmates, I could play our common grandmother! Come, coz, let us be moving; you will have to allow a little leeway in time, for my awkwardness.”

“Stand back, young man,” said Miss Howard, repulsing his familiar attempt to take her arm; and then advancing, with a maidenly dignity, nigher to her guardian, she continued, “I cannot know what stipulations have been agreed to by my cousin Plowden, in the secret treaty she has made this night with Mr. Barnstable: this for myself, Colonel Howard, I would have you credit your brother’s child when she says, that to her, the events of the hour have not been more unexpected than to yourself.”

The veteran gazed at her, for a moment, with an expression of his eye that denoted reviving tenderness; but gloomy doubts appeared to cross his mind again, and he shook his head, as he walked proudly away.

“Nay, then,” added Cecilia, her head dropping meekly on her bosom, “I may be discredited by my uncle, but I cannot be disgraced without some act of my own.”

She slowly raised her mild countenance again, and bending her eyes on her lover, she continued, while a rich rush of blood passed over her fine features:

“Edward Griffith, I will not, I cannot say how humiliating it is to think that you can, for an instant, believe I would again forget myself so much as to wish to desert him whom God has given me for a protector, for one chosen by my own erring passions. And you, Andrew Merry! Learn to respect the child of your mother’s sister, if not for her own sake, at least for that of her who watched your cradle!”

“Here appears to be some mistake.” said Barnstable, who participated, however, in no trifling degree, in the embarrassment of the abashed boy; “but, like all other mistakes on such subjects, it can be explained away, I suppose. Mr. Griffith, it remains for you to speak — damn it, man,” he whispered, “you are as dumb as a codfish — I am sure so fine a woman is worth a little fair-weather talk: — you are muter than a four-footed beast — even an ass can bray!”

“We will hasten our departure, Mr. Barnstable,” said Griffith, sighing heavily, and rousing himself, as if from a trance. “These rude sights cannot but appall the ladies. You will please, sir, to direct the order of our march to the shore. Captain Manual has charge of our prisoners, who must all be secured, to answer for an equal number of our own countrymen.”

“And our countrywomen!” said Barnstable, “are they to be forgotten, in the selfish recollection of our own security?”

“With them we have no right to interfere, unless at their request.”

“By heaven! Mr. Griffith, this may smack of learning,” cried the other, “and it may plead bookish authority as its precedent; but let me tell you, sir, it savors but little of a sailor’s love.”

“Is it unworthy of a seaman, and a gentleman, to permit the woman he calls his mistress to be so, other than in name?”

“Well, then, Griff, I pity you, from my soul. I would rather have had a sharp struggle for the happiness that I shall now obtain so easily, than that you should be thus cruelly disappointed. But you cannot blame me, my friend, that I avail myself of fortune’s favor. Miss Plowden, your fair hand. Colonel Howard, I return you a thousand thanks for the care you have taken, hitherto, of this precious charge; and believe me, sir, that I speak frankly, when I say, that, next to myself, I should choose to entrust her with you in preference to any man on earth.”

The colonel turned to the speaker, and bowed low, while he answered with grave courtesy:

“Sir, you repay my slight services with too much gratitude. If Miss Katherine Plowden has not become under my guardianship all that her good father, Captain John Plowden, of the Royal Navy, could have wished a daughter of his to be, the fault, unquestionably, is to be attributed to my inability to instruct, and to no inherent quality in the young lady herself. I will not say, Take her, sir, since you have her in your possession already, and it would be out of my power to alter the arrangement; therefore, I can only wish that you may find her as dutiful as a wife as she has been, hitherto, as a ward and a subject.”

Katherine had yielded her hand, passively, to her lover, and suffered him to lead her more into the circle than she had before been; but now she threw off his arm, and shaking aside the dark curls which she had rather invited to fall in disorder around her brow, she raised her face and looked proudly up, with an eye that sparkled with the spirit of its mistress, and a face that grew pale with emotion at each moment, as she proceeded:

“Gentlemen, the one may be as ready to receive as the other is to reject; but has the daughter of John Plowden no voice in this cool disposal of her person? If her guardian tires of her presence, other habitations may be found, without inflicting so severe a penalty on this gentleman as to compel him to provide for her accommodation in a vessel which must be already straitened for room!”

She turned, and rejoined her cousin with such an air of maidenly resentment as a young woman would be apt to discover, who found herself the subject of matrimonial arrangement without her own feelings being at all consulted. Barnstable, who knew but little of the windings of the female heart, or how necessary to his mistress, notwithstanding her previous declarations, the countenance of Cecilia, was to any decided and open act in his favor, stood in stupid wonder at her declaration. He could not conceive that a woman who had already ventured so much in secret in his behalf, and who had so often avowed her weakness, should shrink to declare it again at such a crisis, though the eyes of a universe were on her! He looked from one of the party to the other, and met in every face an expression of delicate reserve, except in those of the guardian of his mistress, and of Borroughcliffe.

The colonel had given a glance of returning favor at her whom he now conceived to be his repentant ward, while the countenance of the entrapped captain exhibited a look of droll surprise, blended with the expression of bitter ferocity it had manifested since the discovery of his own mishap.

“Perhaps, sir,” said Barnstable, addressing the latter, fiercely, “you see something amusing about the person of this lady, to divert you thus unseasonably. We tolerate no such treatment of our women in America!”

“Nor do we quarrel before ours in England,” returned the soldier, throwing back the fierce glance of the sailor with interest; “but I was thinking of the revolutions that time can produce; nothing more, I do assure you. It is not half an hour since I thought myself a most happy fellow; secure in my plans for overreaching the scheme you had laid to surprise me; and now I am as miserable a dog as wears a single epaulette, and has no hope of seeing its fellow!”

“And in what manner, sir, can this sudden change apply to me?” asked Katherine, with all her spirit.

“Certainly not to your perseverance in the project to assist my enemies, madam,” returned the soldier, with affected humility; “nor to your zeal for their success, or your consummate coolness at the supper-table! But I find it is time that I should be superannuated — I can no longer serve my king with credit, and should take to serving my God, like all other worn-out men of the world! My hearing is surely defective, or a paddock-wall has a most magical effect in determining sounds!”

Katherine waited not to hear the close of this sentence, but walked to a distant part of the room to conceal the burning blushes that covered her countenance. The manner in which the plans of Barnstable had become known to his foe was no longer a mystery. Her conscience also reproached her a little with some unnecessary coquetry, as she remembered that quite one-half of the dialogue between her lover and herself, under the shadow of that very wall to which Borroughcliffe alluded, had been on a subject altogether foreign to contention and tumults. As the feelings of Barnstable were by no means so sensitive as those of his mistress, and his thoughts much occupied with the means of attaining his object, he did not so readily comprehend the indirect allusion of the soldier, but turned abruptly away to Griffith, and observed with a serious air:

“I feel it my duty, Mr. Griffith, to suggest that we have standing instructions to secure all the enemies of America, wherever they may be found, and to remind you that the States have not hesitated to make prisoners of females in many instances.”

“Bravo!” cried Borroughcliffe; “if the ladies will not go as your mistresses, take them as your captives!”

“’Tis well for you, sir, that you are a captive yourself, or you should be made to answer for this speech,” retorted the irritated Barnstable. “It is a responsible command, Mr. Griffith, and must not be disregarded.”

“To your duty, Mr. Barnstable,” said Griffith, again rousing from deep abstraction; “you have your orders, sir; let them be executed promptly.”

“I have also the orders of our common superior, Captain Munson, Mr. Griffith; and I do assure you, sir, that in making out my instructions for the Ariel — poor thing! there are no two of her timbers hanging together — but my instructions were decidedly particular on that head.”

“And my orders now supersede them.”

“But am I justifiable in obeying a verbal order from an inferior, in direct opposition to a written instruction?”

Griffith had hitherto manifested in his deportment nothing more than a cold determination to act, but the blood now flew to every vessel in his cheeks and forehead, and his dark eyes flashed fire, as he cried authoritatively:

“How, sir! do you hesitate to obey?”

“By heaven, sir, I would dispute the command of the Continental Congress itself, should they bid me so far to forget my duty to — to— “

“Add yourself, sir! — Mr. Barnstable, let this be the last of it. To your duty, sir.”

“My duty calls me here, Mr. Griffith.”

“I must act, then, or be bearded by my own officers. Mr. Merry, direct Captain Manual to send in a sergeant and a file of marines.”

“Bid him come on himself!” cried Barnstable, maddened to desperation by his disappointment; “’tis not his whole corps that can disarm me — let them come on! Hear, there, you Ariels! rally around your captain.”

“The man among them who dares to cross that threshold without my order, dies,” cried Griffith, menacing with a naked hanger the seamen who had promptly advanced at the call of their old commander. “Yield your sword, Mr. Barnstable, and spare yourself the disgrace of having it forced from you by a common soldier.”

“Let me see the dog who dare attempt it!” exclaimed Barnstable, flourishing his weapon in fierce anger. Griffith had extended his own arm in the earnestness of his feelings, and their hangers crossed each other. The clashing of the steel operated on both like the sound of the clarion on a war-horse, and there were sudden and rapid blows, and as rapid parries, exchanged between the flashing weapons.

“Barnstable! Barnstable!” cried Katherine, rushing into his arms, “I will go with you to the ends of the earth!”

Cecilia Howard did not speak; but when Griffith recovered his coolness, he beheld her beautiful form kneeling at his feet, with her pale face bent imploringly on his own disturbed countenance. The cry of Miss Plowden had separated the combatants, before an opportunity for shedding blood had been afforded; but the young men exchanged looks of keen resentment, notwithstanding the interference of their mistresses. At this moment Colonel Howard advanced, and raising his niece from her humble posture, said:

“This is not a situation for a child of Harry Howard, though she knelt in the presence, and before the throne, of her sovereign. Behold, my dear Cecilia, the natural consequences of this rebellion! It scatters discord in their ranks; and, by its damnable leveling principles, destroys all distinction of rank among themselves; even these rash boys know not where obedience is due!”

“It is due to me,” said the Pilot, who now stepped forward among the agitated group, “and it is time that I enforce it. Mr. Griffith, sheathe your sword. And you, sir, who have defied the authority of your senior officer, and have forgotten the obligation of your oath, submit, and return to your duty.”

Griffith started at the sounds of his calm voice, as if with sudden recollection; and then, bowing low, he returned the weapon to its scabbard. But Barnstable still encircled the waist of his mistress with one arm, while with the other he brandished his hanger, and laughed with scorn at this extraordinary assumption of authority.

“And who is this,” he cried, “who dare give such an order to me!”

The eyes of the Pilot flashed with a terrible fire, while a fierce glow seemed to be creeping over his whole frame, which actually quivered with passion. But, suppressing this exhibition of his feelings, by a sudden and powerful effort, he answered in an emphatic manner:

“One who has a right to order, and who will be obeyed!”

The extraordinary manner of the speaker contributed as much as his singular assertion to induce Barnstable, in his surprise, to lower the point of his weapon, with an air that might easily have been mistaken for submission. The Pilot fastened his glowing eyes on him, for an instant, and then turning to the rest of the listeners, he continued more mildly:

“It is true that we came not here as marauders, and that our wish is to do no unnecessary acts of severity to the aged and the helpless. But this officer of the crown, and this truant American in particular, are fairly our prisoners; as such, they must be conducted on board our ship.”

“But the main object of our expedition?” said Griffith.

“’Tis lost,” returned the Pilot, hastily— “’tis sacrificed to more private feelings; ’tis like a hundred others, ended in disappointment, and is forgotten, sir, forever. But the interests of the Republics must not be neglected, Mr. Griffith. — Though we are not madly to endanger the lives of those gallant fellows, to gain a love-smile from one young beauty, neither are we to forget the advantages they may have obtained for us, in order to procure one of approbation from another. This Colonel Howard will answer well in a bargain with the minions of the Crown, and may purchase the freedom of some worthy patriot who is deserving of his liberty. Nay, nay, suppress that haughty look, and turn that proud eye on any, rather than me; he goes to the frigate, sir, and that immediately.”

“Then,” said Cecilia Howard, timidly approaching the spot where her uncle stood, a disdainful witness of the dissensions among his captors; “then will I go with him! He shall never be a resident among his enemies alone!”

“It would be more ingenuous, and more worthy of my brother’s daughter,” said her uncle, coldly, “if she ascribed her willingness to depart to its proper motive.” Disregarding the look of deep distress with which Cecilia received this mortifying rejection of her tender attention, the old man on receiving this order, rushed into the room in a medley; but, notwithstanding the surly glances, and savage characters of their dress and equipments, they struck no blow, nor committed any act of hostility. The ladies shrank back appalled, as this terrific little band took possession of the hall; and even Borroughcliffe was seen to fall back towards a door which, in some measure, covered his retreat. The confusion of this sudden movement had not yet subsided, when sounds of strife were heard rapidly approaching from a distant part of the building, and presently one of the numerous doors of the apartment was violently opened, when two of the garrison of the abbey rushed into the hall, vigorously pressed by twice their number of seamen, seconded by Griffith, Manual, and Merry, who were armed with such weapons of offence as had presented themselves to their hands, at their unexpected liberation. There was a movement on the part of the seamen who were already in possession of the room, that threatened instant death to the fugitives; but Barnstable beat down their pikes with his sword, and sternly ordered them to fall back. Surprise produced the same pacific result among the combatants; and as the soldiers hastily sought a refuge behind their own officers, and the released captives, with their liberators, joined the body of their friends, the quiet of the hall, which had been so rudely interrupted, was soon restored.

“You see, sir,” said Barnstable, after grasping the hands of Griffith and Manual in a warm and cordial pressure, “that all my plans have succeeded. Your sleeping guard are closely watched in their barracks by one party; our officers are released and your sentinels cut off by another; while, with a third, I hold the centre of the abbey, and am, substantially, in possession of your own person. In consideration, therefore, of what is due to humanity, and to the presence of these ladies, let there be no struggle. I shall impose no difficult terms, nor any long imprisonment.”

The recruiting officer manifested a composure throughout it, and the latter laughing, and indulging those buoyant spirits that a boy of his years and reflection might be supposed to feel even in such a scene. It was fortunate for her cousin that Katherine had possessed so much forethought; for the attention of Cecilia Howard was directed much more to the comforts of her uncle than to those which were necessary for herself. Attended by Alice Dunscombe, the young mistress of St. Ruth moved through the solitary apartments of the building, listening to the mild religious consolation of her companion in silence, at times yielding to those bursts of mortified feeling, that she could not repress, or again as calmly giving her orders to her maids, as if the intended movement was one of but ordinary interest. All this time the party in the dining-hall remained stationary. The Pilot, as if satisfied with what he had already done, sank back to his reclining attitude against the wall, though his eyes keenly watched every movement of the preparations, in a manner which denoted that his was the master spirit that directed the whole. Griffith had, however, resumed, in appearance, the command, and the busy seamen addressed themselves for orders to him alone. In this manner an hour was consumed, when Cecilia and Katherine appearing in succession attired in a suitable manner for their departure, and the baggage of the whole party having been already entrusted to a petty officer and a party of his men, Griffith gave forth the customary order to put the whole in motion. The shrill, piercing whistle of the boatswain once more rang among the galleries and ceilings of the abbey, and was followed by the deep, hoarse cry of:

“Away, there, you shore-draft! away, there, you boarders! ahead, heave ahead, sea-dogs!”

This extraordinary summons was succeeded by the roll of a drum and the strains of a fife, from without, when the whole party moved from the building in the order that had been previously prescribed by Captain Manual, who acted as the marshal of the forces on the occasion.

The Pilot had conducted his surprise with so much skill and secrecy as to have secured every individual about the abbey, whether male or female, soldier or civilian; and as it might be dangerous to leave any behind who could convey intelligence into the country, Griffith had ordered that every human being found in the building should be conducted to the cliffs; to be held in durance at least until the departure of the last boat to the cutter, which, he was informed, lay close in to the land, awaiting their re-embarkation. The hurry of the departure had caused many lights to be kindled in the abbey, and the contrast between the glare within and the gloom without attracted the wandering looks of the captives, as they issued into the paddock. One of those indefinable and unaccountable feelings which so often cross the human mind induced Cecilia to pause at the great gate of the grounds, and look back at the abbey, with a presentiment that she was to behold it for the last time. The dark and ragged outline of the edifice was clearly delineated against the northern sky, while the open windows and neglected doors permitted a view of the solitude within. Twenty tapers were shedding their useless light in the empty apartments, as if in mockery of the deserted walls; and Cecilia turned shuddering from the sight, to press nigher to the person of her indignant uncle, with a secret impression that her presence would soon be more necessary than ever to his happiness.

The low hum of voices in front, with the occasional strains of the fife, and the stern mandates of the sea-officers, soon recalled her, however, from these visionary thoughts to the surrounding realities, while the whole party pursued their way with diligence to the margin of the ocean.

CHAPTER XXX.

“A chieftain to the Highlands bound

Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry!

And I’ll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o’er the ferry.’”

Lord Ullin’s Daughter.

The sky had been without a cloud during the day, the gale having been dry and piercing, and thousands of stars were now shining through a chill atmosphere. As the eye, therefore, became accustomed to the change of light, it obtained a more distinct view of surrounding objects. At the head of the line that was stretched along the narrow pathway marched a platoon of the marines, who maintained the regular and steady front of trained warriors. They were followed at some little distance by a large and confused body of seamen, heavily armed, whose disposition to disorder and rude merriment, which became more violent from their treading on solid ground, was with difficulty restrained by the presence and severe rebukes of their own officers. In the centre of this confused mass the whole of the common prisoners were placed, but were not otherwise attended to by their nautical guard than as they furnished the subjects of fun and numberless quaint jokes. At some distance in their rear marched Colonel Howard and Borroughcliffe, arm in arm, both maintaining the most rigid and dignified silence, though under the influence of very bitter feelings. Behind these again, and pressing as nigh as possible to her uncle, was Miss Howard, leaning on the arm of Alice Dunscombe, and surrounded by the female domestics of the establishment of St. Ruth. Katherine Plowden moved lightly, by herself, in the shadow of this group, with elastic steps but with a maiden coyness that taught her to veil her satisfaction with the semblance of captivity. Barnstable watched her movements with delight, within six feet of her, but submitted to the air of caprice in his mistress, which seemed to require that he should come no nearer. Griffith, avoiding the direct line of the party, walked on its skirts in such a situation that his eye could command its whole extent, in order, if necessary, to direct the movements. Another body of the marines marched at the close of the procession, and Manual, in person, brought up the rear. The music had ceased by command, and nothing was now audible but the regular tread of the soldiers, with the sighs of the dying gale, interrupted occasionally by the voice of an officer, or the hum of low dialogue.

“This has been a Scotch prize that we’ve taken,” muttered a surly old seaman; “a ship without head-money or cargo! There was kitchen-timber enough in the old jug of a place to have given an outfit in crockery and knee-buckles to every lad in the ship; but, no! let a man’s mouth water ever so much for food and raiment, damme, if the officers would give him leave to steal even so good a thing as a spare Bible.”

“You may say all that, and then make but a short yarn of the truth,” returned the messmate who walked by his side: “if there had been such a thing as a ready-made prayer handy, they would have choused a poor fellow out of the use of it. — I say, Ben, I’ll tell ye what; it’s my opinion that if a chap is to turn soldier and carry a musket, he should have soldier’s play, and leave to plunder a little — now the devil a thing have I laid my hands on to-night, except this firelock and my cutlash — unless you can call this bit of a table-cloth something of a windfall.”

“Ay! you have fallen in there with a fresh bolt of duck, I see!” said the other, in manifest admiration of the texture of his companion’s prize— “why, it would spread as broad a clew as our mizzen-royal, if it was loosened! Well, your luck hasn’t been every man’s luck — for my part, I think this here hat was made for some fellow’s great toe: I’ve rigged it on my head both fore and aft, and athwart-ships; but curse the inch can I drive it down — I say, Sam! you’ll give us a shirt off that table-cloth?”

“Ay, ay, you can have one corner of it; or for that matter, ye can take the full half, Nick; but I don’t see that we go off to the ship any richer than we landed, unless you may muster she-cattle among your prize-money.”

“No richer!” interrupted a waggish young sailor, who had been hitherto a silent listener to the conversation between his older and more calculating shipmates; “I think we are set up for a cruise in them seas where the day watches last six months; don’t you see we have caught a double allowance of midnight!”

While speaking, he laid his hands on the bare and woolly heads of Colonel Howard’s two black slaves, who were moving near him, both occupied in mournful forebodings on the results that were to flow from this unexpected loss of their liberty. “Slew your faces this way, gentlemen,” he added; “there; don’t you think that a sight to put out the binnacle lamps? there’s darkness visible for ye!”

“Let the niggers alone,” grumbled one of the more aged speakers; “what are ye skylarking with the like of them for? The next thing they’ll sing out, and then you’ll hear one of the officers in your wake. For my part, Nick, I can’t see why it is that we keep dodging along shore here, with less than ten fathoms under us, when, by stretching into the broad Atlantic, we might fall in with a Jamaicaman every day or two, and have sugar hogsheads and rum puncheons as plenty aboard us as hard fare is now.”

“It is all owing to that Pilot,” returned the other; “for, d’ye see, if there was no bottom, there would be no pilots. This is dangerous cruising-ground, where we stretch into five fathoms, and then drop our lead on a sand-pit or a rock! Besides, they make night-work of it, too! If we had daylight for fourteen hours instead of seven, a man might trust to feeling his way for the other ten.”

“Now, a’n’t ye a couple of old horse-marines!” again interrupted the young sailor; “don’t you see that Congress wants us to cut up Johnny Bull’s coasters, and that old Blow-Hard has found the days too short for his business, and so he has landed a party to get hold of night. Here we have him! and when we get off to the ship, we shall put him under hatches, and then you’ll see the face of the sun again! Come, my lilies! let these two gentlemen look into your cabin windows — what? you won’t! Then I must squeeze your woolen nightcaps for ye!”

The negroes, who had been submitting to his humors with the abject humility of slavery, now gave certain low intimations that they were suffering pain, under the rough manipulation of their tormentor.

“What’s that!” cried a stern voice, whose boyish tones seemed to mock the air of authority that was assumed by the speaker— “who’s that, I say, raising that cry among ye?”

The willful young man slowly removed his two hands from the woolly polls of the slaves, but as he suffered them to fall reluctantly along their sable temples, he gave the ear of one of the blacks a tweak that caused him to give vent to another cry, that was uttered with a much greater confidence of sympathy than before.

“Do ye hear there!” repeated Merry— “who’s skylarking with those negroes?”

“’Tis no one, sir,” the sailor answered with affected gravity; “one of the palefaces has hit his shin against a cobweb, and it has made his earache!”

“Harkye, you Mr. Jack Joker! how came you in the midst of the prisoners? — Did not I order you to handle your pike, sir, and to keep in the outer line?”

“Ay, ay, sir, you did; and I obeyed orders as long as I could; but these niggers have made the night so dark that I lost my way!”

A low laugh passed through the confused crowd of seamen; and even the midshipman might have been indulging himself in a similar manner at this specimen of quaint humor from the fellow, who was one of those licensed men that are to be found in every ship. At length:

“Well, sir,” he said, “you have found out your false reckoning now; so get you back to the place where I bid you stay.”

“Ay, ay, sir, I’m going. By all the blunders in the purser’s book, Mr. Merry, but that cobweb has made one of these niggers shed tears! Do let me stay to catch a little ink, sir, to write a letter with to my poor old mother-devil the line has she had from me since we sailed from the Chesapeake!”

“If ye don’t mind me at once, Mr. Jack Joker, I’ll lay my cutlass over your head,” returned Merry, his voice now betraying a much greater sympathy in the sufferings of that abject race, who are still in some measure, but who formerly were much more, the butts of the unthinking and licentious among our low countrymen; “then ye can write your letter in red ink if ye will!”

“I wouldn’t do it for the world,” said Joker, sneaking away towards his proper station— “the old lady wouldn’t forget the hand, and swear it was a forgery — I wonder, though, if the breakers on the coast of Guinea be black! as I’ve heard old seamen say who have cruised in them latitudes.”

His idle levity was suddenly interrupted by a voice that spoke above the low hum of the march, with an air of authority, and a severity of tone, that could always quell, by a single word, the most violent ebullition of merriment in the crew.

The low buzzing sounds of “Ay, there goes Mr. Griffith!” and of “Jack has woke up the first lieutenant, he had better now go to sleep himself,” were heard passing among the men. But these suppressed communications soon ceased, and even Jack Joker himself pursued his way with diligence on the skirts of the party, as mutely as if the power of speech did not belong to his organization.

The reader has too often accompanied us over the ground between the abbey and the ocean, to require any description of the route pursued by the seamen during the preceding characteristic dialogue; and we shall at once pass to the incidents which occurred on the arrival of the party at the cliffs. As the man who had so unexpectedly assumed a momentary authority within St. Ruth had unaccountably disappeared from among them, Griffith continued to exercise the right of command, without referring to any other for consultation. He never addressed himself to Barnstable, and it was apparent that both the haughty young men felt that the tie which had hitherto united them in such close intimacy was, for the present at least, entirely severed. Indeed, Griffith was only restrained by the presence of Cecilia and Katherine from arresting his refractory inferior on the spot; and Barnstable, who felt all the consciousness of error, without its proper humility, with difficulty so far repressed his feelings as to forbear exhibiting in the presence of his mistress such a manifestation of his spirit as his wounded vanity induced him to imagine was necessary to his honor. The two, however, acted in harmony on one subject, though it was without concert or communication. The first object with both the young men was to secure the embarkation of the fair cousins; and Barnstable proceeded instantly to the boats, in order to hasten the preparations that were necessary before they could receive these unexpected captives: the descent of the Pilot having been made in such force as to require the use of all the frigate’s boats, which were left riding in the outer edge of the surf, awaiting the return of the expedition. A loud call from Barnstable gave notice to the officer in command, and in a few moments the beach was crowded with the busy and active crews of the “cutters,” “launches,” “barges,” “jolly-boats,” “pinnaces,” or by whatever names the custom of the times attached to the different attendants of vessels of war. Had the fears of the ladies themselves been consulted, the frigate’s launch would have been selected for their use, on account of its size; but Barnstable, who would have thought such a choice on his part humiliating to his guests, ordered the long, low barge of Captain Munson to be drawn upon the sand, it being peculiarly the boat of honor. The hands of fifty men were applied to the task, and it was soon announced to Colonel Howard and his wards that the little vessel was ready for their reception. Manual had halted on the summit of the cliffs with the whole body of the marines, where he was busily employed in posting pickets and sentinels, and giving the necessary instructions to his men to cover the embarkation of the seamen, in a style that he conceived to be altogether military. The mass of the common prisoners, including the inferior domestics of the abbey, and the men of Borroughcliffe, were also held in the same place, under a suitable guard: but Colonel Howard and his companion, attended by the ladies and their own maids, had descended the rugged path to the beach, and were standing passively on the sands, when the intelligence that the boat waited for them was announced.

“Where is he?” asked Alice Dunscombe, turning her head, as if anxiously searching for some other than those around her.

“Where is who?” inquired Barnstable; “we are all here, and the boat waits.”

“And will he tear me — even me, from the home of my infancy! the land of my birth and my affections!”

“I know not of whom you speak, madam, but if it be of Mr. Griffith, he stands there, just without that cluster of seamen.”

Griffith, hearing himself thus named, approached the ladies, and, for the first time since leaving the abbey, addressed them: “I hope I am already understood,” he said, “and that it is unnecessary for me to say that no female here is a prisoner; though, should any choose to trust themselves on board our ship, I pledge them to the honor of an officer that they shall find themselves protected, and safe.”

“Then will I not go,” said Alice.

“It is not expected of you,” said Cecilia; “you have no ties to bind you to any here.” (The eyes of Alice were still wandering over the listeners.) “Go, then, Miss Alice, and be the mistress of St. Ruth, until my return; or,” she added, timidly, “until Colonel Howard may declare his pleasure.”

“I obey you, dear child; but the agent of Colonel Howard, at B —— , will undoubtedly, be authorized to take charge of his effects.”

While no one but his niece alluded to his will, the master of the abbey had found, in his resentment, a sufficient apology for his rigid demeanor; but he was far too well bred to bear, in silence, such a modest appeal to his wishes, from so fair and so loyal a subject as Alice Dunscombe.

“To relieve you, madam, and for no other reason, will I speak on this subject,” he said; “otherwise, I should leave the doors and windows of St. Ruth open, as a melancholy monument of rebellion, and seek my future compensation from the Crown, when the confiscated estates of the leaders of this accursed innovation on the rights of princes shall come to the hammer. But you, Miss Alice, are entitled to every consideration that a lady can expect from a gentleman. Be pleased, therefore, to write to my agent, and request him to seal up my papers, and transmit them to the office of his majesty’s Secretary of State. They breathe no treason, madam, and are entitled to official protection. The house, and most of the furniture, as you know, are the property of my landlord, who, in due time, will doubtless take charge of his own interest. I kiss your hand, Miss Alice, and I hope we shall yet meet at St. James’s — depend on it, madam, that the royal Charlotte shall yet honor your merits; I know she cannot but estimate your loyalty.”

“Here I was born, in humble obscurity — here I have lived, and here I hope to die in quiet,” returned the meek Alice; “if I have known any pleasure, in late years, beyond that which every Christian can find in our daily duties, it has been, my sweet friends, in your accidental society. — Such companions, in this remote corner of the kingdom, has been a boon too precious to be enjoyed without alloy, it seems; and I have now to exchange the past pleasure for present pain. Adieu! my young friend; let your trust be in Him, to whose eyes both prince and peasant, the European and the American, are alike, and we shall meet again, though it be neither in the island of Britain nor on your own wide continent.”

“That,” said Colonel Howard, advancing, and taking her hand with kindness, “that is the only disloyal sentiment I have ever heard fall from the lips of Miss Alice Dunscombe! Is it to be supposed that Heaven has established orders among men, and that it does not respect the works of its own formation! But adieu; no doubt, if time was allowed us for suitable explanations, we should find but little or no difference of opinion on this subject.”

Alice did not appear to consider the matter as worthy of further discussion at such a moment; for she gently returned the colonel’s leave-taking, and then gave her undivided attention to her female friends. Cecilia wept bitterly on the shoulder of her respected companion, giving vent to her regret at parting, and her excited feelings, at the same moment; and Katherine pressed to the side of Alice, with the kindliness prompted by her warm but truant heart, Their embraces were given and received in silence, and each of the young ladies moved towards the boat, as she withdrew herself from the arms of Miss Dunscombe. Colonel Howard would not precede his wards, neither would he assist them into the barge. That attention they received from Barnstable, who, after seeing the ladies and their attendants seated, turned to the gentlemen, and observed:

“The boat waits.”

“Well, Miss Alice,” said Borroughcliffe, in bitter irony, “you are entrusted by our excellent host with a message to his agent; will you do a similar service to me, and write a report to the commander of the district, and just tell him what a dolt — ay, use the plainest terms, and say what an ass one Captain Borroughcliffe has proved himself in this affair? You may throw in, by way of episode, that he has been playing bo-peep with a rebellious young lady from the Colonies, and, like a great boy, has had his head broken for his pains! Come, my worthy host, or rather fellow-prisoner, I follow you, as in duty bound.”

“Stay,” cried Griffith; “Captain Borroughcliffe does not embark in that boat.”

“Ha! sir; am I to be herded with the common men? Forget you that I have the honor to bear the commission of his Britannic Majesty, and that— “

“I forget nothing that a gentleman is bound to remember, Captain Borroughcliffe; among other things, I recollect the liberality of your treatment to myself, when a prisoner. The instant the safety of my command will justify such a step, not only you, but your men, shall be set at liberty.”

Borroughcliffe started in surprise, but his feelings were too much soured by the destruction of those visions of glory, in which he had been luxuriously indulging for the last day or two, to admit of his answering as became a man. He swallowed his emotions, therefore, by a violent effort, and walked along the beach, affecting to whistle a low but lively air.

“Well, then,” cried Barnstable, “all our captives are seated. The boat waits only for its officers!”

In his turn, Griffith walked away, in haughty silence, as if disdaining to hold communion with his former friend. Barnstable paused a moment, from a deference that long habit had created for his superior officer, and which was not to be shaken off by every burst of angry passion; but perceiving that the other had no intention to return, he ordered the seamen to raise the boat from the sand, and bear it bodily into the water. The command was instantly obeyed; and, by the time the young lieutenant was in his seat, the barge was floating in the still heavy though no longer dangerous surf, and the crew sprang into their places.

“Bear her off, boys!” he cried; “never mind a wet jacket. I’ve seen many a worthy fellow tumbling on this beach in a worse time than this! Now you have her head to sea; give way, my souls, give way.”

The seamen rose simultaneously at their oars, and by an united effort obtained the command of their boat; which, after making a few sudden ascents, and as many heavy pitches in the breakers, gained the smoother seas of the swelling ocean, and stemmed the waters in a direction for the place where the Alacrity was supposed to be in waiting.

CHAPTER XXXI.

“His only plot was this — that, much provoked.

He raised his vengeful arm against his country.”

Thomson.

Alice Duncombe remained on the sands, watching the dark spot that was soon hid amid the waves in the obscurity of night, and listening, with melancholy interest, to the regulated sounds of the oars, which were audible long after the boat had been blended with the gloomy outline of the eastern horizon. When all traces of her departed friends were to be found only in her own recollections, she slowly turned from the sea, and hastening to quit the bustling throng that were preparing for the embarkation of the rest of the party, she ascended the path that conducted her once more to the summit of those cliffs along which she had so often roved, gazing at the boundless element that washed their base, with sensations that might have been peculiar to her own situation.

The soldiers of Borroughcliffe, who were stationed at the head of the pass, respectfully made way; nor did any of the sentinels of Manual heed her retiring figure, until she approached the rear guard of the marines, who were commanded by their vigilant captain in person.

“Who goes there?” cried Manual, advancing without the dusky group of soldiers, as she approached them.

“One who possesses neither the power nor the inclination to do ye harm,” answered the solitary female; “’tis Alice Dunscombe, returning, by permission of your leader, to the place of her birth.”

“Ay,” muttered Manual, “this is one of Griffith’s unmilitary exhibitions of his politeness! Does the man think that there was ever a woman who had no tongue! Have you the countersign, madam, that I may know you bear a sufficient warrant to pass?”

“I have no other warrant besides my sex and weakness, unless Mr. Griffith’s knowledge that I have left him can be so considered.”

“The two former are enough,” said a voice, that proceeded from a figure which had hitherto stood unseen, shaded by the trunk of an oak that spread its wide but naked arms above the spot where the guard was paraded.

“Who have we here!” Manual again cried; “come in; yield, or you will be fired at.”

“What, will the gallant Captain Manual fire on his own rescuer!” said the Pilot, with cool disdain, as he advanced from the shadow of the tree. “He had better reserve his bullets for his enemies, than waste them on his friends.”

“You have done a dangerous deed, sir, in approaching, clandestinely, a guard of marines! I wonder that a man who has already discovered, to-night, that he has some knowledge of tactics, by so ably conducting a surprise, should betray so much ignorance in the forms of approaching a picket!”

“’Tis now of no moment,” returned the Pilot; “my knowledge and my ignorance are alike immaterial, as the command of the party is surrendered to other and perhaps more proper hands. But I would talk to this lady alone, sir; she is an acquaintance of my youth, and I will see her on her way to the abbey.”

“The step would be unmilitary, Mr. Pilot, and you will excuse me if I do not consent to any of our expedition straggling without the sentries. If you choose to remain here to hold your discourse, I will march the picket out of hearing; though I must acknowledge I see no ground so favorable as this we are on, to keep you within range of our eyes. You perceive that I have a ravine to retreat into in case of surprise, with this line of wall on my left flank and the trunk of that tree to cover my right. A very pretty stand might be made here, on emergency; for even the oldest troops fight the best when their flanks are properly covered, and a way to make a regular retreat is open in their rear.”

“Say no more, sir; I would not break up such a position on any account,” returned the Pilot; “the lady will consent to retrace her path for a short distance.”

Alice followed his steps, in compliance with this request, until he had led her to a place, at some little distance from the marines, where a tree had been prostrated by the late gale. She seated herself quietly on its trunk, and appeared to wait with patience his own time for the explanation of his motives in seeking the interview. The pilot paced for several minutes back and forth, in front of the place where she was seated, in profound silence, as if communing with himself; when suddenly throwing off his air of absence, he came to her side, and assumed a position similar to the one which she herself had taken.

“The hour is at hand, Alice, when we must part,” he at length commenced; “it rests with yourself whether it shall be forever.”

“Let it then be forever, John,” she returned, with a slight tremor in her voice.

“That word would have been less appalling had this accidental meeting never occurred. And yet your choice may have been determined by prudence — for what is there in my fate that can tempt a woman to wish that she might share it?”

“If ye mean your lot is that of one who can find but few, or even none, to partake of his joys, or to share in his sorrows — whose life is a continual scene of dangers and calamities, of disappointments and mishaps — then do ye know but little of the heart of woman, if ye doubt of either her ability or her willingness to meet them with the man of her choice.”

“Say you thus, Alice? then have I misunderstood your meaning or misinterpreted your acts. My lot is not altogether that of a neglected man, unless the favor of princes and the smiles of queens are allowed to go for nothing. My life is, however, one of many and fearful dangers; and yet it is not filled altogether with calamities and mishaps; is it, Alice?” He paused a moment, but in vain, for her answer. “Nay, then, I have been deceived in the estimation that the world has affixed to my combats and enterprises! I am not, Alice, the man I would be, or even the man I had deemed myself.”

“You have gained a name, John, among the warriors of the age,” she answered, in a subdued voice; “and it is a name that may be said to be written in blood!”

“The blood of my enemies, Alice!”

“The blood of the subjects of your natural prince! The blood of those who breathe the air you first breathed, and who were taught the same holy lessons of instruction that you were first taught; but, which, I fear, you have too soon forgotten!”

“The blood of the slaves of despotism!” he sternly interrupted her; “the blood of the enemies of freedom! You have dwelt so long in this dull retirement, and you have cherished so blindly the prejudices of your youth, that the promise of those noble sentiments I once thought I could see budding in Alice Dunscombe has not been fulfilled.