“I believe—that is I think, it is all as you say,” returned Cecil, still looking about her with a vacant air that curdled his blood; “yes—we are certainly married; and Oh! how ardently do I implore Him who sees and governs all things, that our union may be blessed! but”—
“But what, Cecil? will you let a thing of naught—a shadow affect you?”
“’Twas a shadow, as you say, Lincoln; but where was the substance!”
“Cecil, my sensible, my good, my pious Cecil, why do your faculties slumber in this unaccountable apathy! Ask your own excellent reason: can there be a shade where nothing obstructs the light?”
“I know not. I cannot reason—I have not reason. All things are possible to Him whose will is law, and whose slightest wish shakes the universe. There was a shadow, a dark, a speaking, and a terrible shadow; but who can say where was the reality?”
“I had almost answered, with the phantom, in your own sensitive imagination, love. But arouse your slumbering powers, Cecil, and reflect how possible it was for some curious idler of the garrison to have watched my movements, and to have secreted himself in the chapel; perhaps from mischief—perhaps without motive of any kind.”
“He chose an awful moment to act his gambols!”
“It may have been one whose knowledge was just equal to giving a theatrical effect to his silly deception. But are we to be cheated of our happiness by so weak a device; or to be miserable because Boston contains a fool!”
“I may be weak, and silly, and even impious in this terror, Lincoln,” she said, turning her softened looks upon his anxious face, and attempting to smile; “but it is assailing a woman in a point where she is most sensitive.—You know that I can have no reserve with you, now. Marriage with us is the tie that ‘binds all charities in one,’ and at the moment when the heart is full of its own security, is it not dreadful to have such mysterious presages, be they true, or be they false, answering to the awful appeal of the church!”
“Nor is the tie less binding, less important, or less dear, my own Cecil, to us. Believe me, whatever the pride of manhood may say, of high destinies, and glorious deeds, the same affections are seated in our nature, and must be soothed by those we love, and not by those who contribute to our vanity. Why, then, permit this chill to blight your best affections in their budding?”
There was so much that was soothing to the anxiety of a bride, in his sentiments, and so much of tender interest in his manner, that he at length succeeded, in luring Cecil from her feverish apprehensions. As he spoke, a mantling bloom diffused itself over her cold and pallid cheeks, and when he had done, her eyes lighted with the glow of confidence, and were turned on his own in bright, but blushing pleasure. She repeated his word ‘chill,’ with an emphasis that could not be misconstrued, and in a few minutes he entirely succeeded in quelling the uneasy presentiments that had gained a momentary ascendency over her excellent faculties.
But notwithstanding Major Lincoln reasoned so well, and with so much success, against the infirmity of his bride, he was by no means equal to maintain as just an argument with himself. The morbid sensibility of his mind had been awakened in a most alarming manner by the occurrences of the evening, though his warm interest in the happiness of Cecil had enabled him to smother them, so long as he witnessed the extent and nature of her apprehensions. But, exactly in the proportion as he persuaded her into forgetfulness of the past, his own recollections became more vivid and keen; and, notwithstanding his art, he might not have been able to conceal the workings of his troubled thoughts from his companion, had not Agnes appeared, and announced the desire of Mrs. Lechmere to receive the bride and bridegroom in her chamber.
“Come, Lincoln,” said his lovely companion, rising at the summons, “we have been selfish in forgetting how strongly my grandmother sympathizes in our fortunes. We should have discharged this duty without waiting to be reminded of it.”
Without making any other reply than a fond pressure of the hand, Lionel drew her arm through his own, and followed Agnes into the little hall which conducted to the upper part of the dwelling.
“You know the way, Major Lincoln,” said Miss Danforth; “should you not, my lady bride can show you. I must go and cast a worldly eye on the little banquet I have ordered, but which I fear will be labour thrown away, since captain Polwarth has disdained to exhibit his prowess at the board. Truly, Major Lincoln, I marvel that a man of so much substance as your friend, should be frightened from his stomach by a shadow!”
Cecil even laughed, and in those sweet feminine tones that are infectious, at the humour of her cousin; but the anxious expression that gathered round the brow of her husband checked her mirth.
“Let us ascend, Lincoln,” she said, instantly, “and leave mad Agnes to her household cares, and her folly.”
“Ay, go,” cried the other, turning away towards the supper-room—“eating and drinking is not etherial enough for your elevated happiness; would I had a repast worthy of these sentimental enjoyments! Let me see—dew drops and lovers tears, in equal quantities, sweetened by Cupid’s smiles, with a dish of sighs, drawn by moonlight, for piquancy, as Polwarth would say, would flavour a bowl to their tastes. The dew drops might be difficult to procure, at this inclement season, and in such a night; but if sighs and tears would serve alone, poor Boston is rich enough in materials!”
Lionel, and his half-blushing, half-smiling companion, heard the dying sounds of her voice, as she entered the distant apartment, expressing its mingled pleasantry and spleen, and in the next instant they forgot both Agnes and her humour, as they found themselves in the presence of Mrs. Lechmere.
The first glance of his eye at their relative, brought a painful throb to the heart of Major Lincoln. Mrs. Lechmere had caused herself to be raised in bed, in which she was seated nearly upright, supported by pillows. Her wrinkled and emaciated cheeks were flushed with an unnatural colour, that contrasted too violently with the marks which age and strong passions had impressed, with indelible fingers, on the surrounding wreck of those features, which had once been distinguished for great, if not attractive beauty. Her hard eyes had lost their ordinary expression of worldly care, in a brightness which caused them rather to glare than beam, with flashes of satisfaction that could no longer be repressed. In short, her whole appearance brought a startling conviction to the mind of the young man, that whatever might have been the ardour of his own feelings in espousing her grand-child, he had at length realized the fondest desires of a being so worldly, so designing, and, as he was now made keenly to remember, of one, also, who he had much reason to apprehend, was so guilty. The invalid did not seem to think a concealment of her exultation any longer necessary, for stretching out her arms, she called to her child, in a voice raised above its natural tones, and which was dissonant and harsh from a sort of unholy triumph—
“Come to my arms, my pride, my hope, my dutiful, my deserving daughter! Come and receive a parent’s blessing; that blessing which you so much deserve!”
Even Cecil, warm and consoling as was the language of her grandmother, hesitated an instant at the unnatural voice in which the summons was uttered, and she advanced to meet the embrace with a manner less warm than was usual to her own ardent and unsuspecting nature. This secret restraint existed, however, but for a moment; for when she felt the encircling arms of Mrs. Lechmere pressing her warmly to her bosom, she looked up into the face of her grandmother, as if to thank her for so much affection, by her own guileless smiles and tears.
“Here, then, Major Lincoln, you possess my greatest, I had almost said my only treasure!” added Mrs. Lechmere—“she is a good, a gentle, and dutiful child; and heaven will bless her for it, as I do.” Leaning forward, she continued, in a less excited voice—“Kiss me, my Cecil, my bride, my Lady Lincoln! for by that loved title I may now call you, as yours, in the course of nature, it soon will be.”
Cecil, shocked at the unguarded exultation
of her grandmother, gently withdrew herself from her arms, and with eyes bent to the floor in shame, and burning cheeks, she willingly moved aside to allow Lionel to approach, and receive his share of the congratulations. He stooped to bestow the cold and reluctant kiss, which the offered cheek of Mrs. Lechmere invited, and muttered a few incoherent words concerning his present happiness, and the obligation she had conferred. Notwithstanding the high and disgusting triumph which had broken through the usually cold and cautious manner of the invalid, a powerful and unbidden touch of nature mingled in her address to the bridegroom. The fiery and unnatural glow of her eyes even softened with a tear, as she spoke—
“Lionel, my nephew, my son,” she said—“I have endeavoured to receive you in a manner worthy of the head of an ancient and honourable name; but were you a sovereign prince, I have now done my last and best in your favour!—Cherish her—love her—be more than husband—be all of kin to the precious child, for she merits all! Now is my latest wish fulfilled!—Now may I prepare myself for the last great change, in the quiet of a long and tranquil evening to the weary and troublesome day of life!”
“Woman!” said a tremendous voice in the back ground—“thou deceivest thyself!”
“Who,” exclaimed Mrs. Lechmere, raising her body with a convulsive start, as if about to leap from the bed—“who speaks!”
“’Tis I”—returned the well-remembered tones of Ralph, as he advanced from the door to the foot of the bed—“I, Priscilla Lechmere; one who knows thy merits and thy doom!”
The appalled woman fell back on her pillows, gasping for breath, the flush of her cheeks giving place to the signs of age and disease, and her eye losing its exultation in the glazed look of terror. It would seem, however, that a single moment of reflection was sufficient to restore her spirit, and with it, all her deep resentments. She motioned the intruder away, by a violent gesture of the hand, and after an effort to command utterance, she said, in a voice rendered doubly strong by overwhelming passion—
“Why am I braved, at such a moment, in the privacy of my sick chamber! Have that madman, or impostor, whichever he may be, removed from my presence!”
She uttered the request to deadened ears. Lionel neither moved nor answered. His whole attention was given to Ralph, across whose hollow features a smile of calm indifference passed, which denoted how little he regarded the threatened violence. Even Cecil, who clung to the arm of Lionel, with a woman’s dependance on him she loved, was unnoticed by the latter, in the absorbing interest he took in the sudden reappearance of one whose singular and mysterious character had, long since, raised such hopes and fears in his own bosom.
“Your doors will shortly be open to all who may choose to visit here,” the old man coldly answered; “why should I be driven from a dwelling where heartless crowds shall so soon enter and depart at will! Am I not old enough; or do I not bear enough of the aspect of the grave to become your companion? Priscilla Lechmere, you have lived till the bloom of your cheeks has given place to the colour of the dead; your dimples have become furrowed and wrinkled lines; and the beams of your bright eye, have altered to the look of care—but you have not yet lived for repentance!”
“What manner of language is this!” cried his listener, inwardly shrinking before his steady, but glowing look. “Why am I singled from the world for this persecution? are my sins past bearing; or am I alone to be reminded that sooner or later, age and death will come!—I have long known the infirmities of life, and may truly say that I am prepared for their final consequences.”
“’Tis well,” returned the unmoved and apparently immoveable intruder—“take, then, and read the solemn decree of thy God; and may He grant thee firmness to justify so much confidence.”
As he spoke, he extended, in his withered hand, an open letter towards Mrs. Lechmere, which the quick glance of Lionel told him bore his own name in the superscription. Notwithstanding the gross invasion of his rights, the young man was passive under the detection of this, the second, gross interference of the other in his most secret matters, watching with eager interest the effect the strange communication would produce on his aunt.
Mrs. Lechmere took the letter from the stranger with a sort of charmed submission, which denoted how completely his manner had bent her to his will. The instant her look fell on the contents, it became fixed and wild. The note was, however, short, and the scrutiny soon ended. Still she grasped it with an extended arm, though the vacant expression of her countenance betrayed that it was held before an insensible eye. A moment of silent and breathless wonder followed. It was succeeded by a shudder which passed through the whole frame of the invalid, her limbs shaking violently, until the rattling of the folds of the paper was audible in the most distant corner of the apartment.
“This bears my name,” cried Lionel, shocked at her emotions, and taking the paper from her unresisting hand, “and should first have met my eye.”
“Aloud—aloud, dear Lionel,” said a faint but earnest whisper at his elbow; “aloud, I implore you, aloud!”
It was not, perhaps, so much in compliance with this affecting appeal, in which the whole soul of Cecil seemed wrapped, as by yielding to the overwhelming flow of that excitement to which he had been aroused, that Major Lincoln was led to conform to her request. In a voice rendered desperately calm by his emotions, he uttered the fatal contents of the note, in tones so distinct, that they sounded to his wife, in the stillness of the place, like the prophetic warnings of one from the dead:
“The state of the town has prevented that close attention to the case of Mrs. Lechmere, which her injuries rendered necessary. An inward mortification has taken place, and her present ease is only the forerunner of death. I feel it my duty to say, that though she may live many hours, it is not improbable that she will die to-night.”
To this short, but terrible annunciation, was placed the well-known signature of the attending physician. Here was a change, indeed! All had thought that the disease had given way, when it seemed it had been preying insidiously on the vitals of the sick. Dropping the note, Lionel exclaimed aloud, in the suddenness of his surprise—
“Die to night! This is an unexpected summons, indeed!”
The miserable woman, after the first nerveless moment of dismay, turned her looks anxiously from face to face, and listened intently to the words of the note, as they fell from the lips of Lionel, like one eager to detect the glimmerings of hope in the alarmed expression of their countenances. But the language of her physician was too plain, direct, and positive to be misunderstood or perverted. Its very coldness gave it a terrific character of truth.
“Do you then credit it?” she asked in a voice whose husky tones betrayed but too plainly her abject unwillingness to be assured. “You! Lionel Lincoln, whom I had thought my friend!”
Lionel turned away silently from the sad spectacle of her misery; but Cecil dropped on her knees at the bed-side, and clasping her hands, she elevated them, a beautiful picture of pious hope, as she murmured—
“He is no friend, dearest grandmother, who would lay flattery to a parting soul! But there is a better and a safer dependence than all this world can offer!”
“And you, too!” cried the devoted woman, rousing herself with a strength and energy that would seem to put the professional knowledge of her medical attendant at defiance—“do you also abandon me! You whom I have watched in infancy, nursed in suffering, fondled in happiness, ay! and reared in virtue—yes, that I can say boldly in the face of the universe! You, whom I have brought to this honourable marriage; would you repay me for all, by black ingratitude!”
“My grandmother! my grandmother! talk not thus cruelly to your child! But lean on the rock of ages for support, even as I have leaned on thee!”
“Away—away—weak, foolish child! Excess of happiness has maddened thee! Come hither, my son; let us speak of Ravenscliffe, the seat of our ancestors; and of those days we are
yet to pass under its hospitable roofs. The silly girl thou hast wived would wish to frighten me!”
Lionel shuddered with horror while he listened to the forced and broken intonations of her voice, as she thus uttered the lingering wishes of her nature. He turned again from the view, and, for a moment, buried his face in his hands, as if to exclude the world and its wickedness, together, from his sight.
“My grandmother, look not so wildly at us!” continued the gasping Cecil—“you may have yet hours, nay, days before you.” She paused an instant to follow the unsettled and hopeless gaze of an eye that gleamed despairingly on the objects of the room, and then, with meek dependence on her own purity, dropping her face between her hands, she cried in her agony—
“My mother’s mother! Would that I could die for thee!”
“Die!” echoed the same dissonant voice as before, from a throat that already began to rattle with the hastened approaches of death—“who would die amid the festivities of a bridal!—Away—leave me.—To thy closet, and thy knees, if thou wilt—but leave me.”
She watched, with bitter resentment, the retiring form of Cecil, who obeyed with the charitable and pious intention of complying literally with her grandmother’s order, before she added—
“The girl is not equal to the task I had set her! All of my race have been weak, but I—my daughter—my husband’s niece”—
“What of that niece!” said the startling voice of Ralph, interrupting the diseased wanderings of her mind—“that wife of thy nephew—the mother of this youth? Speak, woman, while time and reason are granted.”
Lionel now advanced to her bed-side, under an impulse that he could no longer subdue, and addressed her solemnly—
“If thou knowest aught of the dreadful calamity that has befallen my family,” he said, “or in any manner hast been accessary to its cause, disburthen thy soul, and die in peace. Sister of my grandfather! nay, more, mother of my wife! I conjure thee, speak—what of my injured mother?”
James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels Page 81
