The Linwoods

by Catharine Maria Sedgwick

  “Lord Chatham has been removed to give place to the Marquis of Shelburne,” replied Sir Henry, with a sarcastic smile.

  “Shall I show you the marquis, then? The face of an enemy is not quite so agreeable as that of a friend, but I am sure Captain Lee will never shrink from either.”

  “This Captain Lee,” whispered Helen Ruthven to Meredith, “has a surprising faculty in converting enemies into friends—have a care lest he make friends enemies.”

  Unfortunately, Isabella’s tactics were baffled by a counter-movement. She was met at the door by the servant announcing dinner, and Eliot was obliged to resign her hand to Sir Henry, to fall behind the privileged guests entitled to precedence, and follow alone to the dining-room.

  There were no indications on Sir Henry’s table of the scarcity and dearness of provisions so bitterly complained of by the royalists who remained in the city. At whatever rate procured, Sir Henry’s dinner was sumptuous. Eliot compared it with the coarse and scanty fare of the American officers, and he felt an honest pride in being one among those who contracted for a glorious future, by the sacrifice of all animal and present indulgence.

  162Dish after dish was removed and replaced, and the viands were discussed, and the generous wines poured out, as if to eat and to drink were the chief business and joy of life. “A very pretty course of fish for the season,” said Major St. Clair, who sat near Eliot, passing his eye over the varieties on the table: “Pray, Captain Lee, have you a good fish-market at West Point?”

  “We are rather too far from the seaboard, sir, for such a luxury.”

  “Ah, yes—I forgot, pardon me; but you must have fine trout in those mountain-streams—a pretty resource at a station is trout-fishing.”

  “Yes, to idlers who need resources; but time, as the lady says in the play, ‘time travels in divers paces with divers persons’—it never ‘stays’ with us.”

  “You’ve other fish to fry—he! he!—very good—allow me to send you a bit of brandt, Captain Lee; do the brandt get up as far as the Highlands?”

  “I have never seen them there.”

  “Indeed!—but you have abundance of other game—wild geese, turkeys, teal, woodcock, snipe, broad-bills?”

  “We have none of these delicacies, sir.”

  “God bless me!—how do you live?”

  Eliot was pestered with this popinjay, and he answered, with a burst of pardonable pride, “I’ll tell you how we live, sir”—the earnest tone of his voice attracted attention—“we live on salt beef, brown bread, and beans, when we can get them; and when we cannot, some of us fast, and some share their horses’ messes.”

  “Bless me—how annoying!”

  “You may possibly have heard, sir,” resumed Eliot, “of the water that was miraculously sweetened, and of certain bread that came down from Heaven; and we, who live on this nutriment that excites your pity, and feel from day to day our 163resolution growing bolder and our hopes brighter, we fancy a real presence in the brown bread, and an inspiration in the water that wells up through the green turf of our native land.”

  There is a chord in the breast of every man that vibrates to a burst of true feeling—this vibration was felt in the silence that followed. It was first broken by Isabella Linwood’s delicious voice. She turned her eye, moistened with the emotion he had excited, towards Eliot; and filling a glass from a goblet of water, she pushed the goblet towards him, saying, “Ladies may pledge in the pure element—our native land! Captain Lee.”

  Eliot filled a bumper, and never did man drink a more intoxicating draught. Sir Henry looked tremendously solemn, Helen Ruthven exchanged glances with Meredith, and Mr. Linwood muttered between his teeth, “nonsense—d—d nonsense, Belle!”

  It must be confessed, that Miss Linwood violated the strict rules that governed her contemporaries. She was not a lady of saws and precedents. But if she sometimes too impulsively threw open the door of her heart, there was nothing there exposed that could stain her cheek with a blush. We would by no means recommend an imitation of her spontaneous actions. Those only can afford them to whom they are spontaneous.

  After the momentary excitement had passed, Eliot felt that he had perhaps been a little too heroic for the occasion. Awkward as the descent is from an assumed elevation, he effected it with grace, by falling into conversation with the major on sporting and fishing; in which he showed a science that commanded more respect from that gentleman, than if he had manifested all the virtues of all the patriots that ever lived, fasted, starved, and died for their respective countries.

  164It was hard for Eliot to play citizen of the world, while he saw Meredith courted, admired, and apparently happy, mapping out, at his own will, a brilliant career, and thought of his sister wasting the incense of her affections; no more to Meredith than a last summer’s flower. “He deserves not,” he thought indignantly, as his eye fell on Isabella, “the heart of this glorious creature—no man deserves; I almost wonder that any man should dare aspire to it.”

  When a man begins to be humble in relation to a woman, he is not very far from love; and absurd as Eliot would have deemed it to fall in love at first sight, and utterly absurd for him, at any time, to fall in love with Miss Linwood, it was most fortunate for him that he was suddenly taken from her presence, by a request from Sir Henry (who had just had a note put into his hands) that he would accompany him to his council-chamber. When there, he informed Eliot, that suspicions having been excited in relation to his attendant, a quest for him had been made at Mrs. Billings’s—but in vain. “Captain Lee must be aware,” he said, “that the disappearance of the man was a confirmation of the suspicions!”

  Eliot replied, that “he was not responsible for any suspicions that might be felt by the timid, or feigned by the ill-disposed.”

  “That may be, sir,” replied Sir Henry; “but we must make you responsible for the reappearance of the man—your flag cannot exempt you from this!”

  “As you please, sir,” replied Eliot, quite undaunted; “you must decide how far the privilege of my flag extends. You, sir, can appreciate the importance of not violating, in the smallest degree, the few humanities of war.”

  Sir Henry pondered for a moment before he asked, “Is there any thing in the character of your attendant which might betray him into an indiscretion?”

  165“I am an interested witness, Sir Henry; but if you do not choose to infer the character from the action, which certainly has been sufficiently indiscreet, give me leave to refer you to Mr. Meredith; he knew the poor lad in Massachusetts.”

  “But how can you identify him with this man?”

  “He saw this man to-day.”

  Meredith was summoned and questioned: “He had seen Captain Lee’s servant on Sir Henry’s door-step, and recognised him at the first glance—the dullest eye could mistake no other man for Kisel.”

  “Do me the favour, Mr. Meredith,” said Eliot, “to tell Sir Henry Clinton whether you think my man would be liable to a panic; for it appears that having overheard that he was under suspicion, he has fled.”

  “True to himself, Kisel! He would most assuredly fly at the slightest alarm. He is one of those helpless animals whose only defence is the instinct of cowardice. I have seen him run from the barking of a family dog, and the mewing of a house cat; and yet, for he is a curious compound, such is his extraordinary attachment to Captain Lee, that I believe he would stand at the cannon’s mouth for him. Poor fellow! his mind takes no durable impression; to attempt to make one is like attempting to form an image in sand; and yet, like this same sand, which, from the smelting furnace, appears in brilliant and defined forms, his thoughts, kindled in the fire of his affections, assume an expression and beauty that would astonish you; always in fragments, as if the mind had been shattered by some fatal jar.”

  Meredith spoke con amore. He was delighted with the opportunity of doing Eliot a grace; and Eliot, in listening to the sketch of his simple friend, had almost forgot the subterfuge that called it forth. He
was not, however, the less pleased at its success, when Sir Henry told him that his despatches and 166passports should be furnished in the course of the evening, and that no impediment would be thrown in the way of his departure.

  The three gentlemen then parted, Meredith expressing such animated regret at their brief meeting, that Eliot was on the point of reciprocating it, when the thought of his sister sealed his lips and clouded his brow. Meredith’s conscience rightly interpreted the sudden change of countenance; but his retained its cordial smile, and his hand abated nothing of its parting pressure.

  Again we must quote that most apposite sentence—“Truly, the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light.”

  167CHAPTER XIV.

  “Oh, my home,

  Mine own dear home.”

  While Eliot was enjoying the doubtful advantage of Sir Henry’s hospitality, Herbert Linwood, a fugitive in his native city, was seeking concealment in his father’s house. His ardent temperament, which had plunged him into this perplexity, did not qualify him to extricate himself from it. So far from not giving to any “unproportioned thought its act,” thought and action were simultaneous with him. His whole career had shown that discretion was no part of his valour. He never foresaw danger till he was in to the very lips; and, unfortunately, he manifested none of the facility at getting out that he did at getting in. In short, he was one of those reckless, precipitate, vivacious, kind, and whole-hearted young fellows, who are very dear and very troublesome to their friends.

  After leaving Sir Henry Clinton’s, he turned into a lane leading from Broadway to Broad-street, and affording a side-entrance to his father’s premises. As he was about to turn into his father’s gateway, he saw a man enter the lane from Broad-street, and for once cautious, he continued his walk. He fancied the stranger eyed him suspiciously. As he turned into Broad-street the man also turned into Broadway, and Herbert eagerly retraced his steps; but as he entered his father’s gate he had the mortification to see the man repass the upper 168corner of the street, and to believe that he was observed by him. He was once more on his father’s premises. His heart throbbed. The kitchen-door was half open, and through the aperture he saw Rose, who he was sure would joyfully admit him into the garrison if he could open a communication with her; but there were obstacles in the way. Jupiter, whom Isabella had warned him not to trust, was, according to his custom of filling up all the little interludes of life, eating at a side-table. Beside him sat Mars on his hind-legs, patiently waiting the chance mouthfuls that Jupe threw to him. Mars was an old house-dog, an enfant gaté, petted by all the family, and pampered by Jupe. An acquaintance of Jupiter’s had dropped in for an afternoon’s lounge; and Rose, who had a natural antipathy to loungers of every degree, was driving round with a broom in her hand, giving with this staff of office the most expressive intimations that his presence was unwelcome.

  We must be permitted to interrupt our narrative, and recede some nine or ten years, to record the most remarkable circumstance in Rose’s life. She was a slave, and most faithful and efficient. Slaves at that period were almost the only servants in the province of New-York; and Rose, in common with many others, filled the office of nurse. Gifts and favours of every description testified her owner’s sense of her value. On one memorable New-year’s day, when Isabella was a child of eight years, she presented Rose a changeable silk dress. It was a fine affair, and Rose was pleased and grateful.

  “Now,” said Isabella, “you are as grand and as happy as any lady in the land—are you not, Rose?”

  “Happy!” echoed Rose, her countenance changing; “I may seem so; but since I came to a thinking age, I never have had one happy hour or minute, Miss Belle.”

  “Oh, Rose, Rose! why not, for pity’s sake?”

  “I am a slave.”

  169“Pshaw, Rosy, dear! is that all?—I thought you was in earnest.” She perceived Rose was indeed in earnest; and she added, in an expostulating tone, “Are not papa and mamma ever so kind to you? and do not Herbert and I love you next best to them?”

  “Yes, and that lightens the yoke; but still it is a yoke, and it galls. I can be bought and sold like the cattle. I would die to-morrow to be free to-day. Oh, free breath is good—free breath is good!” She uttered this with closed teeth and tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Tears on Rose’s cheeks! Isabella could not resist them, and pouring down a shower from her own bright eyes, she exclaimed, “You shall be free, Rose,” and flew to appeal to her father. Her father kissed her, called her “the best little girl in the world,” and laughed at her suit.

  “Rose is a fool,” he said; “she had reason to complain when she lived with her old mistress, who used to cuff her; but now she was free in every thing but the name—far better off than nine tenths of the people in the world.” This sophistry silenced, but did not satisfy Isabella. The spirit of truth and independence in her own mind responded to the cravings of Rose’s, and the thrilling tone in which those words were spoken, “it is a yoke, and it galls,” continued to ring in her ears.

  Soon after, a prize was promised in Isabella’s school for the best French scholar. She was sadly behind-hand in the studies that require patient application; and her father, who was proud of her talents, was often vexed that she did not demonstrate them to others. “Now, Belle,” he said, “if you will but win this prize, I’ll give you any thing you’ll ask of me.”

  “Any thing, papa?”

  “Yes—any thing.”

  “You promise for fair, sir?”

  170“You gipsy! yes.”

  “Then write it down, please; for I have heard you say, papa, that no bargain is good in law that is not written down.”

  Mr. Linwood wrote, signed, and sealed a fair contract. Isabella set to work. The race was a hard one. Her competitors were older than herself, and farther advanced in the language; but a mind like hers, with motive strong enough to call forth all its energy, was unconquerable. Every day and evening found her with increasing vigour at her tasks. Her mother remonstrated, Herbert teased and ridiculed, and Rose fretted. “What signified it,” she asked, “for Miss Belle to waste her rosy cheeks and pretty flesh over books, when, without book-learning, she was ten times brighter than other girls?” Still Isabella, hitherto a most desultory creature in her habits, and quitting her tasks at the slightest temptation, persevered like a Newton; and like all great spirits, she shaped destiny. The prize was hers.

  “Now, Belle,” said her father, elated with the compliments that poured in upon him, “I will fulfil my part of the contract honourably, as you have done yours. What shall it be, my child?”

  “Rose’s freedom, papa.”

  “By Christopher Columbus (his favourite oath when he was pleased), you shall have it; and in half an hour you shall give her, with your own hand, Belle, the deed of manumission.”

  “Could we but find the right sort of stimulus,” he afterward said to his wife, “we might make Belle a great scholar.” But the “right sort of stimulus” was not easily found; and Isabella soon recovered her “rosy cheeks and pretty flesh.” Her mind fortunately resembled those rich soils, where every chance sunbeam and passing shower brings forth some beautiful production. Her schoolmates studied, plodded, and wondered they did not know half as much, and were never half as 171agreeable, as Isabella Linwood. Human skill and labour can do much, but Heaven’s gifts are inimitable.

  Rose’s outward condition was in no wise changed, but her mind was freed from galling shackles by the restoration of her natural rights, and she now enjoyed the voluntary service she rendered.

  We return from our digression. Herbert perceived, from a glance at the dramatis personæ that occupied the scene, that it was no time for him to enter; and slouching his cap over his face, he seated himself on the door-step, and whittled a stick, listening, with what patience he could muster, to the colloquy within.

  “’Pon my honour, Mr. Linwood” (the slaves were in the habit of addressing on
e another by the names or titles of their masters), “’pon my honour, Mr. Linwood, you were in a ’dicament this morning,” said Jupiter’s friend.

  “Just ’scaped with my life, gin’ral.”

  “That’s always safe,” muttered Rose, “that nobody would cry for if it were lost.”

  “That’s not the case with Mr. Linwood,” resumed the general, “for Miss Phillis, in patic’lar, turned as white as any lily when he stood by that kicking horse.”

  “It was a ’markable ’liv’rance, and I’ll tell you how it happened, only don’t tell anybody but Miss Phillis, with my ’spects. Just as Jennet had stopped one bout of kicking, and was ready to begin again, I heard an apparition of a voice crying out ‘softly, softly Jennet, softly,’ and ’pon my honour she stood stock still, trembling like a leaf—do you surmise who it was?”

  “Miss Isabella, to be sure, you fool,” said Rose.

  “No such ting, Rose, I was as calm as—”

  “A scared turkey, Jupe.”

  ‘I say I was as calm as them tongs, and there was nobody near the horse but that rebel officer when I heard the apparition. 172As true as you sit there, general, it was Mr. Herbert’s voice that quieted Jennet. I’ll lay the next news we hear will be his death—poor ’guided young man!”

  “’Tis a pity,” replied the believing general, “to cut him off ’fore he’s a shock of wheat; but then the rebels must die first or last, as they desarve, for trying to drive off the reg’lars. Pretty times we should have in New-York if they were gone: no balls, no races, no t’eatres, no music, no cast-off rigimentals, for your lawyers and traders ant genteel that way, Mr. Linwood.”

  “Very true, gin’ral. Here’s ’fusion to the rebels!” and he passed his cup of cider to his compatriot.