The Linwoods

by Catharine Maria Sedgwick

  Herbert confessed he had forgotten the little he knew. “Well, then, you may brood over your Yankee paper, and we will call in your mother, who, in five-and-twenty years’ drilling, has learned just enough not to trump her partner’s tricks.”

  Mrs. Linwood was summoned, and the party formed. Mr. Linwood was in high good-humour, and though Isabella made some inscrutable plays, all went smoothly till the family party was alarmed by a tap at the door; and before any one had time to reply to it, the door was opened, and Lady Anne Seton appeared. Startled by the appearance of a stranger, and somewhat disconcerted by perceiving the embarrassment caused by her intrusion, “Shall I go back?” she asked, her hand still on the door.

  “Oh, no—no,” cried Mr. Linwood, “come in, my dear little girl, by all means; you promised me a game of piquet, and I, an old savage, forgot it, and so I have forfeited my right, and now make it over to this young man, my son Herbert.” Lady Anne turned a surprised, sparkling, and inquiring glance to Herbert, as much as to say, “Is it possible!” and Herbert made his bow of presentation. “You know,” continued the father, “that this young man is in limbo; but you 309do not know, and be sure you let no one else know, that Sir Henry, God bless him! permits the rascal to visit us privately.”

  “Am I really trusted with an important secret?—delightful!—and does any thing depend on my keeping it?”

  “The continuance of my brother’s visits and Sir Henry’s favour,” replied Isabella, emphatically, alarmed at the necessity of confiding their secret to one so gay and inexperienced as Lady Anne.

  Inexperienced she was, but true and single-hearted. “Do not look so solemn, my dear Miss Linwood,” she said; “indeed I will not tell. I am too much puffed up with the first important secret I ever had in my keeping to part with it carelessly. I am even with aunt and Jasper now, with their everlasting private talks; and when it is stupid at home, I may come here, may I not?”

  “Always,” interposed Mr. Linwood, really delighted with the accession of the charming girl to their circle. Mrs. Linwood, who only waited for her husband to strike the key-note, was voluble in her hospitable expressions. Herbert looked the most unequivocal welcome; and Lady Anne, never querulous, did not trouble herself about Isabella’s merely civil assent, and perhaps did not notice it. From this time her visits were almost as regular as Herbert’s. She was little addicted to romance; but every young girl has a spice of it, and Herbert’s romantic and precarious position increased the charm of his frank and spirited character. A dear lover of sunshine was Herbert; and these short domestic interludes, brightened by Lady Anne, were hours in paradise to him. All day in his gloomy prison he looked forward to his release from purgatory; and, once engaged at a side-table with his lively partner in the most fascinating of all tête-à-tête games, or round the petit-souper, which his good mother spent the day in contriving and concocting, he forgot the ills of life, till the summons 310from his keeper reminded him that he had still to buffet with his portion of them.

  “If I do not mistake,” said Mrs. Archer to Isabella, after the breaking up of one of their evening meetings, “Herbert and Lady Anne are beginning to see visions, and dream dreams.”

  “Heaven forbid!”

  “And why, my dear Belle, should Heaven forbid so natural and pleasant a consequence of their familiar intercourse?”

  “How can you ask, aunt Mary? I could not forgive Herbert if he were so soon to forget poor Bessie.”

  “We must take man as he is, Belle. Herbert is too lighthearted to cherish a hopeless passion; he regards his love for Bessie Lee as a dream, and, rely on it, he is thoroughly awakened from it. You must have perceived that he has not been desperately afflicted about your unfortunate little friend?”

  “Yes, I have—but men do not show their feelings.”

  “Some men do not, but Herbert does; and rely on it, Belle, he is not of a temper to continue to love a person (even if poor little Bessie were not, as she must now be, utterly lost to him) whose heart is another’s.”

  “I suppose you are right, aunt Mary,” replied Isabella, after a moment’s hesitation, colouring deeply; “the whole sex are alike incapable of the generosity of unrequited affection!” Unacknowledged was her mental reading of unrequited.

  “Substitute folly or weakness for generosity, Belle, and you will take a more masculine, and, it may be, a more rational view of the case.”

  “Oh, aunt Mary, are you, like the rest of the world, giving up all feeling for what you call rationality!”

  “No, my dear child, but I have learned that what you call feeling, what constitutes the dream of a few weeks, months, or it may be years of youth, makes but a small portion of the reality or the worth of life. Providence has kindly so organized 311man, that he cannot waste his affections in one hopeless, fruitless concentration; nor lose life in a tissue of vain regrets. The stream that is obstructed in one course will take another, and enrich and beautify regions for which it did not, at first, seem destined.”

  Isabella was not just now in a humour to assent to Mrs. Archer’s conclusions, but her mind was the good ground in which the seed could not be lost. She was conscious that, though her aunt’s strictures were ostensibly directed to Herbert, they had some bearing on herself. She was in a position the most tormenting to a mind prompt both to decide and act. Since Lady Anne’s arrival she had rarely seen Meredith. This she admitted was in part her own fault. She had been restrained by her promise to Sir Henry Clinton from communicating to Jasper the favour granted Herbert. “But when she gave the promise to Sir Henry, ought she not to have excepted Jasper? Was it not due to him? and would she not have made the exception, through all the blushing and faltering it must have cost her, had she not felt sure that Sir Henry himself would have made Meredith a party to the secret?”

  Sir Henry, after a little reflection, was ashamed of the spell that had been wrought on him, and communicated it to no one.

  Meredith, partly spurred by pride, partly led on by the incessant manœuvres of his mother, and partly incited by the worldly advantages of an alliance with Lady Anne, and flattered too by his cousin’s frank and affectionate manner, was fast verging towards that point, to attain which his mother had compassed sea and land.

  He had confidently expected that Isabella would at once and fully have reciprocated his declarations of attachment. Her reserve had abased his pride, piqued his vanity, and disappointed his affection. He believed he truly loved her, and he did, as truly as he could love. But Jasper Meredith’s love, 312like water that rises through minerals, was impregnated with much foreign material. He at first had no formed purpose in his devotion to Lady Anne; but after being twice or thrice repulsed from Mr. Linwood’s door by “My master is better, sir but not yet down stairs;” and “Miss Isabella is very much engaged,” he half resolved no longer to resist the “tide in his affairs that was leading on to fortune.”

  313CHAPTER XXVII.

  “Some die of weariness,

  Some of disease, and some insanity,

  And some of withered or of broken hearts;

  For this last is a malady which slays

  More than are numbered in the lists of fate,

  Taking all shapes, and bearing many names.”

  —BYRON.

  Bessie Lee’s sylvan lodge harmonized so well with her wild fancies, that when she awoke it seemed no more strange to her than her accustomed sleeping-place. Whatever she might be destined afterward to suffer from this exposure on the damp earth through a cold autumnal night, she was as unconscious of the ills that flesh is heir to as if she were a disimbodied spirit. “Sluggard that I am!” she exclaimed, starting up and shaking off the heavy dew-drops, “the spirits of morning are at worship, and I sleeping! the birds are singing their hymns, and I, that have been watched and guarded, am silent.” She leaned her cheek on the mossy stem of a tree, and began to repeat the Lord’s prayer: “‘Our father’—ay, nature worships with me—beautiful waterfall, majestic trees, glad light, is he
not our father?—‘hallowed be his name,’—ye hallow his name, for ye are the manifestations of his wisdom, the ministers of his love, the shadows of celestial beauty!—‘thy kingdom come’—it is come here—obedience, peace, serenity, are his kingdom—war is not—care is not—love is not—love to fallible mortals, 314for there no peace is—so I will on my pilgrimage, and break the last link in the chain—then will I return here, finish my prayer, and lay me down and rest again.”

  Thus mingling with her celestial meditations one earthly purpose, she retraced her way to the road, and looked about in vain for her horse, who, having obeyed his rational impulses, was now far on his way homeward. “It was not kind of you, Steady,” she said, as she came to the conclusion he had abandoned her; but without one thought of relinquishing her purpose, or one doubt of her ability to effect it. She walked on for about half a mile, and probably began to have some obscure sense of tremulousness and weakness, for, seeing a horse equipped with saddle and bridle hitched to the fence, and a basket standing by him containing biscuits and apples, she laughed aloud, exclaiming, “Who would have thought it!” and then checking herself, raised her eyes devoutly and added, “yet, I might have known they would be provided by the wayside, just when I wanted them. I wonder there is not a woman’s saddle, but I can manage;” and taking the basket in one hand, she mounted, and rode briskly on. She proceeded without any hinderance or molestation whatever, now and then, probably, from an insupportable feeling of weariness, dismounting and lying for a moment under the shadow of a tree. It was about the middle of the afternoon, when she was entering the street of a little village, that she heard behind her the trampling of horses on the full gallop, and outcries of “Stop thief!” Her horse, incited more by the uproar at his heels than by any impulse she was able to give him, sprang forward. The people rushed from their houses—their screams bewildered her. She gazed fearfully around her; her wearied horse soon slackened his speed, and one of her pursuers reached her just at the moment that, having dropped the bridle from her powerless hand, she was falling from her saddle. “Time you was spent, young madam,” cried her 315rough assistant, as, supporting half her weight, he prevented her sinking to the ground.

  The people of the village, chiefly women and children, gathered around, all gazing on Bessie with scrutinizing glances. Her wandering eye and blanched cheek must have half told her story, for not one of them spoke till she, drawing up from the arm that supported her, asked, with an air of offended dignity, “Why are ye so unmannerly to me?”

  “Ha, ha—not quite so topping, miss—serve your writ, Mr. Sheriff,” replied one of her pursuers. “Pretty high, to talk about manners, when you’ve been riding fifty miles on a stolen horse.”

  “Stolen!” echoed Bessie, “indeed, I did not steal him.”

  “How upon ’arth did you get him then? answer that.”

  “I took him—” the standers-by interrupted her with a coarse laugh; but Bessie, without heeding them, proceeded: “I took him, where he stood awaiting me.”

  “Now, if that is not a high joke! Just hear me, good people—the sheriff can swear to all I say. This is Squire Saunders’s horse—you have all heard of the squire?” They had all heard of Squire Saunders, whose fame rayed through a large circle. “Well, the squire rode up to his wood-lot this morning, to see about a trespass that’s committing there—you know, sheriff; and the squire just hitched his horse to the fence, and went up into the woods, and got out of his reckoning; and two hours after, when he came upon the road—”

  “Take care of that poor young woman,” cried a benevolent looking man who was passing in an oxcart, “don’t you see she can’t stand?”

  “I am tired,” said Bessie, sinking to the ground, and putting her hand to her head; “this noise tires me.”

  The spectators exchanged glances of inquiry and pity; the sheriff looked compassionate; his companion sturdy, and resolved not to be taken in. The man of the ox-cart stopped his 316vehicle, and joined the group: “Are ye all blind and deaf,” he added, “that ye do not see the poor girl’s mind is unsettled?”

  “Oh no, friend,” said Bessie, shaking her head, and looking up with a faint smile, “you are very much mistaken—my mind is not the least unsettled—indeed, it every day becomes stronger and more capable than it was.”

  Her champion looked to the standers-by for their assent to this confirmation of his opinion, and then turning to the sheriff, said, “You will not, I am sure, trouble her farther?”

  “No, I’ll be hanged if I do!”

  “Nor you?” appealing to the sheriff’s attendant.

  “I don’t know—if I were sure—I don’t like to be outwitted—remember, sheriff, it was for horse and thief the squire offered the reward.”

  “The devil take the reward, Dan!”

  “You may say so—for you that’s got an office can afford it, but I’m a volunteer. But since you all take on so about it, if you’re a mind to contribute and pay something towards my expenses and trouble and so on, I’ll trust to the squire for the rest.”

  “I have not one copper to pay,” said Bessie’s friend.

  “Pay! is that all he wants!” asked Bessie, thrusting her hand into her pocket, and giving into his greedy grasp her few coins; “perhaps it was meant,” she added, in a confidential tone to her champion, “that I should pay for the use of the horse, but I know he was provided for me. Are you satisfied?” she asked, in a tone to pierce the heart; “indeed, I have given you all.”

  “He shall be satisfied—he must be satisfied!” cried every voice at once; and the man, perceiving the general sentiment was against him, was glad to mount his horse and follow the sheriff, who was already leading away Squire Saunders’s recovered property. It was evident the sheriff’s organ of benevolence had resisted the influence of his station.

  317“And now what is to be done with this poor helpless thing?” asked Barlow, the kind-hearted man who had so far befriended Bessie. At this question, two or three of the spectators slunk away; the rest exchanged fearful and uncertain glances; one or two murmured that they “did not love to have crazy folks in their houses;” and it was obvious that the benevolence of all was restrained by that irrational fear which so much increases the sufferings of those who are mentally diseased. No one offering an asylum for the poor wanderer, Barlow turned to her and asked, “What will you do now, my poor child?”

  “Oh, go on.”

  “Go on! where, in the name of wonder?”

  “To New-York.”

  “Impossible! how are you to go?”

  “I must go—more than life depends on it—now, I cannot tell exactly. I do not think I could walk very far,” she vainly attempted to rise; “but do not be concerned about me, for certainly He who hath helped me so far will not now desert me.”

  The gentle girl’s unconsciousness of her wants was more touching than the most passionate appeal.

  “Will you go home with me?” asked Barlow, after wiping his eyes, and clearing his voice.

  “Oh, no, I thank you; I cannot lose any time.”

  “Poor child! but,” he added, “I live six miles nearer to New-York than this, and I can take you so far on your way.”

  “Then indeed I will go. Did I not tell you, O ye of little faith, that the way would be provided?” Again, and again without success, she attempted to rise.

  “Lend a hand, neighbours,” said Barlow; “the straw on my cart is clean, and we will lay her on it.” Bessie was placed in the cart, and driven to Barlow’s humble habitation, a dwelling-house adjoining a blacksmith’s shop, within a few miles of Hartford, in Connecticut.

  318Barlow would have been justifiable, if ever man was, in going on “the other side,” and leaving Bessie Lee to the chance mercies of others. But Barlow’s heart bore a faint resemblance to his own anvil; the stroke of his fellow-creature’s necessities always brought forth sparks of kindness.

  “Dear me!” exclaimed his wife, when he entered their little dwelling, supporting
Bessie with one arm; “who have you got here?”

  “Open the door into the bedroom, Martha, and I’ll tell you afterward.” The door was promptly opened, the bedspread turned down, and Bessie laid upon the clean inviting bed.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” she said; “I shall tell mother and Eliot how very kind you are to me.”

  “Dear me!” said pitiful Mrs. Barlow.

  “Oh, ma’am, I am very well,” said Bessie, replying to her compassionate look; “only a little tired—do not let me oversleep to-morrow morning.”

  “Give her some warm milk, Martha; and let her sleep, if she can—it’s her only chance.”

  The hospitality was done, and Bessie left to the ministry of nature, while Barlow related to his marvelling wife all he knew of her. “Well,” said she, as he concluded, “I do feel for her folks; and yet she don’t look as if she belonged to this world. I have dreamed of seeing angels, and she looks like them; but like nothing made out of clay. I’m glad you brought her home, Barlow; it’s a great easement to the heart to do a kindness, though we are in a poor case to entertain strangers, even if they be angels.”

  “We be in a poor situation; but it would have been awful to have left such a young, delicate, innocent, beautiful fellow-creature to perish by the wayside!”

  “Dear me! yes, indeed.”

  “Or to have left her to people that were so slack about helping her.”

  319“It would.”

  “And so, knowing your feelings, Martha, I’ve done what I have done.”

  “You’ve done right, Barlow.”

  “I don’t know, you are so poorly, and the boys sick. Have they missed their chill to-day?”

  “No, neither they nor I.”

  Barlow rose, looked at the pale faces of his little boys, who were lying in a truckle-bed, then at his sickly wife, and shook his head.