The Linwoods

by Catharine Maria Sedgwick

  “Martha, I am afraid I have been presumptuous.”

  “Dear me, husband! don’t worry about that; what would be the use of sickness if it did not give us feelings for others?”

  “True, Martha; and somehow I could not help it; and now I can’t but think Providence will help us through with what his finger pointed out. I have repented of a great many things in my day; but I never saw reason to repent of a good deed—look in the bedroom, Martha, and see if she is sleeping.”

  “Dear me, no! but there’s a quiet smile on her lips, and her beautiful eyes are raised; and she seems just like a lamb looking at the shepherd.”

  “If she’s still she may fall asleep; so let us ask a blessing on her and the rest of us, and then we’ll to bed ourselves.”

  What grace and dignity do the devotion and compassion of such pure hearts impart to the dwelling of the poor man! Oh ye, who fare sumptuously every day, imitate him in his only luxury—the luxury of deeds never to be repented of!

  321CHAPTER XXVIII.

  “The man I speak of cannot in the world

  be singly counterpoised.”

  A week subsequent to Bessie Lee’s arrival at Barlow’s, a violent hallooing and knocking were heard at the blacksmith’s shop; and no answer being given, Barlow’s house-door was soon beset with impatient knocks and cries of—“Halloo, blacksmith, you are wanted!”

  Barlow rose from the bed, where he had been laid by a severe attack of intermittent fever, and answered, that he was utterly unable to go to his workshop. “What does he say?” asked a young gentleman in a foreign accent, who with two or three attendants was impatiently awaiting Barlow’s services.

  “He says he cannot come, sir.”

  “Cannot! Ce n’est pas le mot d’aujourd’hui.”

  “Neither, I think, sir,” replied the first speaker, “is must current in these parts.”

  “Vous avez raison, mon ami; mais mon Dieu! What are we to do?”

  The gentleman, being very much in the habit of overcoming other men’s impossibilities every day of his life, dismounted, gave his bridle to an attendant, and walked up to the open door of our friend Barlow, who, on seeing the uniform of an American general officer, was somewhat abashed, though its wearer was a fair young man, with a remarkably gentle and benignant countenance. “If it were barely possible, 322sir,” said Barlow, “I should be happy to serve you; but I am scarcely able to stand.”

  “Ah, my good friend, I see you are in a bad position, and your wife too. How long have you been ill, madame?”

  “I have had the fever ’nagur, sir, six weeks, off and on.”

  “Fever ’nagur! Qu’est que c’est?” asked the gentleman, aside, of his companion.

  “Fever and ague.”

  “Ah, je comprends! very bad malady, madame, very bad; you should take every day a little port wine.”

  Mrs. Barlow smiled. “Dear me! yes, sir, if I had it.”

  “You go or send often to Hartford?” resumed the stranger, addressing Barlow.

  “Almost every day, sir.”

  “Ah, very well! I have some port wine there in a friend’s cellar. I will give you an order for a bottle or two; and I pray you to send for it; and you and your wife, and these little fellows, who by their blue lips have the ague too, shall drink to my health and your own.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Barlow; “a little port wine is what I have been all along thinking would cure us—dear me!”

  “Is it only one horse, sir, that wants shoeing?” asked Barlow, tying a handkerchief round his throat.

  “Only one, my good friend; my own brave beast, who has done much good service, and has much more to do. Pauvre bête! it goes to my heart to have his hoof broken up.”

  Barlow felt as if his strength came with the sympathy and consideration manifested by the person who needed it. “I guess, sir,” he said, “I could stand long enough to do so small a job.”

  “Ah, my friend, mille—a thousand thanks; but spare your strength to do what no one else can do. Here, orderly, kindle up the blacksmith’s fire, quickly.” While this was in preparation, 323the stranger took writing materials from his pocket, and addressed the following note to a person whose munificence is still remembered, though he has long ago gone to the enjoyment of his treasures, where he was then wisely laying them up.

  “My dear Wadsworth,—I have just chanced to call at a poor blacksmith’s, who, with his worthy family, is at death’s door with a protracted intermittent. It seems to me that port, like that I drank with you yesterday, might restore them. As the man looks like too independent an American to beg a favour, I have taken the liberty to give him this order for a bottle or two, telling him, with a poetic truth, that I had wine in your cellar. It is your own fault if all your friends feel that they have a property in your possessions. Adieu.”

  Just as the stranger had signed and sealed this billet, the inner door opened, and Bessie Lee appeared, her cheeks died with fever, her eyes bright as gems, her lips of the brightest vermilion, and her beautiful hair hanging in many a tangled curl over her face and neck. “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the stranger.

  “Dear me! my child, go back,” said Mrs. Barlow, gently repulsing her. Bessie, however, without heeding her, pressed forward, and addressing herself to the stranger in an energetic, business sort of a way, “You are going to New-York?” she said.

  “Not exactly, young lady; but I am going in that direction.”

  “Do go back into the bedroom,—do, husband, persuade her—”

  “No, no, Martha, let her have her own way.”

  “Thank you,” said Bessie. “Will you be kind enough, sir, to step into my room?—this buzzing confuses me.”

  324The stranger, with characteristic sagacity, had already half penetrated the truth. He motioned to Bessie to precede him, saying in a low voice to Mrs. Barlow, “Your husband is right. It is best your child should have her own way.”

  “Dear me, she is not our child, sir!”

  “She does not look as if she were,” thought the stranger; but there was no time for farther explanation. As soon as they were fairly within the inner room, Bessie shut the door. She seemed at first disconcerted; but instantly rallying, she said, “I am unknown to you, sir, but your face seems to have that heavenly sentence written on it: ‘Ask and it shall be given to you.’”

  “Then why do you hesitate?”

  “They would think it so strange that I should be asking such a favour of a stranger—a young gentleman—”

  “Who are they?”

  “My mother and brother.”

  “Their names, my friend?”

  “I cannot tell their names. My present object is to get to New-York as soon as possible, where I have business of the greatest importance. I have been staying here for some days with very kind people. I would not wound their feelings on any account,” she added, in a whisper; “but they are very weak-minded—no judgment at all; indeed, there are few people that have, so I do not choose to confide to them the reason of my actions. All will be explained and published when I return from New-York.”

  “But, my dear young lady, are you aware that New-York is in possession of the enemy?”

  “Oh, sir, I have no enemies.”

  “Rough soldiers—foreign soldiers, my fair friend, will make no exception in your favour.”

  “You do not know,” she replied, drawing up her little person with an air of assured but mysterious superiority, “you 325do not know that I am one of those of whom it was said, that ‘their angels do always stand before my Father;’ and I could tell you of such difficult passes where invisible spirits have guided and tended me—so faithfully! but that at another time. There is not the slightest danger in my going to New-York—indeed, I have no choice; I must go.”

  “Do you know any one in New-York?”

  “Yes, Miss Linwood, the friend to whom I am going.”

  “Miss Linwood? Miss Isabella Linwood? Ah, I have heard of her.”

  �
�She is not my only—” friend, she was going to say; a shade passed over her countenance, and she added, “acquaintance in New-York. Now, sir, all that I am going to ask of you is for liberty to ride behind you, or one of your attendants, as far as you go on my way.”

  The stranger, compassionate as he felt, could scarcely forbear a smile. “We should be hardly a proper escort for you, my fair friend,” he replied.

  “Oh, fear not for that; I am so fenced about—so guarded by unseen and powerful spirits, that it matters not with whom, if I but get forward.”

  After a moment of anxious thought, “Tell me, young lady,” he replied, “the name of that brother of whom you spoke, and on my honour I will do all in my power for you.”

  “No—never—this is a temptation of that evil one who so long led me astray, to turn me again from the straight path, to frustrate my purpose. I do not blame you, sir. He has before, in my dreams and at other times, whispered to me, that if I were but to speak my brother’s name, I should be cared for; but this would be trusting to a human arm. No: his name must not pass my lips.” If she had then spoken it, how different would have been the fate of many individuals!

  The benevolent stranger perceived that the impressions (whether illusions or not) from which Bessie acted were ineffaceable, 326and that she had that fixedness of purpose from which it seems impossible, by reason or art of any sort, to turn an insane person. He was at an utter loss what to do or say, and merely murmured, “Would to Heaven I could serve you!”

  “You would and cannot! Indeed, you look to me like those favourites of Heaven, who both will and can. Who are you?”

  “I am more generous than you, my friend, and I will tell you. My name is La Fayette.”

  “La Fayette! Now is it not wonderful,” exclaimed Bessie, clasping her hands and looking upward, her whole face bright and rapturous, “Is it not wonderful that he who is chosen and set apart of God for the cause of freedom, the friend of Washington, the best friend of my struggling country, should be guided to this little dwelling to find me out and aid me? You cannot choose but serve me,” she added, laying her hand on his, and faintly and wildly laughing.

  “And I will serve you, my poor girl, so help me God!” he replied, kissing her faded, feverish hand. “Sit you here quietly, and I will see what can be done.”

  “I will wait patiently, but remember, there is but one thing to be done.”

  La Fayette appeared in the outer room: his eyes were suffused with tears, and for a moment he found it difficult to command his voice. “You can make nothing of her,” said Mrs. Barlow, looking inquiringly. “No? I thought so—she is the meekest and the beautifullest mortal, the gentlest and the most obstinate, that ever I came across.”

  “Where is your husband, my good friend?”

  “Shoeing your horse, sir.”

  “Ah, that’s very kind, very kind indeed; I will go and speak with him.” Accordingly, he proceeded to the workshop, and there received from Barlow all the particulars he could communicate of poor Bessie Lee. “It is not only her master beautiful looks, sir,” said Barlow, in conclusion; “but she 327seems so pure in heart, and so well nurtured, and so pretty spoken. She draws many a tear from us—being weak and sick, sir, makes one easy to cry.”

  “The fountain of such tears is a good heart, my friend; and no one need apologize for letting them gush out now and then. You say you have made every effort to find out who the poor girl is?”

  “Yes, sir, indeed I have; but it is impossible. I have thought of advertising the stray lamb,” he added, with a smile; “but somehow I did not love to put her in the newspapers.”

  “That, perhaps, would have been wisest; but now I think the best thing that can be done is to gratify her ruling desire, and get her to New-York as soon as possible.”

  “Ay, indeed, sir; but how get her there now?”

  “Why, my friend, you must furnish the way, and I the means. You know that those of us who are best off in these times have no superfluity. I cannot spare more than a guinea from the small sum I have with me.”

  “A guinea is a great sum, sir, in these hard times; but—”

  “But not enough to get the young lady to New-York, I am aware of that; and therefore, in addition, I shall give you my watch, which, being fine gold and a repeater, will enable you to raise enough for her necessities, and a surplus to make your family comfortable till you come to the anvil again.”

  “This is too much,” replied Barlow, bending low over the horse’s hoof; either his gratitude or his sickness making it “easy for him to cry again.”

  “Not too much, nor quite enough, my friend. You will find some worthy man and woman to accompany her to the American lines; and I will do what I can to secure her safe conduct. She will certainly go safely to the British posts, and beyond, I trust. Surely none of God’s creatures, who have a trace of his image, can be inhuman to her; but we must take all precautions.”

  328“Yes, indeed, sir; war, like a slaughter-house, breeds vermin; and there be those abroad whose hearts are as hard as my anvil.”

  “We will do our best to protect her from such.”

  La Fayette then wrote an earnest recommendation of Bessie to the protection and kindness of all Americans. He requested the American officer to forward her under the protection of a flag, and finally addressed a note to the British commander, and all his officers and agents, stating the condition of the young person whom he commended to their humanity, and praying them to expedite her progress to New York, where (as he thought proper to state, knowing Mr. Linwood to be a tory), the friend to whose house she was going, Robert Linwood, Esq., resided. The surprise of Barlow when he received these notes, and saw the powerful, all-honoured, and loved name of La Fayette attached to them, is indescribable. La Fayette gave the watch into his hands, and without waiting for his thanks, he pressed Barlow’s hand, mounted his horse, joined his companions, and rode off at full speed. Barlow gazed after him till the cavalcade disappeared; then, after a fervent thanksgiving to God, he said, looking at the watch, “I must pledge this; but if Heaven prosper me I will redeem it, and leave it, as better than all my fast property, to my children.”

  We have graced our page by recording here one of His unnumbered good deeds, who has filled up the measure of human benevolence by every manifestation, from the least to the greatest, of this divine quality.

  329CHAPTER XXIX.

  “But this was what I knew had come to pass,

  When, answ’ring with your vacant no, and yes,

  You fed upon your thoughts and mark’d me not.”

  My dear Lady Anne,” said Mrs. Meredith to her niece, as they were one morning sitting together, “you seem to have taken a wonderful liking to that knotting” (Lady Anne had become, as our friend Rivington has it, “thrifty in the knotting amusement”)—“where in the world did you learn it?”

  “Mrs. Linwood taught me.”

  “So I should think. It is as monotonous as she is.”

  “Oh, aunt, I find it charming! It is the very perfection of existence to have an occupation like this for your fingers, while your heart and mind are left free to rove to the end of the world, or, what is better still, to be at the service of some agreeable companion you may chance to have beside you.”

  “Chacun à son gout!” said Mrs. Meredith, taking up a book, with a vexing consciousness that she was not the “agreeable companion” preferred to her niece’s maiden meditations. Lady Anne had not spoken five words for the hour they had been sitting together. As the morning was rainy the ladies were like to remain uninterrupted; and it was too tempting an opportunity for Mrs. Meredith to make an attack she had long been meditating, to be foregone; so she put aside 330her book and her vexation, and said in a voice sufficiently untoned for an old diplomatist, “You seem quite fond of the Linwoods, my love?”

  “I am, aunt.”

  “You find the choleric, peevish, egotistical old man charming?”

  “Indeed, I do sincerely think him
a delightful old gentleman.”

  “And that living manifestation of all the mediocrities, his patient consort?”

  “The most amiable woman in the world.”

  “And their lofty, capricious daughter, now silent and infolded in her own sublimities, like a worshipped idol on its pedestal, and now gracious as a new-made queen?”

  “And always captivating and gentle, aunt.” Mrs. Meredith threw up her hands and eyes: “I mean almost always gentle as a woman should be. For my part, I do not fancy perpetual sunshine. I am much of a certain English sea-captain’s way of thinking, who, after being becalmed in the sunny waters of France, sailed away in one of his own northeasters and thick fogs, and thanked Heaven he was out of that d—d sunshine.”

  “Your illustration is a fortunate one, Lady Anne; I congratulate you on your peculiar taste. But for this gusty variety in the temper of your friend, your long evenings with that little family coterie would be rather of the becalmed order.”

  “The evenings never seem long to me,” replied Lady Anne, her face dimpling with recollected pleasure.

  “How in the world do you kill time?”

  “Oh, the old gentleman, and Mrs. Archer, and Isabella and her mother, play whist.”

  “And you sit by and look on?—this is inscrutable, that you, my dear child, who are so admired, courted, worshipped, should be content to play so obscure a part. If there 331were a young man in the case—if that son of Mr. Linwood were at home—by-the-way, they seem to make themselves exceedingly comfortable while he is in durance—yes, if the juice of ‘that little western flower’ were on your eyelids, I could understand why you should thus ‘madly dote.’”

  Lady Anne laughed and shook her head, as if to say, “Puzzle it out if you can.”

  Mrs. Meredith was displeased; but like many persons who have self-command and good taste, she chose to show her angry feelings in the light of gentle emotions. Her voice faltered, and her eyes filled with tears (her eyes, it may be remembered, were fine, the prototypes of her son’s brilliant orbs). “I ought, my dear girl,” she said, “to be satisfied if you are; but I have so set my heart upon you, the only child of my dear lamented brother. I had hoped that Jasper and I should make our home attractive to you; that we might have, at least, a portion of your affection.”