The Linwoods Read online

  There was another foundation of her fancied security. This was shaken by the following conversation:—Meredith was looking over an old pocketbook, when a card dropped from it on the floor at Bessie’s feet: she handed it to him—51he smiled as he looked at it, and held it up before her. She glanced her eye over it, and saw it was a note of the date of their visit to the soothsayer Effie, and of Effie’s prediction in relation to the “dark curling hair.”

  “I had totally forgotten this,” said he, carelessly.

  “Forgotten it!” echoed Bessie, in a tone that indicated but too truly her feelings.

  “Certainly I had—and why not, pray?”

  “Oh, because—” she hesitated.

  “Because what, Bessie?”

  Bessie was ashamed of her embarrassment, and faltering the more the more she tried to shake it off, she said, “I did not suppose you could forget any thing that concerned Isabella.”

  “Upon my honour, you are very much mistaken; I have scarcely thought of Effie and her trumpery prediction since we were there.”

  “Why have you preserved the card, then, Jasper?” asked Bessie, in all simplicity.

  Jasper’s complexion was not of the blushing order, or he would have blushed as he replied, at the same time replacing the card—“Oh, Lord, I don’t know! accident—the card got in here among these old memoranda and receipts, ‘trivial fond records’ all!”

  “There preserve it,” said Bessie, “and we will look at it one of these days.”

  “When?”

  “When—as it surely will be, the prediction is verified.”

  “If not till then,” he said, “it will never again see the light—this is the oddest fancy of yours,” he added.

  “Not fancy, but faith.”

  “Faith most unfounded—why, Bessie, Isabella and I were always quarrelling.”

  “And always making up. Do you ever quarrel now, Jasper?”

  52“Oh, she is still of an April temper; but I”—he looked most tenderly at Bessie—“have lived too much of late in a serene atmosphere to bear well her fitful changes.”

  A long time had passed since Bessie had mentioned Isabella to Meredith. She knew not why, but she had felt a growing reluctance to advert to her friend even in thought; and she was now conscious of a thrilling sensation at the careless, cold manner in which Jasper spoke of her. It seemed as if a load had fallen off her heart. She felt like a mariner who has at length caught a glimpse of what seems distant land, and is bewildered with new sensations, and uncertain whether it be land or not. She was conscious Jasper’s eye was on hers, though her own was downcast. She longed to escape from that burning glance, and was relieved by a bustle in the next room, and her two little sisters running in, one holding up a long curling tress of her own beautiful hair, and crying out—“Did not you give this to me, Bessie?”

  “Is not it mine?” said the competitor.

  “No, it is mine!” exclaimed Jasper, snatching it, and holding it beyond their reach.

  The girls laughed, and were endeavouring to regain it, when he slipped a ring from his finger, and set it rolling on the floor, saying, “The hair is mine—the ring belongs to whoever gets it.” The ring, obedient to the impulse he gave it, rolled out of the room; the children eagerly followed, he shut the door after them, and repeated, kissing the lock of hair—“It is mine—is it not?”

  “Oh, no—no, Jasper—give it to me,” cried Bessie, excessively confused.

  “You will not give it to me!—well—‘a fair exchange is no robbery,’” and taking the scissors from Bessie’s workbox, he cut off one of his own luxuriant dark locks, and offered it to her. She shook her head.

  53“That is unkind—most unfriendly, Bessie”—he paused a moment, and then, still holding both locks, he extended the ends to Bessie, and asked her if she could tie a true love-knot. Bessie’s heart was throbbing; she was frightened at her own emotion; she was afraid of betraying it; and she tied the knot as the natural thing for her to do.

  “There is but one altar for such a sacrifice as this,” said Meredith, and he was putting it into his bosom, when Bessie snatched it from him, burst into tears, and left the room.

  After this, there was a change in Bessie’s manners—her spirits became unequal, she was nervous and restless—Meredith, in the presence of observers, was measured and cautious to the last degree in his attentions to her—when however they were alone together, though not a sentence might be uttered that a lawyer could have tortured into a special plea, yet his words were fraught with looks and tones that carried them to poor Bessie’s heart with a power that cannot be imagined by those

  “Who have ceased to hear such, or ne’er heard.”

  It was about this period that Meredith wrote the following reply to a letter from his mother.

  “You say, my dear madam, that you have heard ‘certain reports about me, which you are not willing to believe, and yet cannot utterly discredit.’ You say, also, ‘that though you should revolt with horror from sanctioning your son in those liaisons that are advised by Lord Chesterfield, and others of your friends, yet you see no harm in’ lover-like attentions ‘to young persons in inferior stations; they serve’ you add, ‘to keep alive and cultivate that delicate finesse so essential to the success of a man of the world, and, provided they have no immoral purpose, are quite innocent,’ as the object of them must know there is an 54‘impassable gulf between her and her superiors in rank, and is therefore responsible for her mistakes.’ I have been thus particular in echoing your words, that I may assure you my conduct is in conformity to their letter and spirit. Tranquillize yourself, my dear madam. There is nothing, in any little fooleries I may be indulging in, to disquiet you for a moment. The person in question is a divine little creature—quite a prodigy for this part of the world, where she lives in a seclusion almost equal to that of Prospero’s isle; so that your humble servant, being scarce more than the ‘third man that e’er she saw,’ it would not be to marvel at ‘if he should be the first that e’er she loved’—and if I am, it is my destiny—my conscience is quite easy—I never have committed myself, nor ever shall: time and absence will soon dissipate her illusions. She is an unaspiring little person, quite aware of the gulf, as you call it, between us. She believes that even if I were lover and hero enough to play the Leander and swim it, my destiny is fixed on the other side. I have no distrust of myself, and I beg you will have none; I am saved from all responsibility as to involving the happiness of this lily of the valley, by her very clear-sighted mother, and her sage of a brother, her natural guardians.

  “It is yet problematical whether, as you suppose, a certain lady’s fortune will be made by the apostacy of her disinherited brother. If the rebels win the day, the property of the tories will be confiscated, or transferred to the rebel heir. But all that is in futuro—fortune is a fickle goddess; we can only be sure of her present favours and deserve the future by our devotion.

  “With profound gratitude and affection,

  “Yours, my dear mother,

  “J. Meredith.

  “P. S.—My warmest thanks for the inestimable box, which escaped the sea and land harpies, and came safe to hand. The Artois buckle is a chef d’œuvre, worthy the inventive genius of the royal count whose taste rules the civilized world. The scarlet 55frock-coat, with its unimitated, if not inimitable, capes, ‘does credit (as friend Rivington would say in one of his flashy advertisements) to the most elegant operator of Leicester-fields.’ I must reserve it till I go to New-York, where they always take the lead in this sort of civilization—the boys would mob me if I wore it in Boston. The umbrella, a rare invention! is a curiosity here. I understand they have been introduced into New-York by the British officers. Novelty as it is, I venture to spread it here, as its utility commends it to these rationalists, who reason about an article of dress as they would concerning an article of faith.

  “Once more, your devoted son, M.”

  Meredith’s conscience was easy! “H
e had not committed himself!”—Ah, let man beware how he wilfully or carelessly perverts and blinds God’s vicegerent, conscience.

  Meredith was suddenly recalled to New-York, and Bessie Lee was left to ponder on the past, and weave the future of shattered faith and blighted hopes. The scales fell too late from the eyes of her mother and brother. They reproached themselves, but never poor Bessie. They hoped that time, operating on her gentle, unresisting temper, would restore her serenity. She, like a stricken deer, took refuge under the shadow of their love; she was too affectionate, too generous, to resign herself to wretchedness without an effort. She wasted her strength in concealing the wound that rankled at her heart.

  57CHAPTER V.

  “I, considering how honour would become

  such a person, was pleased to let him seek

  danger, where he was like to find fame.”

  —SHAKESPEARE.

  Another sorrow soon overtook poor Bessie; but now she had a right to feel, and might express all she felt, and look full in the face of her friends for sympathy, for they shared the burden with her.

  In the year 1778, letters were sent by General Washington to the governors of the several states, earnestly entreating them to re-enforce the army. The urgency of this call was acknowledged by every patriotic individual; and never did heart more joyously leap than Eliot Lee’s, when his mother said to him—“My son, I have long had misgivings about keeping you at home; but last night, after reading the general’s letter, I could not sleep; I felt for him, for the country; my conscience told me you ought to go, Eliot; even the images of the children, for whose sake only I have thought it right you should stay with us, rose up against me: we should pay our portion for the privileges they are to enjoy. I have made up my mind to it, and on my knees I have given you to my country. The widow’s son,” she continued, clearing her voice, “is something more than the widow’s mite, Eliot; but I have given you up, and now I have done with feelings—nothing is to be said or thought of but how we shall soonest and best get you ready.”

  58Eliot was deeply affected by his mother’s decision, voluntary and unasked; but he did not express his satisfaction, his delight, till he ascertained that she had well considered the amount of the sacrifice and was willing to meet it. Then he confessed that nothing but a controlling sense of his filial duty had enabled him to endure loitering at the fireside, when his country needed the aid he withheld.

  The decision made, no time was lost. Letters were obtained from the best sources to General Washington, and in less than a week Eliot was ready for his departure.

  It was a transparent morning, late in autumn, in bleak, wild, fitful, poetic November. The vault of heaven was spotless; a purple light danced over the mountain summits; the mist was condensed in the hollows of the hills, and wound them round like drapery of silver tissue. The smokes from the village chimneys ascended through the clear atmosphere in straight columns; the trees on the mountains, banded together, still preserved a portion of their summer wealth, though now faded to dun and dull orange, marked and set off by the surrounding evergreens. Here and there a solitary elm stood bravely up against the sky, every limb, every stem defined; a naked form, showing the beautiful symmetry that had made its summer garments hang so gracefully. Fruits and flowers, even the hardy ones that venture on the frontiers of winter, had disappeared from the gardens; the seeds had dropped from their cups; the grass of the turf-borders was dank and matted down; all nature was stamped with the signet seal of autumn, memory and hope. Eliot had performed the last provident offices for his mother; every thing about her cheerful dwelling had the look of being kindly cared for. The strawberry-beds were covered, the raspberries neatly trimmed out, the earth well spaded and freshly turned; no gate was off its hinges, no fence down, no window unglazed, no crack unstopped.

  A fine black saddle-horse, well equipped, was at the door. 59Little Fanny Lee stood by him, patting him, and laying her head, with its shining flaxen locks, to his side—“Rover,” she said, with a trembling voice, “be a good Rover—won’t you? and when the naughty regulars come, canter off with Eliot as fast as you can.”

  “Hey! that’s fine!” retorted her brother, a year younger than herself. “No, no, Rover, canter up to them, and over them, and never dare to canter back here if you turn tail on them, Rover.”

  “Oh, Sam! how awful; would you have Eliot killed?”

  “No, indeed, but I had rather he’d come deused near it than to have him a coward.”

  “Don’t talk so loud, Sam—Bessie will hear you.”

  But the young belligerant was not to be silenced. He threw open the “dwelling-room” door, to appeal to Eliot himself. The half-uttered sentence died away on his lips. He entered the apartment, Fanny followed; they gently closed the door, drew their footstools to Eliot’s feet, and quietly sat down there. How instinctive is the sympathy of children! how plain, and yet how delicate its manifestations!

  Bessie was sitting beside her brother, her head on his shoulder, and crying as if her heart went out with every sob. The youngest boy, Hal, sat on Eliot’s knee, with one arm around his neck, his cheek lying on Bessie’s, dropping tear after tear, sighing, and half-wondering why it was so.

  The good mother had arrived at that age when grief rather congeals the spirit than melts it. Her lips were compressed, her eyes tearless, and her movements tremulous. She was busying herself in the last offices, doing up parcels, taking last stitches, and performing those services that seem to have been assigned to women as safety-valves for their ever effervescing feelings.

  A neat table was spread with ham, bread, sweet-meats, cakes, and every delicacy the house afforded—all were untasted. 60Not a word was heard except such broken sentences as “Come, Bessie, I will promise to be good if you will to be happy!”

  “Eliot, how easy for you—how impossible for me!”

  “Dear Bessie, do be firmer, for mother’s sake. For ever! oh no, my dear sister, it will not be very long before I return to you; and while I am gone, you must be every thing to mother.”

  “I! I never was good for any thing, Eliot—and now—”

  “Bessie, my dear child, hush—you have been—you always will be a blessing to me. Don’t put any anxious thoughts into Eliot’s mind—we shall do very well without him.”

  “Noble, disinterested mother!” trembled on Eliot’s lips; but he suppressed words that might imply reproach to Bessie.

  The sacred scene was now broken in upon by some well-meaning but untimely visiters. Eliot’s approaching departure had created a sensation in Westbrook; the good people of that rustic place not having arrived at the refined stage in the progress of society, when emotion and fellow-feeling are not expressed, or expressed only by certain conventional forms. First entered Master Hale, with Miss Sally Ryal. Master Hale “hoped it was no intrusion;” and Miss Sally answered, “by no means; she had come to lend a helping hand, and not to intrude”—whereupon she bustled about, helped herself and her companion to chairs, and unsettled everybody else in the room. Mrs. Lee assumed a more tranquil mien; poor Bessie suppressed her sobs, and withdrew to a window, and Eliot tried to look composed and manly. The children, like springs relieved from a pressure, reverted to their natural state, dashed off their tears, and began whispering among themselves. Miss Sally produced from her workbag a comforter for Mr. Eliot, of her own knitting, which she “trusted would keep out the cold and rheumatism:” and she was kindly showing him how to adjust it, when she spied a chain of braided hair 61around his neck—“Ah, ha, Mr. Eliot, a love-token!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes, it is,” said little Fanny, who was watching her proceedings; “Bessie and I cut locks of hair from all the children’s heads and mother’s, and braided it for him; and I guess it will warm his bosom more than your comforter will, Miss Sally.”

  It was evident, from the look of ineffable tenderness Eliot turned on Fanny, that he “guessed” so too; but he nevertheless received the comforter graciously, hinting, that a lady
who had been able to protect her own bosom from the most subtle enemy, must know how to defend another’s from common assaults. Miss Sally hemmed, looked at Master Hale, muttered something of her not always having been invulnerable; and finally succeeded in recalling to Eliot’s recollection a tradition of a love-passage between Miss Sally and the pedagogue.

  A little girl now came trotting in, with “grandmother’s love, and a vial of her mixture for Mr. Eliot—good against camp-distemper and the like.”

  Eliot received the mixture as if he had all grandmother’s faith in it, slipped a bright shilling into the child’s hand for a keepsake, kissed her rosy cheek, and set her down with the children.

  Visiters now began to throng. One man in a green old age, who had lost a leg at Bunker’s Hill, came hobbling in, and clapping Eliot on the shoulder, said, “this is you, my boy! This is what I wanted to see your father’s son a-doing: I’d go too, if the rascals had left me both my legs. Cheer up, widow, and thank the Lord you’ve got such a son to offer up to your country—the richer the gift, the better the giver, you know; but I don’t wonder you feel kind o’ qualmish at the thoughts of losing the lad. Come, Master Hale, can’t you say something? A little bit of Greek, or Latin, or ’most any thing, to keep up their sperits at the last gasp, as it were.”

  62“I was just going to observe, Major Avery, to Mrs. Lee, respecting our esteemed young friend, Mr. Eliot, that I, who have known him from the beginning, as it were, having taught him his alphabet, which may be said to be the first round of the ladder of learning (which he has mounted by my help), or rather (if you will allow me, ma’am, to mend my figure) the poles that support all the rounds; having had, as I observed, a primordial acquaintance with him, I can testify that he is worthy every honourable adjective in the language, and we have every reason to hope that his future tense will be as perfect as his past.”