Hushed were his Gertrude's lips; but still their bland
And beautiful expression seemed to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
--_Gertrude of Wyoming_.
The brief arrangements of the dragoons had prepared two apartments for
the reception of the ladies, the one being intended as a sleeping room,
and situated within the other. Into the latter Isabella was immediately
conveyed, at her own request, and placed on a rude bed by the side of
the unconscious Sarah. When Miss Peyton and Frances flew to her
assistance, they found her with a smile on her pallid lip, and a
composure in her countenance, that induced them to think her uninjured.
"God be praised!" exclaimed the trembling aunt. "The report of firearms,
and your fall, had led me into error. Surely, surely, there was enough
horror before; but this has been spared us."
Isabella pressed her hand upon her bosom, still smiling, but with a
ghastliness that curdled the blood of Frances.
"Is George far distant?" she asked. "Let him know--hasten him, that I
may see my brother once again."
"It is as I apprehended!" shrieked Miss Peyton. "But you smile--surely
you are not hurt!"
"Quite well--quite happy," murmured Isabella; "here is a remedy for
every pain."
Sarah arose from the reclining posture she had taken, and gazed wildly
at her companion. She stretched forth her own hand, and raised that of
Isabella from her bosom. It was dyed in blood.
"See," said Sarah, "but will it not wash away love? Marry, young woman,
and then no one can expel him from your heart, unless,"--she added,
whispering, and bending over the other,--"you find another there before
you; then die, and go to heaven--there are no wives in heaven."
The lovely maniac hid her face under the clothes, and continued silent
during the remainder of the night. At this moment Lawton entered. Inured
as he was to danger in all its forms, and accustomed to the horrors of a
partisan war, the trooper could not behold the ruin before him unmoved.
He bent over the fragile form of Isabella, and his gloomy eye betrayed
the workings of his soul.
"Isabella," he at length uttered, "I know you to possess a courage
beyond the strength of women."
"Speak," she said, earnestly; "if you have anything to say, speak
fearlessly."
The trooper averted his face as he replied, "None ever receive a ball
there, and survive."
"I have no dread of death, Lawton," returned Isabella. "I thank you for
not doubting me; I felt it from the first."
"These are not scenes for a form like yours," added the trooper. "'Tis
enough that Britain calls our youth to the field; but when such
loveliness becomes the victim of war, I sicken of my trade."
"Hear me, Captain Lawton," said Isabella, raising herself with
difficulty, but rejecting aid. "From early womanhood to the present hour
have I been an inmate of camps and garrisons. I have lived to cheer the
leisure of an aged father, and think you I would change those days of
danger and privation for any ease? No! I have the consolation of
knowing, in my dying moments, that what woman could do in such a cause,
I have done."
"Who could prove a recreant, and witness such a spirit! Hundreds of
warriors have I witnessed in their blood, but never a firmer soul among
them all."
"'Tis the soul only," said Isabella. "My sex and strength have denied me
the dearest of privileges. But to you, Captain Lawton, nature has been
more bountiful; you have an arm and a heart to devote to the cause; and
I know they are in arm and a heart that will prove true to the last.
And George--and--" she paused, her lip quivered, and her eye sank to
the floor.
"And Dunwoodie!" added the trooper. "Would you speak of Dunwoodie?"
"Name him not," said Isabella, sinking back, and concealing her face in
her garments. "Leave me, Lawton--prepare poor George for this
unexpected blow."
The trooper continued for a little while gazing, in melancholy interest,
at the convulsive shudderings of her frame, which the scanty covering
could not conceal, and withdrew to meet his comrade. The interview
between Singleton and his sister was painful, and, for a moment,
Isabella yielded to a burst of tenderness; but, as if aware that her
hours were numbered, she was the first to rouse herself to exertion. At
her earnest request, the room was left to herself, the captain, and
Frances. The repeated applications of the surgeon, to be permitted to
use professional aid, were steadily rejected, and, at length, he was
obliged unwillingly to retire.
"Raise me," said the dying young woman, "and let me look on a face that
I love, once more." Frances silently complied, and Isabella turned her
eyes in sisterly affection upon George. "It matters but little, my
brother--a few hours must close the scene."
"Live, Isabella, my sister, my only sister!" cried the youth, with a
burst of sorrow that he could not control. "My father! my poor father--"
"There is the sting of death; but he is a soldier and a Christian. Miss
Wharton, I would speak of what interests you, while yet I have strength
for the task."
"Nay," said Frances, tenderly, "compose yourself; let no desire to
oblige me endanger a life that is precious to--to--so many." The words
were nearly stifled by her emotions, for the other had touched a chord
that thrilled to her heart.
"Poor, sensitive girl!" said Isabella, regarding her with tender
interest; "but the world is still before you, and why should I disturb
the little happiness it may afford! Dream on, lovely innocent! and may
God keep the evil day of knowledge far distant!"
"Oh, there is even now little left for me to enjoy," said Frances,
burying her face in the clothes. "I am heartstricken in all that I
most loved."
"No!" interrupted Isabella; "you have one inducement to wish for life,
that pleads strongly in a woman's breast. It is a delusion that nothing
but death can destroy--" Exhaustion compelled her to pause, and her
auditors continued in breathless suspense, until, recovering her
strength, she laid her hand on that of Frances, and continued more
mildly, "Miss Wharton, if there breathes a spirit congenial to
Dunwoodie's, and worthy of his love, it is your own."
A flush of fire passed over the face of the listener, and she raised her
eyes, flashing with an ungovernable look of delight, to the countenance
of Isabella; but the ruin she beheld recalled better feelings, and again
her head dropped upon the covering of the bed. Isabella watched her
emotion with a look that partook both of pity and admiration.
"Such have been the feelings that I have escaped," she continued. "Yes,
Miss Wharton, Dunwoodie is wholly yours."
"Be just to yourself, my sister," exclaimed the youth; "let no romantic
generosity cause you to forget your own character."
She heard him, and fixed a gaze of tender interest on his face, but
slowly shook her head as she replied,--
"It is not romance, but truth, that bids me speak. Oh! how much have I
lived within an hour! Miss Wharton, I was born under a burning sun, and
my feelings seem to have imbibed its warmth; I have existed for
passion only."
"Say not so--say not so, I implore you," cried the agitated brother.
"Think how devoted has been your love to our aged father; how
disinterested, how tender, your affection to me!"
"Yes," said Isabella, a smile of mild pleasure beaming on her
countenance, "that, at least, is a reflection which may be taken to
the grave."
Neither Frances nor her brother interrupted her meditations, which
continued for several minutes; when, suddenly recollecting herself, she
continued,--
"I remain selfish even to the last; with me, Miss Wharton, America and
her liberties were my earliest passion, and--" Again she paused, and
Frances thought it was the struggle of death that followed; but
reviving, she proceeded, "Why should I hesitate, on the brink of the
grave! Dunwoodie was my next and my last. But," burying her face in her
hands, "it was a love that was unsought."
"Isabella!" exclaimed her brother, springing from the bed, and pacing
the floor in disorder.
"See how dependent we become under the dominion of worldly pride; it is
painful to George to learn that one he loves had not feelings superior
to her nature and education."
"Say no more," whispered Frances; "you distress us both--say no more, I
entreat you."
"In justice to Dunwoodie I must speak; and for the same reason, my
brother, you must listen. By no act or word has Dunwoodie ever induced
me to believe he wished me more than a friend; nay, latterly, I have had
the burning shame of thinking that he avoided my presence."
"Would he dare?" said Singleton, fiercely.
"Peace, my brother, and listen," continued Isabella, rousing herself
with an effort that was final. "Here is the innocent, the justifiable
cause. We are both motherless; but that aunt--that mild, plain-hearted,
observing aunt, has given you the victory. Oh! how much she loses, who
loses a female guardian to her youth. I have exhibited those feelings
which you have been taught to repress. After this, can I wish to live?"
"Isabella! my poor Isabella! you wander in your mind."
"But one word more--for I feel that blood, which ever flowed too
swiftly, rushing where nature never intended it to go. Woman must be
sought to be prized; her life is one of concealed emotions; blessed are
they whose early impressions make the task free from hypocrisy, for such
only can be happy with men like--like Dunwoodie." Her voice failed, and
she sank back on her pillow in silence. The cry of Singleton brought the
rest of the party to her bedside; but death was already upon her
countenance; her remaining strength just sufficed to reach the hand of
George, and pressing it to her bosom for a moment, she relinquished her
grasp, and, with a slight convulsion, expired.
Frances Wharton had thought that fate had done its worst, in endangering
the life of her brother, and destroying the reason of her sister; but
the relief conveyed by the dying declaration of Isabella taught her that
another sorrow had aided in loading her heart with grief. She saw the
whole truth at a glance; nor was the manly delicacy of Dunwoodie lost
upon her--everything tended to raise him in her estimation; and, for
mourning that duty and pride had induced her to strive to think less of
him, she was compelled to substitute regret that her own act had driven
him from her in sorrow, if not in desperation. It is not in the nature
of youth, however, to despair; and Frances now knew a secret joy that
gave a new spring to her existence.
The sun broke forth, on the morning that succeeded this night of
desolation, in unclouded luster, and seemed to mock the petty sorrows of
those who received his rays. Lawton had early ordered his steed, and was
ready to mount as the first burst of light broke over the hills. His
orders were already given, and the trooper threw his leg across the
saddle, in silence; and, casting a glance of fierce chagrin at the
narrow space that had favored the flight of the Skinner, he gave Roanoke
the rein, and moved slowly towards the valley.
The stillness of death pervaded the road, nor was there a single vestige
of the scenes of the night, to tarnish the loveliness of a glorious
morn. Struck with the contrast between man and nature, the fearless
trooper rode by each pass of danger, regardless of what might happen;
nor did he rouse himself from his musing, until the noble charger,
snuffing the morning air, greeted the steeds of the guard under Sergeant
Hollister.
Here, indeed, was to be seen sad evidence of the midnight fray, but the
trooper glanced his eye over it with the coolness of one accustomed to
such sights. Without wasting the moments in useless regrets, he
proceeded, at once, to business.
"Have you seen anything?" he demanded of the orderly.
"Nothing, sir, that we dared to charge upon," returned Hollister; "but
we mounted once, at the report of distant firearms."
"'Tis well," said Lawton, gloomily. "Ah! Hollister, I would give the
animal I ride, to have had your single arm between the wretch who drew
that trigger and these useless rocks, which overhang every bit of
ground, as if they grudged pasture to a single hoof."
"Under the light of day, and charging man to man, I am as good as
another; but I can't say that I'm overfond of fighting with those that
neither steel nor lead can bring down."
"What silly crotchet is uppermost, now, in that mystified brain of
thine, Deacon Hollister?"
"I like not the dark object that has been maneuvering in the skirt of
the wood since the first dawn of day; and twice, during the night, it
was seen marching across the firelight, no doubt with evil intent."
"Is it yon ball of black, at the foot of the rock maple, that you mean?
In truth it moves."
"But without mortal motion," said the sergeant, regarding it with awful
reverence. "It glides along, but no feet have been seen by any who
watch here."
"Had it wings," cried Lawton, "it is mine; stand fast, until I join."
The words were hardly uttered before Roanoke was flying across the
plain, and apparently verifying the boast of his master.
"Those cursed rocks!" ejaculated the trooper, as he saw the object of
his pursuit approaching the hillside; but, either from want of practice
or from terror, it passed the obvious shelter they offered, and fled
into the open plain.
"I have you, man or devil!" shouted Lawton, whirling his saber from its
scabbard. "Halt, and take quarter!"
His proposition was apparently acceded to; for, at the sound of his
powerful voice, the figure sank upon the ground, exhibiting a shapeless
ball of black, without life or motion.
"What have we here?" cried Lawton, drawing up by its side. "A gala suit
of the good maiden, Jeanette Peyton, wandering around its birthplace, or
searching in vain for its discomfited mistress?" He leaned forward in
his stirrups, and placing the point of his sword under the silken
garment, by throwing aside the covering, discovered part of the form of
the reverend gentleman who had fled from the Locusts, the evening
before, in his robes of office.
"In truth, Hollister had some ground for his alarm; an army chaplain is,
at any time, a terror to a troop of horse."
The clergyman had collected enough of his disturbed faculties, to
discover that it was a face he knew, and somewhat disconcerted at the
terror he had manifested, and the indecent attitude in which he had been
found, he endeavored to rise and offer some explanation. Lawton received
his apologies good-humoredly, if not with much faith in their truth;
and, after a short communication upon the state of the valley, the
trooper courteously alighted, and they proceeded towards the guard.
"I am so little acquainted, sir, with the rebel uniform, that I really
was unable to distinguish, whether those men, whom you say are your own,
did or did not belong to the gang of marauders."
"Apology, sir, is unnecessary," replied the trooper, curling his lip.
"It is not your task, as a minister of God, to take note of the facings
of a coat. The standard under which you serve is acknowledged by
us all."
"I serve under the standard of his gracious Majesty, George III,"
returned the priest, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. "But really
the idea of being scalped has a strong tendency to unman a new-beginner,
like myself."
"Scalped!" echoed Lawton, stopping short in his walk. Then recollecting
himself, he added, with composure, "If it is to Dunwoodie's squadron of
Virginia light dragoons that you allude, it may be well to inform you
that they generally take a bit of the skull with the skin."
"Oh! I can have no apprehensions of gentlemen of your appearance," said
the divine, with a smirk. "It is the natives that I apprehend."
"Natives! I have the honor to be one, I assure you, sir."
"Nay, I beg that I may be understood--I mean the Indians; they who do
nothing but rob, and murder, and destroy."
"And scalp!"
"Yes, sir, and scalp too," continued the clergyman, eying his companion
a little suspiciously; "the copper-colored, savage Indians."
"And did you expect to meet those nose-jeweled gentry in the neutral
ground?"
"Certainly; we understand in England that the interior swarms with
them."
"And call you this the interior of America?" cried Lawton, again
halting, and staring the other in the face, with a surprise too
naturally expressed to be counterfeited.
"Surely, sir, I conceive myself to be in the interior."
"Attend," said Lawton, pointing towards the east. "See you not that
broad sheet of water which the eye cannot compass? Thither lies the
England you deem worthy to hold dominion over half the world. See you
the land of your nativity?"
"'Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance of three thousand
miles!" exclaimed the wondering priest, a little suspicious of his
companion's sanity.
"No! what a pity it is that the powers of man are not equal to his
ambition. Now turn your eyes westward; observe that vast expanse of
water which rolls between the shores of America and China."
"I see nothing but land," said the trembling priest; "there is no water
to be seen."
"'Tis impossible to behold objects at a distance of three thousand
miles!" repeated Lawton, pursuing his walk. "If you apprehend the
savages, seek them in the ranks of your prince. Rum and gold have
preserved their loyalty."
"Nothing is more probable than my being deceived," said the man of
peace, casting furtive glances at the colossal stature and whiskered
front of his companion; "but the rumors we have at home, and the
uncertainty of meeting with such an enemy as yourself, induced me to fly
at your approach."
"'Twas not judiciously determined," said the trooper, "as Roanoke has
the heels of you greatly; and flying from Scylla, you were liable to
encounter Charybdis. Those woods and rocks cover the very enemies
you dread."
"The savages!" exclaimed the divine, instinctively placing the trooper
in the rear.
"More than savages; men who, under the guise of patriotism, prowl
through the community, with a thirst for plunder that is unsatiable, and
a love of cruelty that mocks the ingenuity of the Indian--fellows whose
mouths are filled with liberty and equality, and whose hearts are
overflowing with cupidity and gall--gentlemen that are ycleped the
Skinners."
"I have heard them mentioned in our army," said the frightened divine,
"and had thought them to be the aborigines."
"You did the savages injustice."
They now approached the spot occupied by Hollister, who witnessed with
surprise the character of the prisoner made by his captain. Lawton gave
his orders, and the men immediately commenced securing and removing such
articles of furniture as were thought worthy of the trouble; and the
captain, with his reverend associate, who was mounted on a mettled
horse, returned to the quarters of the troop.
It was the wish of Singleton that the remains of his sister should be
conveyed to the post commanded by his father, and preparations were
early made to this effect. The wounded British were placed under the
control of the chaplain; and towards the middle of the day Lawton saw
all the arrangements so far completed, as to render it probable that in
a few hours he would be left with his small party, in undisturbed
possession of the Corners.
While leaning in the doorway, gazing in moody silence at the ground
which had been the scene of the last night's chase, his ear caught the
sound of a horse, and the next moment a dragoon of his own troop
appeared dashing up the road, as if on business of the last importance.
The steed was foaming, and the rider had the appearance of having done a
day's service. Without speaking, he placed a letter in the hand of
Lawton, and led his charger to the stable. The trooper knew the hand of
the major, and ran his eye over the following:--
"I rejoice it is the order of Washington, that the family of the Locusts
are to be removed above the Highlands. They are to be admitted to the
society of Captain Wharton, who waits only for their testimony to be
tried. You will communicate this order, and with proper delicacy I do
not doubt. The English are moving up the river; and the moment you see
the Whartons in safety, break up and join your troop. There will be good
service to be done when we meet, as Sir Henry is reported to have sent
out a real soldier in command. Reports must be made to the commandant at
Peekskill, for Colonel Singleton is withdrawn to headquarters, to
preside over the inquiry upon poor Wharton. Fresh orders have been sent
to hang the peddler if we can take him, but they are not from the
commander in chief. Detail a small guard with the ladies, and get into
the saddle as soon as possible."
Yours sincerely,
"PEYTON DUNWOODIE."
This communication entirely changed the whole arrangement. There was no
longer any motive for removing the body of Isabella, since her father
was no longer with his command, and Singleton reluctantly acquiesced in
an immediate interment. A retired and lovely spot was selected, near the
foot of the adjacent rocks, and such rude preparations were made as the
time and the situation of the country permitted. A few of the
neighboring inhabitants collected from curiosity and interest, and Miss
Peyton and Frances wept in sincerity over her grave. The solemn offices
of the church were performed by the minister, who had so lately stood
forth to officiate in another and very different duty; and Lawton bent
his head, and passed his hand across his brow, while the words that
accompanied the first clod were uttered.
A new stimulus was given to the Whartons by the intelligence conveyed in
the letter of Dunwoodie; and Caesar, with his horses, was once more put
in requisition. The relics of the property were intrusted to a neighbor,
in whom they had confidence; and, accompanied by the unconscious Sarah,
and attended by four dragoons and all of the American wounded, Mr.
Wharton's party took their departure. They were speedily followed by the
English chaplain, with his countrymen, who were conveyed to the
waterside, where a vessel was in waiting to receive them. Lawton
joyfully witnessed these movements; and as soon as the latter were out
of sight, he ordered his own bugle to sound. Everything was instantly in
motion. The mare of Mrs. Flanagan was again fastened to the cart; Dr.
Sitgreaves exhibited his shapeless form once more on horseback; and the
trooper appeared in the saddle, rejoicing in his emancipation.
The word to march was given; and Lawton, throwing a look of sullen
ferocity at the place of the Skinner's concealment, and another of
melancholy regret towards the grave of Isabella, led the way,
accompanied by the surgeon in a brown study; while Sergeant Hollister
and Betty brought up the rear, leaving a fresh southerly wind to whistle
through the open doors and broken windows of the "Hotel Flanagan," where
the laugh of hilarity, the joke of the hardy partisan, and the
lamentations of the sorrowing, had so lately echoed.