Wyandotte - James Fenimore Cooper
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"Robert Willoughby, what mean you! Does this man know of your presence
at the Knoll?"
"I should hope not--_think_ not." Here the major explained all
that is known to the reader on this head, when he continued--"The
fellow's curiosity brought his face within a few inches of mine; yet I
do not believe he recognised me. This disguise is pretty thorough; and
what between his ignorance, the darkness and the dress, I must believe
he was foiled."
"Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Maud, breathing more freely. "I have
long distrusted that man, though he seems to possess the confidence of
every one else. Neither my father nor my mother will see him, as I see
him; yet to me his design to injure you is _so_ clear--_so_
obvious!--I wonder, often wonder, that others cannot view it as I do.
Even Beulah is blind!"
"And what do you see so clearly, Maud? I have consented to keep myself
incog. in submission to your earnest request; and yet, to own the
truth, I can discover no particular reason why Strides is to be
distrusted more than any one else in the valley--than Mike, for
instance."
"Mike! I would answer for _his_ truth with my life. _He_ will
never betray you, Bob."
"But why is Joel so much the object of your distrust?--and why am _I_
the particular subject of your apprehensions?"
Maud felt the tell-tale blood flowing again to her cheeks; since, to
give a simple and clear reason for her distrust, exceeded her power. It
was nothing but the keen interest which she took in Robert Willoughby's
safety that had betrayed to her the truth; and, as usually happens,
when anxiety leads the way in discoveries of this sort, logical and
plausible inferences are not always at command. Still, Maud not only
thought herself right, but, in the main, she _was_ right; and this
she felt so strongly as to be enabled to induce others to act on her
impressions.
"_Why_ I believe in Strides' sinister views is more than I may be
able to explain to you, in words, Bob," she replied, after a moment's
thought; "still, I _do_ believe in them as firmly as I believe in
my existence. His looks, his questions, his journeys, and an occasional
remark, have all aided in influencing the belief; nevertheless, no one
proof may be perfectly clear and satisfactory. Why _you_ should be
the subject of his plans, however, is simple enough, since you are the
only one among us he can seriously injure. By betraying you, he might
gain some great advantage to himself."
"To whom can he betray me, dear? My father is the only person here, in
any authority, and of him I have no cause to be afraid."
"Yet, you were so far alarmed when last here, as to change your route
back to Boston. If there were cause for apprehension then, the same
reason may now exist."
"That was when many strangers were in the valley, and we knew not
exactly where we stood. I have submitted to your wishes, however, Maud,
and shall lie _perdu_, until there is a serious alarm; then it is
understood I am to be permitted to show myself. In a moment of
emergency my unexpected appearance among the men might have a dramatic
effect, and, of itself, give us a victory. But tell me of my
prospects--am I likely to succeed with my father? Will he be brought
over to the royal cause?"
"I think not. All common inducements are lost on him. His baronetcy,
for instance, he will never assume; _that_, therefore, cannot
entice him. Then his feelings are with his adopted country, which he
thinks right, and which he is much disposed to maintain; more
particularly since Beulah's marriage, and our late intercourse with all
that set. My mother's family, too, has much influence with him. They,
you know, are all whigs."
"Don't prostitute the name, Maud. Whig does not mean rebel; these
misguided men are neither more nor less than rebels. I had thought this
declaration of independence would have brought my father at once to our
side."
"I can see it has disturbed him, as did the Battle of Bunker's Hill.
But he will reflect a few days, and decide now, as he did then, in
favour of the Americans. He has English partialities, Bob, as is
natural to one born in that country; but, on this point, his mind is
very strongly American."
"The accursed Knoll has done this! Had he lived in society, as he ought
to have done, among his equals and the educated, we should now see him
at the head--Maud, I know I can confide in _you_."
Maud was pleased at this expression of confidence, and she looked up in
the major's face, her full blue eyes expressing no small portion of the
heartfelt satisfaction she experienced. Still, she said nothing.
"You may well imagine," the major continued, "that I have not made this
journey entirely without an object--I mean some object more important,
even, than to see you all. The commander-in-chief is empowered to raise
several regiments in this country, and it is thought useful to put men
of influence in the colonies at their head. Old Noll de Lancey, for
instance, so well known to us all, is to have a brigade; and I have a
letter in my pocket offering to Sir Hugh Willoughby one of his
regiments. One of the Allens of Pennsylvania, who was actually serving
against us, has thrown up his commission from congress, since this
wicked declaration, and has consented to take a battalion from the
king. What think you of all this? Will it not have weight with my
father?"
"It may cause him to reflect, Bob; but it will not induce him to change
his mind. It may suit Mr. Oliver de Lancey to be a general, for he has
been a soldier his whole life; but my father has retired, and given up
all thoughts of service. He tells us he never liked it, and has been
happier here at the Knoll, than when he got his first commission. Mr.
Allen's change of opinion may be well enough, he will say, but I have
no need of change; I am here, with my wife and daughters, and have them
to care for, in these troubled times. What think you he said, Bob, in
one of his conversations with us, on this very subject?"
"I am sure I cannot imagine--though I rather fear it was some wretched
political stuff of the day."
"So far from this, it was good natural feeling that belongs, or ought
to belong to all days, and all ages," answered Maud, her voice
trembling a little as she proceeded. "'There is my son,' he said; 'one
soldier is enough in a family like this. _He_ keeps all our hearts
anxious, and may cause them all to mourn.'"
Major Willoughby was mute for quite a minute, looking rebuked and
thoughtful.
"I fear I do cause my parents concern," he at length answered; "and why
should I endeavour to increase that of my excellent mother, by
persuading her husband to return to the profession? If this were
ordinary service, I could not think of it. I do not know that I ought
to think of it, as it is!"
"Do not, dear Robert. We are all--that is, mother is often miserable on
your account; and why would you increase her sorrows? Remember that to
tremble for one life is sufficient for a woman."
"My mother is miserable on _my_ account!" answered the young man,
who was thinking of anything but his father, at that instant. "Does
Beulah never express concern for me? or have her new ties completely
driven her brother from her recollection? I know she can scarce wish me
success; but she might still feel some uneasiness for an only brother.
We are but two--"
Maud started, as if some frightful object glared before her eyes; then
she sat in breathless silence, resolute to hear what would come next.
But Robert Willoughby meant to pursue that idea no farther. He had so
accustomed himself--had endeavoured even so to accustom himself to
think of Beulah as his only sister, that the words escaped him
unconsciously. They were no sooner uttered, however, than the
recollection of their possible effect on Maud crossed his mind.
Profoundly ignorant of the true nature of her feelings towards himself,
he had ever shrunk from a direct avowal of his own sentiments, lest he
might shock her; as a sister's ear would naturally be wounded by a
declaration of attachment from a brother; and there were bitter moments
when he fancied delicacy and honour would oblige him to carry his
secret with him to the grave. Two minutes of frank communication might
have dissipated all these scruples for ever; but, how to obtain those
minutes, or how to enter on the subject at all, were obstacles that
often appeared insurmountable to the young man. As for Maud, she but
imperfectly understood her own heart--true, she had conscious glimpses
of its real state; but, it was through those sudden and ungovernable
impulses that were so strangely mingled with her affections. It was
years, indeed, since she had ceased to think of Robert Willoughby as a
brother, and had begun to view him with different eyes; still, she
struggled with her feelings, as against a weakness. The captain and his
wife were her parents; Beulah her dearly, dearly beloved sister; little
Evert her nephew; and even the collaterals, in and about Albany, came
in for a due share of her regard; while Bob, though called Bob as
before; though treated with a large portion of the confidence that was
natural to the intimacy of her childhood; though loved with a
tenderness he would have given even his high-prized commission to know,
was no longer thought of as a brother. Often did Maud find herself
thinking, if never saying, "Beulah may do that, for Beulah is his
sister; but it would be wrong in me. I may write to him, talk freely
and even confidentially with him, and be affectionate to him; all this
is right, and I should be the most ungrateful creature on earth to act
differently; but I cannot sit on his knee as Beulah sometimes does; I
cannot throw my arms around his neck when I kiss him, as Beulah does; I
cannot pat his cheek, as Beulah does, when he says anything to laugh
at; nor can I pry into his secrets, as Beulah does, or affects to do,
to tease him. I should be more reserved with one who has not a drop of
my blood in his veins--no, not a single drop." In this way, indeed,
Maud was rather fond of disclaiming any consanguinity with the family
of Willoughby, even while she honoured and loved its two heads, as
parents. The long pause that succeeded the major's broken sentence was
only interrupted by himself.
"It is vexatious to be shut up here, in the dark, Maud," he said, "when
every minute _may_ bring an attack. This side of the house might
be defended by you and Beulah, aided and enlightened by the arm and
counsels of that young 'son of liberty,' little Evert; whereas the
stockade in front may really need the presence of men who have some
knowledge of the noble art. I wish there were a look-out to the front,
that one might at least see the danger as it approached."
"If your presence is not indispensable here, I can lead you to my
painting-room, where there is a loop directly opposite to the gate.
That half of the garrets has no one in it."
The major accepted the proposal with joy, and forthwith he proceeded to
issue a few necessary orders to his subordinates, before he followed
Maud. When all was ready, the latter led the way, carrying a small
silver lamp that she had brought with her on entering the library. The
reader already understands that the Hut was built around a court, the
portion of the building in the rear, or on the cliff, alone having
windows that opened outward. This was as true of the roofs as of the
perpendicular parts of the structure, the only exceptions being in the
loops that had been cut in the half-story, beneath the eaves. Of
course, the garrets were very extensive. They were occupied in part,
however, by small rooms, with dormer-windows, the latter of which
opened on the court, with the exception of those above the cliff. It
was on the roofs of these windows that captain Willoughby had laid his
platform, or walk, with a view to extinguish fires, or to defend the
place. There were many rooms also that were lighted only by the loops,
and which, of course, were on the outer side of the buildings. In
addition to these arrangements, the garret portions of the Hut were
divided into two great parts, like the lower floor, without any doors
of communication. Thus, below, the apartments commenced at the gateway,
and extended along one-half the front; the whole of the east wing, and
the whole of the rear, occupying five-eighths of the entire structure.
This part contained all the rooms occupied by the family and the
offices. The corresponding three-eighths, or the remaining half of the
front, and the whole of the west wing, were given to visiters, and were
now in possession of the people of the valley; as were all the rooms
and garrets above them. On the other hand, captain Willoughby, with a
view to keep his family to itself, had excluded every one, but the
usual inmates, from his own portion of the house, garret-rooms
included.
Some of the garret-rooms, particularly those over the library, drawing-
room, and parlour, were convenient and well-furnished little
apartments, enjoying dormer-windows that opened on the meadows and
forest, and possessing a very tolerable elevation, for rooms of that
particular construction. Here Mr. Woods lodged and had his study. The
access was by a convenient flight of steps, placed in the vestibule
that communicated with the court. A private and narrower flight also
ascended from the offices.
Maud now led the way up the principal stairs, Mike being on post at the
outer door to keep off impertinent eyes, followed by Robert Willoughby.
Unlike most American houses, the Hut had few passages on its principal
floor; the rooms communicating _en suite_, as a better arrangement
where the buildings were so long, and yet so narrow. Above, however,
one side was left in open garret; sometimes in front and sometimes in
the rear, as the light came from the court, or from without. Into this
garret, then, Maud conducted the major, passing a line of humble rooms
on her right, which belonged to the families of the Plinys and the
Smashes, with their connections, until she reached the front range of
the buildings. Here the order was changed along the half of the
structure reserved to the use of the family; the rooms being on the
outer side lighted merely by the loops, while opposite to them was an
open garret with windows that overlooked the court.
Passing into the garret just mentioned, Maud soon reached the door of
the little room she sought. It was an apartment she had selected for
painting, on account of the light from the loop, which in the morning
was particularly favourable, though somewhat low. As she usually sat on
a little stool, however, this difficulty was in some measure obviated;
and, at all events, the place was made to answer her purposes. She kept
the key herself, and the room, since Beulah's marriage in particular,
was her sanctum; no one entering it unless conducted by its mistress.
Occasionally, Little Smash was admitted with a broom; though Maud, for
reasons known to herself, often preferred sweeping the small carpet
that covered the centre of the floor, with her own fair hands, in
preference to suffering another to intrude.
The major was aware that Maud had used this room for the last seven
years. It was here he had seen her handkerchief waving at the loop,
when he last departed; and hundreds of times since had he thought of
this act of watchful affection, with doubts that led equally to pain or
pleasure, as images of merely sisterly care, or of a tenderer feeling,
obtruded themselves. These loops were four feet long, cut in the usual
bevelling manner, through the massive timbers; were glazed, and had
thick, bullet-proof, inside shutters, that in this room were divided
in equal parts, in order to give Maud the proper use of the light she
wanted. All these shutters were now closed by command of the captain,
in order to conceal the lights that would be flickering through the
different garrets; and so far had caution become a habit, that Maud
seldom exposed her person at night, near the loop, with the shutter
open.
On the present occasion, she left the light without, and threw open the
upper-half of her heavy shutter, remarking as she did so, that the day
was just beginning to dawn.
"In a few minutes it will be light," she added; "then we shall be able
to see who is and who is not in the valley. Look--you can perceive my
father near the gate, at this moment."
"I do, to my shame, Maud. He should not be there, I am cooped up here,
behind timbers that are almost shot-proof."
"It will be time for you to go to the front, as you soldiers call it,
when there is an enemy to face. You cannot think there is any danger of
an attack upon the Hut this morning."
"Certainty not. It is now too late. If intended at all, it would have
been made before that streak of light appeared in the east."
"Then close the shutter, and I will bring in the lamp, and show you
some of my sketches. We artists are thirsting always for praise; and I
know you have a taste, Bob, that one might dread."
"This is kind of you, dear Maud," answered the major, closing the
shutter; "for they tell me you are niggardly of bestowing such favours.
I hear you have got to likenesses--little Evert's, in particular."
Chapter XVI.
Anxious, she hovers o'er the web the while,
Reads, as it grows, thy figured story there;
Now she explains the texture with a smile,
And now the woof interprets with a tear.
Fawcett.
All Maud's feelings were healthful and natural. She had no exaggerated
sentiments, and scarcely art enough to control or to conceal any of the
ordinary impulses of her heart. We are not about to relate a scene,
therefore, in which a long-cherished but hidden miniature of the young
man is to play a conspicuous part, and to be the means of revealing to
two lovers the state of their respective hearts; but one of a very
different character. It is true, Maud had endeavoured to make, from
memory, one or two sketches of "Bob's" face; but she had done it
openly, and under the cognizance of the whole family. This she might
very well do, indeed, in her usual character of a sister, and excite no
comments. In these efforts, her father and mother, and Beulah, had
uniformly pronounced her success to be far beyond their hopes; but
Maud, herself, had thrown them all aside, half-finished, dissatisfied
with her own labours. Like the author, whose fertile imagination
fancies pictures that defy his powers of description, her pencil ever
fell far short of the face that her memory kept so constantly in view.
This sketch wanted animation, that gentleness, another fire, and a
fourth candour; in short, had Maud begun a thousand all would have been
deficient, in her eyes, in some great essential of perfection. Still,
she had no secret about her efforts, and half-a-dozen of these very
sketches lay uppermost in her portfolio, when she spread it, and its
contents, before the eyes of the original.
Major Willoughby thought Maud had never appeared more beautiful than as
she moved about making her little preparations for the exhibition.
Pleasure heightened her colour; and there was such a mixture of frank,
sisterly regard, in every glance of her eye, blended, however, with
sensitive feeling, and conscious womanly reserve, as made her a
thousand times--measuring amounts by the young man's sensations--more
interesting than he had ever seen her. The lamp gave but an indifferent
light for a gallery, but it was sufficient to betray Maud's smiles, and
blushes, and each varying emotion of her charming countenance.
"Now, Bob," she said, opening her portfolio, with all her youthful
frankness and confidence, "you know well enough I am not one of those
old masters of whom you used to talk so much, but your own pupil--the
work of your own hands; and if you find more faults than you have
expected, you will have the goodness to remember that the master has
deserted his peaceful pursuits to go a campaigning--there--that is a
caricature of your own countenance, staring you in the face, as a
preface!"
"This is like, I should think--was it done from memory, dear Maud?"
"How else should it be done? All our entreaties have never been able to
persuade you to send us even a miniature. You are wrong in this, Bob"--
by no accident did Maud now ever call the major, Robert, though Beulah
often did. There was a desperate sort of familiarity in the _Bob_,
that she could easily adopt; but the 'Robert' had a family sound that
she disliked; and yet a more truly feminine creature than Maud Meredith
did not exist--"You are wrong, Bob; for mother actually pines to
possess your picture, in some shape or other. It was this wish that
induced me to attempt these things."
"And why has no one of them ever been finished?--Here are six or eight
beginnings, and all, more or less, like, I should think, and not one of
them more than half done. Why have I been treated so cavalierly, Miss
Maud?"
The fair artist's colour deepened a little; but her smile was quite as
sweet as it was saucy, as she replied--
"Girlish caprice, I suppose. I like neither of them; and of that which
a woman dislikes, she will have none. To be candid, however, I hardly
think there is one of them all that does you justice."
"No?--what fault have you to find with this? This might be worked up to
something very natural."
"It would be _a_ natural, then--it wants expression, fearfully."
"And this, which is still better. That might be finished while I am
here, and I will give you some sittings."
"Even mother dislikes _that_--there is too much of the Major of
Foot in it. Mr. Woods says it is a martial picture."
"And ought not a soldier to look like a soldier? To me, now, that seems
a capital beginning."
"It is not what mother, or Beulah--or father--or even any of us wants.
It is too full of Bunker's Hill. Your friends desire to see you as you
appear to _them_; not as you appear to your enemies."
"Upon my word, Maud, you have made great advances in the art! This is a
view of the Knoll, and the dam--and here is another of the mill, and
the water-fall--all beautifully done, and in water-colours, too. What
is this?--Have you been attempting a sketch of yourself!--The glass
must have been closely consulted, my fair coquette, to enable you to do
this!"
The blood had rushed into Maud's face, covering it with a rich tell-
tale mantle, when her companion first alluded to the half-finished
miniature he held in his hand; then her features resembled ivory, as
the revulsion of feeling, that overcame her confusion, followed. For
some little time she sate, in breathless stillness, with her looks cast
upon the floor, conscious that Robert Willoughby was glancing from her
own face to the miniature, and from the miniature to her face again,
making his observations and comparisons. Then she ventured to raise her
eyes timidly towards his, half-imploringly, as if to beseech him to
proceed to something else. But the young man was too much engrossed
with the exceedingly pretty sketch he held in his hand, to understand
her meaning, or to comply with her wishes.
"This is yourself, Maud!" he cried--"though in a strange sort of
dress--why have you spoilt so beautiful a thing, by putting it in this
masquerade?"
"It is not myself--it is a copy of--a miniature I possess."
"A miniature you possess!--Of whom can you possess so lovely a
miniature, and I never see it?"
A faint smile illumined the countenance of Maud, and the blood began to
return to her cheeks. She stretched her hand over to the sketch, and
gazed on it, with intense feeling, until the tears began to stream from
her eyes.
"Maud--dear, _dearest_ Maud--have I said that which pains you?--I
do not understand all this, but I confess there are secrets to which I
can have no claim to be admitted--"
"Nay, Bob, this is making too much of what, after all, must sooner or
later be spoken of openly among us. I believe that to be a copy of a
miniature of my mother."
"Of mother, Maud--you are beside yourself--it has neither her features,
expression, nor the colour of her eyes. It is the picture of a far
handsomer woman, though mother is still pretty; and it is perfection!"
"I mean of _my_ mother--of Maud Yeardley; the wife of my father,
Major Meredith."
This was said with a steadiness that surprised our heroine herself,
when she came to think over all that had passed, and it brought the
blood to her companion's heart, in a torrent.
"This is strange!" exclaimed Willoughby, after a short pause. "And
_my_ mother--_our_ mother has given you the original, and told
you this? I did not believe she could muster the resolution necessary
to such an act."
"She has not. You know, Bob, I am now of age; and my father, a month
since, put some papers in my hand, with a request that I would read
them. They contain a marriage settlement and other things of that sort,
which show I am mistress of more money than I should know what to do
with, if it were not for dear little Evert--but, with such a precious
being to love, one never can have too much of anything. With the papers
were many trinkets, which I suppose father never looked at. This
beautiful miniature was among the last; and I feel certain, from some
remarks I ventured to make, mother does not know of its existence."