CHAPTER XV.
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—“I could teach you,
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn;
So will I never be; so may you miss me;
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin
That I had been forsworn.”—
Portia.
Captain Willoughby knew that the hour which preceded
the return of light, was that in which the soldier had
the most to apprehend, when in the field. This is the moment
when it is usual to attempt surprises; and it was, in
particular, the Indian's hour of blood. Orders had been
left, accordingly, to call him at four o'clock, and to see that
all the men of the Hut were afoot, and armed also. Notwithstanding
the deserted appearance of the valley, this experienced
frontier warrior distrusted the signs of the times;
and he looked forward to the probability of an assault, a
little before the return of day, with a degree of concern he
would have been sorry to communicate to his wife and
daughters.
Every emergency had been foreseen, and such a disposition
made of the forces, as enabled the major to be useful,
in the event of an attack, without exposing himself unnecessarily
to the danger of being discovered. He was to have
charge of the defence of the rear of the Hut, or that part of
the buildings where the windows opened outwards; and
Michael and the two Plinys were assigned him as assistants.
Nor was the ward altogether a useless one. Though the
cliff afforded a material safeguard to this portion of the defences,
it might be scaled; and, it will be remembered, there
was no stockade at all, on this, the northern end of the
house.
When the men assembled in the court, therefore, about
an hour before the dawn, Robert Willoughby collected his
small force in the dining-room, the outer apartment of the
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suite, where he examined their arms by lamp-light, inspected
their accoutrements, and directed them to remain until
he issued fresh orders. His father, aided by serjeant Joyce,
did the same in the court; issuing out, through the gate of
the buildings, with his whole force, as soon as this duty was
performed. The call being general, the women and children
were all up also; many of the former repairing to the loops,
while the least resolute, or the less experienced of their
number, administered to the wants of the young, or busied
themselves with the concerns of the household. In a word,
the Hut, at that early hour, resembled a hive in activity,
though the different pursuits had not much affinity to the
collection of honey.
It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Willoughby and her
daughters still courted their pillows on an occasion like this.
They rose with the others, the grandmother and Beulah bestowing
their first care on the little Evert, as if his life and
safety were the considerations uppermost in their thoughts.
This seemed so natural, that Maud wondered she too could
not feel all this absorbing interest in the child, a being so
totally dependent on the affection of its friends and relatives
to provide for its wants and hazards, in an emergency like
the present.
“We will see to the child, Maud,” observed her mother,
ten or fifteen minutes after all were up and dressed. “Do
you go to your brother, who will be solitary, alone in his
citadel. He may wish, too, to send some message to his
father. Go, then, dear girl, and help to keep up poor Bob's
spirits.”
What a service for Maud! Still, she went, without hesitation
or delay; for the habits of her whole infancy were
not to be totally overcome by the natural and more engrossing
sentiments of her later years. She could not feel precisely
the reserve and self-distrust with one she had so long
regarded as a brother, as might have been the case with
a stranger youth in whom she had begun to feel the interest
she entertained for Robert Willoughby. But, Maud did not
hesitate about complying. An order from her mother to
her was law; and she had no shame, no reserves on the
subject of contributing to Bob's comfort or happiness.
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Her presence was a great relief to the young man himself,
whom she found in the library. His assistants were
posted without, as sentinels to keep off intruders, a disposition
that left him quite alone, anxious and uneasy. The
only intercourse he could have with his father was by
means of messages; and the part of the building he occupied
was absolutely without any communication with the
court, except by a single door near the offices, at which he
had stationed O'Hearn.
“This is kind, and like yourself, dearest Maud,” exclaimed
the young man, taking the hand of his visiter, and pressing
it in both his own, though he strangely neglected to kiss
her cheek, as he certainly would have done had it been
Beulah—“This is kind and like yourself; now I shall learn
something of the state of the family. How is my mother?”
It might have been native coyness, or even coquetry, that
unconsciously to herself influenced Maud's answer. She
knew not why—and yet she felt prompted to let it be understood
she had not come of her own impulses.
“Mother is well, and not at all alarmed,” she said. “She
and Beulah are busy with little Evert, who crows and kicks
his heels about as if he despised danger as becomes a soldier's
son, and has much amused even me; though I am
accused of insensibility to his perfections. Believing you
might be solitary, or might wish to communicate with some
of us, my mother desired me to come and inquire into your
wants.”
“Was such a bidding required, Maud! How long has
an order been necessary to bring you to console me?”
“That is a calculation I have never entered into, Bob,”
answered Maud, slightly blushing, and openly smiling, and
that in a way, too, to take all the sting out of her words —
“as young ladies can have more suitable occupations, one
might think. You will admit I guided you faithfully and
skilfully into the Hut last evening, and such a service should
suffice for the present. But, my mother tells me we have
proper causes of complaint against you, for having so thoughtlessly
left the place of safety into which you were brought,
and for going strolling about the valley, after we had retired,
in a very heedless and boyish manner!”
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“I went with my father; surely I could not have been in
better company.”
“At his suggestion, or at your own, Bob?” asked Maud,
shaking her head.
“To own the truth, it was, in some degree, at my own.
It seemed so very unmilitary for two old soldiers to allow
themselves to be shut up in ignorance of what their enemies
were at, that I could not resist the desire to make a little
sortie. You must feel, dear Maud, that our motive was your
safety—the safety, I mean, of my mother, and Beulah, and
all of you together—and you ought to be the last to blame
us.”
The tint on Maud's cheek deepened as Robert Willoughby
laid so heavy an emphasis on “your safety;” but she could
not smile on an act that risked so much more than was
prudent.
“This is well enough as to motive,” she said, after a
pause; “but frightfully ill-judged, I should think, as to the
risks. You do not remember the importance our dear father
is to us all—to my mother—to Beulah—even to me, Bob.”
“Even to you, Maud!—And why not as much to you as
to any of us?”
Maud could speak to Beulah of her want of natural affinity
to the family; but, it far exceeded her self-command to
make a direct allusion to it to Robert Willoughby. Still, it
was now rarely absent from her mind; the love she bore the
captain and his wife, and Beulah, and little Evert, coming
to her heart through a more insidious and possibly tenderer
tie, than that of purely filial or sisterly affection. It was,
indeed, this every-day regard, strangely deepened and enlivened
by that collateral feeling we so freely bestow on them
who are bound by natural ties to those who have the strongest
holds on our hearts, and which causes us to see with their
eyes, and to feel with their affections. Accordingly, no reply
was made to the question; or, rather, it was answered by
putting another.
“Did you see anything, after all, to compensate for so
much risk?” asked Maud, but not until a pause had betrayed
her embarrassment.
“We ascertained that the savages had deserted their fires,
and had not entered any of the cabins. Whether this were
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done to mislead us, or to make a retreat as sudden and unexpected
as their inroad, we are altogether in the dark. My
father apprehends treachery, however; while, I confess, to
me it seems probable that the arrival and the departure may
be altogether matters of accident. The Indians are in motion
certainly, for it is known that our agents are busy
among them; but, it is by no means so clear that our
Indians would molest captain Willoughby — Sir Hugh
Willoughby, as my father is altogether called, at head-quarters.”
“Have not the Americans savages on their side, to do us
this ill office?”
“I think not. It is the interest of the rebels to keep the
savages out of the struggle; they have so much at risk, that
this species of warfare can scarcely be to their liking.”
“And ought it to be to the liking of the king's generals,
or ministers either, Bob!”
“Perhaps not, Maud. I do not defend it; but I have seen
enough of politics and war, to know that results are looked
to, far more than principles. Honour, and chivalry, and
humanity, and virtue, and right, are freely used in terms;
but seldom do they produce much influence on facts. Victory
is the end aimed at, and the means are made to vary
with the object.”
“And where is all we have read together? — Yes, together,
Bob? for I owe you a great deal for having directed
my studies—where is all we have read about the glory and
truth of the English name and cause?”
“Very much, I fear, Maud, where the glory and truth
of the American name and cause will be, as soon as this
new nation shall fairly burst the shell, and hatch its public
morality. There are men among us who believe in this
public honesty, but I do not.”
“You are then engaged in a bad cause, major Willoughby,
and the sooner you abandon it, the better.”
“I would in a minute, if I knew where to find a better.
Rely on it, dearest Maud, all causes are alike, in this particular;
though one side may employ instruments, as in the
case of the savages, that the other side finds it its interest to
decry. Men, as individuals, may be, and sometimes are,
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reasonably upright—but, bodies of men, I much fear, never.
The latter escape responsibility by dividing it.”
“Still, a good cause may elevate even bodies of men,”
said Maud, thoughtfully.
“For a time, perhaps; but not in emergencies. You and
I think it a good cause, my good and frowning Maud, to defend
the rights of our sovereign lord the king. Beulah I
have given up to the enemy; but on you I have implicitly
relied.”
“Beulah follows her heart, perhaps, as they say it is
natural to women to do. As for myself, I am left free to
follow my own opinion of my duties.”
“And they lead you to espouse the cause of the king,
Maud!”
“They will be very apt to be influenced by the notions
of a certain captain Willoughby, and Wilhelmina, his wife,
who have guided me aright on so many occasions, that I
shall not easily distrust their opinions on this.”
The major disliked this answer; and yet, when he came
to reflect on it, as reflect he did a good deal in the course
of the day, he was dissatisfied with himself at being so unreasonable
as to expect a girl of twenty-one not to think
with her parents, real or presumed, in most matters. At
the moment, however, he did not wish further to press the
point.
“I am glad to learn, Bob,” resumed Maud, looking more
cheerful and smiling, “that you met with no one in your
rash sortie—for rash I shall call it, even though sanctioned
by my father.”
“I am wrong in saying that. We did meet with one man,
and that was no less a person than your bug-bear, Joel
Strides — as innocent, though as meddling an overseer as
one could wish to employ.”
“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
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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.”
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“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.
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“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!”
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“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
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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 heards, 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 lookout
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
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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 gate-way, 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
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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
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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,
while 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.”
“Certainly 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.”
END OF VOL. I.
