The Spy by James Fenimore Cooper (english reading book .txt) 📗

therefore poured out a glass of her morning beverage, and handed it to her companion as a peace offering.

“A few warm words between fri’nds are a trifle, ye must be knowing, sargeant,” said the washerwoman. “It was Michael Flanagan that I ever calumn’ated the most when I was loving him the best.”

“Michael was a good soldier and a brave man,” said the trooper, finishing the glass. “Our troop was covering the flank of his regiment when he fell, and I rode over his body myself during the day. Poor fellow! he lay on his back, and looked as composed as if he had died a natural death after a year’s consumption.”

“Oh! Michael was a great consumer, and be sartin; two such as us make dreadful inroads in the stock, sargeant. But ye’re a sober, discrate man, Mister Hollister, and would be a helpmate indeed.”

“Why, Mrs. Flanagan, I’ve tarried to speak on a subject that lies heavy at my heart, and I will now open my mind, if you’ve leisure to listen.”

“Is it listen?” cried the impatient woman; “and I’d listen to you, sargeant, if the officers never ate another mouthful. But take a second drop, dear; ’twill encourage you to spake freely.”

“I am already bold enough in so good a cause,” returned the veteran, rejecting her bounty. “Betty, do you think it was really the peddler spy that I placed in this room the last night?”

“And who should it be else, darling?”

“The evil one.”

“What, the divil?”

“Aye, even Beelzebub, disguised as the peddler; and them fellows we thought to be Skinners were his imps.”

“Well sure, sargeant dear, ye’re but little out this time, anyway; for if the divil’s imps go at large in the county Westchester, sure it is the Skinners, themselves.”

“Mrs. Flanagan, I mean in their incarnate spirits; the evil one knew there was no one we would arrest sooner than the peddler Birch, and he took on his appearance to gain admission to your room.”

“And what should the divil be wanting of me?” cried Betty, tartly. “And isn’t there divils enough in the corps already, without one’s coming from the bottomless pit to frighten a lone body?”

“’Twas in mercy to you, Betty, that he was permitted to come. You see he vanished through the door in your form, which is a symbol of your fate, unless you mend your life. Oh! I noticed how he trembled when I gave him the good book. Would any Christian, think you, my dear Betty, write in a Bible in this way; unless it might be the matter of births and deaths, and such lawful chronicles?”

The washerwoman was pleased with the softness of her lover’s manner, but dreadfully scandalized at his insinuation. She, however, preserved her temper, and with the quickness of her own country’s people, rejoined, “And would the divil have paid for the clothes, think ye?—aye, and overpaid.”

“Doubtless the money is base,” said the sergeant, a little staggered at such an evidence of honesty in one of whom, as to generals, he thought so meanly. “He tempted me with his glittering coin, but the Lord gave me strength to resist.”

“The goold looks well; but I’ll change it, anyway, with Captain Jack, the day. He is niver a bit afeard of any divil of them all!”

“Betty, Betty,” said her companion, “do not speak so disreverently of the evil spirit; he is ever at hand, and will owe you a grudge, for your language.”

“Pooh! if he has any bowels at all, he won’t mind a fillip or two from a poor lone woman; I’m sure no other Christian would.”

“But the dark one has no bowels, except to devour the children of men,” said the sergeant, looking around him in horror; “and it’s best to make friends everywhere, for there is no telling what may happen till it comes. But, Betty, no man could have got out of this place, and passed all the sentinels, without being known. Take awful warning from the visit therefore—”

Here the dialogue was interrupted by a peremptory summons to the sutler to prepare the morning’s repast, and they were obliged to separate; the woman secretly hoping that the interest the sergeant manifested was more earthly than he imagined; and the man, bent on saving a soul from the fangs of the dark spirit that was prowling through their camp in quest of victims.

During the breakfast several expresses arrived, one of which brought intelligence of the actual force and destination of the enemy’s expedition that was out on the Hudson; and another, orders to send Captain Wharton to the first post above, under the escort of a body of dragoons. These last instructions, or rather commands, for they admitted of no departure from their letter, completed the sum of Dunwoodie’s uneasiness. The despair and misery of Frances were constantly before his eyes, and fifty times he was tempted to throw himself on his horse and gallop to the Locusts; but an uncontrollable feeling prevented. In obedience to the commands of his superior, an officer, with a small party, was sent to the cottage to conduct Henry Wharton to the place directed; and the gentleman who was intrusted with the execution of the order was charged with a letter from Dunwoodie to his friend, containing the most cheering assurances of his safety, as well as the strongest pledges of his own unceasing exertions in his favor. Lawton was left with part of his own troop, in charge of the few wounded; and as soon as the men were refreshed, the encampment broke up, the main body marching towards the Hudson. Dunwoodie repeated his injunctions to Captain Lawton again and again—dwelt on every word that had fallen from the peddler, and canvassed, in every possible manner that his ingenuity could devise, the probable meaning of his mysterious warnings, until no excuse remained for delaying his own departure. Suddenly recollecting, however, that no directions had been given for the disposal of Colonel Wellmere, instead of following the rear of the column, the major yielded to his desires, and turned down the road which led to the Locusts. The horse of Dunwoodie was fleet as the wind, and scarcely a minute seemed to have passed before he gained sight, from an eminence, of the lonely vale, and as he was plunging into the bottom lands that formed its surface, he caught a glimpse of Henry Wharton and his escort, at a distance, defiling through a pass which led to the posts above. This sight added to the speed of the anxious youth, who now turned the angle of the hill that opened to the valley, and came suddenly on the object of his search. Frances had followed the party which guarded her brother, at a distance; and as they vanished from her sight, she felt deserted by all that she most prized in this world. The unaccountable absence of Dunwoodie, with the shock of parting from Henry under such circumstances, had entirely subdued her fortitude, and she had sunk on a stone by the roadside, sobbing as if her heart would break. Dunwoodie sprang from his charger, threw the reins over the neck of the animal, and in a moment he was by the side of the weeping girl.

“Frances—my own Frances!” he exclaimed, “why this distress? Let not the situation of your brother create any alarm. As soon as the duty I am now on is completed, I will hasten to the feet of Washington, and beg his release. The Father of his Country will never deny such a boon to one of his favorite pupils.”

“Major Dunwoodie, for your interest in behalf of my poor brother, I thank you,” said the trembling girl, drying her eyes, and rising with dignity; “but such language addressed to me, surely, is improper.”

“Improper! are you not mine—by the consent of your father—your aunt—your brother—nay, by your own consent, my sweet Frances?”

“I wish not, Major Dunwoodie, to interfere with the prior claims that any other lady may have to your affections,” said Frances, struggling to speak with firmness.

“None other, I swear by Heaven, none other has any claim on me!” cried
Dunwoodie, with fervor. “You alone are mistress of my inmost soul.”

“You have practiced so much, and so successfully, Major Dunwoodie, that it is no wonder you excel in deceiving the credulity of my sex,” returned Frances, attempting a smile, which the tremulousness of her muscles smothered at birth.

“Am I a villain, Miss Wharton, that you receive me with such language? When have I ever deceived you, Frances? Who has practiced in this manner on your purity of heart?”

“Why has not Major Dunwoodie honored the dwelling of his intended father with his presence lately? Did he forget it contained one friend on a bed of sickness, and another in deep distress? Has it escaped his memory that it held his intended wife? Or is he fearful of meeting more than one that can lay a claim to that title? Oh, Peyton—Peyton, how have I been deceived in you! With the foolish credulity of my youth, I thought you all that was brave, noble, generous, and loyal.”

“Frances, I see how you have deceived yourself,” cried Dunwoodie, his face in a glow of fire. “You do me injustice; I swear by all that is most dear to me, that you do me injustice.”

“Swear not, Major Dunwoodie,” interrupted Frances, her fine countenance lighting with the luster of womanly pride. “The time is gone by for me to credit oaths.”

“Miss Wharton, would you have me a coxcomb—make me contemptible in my own eyes, by boasting with the hope of raising myself in your estimation?”

“Flatter not yourself that the task is so easy, sir,” returned Frances, moving towards the cottage. “We converse together in private for the last time; but—possibly—my father would welcome my mother’s kinsman.”

“No, Miss Wharton, I cannot enter his dwelling now; I should act in a manner unworthy of myself. You drive me from you, Frances, in despair. I am going on desperate service, and may not live to return. Should fortune prove severe, at least do my memory justice; remember that the last breathings of my soul will be for your happiness.” So saying, he had already placed his foot in the stirrup, but his youthful mistress, turning on him an eye that pierced his soul, arrested the action.

“Peyton—Major Dunwoodie,” she said, “can you ever forget the sacred cause in which you are enlisted? Duty both to your God and to your country forbids your doing anything rashly. The latter has need of your services; besides”—but her voice became choked, and she was unable to proceed.

“Besides what?” echoed the youth, springing to her side, and offering to take her hand in his own. Frances having, however, recovered herself, coldly repulsed him, and continued her walk homeward.

“Is this our parting!” cried Dunwoodie, in agony. “Am I a wretch, that you treat me so cruelly? You have never loved me, and wish to conceal your own fickleness by accusations that you will not explain.”

Frances stopped short in her walk, and turned on him a look of so much purity and feeling, that, heart-stricken, Dunwoodie would have knelt at her feet for pardon; but motioning him for silence, she once more spoke:—

“Hear me, Major Dunwoodie, for the last time: it is a bitter knowledge when we first discover our own inferiority; but it is a truth that I have lately learned. Against you I bring no charges—make no accusations; no, not willingly in my thoughts. Were my claims to your heart just, I am not worthy of you. It is not a feeble, timid girl, like me, that could make you happy. No, Peyton, you are formed for great and glorious actions, deeds of daring and renown, and should be united to a soul like your own; one that can rise above the weakness of her sex. I should be a weight to drag you to the dust; but with a different spirit in your companion, you might soar to the very pinnacle of earthly glory. To such a one, therefore, I resign you freely, if not cheerfully; and pray, oh, how fervently do I pray! that with such a one you may be happy.”

“Lovely enthusiast!” cried Dunwoodie, “you know not yourself, nor me. It is a woman, mild, gentle, and dependent as yourself, that my very nature loves; deceive not yourself with visionary ideas of generosity, which will only make me miserable.”

“Farewell, Major Dunwoodie,” said the agitated girl, pausing for a moment to gasp for breath; “forget that you ever knew me—remember the claims of your bleeding country; and be happy.”

“Happy!” repeated the youthful soldier, bitterly, as he saw her light form gliding through the gate of the lawn, and disappearing behind its shrubbery, “Yes, I am happy, indeed!”

Throwing himself into the saddle, he plunged his spurs into his horse, and soon overtook his squadron, which was marching slowly over the hilly roads of