The Spy, James Fenimore Cooper [uplifting book club books TXT] 📗

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,