“She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that?
Her eye discourses—I will answer it.”
ALTHOUGH THE BATTLE of Bunker-hill was fought while the mown grass lay on the meadows, the heats of summer were followed by the nipping frosts of November; the leaf fell, and the tempests and colds of February succeeded each other, before Major Lincoln left that couch where he had been laid, when carried, in total helplessness, from the heights of the peninsula. Throughout the whole of that long period, the hidden bullet defied the utmost skill of the British surgeons; nor could all their science and experience embolden them to risk cutting certain arteries and tendons in the body of the heir of Lincoln, which were thought to obstruct the passage to that obstinate lead, which, all agreed, alone impeded the recovery of the sufferer. This indecision was one of the penalties that poor Lionel paid for his greatness; for had it been Meriton who lingered, instead of his master, it is quite probable the case would have been determined at a much earlier hour. At length a young and enterprising leech, with the world before him, arrived from Europe, who, possessing greater skill or more effrontery (the effects are often the same) than his fellows, did not hesitate to decide at once on the expediency of an operation. The medical staff of the army sneered at this innovator, and at first were content with these silent testimonials of contempt. But when the friends of the patient, listening, as usual, to the whisperings of hope, consented that the confident man of probes should use his instruments, the voices of his contemporaries became not only loud, but clamorous. There was a day or two when even the watch-worn and jaded subalterns of the army forgot the dangers and hardships of the siege, to attend with demure and instructed countenances to the unintelligible jargon of the sages of the camp; and men grew pale, as they listened, who had never been known to exhibit any symptoms of the disgraceful passion before their acknowledged enemies. But when it became known that the ball was safely extracted, and the patient was pronounced convalescent, a calm succeeded that was much more portentous to the human race than the preceding tempest; and in a short time the daring practitioner was universally acknowledged to be the founder of a new theory. The degrees of M. D. were showered upon his honoured head from half the learned bodies in Christendom, while many of his admirers and imitators became justly entitled to the use of the same magical symbols, as annexments to their patronymicks, with the addition of the first letter in the alphabet. The ancient reasoning was altered to suit the modern facts, and before the war was ended, some thousands of the servants of the crown, and not a few of the patriotic colonists, were thought to have died, under the favour of this discovery.
We might devote a chapter to the minute promulgation of such an event, had not more recent philosophers long since upset the practice, (in which case the theory seems to fall, as a matter of course,) by a renewal of those bold adventures, which teach us, occasionally, something new in the anatomy of man; as in the science of geography, the sealers of New-England have been able to discover Terra Australis, where Cook saw nothing but water; or Parry finds veins and arteries in that part of the American continent which had so long been thought to consist of cartilage.
Whatever may have been the effects of the operation on the surgical science, it was healthful, in the highest degree, to its subject. For seven weary months Lionel lay in a state in which he might be said to exist, instead of live, but little conscious of surrounding occurrences; and happily for himself, nearly insensible to pain. At moments the flame of life would glimmer like the dying lamp, and then both the fears and hopes of his attendants were disappointed, as the patient dropped again into that state of apathy in which so much of his time was wasted. From an erroneous opinion of his master’s sufferings, Meriton had been induced to make a free use of soporifics, and no small part of Lionel’s insensibility was produced by an excessive use of laudanum for which he was indebted to the mistaken humanity of his valet. At the moment of the operation the adventurous surgeon availed himself of the same stupifying drug, and many days of dull, heavy, and alarming apathy succeeded, before the system, finding itself relieved from its unnatural inmate, resumed its healthful functions, and began to renew its powers. By a singular good-fortune the leech was too much occupied by his own novel honours, to follow up his success, secundum artem, as a great general pushes a victory to the utmost; and that matchless doctor, Nature, was permitted to complete the cure.
When the effects of the anodynes had subsided, the patient found himself entirely free from uneasiness, and dropped into a sweet and refreshing sleep that lasted hours without interruption. He awoke a new man; his body renovated, his head clear, and his recollections, though a little confused and wandering, certainly better than they had been since the moment when he fell in the mêlée on Breeds.* This restoration to all the nobler properties of life occurred about the tenth hour of the day; and as Lionel opened his eyes, with understanding in their expression, they fell upon the cheerfulness which a bright sun, assisted by the dazzling light of masses of snow without, lent to every object in his apartment. The curtains of the windows had been opened, and every article of the furniture was arranged with a neatness that manifested the studied care which presided over his illness. In one corner, it is true, Meriton had established himself in an easy-chair, with an arrangement that spoke more in favour of his consideration for the valet than the master, while he was comforting his faculties for a night of watchfulness, by the sweet, because stolen, slumbers of the morning.
A flood of recollections broke into the mind of Lionel together, and it was some little time before he could so far separate the true from the imaginary, as to attain a tolerably clear comprehension of what had occurred in the little age he had been dozing. Raising himself on one elbow, without difficulty, he passed his hand once or twice slowly over his face, and then trusted his voice in a summons to his man. Meriton started at the well-known sounds, and after diligently rubbing his eyes, like one who awakes by surprise, he arose and gave the customary reply.
“How now, Meriton!” exclaimed Major Lincoln; “you sleep as sound as a recruit, and I suppose you have been stationed like one, with twice-told orders to be vigilant.”
The valet stood with open mouth, as if ready to devour his master’s words, and then passed his hands in quick succession over his eyes, as before, though with a very different object.
“Thank God, sir, thank God! you look like yourself once more, and we shall live again as we used to. Yes, yes, sir—you’ll do now—you’ll do this time. That’s a miracle of a man, is the great Lon’non surgeon! and now we shall go back to Soho, and live like civilizers. Thank God, sir, thank God! you smile again, and I hope if any thing should go wrong you’ll soon be able to give me one of those looks that I am so used to, and which makes my heart jump into my mouth, when I know I’ve been forgetful!”
The poor fellow, in whom long service had created a deep attachment to his master, which had been greatly increased by the solicitude of a nurse, was compelled to cease his unconnected expressions of joy, while he actually wept. Lionel was too much affected by this evidence of feeling, to continue the dialogue, for several minutes; during which time he employed himself in putting on part of his attire, assisted by the gulping valet, when, drawing his robe-de-chambre around his person, he leaned on the shoulder of his man, and took the seat which the other had so recently quitted.
“Well, Meriton, that will do,” said Lionel, giving a deep hem, as if his breathing was obstructed; “that will do, silly fellow; I trust I shall live to give you many a frown, and some few guineas, yet.—I have been shot, I know”—
“Shot, sir!” interrupted the valet—“you have been downright and unlawfully murdered! you were first shot, then baggoneted, after which a troop of horse rode over you.—I had it from one of the royal Irish, who lay by your side the whole time, and who now lives to tell of it—a good honest fellow is Terence, and if such a thing was possible that your honour was poor enough to need a pension, he would cheerfully swear to your hurts at the King’s Bench, or War-office; Bridewell, or St. James’, it’s all one to the like of him.”
“I dare say, I dare say,” said Lionel, smiling, though he mechanically passed his hand over his body, as his valet spoke of the bayonet—“but the poor fellow must have transferred some of his own wounds to my person—I own the bullet, but object to the cavalry and the steel.”
“No, sir, I own the bullet, and it shall be buried with me in my dressing-box, at the head of my grave,” said Meriton, exhibiting the flattened bit of lead, in the palm of his hand—“it has been in my pocket these thirteen days, after tormenting your honour for six long months, hid in the what d’ye call ’em muscles, behind the thingumy artery. But snug as it was, we got it out! he is a miracle is the great Lon’non surgeon!”
Lionel reached over to his purse, which Meriton had placed regularly on the table, each morning, in order to remove again at night, and dropping several guineas in the hand of his valet, said—
“So much lead must need some gold to sweeten it. Put up the unseemly thing, and never let me see it again!”
Meriton coolly took the opposing metals, and after glancing his eyes at the guineas, with a readiness that embraced their amount in a single look, he dropped them carelessly into one pocket, while he restored the lead to the other with exceeding attention to its preservation. He then turned his hand to the customary duties of his station.
“I remember well to have been in a fight on the heights of Charlestown, even to the instant when I got my hurt,” continued his master—“and I even recollect many things that have occurred since; a period which appears like a whole life to me. But after all, Meriton, I believe my ideas have not been remarkable for clearness.”
“Lord, sir, you have talked to me, and scolded me, and praised me a hundred and a hundred times over again; but you have never scolded as sharp like as you can, nor have you ever spoken and looked as bright as you do this morning!”
“I am in the house of Mrs. Lechmere, again,” continued Lionel, examining the room—“I know this apartment, and those private doors too well to be mistaken.”
“To be sure you are, sir; Madam Lechmere had you brought here from the field to her own house, and one of the best it is in Boston, too: and I expect that Madam would some how lose her title to it, if any thing serious should happen to us?”
“Such as a bayonet, or a troop of horse! but why do you fancy any such thing?”
“Because, sir, when Madam comes here of an afternoon, which she did daily, before she sickened, I heard her very often say to herself, if you should be so unfortunate as to die, there would be an end to all her hopes of her house.”
“Then it is Mrs. Lechmere who visits me daily,” said Lionel, thoughtfully; “I have recollections of a female form hovering around my bed, though I had supposed it more youthful and active than that of my aunt.”
“And you are quite right, sir—you have had such a nurse the whole time as is seldom to be met with. For making a posset or a gruel, I’ll match her with the oldest or the ugliest woman in the wards of Guy’s; and, to my taste, the best bar-keeper at the Lon’non is a fool to her at a negus.”
“These are high accomplishments! who may be their mistress?”
“Miss Agnus, sir; a rare good nurse is Miss Agnus Danforth! though in point of regard to the troops, I shouldn’t presume to call her at all distinguishable.”
“Miss Danforth,” repeated Lionel, dropping his eyes in disappointment—“I hope she has not sustained all this trouble on my account alone. There are women enough in the establishment—one would think such offices might be borne by the domestics—in short, Meriton, was she without an assistant in all these little kindnesses?”
“I helped her, you know, sir, all I could; though my neguses never touch the right spot, like Miss Agnus’s.”
“One would think, by your account, that I have done little else than guzzle port wine, for six months,” said Lionel, pettishly.
“Lord, sir, you wouldn’t drink a thimblefull from a glass, often; which I always took for a bad symptom; for I’m certain ’twas no fault of the liquor, that it wasn’t drunk.”
“Well, enough of your favourite beverage! I sicken at the name already—but, Meriton, have not others of my friends called to inquire after my fate?”
“Certainly, sir—the commander-in-chief sends an aid or a servant every day; and Lord Percy left his card more than”—
“Poh! these are calls of courtesy; but I have relatives in Boston—Miss Dynevor, has she left the town?”
“No, sir,” said the valet, coolly resuming the duty of arranging the phials on the night-table; “she is not much of a moving body, is that Miss Cecil.”
“She is not ill, I trust?”
“Lord, it goes through me, part joy and part fear, to hear you speak again so quick and brisk, sir! No, she isn’t downright ailing, but she hasn’t the life and knowledge of things, as her cousin, Miss Agnus.”
“Why do you think so, fellow?”
“Because, sir, she is mopy, and don’t turn her hand to any of the light lady’s work in the family. I have seen her sit in that very chair, where you are now, sir, for hours together, without moving; unless it was some nervous start when you groaned, or breathed a little upward through your honour’s nose—I have taken it into my consideration, sir, that she poetizes; at all events, she likes what I calls quietude!”
“Indeed!” said Lionel, pursuing the conversation with an interest that would have struck a more observant man—“what reason have you for suspecting Miss Dynevor of manufacturing rhymes?”
“Because, sir, she has often a bit of paper in her hand; and I have seen her read the same thing over and over again, till I’m sure she must know it by heart; which your poetizers always do with what they writes themselves.”
“Perhaps it was a letter?” cried Lionel, with a quickness that caused Meriton to drop a phial he was dusting, at the expense of its contents.
“Bless me, master Lionel, how strong, and like old times you speak!”
“I believe I am amazed to find you know so much of the divine art, Meriton.”
“Practice makes perfect, you know, sir,” said the simpering valet—“I can’t say I ever did much in that way, though I wrote some verses on a pet pig, as died down at Ravenscliffe, the last time we was there; and I got considerable eclaw for a few lines on a vase which lady Bab’s woman broke one day, in a scuffle when the foolish creature said as I wanted to kiss her; though all that knows me, knows that I needn’t break vases to get kisses from the like of she!”
“Very well,” said Lionel; “some day when I am stronger, I may like to be indulged with a perusal—go now, Meriton, to the larder, and look about you; I feel the symptoms of returning health grow strong upon me.”
The gratified valet instantly departed, leaving his master to the musings of his own busy fancy. Several minutes passed away before the young man raised his head from the hand that supported it, and then it was only done when he thought he heard a light footstep near him. His ear had not deceived him, for Cecil Dynevor herself, stood within a few feet of the chair, which concealed, in a great measure, his person from her view. It was apparent, by her attitude and her tread, that she expected to find the sick where she had seen him last, and where, for so many dreary months, his listless form had been stretched in apathy. Lionel followed her movements with his eyes, and as the airy band of her morning cap waved aside at her own breathing, he discovered the unnatural paleness of her cheek. But when she drew the folds of the bed curtains, and missed the invalid, thought is not quicker than the motion with which she turned her person towards the chair. Here she encountered the eyes of the young man, beaming on her with delight, and expressing that animation and intelligence to which they had so long been strangers. Yielding to the surprise and the gush of her feelings, Cecil flew to his feet, and clasping one of his extended hands in both her own, she cried—
“Lionel, dear Lionel, you are better! God be praised, you look yourself again!”
Lionel gently extricated his hand from the warm and unguarded pressure of her soft fingers, and drew forth a paper which she had unconsciously committed to his keeping.
“This, dearest Cecil,” he whispered to the blushing maiden, “this is my own letter, written when I knew life to be at imminent hazard, and speaking the purest thoughts of my heart—tell me, then, it has not been kept for nothing?”
Cecil dropped her face between her hands for a moment, in burning shame, and then, as all the emotions of the moment crowded around her heart, she yielded as a woman, and burst into tears. It is needless to dwell on those consoling and seducing speeches of the young man, which soon succeeded in luring his companion not only from her sobs, but even from her confusion, and permitted her to raise her beautiful countenance to his ardent gaze, bright and confiding as his fondest wishes could have made it.
The letter of Lionel was too direct, not to save her pride, and it had been too often perused for a single sentence to be soon forgotten. Besides, Cecil had watched over his couch too fondly and too long to indulge in any of those little coquetries which are sometimes met with in similar scenes. She said all that an affectionate, generous, and modest female would say on such an occasion; and it is certain, that well as Lionel looked on waking, the little she uttered had the effect to improve his appearance ten-fold.
“And you received my letter on the morning after the battle?” said Lionel, leaning fondly over her, as she still kneeled by his side.
“Yes—yes—it was your order that it should be sent to me only in case of your death; but for more than a month you were numbered as among the dead by us all.—Oh! what a month was that!”
“’Tis past, my sweet friend, and, God be praised, I may now look forward to health and happiness.”
“God be praised, indeed,” murmured Cecil, the tears again rushing to her eyes—“I would not live that month over again, Lionel, for all that this world can offer!”
“Dearest Cecil,” he replied, “I can only repay this kindness and suffering on my account, by shielding you from the rude contact of the world, even as your father would protect you, were he again in being.”
She looked up in his face with a woman’s confidence beaming in her eyes.
“You will, Lincoln, I know you will—you have sworn it, and I should be a wretch to doubt you.”
He drew her unresisting form into his arms, and folded her to his bosom. In another moment a noise, like one ascending the stairs, was heard. Cecil sprung on her feet, and hardly allowing time to the delighted Lionel to note the burning tints that suffused her face, she darted from the room with the rapidity and lightness of an antelope.
* It will be recollected that the battle of Bunker’s Hill, actually took place on Breed’s Hill. The misnomer arises from the fact that the Americans intended to take possession of the former position, but they mistook their ground. [1832]