SOMETHING VERY LIKE A DREAM.
It was after midnight, and the inmates of the woodman's cabin had been
some hours at rest, when Mary Musgrove's sleep was disturbed by strange
and unwonted alarms. She was dreaming of Arthur Butler, and a crowd of
pleasant visions flitted about her pillow, when, suddenly, clouds
darkened the world of her dream, and images of bloodshed caused her to
shudder. Horrid shapes appeared to her, marching with stealthy pace
through her apartment, and a low and smothered footfall seemed to strike
her ear like the ticking of a death-watch. The fright awakened her, but
when she came to herself all was still. Her chamber was at the opposite
end of the cabin from that where Butler and Robinson slept, and it was
separated from the room occupied by Lynch only by a thin partition of
boards. The starlight through her window fell upon the floor, just
touching, as it passed, the chair over which Mary had hung her clothes,
and lighting with a doubtful and spectral light the prominent points of
the pile of garments, in such manner as to give it the semblance of some
unearthly thing. Mary Musgrove had the superstition common to rustic
education, and, as her dream had already filled her mind with
apprehensions, she now trembled when her eye fell upon what seemed to
her a visitant from another world. For some moments she experienced that
most painful of all sufferings, the agony of young and credulous minds
when wrought upon by their horror of spectres in the night. Gradually,
however, the truth came to her aid, and she saw the dreaded ghost
disrobed of his terrors, and changed into a familiar and harmless
reality. But this night-fear was scarcely dissipated before she again
heard, what in her sleep had conjured up the train of disagreeable
images, the noise of footsteps in the adjoining room. In another instant
she recognised the sound of voices conversing in a half whisper.
"Michael," said the first voice; "Damn it, man, will you never awake?
Rouse yourself; it is time to be stirring."
"Wat!" exclaimed the second voice, with a loud yawn, whilst at the same
moment the creaking of the bedstead and a sullen sound upon the floor
showed that the speaker had risen from his couch. "Is it you? I have
hardly gone to bed, before you are here to rouse me up. What o'clock is
it?"
"It is nearly one," replied Wat Adair. "And let me tell you, you have no
time to lose. Hugh Habershaw is good ten miles off, and you must be back
by daylight."
"You might have given me another hour, I think, if it was only to
consider over the right way of setting about this thing. Always look
before you leap, that's common sense."
"You were always a heavy-headed devil," said Adair; "and take as much
spurring as a spavined horse. What have you to do with considering?
Isn't all fixed? Jog, man, jog. You have a beautiful starlight: and I
had the crop-ear put up in the stable last night, that no time might be
lost; so up, and saddle, and away!"
"Well, you needn't be so d----d busy; don't you see that I am getting
ready?"
"Quiet, Mike; you talk too loud. Take your shoes in your hand, you can
put them on when you get into the porch."
"There, give me my coat, Wat; and I think I should have no objection to
a drop before I set out. It's raw riding of a morning. Now tell me
exactly what I am to say to Hugh Habershaw."
"Tell him," replied Wat, "that we have got Horse Shoe Robinson and Major
Butler of the Continental army, as snug as a pair of foxes in a bag, and
that I will let them run exactly at seven; and--"
"Not to interrupt you, Wat," said the other, "let me ask you a question
before you go on. Suppose this shouldn't be the man? Are you sure of it?
It would be a d----d unchristian job to give over any other human being
to such a set of bloodhounds as Hugh Habershaw and his gang."
"Shaw, Mike; you are a fool! Who, in the name of all the imps, could it
be, but Major Butler! Weren't we expecting him along with Horse Shoe,
and just at this time?"
"It looks likely enough," replied Lynch. "So go on."
"Tell Hugh to be ready at the Dogwood Spring, at the latest, by eight
o'clock. I'll give him a game to play that will supple his joints for
him. And mind me Mike, warn the greasy captain to have his whole squad
with him; for Horse Shoe Robinson, you know, is not to be handled by
boys; it will be a bull-fight, or I'm mistaken."
"The major seems to have a wicked eye too, Wat," said Lynch. "I
shouldn't like much to be in his way, if he was angry; these copperheads
are always in a coil ready to strike. But, Wat, how if they don't ride
by the Dogwood Spring?"
"Leave that to me; I'll contrive to go as far as the forks of the road
with them. And then, if they don't take the right hand fork, why, you
may say it's for the want of my not knowing how to tell a lie."
"Now, Wat Adair, I don't like to spoil sport, but, may be, you have
never thought whether it would be worth while just to take t'other side,
and tell Horse Shoe the whole business. Couldn't we, don't you think,
get as much money, and just as honestly, by hoisting colors with Major
Butler?"
"But I _have_ thought of that, and it won't do, for two reasons. First,
these Continentals are on the down-hill, and money is as scarce with
them as honesty with the red-coats: and, second, the Tories have got so
much the upper hand in the whole country, that I should have my house
burnt down and my children thrown into the blaze of it, in less than
three days, if I was to let these fellows slip through my fingers."
"Well, I never knew," said Mike Lynch, "any piece of villany that hadn't
some good reasons to stand by it, and that's what makes it agreeable to
my conscience to take a hand."
"Why, you off-scouring," replied Wat, "it is enough to make Old Scratch
laugh, to hear you talk about conscience! There ain't no such a thing
going in these days. So be off; I'll look for you at daylight."
"I'll ride, Wat, as if the devil was on my crupper; so good bye!"
The cessation of the voices, the distant tramp of Lynch when he had left
the cabin, and the cautious retreat of Wat Adair to his chamber, told
to Mary that the affair was settled, and the plan of treachery in full
career towards its consummation.
The dialogue that had just passed in the hearing of the maiden,
disclosed a plot that deeply agitated and distressed her. What did it
become her to do, was the first question that presented itself to her
reflection, as soon as she was sufficiently self-possessed to turn her
thoughts upon herself. Was it in her power to avert the impending
disaster which threatened the lives, perhaps, of those who had sought
the hospitality of her kinsman? Perplexed, dismayed, and uncertain how
to act, she had recourse to an expedient natural to her education, and
such as would appear most obvious to a feeble and guileless female: it
was to the simple and faith-inspired expedient of prayer. And now, in
artless but sincere language, having first risen up in her bed, and bent
her body across her pillow, in the attitude of supplication, she
fervently implored the support of Heaven in her present strait, and
besought wisdom and strength to conceive and to do that which was
needful for the security of the individuals whose peace was threatened
by this conspiracy.
"I will arise," she said, as she finished her short and earnest prayer,
"with the first light of the dawn, and wait the coming of the strangers
from their chamber, and I will then be the first to tell them of the
snare that is prepared for them." With this resolve she endeavored to
compose herself to rest, but sleep fled her eyelids, and her anxious
thoughts dwelt upon and even magnified the threatened perils. It might
be too late, she reflected, to wait for the dawn of day; Adair might be
before her at the door of the guests, and his constant presence might
take from her all hope of being able to communicate the important secret
to them: it was undoubtedly her surest course to take advantage of the
stillness of the night, whilst the household were wrapt in sleep, and
apprise the strangers of their danger. But then, how was she to make her
way to their apartment, and arouse them, at this hour, from their
slumbers? To what suspicions might the attempt expose her, even from
Arthur Butler himself? And, more particularly, what would John Ramsay
think of it, if the story should be afterwards told to her disadvantage?
This last was an interrogatory which Mary Musgrove was often found
putting to herself, in winding up a self-communion. On the present
occasion this appeal to the opinion of John Ramsay had the opposite
effect from that which might have been expected from it. It suggested
new lights to her mind, and turned her thoughts into another current,
and brought that resolution to her aid which her prayer was intended to
invoke. What would John Ramsay think--he, the friend of liberty, and of
Washington, the compatriot of Butler and Robinson, now toiling with them
in the same cause! What would he think, if she, his own Mary (and the
maiden rested a moment on this phrase), did _not_ do everything in her
power to save these soldiers of independence from the blow which
treachery was now aiming at them? "John would have good right to be
angry with me," she breathed out in a voice that even startled herself,
"if I did not give them full warning of what I have heard. This I am
sure of, he will believe _my_ story whatever others may say."
Innocence and purity of mind are both sword and shield in this world,
and no less inspire confidence to defy the malice and uncharitableness
of enemies than they strengthen the arm to do what is right. Mary,
therefore, resolved to forego all maidenly scruples and bravely to
perform her duty, come what might; and having settled upon this
conclusion she impatiently awaited the moment when she might venture
forth upon her office of humanity. In this situation it was not long
before she heard the distant footfall of a horse's gallop along the
road, indicating to her the departure of Michael Lynch upon his
traitorous embassy.
The time seemed to be propitious, so Mary arose and dressed herself.
Then tripping stealthily to the door that opened upon the porch, she
undid the bolt. A loud and prolonged creak, from the wooden hinges,
caused her to shake from head to foot. She listened for a moment, and,
finding that no one stirred, stepped forth with the timid and faltering
step which would no less have marked the intent of the burglar, than, as
now it did, the frightened motion of a guardian spirit bent upon an
errand of good. Midway along the porch she had to pass the window of
Adair's apartment; first, the low growl, and then the sudden bark of the
watch-dog saluted her ear, and made her blood run cold. The maiden's
hand, however, soothed him into silence; but the noise had attracted
the notice of Wat Adair, who grumbled out a short curse from within,
which was distinctly audible to Mary. She hastily fled to the further
end of the porch, and there stood cowering close against the wall,
almost as mute and motionless as a statue, scarce daring to breathe, and
poised, as in the act to run, with her weight resting on one foot, the
other raised from the floor. In this position she remained during a long
interval of fear, until, at length, convinced that all was quiet, she
again ventured forward. The window of the travellers' chamber looked out
from the gable end of the dwelling, and she was now immediately before
it. One of the beds of the room, she knew, was placed beside this
window, and was occupied by either Butler or Robinson. Tremblingly and
mistrustfully, she gave a feeble tap with her hand against the sash.
There was no answer: the sleep within was the sleep of tired men, and
was not to be broken by the light play of a maiden's fingers. She now
picked up a pebble from the ground, and with it again essayed to wake
the sleepers. This, too, was unsuccessful. In utter hopelessness of
accomplishing her purpose by other means, she ventured upon raising the
sash; and having done so, she thrust her head partially into the room as
she held up the window-frame with one hand, crying out with an almost
choked voice.
"Mr. Butler! Mr. Butler! For mercy, awake!"
There was no other response but the deep breathings of the sleep-subdued
inmates.
"Oh! what shall I do?" she exclaimed, as her heart beat with a violent
motion. "I might as well call to the dead. Mr. Galbraith Robinson! Ah
me, I cannot rouse them without alarming the whole house! Major Butler,"
she continued, laying a particular stress upon this designation of his
rank, "Oh, good sir, awake!"
"What do you want?" muttered Butler in a smothered and sleep-stifled
voice, as he turned himself heavily on his pillow, like one moved by a
dream.
"Oh, heaven, sir, make no noise! I am ashamed to tell you who I am,"
said the terrified girl, "but I come for your good--I have something to
tell you."
"Away, away!" cried Butler, speaking in his sleep, "I will not be
disturbed: I do not fear you. Begone!"
"Oh, sir, hear me," entreated the maiden, "the people in this house know
you and they are contriving evil against you."
"It makes no difference," muttered the only half-awakened soldier. "I
will ride where it suits me, if the Tories were as thick as the leaves
of the trees."
"There are people gathering to do you harm to-morrow," continued Mary,
not suspecting the unconsciousness of the person to whom she addressed
herself, "and I only come with a word of warning to you. Do not ride by
the Dogwood Spring to-morrow, nor take the right hand road at the first
forks: there are wicked men upon that road. Have your eye," she
whispered, "upon my uncle Walter. Ride fast and far, before you stop;
and pray, sir, as you think fairly of me--Mary Musgrove, sir,--the
daughter of Allen Musgrove, the miller--oh, do not tell my name. If you
knew John Ramsay, sir, I am certain you would believe me."
The watch-dog had growled once or twice during the period while Mary
spoke, and at this moment the door of the principal room of the cabin
was heard to move slightly ajar, and the voice of Adair, in a whisper,
reached the girl's ear.
"Hist, Michael! In the devil's name what brought you back? Why do you
loiter, when time is so precious?"
A long, heavy, and inarticulate exclamation, such as belongs to
disturbed sleep, escaped from Butler.
"Father of heaven, I shall let the window fall with fright!" inwardly
ejaculated Mary, as she still occupied her uneasy station. "Hush, it is
the voice of my uncle."
There was a painful pause.
A heavy rush of wind agitated the trees, and sweeping along the porch
caused some horse-gear that was suspended against the wall to vibrate
with a rustling noise: the sound pierced Mary's ear like the accents of
a ghost, and her strength had well nigh failed her from
faint-heartedness.
"I thought it was Michael," said Adair, speaking to some one within,
"but it is only the rattling of harness and the dreaming of Drummer.
These dogs have a trick of whining and growling in their sleep according
to a way of their own. They say a dog sometimes sees a spirit at night.
But man or devil it's all one to old Drummer! Sleep quiet, you
superfluous, and have done with your snoring!"
With these words, the door was again closed, and Mary, for the moment,
was released from suffering.
"Remember," she uttered in the most fear-stricken tone, as she lowered
the sash. "Be sure to take the left hand road at the first fork!"
"In God's name, what is it? Where are you?" was the exclamation heard by
Mary as the window was closing. She did not halt for further parley or
explanation, but now hastily stole back, like a frightened bird towards
its thicket. Panting and breathless, she regained her chamber, and with
the utmost expedition betook herself again to bed, where, gratified by
the consciousness of having done a good action, and fully trusting that
her caution would not be disregarded, she gradually dismissed her
anxiety, and, before the hour of dawning, had fallen into a gentle
though not altogether unperturbed slumber.