“If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough
May not extend so far as to the lady.”
_Merchant of Venice_.
Next morning, I was early afoot, and I found Grace as much alive to the
charms of home, as I was myself. She put on a gypsy, and accompanied me
into the garden, where to my surprise, I found Lucy. It looked like old
times to be in that spot, again, with those two dear girls. Rupert alone
was wanting to complete the picture; but, I had an intimate conviction
that Rupert, as he had been at least, could never come within the
setting of the family group again. I was rejoiced, however, to see Lucy,
and more so, just where I found her, and I believe told her as much with
my eyes. The charming girl looked happier than she had appeared the day
before, or for many previous days indeed, and I felt less apprehension
than of late, concerning her having met with any agreeable youth of a
more _genteel_ profession than that of a merchant-captain.
“I did not expect to find you here, Miss Lucy,” cried Grace, “eating
half-ripe currants, too, or my eyes deceive me, at this early hour in
the morning. It is not twenty minutes since you were in your own room,
quite unadorned.”
“The green fruit of dear Clawbonny is better than the ripe fruit of
those vile New York markets!” exclaimed Lucy, with a fervour so natural
as to forbid any suspicion of acting. “I should prefer a Clawbonny
potatoe, to a New York peach!”
Grace smiled, and, as soon as Lucy's animation had a little subsided,
_she_ blushed.
“How much better would it be, Miles,” my sister resumed, “could you be
induced to think and feel with us, and quit the seas, to come and live
for the rest of your days on the spot where your fathers have so long
lived before you. Would it not, Lucy?”
“Miles will never do _that_,” Lucy answered, with emphasis. “Men are
not like us females who love everything we love at all, with our whole
hearts. Men prefer wandering about, and being shipwrecked, and left on
desert islands, to remaining quietly at home, on their own farms. No,
no; you'll never persuade Miles to do _that_.”
“I am not astonished my brother thinks desert islands such pleasant
abodes, when he can find companions like Miss Merton on them.”
“You will remember, sister of mine, in the first place, that Marble Land
is very far from being a desert island at all; and, in the next, that I
first found Miss Merton in Hyde Park, London; almost in the canal, for
that matter.”
“I think it a little odd that Miles never told us all about this, in his
letters, at the time, Lucy. When young gentlemen drag young ladies out
of canals, their friends at home have a right to know something of the
matter.”
How much unnecessary misery is inflicted by unmeaning expressions like
this. Grace spoke lightly, and probably without a second thought about
the matter; but the little she said, not only made me thoughtful and
uneasy, but it drove everything like a smile from the usually radiant
countenance of her friend. The conversation dragged; and soon after, we
returned together to the house.
I was much occupied that morning, in riding about the place with Mr.
Hardinge, and in listening to his account of his stewardship, With
the main results I was already acquainted--nay, possessed them in the
Dawn,--but the details had all to be gone over, with the most minute
accuracy. A more simple-minded being there was not on earth than Mr.
Hardinge; and, that my affairs turned out so well was the result of the
prosperous condition of the country at that day, the system my father
had adopted in his life-time, and the good qualities of the different
agents he had chosen, every one of whom remained in the situation in
which he was at the sad moment of the fatal accident at the mill. Had
matters really depended on the knowledge and management of the most
excellent divine, they would soon have been at sixes and sevens.
“I am no believer in miracles, my dear Miles,” observed my guardian,
with amusing self-complacency; “but I do think a change has been wrought
in me, to meet the emergencies of a situation, in which the interests of
two orphans have been so suddenly intrusted to my guidance and care. God
be thanked! everything prospers; your affairs, as well as those of
my dear Grace. It is wonderful, boy, how a man of my habits has been
directed in his purchases of wheat, for instance; I, who never bought
a bushel until the whole responsibility of your mills fell upon my
shoulders I take no credit to myself for it--no credit to myself!”
“I hope the miller has not been backward, my dear sir, in giving you all
the assistance in his power.”
“Morgan?--yes; he is always ready, and you know I never forget to send
him into the market to both buy and sell. Really, his advice has been
so excellent, that to me it has the appearance of being almost
miraculous--prophetic, I should say, were it not improper. We should
avoid all exaggeration in our gratitude, boy.”
“Very truly, sir. And in what manner have you managed to get along so
well with the crops, on the place, itself?”
“Favoured by the same great adviser, Miles. It is really wonderful,
the crops we have had; and the judgment that has been so providentially
shown in the management of the fields, as well as of the mills!”
“Of course, sir, old Hiram (Neb's uncle) has always been ready to give
you his aid?--Hiram has a great deal of judgment, in his way.”
“No doubt--no doubt--Hiram and I have done it all, led by a Providential
counsel. Well, my boy, you ought to be satisfied with your earthly lot;
for every thing seems to prosper that belongs to you. Of course, you
will marry, one of these days, and transmit this place to your son, as
it has been received from your fathers?”
“I keep that hope in perspective, sir; or, as we sailors say, for a
sheet-anchor.”
“Your hope of salvation, boy, is your sheet-anchor, I trust.
Nevertheless, we are not to be too hard on young men, and must let them
have a little romance in their compositions. Yes, yes; I trust you will
not become so much wedded to your ship, as not to think of taking a
wife, one of these days. It will be a happy hour to me, when I can see
another Mrs. Miles Wallingford at Clawbonny. She will be the third; for
I can remember your grandmother.”
“Can you recommend to me a proper person to fill that honourable
station, sir?” said I, smiling to myself, and exceedingly curious to
hear the answer.
“What do you think of this Miss Merton, boy? She is handsome, and that
pleases young men; clever, and that pleases old ones; well-educated,
and that will last, when the beauty is gone; and, so far as I can judge,
amiable; and that is as necessary to a wife, as fidelity. _Marry no
woman, Miles, that is not amiable!_”
“May I ask _what_ you call amiable, sir?--And, when that question is
answered, I may venture to go so far as to inquire _whom_ you call
amiable?”
“Very sensible distinctions, and such as are entitled to fair answers;
at least the first. I do not call levity, amiability; nor mere
constitutional gaiety. Some of the seemingly most light-hearted women
I have ever known, have been anything but amiable. There must be an
unusual absence of selfishness,--a person must live less for herself,
than others--or rather, must find her own happiness in the happiness of
those she loves, to make a truly amiable woman. Heart and principle
are at the bottom of what is truly amiable; though temperament and
disposition undoubtedly contribute. As for the whom, your own sister
Grace is a truly amiable young woman. I never knew her do anything to
hurt another's feelings in my life.”
“I suppose you will admit, sir, I cannot very well marry Grace?”
“I wish you could, with all my heart--yes, with all my heart! Were not
you and Grace brother and sister, I should consider myself well quit of
the responsibility of my guardianship, in seeing you man and wife.”
“As that is out of the question, I am not without hopes you can mention
another who will do just as well, so far as I am concerned.”
“Well, there is this Miss Merton--though I do not know her well enough
to venture absolutely on a recommendation. Now, I told Lucy, no later
than yesterday, while we were on the river, and as you were pointing out
to Miss Merton the forts in the Highlands, that I thought you would
make one of the handsomest couples in the state--and, moreover, I told
her--bless me, how this corn grows! The plants will be in tassel in
a few days, and the crop must turn out most beneficent--truly,
truly--there is a providence in all things; for, at first, I was for
putting the corn on yonder hill-side, and the potatoes here; but old
Hiram was led by some invisible agency to insist on this field for the
corn, and the hill-side for the potatoes--and, now, look, and see what
crops are in promise! Think of a nigger's blundering on such a thing?”
In 1802, even well-educated and well-intentioned clergymen had no
scruples in saying “nigger.”
“But, sir, you have quite forgotten to add what else you told Lucy?”
“True--true--it is very natural that you should prefer hearing me talk
about Miss Merton, to hearing me talk about potatoes--I'll tell _that_
to Lucy, too, you may depend on it.”
“I sincerely hope you will do no such thing, my dear sir,” I cried, in
no little alarm.
“Ah! that betrays guilt--consciousness, I should say; for what guilt can
there be in a virtuous love?--and rely on it, both the girls shall know
all about it. Lucy and I often talk over your matters, Miles; for she
loves you as well as your own sister. Ah! my fine fellow, you blush at
it, like a girl of sixteen! But, there is nothing to be ashamed of, and
there is no occasion for blushes.”
“Well, sir, letting my blushes--the blushes of a shipmaster!--but
setting aside my blushes, for mercy's sake _what more_ did you tell
Lucy?”
“What more? Why I told her how you had been on a desert island, quite
alone as one might say, with Miss Merton, and how you had been at sea,
living in the same cabin as it were, for nine months; and it would be
wonderful--wonderful, indeed, if two so handsome young persons
should not feel an attachment for each other. Country might make some
difference, to be sure--”
“And station, sir?--What do you think would be the influence of the
difference of station, also?”
“Station!--Bless me, Miles; what difference in station is there between
you and Miss Merton; that it should cause any obstacle to your union?”
“You know what it is, sir, as well as I do myself. She is the daughter
of an officer in the British army, and I am the master of a ship. You
will admit, I presume, Mr. Hardinge, that there is such, a thing as a
difference in station?”
“Beyond all question. It is exceedingly useful to remember it; and
I greatly fear the loose appointments of magistrates and other
functionaries, that are making round the country, will bring all our
notions on such subjects into great confusion. I can understand that one
man is as good as another in _rights_, Miles; but I cannot understand
he is any _better_, because he happens to be uneducated, ignorant, or a
blackguard.”
Mr. Hardinge was a sensible man in all such distinctions, though so
simple in connection with other matters.
“You can have no difficulty, however, in understanding that, in New
York, for instance, I should not be considered the equal of Major
Merton--I mean socially, altogether, and not in personal merit, or the
claims which years give--and of course, not the equal of his daughter?”
“Why--yes--I know what you mean, now. There may be some little
inequality in that sense, perhaps; but Clawbonny, and the ship, and the
money at use, would be very apt to strike a balance.”
“I am afraid not, sir. I should have studied law, sir, had I wished to
make myself a gentleman.”
“There are lots of vulgar fellows getting into the law, Miles--men who
have not half your claims to be considered gentlemen. I hope you do not
think I wished you and Rupert to study law in order to make gentlemen of
you?”
“No, sir; it was unnecessary to take that step as regards Rupert, who
was fully born in the station. Clergymen have a decided position all
over the world, I believe; and then you are extremely well connected
otherwise, Mr. Hardinge. Rupert has no occasion for such an
assistance--with me it was a little different.”
“Miles--Miles--this is a strange fancy to come over a young man in your
situation--and who, I am afraid, has been the subject of envy, only too
often, to Rupert!”
“If the truth were known, Mr. Hardinge, I dare say both Rupert and Lucy,
in their secret hearts, think they possess advantages, in the way of
social station, that do not belong to Grace and myself.”
Mr. Hardinge looked hurt, and I was soon sorry that I had made this
speech. Nor would I have the reader imagine that what I had said,
proceeded in the least from that narrow selfish feeling, which, under
the blustering pretension of equality, presumes to deny the existence
of a very potent social fact; but simply from the sensitiveness of
feelings, which, on this subject, were somewhat in danger of becoming
morbid, through the agency of the most powerful passion of the
human heart--or, that which has well been called the master-passion.
Nevertheless, Mr. Hardinge was much too honest a man to deny a truth,
and much too sincere to wish even to prevaricate about it, however
unpleasant it might be to acknowledge it, in all its unpleasant
bearings.
“I now understand you, Miles; and it would be idle to pretend that
there is not some justice in what you say, though I attach very little
importance to it, myself. Rupert is not exactly what I could wish him to
be in all things, and possibly _he_ may be coxcomb enough, at times,
to fancy he has this slight advantage over you,--but, as for Lucy, I'll
engage she never thinks of you but as a second brother--and that she
loves you exactly as she loves Rupert.”
Mr. Hardinge's simplicity was of proof, and it was idle to think of
making any impression on it. I changed the subject, therefore, and this
was easily enough done, by beginning again to talk about the potatoes. I
was far from being easy, nevertheless; for I could not avoid seeing that
the good divine's restlessness might readily widen the little breach
which had opened between his daughter and myself.
That day, at dinner, I discovered that Grace's winter in town had led
to a sensible melioration of the domestic economy; most especially as
related to the table. My father and mother had introduced some changes,
which rendered the Clawbonny household affairs a little different from
those of most other of the Ulster county families near our own class;
but their innovations, or improvements, or whatever they might be
called, were far from being as decided as those introduced by their
daughter. Nothing, perhaps, sooner denotes the condition of people, than
the habits connected with the table. If eating and drinking be not done
in a certain way, and a way founded in reason, too, as indeed are nearly
all the customs of polished life, whatever may be the cant of the ultras
of reason--but, if eating and drinking be not done in a certain way,
your people of the world perceive it sooner than almost anything else.
There is, also, more of common sense and innate fitness, in the usages
of the table, so long as they are not dependent on mere caprice, than
in almost any other part of our deportment; for everybody must eat, and
most persons choose to eat decently. I had been a little nervous on the
subject of the Mertons, in connection with the Clawbonny table, I will
confess; and great was my delight when I found the breakfast going off
so well. As for the Major, himself by no means familiar with the higher
classes of his own country, he had that great stamp of a gentleman,
simplicity; and he was altogether above the cockney distinctions of
eating and drinking; those about cheese and malt liquors, and such
vulgar niceties; nor was he a man to care about the silver-forkisms; but
he understood that portion of the finesse of the table which depended
on reason and taste, and was accustomed to observe it. This I knew from
near a twelve month's intercourse, and I had feared we might turn out to
be a little too rustic.
Grace had made provisions against all this, with a tact and judgment for
which I could have worshipped her. I knew the viands, the vegetables,
and the wines would all be good of their kind, for in these we seldom
failed; nor did I distrust the cookery, the _English_-descended families
of the Middle States, of my class, understanding that to perfection;
but I feared we should fail in those little incidents of style
and arrangement, and in the order of the service, that denote a
well-regulated table. This is just what Grace had seen to; and I found
that a great revolution had been quietly effected in this branch of our
domestic economy during my absence; thanks to Grace's observations while
at Mrs. Bradfort's.
Emily seemed pleased at dinner, and Lucy could again laugh and smile.
After the cloth was removed, the Major and Mr. Hardinge discussed a
bottle of Madeira, and that too of a quality of which I had no reason to
be ashamed; while we young people withdrew together to a little piazza,
that was in the shade at that hour, and took seats, for a chat. Rupert
was permitted to smoke, on condition that he would not approach
within fifteen feet of the party. No sooner was this little group thus
arranged, the three girls in a crescent, than I disappeared.
“Grace, I have not yet spoken to you of a necklace of pearls possessed
by your humble servant,” I cried, as my foot again touched the
piazza.--“I would not say a word about it--”
“Yet, Lucy and I heard all about it--” answered Grace with provoking
calmness, “but would not ask to see it, lest you should accuse us of
girlish curiosity. We waited your high pleasure, in the matter.”
“You and Lucy heard I had such a necklace!”
“Most unquestionably; I, Grace Wallingford, and she, Lucy Hardinge. I
hope it is no infringement on the rights of Mr. Miles Clawbonny”--so
the girls often called me, when they affected to think I was on my
high-ropes--“I hope it is no infringement on the rights of Mr. Miles
Clawbonny to say as much.”
“And pray how _could_ you and Lucy know anything about it?”
“That is altogether another question; perhaps we may accord an answer,
after we have seen the necklace.”
“Miss Merton told us, Miles,” said Lucy, looking at me with gentleness,
for she saw I really wished an answer; and what could Lucy Hardinge ever
refuse me, that was right in itself when she saw my feelings were really
interested?
“Miss Merton? Then I have been betrayed, and the surprise I anticipated
is lost.”
I was vexed, and my manner must have shown it in a slight degree. Emily
coloured, bit her lip, and said nothing; but Grace made her excuses with
more spirit than it was usual for _her_ to show.
“You are rightly punished, Master Miles,” she cried; “for you had no
business to anticipate surprises. They are vulgar things at best, and
they are worse than that when they come from a distance of fifteen
thousand miles--from a brother to a sister. Besides, you have surprised
us sufficiently once, already, in connection with Miss Merton.”
“I!” I exclaimed.
“Me!” added Emily.
“Yes, I and me; did you tell us one word about her, in your letters?
and have you not now both surprised and delighted us, by making us
acquainted with so charming a person? I can pardon such a surprise, on
account of its consequences; but nothing so vulgar as a surprise about
pearls.”
Emily blushed now; and in her it was possible to tell the difference
between a blush and the suffusion that arose from a different feeling;
but she looked immensely superior to anything like explanations.
“Captain Wallingford”--how I disliked that _Captain_--“Captain
Wallingford can have but little knowledge of young ladies,” she said,
coldly, “if he supposes such pearls as he possesses would not form the
subject of their conversation.”
I was coxcomb enough to fancy Emily was vexed that I had neglected to be
more particular about her being on the island, and her connection with
the ship. This might have been a mistake; however.
“Let us see the pearls, Miles; and that will plead your apology,” said
Lucy.
“There, then--your charming eyes, young ladies, never looked on pearls
like those, before.”
Female nature could not suppress the exclamations of belight that
succeeded. Even Rupert, who had a besetting weakness on the subject
of all personal ornaments, laid aside his segar, and came within the
prescribed distance, the better to admire. It was admitted all round,
New York had nothing to compare with them. I then mentioned that they
had been fished up by myself from the depths of the sea.
“How much that adds to their value!” said Lucy, in a low voice, but in
her warm, sincere manner.
“That was getting them _cheap_, was it not, Miss Wallingford?” inquired
Emily, with an emphasis I disliked.
“Very; though I agree with Lucy, it makes them so much the more
valuable.”
“If Miss Merton will forget my charge of treason, and condescend to put
on the necklace, you will all see it to much greater advantage than at
present. If a fine necklace embellishes a fine woman, the advantage is
quite reciprocal. I have seen my pearls once already on her neck, and
know the effect.”
A wish of Grace's aided my application, and Emily placed the ornaments
around her throat. The dazzling whiteness of her skin gave a lustre to
the pearls that they certainly did not previously possess. One scarcely
knew which to admire the most--the ornaments, or their setting.
“How very, very beautiful they are _now!_” cried Lucy, in generous
admiration. “Oh! Miss Merton, pearls should ever be your ornaments.”
“_Those_ pearls, you mean, Lucy,” put in Rupert, who was always
extremely liberal with other people's means; “the necklace ought never
to be removed.”
“Miss Merton knows their destination,” I said, gallantly, “and the terms
of ownership.”
Emily slowly undid the clasp, placed the string before her eyes, and
looked at it long and silently.
“And what is this destination, Miles? What these terms of ownership?” my
sister asked.
“Of course he means them for you, dear,” Lucy remarked in haste. “For
whom else can he intend such an ornament?”
“You are mistaken, Miss Hardinge. Grace must excuse me for being a
little selfish this time, at least. I do not intend those pearls for
Miss Wallingford, but for Mrs. Wallingford, should there ever be such a
person.”
“Upon my word, such a double temptation, my boy, I Wonder Miss Merton
ever had the fortitude to remove them from the enviable position they
so lately occupied,” cried Rupert, glancing meaningly towards Emily, who
returned the look with a slight smile.
“Of course, Miss Merton understood that my remark was ventured in
pleasantry,” I said stiffly, “and not in presumption. It was decided,
however, when in the Pacific, that these pearls ought to have that
destination. It is true, Clawbonny is not the Pacific, and one may be
pardoned for seeing things a little differently _here_, from what they
appeared _there_. I have a few more pearls, however, very inferior in
quality I confess, to those of the necklace; but, such as they are, I
should esteem it a favour, ladies, if you would consent to divide them
equally among you. They would make three very pretty rings, and as many
breast-pins.”
I put into Grace's hands a little box containing all the pearls that had
not been placed on the string. There were many fine ones among them, and
some of very respectable size, though most were of the sort called seed.
In the whole, there were several hundreds.
“We will not balk his generosity,” said Grace, smiling--“so, Miss
Merton, we will separate the pearls into three parcels, and draw lots
for them. Here are handsome ornaments among them!”
“They will have one value with you, at least, Grace, and quite likely
with Lucy, while they might possibly possess another with Miss Merton. I
fished up every one of those pearls with my own hands.”
“Certainly, that will give them value with both Lucy and me, dearest
Miles, as would the simple fact that they are your gift--but what is to
give them their especial value with Miss Merton?”
“They may serve to remind Miss Merton of some of her hair-breadth
escapes, of the weeks passed on the island, and of scenes that, a
few years hence, will probably possess the colours of a dream, in her
recollection.”
“_One_ pearl I will take, with this particular object”--said Emily, with
more feeling than I had seen her manifest since she had got back into
the world, “if Miss Wallingford will do me the favour to select it.”
“Let it be enough for a ring, at least,” Grace returned, in her own
sweetest manner. “Half a dozen of the finest of these pearls, of which
one shall be on Miles' account, and five on mine.”
“On those conditions, let it then be six. I have no occasion for pearls
to remind me how much my father and my self owe to Captain Wallingford.”
“Come, Rupert,” added Grace; “you have a taste in these things, let
us have your aid in the selection.” Rupert was by no means backward in
complying, for he loved to be meddling in such matters.
“In the first place,” he said, “I shall at once direct that the number
be increased to seven; this fine one in the centre, and three on each
side, gradually diminishing in size. We must look to quality, and not to
weight, for the six puisne judges, as we should call them in the courts.
The Chief Justice will be a noble-looking fellow, and the associates
ought to be of good quality to keep his honour's company.”
“Why do you not call your judges 'my lords,' as we do in England, Mr.
Hardinge?” inquired Emily, in her prettiest manner.
“_Why,_ sure enough! I wish with all my heart we did, and then a man
would have something worth living for.”
“Rupert!” exclaimed Lucy, colouring--“you know it is because our
government is republican, and that we have no nobles among us. Nor
do you say exactly what you think; you would not be 'my lord,' if you
could.”
“As I never shall be a 'my lord,' and I am afraid never a 'your
honour'--There, Miss Merton--there are numbers two and three--observe
how beautifully they are graduated as to size.”
“Well, 'your honour,'” added Grace, who began to be a little uneasy at
the manner Rupert and Emily exhibited towards each other--“well, 'your
honour,' what is to come next?”
“Numbers four and five, of course--and here they are, Miss Merton; as
accurately diminished, as if done by hand. A beautiful ring it will
make--I envy those who will be recalled to mind, by so charming an
object.”
“You will now be one of those yourself, Mr. Hardinge”--observed Emily,
with great tact--“for you are fully entitled to it, by the trouble you
are giving yourself, and the taste and judgment you possess.”
Lucy looked petrified. She had so long accustomed herself to think
of Grace as her future sister, that the open admiration expressed in
Rupert's countenance, which was too manifest to escape any of us, first
threw a glimmering of light on suspicions of the most painful nature. I
had long seen that Lucy understood her brother's character better than
any of us--much better, indeed, than his simple-minded father; and,
as for myself, I was prepared to expect anything but consistency and
principle in his conduct. Dearly as I prized Lucy, and by this time
the slight competition that Emily Merton had presented to my fancy,
had entirely given way to the dear creature's heart, and nature,--but,
dearly as I prized Lucy, I would greatly have preferred that my sister
should not marry her brother; and, so far from feeling resentment on
account of his want of fidelity, I was rather disposed to rejoice at
it. I could appreciate his want of merit, and his unfitness to be the
husband of such a woman as Grace, even at my early age; but, alas! I
could not appreciate the effects of his inconstancy on a heart like that
of my sister. Could I have felt as easy on the subject of Mr. Andrew
Drewett, and of my own precise position in society, I should have cared
very little, just then, about Rupert, and his caprices.
The pearls for the ring were soon selected by Rupert, and approved of
by Grace, after which I assumed the office of dividing the remainder
myself. I drew a chair, took the box from Rupert, and set about the
task.
“I shall make a faithful umpire, girls,” I observed, as pearl after
pearl was laid, first on one spot, then on another--“for I feel no
preference between you--Grace is as Lucy; Lucy is as Grace, with me.”
“That may be fortunate, Miss Hardinge, since it indicates no preference
of a particular sort, that might require repressing,” said Emily,
smiling significantly at Lucy. “When gentlemen treat young ladies
as sisters, it is a subject of rejoicing. These sailors need severe
lessons, to keep them within the rules of the land.”
Why this was said, I did not understand; but Rupert laughed at it, as
if it were a capital thing. To mend the matter, he added, a little
boisterously for him--
“You see, Miles, you had better have taken to the law--the ladies cannot
appreciate the merits of you tars.”
“So it would seem,” I returned, a little drily, “after all Miss Merton
has experienced and seen of the trade.”
Emily made no reply, but she regarded her pearls with a steadiness that
showed she was thinking more of their effect than that of either her own
speech or mine. I continued to divide the pearls, and soon had the work
complete.
“What am I to do, now?”--I asked--“Will you draw lots, girls, or will
you trust to my impartiality?”
“We will certainly confide in the last,” answered Grace. “The division
is so very equitable that I do not well see how you can defraud either.”
“That being the case, this parcel is for you, Lucy; and, Grace, that is
your's.”
Grace rose, put her arms affectionately around my neck, and gave me one
of the hundred kisses that I had received, first and last, for presents
of one sort and another. The deep attachment that beamed in her
saint-like eyes, would of itself have repaid me for fifty such gifts.
At the moment, I was almost on the point of throwing her the necklace
in the bargain; but some faint fancies about Mrs. Miles Wallingford
prevented me from so doing. As for Lucy, not a little to my surprise,
she received the pearls, muttered a few unintelligible words, but did
not even rise from her chair. Emily seemed to tire of this, so she
caught up her gypsy, said the evening was getting to be delightful, and
proposed a walk. Rupert and Grace cheerfully acquiesced, and the three
soon left the place, Lucy preparing to follow, as soon as a maid could
bring her hat, and I excusing myself on the score of business in my own
room.
“Miles”--said Lucy, as I was about to enter the house, she herself
standing on the edge of the piazza on the point of following the party,
but holding towards me the little paper box in which I had placed her
portion of the pearls.
“Do you wish me to put them away for you, Lucy?”
“No, Miles--not for _me_--but for _yourself_--for Grace--for _Mrs. Miles
Wallingford_, if you prefer that.”
This was said without the slightest appearance of any other feeling than
a gentle request. I was surprised, and scarce knew what to make of it;
at first, I refused to take the box.
“I hope I have done nothing to merit this, Lucy?” I said,
half-affronted, half-grieved.
“Remember, Miles,” the dear girl answered--“we are no longer children,
but have reached an age when it is incumbent on us to respect
appearances a little. These pearls must be worth a good deal of money,
and I feel certain my father, when he came to think of it, would scarce
approve of my receiving them.”
“And this from _you_, dear Lucy!”
“This from me, dear Miles,” returned the precious girl, tears glistening
in her eyes, though she endeavoured to smile. “Now, take the box, and we
will be just as good friends as ever.”
“Will you answer me one question, as frankly and as honestly as you used
to answer all my questions?”
Lucy turned pale and she stood reflecting an instant before she spoke.
“I can answer no question before it is asked,” was at length her answer.
“Have you thought so little of my presents as to have thrown away the
locket I gave you, before I sailed for the North-West coast?”
“No, Miles; I have kept the locket, and shall keep it as long as I live.
It was a memorial of our childish regard for each other; and, in that
sense, is very dear to me. You will let me keep the locket, I am sure!”
“If it were not you, Lucy Hardinge, whom I know to be truth itself, I
might be disposed to doubt you, so many strange things exist, and so
much caprice, especially in attachments, is manifested here, ashore!”
“You need doubt nothing I tell you, Miles--on no account would I deceive
you.”
“That I believe--nay, I see, it is your present object to _undeceive_
me. I do not doubt anything you tell me, Lucy. I wish I could see that
locket, however; show it to me, if you have it on your person.”
Lucy made an eager movement, as if about to produce the locket; then she
arrested the impetuous indication, while her cheeks fairly burned with
the blushes that suffused them.
“I see how it is, Lucy--the thing is not to be found. It is mislaid, the
Lord knows where, and you do not like to avow it.”
The locket, at that moment, lay as near the blessed creature's heart
as it could be placed; and her confusion proceeded from the shame of
letting that fact be known. This I could not see, and consequently did
not know. A very small and further indication of feeling on my part,
might have betrayed the circumstance; but pride prevented it, and I took
the still extended box, I dare say in a somewhat dramatic manner. Lucy
looked at me earnestly; I saw it was with difficulty that she kept from
bursting into tears.
“You are not hurt, Miles?” she said.
“I should not be frank if I denied it. Even Emily Merton, you saw,
consented to accept enough pearls for a ring.”
“I did perceive it; and yet, you remember, she felt the impropriety of
receiving such large gifts from gentlemen. Miss Merton has gone through
so much, so much in your company, Miles, that no wonder she is willing
to retain some little memorial of it all, until--”
She hesitated; but Lucy chose not to finish the sentence. She had been
pale; but her cheeks were now like the rose, again.
“When Rupert and I first went to sea, Lucy, you gave me your little
treasure in gold--every farthing you had on earth, I fancy.”
“I am glad I did, Miles; for we were very young, then, and you had been
so kind to me, I rejoice I had a little gratitude. But, we are now in
situations,” she added, smiling so sweetly, as to render it difficult
for me to refrain from catching her in my arms, and folding her to my
heart; “that place both of us above the necessity of receiving aid of
this sort.”
“I am glad to hear this--though _I_ shall never part with the dear
recollection of the half-joes.”
“Or I with that of the locket. We will retain these, then, as keepsakes.
My dear Mrs. Bradfort, too, is very particular about Rupert or myself
receiving favours of this sort, from any but herself. She has adopted
us, in a manner; and I owe to her liberality, the means of making the
figure I do. Apart from that, Miles, we are all as poor as we have ever
been.”
I wished Rupert had half his sister's self-respect and pride of
character. But he had not; for in spite of his kinswoman's prohibitions,
he had not scrupled to spend nearly three years of the wages that
accrued to me as third-mate of the Crisis. For the money I cared not a
stiver; it was a very different thing as to the feeling.
As for Lucy, she hastened away, as soon as she had induced me to accept
the box; and I had no choice but to place all the pearls together, and
put them in Grace's room, as my sister had desired me to do with her own
property before proceeding on her walk.
I determined I would converse confidentially with Grace, that very
evening, about the state of affairs in general, and if possible, learn
the worst concerning Mr. Andrew Drewett's pretensions. Shall I
frankly own the truth? I was sorry that Mrs. Bradfort had made Lucy
so independent; as it seemed to increase the chasm that I fancied was
opening between us.