“With look like patient Job's, eschewing evil;
With motions graceful as a bird's in air;
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil
That ere clinched fingers in a captive's hair.”
HALLECK.
There was about an hour of daylight, when I left the compting-house of
the consignees, and pursued my way up Wall Street to Broadway. I was
on my way to the City Hotel, then, as now, one of the best inns of
the town. On Trinity Church walk, just as I quitted the Wall Street
crossing, whom should I come plump upon in turning, but Rupert Hardinge?
He was walking down the street in some little haste, and was
evidently much surprised, perhaps I might say startled, at seeing me.
Nevertheless, Rupert was not easily disconcerted, and his manner at once
became warm, if not entirely free from embarrassment. He was in deep
mourning; though otherwise dressed in the height of the fashion.
“Wallingford!” he exclaimed--it was the first time he did not call
me “Miles,”--“Wallingford! my fine fellow, what cloud did you drop
from?--We have had so many reports concerning you, that your appearance
is as much a matter of surprise, as would be that of Bonaparte, himself.
Of course, your ship is in?”
“Of course,” I answered, taking his offered hand; “you know I am wedded
to her, for better, for worse, until death or shipwreck doth us part.”
“Ay, so I've always told the ladies--'there is no other matrimony in
Wallingford,' I've said often, 'than that which will make him a ship's
husband.' But you look confoundedly well--the sea agrees with you,
famously.”
“I make no complaint of my health--but tell me of that of our friends
and families? Your father--”
“Is up at Clawbonny, just now--you know how it is with him. No change of
circumstances will ever make him regard his little smoke-house looking
church, as anything but a cathedral, and his parish as a diocese. Since
the great change in our circumstances, all this is useless, and I often
_think_--you know one wouldn't like to _say_ as much to _him_--but I
often _think_, he might just as well give up preaching, altogether.”
“Well, this is good, so far--now for the rest of you, all. You meet my
impatience too coldly.”
“Yes, you _were_ always an impatient fellow. Why, I suppose you need
hardly be told that I have been admitted to the bar.”
“That I can very well imagine--you must have found your sea-training of
great service on the examination.”
“Ah! my dear Wallingford--what a simpleton I was! But one is so apt to
take up strange conceits in boyhood, that he is compelled to look
back at them in wonder, in after life. But, which way are you
walking?”--slipping an arm in mine--“if up, I'll take a short turn
with you. There's scarce a soul in town, at this season; but you'll
see prodigiously fine girls in Broadway, at this hour,
notwithstanding--those that belong to the other sets, you know; those
that belong to families that can't get into the country among the
leaves. Yes, as I was saying, one scarce knows himself, after twenty.
Now, I can hardly recall a taste, or an inclination, that I cherished
in my teens, that has not flown to the winds. Nothing is permanent in
boyhood--we grow in our persons, and our minds, sentiments, affections,
views, hopes, wishes, and ambition; all take new directions.”
“This is not very flattering, Rupert, to one whose acquaintance with you
may be said to be altogether boyish.”
“Oh! of course I don't mean _that._ Habit keeps all right in such
matters; and I dare say I shall always be as much attached to you, as I
was in childhood. Still, we are on diverging lines, now, and cannot for
ever remain boys.”
“You have told me nothing of the rest,” I said, half choked, in my
eagerness to hear of the girls, and yet unaccountably afraid to ask.
I believe I dreaded to hear that Lucy was married. “How, and where is
Grace?”
“Oh! Grace!--yes, I forgot her, to my shame, as you would naturally wish
to inquire. Why, my dear _Captain,_ to be as frank as one ought with so
old an acquaintance, your sister is not in a good way, I'm much afraid;
though I've not seen her in an age. She was down among us in the autumn,
but left town for the holidays, for them she insisted on keeping at
Clawbonny, where she said the family had always kept them, and away she
went. Since then, she has not returned, but I fear she is far from well.
You know what a fragile creature Grace ever has been--so American!--Ah!
Wallingford! our females have no constitutions--charming as angels,
delicate as fairies, and all that; but not to be compared to the English
women in constitutions.”
I felt a torrent of fire rushing through my blood, and it was with
difficulty I refrained from hurling the heartless scoundrel who leaned
on my arm, into the ditch. A moment of reflection, however, warned me
of the precipice on which I stood. He was Mr. Hardinge's son, Lucy's
brother; and I had no proofs that he had ever induced Grace to think he
loved her. It was so easy for those who had been educated as we four
had been, to be deceived on such a point, that I felt it unsafe to do
anything precipitately. Friendship, _habit_, as Rupert expressed it,
might so easily be mistaken for the fruits of passion, that one might
well be deceived. Then it was all-important to Grace's self-respect, to
her feelings, in some measure to her character, to be careful, that I
suppressed my wrath, though it nearly choked me.
“I am sorry to hear this,” I answered, after a long pause, the
deep regret I felt at having such an account of my sister's health
contributing to make my manner seem natural; “very, _very_ sorry to hear
it. Grace is one that requires the tenderest care and watching; and I
have been making passage after passage in pursuit of money, when I am
afraid I should have been at Clawbonny, discharging the duties of a
brother. I can never forgive myself!”
“Money is a very good thing, Captain,” answered Rupert, with a smile
that appeared to mean more than the tongue expressed--“a surprisingly
good thing is money! But you must not exaggerate Grace's illness, which
I dare say is merely constitutional, and will lead to nothing. I hope
your many voyages have produced their fruits?”
“And Lucy?” I resumed, disregarding his question concerning my own
success as an owner. “Where and how is she?”
“Miss Hardinge is in town--in her own--that is, in _our_ house--in Wall
Street, though she goes to _the place_ in the morning. No one who
can, likes to remain among these hot bricks, that has a pleasant
country-house to fly to, and open to receive him. But I forgot--I have
supposed you to know what it is very likely you have never heard?”
“I learned the death of Mrs. Bradfort while in Italy, and, seeing you in
black, at once supposed it was for her.”
“Yes, that's just it. An excellent woman has been taken from us, and,
had she been my own mother, I could not have received greater kindnesses
from her. Her end, my dear Wallingford, was admitted by all the clergy
to be one of the most edifying known in the place for years.”
“And Mrs. Bradfort has left you her heir? It is now time to congratulate
you on your good fortune. As I un-understand her estate came through
females to her, and from a common ancestor of hers and yours, there is
not the slightest reason why you should not be gratified by the bequest.
But Lucy--I hope she was not _altogether_ forgotten?”
Rupert fidgeted, and I could see that he was on tenter-hooks. As I
afterwards discovered, he wished to conceal the real facts from the
world; and yet he could not but foresee that I would probably learn them
from his father. Under all the circumstances, therefore, he fancied
it best to make me a confidant. We were strolling between Trinity and
Paul's church walks, then the most fashionable promenade in town; and,
before he would lay open his secret, my companion led me over by the
Oswego Market, and down Maiden Lane, lest he might betray himself to the
more fashionable stocks and stones. He did not open his lips until clear
of the market, when he laid bare his budget of griefs in something that
more resembled his old confidential manner, than he had seen fit to
exhibit in the earlier part of our interview.
“You must know, Miles,” he commenced, “that Mrs. Bradfort was a very
peculiar woman--a very peculiar sort of a person, indeed. An, excellent
lady, I am ready to allow, and one that made a remarkably edifying and;
but one whose peculiarities, I have understood, she inherited with her
fortune. Women _do_ get the oddest conceits into their heads, you know,
and American women before all others; a republic being anything but
favourable to the continuation of property in the same line. Miss
Merton, who is a girl of excellent sense, as you well know yourself,
Miles, says, now, in England I should have succeeded, quite as a matter
of course, to _all_ Mrs. Bradfort's real estate.”
“You, as a lawyer--a common law lawyer-can scarcely require the opinion
of an Englishwoman to tell you what the English laws would do in a
question of descent.”
“Oh! they've a plaguey sight of statutes in that country, as well as
ourselves. Between the two, the common law is getting to be a very
uncommon sort of a law. But, to cut the matter short, Mrs. Bradfort made
a _will_.”
“Dividing her property equally between you and Lucy, I dare say, to Miss
Merton's great dissatisfaction.”
“Why, not just so, Miles--not exactly so; a very capricious, peculiar
woman was Mrs. Bradfort--”
I have often remarked, when a person has succeeded in throwing dust into
another's eyes, but is discarded on being found out, that the
rejected of principle is very apt to accuse his former dupe of being
_capricious_; when, in fact, he has only been _deceived_. As I said
nothing, however, leaving Rupert to flounder on in the best manner he
could, the latter, after a pause, proceeded--
“But her end was very admirable” he said, “and to the last degree
edifying. You must know, she made a will, and in that will she left
everything, even to the town and country houses, to--my sister.”
I was thunder-struck! Here were all my hopes blown again to the winds.
After a long pause, I resumed the discourse.
“And whom did she leave as executor?” I asked, instantly foreseeing the
consequences should that office be devolved on Rupert, himself.
“My father. The old gentleman has had his hands full, between your
father and mother, and Mrs. Bradfort. Fortunately, the estate of the
last is in a good condition, and is easily managed. Almost entirely
in stores and houses in the best part of the town, well insured, a few
thousands in stocks, and as much in bonds and mortgages, the savings
from the income, and something like a year's rents in bank. A good seven
thousand a year, with enough surplus to pay for repairs, collection and
other charges.”
“And all this, then, is Lucy's!” I exclaimed, feeling something like the
bitterness of knowing that such an heiress was not for me.
“Temporarily; though, of course, I consider Lucy as only my trustee for
half of it. You know how it is with the women; they fancy all us young
men spendthrifts, and, so, between the two, they have reasoned in this
way--'Rupert is a good fellow at bottom; but Rupert is young, and he
will make the money fly--now, I'll give it all to you, Lucy, in my will,
but, of course, you'll take care of your brother, and let him have half,
or perhaps two-thirds, being a male, at the proper time, which will be,
as soon as you come of age, and _can_ convey. You understand Lucy is but
nineteen, and _cannot_ convey these two years.”
“And Lucy admits this to be true?--You have proof of all this?”
“Proof! I'd take my own affidavit of it. You see it is reasonable, and
what I had a right to expect. Everything tends to confirm it. Between
ourselves, I had quite $2000 of debt; and yet, you see, the good
lady did not leave me a dollar to pay even my honest creditors; a
circumstance that so pious a woman, and one who made so edifying an end,
would never think of doing, without ulterior views. Considering Lucy as
my trustee, explains the whole thing.”
“I thought Mrs. Bradfort made you an allowance, Rupert; some $600 a
year, besides keeping you in her own house?”
“A thousand-but, what is $1000 a year to a fashionable man, in a town
like this. First and last, the excellent old lady, gave me about $5000,
all of which confirms the idea, that, at the bottom, she intended me
for her heir. What woman in her senses, would think of giving $5000 to
a relative to whom she did not contemplate giving _more_? The thing is
clear on its face, and I should certainly go into chancery, with anybody
but Lucy.”
“And Lucy?--what says she to your views on the subject of Mrs.
Bradfort's intentions?”
“Why, you have some acquaintance with Lucy--used to be intimate
with her, as one might say, when children, and know something of her
character”--This to me, who fairly worshipped the earth on which the
dear girl trod!--“She never indulges in professions, and likes to take
people by surprise, when she contemplates doing them a service--” this
was just as far from Lucy's natural and honest mode of dealing, as it
was possible to be--“and, so, she has been as mum as one who has lost
the faculty of speech. However, she never speaks of her affairs to
others; _that_ is a good sign, and indicates an intention to consider
herself as my trustee; and, what is better still, and more plainly
denotes what her conscience dictates in the premises, she has empowered
her father to pay all my debts; the current income and loose cash, being
at her disposal, at once. It would have been better had she given me the
money, to satisfy these creditors with it, for I knew which had waited
the longest, and were best entitled to receive the dollars at once; but,
it's something to have all their receipts in my pocket, and to start
fair again. Thank Heaven, that much is already done. To do Lucy justice,
moreover, she allows me $1500 a year, _ad interim_. Now, Miles, I've
conversed with you, as with an old friend, and because I knew my father
would tell you the whole, when you get up to Clawbonny; but you will
take it all in strict confidence. It gives a fashionable young fellow so
silly an air, to be thought dependent on a sister; and she three years
younger than himself! So I have hinted the actual state of the case,
round among my friends; but, it is generally believed that I am in
possession already, and that Lucy is dependent on me, instead of my
being dependent on her. The idea, moreover, is capital for keeping off
fortune-hunters, as you will see at a glance.”
“And will the report satisfy a certain Mr. Andrew Drewett?” I asked,
struggling to assume a composure I was far from feeling. “He was all
attention when I sailed, and I almost expected to hear there was no
longer a Lucy Hardinge.”
“To tell you the truth, Miles, I thought so, too, until the death of
Mrs. Bradfort. The mourning, however, most opportunely came to put a
stop to anything of the sort, were it even contemplated. It would be so
awkward, you will understand, to have a brother-in-law before everything
is settled, and the trust is accounted for. _Au reste_--I am very well
satisfied with Andrew, and let him know I am his friend; he is well
connected; fashionable; has a pretty little fortune; and, as I sometimes
tell Lucy, that he is intended for her, as Mrs. Bradfort, no doubt,
foresaw, inasmuch as his estate, added to just one-third of that of
our dear departed cousin, would just make up the present income. On my
honour, now, I do not think the difference would be $500 per annum.”
“And how does your sister receive your hints?”
“Oh! famously--just as all girls do, you know. She blushes, and
sometimes she looks vexed; then she smiles, and puts up her lip, and
says 'Nonsense!' and 'What folly!' 'Rupert, I'm surprised at you!' and
all that sort of stuff, which deceives nobody, you'll understand, not
even her poor, simple, silly brother. But, Miles, I must quit you now,
for I have an engagement to accompany a party to the theatre, and was on
my way to join them when we met. Cooper plays, and you know what a lion
_he_ is; one would not wish to lose a syllable of his Othello.”
“Stop, Rupert--one word more before we part. From your conversation, I
gather that the Mertons are still here?”
“The Mertons! Why, certainly; established in the land, and among its
tip-top people. The Colonel finds his health benefited by the climate,
and he has managed to get some appointment which keeps him among us. He
has Boston relatives, moreover, and I believe is fishing up some claims
to property in that quarter. The Mertons here, indeed! what would New
York be without the Mertons!”
“And my old friend the Major is promoted, too--you called him Colonel, I
think?”
“Did I? I believe he is oftener called _General_ Merton, than anything
else. You must be mistaken about his being only a Major, Miles;
everybody here calls him either Colonel, or General.”
“Never mind; I hope it is as you say. Good-bye, Rupert; I'll not betray
you, and--”
“Well-you were about to say--”
“Why, mention me to Lucy; you know we were acquainted when children.
Tell her I wish her all happiness in her new position, to which I do
not doubt she will do full credit; and that I shall endeavour to see her
before I sail again.”
“You'll not be at the theatre this evening? Cooper is well worth
seeing--a most famous fellow in Othello!”
“I think not. Do not forget to mention me to your sister; and so, once
more, adieu!”
We parted--Rupert to go towards Broadway, at a great pace, and I to
lounge along, uncertain whither to proceed. I had sent Neb to inquire if
the Wallingford were down, and understood she would leave the basin at
sunrise. It was now my intention to go up in her; for, though I attached
no great importance to any of Rupert's facts, his report concerning my
sister's health rendered me exceedingly uneasy. Insensibly I continued
my course down Maiden Lane, and soon found myself near the ship. I went
on board, had an explanation with Marble, gave some orders to Neb, and
went ashore again, all in the course of the next half-hour. By a sort of
secret attraction, I was led towards the Park, and soon found myself at
the door of the theatre. Mrs. Bradfort had now been dead long enough to
put Lucy in second mourning, and I fancied I might get a view of her in
the party that Rupert was to accompany. Buying a ticket, I entered and
made my way up into the Shakspeare box. Had I been better acquainted
with the place, with the object in view I should have gone into the pit.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the season, it was a very full house.
Cooper's, in that day, was a name that filled every mouth, and he seldom
failed to fill every theatre in which he appeared. With many first-rate
qualifications for his art, and a very respectable conception of his
characters, he threw everything like competition behind him; though
there were a few, as there ever will be among the superlatively
intellectual, who affected to see excellencies in Fennel, and others,
to which this great actor could not aspire. The public decided against
these select few, and, as is invariably the case when the appeal is made
to human feelings, the public decided right. Puffery will force into
notice and sustain a false judgment, in such matters, for a brief space;
but nature soon asserts her sway, and it is by natural decisions that
such points are ever the most justly determined. Whatever appeals to
human sympathies, will be answered by human sympathies. Popularity too
often gains its ascendency behind the hypocrite's mask in religion;
it is usually a magnificent mystification in politics; it frequently
becomes the patriot's stalking-horse, on which he rides to power; in
social life, it is the reward of empty smiles, unmeaning bows, and
hollow squeezes of the hand; but with the player, the poet, and all
whose pursuits bring them directly in contact with the passions, the
imagination and the heart, it is the unerring test of merit, with
certain qualifications connected with the mind and the higher finish of
pure art. It may be questioned if Cooper were not the greatest actor of
his day, in a certain range of his own characters.
I have said that the house was full. I got a good place, however; though
it was not in the front row. Of course I could only see the side boxes
beneath, and not even quite all of them. My eyes ran eagerly over them,
and I soon caught a glimpse of the fine, curling hair of Rupert. He
sat by the side of Emily Merton, the Major--I knew he was a colonel or
general, only by means of a regular Manhattan promotion, which is so apt
to make hundreds of counts, copper captains, and travelling prodigies of
those who are very small folk at home--the Major sat next, and, at his
side, I saw a lady, whom I at once supposed to be Lucy. Every nerve in
my system thrilled, as I caught even this indistinct view of the
dear creature. I could just see the upper part of her face, as it was
occasionally turned towards the Major; and once I caught that honest
smile of hers, which I knew had never intentionally deceived.
The front seat of the box had two vacant places. The bench would hold
six, while it had yet only four. The audience, however, was still
assembling, and, presently, a stir in Lucy's box denoted the arrival
of company. The whole party moved, and Andrew Drewett handed an elderly
lady in, his mother, as I afterwards ascertained, and took the other
place himself. I watched the salutations that were exchanged, and
understood that the new comers had been expected. The places had been
reserved for them, and old Mrs. Drewett was doubtless the _chaperone;_
though, one having a brother and the other a father with her, the two
young ladies had not hesitated about preceding the elderly lady. They
had come from different quarters of the town, and had agreed to meet at
the theatre. Old Mrs. Drewett was very particular in shaking hands with
Lucy, though I had not the misery of seeing her son go through the same
ceremony. Still he was sufficiently pointed in his salutations; and,
during the movements, I perceived he managed to get next to Lucy,
leaving the Major to entertain his mother. All this was natural, and
what might have been expected; yet, it gave me a pang that I cannot
describe.
I sat, for half an hour, perfectly inattentive to the play, meditating
on the nature of my real position towards Lucy. I recalled the days of
childhood and early youth; the night of my first departure from home; my
return, and the incidents accompanying my second departure; the affair
of the locket, and all I had truly felt myself, and all that I had
supposed Lucy herself to feel, on those several occasions. Could it be
possible I had so much deceived myself, and that the interest the dear
girl had certainly manifested in me had been nothing but the fruits
of her naturally warm and honest heart--her strong disposition to
frankness-habit, as Rupert had so gently hinted in reference to
ourselves? Then I could not conceal from myself the bitter fact that I
was, now, no equal match for Lucy, in the eyes of the world. While she
was poor, and I comparatively rich, the inequality in social station
might have been overlooked; it existed, certainly, but was not so very
marked that it might not, even in that day, be readily forgotten; but
now, Lucy was an heiress, had much more than double my own fortune--had
a fortune indeed; while I was barely in easy circumstances, as persons
of the higher classes regarded wealth. The whole matter seemed reversed.
It was clear that a sailor like myself, with no peculiar advantages,
those of a tolerable education excepted, and who was necessarily so much
absent, had not the same chances of preferring his suit, as one of
your town idlers; a nominal lawyer, for instance, who dropped in at his
office for an hour or two, just after breakfast, and promenaded Broadway
the rest of the time, until dinner; or a man of entire leisure, like
Andrew Drewett, who belonged to the City Library set, and had no other
connection with business than to see that his rents were collected and
his dividends paid. The more I reflected, the more humble I became, he
less my chances seemed and I determined to quit the theatre, at once.
The reader will remember that I was New York born and bred, a state
of society in which few natives acted on the principle that “there
was nothing too high to be aspired to, nothing too low to be done.”
I admitted I had superiors, and was willing to defer to the facts and
opinions of the world as I knew it.
In the lobby of the building, I experienced a pang at the idea of
quitting the place without getting one look at the face of Lucy. I was
in an humble mood, it is true, but that did not necessarily infer a
total self-denial. I determined, therefore, to pass into the pit, with
my box-check, feast my eyes by one long gaze at the dear creature's
ingenuous countenance, and carry away the impression, as a lasting
memorial of her whom I so well loved, and whom I felt persuaded I should
ever continue to love. After this indulgence, I would studiously avoid
her, in order to release my thoughts as much as possible from the
perfect thraldom in which they had existed, ever since I had heard
of Mrs. Bradfort's death. Previously to that time, I am afraid I
had counted a little more than was becoming on the ease of my own
circumstances, and Lucy's comparative poverty. Not that I had ever
supposed her to be in the least mercenary--this I knew to be utterly,
totally false--but because the good town of Manhattan, even in 1803,
was _tant soit peu_ addicted to dollars, and Lucy's charms would not
be likely to attract so many suitors, in the modest setting of a poor
country clergyman's means, as in the golden frame by which they had been
surrounded by Mrs. Bradfort's testamentary devise, even supposing Rupert
to come in for quite one half.
I had no difficulty in finding a convenient place in the pit; one, from
which I got a front and near view of the whole six, as they sat ranged
side by side. Of the Major and old Mrs. Drewett it is unnecessary to say
much. The latter looked as all dowager-like widows of that day used to
appear, respectable, staid, and richly attired. The good lady had come
on the stage during the revolution, and had a slightly military air--a
_parade_ in her graces, that was not altogether unknown to the _èlèves_
of that school. I dare say she could use such words as “martinets,”
“mowhairs,” “brigadiers,” and other terms familiar to her class. Alas!
how completely all these little traces of the past are disappearing from
our habits and manners!
As for the Major, he appeared much better in health, and altogether
altered in mien. I could readily detect the influence of the world on
him; He was evidently a so much greater man in New York than he had
been whew I found him in London, that it is not wonderful he felt the
difference. Between the acts, I remarked that all the principal persons
in the front rows were desirous of exchanging nods with the “British
officer,” a proof that he was circulating freely in the best set, and
had reached a point, when “not to know him, argues yourself unknown.”
{*]
{Footnote *: The miserable moral dependence of this country on Great
Britain, forty years since, cannot well be brought home to the present
generation. It is still too great, but has not a tithe of its former
force. The writer has himself known an Italian Prince, a man of family
and of high personal merit, pass unnoticed before a society that was
eager to make the acquaintance of most of the “agents” of the Birmingham
button dealers; and this simply because one came from Italy and the
other from England. The following anecdote, which is quite as true as
any other fact in this work, furnishes a good example of what is meant.
It is now a quarter of a century since the writer's first book appeared.
Two or three months after the publication, he was walking down Broadway
with a friend, when a man of much distinction in the New York circles
was passing up, on the other side-walk. The gentleman in question caught
the writer's eye, bowed, and _crossed the street_, to shake hands and
inquire after the author's health. The difference in years made this
attention marked. “You are in high favour,” observed the friend, as the
two walked away, to “have ---- pay you such a compliment--your book must
have done this.” “Now mark my words--I have been puffed in some English
magazine, and ---- knows it.” The two were on their way to the author's
publishers, and, on entering the door, honest Charles Wiley put a puff
on the book in question into the writer's hand! What rendered the whole
more striking, was the fact that the paragraph was as flagrant a puff
as was ever written, and had probably been paid for, by the English
publisher. The gentleman in question was a man of talents and merit,
but he had been born half a century too soon, to enjoy entire mental
independence in a country that had so recently been a colony.]
Emily certainly looked well and happy. I could see that she was
delighted with Rupert's flattery, and I confess I cared very little
for his change of sentiment, or his success. That both Major and Emily
Merton were different persons in the midst of the world and in the
solitudes of the Pacific, was as evident as it was that I was a
different personage in command of the Crisis, and in the pit of the Park
theatre. I dare say, at that moment. Miss Merton had nearly forgotten
that such a man as Miles Wallingford existed, though I think she
sometimes recalled the string of magnificent pearls that were to
ornament the neck of his wife, should he ever find any one to have him.
But, Lucy, dear, upright, warm-hearted, truth-telling, beloved Lucy! all
this time, I forget to speak of her. There she sat in maiden loveliness,
her beauty still more developed, her eye as beaming, lustrous, feeling,
as ever, her blush as sensitive, her smile as sweet, and her movements
as natural and graceful. The simplicity of her half-mourning, too, added
to her beauty, which was of a character to require no further aid from
dress, than such as was dependent purely on taste. As I gazed at her,
enthralled, I fancied nothing was wanting to complete the appearance,
but my own necklace. Powerful, robust man as I was, with my frame
hardened by exposure and trials, I could have sat down and wept, after
gazing some time at the precious creature, under the feeling produced
by the conviction that I was never to renew my intercourse with her, on
terms of intimacy at least. The thought that from day to day we were to
become more and more strangers, was almost too much to be borne. As it
was, scalding tears forced themselves to my eyes, though I succeeded
in concealing the weakness from those around me. At length the tragedy
terminated, the curtain dropped, and the audience began to move about.
The pit which had, just before, been crowded, was now nearly empty, and
I was afraid of being seen. Still, I could not tear myself away, but
remained after nine-tenths of those around me had gone into the lobbies.
It was easy, now, to see the change which had come over Lucy's position,
in the attentions she received. All the ladies in the principal boxes
had nods and smiles for her and half the fashionable-looking young men
in the house crowded round her box, or actually entered it to pay their
compliments. I fancied Andrew Drewett had a self-satisfied air that
seemed to say, “you are paying your homage indirectly to myself, in
paying it to this young lady.” As for Lucy, my jealous watchfulness
could not detect the smallest alteration in her deportment, so far as
simplicity and nature were concerned. She appeared in a trifling degree
more womanly, perhaps, than when I saw her last, being now in her
twentieth year; but the attentions she received made no visible change
in her manners. I had become lost in the scene, and was standing in a
musing attitude, my side face towards the box, when I heard a suppressed
exclamation, in Lucy's voice. I was too near her to be mistaken, and it
caused the blood to rush to my heart in a torrent. Turning, I saw the
dear girl, with her hand extended over the front of the box, her face
suffused with blushes, and her eyes riveted on myself. I was recognised,
and the surprise had produced a display of all that old friendship,
certainly, that had once existed between us, in the simplicity and truth
of childhood.
“Miles Wallingford!” she said, as I advanced to shake the offered
hand, and as soon as I was near enough to permit her to speak without
attracting too much attention--“_you_ arrived, and _we_ knew nothing of
it!”
It was plain Rupert had said nothing of having seen me, or of our
interview in the street. He seemed a little ashamed, and leaned forward
to say--
“I declare I forgot to mention, Lucy, that I met Captain Wallingford as
I was going to join the Colonel and Miss Merton. Oh! we have had a long
talk together, and it will save you a history of past events.”
“I may, nevertheless, say,” I rejoined, “how happy I am to see Miss
Hardinge looking so well, and to be able to pay my compliments to my old
passengers.”
Of course I shook hands with the Major and Emily, bowed to Drewett, was
named to his mother, and was invited to enter the box, as it was not
quite in rule to be conversing between the pit and the front rows. I
forgot my prudent resolutions, and was behind Lucy in three minutes.
Andrew Drewett had the civility to offer me his place, though it was
with an air that said plain enough “what do _I_ care for _him_--he is
a ship-master, and I am a man of fashion and fortune, and can resume my
seat at any moment, while the poor fellow can only catch his chances, as
he occasionally _comes into port_.” At least, I fancied his manner said
something like this.
“Thank you, Mr. Drewett,” said Lucy, in her sweetest manner. “Mr.
Wallingford and I are very, _very_ old friends,--you know he is Grace's
brother, and you have been at Clawbonny”--Drewett bowed, civilly
enough--“and I have a thousand things to say to him. So, Miles, take
this seat, and let me hear all about your voyage.”
As half the audience went away as soon as the tragedy ended, the second
seat of the box was vacated, and the other gentlemen getting on it, to
stretch their limbs, I had abundance of room to sit at Lucy's side,
half facing her, at the same time. As she insisted on hearing my story,
before we proceeded to anything else, I was obliged to gratify her.
“By the way, Major Merton,” I cried, as the tale was closed, “an old
friend of yours, Moses Marble by name, has come to life again, and is at
this moment in New York.”
I then related the manner in which I had fallen in with my old mate.
This was a most unfortunate self-interruption for me, giving the Major
a fair opportunity for cutting into the conversation. The orchestra,
moreover, giving notice that the curtain would soon rise for the
after-piece, the old gentleman soon got me into the lobby to hear the
particulars. I was supremely vexed, and I thought Lucy appeared sorry;
but there was no help for it, and then we could not converse while the
piece was going on.
“I suppose you care little for this silly farce,” observed the Major,
looking in at one of the windows, after I had gone over Marble's affair
in detail. “If not, we will continue our walk, and wait for the ladies
to come out. Drewett and Hardinge will take good care of them.”
I assented, and we continued to walk the lobby till the end of the act.
Major Merton was always gentleman-like; and he even behaved to me, as
if he remembered the many obligations he was under. He now communicated
several little facts connected with his own circumstances, alluding
to the probability of his remaining in America a few years. Our chat
continued some time, my looks frequently turning towards the door of the
box, when my companion suddenly observed--
“Your old acquaintances the Hardinges have had a lucky wind-fall--one, I
fancy, they hardly expected, a few years Since.”
“Probably not; though the estate has fallen into excellent hands,” I
answered. “I am surprised, however, that Mrs. Bradfort did not leave
the property to the old gentleman, as it once belonged to their common
grandfather, and he properly stood next in succession.”
“I fancy she thought the good parson would not know what to do with it.
Now, Rupert Hardinge is clever, and spirited, and in a way to make a
figure in the world; and it is probably in better hands, than if it had
been left first to the old gentleman.”
“The old gentleman has been a faithful steward to me, and I doubt not
would have proved equally so to his own children. But, does Rupert get
_all_ Mrs. Bradfort's property?”
“I believe not; there is some sort of a trust, I have heard him say; and
I rather fancy that his sister has some direct or reversionary interest.
Perhaps she is named as the heir, if he die without issue. There _was_ a
silly story, that Mrs. Bradfort had left everything to Lucy; but I
have, it from the best authority, that _that_ is not true--” The idea of
Rupert Hardinge's being the “best authority” for any thing; a fellow
who never knew what unadulterated truth was, from the time he was in
petticoats, or could talk!--“As I _know_ there is a trust, though one of
no great moment; I presume Lucy has some contingent interest, subject,
most probably, to her marrying with her brother's approbation, or some
such provision. The old lady was sagacious, and no doubt did all that
was necessary.”
It is wonderful how people daily deceive themselves on the subject
of property; those who care the most about it, appearing to make the
greatest blunders. In the way of bequests, in particular, the lies that
are told are marvellous. It is now many years since I learned to take
no heed of rumours on such subjects, and least of all, rumours that come
from the class of the money-gripers. Such people refer everything to
dollars, and seldom converse a minute without using the word. Here,
however, was Major Merton evidently Rupert's dupe; though with what
probable consequences, it was not in my power to foresee. It was clearly
not my business to undeceive him; and the conversation, getting to be
embarrassing, I was not sorry to hear the movement which announced the
end of the act. At the box door, to my great regret, we met Mrs. Drewett
retiring, the ladies finding the farce dull, and not worth the time lost
in listening to it. Rupert gave me an uneasy glance, and he even dragged
me aside to whisper--“Miles, what I told you this evening, is strictly a
family secret, and was entrusted to a friend.”
“I have nothing to do with your private concerns, Rupert--” I
answered,--“only, let me expect you to act honourably, especially when
women are concerned.”
“Everything will come right, depend on it; the truth will set everything
right, and all will come out, just as I predicted.”
I saw Lucy looking anxiously around, while Drewett had gone to order the
carriages to advance, and I hoped it might be for me. In a moment I was
by her side; at the next, Mr. Andrew Drewett offered his arm, saying,
her carriage “stopped the way.” We moved into the outer lobby, in a
body, and then it was found that Mrs. Drewett's carriage was up first,
while Lucy's was in the rear. Yes, Lucy's carriage!--the dear girl
having come into immediate possession of her relative's houses,
furniture, horses, carriages, and everything else, without reserve, just
as they had been left behind by the last incumbent, when she departed
from the scene of life, to lie down in the grave. Mrs. Bradfort's arms
were still on the chariot, I observed, its owner refusing all Rupert's
solicitations to supplant them by those of Hardinge. The latter took his
revenge, however, by telling everybody how generous he was in keeping a
carriage for his sister.
The Major handed Mrs. Drewett in, and her son was compelled to say good
night, to see his mother home. This gave me one blessed minute with
Lucy, by herself. She spoke of Grace; said they had now been separated
months, longer than they ever had been before in their lives, and that
all her own persuasions could not induce my sister to rejoin her
in town, while her own wish to visit Clawbonny had been constantly
disappointed, Rupert insisting that her presence was necessary, for so
many arrangements about business.
“Grace is not as humble as I was, in old times, Miles,” said the dear
girl, looking me in the face, half sadly, half reproachfully, the light
of the lamp falling full on her tearful, tender eyes, “and I hope you
are not about to imitate her bad example. She wishes us to know she has
Clawbonny for a home, but I never hesitated to admit how poor we were,
while you alone were rich.”
“God bless you, Lucy!” I whispered, squeezing her hand with fervour--“It
cannot be _that_--have you heard anything of Grace's health?”
“Oh! she is well, I know--Rupert tells me _that_, and her letters are
cheerful and kind as ever, without a word of complaint. But I _must_
see her soon. Grace Wallingford and Lucy Hardinge were not born to live
asunder. Here is the carriage; I shall see you in the morning, Miles--at
breakfast, say--eight o'clock, precisely.”
“It will be impossible--I sail for Clawbonny with the first of the
flood, and that will make at four. I shall sleep in the sloop.”
Major Merton put Lucy into the carriage; the good-nights were passed,
and I was left standing on the lowest step of the building gazing after
the carriage, Rupert walking swiftly away.