“Wherever sorrow is, relief would be;
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.”
_As You Like It._
I saw but little of Grace, during the early part of the succeeding day.
She had uniformly breakfasted in her own room, of late, and, in the
short visit I paid her there, I found her composed, with an appearance
of renewed strength that encouraged me greatly, as to the future. Mr.
Hardinge insisted on rendering an account of his stewardship, that
morning, and I let the good divine have his own way; though, had he
asked me for a receipt in full, I would cheerfully have given it to him,
without examining a single item. There was a singular peculiarity about
Mr. Hardinge. No one could live less for the world generally; no one was
less qualified to superintend extensive worldly interests, that required
care, or thought; and no one would have been a more unsafe executor in
matters that were intricate or involved: still, in the mere business of
accounts, he was as methodical and exact, as the most faithful banker.
Rigidly honest, and with a strict regard for the rights of others,
living moreover on a mere pittance, for the greater part of his life,
this conscientious divine never contracted a debt he could not pay. What
rendered this caution more worthy of remark, was the fact that he had a
spendthrift son; but, even Rupert could never lure him into any weakness
of this sort. I question if his actual cash receipts, independently of
the profits of his little glebe, exceeded $300 in any one year; yet,
he and his children were ever well-dressed, and I knew from observation
that his table was always sufficiently supplied. He got a few presents
occasionally, from his parishioners, it is true; but they did not
amount to any sum of moment. It was method, and a determination not to
anticipate his income, that placed him so much above the world, while he
had a family to support; whereas, now that Mrs. Bradfort's fortune was
in the possession of his children, he assured me he felt himself quite
rich, though he scrupulously refused to appropriate one dollar of the
handsome income that passed through his hands as executor, to his own
uses. It was all Lucy's, who was entitled to receive this income even
in her minority, and to her he paid every cent, quarterly; the sister
providing for Rupert's ample wants.
Of course, I found everything exact to a farthing; the necessary papers
were signed, the power of attorney was cancelled, and I entered fully
into the possession of my own. An unexpected rise in the value of flour
had raised my shore receipts that year to the handsome sum of nine
thousand dollars. This was not properly income, however, but profits,
principally obtained through the labour of the mill. By putting all my
loose cash together, I found I could command fully $30,000, in addition
to the price of the ship. This sum was making me a man quite at my ease,
and, properly managed, it opened a way to wealth. How gladly would I
have given every cent of it, to see Grace as healthy and happy as she
was when I left her at Mrs. Bradfort's, to sail in the Crisis!
After settling the figures, Mr. Hardinge and I mounted our horses, and
rode over the property to take a look at the state of the farm. Our
road took us near the little rectory and the glebe; and, here, the
simple-minded divine broke out into ecstasies on the subject of the
beauties of his own residence, and the delight with which he should now
return to his ancient abode. He loved Clawbonny no less than formerly,
but he loved the rectory more.
“I was born in that humble, snug, quiet old stone cottage, Miles,” he
said, “and there I lived for years a happy husband and father, and I
hope I may say a faithful shepherd of my little flock. St. Michael's,
Clawbonny, is not Trinity, New York, but it may prove, on a small scale
as to numbers, as fitting a nursery of saints. What humble and devout
Christians have I known to kneel at its little altar, Miles, among whom
your mother, and your venerable old grandmother, were two of the best.
I hope the day is not distant when I shall meet there another Mrs. Miles
Wallingford. Marry young, my boy; early marriages prove happier than
late, where there are the means of subsistence.”
“You would not have me marry, until I can find a woman whom I shall
truly love, dear sir?”
“Heaven forbid! I would rather see you a bachelor to my dying day. But
America has enough females that a youth, like you, could, and indeed
ought to love. I could direct you to fifty, myself.”
“Well, sir, _your_ recommendations would have great weight with me. I
wish you would begin.”
“That I will, that I will, if you wish it, my dear boy. Well, there is
a Miss Hervey, Miss Kate Hervey, in town; a girl of excellent qualities,
and who would just suit you, could you agree.”
“I recollect the young lady; the greatest objection I should raise
to her, is a want of personal attractions. Of all Mrs. Bradfort's
acquaintances, I think she was among the very plainest.”
“What is beauty, Miles? In marriage, very different recommendations are
to be looked for by the husband.”
“Yet, I have understood you practised on another theory; Mrs. Hardinge,
even as I recollect her, was very handsome.”
“Yes, that is true,” answered the good divine, simply; “she was so; but
beauty is not to be considered as an _objection_. If you do not relish
the idea of Kate Hervey, what do you say to Jane Harwood--there is a
pretty girl for you.”
“A pretty girl, sir, but not for me. But, in naming so many young
ladies, why do you overlook your own daughter?”
I said this with a sort of desperate resolution, tempted by the
opportunity, and the direction the discourse had taken. When it was
uttered, I repented of my temerity, and almost trembled to hear the
answer.
“Lucy!” exclaimed Mr. Hardinge, turning suddenly to towards me, and
looking so intently and earnestly in my face, that I saw the possibility
of such a thing then struck him, for the first time. “Sure enough,
why should you not marry Lucy? There is not a particle of relationship
between you, after all, though I have so long considered you as brother
and sister. I wish we had thought of this earlier, Miles; it would be
a most capital connection--though I should insist on your quitting the
sea. Lucy has too affectionate a heart, to be always in distress for an
absent husband. I wonder the possibility of this thing did not strike
me, before it was too late; in a man so much accustomed to see what is
going on around me, to overlook this!”
The words “too late,” sounded to me like the doom of fate; and had my
simple-minded companion but the tithe of the observation which he so
much vaunted, he must have seen my agitation. I had advanced so far,
however, that I determined to learn the worst, whatever pain it might
cost me.
“I suppose, sir the very circumstance that we were brought up together
has prevented us all from regarding the thing as possible. But, why 'too
late,' my excellent guardian, if we who are the most interested in the
thing should happen to think otherwise?”
“Certainly not too late, if you include Lucy, herself, in your
conditions; but I am afraid, Miles, it is 'too late' for Lucy.”
“Am I to understand, then, that Miss Hardinge is engaged to Mr. Drewett?
Are her affections enlisted in his behalf?”
“You may be certain of one thing, boy, and that is, if Lucy be engaged,
her affections are enlisted--so conscientious a young woman would never
marry without giving her heart with her hand. As for the fact, however,
I know nothing, except by inference. I do suppose a mutual attachment to
exist between her and Andrew Drewett.”
“Of course with good reason, sir. Lucy is not a coquette, or a girl to
encourage when she does not mean to accept.”
“That's all I know of the matter. Drewett continues to visit; is
as attentive as a young man well can be, where a young woman is
as scrupulous as is Lucy about the proper forms, and I infer they
understand each other. I have thought of speaking to Lucy on the
subject, but I do not wish to influence her judgment, in a case where
there exists no objection. Drewett is every way a suitable match, and I
wish things to take their own course. There is one little circumstance,
however, that I can mention to you as a sort of son, Miles, and which I
consider conclusive as to the girl's inclinations--I have remarked that
she refuses all expedients to get her to be alone with Drewett--refuses
to make excursions in which she must be driven in his curricle, or to go
anywhere with him, even to the next door. So particular is she, that
she contrives never to be alone with him, even in his many visits to the
house.”
“And do you consider that as a proof of attachment?--of her being
engaged? Does your own experience, sir, confirm such a notion?”
“What else can it be, if it be not a consciousness of a passion--of an
attachment that she is afraid every one will see? You do not understand
the sex, I perceive, Miles, or the finesse of their natures would be
more apparent to you. As for my experience, no conclusion can be drawn
from that, as I and my dear wife were thrown together very young, all
alone, in her mother's country house; and the old lady being bed-ridden,
there was no opportunity for the bashful maiden to betray this
consciousness. But, if I understand human nature, such is the secret of
Lucy's feelings towards Andrew Drewett. It is of no great moment to you,
Miles, notwithstanding, as there are plenty more young women to be had
in the world.”
“True, sir; but there is only one Lucy Hardinge!” I rejoined with a
fervour and strength of utterance that betrayed more than I intended.
My late guardian actually stopped his horse this time, to look at me,
and I could perceive deep concern gathering around his usually serene
and placid brow. He began to penetrate my feelings, and I believe they
caused him real grief.
“I never could have dreamed of this!” Mr. Hardinge at length exclaimed:
“Do you really love Lucy, my dear Miles?”
“Better than I do my own life, sir--I almost worship the earth she
treads on--Love her with my whole heart, and have loved, I believe, if
the truth were known, ever since I was sixteen--perhaps I had better
say, twelve years old!”
The truth escaped me, as the torrent of the Mississippi breaks through
the levee, and a passage once open for its exit, it cleared a way for
itself, until the current of my feelings left no doubt of its direction.
I believe I was a little ashamed of my own weakness, for I caused my
horse to walk forward, Mr. Hardinge accompanying the movement, for
a considerable distance, in a profound, and, I doubt not, a painful
silence.
“This has taken me altogether by surprise, Miles,” my late guardian
resumed; “altogether by surprise. What would I not give could this have
been known a year or two since! My dear boy, I feel for you, from the
bottom of my heart, for I can understand what it must be to love a girl
like Lucy, without hope. Why did you not let this be known sooner--or,
why did you insist on going to sea, having so strong a motive for
remaining at home?”
“I was too young, at that time, sir, to act on, or even to understand
my own feelings. On my return, in the Crisis, I found Lucy in a set
superior to, that in which I was born and educated, and it would have
been a poor proof of my attachment to wish to bring her down nearer to
my own level.”
“I understand you, Miles, and can appreciate the generosity of your
conduct; though I am afraid it would have been too late on your return
in the Crisis. That was only a twelvemonth since, and, then, I rather
think, Andrew Drewett had offered. There is good sense in your feeling
on the subject of marriages in unequal conditions in life, for they
certainly lead to many heart-burnings, and greatly lessen the chances
of happiness. One thing is certain; in all such cases, if the inferior
cannot rise to the height of the superior, the superior must sink to the
level of the inferior. Man and wife cannot continue to occupy different
social positions; and, as for the nonsense that is uttered on such
subjects, by visionaries, under the claim of its being common sense, it
is only fit for pretending theories, and can have nothing to do with
the great rules of practice. You were right in principle, then, Miles,
though you have greatly exaggerated the facts of your own particular
case.”
“I have always known, sir, and have ever been ready to admit, that
the Hardinges have belonged to a different class of society, from that
filled by the Wallingfords.”
“This is true, but in part only; and by no means true to a degree that
need have drawn any impassable line between you and Lucy. You forget how
poor we then were, and bow substantial a benefit the care of Clawbonny
might have been to my dear girl. Besides, you are of reputable descent
and position, if not precisely of the gentry; and this is not a country,
or an age, to carry notions of such a nature beyond the strict bounds
of reason. You and Lucy were educated on the same level; and, after all,
that is the great essential for the marriage connection.”
There was great good sense in what Mr. Hardinge said; and I began to see
that pride, and not humility, might have interfered with my happiness.
As I firmly believed it was now too late, however, I began to wish
the subject changed; for I felt it grating on some of my most sacred
feelings. With a view to divert the conversation to another channel,
therefore, I remarked with some emphasis, affecting an indifference I
did not feel--
“What cannot be cured, must be endured, sir; and I shall endeavour to
find a sailor's happiness hereafter, in loving my ship. Besides, were
Andrew Drewett entirely out of the question, it is now 'too late,' in
another sense, since it would never do for the man who, himself at his
ease in the way of money, hesitated about offering when his mistress was
poor, to prove his love, by proposing to Mrs. Bradfort's heiress.
Still, I own to so much weakness as to wish to know, before we close
the subject for ever, why Mr. Drewett and your daughter do not marry, if
they are engaged? Perhaps it is owing only to Lucy's mourning?”
“I have myself imputed it to another cause. Rupert is entirely dependent
on his sister, and I know Lucy so well as to feel certain--some
extraordinary cause not interposing--that she wishes to bestow half her
cousin's fortune on her brother. This cannot be done until she is of
age, and she wants near two years of attaining her majority.”
I made no answer; for I felt how likely this was to be true. Lucy
was not a girl of professions, and she would be very apt to keep a
resolution of this nature, a secret in her own breast, until ready to
carry it into execution. No more passed between Mr. Hardinge and myself,
on the subject of our recent conversation; though I could see my
avowal had made him sad, and that it induced him to treat me with more
affection, even, than had been his practice. Once or twice, in the
course of the next day or two, I overheard him soliloquizing--a habit to
which he was a good deal addicted--during which he would murmur, “What a
pity!”--“How much to be regretted!”'--“I would rather have him for a son
than any man on earth!” and other similar expressions. Of course, these
involuntary disclosures did not weaken my regard for my late guardian.
About noon, the Grace & Lucy came in, and Neb reported that Dr. Bard was
not at home. He had left my letter, however, and it would be delivered
as soon as possible. He told me also that the wind had been favourable
on the river, and that the Wallingford must reach town that day.
Nothing further occurred, worthy of notice. I passed the afternoon with
Grace, in the little room; and we conversed much of the past, of our
parents in particular, without adverting, however, to her situation, any
further than to apprise her of what I had done. I thought she was not
sorry to learn I had sent for Lucy, now that I was with her, and it
was no longer possible her illness could be concealed. As for the
physicians, when they were mentioned, I could see a look of tender
concern in Grace's eyes, as if she regretted that I still clung to the
delusion of hoping to see her health restored. Notwithstanding these
little drawbacks, we passed a sweet eventide together. For more than an
hour, Grace lay on my bosom, occasionally patting her hand on my cheeks,
as the child caresses its mother. This was an old habit of hers, and it
was one I was equally delighted and pained to have her resume, now we
were of the age and stature of man and woman.
The next day was Sunday, and Grace insisted on my driving her to church.
This was done, accordingly, in a very old-fashioned, but very easy
Boston chaise, that had belonged to my mother, and with very careful
driving. The congregation, like the church-edifice of St. Michael's, was
very small, being confined, with some twenty or thirty exceptions, to
the family and dependants of Clawbonny. Mr. Hardinge's little flock was
hedged in by other denominations on every side, and it was not an easy
matter to break through the barriers that surrounded it. Then he was not
possessed with the spirit of proselytism, contenting himself with aiding
in the spiritual advancement of those whom Providence had consigned
to his care. On the present occasion, however, the little building was
full, and that was as much as could have happened had it been as large
as St. Peter's itself. The prayers were devoutly and fervently read, and
the sermon was plain and filled with piety.
My sister professed herself in no manner wearied with the exertion.
We dined with Mr. Hardinge, at the Rectory, which was quite near the
church; and the irreverent, business-like, make-weight sort of look, of
going in to one service almost as soon as the other was ended, as if
to score off so much preaching and praying as available at the least
trouble, being avoided, by having the evening service commence late, she
was enabled to remain until the close of the day. Mr. Hardinge rarely
preached but once of a Sunday. He considered the worship of God, and the
offices of the church, as the proper duties of the day, and regarded his
own wisdom as a matter of secondary importance. But one sermon cost him
as much labour, and study, and anxiety, as most clergymen's two. His
preaching, also, had the high qualification of being addressed to
the affections of his flock, and not to its fears and interests. He
constantly reminded us of God's _love_, and of the _beauty_ of holiness;
while I do not remember to have heard him allude half a dozen times in
his life to the terrors of judgment and punishment, except as they were
connected with that disappointed love. I suppose there are spirits that
require these allusions, and the temptations of future happiness,
to incite their feelings; but I like the preacher who is a Christian
because he feels himself _drawn_ to holiness, by a power that is of
itself holy; and not those who appeal to their people, as if heaven and
hell were a mere matter of preference and avoidance, on the ground of
expediency. I cannot better characterize Mr. Hardinge's preaching, than
by saying, that I do not remember ever to have left his church with a
sense of fear towards the Creator; though I have often been impressed
with a love that was as profound as the adoration that had been
awakened.
Another calm and comparatively happy evening was passed, during which I
conversed freely with Grace of my own intentions, endeavouring to revive
in her an interest in life, by renewing old impressions, and making her
participate in my feelings. Had I been with her from the hour spring
opened, with its renewal of vegetation, and all the joys it confers
on the innocent and happy, I have often thought since, I might have
succeeded. As it was, she listened with attention, and apparently with
pleasure, for she saw it served to relieve my mind. We did not separate
until I insisted Grace should retire, and Chloe had made more than one
remonstrance about her young mistress's exceeding the usual time. On
leaving my sister's chamber, the negress followed me with a light, lest
I should fall, among the intricate turnings, and the ups and downs of
the old building.
“Well, Chloe,” I said, as we proceeded together, “how do you find Neb?
Does he improve by this running about on the ocean--especially do you
think he is tanned?”
“De _fel_-ler!”
“Yes, he is a fellow, sure enough, and let me tell you, Chloe, a very
capital fellow, too. If it can be of any advantage to him in your favour
to know the truth, I will just say a more useful seaman does not sail
the ocean than Neb, and that I consider him as of much importance as the
main-mast?”
“What be _dat_, Masser Mile?”
“I see nothing, Chloe--there are no spooks at Clawbonny, you know.”
“No, sah! What b'e t'ing Neb like, _fel_-ler?”
“Oh! I ask your pardon--the main-mast, you mean. It is the most
important spar in the ship, and I meant that Neb was as useful as that
mast. In battle, too, Neb is as brave as a lion.”
Here Chloe could stand it no longer; she fairly laughed outright,
in pure, natural admiration of her suitor's qualities. When this was
performed, she ejaculated once more “De _feller_!”--dropped a curtsey,
said “Good night, Masser Mile,” and left me at my own door. Alas!
alas!--Among the improvements of this age, we have entirely lost
the breed of the careless, good-natured, affectionate, faithful,
hard-working, and yet happy blacks, of whom more or less were to be
found in every respectable and long-established family of the State,
forty years ago.
The next day was one of great anxiety to me. I rose early, and the first
thing was to ascertain the direction of the wind. In midsummer this was
apt to be southerly, and so it proved on that occasion. Neb was sent to
the point, as a look-out; he returned about ten, and reported a fleet
of sloops, in sight. These vessels were still a long distance down
the river, but they were advancing at a tolerable rate. Whether the
Wallingford were among them, or not, was more than could yet be told.
I sent him back to his station, as soon as he had eaten; and unable to
remain quiet in the house, myself, I mounted my horse, and rode out into
the fields. Here, as usual, I experienced the happiness of looking at
objects my ancestors loved to regard, and which always have had a strong
and near interest with me.
Perhaps no country that ever yet existed has been so little understood,
or so much misrepresented, as this America of ours. It is as little
understood, I was on the point of saying, at home as it is abroad, and
almost as much misrepresented. Certainly its possessors are a good
deal addicted to valuing themselves on distinctive advantages that, in
reality, they do not enjoy, while their enemies declaim about vices and
evils from which they are comparatively free. Facts are made to suit
theories, and thus it is that we see well-intentioned, and otherwise
respectable writers, constantly running into extravagances, in order to
adapt the circumstances to the supposed logical or moral inference.
This reasoning backwards, has caused Alison, with all his knowledge
and fair-mindedness, to fall into several egregious errors, as I have
discovered while recently reading his great work on Europe. He says we
are a migratory race, and that we do not love the sticks and stones that
surround us, but quit the paternal roof without regret, and consider
the play-grounds of infancy as only so much land for the market. He
also hazards the assertion, that there is not such a thing as a literal
farmer,--that is a tenant, who _farms_ his land from a landlord--in all
America. Now, as a rule, and comparing the habits of America with those
of older countries, in which land is not so abundant, this may be
true; but as literal fact, nothing can be less so. Four-fifths of the
inhabited portion of the American territory, has a civilized existence
of half a century's duration; and there has not been time to create the
long-lived attachments named, more especially in the regions that
are undergoing the moral fusion that is always an attendant of a new
settlement. That thousands of heartless speculators exist among us, who
do regard everything, even to the graves of their fathers, as only so
much improvable property, is as undeniable as the fact that they are
odious to all men of any moral feeling; but thousands and tens of
thousands are to be found in the country, who _do_ reverence their
family possessions from a sentiment that is creditable to human nature.
I will not mention Clawbonny, and its history, lest I might be suspected
of being partial; but it would be easy for me to point out a hundred
families, embracing all classes, from the great proprietor to the plain
yeoman, who own and reside on the estates of those who first received
them from the hand of nature, and this after one or two centuries of
possession. What will Mr. Alison say, for instance, of the Manor of
Rensselear? A manor, in the legal sense it is no longer, certainly,
the new institutions destroying all the feudal tenures; but, as mere
property, the late Patroon transmitted it as regularly to his posterity,
as any estate was ever transmitted in Europe. This extensive manor lies
in the heart of New York, a state about as large and about as populous
as Scotland, and it embraces no less than three cities in its bosom,
though their sites are not included in its ownership, having been
exempted by earlier grants. It is of more than two centuries' existence,
and it extends eight-and-forty miles east and west, and half that
distance, north and south. Nearly all this vast property is held, at
this hour, of the Van Rensselears, as landlords, and is farmed by their
tenants, there being several thousands of the latter. The same is true,
on a smaller scale, of the Livingston, the Van Cortlandt, the Philipse,
the Nicoll, and various other old New York estates, though several were
lost by attainder in the revolution. I explain these things, lest any
European who may happen to read this book, should regard it as fiction;
for, allowing for trifling differences, a hundred Clawbonnys are to be
found on the two banks of the Hudson, at this very hour.{*]
{Footnote *: Even the American may learn the following facts with some
surprise. It is now about five-and-twenty years since the writer, as
tenant by the courtesy, came into possession of two farms, lying within
twenty-three miles of New York, in each of which there had been three
generations of tenants, and as many of landlords, _without a scrap of a
pen having passed between the parties_, so far as the writer could ever
discover, receipts for rent excepted! He also stands in nearly the
same relation to another farm, in the same county, on which a lease for
ninety years is at this moment running, one of the covenants of which
prescribes that the tenant shall “frequent divine service _according to
the Church of England_, when opportunity offers.” What an evidence
of the nature of the tyranny from which our ancestors escaped, more
especially when it is seen that the tenant was obliged to submit to this
severe exaction, in consideration of a rent that is merely nominal!]
But, to return to the narrative.
My curiosity increased so much, as the day advanced, that I rode towards
the point to look for the sloop. There she was, sure enough; and there
was Neb, too, galloping a young horse, bare-back, to the house, with the
news. I met him with an order to proceed to the wharf with the chaise,
while I dashed on, in the same direction myself, almost devoured with an
impatience to learn the success of my different mission's as I galloped
along. I could see the upper part of the Wallingford's sails, gliding
through the leaves that fringed the bank, and it was apparent that she
and I would reach the wharf almost at the same instant. Notwithstanding
all my anxiety, it was impossible to get a glimpse of the vessel's deck.
I did not quit the saddle until the planks of the wharf were under the
horse's hoofs. Then I got a view of the sloop's decks, for the first
time. A respectable-looking, tall, slender, middle-aged man, with a
bright dark eye, was on the quarter-deck, and I bowed to him, inferring
at once that he was one of the medical gentlemen to whom I had sent the
message. In effect, it was Post, the second named on my list, the first
not being able to come. He returned my bow, but, before I could alight
and go on board to receive him, Marble's head rose from the cabin, and
my mate sprang ashore, and shook me cordially by the hand.
“Here I am, Miles, my boy,” cried Marble, whom, off duty, I had
earnestly begged to treat me with his old freedom, and who took me at my
word--“Here I am, Miles, my boy, and farther from salt-water than I have
been in five-and-twenty years. So this is the famous Clawbonny! I cannot
say much for the port, which is somewhat crowded while it contains but
one craft; though the river outside is pretty well, as rivers go. D'ye
know, lad, that I've been in a fever, all the way up, lest we should get
ashore, on one side or the other? your having land on both tacks at once
is too much of a good thing. This coming up to Clawbonny has put me in
mind of running them straits, though we _have_ had rather better weather
this passage, and a clearer horizon. What d'ye call that affair up
against the hill-side, yonder, with the jig-a-merree, that is turning in
the water?”
“That's a mill, my friend, and the jig-a-merree is the very wheel on
which you have heard me say my father was crushed.”
Marble looked sorrowfully at the wheel, squeezed my hand, as if to
express sorrow for having reminded me of so painful an event, and then
I heard him murmuring to himself--“Well, _I_ never had a father to lose.
No bloody mill _could_ do me _that_ injury.”
“That gentleman on the quarter-deck,” I remarked, “is a physician for
whom I sent to town, I suppose.”
“Ay, ay--he's some such matter, I do suppose; though I've been
generalizing so much about this here river, and the manner of sailing
a craft of that rig, I've had little to say to him. I'm always a better
friend to the cook than to the surgeon. But, Miles, my lad, there's a
rare 'un, in the ship's after-cabin, I can tell you!”
“That must be Lucy!”--and I did not stop to pay my compliments to the
strange gentleman, but almost leaped into the vessel's cabin.
There was Lucy, sure enough, attended by a respectable-looking elderly
black female, one of the half-dozen slaves that had become her's by
the death of Mrs. Bradfort. Neither spoke, but we shook hands with
frankness; and I understood by the anxious expression of my companion's
eye, all she wished to know.
“I really think she seems better, and certainly she is far more
cheerful, within his last day or two,” I answered to the appeal.
“Yesterday she was twice at church, and this morning, for a novelty, she
breakfasted with me.”
“God be praised!” Lucy exclaimed, with fervour. Then she sat down and
relieved her feelings in tears. I told her to expect me again, in a few
minutes, and joined the physician, who, by this time, was apprised of my
presence. The calm, considerate manner of Post, gave me a confidence I
had not felt for some days; and I really began to hope it might still be
within the power of his art to save the sister I so dearly loved.
Our dispositions for quitting the sloop were soon made, and we ascended
the hill together, Lucy leaning on my arm. On its summit was the
chaise, into which the Doctor and Marble were persuaded to enter, Lucy
preferring to walk. The negress was to proceed in the vehicle that had
been sent for the luggage, and Lucy and I set out, arm and arm, to walk
rather more than a mile in company, and that too without the presence of
a third person. Such an occurrence, under any other circumstances
than those in which we were both placed, would have made me one of the
happiest men on earth; but, in the actual situation in which I found
myself, it rendered me silent and uncomfortable. Not so with Lucy; ever
natural, and keeping truth incessantly before her eyes, the dear girl
took my arm without the least embarrassment, and showed no sign of
impatience, or of doubt. She was sad, but full of a gentle confidence in
her own sincerity and motives.
“This is dear Clawbonny, again!” she exclaimed, after we had walked in
silence a short distance. “How beautiful are the fields, how fresh the
woods, how sweet the flowers! Oh! Miles, a day in such a spot as this,
is worth a year in town!”
“Why, then, do you, who have now so much at your command, pass more than
half your time between the heated bricks of Wall Street, when you know
how happy we should all be to see you, here, among us, again?”
“I have not been certain of this; that has been the sole reason, of my
absence. Had I known I should be welcome, nothing would have induced me
to suffer Grace to pass the last six sad, sad, months by herself.”
“Known that you should be welcome! Surely you have not supposed, Lucy,
that _I_ can ever regard you as anything but welcome, here?”
“I had no allusion to _you_--thought not of you, Miles, at
all”--answered Lucy, with the quiet manner of one who felt she
was thinking, acting, and speaking no more than what was perfectly
right--“My mind was dwelling altogether on Grace.”
“Is it possible you could doubt of Grace's willingness to see you, at
all times and in all places, Lucy!”
“I have doubted it--have thought I was acting prudently and well, in
staying away, just at this time, though I now begin to fear the decision
has been hasty and unwise.”
“May I ask _why_ Lucy Hardinge has come to so singular and violent an
opinion, as connected with her bosom friend, and almost sister, Grace
Wallingford?”
“That _almost sister_! Oh! Miles, what is there I possess which I would
not give, that there might be perfect confidence, again, between you
and me, on this subject; such confidence as existed when we were boy and
girl-children, I might say.”
“And what prevents it? Certain I am the alienation does not, cannot come
from me. You have only to speak, Lucy, to have an attentive listener;
to ask, to receive the truest answers. What can, then, prevent the
confidence you wish?”
“There is _one_ obstacle--surely, Miles, you can readily imagine what I
mean?”
'Can it be possible Lucy is alluding to Andrew Drewett!'--I thought to
myself. 'Has she discovered my attachment, and does she, will she, can
she regret her own engagement?' A lover who thought thus, would not be
apt to leave the question long in doubt.
“Deal plainly with me, I implore of you, Lucy,” I said solemnly. “One
word uttered with your old sincerity and frankness may close a chasm
that has now been widening between us for the last year or two. What is
the obstacle you mean?”
“I have seen and felt the alienation to which you allude quite as
sensibly as you can have done so yourself, Miles,” the dear girl
answered in her natural, simple manner, “and I will trust all to your
generosity. Need I say more, to explain what I mean, than mention the
name of Rupert?”
“What of him, Lucy!--be explicit; vague allusions may be worse than
nothing.”
Lucy's little hand was on my arm, and she had drawn its glove on account
of the heat. I felt it press me, almost convulsively, as she added--“I
do, I _must_ think you have too much affection and gratitude for my dear
father, too much regard for me, ever to forget that you and Rupert once
lived together as brothers?”
“Grace has my promise already, on that subject. I shall never take the
world's course with Rupert, in this affair.”
I heard Lucy's involuntary sob, as if she gasped for breath; and,
turning, I saw her sweet eyes bent on my face with an expression of
thankfulness that could not be mistaken.
“I would have given the same pledge to you, Lucy, and purely on your
own account. It would be too much to cause you to mourn for your
brother's--”
I did not name the offence, lest my feelings should tempt me to use too
strong a term.
“This is all I ask--all I desire, Miles; bless you--bless you! for
having so freely given me this assurance. Now my heart is relieved from
this burthen, I am ready to speak frankly to you; still, had I seen
Grace--”
“Have no scruples on account of your regard for womanly feeling--I know
everything, and shall not attempt to conceal from you, that disappointed
love for Rupert has brought my sister to the state she is in. This might
not have happened, had either of us been with her; but, buried as she
has been alone in this place, her wounded sensibilities have proved too
strong for a frame that is so delicate.”
There was a pause of a minute, after I ended.
“I have long feared that some such calamity would befall us,” Lucy
answered, in a low, measured tone. “I think you do not understand Grace
as well as I do, Miles. Her mind and feelings have a stronger influence
than common over her body; and I fear no society of ours, or of others,
could have saved her this trial. Still, we must not despair, It is
a trial--that is just the word; and by means of tenderness, the most
sedulous care, good advice, and all that we two can do to aid, there
must yet be hope. Now there is a skilful physician here, he must be
dealt fairly by, and should know the whole.”
“I intended to consult you on this subject--one has such a reluctance to
expose Grace's most sacred feelings!”
“Surely it need not go quite as far as that,” returned Lucy, with
sensitive quickness, “something--_much_--must be left to conjecture; but
Dr. Post must know that the mind is at the bottom of the evil; though
I fear that young ladies can seldom admit the existence of such a
complaint, without having it attributed to a weakness of this nature.”
“That proceeds from the certainty that your sex has so much heart, Lucy;
your very existence being bound up in others.”
“Grace is one of peculiar strength of affections--but, Miles, we will
talk no further of this at present. I scarce know how to speak of my
brother's affairs, and you must give me time to reflect. Now we are at
Clawbonny again, we cannot long continue strangers to each other.”
This was said so sweetly, I could have knelt and kissed her shoe-ties;
and yet so simply, as not to induce misinterpretation. It served to
change the discourse, however, and the remainder of the way we talked
of the past. Lucy spoke of her cousin's death, relating various little
incidents to show how much Mrs. Bradfort was attached to her, and how
good a woman she was; but not a syllable was said of the will. I was
required, in my turn, to finish the narrative of my last voyage, which
had not been completed at the theatre. When Lucy learned that the
rough seaman who had come in the sloop was Marble, she manifested great
interest in him, declaring, had she known it during the passage, that
she would have introduced herself. All this time, Rupert's name was not
mentioned between us; and I reached the house, feeling that something
like the interest I had formerly possessed there, had been awakened in
the bosom of my companion. She was, at least, firmly and confidingly my
friend.
Chloe met Lucy at the door with a message--Miss Grace wanted to see
Miss Lucy, alone. I dreaded this interview, and looked forward to being
present at it; but Lucy begged me to confide in her, and I felt bound to
comply. While the dear girl was gone to my sister's room, I sought the
physician, with whom I had a brief but explicit conference. I told this
gentleman how much Grace had been alone, permitting sorrow to wear
upon her frame, and gave him to understand that the seat of my sister's
malady was mental suffering. Post was a cool, discriminating man, and
he ventured no remark until he had seen his patient; though I could
perceive, by the keen manner in which his piercing eye was fixed on
mine, that all I said was fully noted.
It was more than an hour before Lucy reappeared. It was obvious at a
glance that she had been dreadfully agitated, and cruelly surprised at
the condition in which she had found Grace. It was not that disease,
in any of its known forms, was so very apparent; but that my sister
resembled already a being of another world, in the beaming of her
countenance--in the bright, unearthly expression of her eyes--and in the
slightness and delicacy of the hold she seemed, generally, to have on
life. Grace had always something of this about her--_much_, I might
better have said; but it now appeared to be left nearly alone, as her
thoughts and strength gradually receded from the means of existence.
The physician returned with Lucy to my sister's room, where he passed
more than an hour; as long a time, indeed, he afterwards told me
himself, as he thought could be done without fatiguing his patient.
The advice he gave me was cautious and discreet. Certain tonics were
prescribed; we were told to endeavour to divert the mind of our precious
charge from her sources of uneasiness, by gentle means and prudent
expedients. Change of scene was advised also, could it be done without
producing too much fatigue. I suggested the Wallingford, as soon as this
project was mentioned. She was a small sloop, it is true, but had two
very comfortable cabins; my father having had one of them constructed
especially in reference to my mother's occasional visits to town. The
vessel did little, at that season of the year, besides transporting
flour to market, and bringing back wheat. In the autumn, she carried
wood, and the products of the neighbourhood. A holiday might be granted
her, and no harm come of it. Dr. Post approved the idea, saying frankly
there was no objection but the expense; if I could bear that, a better
plan could not possibly be adopted.
That night we discussed the matter in the family circle, Mr. Hardinge
having come from the Rectory to join us. Everybody approved of the
scheme, it was so much better than leaving: Grace to pine away by
herself in the solitude of Clawbonny.
“I have a patient at the Springs,” said Dr. Post, “who is very anxious
to see me; and, to own the truth, I am a little desirous of drinking the
waters myself, for a week. Carry me to Albany, and land me; after which
you can descend the river, and continue your voyage to as many places,
and for as long a time, as the strength of Miss Wallingford, and your
own inclinations, shall dictate.”
This project seemed excellent in all our eyes; even Grace heard it with
a smile, placing herself entirely in our hands. It was decided to put it
in practice.