"Our last ride--can it be!" said Lynn, when the horses were brought
to the gate, early in a September afternoon. Ida smiled faintly. The
parting of the morrow, was, to her, the death of a summer's day, to
be succeeded by wintry darkness. Not even Carry knew how the prospect
oppressed her.
Lynn saw that his remark was injudicious, and endeavoured to atone
for it, by the most delicate assiduity of attention. Their liking had
matured into an attachment, which might have been predicated upon their
consonance of feeling and sentiment. Her calmer judgment gave her the
ascendancy, which belonged of right, to the masculine mind; he did not
look up--she could not have respected him if he had; but he consulted
and appealed to her, as a brother would ask counsel of an elder sister.
She learned to imitate Charley, in curbing his impetuosity; and he
chafed less at her soft touch upon the rein. No bantering checked the
growth of their friendship; they were, for the time, members of one
family; Lynn and Charley were no more to the disengaged young lady than
Arthur.
Their excursion was to a splendid mansion, fifteen miles from
Poplar-grove, lately completed, and not yet occupied by a wealthy
landed proprietor, the Croesus of the county. Arthur had seen it, and
carried home such a report of its stately grandeur, that a visit was
forthwith projected. Nature was in one of her richest autumnal moods.
"She dies, as a queen should--in royal robes,"--said Lynn. "Note the
purple haze upon those hills, and the yellow glory that bathes the
foreground! I would sacrifice this right arm, could I first transfer
that light to canvass. Loveliness like this maddens me with a Tantalus
frenzy. To think that it must fade, when it should be immortal! I would
have it ever before me."
"It lives in your memory. That is a pleasure, time nor distance
diminishes."
"I am not satisfied with this selfish hoarding. A voice is ever urging
me on,--'Create! create!' it cries; and while my pencil moves, I am a
creator; exulting in the pictures graven upon my soul, as no parent
ever joyed over a beloved child. 'They are mine--mine!' I repeat in
an ecstacy. I have wept above--almost worshipped them! Then comes the
chill, grey light of critical reason, as when you awake at morning, and
see things as they _are_: the soul-pictures are beauteous still:--my
copy the veriest daub!"
"The keenness of your disappointment is an augury of success. The
lithography is perfect--you must not despond at the failure of one
proof-impression. Your mortification is a greater triumph than the
complacency with which a mediocre genius surveys his work."
"You remember Sheridan's maiden speech," said Charley.
"I have read of Demosthenes'," replied Lynn.
"Sheridan's was a similar case. He was hooted at for his presumption;
his first and second attempts were wretched: and his friends advised
him to retire from the rostrum forever. 'Never!' said he, striking his
breast. 'It is _here_, and shall come out!'"
"A glorious 'coming out' it was!" responded Ida. "What do you say
now?"--to Lynn.
"That it is _here_!" returning her bright look. "Was ever man more
blessed in his friends? More fortunate than Adam, I take my guardian
angels with me, from the Paradise I leave to-morrow."
"You must array one in a less questionable shape, if you would have men
admit his angelic relationship," said Charley, with a grimace. "What
are you looking at?"
Lynn did not reply. They were upon a hill; and some object in the
valley beneath fastened his gaze. The pensive cast of his features
bordered upon gloom, as they neared it. Ida saw only a graceful
knoll, bounded, except towards the west, by a chain of more imposing
eminences. A monarch oak stood in isolated sovereignty upon its
summit; it had shaded a dwelling, for one chimney yet remained; and
the sickly herbage of the slope was not the produce of a virgin soil.
Lynn stopped. Not a word was spoken, his eyes were too full of tender
sadness; the man--not the artist, looked from them.
"A lonely tree, and a desolate hearth-stone!" muttered he. "It is
prophetic!"
"Is the spot known to you?" asked Ida, gently, as they rode on.
"It was my birth-place."
"I had forgotten;" said Charley. "You were very young when you left it."
"But I remember it. I could point out to you the very place where my
mother taught me to walk;--a grass-plat before the door:--she upon
the step, my father kneeling at a short distance, and each tempting
me to undertake the journey from one to the other. They are gone!
parents, brother, sisters! there is but one puny scion of a noble line
remaining!"
Ida turned her face away. The sad story everywhere! Was there
justice--there was _not_ mercy--in thus rending away the sweetest
comforts man can know,--while avarice, and pride and malevolence rioted
in unharmed luxuriance. Earth was a cheat, and happiness a lie!
"This is a fine piece of road," said Charley, "and we are jogging over
it, like Quakers going to market. I say! Art.!"
"Well!" answered his brother, who was some yards in advance.
"Don't you think your Rosinante would be benefitted by a taste of the
spur?"
Oh! the delight of a sweeping gallop in the open country! the elate
consciousness of strength and liberty, as the magnificent animal
beneath you exerts every thew and sinew in obedience to your voice and
hand; you and he together forming one resistless power, free as the
rushing air--able to overleap or bear down any obstacle! The jocund
tones wafted back by the breeze attested the efficacy of Charley's
prescription.
"That bend hides 'the Castle;'" called out Arthur.
"I will be the first to see it!" exclaimed Carry, and as the turning
was gained, she raised herself from the saddle. It was an unguarded
moment;--the horse circled the bend in a run; and she was thrown
directly in the road of the trampling hoofs behind. Charley's horse
fell back upon his haunches;--there was giant might in the hand that
reined him;--an inch nearer, and she was lost! for his fore-feet grazed
her shoulder.
"My dearest love!" cried the agitated Arthur, raising her in his arms.
"Thank God! you are not killed!"
"I am not hurt, dear Arthur! you are all so frightened! it was very
careless in me. Indeed I do not require support--I am not injured in
the least!"
"Are you sure?" questioned Ida, anxiously: "or do you say it for our
sakes?"
"I was never more free from pain. And I am able and ready to go on!"
"You were her saviour!" Arthur griped his brother's hand, with a
trembling lip.
"No thanks! I would not run down a cow or sheep if I could help it."
Arthur's even temper was tried by this speech, and the more, that it
wounded Carry.
"Coarse! unfeeling!" thought Ida. She grudged him the eloquent
affection of Lynn's glance. "I do not care to go further;" said she,
when Carry was reseated.
"What! turn back within sight of the Promised Land?" said Carry. "Do
not cause me to feel that I have spoiled your afternoon's pleasure!
Oscar and I will not part company again so unceremoniously,--will we,
old fellow? Allons!" and she shook the reins gaily. The rest followed
with reluctance, and for awhile, very soberly. The thought of what
might have been the result of the accident, she treated so lightly,
precluded jest, and they would not speak of it seriously. By tacit
consent, it was not referred to again. Lynn recovered himself first;
he forgot everything but the fair domain they were entering; and his
raptures awakened the others to its attractions. The house was a
princely pile, rearing its towers from the midst of a finely-wooded
park. The architecture was Gothic, and perfect in all its parts, even
to the stained windows, imported, at an immense expense, from abroad.
A village at the base of the hill, was peopled by the negroes, of
whom there were more than an hundred connected with the plantation.
The equestrians rode up the single street. Good humour and neatness
characterised the simple inhabitants; children drew to one side of the
road, with smiles and courtesies; the aged raised their bleared eyes,
to reply to the respectful salutations of the young riders; through
the open doors were seen clean, comfortably-furnished rooms;--in most,
the tables were spread for the evening meal, and the busy housewives
preparing for their husband's return from field or forest.
"These are thy down-trodden children, O Africa!" said Ida,
sarcastically.
Lynn fired up. "They are the happiest beings upon the globe."
"So far as animal wants are concerned," subjoined Arthur.
"I do not accept of that clause. They are happy! They have a kind and
generous master; every comfort in health; good nursing when ill; their
church and Bible, and their Saviour, who is also ours. What the race
may become, I do not pretend to say. These are far in advance of the
original stock; but their intellectual appetite is dull, and I dare
affirm that in nine cases out of ten it is satisfied. I never knew a
master who denied his servants permission to read, and many have them
taught by their own children. The slave lies down at night, every want
supplied, his family as well cared for as himself; not a thought of
to-morrow! he is secure of a home and maintenance, without disturbing
himself as to the manner in which it is to be obtained. Can the same be
said of the menial classes in any other country under the sun?"
"American as ever!" smiled Carry.
"And Virginian as ever! The Old Dominion is my mother! he is not a
loyal son who does not prefer her, with her infirmities and foibles, to
a dozen of the modern 'fast' belle states. The dear old creature has a
wrinkle or two that do not improve her comeliness, and adheres somewhat
pertinaciously to certain obsolete ideas, but Heaven bless her! the
heart is right and sound!"
Ida's eyes sparkled--
"'Where is the coward would not dare
To die for such a land!'
Is not this scenery English, Mr. Holmes? We seldom see so large a
tract, under as high cultivation, in this quarter of the globe; and
where will we find another palace and park like that?"
"Mr. Clinton intends to stock the park with deer," said Arthur. "That
will bring before you yet more vividly the 'Homes of Merry England.'"
"If an English landscape, it is an Italian light that gilds it,"
replied Lynn. "The highlands upon the other side of the river are
Scottish; and the tropical growth of the tobacco fields would not be
out of place under the Equator."
"Shocking your gleanings, then, you return to what Charley calls 'the
original proposition,' and pronounce it American scenery," concluded
Arthur.
"Precisely. One need not go abroad in quest of natural beauties. The
fairest are culled for his native land."
"What a romantic creek! that _is_ English!" exclaimed Ida. "I have G.
P. R. James for authority; a rocky ford; a steep bank on either side;
tangled undergrowth--and actually, a rustic foot-bridge! Oh! for the
solitary horseman!"
"There he is!" ejaculated Charley, and from the hazel-boughs emerged an
old negro, mounted upon a shaggy donkey, a bag of corn behind him.
"There is but a step, etc.," said Ida, despairingly. "It is my fate
always to take it."
With a hearty laugh, they wheeled their horses. Charley and Ida had the
lead. Exhilarated by exercise and the scenes through which they had
passed, and accustomed to chat familiarly with him, she ran on for some
time without remarking that she received monosyllabic replies.
"You are tired," she observed.
"Not at all."
"Out of humor, then?"
"Do I look so?"
"Not when you smile; but you are not making yourself agreeable."
"I did not know that I had ever succeeded in doing so."
"What! when Mr. Holmes says you are the only man who is never
otherwise!"
"He is partial. You can teach him better."
"The intimacy between you two mystifies me more and more. He is all
fire and impulse; you--"
"A galvanised icicle! Do I freeze you!"
"No. That is most wonderful of all. I am not afraid of you--although I
have a cowardly horror of being laughed at."
"A 'horror' you should overcome; it proceeds from vanity. Like most of
us, you are not apt to do or say things which you consider particularly
silly; and are offended that the public sees them in that light. Lynn
is afflicted similarly, in a still greater degree. It will get him into
trouble yet."
"He is too independent to vacillate on account of ridicule," said Ida.
"Men style the peevish resentment such dispositions exhibit,
'_honor_,'" returned Charley, with a half bitter emphasis. "It is one
of the million misnomers with which they deceive themselves."
"Among the number I may place my mistaking conceit for sensibility?"
"And concealment of one's feelings for _in_sensibility," he added.
"You misunderstood me, Mr. Dana. I do not think you have a heart of
adamant--"
"But that I have _none_," he interrupted; his kind glance blunting the
edge of his words. "We shall understand each other better by and by.
You spoke of James a while ago; do you like him?"
"No. He has two defects which spoil everything he writes, at least to
me--verbosity and affectation."
"Not to mention self-plagiarism; but that is a common fault. When an
author has exhausted his capital, he had better suspend honorably
and wait until he has funds in hands to recommence operations, than
drag on, 'shinning it,' in mercantile phrase, until the reading world
dishonors his notes. Instead of this, James, and a score more of our
popular writers are palming off upon us, duplicates and re-duplicates
of their earliest productions. We encounter continually some old
acquaintance in a different attire, and under an 'alias.' Warmed-over
dinners are good enough in their place, but when we pay the same price,
we have a right to be dainty. Dickens, himself, is not free from this
charge."
"Oh! do not say so! I will not hear a word against him. He says much
that seems irrelevant, and occasionally a thing that is provokingly
absurd; but it is grand to see how, in the denouement, he catches up
these floating, apparently useless threads, and weaves them into the
fabric. He works with less waste than any light author of the day; all
is smooth and firm; no ragged edges or dropped stitches. And if his
charming creations are set before us more than once, they can well bear
a renewal of acquaintanceship."
"But not in a disguise which is less becoming than the dress in which
we first knew them. When we cry 'encore,' we ask for a repetition, not
an imitation--too often a burlesque."
"But," persisted Ida, warm in defence of her favorite Boz, "where shall
we discover new phases of human nature? The fault is that so many men
are copies of others; we must not censure the painter for lack of
originality, who writes above his sketches, 'taken from life.' Who ever
reads a new love story? and love is not the only passion which is the
same the world over."
Charley leaned forward to brush a fly from his horse's ear.
"Are there no peculiarities in your lot?" he inquired.
"Perhaps so," she replied, startled by the home-thrust.
"Your character is not the reflected image of another's; you have never
seen one who felt, thought, and acted exactly as you do; or who would
have been your prototype, had your outward circumstances been alike.
The Great Original is not a servile copyist."
The sun's rim was below the horizon, as they passed Lynn's birth-place;
but a parting ray shot through the western gap upon the knoll--the
solitary bright spot in the landscape. They went rapidly by; but Ida
was grateful that his recollection of it should be linked with that
fragrant eve, and gleaming farewell smile.
"It is singular that in our rides we should not have taken this road
before," said Charley. "It is, just here, a mere bridle path, but I
thought we had scoured the country."
"Did you know Mr. Holmes when he lived there?"
"No. He was fourteen years old when we met at school."
"The homestead is a pitiable wreck," continued Ida. "'A lonely tree and
a desolated hearth!' he said. Those mournful words will haunt me."
"His is a sad story. His parents died within a month of each
other--one by the hand of violence, the other of a broken heart. He had
lost a sister previously; a year later his brother went to sea, and
ship nor passengers reached the port. It is now three years since the
death of a younger sister, a lovely girl, of consumption. This train
of misfortunes hangs upon Lynn's mind and heart. He will have it that
he belongs to a doomed race. But for his warm social sympathies, and
devotion to his art, the superstition would become a monomania."
"You say his father died by violence; was he murdered?"
"In cold blood."
"Horrible! And the assassin?"
"Walks the earth, an _honourable_ man! The sword of justice has no
point for the duellist."
"This heathenish practice is a disgraceful stain upon the escutcheon
of our State," said Ida. "The laws are not in fault; popular prejudice
does not sustain them."
"If they would make me autocrat for one year I would pledge myself to
abolish this system of double murdering," returned he.
"How?"
"Hang the survivor--"
"What naughty words are you saying?" questioned Lynn, from Ida's elbow.
"A slip of the tongue, which Miss Ida would not have noticed, but
for your officiousness," answered Charley. "Did I tell you of Art.'s
professional call last night? We were awakened by an uproarious
hallooing at the gate.
"'Who's there?' hailed Arthur.
"'O doctor! for massy's sake, come to see my old woman! she's
dyin'--I'm Jeemes Stiger--make haste--I reckon she's most done dead by
this time;' and the poor fellow blubbered out.
"'I'll be there in a minute,' said Art. 'Don't wait.'
"In three minutes and a half his horse's hoofs were clattering down
the road, as though Tam O'Shanter's witch were upon the crupper. I
had confidence in his skill, and did not doubt he would try whatever
could relieve 'Mrs. Jeemes Stiger,' but it was a ticklish case; the
entire contents of his saddle-bags could not rescue her from the jaws
of death, if he had indeed clamped her. I had resolved to postpone
compassion for the bereaved husband, to the morning, and was forgetting
everything in a doze, when the trampling of a horse aroused me. I threw
up the window. It was Art. in as hot haste as when he set out. 'What is
to pay?' said I, as he came in. 'Forgotten any thing--or is the woman
dead?'
"'Confound her!'
"I knew he must be pretty 'tall' to say that.
"'Never be a doctor, Charley.'
"'I wont, my dear boy; but what is the matter?'
"Why nothing--just nothing!' beginning to laugh. 'I galloped two
miles like a race-rider, and ran into the house, expecting a scene
of distress--perhaps of death. 'Mrs. Jeemes' was sitting up, rocking
herself back and forth. I felt her pulse and inquired her symptoms.'
"'You see,' stuttered Stiger, 'she's been sort o' poorly and droopy for
three weeks, and better. I've been 'lotting to go for you, but thought
maybe she mought be able to pick up after awhile. To-night I was so
hungry myself that I didn't notice her at supper. She was mighty poking
all the evenin', and jest now, she waked me. 'Jeemes,' says she, 'when
folks' appetites gives out, they dies--don't they?'
"'Yes, honey,' says I.
"'Then farewell,' says she; 'I'm a-goin'. I wouldn't say nothin' about
it at first, but I couldn't die without tellin' you I was a-departin'.'
"'O, Susan!' says I; 'how come you to think you are dyin'.
"'Jeemes,' says she, solemn as could be; 'I couldn't eat no supper,
'cept one herring and a pone of bread, and one cup of coffee.'
"'Doctor! you think she'll live 'till day? Oh! if I had a-gone for you
three weeks ago!'"[1]
[Footnote 1: Fact.]
"'When shall we all meet again?'"
said Lynn that night, at the hour for separation.
"At Christmas, probably--next summer, certainly," replied Arthur's
cheerful voice.
"We have been too happy together to hope for a repetition of the
pleasure," said Ida. "Two such summers would be more than falls to the
share of most mortals."
"If we never meet again in this life, we shall see each other somewhere
at the end of the turnpike," observed Charley.
Sad as were the feelings of the little company, they smiled at his tone
and action.
"Hush, Charley! I am petitioning Ida for a song," said Carry. "One of
your own, my dear. We like no other so well. Just one more, that I may
fancy I hear whenever I enter this room."
"A parting lay from our Improvisatrice," entreated Dr. Carleton.
Her voice was uncertain and low, but she sang the simple ballad with a
pathos, that brought the moisture to the eyes of more than one of her
auditors.
"Away with thoughts of sadness, love!
I will be gay to-night!
I would awhile indulge the hopes,
To-morrow's sun will blight.
Oh! once again, our favorite songs,
Together let us sing;
And thus forget the wailing strain
To-morrow's eve will bring.
Away with thoughts of sadness, love!
I must be gay to-night!
"Alas! 'tis vain! we who have loved
So long and well, must part!
The smile has faded from my cheek
The gladness from my heart.
And since at this, our sad farewell,
For months, perchance, for years,
We cannot join in blithesome lay,
Oh! let us mingle tears!
Away with thoughts of gladness, love!
For I must weep to-night!"