"Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,
A word let fall touching your youthful passion
Suffused her cheek, called to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre."
I had no difficulty in putting my project of a private interview with
Grace, in execution in my own house. There was one room at Clawbonny,
that, from time immemorial, had been appropriated exclusively to the
use of the heads of the establishment; It was called the "family
room," as one would say "family-pictures" or "family--plate." In my
father's time, I could recollect that I never dreamed of entering it,
unless asked or ordered; and even then, I always did so with some such
feeling as I entered a church. What gave it a particular and
additional sanctity in out eyes, also, was the fact that the
Wallingford dead were always placed in their coffins, in this room,
and thence they were borne to their graves. It was a very small
triangular room, with the fire-place in one corner, and possessing but
a single window, that opened on a thicket of rose-bushes, ceringos,
and lilacs. There was also a light external fence around this
shrubbery, as if purposely to keep listeners at a distance. The
apartment had been furnished when the house was built, being in the
oldest part of the structures, and still retained its ancient
inmates. The chairs, tables, and, most of the other articles, had
actually been brought from England, by Miles the First, as we used to
call the emigrant; though, he was thus only in reference to the
Clawbonny dynasty, having been something like Miles the Twentieth, in
the old country. My mother had introduced a small settee, or some such
seat as the French would call a _causeuse;_ a most appropriate
article, in such a place.
In preparation for the interview I had slipped into Grace's hand a
piece of paper, on which was written "meet me in the family-room,
precisely at six!" This was sufficient; at the hour named, I proceeded
to the room, myself. The house of Clawbonny, in one sense, was large
for an American residence; that is to say, it covered a great deal of
ground, every one of the three owners who preceded me, having built;
the two last leaving entire the labours of the first. My turn had not
yet come, of course; but the reader knows already that I, most
irreverently, had once contemplated abandoning the place, for a "seat"
nearer the Hudson. In such a _suite_ of constructions, sundry
passages became necessary, and we had several more than was usual at
Clawbonny, besides having as many pairs of stairs. In consequence of
this ample provision of stairs, the chambers of the family were
totally separated from those of all the rest of the house.
I began to reflect seriously, on _what_ I had to say, and
_how_ it was to be said, as I walked through the long passage
which led to the "family-room," or the "triangle," as my own father
had nicknamed the spot. Grace and I had never yet held what might be
termed a family consultation; I was too young to think of such a
thing, when last at home, and no former occasion had offered since my
return. I was still quite young, and had more diffidence than might
have been expected in a sailor. To me, it was far more embarrassing to
open verbal communications of a delicate nature, than it would have
been to work a ship in action. But for this _mauvaise honte_, I
do think I should have been explicit with Lucy, and not have parted
from her on the piazza, as I did, leaving everything in just as much
doubt as it had been before a word passed between us. Then I
entertained a profound respect for Grace; something more than the
tenderness of a brother for a sister; for, mingled with my strong
affection for her, was a deference, a species of awe of her angel-like
character and purity, that made me far more disposed to receive advice
from her, than to bestow it. In the frame of mind which was natural
to all these blended feelings, I laid my hand on the old-fashioned
brass latch, by which the door of the "triangle" was closed. On
entering the room, I found my sister seated on the "causeuses," the
window open to admit air, the room looking snug but cheerful, and its
occupant's sweet countenance expressive of care, not altogether free
from curiosity. The last time I had been in that room, it was to look
on the pallid features of my mother's corpse, previously to closing
the coffin. All the recollections of that scene rushed upon our minds
at the same instant; and taking a place by the side of Grace, I put an
arm around her waist, drew her to me, and, receiving her head on my
bosom, she wept like a child. My tears could not be altogether
restrained, and several minutes passed in profound silence. No
explanations were needed; I knew what my sister thought and felt, and
she was equally at home as respects my sensations. At length we
regained our self-command, and Grace lifted her head.
"You have not been in this room since, brother?" she observed, half
inquiringly.
"I have not, sister. It is now many years--many for those who are as
young as ourselves."
"Miles, you will think better about that 'seat,' and never abandon
Clawbonny--never destroy this blessed room!"
"I begin to think and feel differently on the subject, from what I
once did. If this house were good enough for our forefathers, why is
it not good enough for me. It is respectable and comfortable, and what
more do I want?
"And so warm in winter, and so cool in summer; with good thick stone
walls; while everything they build now is a shingle palace! Besides,
you can add your portion, and each addition has already been a good
deal modernized. It is so pleasant to have a house that partakes of
the usages of different periods!"
"I hardly think I shall ever abandon Clawbonny, my dear; for I find it
growing more and more precious as other ties and expectations fail
me."
Grace drew herself entirely from my arms, and looked intently, and, as
I fancied, anxiously at me, from the other corner of the settee. Then
she affectionately took one of my hands, in both her own, and pressed
it gently.
"You are young to speak of such things, my dear brother," she said
with a tone and air of sadness, I had never yet remarked in her voice
and manner; "much too young for a man; though I fear we women are born
to know sorrow!"
I could not speak if I would, for I fancied Grace was about to make
some communications concerning Rupert. Notwithstanding the strong
affection that existed between my sister and myself, not a syllable
had ever been uttered by either, that bore directly on our respective
relations with Rupert and Lucy Hardinge. I had long been certain that
Rupert, who was never backward in professions, had years before spoken
explicitly to Grace, and I made no doubt they were engaged, though
probably subject to some such conditions as the approval of his father
and myself; approvals, that neither had any reason for supposing would
be withheld. Still, Grace had never intimated anything of the sort,
and my conclusions were drawn from conjectures founded as I imagined
on sufficient observation. On the other hand, I had never spoken to
Grace, of my love for Lucy. Until within the last month, indeed, when
jealousy and distrust came to quicken the sentiment, I was unconscious
myself with how much passion I did actually love the dear girl; for,
previously to that, my affection had seemed so much a matter of
course, was united with so much that was fraternal, in appearance at
least, that I had never been induced to enter into an inquiry as to
the nature of this regard. We were both, therefore, touching on
hallowed spots in our hearts, and each felt averse to laying bare the
weakness.
"Oh! you know how it is with life, Grace," I answered, with affected
carelessness, after a moment's silence; "now all sun-shine, and now
all clouds--I shall probably never marry, my dear sister, and you, or
your children, will inherit Clawbonny; then you can do as you please
with the house. As a memorial of myself, however, I will leave orders
for stone to be got out this fall, and, next year, I will put up the
south wing, of which we have so much talked, and add three or four
rooms in which one will not be ashamed to see his friends."
"I hope your are ashamed of nothing that is at Clawbonny, now,
Miles--as for your marrying, my dear brother, that remains to be seen;
young men do not often know their own minds on such a subject, at your
age."
This was said, not altogether without pleasantry, though there was a
shade of sadness in the countenance of the beloved speaker, that from
the bottom of my heart I wished were not there. I believe Grace
understood my concern, and that she shrunk with virgin sensitiveness
from touching further on the subject, for she soon added--
"Enough of this desponding talk. Why have you particularly desired to
see me, here, Miles?"
"Why? Oh! you know I am to sail next week, and we have never been
here--and, now we are both of an age to communicate our thoughts to
each other--I supposed--that is--there must be a beginning of all
things, and it is as well to commence now, as any other time. You do
not seem more than half a sister, in the company of strangers like the
Mertons, and Hardinges!"
"Strangers, Miles! How long have you regarded the last as strangers?"
"Certainly not strangers in the way of acquaintance, but strangers to
our blood. There is not the least connection between us and them."
"No, but much love; and love that has lasted from childhood. I cannot
remember the time when I have not loved Lucy Hardinge."
"Quite true--nor I. Lucy is an excellent girl, and one is almost
certain of always retaining a strong regard for _her_. How
singularly the prospects of the Hardinges are changed by this sudden
liking of Mrs. Bradfort!"
"It is not sudden, Miles. You have been absent years, and forget how
much time there has been to become intimate and attached. Mr. Hardinge
and Mrs. Bradfort are sister's children; and the fortune of the last,
which, I am told, exceeds six thousand a-year, in improving real
estate in town, besides the excellent and valuable house in which she
lives, came from their common grandfather, who cut off Mrs. Hardinge
with a small legacy, because she married a clergyman. Mr. Hardinge is
Mrs. Bradfort's heir-at-law, and it is by no means unnatural that she
should think of leaving the property to those who, in one sense, have
as good a right to it as she has herself."
"And is it supposed she will leave Rupert her heir?"
"I believe it is--at least--I think--I am afraid--Rupert himself
imagines it; though doubtless Lucy will come in for a fair share. The
affection of Mrs. Bradfort for Lucy is very strong--so strong, indeed,
that she offered, last winter, openly to adopt her, and to keep her
with her constantly. You know how true and warm-hearted a girl Lucy
is, and how easy it is to love her."
"This is all new to me--why was not the offer accepted?"
"Neither Mr. Hardinge nor Lucy would listen to it. I was present at
the interview in which it was discussed, and our excellent guardian
thanked his cousin for her kind intentions; but, in his simple way, he
declared, as long as life was spared him, he felt it a duty to keep
his girl; or, at least, until he committed her to the custody of a
husband, or death should part them."
"And Lucy?"
"She is much attached to Mrs. Bradfort, who is a good woman in the
main, though she has her weaknesses about the world, and society, and
such things. Lucy wept in her cousin's arms, but declared she never
could leave her father. I suppose you do not expect," added Grace,
smiling, "that _she_ had anything to say about a husband."
"And how did Mrs. Bradfort receive this joint declaration of
resistance to her pleasure, backed, as the last was, by dollars?"
"Perfectly well. The affair terminated by Mr. Hardinge's consenting to
Lucy's passing each winter in town, until she marry. Rupert, you know,
lives there as a student at law, at present, and will become
established there, when admitted to the bar."
"And I suppose the knowledge that Lucy is likely to inherit some of
the old Bleecker estate, has not in the least diminished her chance of
finding a husband to remove her from the paternal custody of her
father?"
"No husband could ever make Lucy anything but Mr. Hardinge's
daughter; but you are right, Miles, in supposing that she has been
sought. I am not in her secrets, for Lucy is a girl of too much
principle to make a parade of her conquests, even under the pretence
of communicating them to her dearest friend--and in that light, beyond
all question, does she regard me; but I feel as morally certain as one
can be, without actually knowing the facts, that Lucy refused
_one_ gentleman, winter before last, and three last winter."
"Was Mr. Andrew Drewett of the number?" I asked, with a precipitation
of which I was immediately ashamed.
Grace started a little at the vivacity of my manner, and then she
smiled, though I still thought sadly.
"Of course not," she answered, after a moment's thought, "or he would
not still be in attendance. Lucy is too frank to leave an admirer in
doubt an instant after his declaration is made, and her own mind made
up; and not one of all those who, I am persuaded, have offered, has
ever ventured to continue more than a distant acquaintance. As Mr.
Drewett never has been more assiduous than down to the last moment of
our remaining in town, it is impossible he should have been
rejected. I suppose you know Mr. Hardinge has invited him here?"
"Here? Andrew Drewett? And why is he coming here?"
"I heard him ask Mr. Hardinge's permission to visit us here; and you
know how it is with our dear, good guardian--the milk of human
kindness himself, and so perfectly guileless that he never sees more
than is said in such matters, it was impossible he could
refuse. Besides, he likes Drewett, who, apart from some fashionable
follies, is both clever and respectable. Mr. Drewett has a sister
married into one of the best families on the other side of the river,
and is in the habit of coming into the neighbourhood every summer;
doubtless he will cross from his sisters house to Clawbonny."
I felt indignant for just one minute, and then reason resumed its
sway. Mr. Hardinge, in the first place, had the written authority, or
request, of my mother that he would invite whom he pleased, during my
minority, to the house; and, on that score, I felt no disapprobation.
But it seemed so much like braving my own passion, to ask an open
admirer of Lucy's to my own house, that I was very near saying
something silly. Luckily I did not, and Grace never knew what I
suffered at this discovery. Lucy had refused several offers--that was
something; and I was dying to know what sort of offers they were. I
thought I might at least venture to ask that question.
"Did you know the four gentlemen that you suppose Lucy to have
refused?" said I, with as indifferent an air as I could assume,
affecting to destroy a cobweb with my rattan, and even carrying my
acting so far as to make an attempt at a low whistle.
"Certainly; how else should I know anything about it? Lucy has never
said a word to me on the subject; and, though Mrs. Bradfort and I have
had our pleasantries on the subject, neither of us is in Lucy's
secrets."
"Ay, your pleasantries on the subject! That I dare say. There is no
better fun to a woman than to see a man make a fool of himself in this
way; little does _she_ care how much a poor fellow suffers!"
Grace turned pale, and I could see that her sweet countenance became
thoughtful and repentant.
"Perhaps there is truth in your remark, and justice n your reproach,
Miles. None of us treat this subject with as much, seriousness as it
deserves, though I cannot suppose any woman can reject a man whom she
believes to be seriously attached to her, without feeling for
him. Still, attachments of this nature affect your sex less than ours,
and I believe few men die of love. Lucy, moreover, never has, and I
believe never would encourage any man whom she did not like; this
principle must have prevented any of that intimate connection, without
which the heart never can get much interested. The passion that is
produced without any exchange of sentiment or feeling, Miles, cannot
be much more than imagination or caprice."
"I suppose those four chaps are all famously cured, by this time,
then?" said I, pretending again to whistle.
"I cannot answer for that--it is so easy to love Lucy, and to love her
warmly. I only know they visit her no longer, and, when they meet her
in society, behave just as I think a rejected admirer would behave,
when he has not lost his respect for his late flame. Mrs. Bradfort's
fortune and position may have had their influence on two; but the
others I think were quite sincere."
"Mrs. Bradfort is quite in a high set, Grace--altogether above what we
have been accustomed to?"
My sister coloured a little, and I could see she was not at her
ease. Still, Grace had too much self-respect, and too much character,
ever to feel an oppressive inferiority, where it did not exist in
essentials; and she had never been made to suffer, as the more
frivolous and vain often suffer, by communications with a class
superior to their own; especially when that class, as always happens,
contains those who, having nothing else to be proud of, take care to
make others feel their inferiority.
"This is true, Miles," she answered; "or I might better say, both are
true. Certainly I never have seen as many well-bred persons as I meet
in her circle--indeed, we have little around us at Clawbonny to teach
us any distinctions in such tastes. Mr. Hardinge, simple as he is, is
so truly a gentleman, that he has not left us altogether in the dark
as to what was expected of us; and I fancy the higher people truly are
in the world, the less they lay stress on anything but what is
substantial, in these matters."
"And Lucy's admirers--and Lucy herself--"
"How, Lucy herself?"
"Was she well received--courted--admired? Met as an equal, and treated
as an equal? And you, too?"
"Had you lived more in the world, Miles, you would not have asked the
question. But Lucy has been always received as Mrs. Bradfort's
daughter would have been received; and as for myself, I have never
supposed it was not known exactly who I am."
"_Captain_ Miles Wallingford's daughter, and _Captain_ Miles
Wallingford's sister," said I, with a little bitterness on each
emphasis.
"Precisely; and a girl proud of her connections with both," rejoined
Grace, with strong affection.
"I wish I knew one thing, Grace; and I think I _ought_ to know
it, too."
"If you can make the last appear, Miles, you may rest assured you
shall know it, if it depend on me."
"Did any of these gentry--these soft-handed fellows--ever think of
offering to _you_?"
Grace laughed, and she coloured so deeply--oh! how heavenly was her
beauty, with that roseate tint on her cheek!--but she coloured so
deeply, that I felt satisfied that she, too, had refused her
suitors. The thought appeased some of my bitter feelings, and I had a
sort of semi-savage pleasure in believing that a daughter of Clawbonny
was not to be had for the asking, by one of that set. The only answers
I got were these disclosures by blushes.
"What are the fortune and position of this Mr. Drewett, since you are
resolved to tell me nothing of your own affairs?"
"Both are good, and such as no young lady can object to. He is even
said to be rich."
"Thank God! _He_ then is not seeking Lucy in the hope of getting
some of Mrs. Bradfort's money?"
"Not in the least. It is so easy to love Lucy, for Lucy's sake, that
even a fortune-hunter would be in danger of being caught in his own
trap. But Mr. Drewett is above the necessity of practising so vile a
scheme for making money."
Here, that the present generation may not be misled, and imagine
fortune-hunting has come in altogether within the last twenty years, I
will add that it was not exactly a trade, in this country--a regular
occupation--in 1802, as it has become, in 1844. There were such things
then, certainly, as men, or women, who were ready to marry anybody who
would make them rich; but I do not think theirs was a calling to which
either sex served regular apprenticeships, as is practised
to-day. Still, the business was carried on, to speak in the
vernacular, and sometimes with marked success.
"You have not told me, Grace," I resumed, "whether you think Lucy is
pleased, or not, with the attentions of this gentleman."
My sister looked at me intently, for a moment, as if to ascertain how
far I could, or could not, ask such a question with indifference. It
will be remembered that no verbal explanations had ever taken place
between us, on the subject of our feelings towards the companions of
our childhood, and that all that was known to either was obtained
purely by inference. Between myself and Lucy nothing had ever passed,
indeed, which might not have been honestly referred to our long and
early association, so far as the rules of intercourse were concerned,
though I sometimes fancied I could recall a hundred occasions, on
which Lucy had formerly manifested deep attachment for myself; nor did
I doubt her being able to show similar proofs, by reversing the
picture. This, however, was, or I had thought it to be, merely the
language of the heart; the tongue having never spoken. Of course,
Grace had nothing but conjecture on this subject, and alas! she had
begun to see how possible it was for those who lived near each other
to change their views on such subjects; no wonder, then, if she
fancied it still easier, for those who had been separated for years.
"I have not told you, Miles," Grace answered, after a brief delay,
"because it would not be proper to communicate the secrets of my
friend to a young man, even to you, were it in my power, as it is not,
since Lucy never has made to me the slightest confidential
communication, of any sort or nature, touching love."
"Never!" I exclaimed--reading my fancied doom in the startling fact;
for I conceived it impossible, had she ever really loved me, that the
matter should not have come up in conversation between two so closely
united--"Never! What, no girlish--no childish preference--have you
never had no mutual preferences to reveal?"
"Never"--answered Grace, firmly, though her very temples seemed
illuminated--"Never. We have been satisfied with each other's
affection, and have had no occasion to enter into any unfeminine and
improper secrets, if any such existed."
A long, and I doubt not a mutually painful pause succeeded.
"Grace," said I, at length--"I am not envious of this probable
accession of fortune to the Hardinges, but I think we should all have
been much more united--much happier--without it."
My sister's colour left her face, she trembled all over, and she
became pale as death.
"You may be right, in some respects, Miles," she answered, after a
time. "And, yet, it is hardly generous to think so. Why should we wish
to see our oldest friends; those who are so very dear to us, our
excellent guardian's children, less well off than we are ourselves?
No doubt, no doubt, it may seem better to _us_, that Clawbonny
should be the castle and we its possessors; but others have their
rights and interests as well as ourselves. Give the Hardinges money,
and they will enjoy every advantage known in this country--more than
money can possibly give us--why, then, ought we to be so selfish as to
wish them deprived of this advantage? Place Lucy where you will, she
will always be Lucy; and, as for Rupert, so brilliant a young man
needs only an opportunity, to rise to anything the country possesses!"
Grace was so earnest, spoke with so much feeling, appeared so
disinterested, so holy I had almost said, that I could not find, in my
heart, the courage to try her any farther. That she began to distrust
Rupert, I plainly saw, though it was merely with the glimmerings of
doubt. A nature as pure as her's, and a heart so true, admitted with
great reluctance, the proofs of the unworthiness of one so long
loved. It was evident, moreover, that she shrunk from revealing her
own great secret, while she had only conjectures to offer in regard to
Lucy; and even these she withheld, as due to her sex, and the
obligations of friendship. I forgot that I had not been ingenuous
myself, and that I made no communication to justify any confidence on
the part of my sister. That which would have been treachery in her to
say, under this state of the case, might have been uttered with
greater frankness on my own part. After a pause, to allow my sister to
recover from her agitation, I turned the discourse to our own more
immediate family interests, and soon got off the painful subject
altogether.
"I shall be of age, Grace." I said, in the course of my explanations,
"before you see me again. We sailors are always exposed to more
chances and hazards than people ashore; and, I now tell you, should
anything happen to me, my will may be found in my secretary; signed
and sealed, the day I attain my majority. I have given orders to have
it drawn up by a lawyer of eminence, and shall take it to sea with me,
for that very purpose."
"From which I am to infer that I must not covet Clawbonny," answered
Grace, with a smile that denoted how little she cared for the
fact--"You give it to our cousin, Jack Wallingford, as a male heir,
worthy of enjoying the honour."
"No, dearest, I give it to _you_. It is true, the law would do
this for me; but I choose to let it be known that I wish it to be
so. I am aware my father made that disposition of the place, should I
die childless, before I became of age; but, once of age, the place is
all mine; and that which is all mine, shall be all thine, after I am
no more."
"This is melancholy conversation, and, I trust, useless. Under the
circumstances you mention, Miles, I never should have expected
Clawbonny, nor do I know I ought to possess it. It comes as much from
Jack Wallingford's ancestors, as from our own; and it is better it
should remain with the name. I will not promise you, therefore, I will
not give it to him, the instant I can."
This Jack Wallingford, of whom I have not yet spoken, was a man of
five-and-forty, and a bachelor. He was a cousin-german of my father's,
being the son of a younger brother of my grandfather's, and somewhat
of a favourite. He had gone into what was called the new countries,
in that day, or a few miles west of Cayuga Bridge, which put him into
Western New York. I had never seen him but once and that was on a
visit he paid us on his return from selling quantities of pot and
pearl ashes in town; articles made oh his new lands. He was said to be
a prosperous man, and to stand little in need of the old paternal
property.
After a little more conversation on the subject of my will, Grace and
I separated, each more closely bound to the other, I firmly believed,
for this dialogue in the "family room." Never had my sister seemed
more worthy of all my love; and, certain I am, never did she possess
more of it. Of Clawbonny she was as sure, as my power over it could
make her.
The remainder of the week passed as weeks are apt to pass in the
country, and in summer. Feeling myself so often uncomfortable in the
society of the girls, I was much in the fields; always possessing the
good excuse of beginning to look after my own affairs. Mr. Hardinge
took charge of the Major, an intimacy beginning to spring up between
these two respectable old men. There were, indeed, so many points of
common feeling, that such a result was not at all surprising. They
both loved the church--I beg pardon, the Holy Catholic Protestant
Episcopal Church. They both disliked Bonaparte--the Major hated him,
but my guardian hated nobody--both venerated Billy Pitt, and both
fancied the French Revolution was merely the fulfilment of prophecy,
through the agency of the devils. As we are now touching upon times
likely to produce important results, let me not be misunderstood. As
an old man, aiming, in a new sphere, to keep enlightened the
generation that is coming into active life, it may be necessary to
explain. An attempt has been made to induce the country to think that
Episcopalian and tory were something like synonymous terms, in the
"times that tried men's souls." This is sufficiently impudent, _per
se_, in a country that possessed Washington, Jay, Hamilton, the
Lees, the Morrises, the late Bishop White, and so many other
distinguished patriots of the Southern and Middle States; but men are
not particularly scrupulous when there is an object to be obtained,
even though it be pretended that Heaven is an incident of that
object. I shall, therefore, confine my explanations to what I have
said about Billy Pitt and the French.
The youth of this day may deem it suspicious that an Episcopal
divine--_Protestant_ Episcopal, I mean; but it is so hard to get
the use of new terms as applied to old thoughts, in the decline of
life!--may deem it suspicious that a Protestant Episcopal divine
should care anything about Billy Pitt, or execrate Infidel France; I
will, therefore, just intimate that, in 1802, no portion of the
country dipped more deeply into similar sentiments than the
descendants of those who first put foot on the rock of Plymouth, and
whose progenitors had just before paid a visit to Geneva, where, it is
"said or sung," they had found a "church without a bishop, and a state
without a king." In a word, admiration of Mr. Pitt, and execration of
Bonaparte, were by no means such novelties in America, in that day, as
to excite wonder. For myself, however, I can truly say, that, like
most Americans who went abroad in those stirring times, I was ready to
say with Mercutio, "a plague on both your houses;" for neither was
even moderately honest, or even decently respectful to ourselves.
Party feeling, however, the most inexorable, and the most
unprincipled, of all tyrants, and the bane of American liberty,
notwithstanding all our boasting, decreed otherwise; and, while one
half the American republic was shouting hosannas to the Great
Corsican, the other half was ready to hail Pitt as the "Heaven-born
Minister." The remainder of the nation felt and acted as Americans
should. It was my own private opinion, that France and England would
have been far better off, had neither of these worthies ever had a
being.
Nevertheless, the union of opinion between the divine and the Major,
was a great bond of union, in friendship. I saw they were getting on
well together, and let things take their course. As for Emily, I cared
very little about her, except as she might prove to be connected with
Rupert, and through Rupert, with the happiness of my sister. As for
Rupert, himself, I could not get entirely weaned from one whom I had
so much loved in boyhood; and who, moreover, possessed the rare
advantage of being Lucy's brother, and Mr. Hardinge's son. "Sidney's
sister, Pembroke's mother," gave him a value in my eyes, that he had
long ceased to possess on his own account.
"You see, Neb," I said, towards the end of the week, as the black and
I were walking up from the mill in company, "Mr. Rupert has altogether
forgotten that he ever knew the name of a rope in a ship. His hands
are as white as a young lady's!"
"Nebber mind dat, Masser Mile. Masser Rupert nebber feel a
saterfaction to be wracked away, or to be prisoner to Injin! Golly! No
gentleum to be envy, sir, 'em doesn't enjoy _dat!_"
"You have a queer taste. Neb, from all which I conclude you expect to
return to town with me, in the Wallingford, this evening, and to go
out in the Dawn?"
"Sartain, Masser Mile! How you t'ink of goin' to sea and leave nigger
at home?"
Here Neb raised such a laugh that he might have been heard a hundred
rods, seeming to fancy the idea he had suggested was so preposterous
as to merit nothing but ridicule.
"Well, Neb, I consent to your wishes; but this will be the last voyage
in which you will have to consult me on the subject, as I shall make
out your freedom papers, the moment I am of age."
"What dem?" demanded the black, quick as lightning.
"Why, papers to make you your own master--a free man--you surely know
what that means. Did you never hear of free niggers?"
"Sartin--awful poor debble, dey be, too. You catch Neb, one day, at
being a free nigger, gib you leave to tell him of it, Masser Mile!"
Here was another burst of laughter, that sounded like a chorus in
merriment.
"This is a little extraordinary, Neb! I thought, boy, all slaves pined
for freedom?"
"P'rhaps so; p'rhaps not. What good he do, Masser Mile, when heart and
body well satisfy as it is. Now, how long a Wallingford family lib,
here, in dis berry spot?"--Neb always talked more like a "nigger,"
when within hearing of the household gods, than he did at sea.
"How long? About a hundred years, Neb--just one hundred and seven, I
believe; to be accurate."
"And how long a Clawbonny family, at 'e same time, Masser Mile?"
"Upon my word, Neb, your pedigree is a little confused, and I cannot
answer quite as certainly. Eighty or ninety, though, I should think,
at least; and, possibly a hundred, too. Let me see--you called old
Pompey your grand-father; did you not, Neb?"
"Sart'in--berry good grandfader, too, Masser Mile. Ole Pomp a
won'erful black!"
"Oh! I say nothing touching the quality--I dare say he was as good as
another. Well, I think that I have heard old Pompey's grandfather was
an imported Guinea, and that he was purchased by my great-grandfather
about the year 1700."
"Dat just as good as gospel! Who want to make up lie about poor debble
of nigger? Well, den, Masser Mile, in all dem 1700 year, did he ebber
hear of a Clawbonny that want to be a free nigger? Tell me dat, once,
an' I hab an answer."
"You have asked me more than I can answer, boy; for, I am not in the
secret of your own wishes, much less in those of all your ancestors."
Neb pulled off his tarpaulin, scratched his wool, rolled his black
eyes at me, as if he enjoyed the manner in which he had puzzled me;
after which he set off on a tumbling excursion, in the road, going
like a wheel on his hands and feet, showing his teeth like rows of
pearls, and concluding the whole with roar the third, that sounded as
if the hills and valleys were laughing, in the very fatness of their
fertility. The physical _tour de force,_ was one of those feats
of agility in which Neb had been my instructor, ten years before.
"S'pose I free, who do sich matter for you, Masser Mile?" cried Neb,
like one laying down an unanswerable proposition. "No, no, sir,--I
belong to you, you belong to me, and we belong to one anodder."
This settled the matter for the present, and I said no more. Neb was
ordered to be in readiness for the next day; and at the appointed
hour, I met the assembled party to take my leave, on this, my third
departure from the roof of my fathers. It had been settled the Major
and Emily were to remain at the farm until July, when they were to
proceed to the Springs, for the benefit of the water, after living so
long in a hot climate. I had passed an hour with my guardian alone,
and he had no more to say, than to wish me well, and to bestow his
blessing. I did not venture an offer to embrace Lucy. It was the first
time we had parted without this token of affection; but I was shy, and
I fancied she was cold. She offered me her hand, as frankly as ever,
however, and I pressed it fervently, as I wished her adieu. As for
Grace, she wept in my arms, just as she had always done, and the Major
and Emily shook hands cordially with me, it being understood I should
find them in New York, at my return. Rupert accompanied me down to the
sloop.
"If you should find an occasion, Miles, let us hear from you," said my
old friend. "I have a lively curiosity to learn something of the
Frenchmen; nor am I entirely without the hope of soon gratifying the
desire, in person."
"You!--If you have any intention to visit France, what better
opportunity, than to go in my cabin? Is it business, that will take
you there?"
"Not at all; pure pleasure. Our excellent cousin thinks a gentleman of
a certain class ought to travel; and I believe she has an idea of
getting me attached to the legation, in some form or other."
This sounded so odd to me! Rupert Hardinge, who had not one penny to
rub against another, so lately, was now talking of his European tour,
and of legations! I ought to have been glad of his good fortune, and I
fancied I was. I said nothing, this time, concerning his taking up
any portion of my earnings, having the sufficient excuse of not being
on pay myself. Rupert did not stay long in the sloop, and we were soon
under way. I looked eagerly along the high banks of the creek, fringed
as it was with bushes, in hopes of seeing Grace, at least; nor was I
disappointed. She and Lucy had taken a direct path to the point where
the two waters united, and were standing there, as the sloop dropped
past. They both waved their handkerchiefs, in a way to show the
interest they felt in me; and I returned the parting salutations by
kissing my hand again and again. At this instant, a sail-boat passed
our bows, and I saw a gentleman standing up in it, waving his
handkerchief, quite as industriously as I was kissing my hand. A look
told me it was Andrew Drewett, who directed his boat to the point, and
was soon making his bows to the girls in person. His boat ascended the
creek, no doubt with his luggage; while the last I saw of the party it
was walking off in company, taking the direction of the house.