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