"You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo, Before you visit
him, to make inquiry Of his behaviour."
HAMLET
Ann Sidley was engaged among the dresses of Eve, as she loved to be,
although Annette held her taste in too low estimation ever to permit
her to apply a needle, or even to fit a robe to the beautiful form
that was to wear it, when our heroine glided into the room and sunk
upon a sofa. Eve was too much absorbed with her own feelings to
observe the presence of her quiet unobtrusive old nurse, and too much
accustomed to her care and sympathy to heed it, had it been seen. For
a moment she remained, her face still suffused with blushes, her
hands lying before her folded, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, and
then the pent emotions found an outlet in a flood of tears.
Poor Ann could not have felt more shocked, had she heard of any
unexpected calamity, than she was at this sudden outbreaking of
feeling in her child. She went to her, and bent over her with the
solicitude of a mother, as she inquired into the causes of her
apparent sorrow.
"Tell me, Miss Eve, and it will relieve your mind," said the faithful
woman; "your dear mother had such feelings sometimes, and I never
dared to question her about them; but you are my own child, and
nothing can grieve you without grieving me."
The eyes of Eve were brilliant, her face continued to be suffused,
and the smile which she gave through her tears was so bright, as to
leave her poor attendant in deep perplexity as to the cause of a gush
of feeling that was very unusual in one of the other's regulated
mind.
"It is not grief, dear Nanny,"--Eve at length murmured--"any thing
but that! I am not unhappy. Oh! no; as far from unhappiness as
possible."
"God be praised it is so, ma'am! I was afraid that this affair of the
English gentleman and Miss Grace might not prove agreeable to you,
for he has not behaved as handsomely as he might, in that
transaction."
"And why not, my poor Nanny?--I have neither claim, nor the wish to
possess a claim, on Sir George Templemore. His selection of my cousin
has given me sincere satisfaction, rather than pain; were he a
countryman of our own, I should say unalloyed satisfaction, for I
firmly believe he will strive to make her happy."
Nanny now looked at her young mistress, then at the floor; at her
young mistress again, and afterwards at a rocket that was sailing
athwart the sky. Her eyes, however, returned to those of Eve, and
encouraged by the bright beam of happiness that was glowing in the
countenance she so much loved, she ventured to say--
"If Mr. Powis were a more presuming gentleman than he is, ma'am--"
"You mean a less modest, Nanny," said Eve, perceiving that her nurse
paused.
"Yes, ma'am--one that thought more of himself, and less of other
people, is what I wish to say."
"And were this the case?"
"I might think _he_ would find the heart to say what I know he
feels."
"And did he find the heart to say what you know he feels, what does
Ann Sidley think should be my answer?"
"Oh, ma'am, I know it would be just as it ought to be. I cannot
repeat what ladies say on such occasions, but I know that it is what
makes the hearts of the gentlemen leap for joy."
There are occasions in which woman can hardly dispense with the
sympathy of woman. Eve loved her father most tenderly, had more than
the usual confidence in him, for she had never known a mother; but
had the present conversation been with him, notwithstanding all her
reliance on his affection, her nature would have shrunk from pouring
out her feelings as freely as she might have done with her other
parent, had not death deprived her of such a blessing. Between our
heroine and Ann Sidley, on the other hand, there existed a confidence
of a nature so peculiar, as to require a word of explanation before
we exhibit its effects. In all that related to physical wants, Ann
had been a mother, or even more than a mother to Eve, and this alone
had induced great personal dependence in the one, and a sort of
supervisory care in the other, that had brought her to fancy she was
responsible for the bodily health and well-doing of her charge. But
this was not all. Nanny had been the repository of Eve's childish
griefs, the confidant of her girlish secrets; and though the years of
the latter soon caused her to be placed under the management of those
who were better qualified to store her mind, this communication never
ceased; the high-toned and educated young woman reverting with
unabated affection, and a reliance that nothing could shake, to the
long-tried tenderness of the being who had watched over her infancy.
The effect of such an intimacy was often amusing; the one party
bringing to the conferences, a mind filled with the knowledge suited
to her sex and station, habits that had been formed in the best
circles of christendom, and tastes that had been acquired in schools
of high reputation; and the other, little more than her single-
hearted love, a fidelity that ennobled her nature, and a simplicity
that betokened perfect purity of thought Nor was this extraordinary
confidence without its advantages to Eve; for, thrown so early among
the artificial and calculating, it served to keep her own
ingenuousness of character active, and prevented that cold, selfish,
and unattractive sophistication, that mere women of fashion are apt
to fall into, from their isolated and factitious mode of existence.
When Eve, therefore, put the questions to her nurse, that have
already been mentioned, it was more with a real wish to know how the
latter would view a choice on which her own mind was so fully made
up, than any silly trifling on a subject that engrossed so much of
her best affections.
"But you have not told me, dear Nanny," she continued, "what _you_
would have that answer be. Ought I, for instance, ever to quit my
beloved father?"
"What necessity would there be for that, ma'am? Mr. Powis has no home
of his own; and, for that matter, scarcely any country----"
"How can you know this, Nanny?" demanded Eve, with the jealous
sensitiveness of a young love.
"Why, Miss Eve, his man says this much, and he has lived with him
long enough to know it, if he had a home. Now, I seldom sleep without
looking back at the day, and often have my thoughts turned to Sir
George Temple more and Mr. Powis; and when I have remembered that the
first had a house and a home, and that the last had neither, it has
always seemed to me that _he_ ought to be the one."
"And then, in all this matter, you have thought of convenience, and
what might be agreeable to others, rather than of me."
"Miss Eve!"
"Nay, dearest Nanny, forgive me; I know your last thought, in every
thing, is for yourself. But surely, the mere circumstance that he had
no home ought not to be a sufficient reason for selecting any man,
for a husband. With most women it would be an objection."
"I pretend to know very little of these feelings, Miss Eve. I have
been wooed, I acknowledge; and once I do think I might have been
tempted to marry, had it not been for a particular circumstance."
"You! You marry, Ann Sidley!" exclaimed Eve, to whom the bare idea
seemed as odd and unnatural, as that her own father should forget her
mother, and take a second wife. "This is altogether new, and I should
be glad to know what the lucky circumstance was, which prevented
what, to me, might have proved so great a calamity."
"Why, ma'am, I said to myself, what does a woman do, who marries? She
vows to quit all else to go with her husband, and to love him before
father and mother, and all other living beings on earth--is it not
so, Miss Eve?"
"I believe it is so, indeed, Nanny--nay, I am quite certain it is
so," Eve answered, the colour deepening on her cheek, as she gave
this opinion to her old nurse, with the inward consciousness that she
had just experienced some of the happiest moments of her life,
through the admission of a passion that thus overshadowed all the
natural affections. "It is, truly? as you say."
"Well, ma'am, I investigated my feelings, I believe they call it, and
after a proper trial, I found that I loved you so much better than
any one else, that I could not, in conscience, make the vows."
"Dearest Nanny! my kind, good, faithful old nurse! let me hold you in
my arms: and, I, selfish, thoughtless, heartless girl, would forget
the circumstance that would be most likely to keep us together, for
the remainder of our lives! Hist! there is a tap at the door It is
Mrs. Bloomfield; I know her light step. Admit her, my kind Ann, and
leave us together."
The bright searching eye of Mrs. Bloomfield was riveted on her young
friend, as she advanced into the room; and her smile, usually so gay
and sometimes ironical, was now thoughtful and kind.
"Well, Miss Effingham," she cried, in a manner that her looks
contradicted, "am I to condole with you," or to congratulate?--For a
more sudden, or miraculous change did I never before witness in a
young lady, though whether it be for the better or the worse----These
are ominous words, too--for 'better or worse, for richer or
poorer'----"
"You are in fine spirits this evening, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield, and
appear to have entered into the gaieties of the Fun of Fire, with all
your--"
"Might, will be a homely, but an expressive word. Your Templeton Fun
of Fire is fiery fun, for it has cost us something like a general
conflagration. Mrs. Hawker has been near a downfall, like your great
namesake, by a serpent's coming too near her dress; one barn, I hear,
has actually been in a blaze, and Sir George Templemore's heart is in
cinders. Mr. John Effingham has been telling me that he should not
have been a bachelor, had there been two Mrs. Bloomfields in the
world, and Mr. Powis looks like a rafter dugout of Herculaneum,
nothing but coal."
"And what occasions this pleasantry?" asked Eve, so composed in
manner that her friend was momentarily deceived.
Mrs. Bloomfield took a seat on the sofa, by the side of our heroine,
and regarding her steadily for near a minute, she continued--
"Hypocrisy and Eve Effingham can have little in common, and my ears
must have deceived me."
"Your ears, dear Mrs. Bloomfield!"
"My ears, dear Miss Effingham. I very well know the character of an
eaves-dropper, but if gentlemen will make passionate declarations in
the walk of a garden, with nothing but a little shrubbery between his
ardent declarations and the curiosity of those who may happen to be
passing, they must expect to be overheard."
Eve's colour had gradually increased as her friend proceeded; and
when the other ceased speaking, as bright a bloom glowed on her
countenance, as had shone there when she first entered the room.
"May I ask the meaning of all this?" she said, with an effort to
appear calm.
"Certainly, my dear; and you shall also know the _feelings_ that
prompt it, as well as the meaning," returned Mrs. Bloomfield, kindly
taking Eve's hand in a way to show that she did not mean to trifle
further on a subject that was of so much moment to her young friend.
"Mr. John Effingham and myself were star-gazing at a point where two
walks approach each other, just as you and Mr. Powis were passing in
the adjoining path. Without absolutely stepping our ears, it was
quite impossible not to hear a portion of your conversation. We both
tried to behave honourably; for I coughed, and your kinsman actually
hemmed, but we were unheeded."
"Coughed and hemmed!" repeated Eve, in greater confusion than ever.
"There must be some mistake, dear Mrs. Bloomfield, as I remember to
have heard no such signals."
"Quite likely, my love, for there was a time when I too had ears for
only one voice; but you can have affidavits to the fact, _à la mode
de New England_, if you require them. Do not mistake my motive,
nevertheless, Miss Effingham, which is any thing but vulgar
curiosity"--here Mrs. Bloomfield looked so kind and friendly, that
Eve took both her hands and pressed them to her heart--"you are
motherless; without even a single female connexion of a suitable age
to consult with on such an occasion, and fathers after all are but
men----"
"Mine is as kind, and delicate, and tender, as any woman can be, Mrs.
Bloomfield."
"I believe it all, though he may not be quite as quick-sighted, in an
affair of this nature.--Am I at liberty to speak to you as if I were
an elder sister?"
"Speak, Mrs. Bloomfield, as frankly as you please, but leave me the
mistress of my answers."
"It is, then, as I suspected," said Mrs. Bloomfield, in a sort of
musing manner; "the men have been won over, and this young creature
has absolutely been left without a protector in the most important
moment of her life!"
"Mrs. Bloomfield!--What does this mean?--What _can_ it mean?"
"It means merely general principles, child; that your father and
cousin have been parties concerned, instead of vigilant sentinels;
and, with all their pretended care, that you have been left to grope
your way in the darkness of female uncertainty, with one of the most
pleasing young men in the country constantly before you, to help the
obscurity."
It is a dreadful moment, when we are taught to doubt the worth of
those we love; and Eve became pale as death, as she listened to the
words of her friend. Once before, on the occasion of Paul's return to
England, she had felt a pang of that sort, though reflection, and a
calm revision of all his acts and words since they first met in
Germany, had enabled her to get the better of indecision, and when
she first saw him on the mountain, nearly every unpleasant
apprehension and distrust had been dissipated by an effort of pure
reason. His own explanations had cleared up the unpleasant affair,
and, from that moment, she had regarded him altogether with the eyes
of a confiding partiality. The speech of Mrs. Bloomfield now sounded
like words of doom to her, and, for an instant, her friend was
frightened with the effects of her own imperfect communication. Until
that moment Mrs. Bloomfield had formed no just idea of the extent to
which the feelings of Eve were interested in Paul, for she had but an
imperfect knowledge of their early association in Europe, and she
sincerely repented having introduced the subject at all. It was too
late to retreat, however, and, first folding Eve in her arms, and
kissing her cold forehead, she hastened to repair a part, at least,
of the mischief she had done.
"My words have been too strong, I fear," she said, "but such is my
general horror of the manner in which the young of our sex, in this
country, are abandoned to the schemes of the designing and selfish of
the other, that I am, perhaps, too sensitive when I see any one that
I love thus exposed. You are known, my dear, to be one of the richest
heiresses of the country; and, I blush to say that no accounts of
European society that we have, make fortune-hunting a more regular
occupation there, than it has got to be here."
The paleness left Eve's face, and a look of slight displeasure
succeeded.
"Mr. Powis is no fortune-hunter, Mrs. Bloomfield," she said,
steadily; "his whole conduct for three years has been opposed to such
a character; and, then, though not absolutely rich, perhaps, he has a
gentleman's income, and is removed from the necessity of being
reduced to such an act of baseness."
"I perceive my error, but it is now too late to retreat. I do not say
that Mr. Powis is a fortune-hunter, but there are circumstances
connected with his history, that you ought at least to know, and that
immediately. I have chosen to speak to you, rather than to speak to
your father, because I thought you might like a female confidant on
such occasion, in preference even to your excellent natural
protector. The idea of. Mrs. Hawker occurred to me, on account of her
age; but I did not feel authorised to communicate to her a secret of
which I had myself become so accidentally possessed,'
"I appreciate your motive fully, dearest Mrs. Bloomfield," said Eve,
smiling with all her native sweetness, and greatly relieved, for she
now began to think that too keen a sensitiveness on the subject of
Paul had unnecessarily alarmed her, "and beg there may be no reserves
between us. If you know a reason why Mr. Powis should not be received
as a suitor, I entreat you to mention it."
"Is he Mr. Powis at all?"
Again Eve smiled, to Mrs. Bloomfield's great, surprise, for, as the
latter had put the question with sincere reluctance, she was
astonished at the coolness with which it was received.
"He is not Mr. Powis, legally perhaps, though he might be, but that
he dislikes the publicity of an application to the legislature. His
paternal name is Assheton."
"You know his history, then!"
"There has been no reserve on the part of Mr. Powis; least of all,
any deception."
Mrs. Bloomfield appeared perplexed, even distressed; and there was a
brief space, during which her mind was undecided as to the course she
ought to take. That she had committed an error by attempting a
consultation, in a matter of the heart, with one of her own sex,
after the affections were engaged, she discovered when it was too
late; but she prized Eve's friendship too much, and had too just a
sense of what was due to herself, to leave the affair where it was,
or without clearing up her own unasked agency in it.
"I rejoice to learn this," she said, as soon as her doubts had ended,
"for frankness, while it is one of the safest, is one of the most
beautiful traits in human character; but beautiful though it be, it
is one that the other sex uses least to our own."
"Is our own too ready to use it to the other?"
"Perhaps not: it might be better for both parties, were there less
deception practised during the period of courtship, generally: but as
this is hopeless, and might, destroy some of the most pleasing
illusions of life, we will not enter into a treatise on the frauds of
Cupid, Now to my own confessions, which I make all the more
willingly, because I know they are uttered to the ear of one of a
forgiving temperament, and who is disposed to view even my follies
favourably."
The kind but painful smile of Eve, assured the speaker she was not
mistaken, and she continued, after taking time to read the expression
of the countenance of her young friend--
"In common with all of New-York, that town of babbling misses, who
prattle as water flows, without consciousness or effort, and of
whiskered masters, who fancy Broadway the world, and the flirtations
of miniature drawing-rooms, human nature, I believed, on your return
from Europe, that an accepted suitor followed in your train, in the
person of Sir George Templemore."
"Nothing in my deportment, or in that of Sir George, or in that of
any of my family, could justly have given rise to such a notion,"
said Eve, quickly.
"Justly! What has justice, or truth, or even probability, to do with
a report, of which love and matrimony are the themes? Do you not know
_society_ better than to fancy this improbability, child?"
"I know that our own sex would better consult their own dignity and
respectability, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield, if they talked less of such
matters; and that they would be more apt to acquire the habits of
good taste, not to say of good principles, if they confined their
strictures more to things and sentiments than they do, and meddled
less with persons."
"And pray, is there no tittle-tattle, no scandal, no commenting on
one's neighbours, in other civilized nations besides this?"
"Unquestionably; though I believe, as a rule, it is every where
thought to be inherently vulgar, and a proof of low associations."
"In that, we are perfectly of a mind; for, if there be any thing that
betrays a consciousness of inferiority, it is our rendering others of
so much obvious importance to ourselves, as to make them the subjects
of our constant conversation. We may speak of virtues, for therein we
pay an homage to that which is good; but when we come to dwell on
personal faults, it is rather a proof that we have a silent
conviction of the superiority of the subject of our comments to
ourselves, either in character, talents, social position, or
something else that is deemed essential, than of our distaste for his
failings. Who, for instance, talks scandal of his grocer, or of his
shoemaker? No, no, our pride forbids this; we always make our betters
the subject of our strictures by preference, taking up with our
equals only when we can get none of a higher class."
"This quite reconciles me to having been given to Sir George
Templemore, by the world of New-York," said Eve, smiling.
"And well it may, for they who have prattled of your engagement, have
done so principally because they are incapable of maintaining a
conversation on any thing else. But, all this time, I fear I stand
accused in your mind, of having given advice unasked, and of feeling
an alarm in an affair that affected others, instead of myself, which
is the very sin that we lay at the door of our worthy Manhattanese.
In common with all around me, then, I fancied Sir George Templemore
an accepted lover, and, by habit, had gotten to associate you
together in my pictures. Oh my arrival here, however, I will confess
that Mr. Powis, whom, you will remember, I had never seen before,
struck me as much the most dangerous man.--Shall I own all my
absurdity?"
"Even to the smallest shade."
"Well, then, I confess to having supposed that, while the excellent
father believed you were in a fair way to become Lady Templemore, the
equally excellent daughter thought the other suitor, infinitely the
most agreeable person."
"What! in contempt of a betrothal?"
"Of course I, at once, ascribed that part of the report to the usual
embellishments. We do not like to be deceived in our calculations, or
to discover that even our gossip has misled us. In pure resentment at
my own previous delusion, I began to criticise this Mr. Powis--"
"Criticise, Mrs. Bloomfield!"
"To find fault with him, my dear; to try to think he was not just the
handsomest and most engaging young man I had ever seen; to imagine
what he ought to be, in place of what he was; and among other things,
to inquire _who_ he was?"
"You did not think proper to ask that question of any of _us_," said
Eve, gravely.
"I did not; for I discovered by instinct, or intuition, or
conjecture--they mean pretty much the same thing, I believe--that
there was a mystery about him; something that even his Templeton
friends did not quite understand, and a lucky thought occurred of
making my inquiries of another person."
"They were answered satisfactorily," said Eve, looking up at her
friend, with the artless confidence that marks her sex, when the
affections have gotten the mastery of reason.
"_Cosi, cosi_. Bloomfield has a brother who is in the Navy, as you
know, and I happened to remember that he had once spoken of an
officer of the name of Powis, who had performed a clever thing in the
West Indies, when they were employed together against the pirates. I
wrote to him one of my usual letters, that are compounded of all
things in nature and art, and took an occasion to allude to a certain
Mr. Paul Powis, with a general remark that he had formerly served,
together with a particular inquiry if he knew any thing about him.
All this, no doubt, you think very officious; but believe me, dear
Eve, where there was as much interest as I felt and feel in you, it
was very natural."
"So far from entertaining resentment, I am grateful for your concern,
especially as I know it was manifested cautiously, and without any
unpleasant allusions to third persons."
"In that respect I believe I did pretty well. Tom Bloomfield--I beg
his pardon, Captain Bloomfield, for so he calls himself, at present--
knows Mr. Powis well; or, rather _did_ know him, for they have not
met for years, and he speaks of his personal qualities and
professional merit highly, but takes occasion to remark that there
was some mystery connected with his birth, as, before he joined the
service he understood he was called Assheton, and at a later day,
Powis, and this without any public law, or public avowal of a motive.
Now, it struck me that Eve Effingham ought not to be permitted to
form a connection with a man so unpleasantly situated, without being
apprised of the fact. I was waiting for a proper occasion to do this
ungrateful office myself, when accident made me acquainted with what
has passed this evening, and perceiving that there was no time to
lose, I came hither, more led by interest in you, my dear, perhaps,
than by discretion."
"I thank you sincerely for this kind concern in my welfare, dear Mrs.
Bloomfield, and give you full credit for the motive. Will you permit
me to inquire how much you know of that which passed this evening?"
"Simply that Mr. Powis is desperately in love, a declaration that I
take it is always dangerous to the peace of mind of a young woman,
when it comes from a very engaging young man."
"And my part of the dialogue--" Eve blushed to the eyes as she asked
this question, though she made a great effort to appear calm--"my
answer?"
"There was too much of woman in me--of true, genuine, loyal, native
woman, Miss Effingham, to listen to that had there been an
opportunity. We were but a moment near enough to hear any thing,
though that moment sufficed to let us know the state of feelings of
the gentleman. I ask no confidences, my dear Eve, and now that I have
made my explanations, lame though they be, I will kiss you and repair
to the drawing-room, where we shall both be soon missed. Forgive me,
if I have seemed impertinent in my interference, and continue to
ascribe it to its true motive."
"Stop, Mrs. Bloomfield, I entreat, for a single moment; I wish to say
a word before we part. As you have been accidentally made acquainted
with Mr. Powis's sentiments towards me, it is no more than just that
you should know the nature of mine towards him----"
Eve paused involuntarily, for, though she had commenced her
explanation, with a firm intention to do justice to Paul, the
bashfulness of her sex held her tongue tied, at the very moment her
desire to speak was the strongest. An effort conquered the weakness,
and the warm-hearted, generous-minded girl succeeded in commanding
her voice.
"I cannot allow you to go away with the impression, that there is a
shade of any sort on the conduct of Mr. Powis," she said. "So far
from desiring to profit by the accidents that have placed it in his
power to render us such essential service, he has never spoken of his
love until this evening, and then under circumstances in which
feeling, naturally, perhaps I might say uncontrollably, got the
ascendency."
"I believe it all, for I feel certain Eve Effingham would not bestow
her heart heedlessly."
"Heart!--Mrs. Bloomfield!"
"Heart, my dear; and now I insist on the subject's being dropped, at
least, for the present. Your decision is probably not yet made--you
are not yet an hour in possession of your suitor's secret, and
prudence demands deliberation. I shall hope to see you in the
drawing-room, and until then, adieu."
Mrs. Bloomfield signed for silence, and quitted the room with the
same light tread as that with which she had entered it.