"I knew that we must part--no power could save
Thy quiet goodness from an early grave:
Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they cast,
Looking a sister's fondness to the last;
Thy lips so pale, that gently press'd my cheek;
Thy voice--alas! Thou could'st but try to speak;--
All told thy doom; I felt it at my heart;
The shaft had struck--I knew that we must part."
Sprague.
It is not easy to describe the sensation of loss that came over me after
the interment of my sister. It is then we completely feel the privation
with which we have met. The body is removed from out of our sight; the
places that knew them shall know them no more; there is an end to all
communion, even by the agency of sight, the last of the senses to lose its
hold on the departed, and a void exists in the place once occupied. I felt
all this very keenly, for more than a month, but most keenly during the
short time I remained at Clawbonny. The task before me, however, will not
allow me to dwell on these proofs of sorrow, nor do I know that the reader
could derive much advantage from their exhibition.
I did not see Rupert at the funeral. That he was there I knew, but either
he, himself, or Lucy for him, had managed so well, as not to obtrude his
person on my sight. John Wallingford, who well knew my external or visible
relation to all the Hardinges, thinking to do me a pleasure, mentioned, as
the little procession returned to the house, that young Mr. Hardinge had,
by dint of great activity, succeeded in reaching Clawbonny in time for the
funeral. I fancy that Lucy, under the pretence of wishing his escort,
contrived to keep her brother at the rectory during the time I was abroad.
On reaching the house, I saw all my connexions, and thanked them in person
for this proof of their respect for the deceased. This little duty
performed, all but John Wallingford took their leave, and I was soon left
in the place alone with my bachelor cousin. What a house it was! and what
a house it continued to be as long as I remained at Clawbonny! The
servants moved about it stealthily; the merry laugh was no longer heard in
the kitchen; even the heavy-footed seemed to tread on air, and all around
me appeared to be afraid of disturbing the slumbers of the dead. Never
before, nor since, have I had occasion to feel how completely a negative
may assume an affirmative character, and become as positive as if it had a
real existence. I thought I could _see_ as well as feel my sister's
absence from the scene in which she had once been so conspicuous an actor.
As none of the Hardinges returned to dinner, the good divine writing a
note to say he would see me in the evening after my connexions had
withdrawn, John Wallingford and myself took that meal _tête à tête_. My
cousin, with the apparent motive of diverting my thoughts from dwelling on
the recent scene, began to converse on subjects that he was right in
supposing might interest me. Instead of flying off to some topic so
foreign to my feelings as constantly to recall the reason, he judiciously
connected the theme with my loss.
"I suppose you will go to sea again, as soon as your ship can be got
ready, cousin Miles," he commenced, after we were left with the fruit and
wine. "These are stirring times in commerce, and the idle man misses
golden opportunities."
"Gold has no longer any charm for me, cousin John," I answered gloomily.
"I am richer now than is necessary for my wants, and, as I shall probably
never marry, I see no great use in toiling for more. Still, I shall go out
in my own ship, and that as soon as possible. _Here_ I would not pass the
summer for the place, and I love the sea. Yes, yes; I must make a voyage
to some part of Europe without delay. It is the wisest thing I can do."
"That is hearty, and like a man! There is none of your mopes about the
Wallingfords, and I believe you to be of the true stock. But why never
marry, Miles? Your father was a sailor, and _he_ married, and a very good
time I've always understood he had of it."
"My father was happy as a husband, and, did I imitate his example, I
should certainly marry, too. Nevertheless, I feel I am to be a bachelor."
"In that case, what will become of Clawbonny?" demanded Jack Wallingford,
bluntly.
I could not avoid smiling at the question, as I deemed him my heir, though
the law would give it to nearer relatives, who were not of the name; but
it is probable that John, knowing himself to be so much my senior, had
never thought of himself as one likely to outlive me.
"I shall make a new will, the instant I get to town, and leave Clawbonny
to you," I answered steadily, and truly, for such a thought had come into
my mind the instant I saw him. "You are the person best entitled to
inherit it, and should you survive me, yours it shall be."
"Miles, I like that," exclaimed my cousin, with a strange sincerity,
stretching out a hand to receive mine, which he pressed most warmly. "You
are very right; I _ought_ to be the heir of this place, should you die
without children, even though you left a widow,"
This was said so naturally, and was so much in conformity with my own
notions on the subject, that it did not so much offend, as surprise me. I
knew John Wallingford loved money, and, all men having a very respectful
attachment to the representative of value, such a character invariably
means, that the party named suffers that attachment to carry him too far.
I wished, therefore, my kinsman had not made just such a speech; though it
in no manner shook my intentions in his favour.
"You are more ready to advise your friends to get married, than to set the
example," I answered, willing to divert the discourse a little. "You, who
must be turned of fifty, are still a bachelor."
"And so shall I remain through life. There was a time I might have
married, had I been rich; and now I am reasonably rich, I find other
things to employ my affections. Still, that is no reason you should not
leave me Clawbonny, though it is not probable I shall ever live to inherit
it. Notwithstanding, it is family property, and ought not to go out of the
name. I was afraid, if you were, lost at sea, or should die of any of
those outlandish fevers that sailors sometimes take, the place would get
into females, and there would no longer be a Wallingford at Clawbonny.
Miles, I do not grudge _you_ the possession of the property the least in
the world; but it would make me very unhappy to know one of those Hazens,
or Morgans, or Van-der-Schamps had it." Jack had mentioned the names of
the children of so many Miss Wallingfords, aunts or great-aunts, of mine,
and cousins of his own.--"Some of them may be nearer to you, by a
half-degree, or so, but none of them are as near to Clawbonny. It is
Wallingford land, and Wallingford land it ought to remain."
I was amused in spite of myself, and felt a disposition now, to push the
discourse further, in order better to understand my kinsman's character.
"Should neither of us two marry," I said, "and both die bachelors, what
would then be the fate of Clawbonny?"
"I have thought of all that, Miles, and here is my answer: Should such a
thing happen, and there be no other Wallingford left, then no
Wallingford would live to have his feelings hurt by knowing that a
Vander-dunder-Schamp, or whatever these Dutchmen ought to be called, is
living in his father's house; and no harm would be done. But, there _are_
Wallingfords besides you and me."
"This is quite new; for I had supposed we two were the last."
"Not so: Miles the first left two sons; our ancestor, the eldest, and one
younger, who removed into the colony of New Jersey, and whose descendants
still exist. The survivors of us two might go there in quest of our heir,
in the long run. But do not forget I come before these Jersey Blues, let
them be who, or what they may."
I assured my kinsman he _should_ come before them, and changed the
discourse; for, to own the truth, the manner in which he spoke began to
displease me. Making my apologies, I retired to my own room, while John
Wallingford went out, professedly with the intention of riding over the
place of his ancestors, with a view to give it a more critical exanimation
than it had hitherto been in his power to do.
It was quite dark, when I heard the arrival of the Hardinges, as the
carriage of Lucy drove up to the door. In a few minutes Mr. Hardinge
entered the study. He first inquired after my health, and manifested the
kind interest he had ever taken in my feelings; after which, he
proceeded:
"Rupert is here," he said, "and I have brought him over to see you. Both
he and Lucy appeared to think it might be well not to disturb you
to-night; but I knew you better. Who should be at your side at this bitter
moment, my dear Miles, if it be not Rupert, your old friend and play-mate;
your fellow truant, as one might say, and almost your brother?"
Almost my brother! Still I commanded myself. Grace had received my solemn
assurances, and so had Lucy, and Rupert had nothing to apprehend. I even
asked to see him, desiring, at the same time, that it might be alone. I
waited several minutes for Rupert's appearance, in vain. At length the
door of my room opened, and Chloe brought me a note. It was from Lucy, and
contained only these words--"Miles, for _her_ sake, for mine, command
yourself." Dear creature! She had no reason to be alarmed. The spirit of
my sister seemed to me to be present; and I could recall every expression
of her angel-countenance as it had passed before my eyes in the different
interviews that preceded her death.
At length Rupert appeared. He had been detained by Lucy until certain her
note was received, when she permitted him to quit her side. His manner was
full of the consciousness of undeserving, and its humility aided my good
resolutions. Had he advanced to take my hand; had he attempted
consolation; had he, in short, behaved differently in the main from what
he actually did, I cannot say what might have been the consequences. But
his deportment, at first, was quiet, respectful, distant rather than
familiar, and he had the tact, or grace, or caution, not to make the
smallest allusion to the sad occasion which had brought him to Clawbonny.
When I asked him to be seated, he declined the chair I offered, a sign he
intended the visit to be short. I was not sorry, and determined, at once,
to make the interview as much one of business as possible. I had a sacred
duty confided to me, and this might be as fit an occasion as could offer
in which to acquit myself of the trust.
"I am glad so early an opportunity has offered, Mr. Hardinge," I said, as
soon as the opening civilities were over, "to acquaint you with an affair
that has been entrusted to me by Grace, and which I am anxious to dispose
of as soon as possible."
"By Grace--by Miss Wallingford!" exclaimed Rupert, actually recoiling a
step in surprise, if not absolutely in alarm--"I shall feel
honoured--that is, shall have a melancholy gratification in endeavouring
to execute any of her wishes. No person commanded more of my respect, Mr.
Wallingford, and I shall always consider her one of the most amiable and
admirable women with whom it was ever my happy fortune to be acquainted."
I had no difficulty now in commanding myself, for it was easy to see
Rupert scarce knew what he said. With such a man I saw no great necessity
for using extraordinary delicacy or much reserve.
"You are doubtless aware of two things in our family history," I
continued, therefore, without circumlocution: "one that my sister would
have been mistress of a small fortune, had she reached the term of
twenty-one years, and the other that she died at twenty."
Rupert's surprise was now more natural, and I could see that his
interest--shame on our propensities for it!--was very natural, too.
"I am aware of both, and deeply deplore the last," he answered.
"Being a minor, she had it not in her power to make a will, but her
requests are legal legacies in my eyes, and I stand pledged to her to see
them executed. She has left rather less than $22,000 in all; with $500 of
this money I am to present Lucy with some suitable memorial of her
departed friend; some small charitable dispositions are also to be made,
and the balance, or the round sum of $20,000, is to be given to you."
"To me, Mr. Wallingford!--Miles!--Did you really say to me?"
"To you, Mr. Hardinge,--such is my sister's earnest request--and this
letter will declare it, as from herself. I was to hand you this letter,
when acquainting you with the bequest." I put Grace's letter into Rupert's
hand, as I concluded, and I sat down to write, while he was reading it.
Though employed at a desk for a minute or two, I could not avoid glancing
at Rupert, in order to ascertain the effect of the last words of her he
had once professed to love. I would wish not to be unjust even to Rupert
Hardinge. He was dreadfully agitated, and he walked the room, for some
little time, without speaking. I even fancied I overheard a
half-suppressed groan. I had the compassion to affect to be engaged, in
order to allow him to recover his self-possession. This was soon done, as
good impressions were not lasting in Rupert; and I knew him so well, as
soon to read in his countenance, gleanings of satisfaction at the prospect
of being master of so large a sum. At the proper moment, I arose and
resumed the subject.
"My sister's wishes would be sacred with me," I said, even had she not
received my promise to see them executed. "When a thing of this character
is to be done the sooner it is done the better. I have drawn a note at ten
days, payable at the Bank of New York, and in your favour, for $20,000: it
will not inconvenience me to pay it when due, and that will close the
transaction."
"I am not certain, Wallingford, that I ought to receive so large a sum--I
do not know that my father, or Lucy or indeed the world, would altogether
approve of it."
"Neither your father, nor Lucy, nor the world will know anything about it,
sir, unless you see fit to acquaint them I shall not speak of the bequest;
and I confess that, on my sister's account, I should prefer that _you_
would not."
"Well, Mr. Hardinge," answered Rupert, coolly putting the note into his
wallet, "I will think of this request of poor Grace's, and if I can
possibly comply with her wishes, I will certainly do so. There is little
that she could ask that I would deny, and my effort will be to honour her
memory. As I see you are distressed, I will now retire; you shall know my
determination in a few days."
Rupert did retire, taking my note for $20,000 with him. I made no effort
to detain him, nor was I sorry to hear he had returned to the rectory to
pass the night, whither his sister went with him. The next day he
proceeded to New York, without sending me any message, retaining the note
however; and, a day or two later, I heard of him on his way to the springs
to rejoin the party of the Mertons.
John Wallingford left me the morning of the day after the funeral,
promising to see me again in town. "Do no forget the will, Miles," said
that singular man, as he shook my hand, "and be certain to let me see that
provision in it about Clawbonny, before I go west of the bridge, again.
Between relations _of the same name_, there should be no reserves in
such matters."
I scarce knew whether to smile or to look grave, at so strange a request;
but I did not change my determination on the subject of the will, itself:
feeling that justice required of me such a disposition of the property. I
confess there were moments when I distrusted the character of one who
could urge a claim of this nature in so plain a manner; and that, too, at
an instant when the contemplated contingency seemed the more probable from
the circumstance that death had so recently been among us.
Notwithstanding, there was so much frankness in my kinsman's manner, he
appeared to sympathize so sincerely in my loss, and his opinions were so
similar to my own, that these unpleasant twinges lasted but for brief
intervals. On the whole, my opinion was very favourable to John
Wallingford, and, as will be seen in the sequel, he soon obtained my
entire confidence.
After the departure of all my kindred, I felt, indeed, how completely I
was left alone in the world. Lucy passed the night at the rectory, to keep
her brother company, and good Mr. Hardinge, though _thinking_ he remained
with me to offer sympathy and consolation, found so many demands on his
time, that I saw but little of him. It is possible he understood me
sufficiently well to know that solitude and reflection, while the
appearance of the first was avoided, were better for one of my temperament
than any set forms of condolence. At any rate, he was at hand, while he
said but little to me on the subject of my loss.
At last I got through the day; and a long and dreary day it was to me. The
evening came, bland, refreshing, bringing with it the softer light of a
young moon. I was walking on the lawn, when the beauty of the night
brought Grace and her tastes vividly to my mind, and, by a sudden impulse,
I was soon swiftly walking towards her now silent grave. The highways
around Clawbonny were never much frequented; but at this hour, and so soon
after the solemn procession it had so lately seen, no one was met on the
road towards the church-yard. It was months, indeed, after the funeral,
that any of the slaves ventured into the latter by night; and, even during
the day, they approached it with an awe that nothing could have inspired
but the death of a Wallingford. Perhaps it was owing to my increased age
and greater observation, but I fancied that these simple beings felt the
death of their young mistress more than they had felt that of my mother.
St. Michael's church-yard is beautifully ornamented with flourishing
cedars. These trees had been cultivated with care, and formed an
appropriate ornament for the place. A fine cluster of them shaded the
graves of my family, and a rustic seat had been placed beneath their
branches, by order of my mother, who had been in the habit of passing
hours in meditation at the grave of her husband. Grace and I, and Lucy,
had often repaired to the same place at night, after my mother's death,
and there we used to sit many an hour, in deep silence; or, if utterance
were given to a thought, it was in a respectful whisper. As I now
approached this seat, I had a bitter satisfaction in remembering that
Rupert had never accompanied us in these pious little pilgrimages. Even in
the day of her greatest ascendancy, Grace had been unable to enlist her
admirer in an act so repugnant to his innate character. As for Lucy, her
own family lay on one side of that cluster of cedars, as mine lay on the
other; and often had I seen the dear young creature weeping, as her eyes
were riveted on the graves of relatives she had never known. But _my_
mother had been _her_ mother, and for this friend she felt an attachment
almost as strong as that which was entertained by ourselves. I am not
certain I ought not to say, an attachment _quite_ as strong as our own.
I was apprehensive some visitors might be hovering near the grave of my
sister at that witching hour, and I approached the cedars cautiously,
intending to retire unseen should such prove to be the case. I saw no one,
however, and proceeded directly to the line of graves, placing myself at
the foot of the freshest and most newly made. Hardly was this done, when I
heard the word "Miles!" uttered in a low, half-stifled exclamation. It was
not easy for me to mistake the voice of Lucy; she was seated so near the
trunk of a cedar that her dark dress had been confounded with the shadows
of the tree. I went to the spot, and took a seat at her side.
"I am not surprised to find _you_ here," I said, taking the dear girl's
hand, by a sort of mechanical mode of manifesting affection which had
grown up between us from childhood, rather than from, any sudden
impulse--"_you_ that watched over her so faithfully during the last hours
of her existence."
"Ah! Miles," returned a voice that was filled with sadness, "how little
did I anticipate this when you spoke of Grace in the brief interview we
had at the theatre!"
I understood my companion fully. Lucy had been educated superior to cant
and false morals. Her father drew accurate and manly distinctions between
sin and the exactions of a puritanical presumption that would set up its
own narrow notions as the law of God; and, innocent as she was, no thought
of error was associated with the indulgence of her innocent pleasures. But
Grace, suffering and in sorrow, while she herself had been listening to
the wonderful poems of Shakspeare, did present a painful picture to her
mind, which, so far from being satisfied with what she had done in my
sister's behalf, was tenderly reproachful on account of fancied omissions.
"It is the will of God, Lucy," I answered. "It must be our effort to be
resigned."
"If _you_ can think thus, Miles, how much easier ought it to be for me!
and, yet--"
"Yet, what, Lucy? I believe you loved my sister as affectionately as I did
myself, but I am sensitive on this point; and, tender, true, warm as I
know your heart to be, I cannot allow that even you loved her more."
"It is not that, Miles--it is not that. Have I no cause of particular
regret--no sense of shame--no feeling of deep humility to add to my grief
for her loss?"
"I understand you, Lucy, and at once answer, no. You are not Rupert any
more than Rupert is you. Let all others become what they may, you will
ever remain Lucy Hardinge."
"I thank you, Miles," answered my companion, gently pressing the hand that
still retained hers, "and thank you from my heart. But your generous
nature will not sae this matter as others might. We were aliens to your
blood, dwellers under your own roof, received into the bosom of your own
family, and were bound by every sacred obligation to do you no wrong. I
would not have my dear, upright father know the truth for worlds."
"He never will know it, Lucy, and it is my earnest desire that we all
forget it. Henceforth Rupert and I must be strangers, though the tie that
exists between me and the rest of your family will only be drawn the
closer for this sad event."
"Rupert is my brother--" Lucy answered, though it was in a voice so low
that her words were barely audible.
"You would not leave me quite alone in the world!" I said, with something
like reproachful energy.
"No, Miles, no--_that_ tie, as you have said, must and should last for
life. Nor do I wish you to regard Rupert as of old. It is
impossible--improper even--but you can concede to us some of that same
indulgence which I am so willing to concede to you."
"Certainly--Rupert is your brother, as you say, and I do not wish you ever
to regard him, otherwise. He will marry Emily Merton, and I trust he may
be happy. Here, over my sister's grave, Lucy, I renew the pledge already
made to you, never to act on what has occurred."
I got no answer to this declaration in words, but Lucy would actually have
kissed my hand in gratitude had I permitted it. This I could not suffer,
however, but raised her own hand to my lips, where it was held until the
dear girl gently withdrew it herself.
"Miles," Lucy said, after a long and thoughtful pause, "it is not good for
you to remain at Clawbonny, just at this time. Your kinsman, John
Wallingford, has been here, and I think you like him. Why not pay him a
visit? He resides near Niagara, 'West of the Bridge,'[3] as he calls it,
and you might take the opportunity of seeing the 'Falls.'"
[Footnote 3: In the western part of the State of New York, there are
several small lakes that lie nearly parallel to each other, and not far
asunder, with lengths that vary from fifteen to forty miles. The outlet
of one of these lakes--the Cayuga--lies in the route of the great
thorough-fare to Buffalo, and a bridge of a mile in length was early
thrown across it. From this circumstance has arisen the expression of
saying, "West of the Bridge;" meaning the frontier counties, which
include, among-other districts, that which is also known as the
"Genessee Country."]
"I understand you, Lucy, and am truly grateful for the interest you feel
in my happiness. I do not intend to remain long at Clawbonny, which I
shall leave to-morrow--"
"To-morrow!" interrupted Lucy, and I thought like one who was alarmed.
"Does that appear too early? I feel the necessity of occupation, as well
as of a change of scene. You will remember I have a ship and interests, of
moment to myself, to care for: I must turn my face, and move towards the
east, instead of towards the west."
"You intend then, Miles, to pursue this profession of yours!" Lucy said,
as I thought, with a little like gentle regret in her manner and tones.
"Certainly--what better can I do? I want not wealth, I allow; am rich
enough already for all my wants, but I have need of occupation. The sea is
to my liking, I am still young, and can afford a few more years on the
water. I shall never marry--" Lucy started--"and having now no heir nearer
than John Wallingford"--
"John Wallingford!--you have cousins much nearer than he!"
"That is true; but not of the old line. It was Grace's wish that I should
leave our cousin John the Clawbonny property at least, whatever I do with
the rest. You are so rich now as not to need it, Lucy; else would I leave
every shilling to you."
"I believe you would, dear Miles," answered Lucy, with fervent warmth of
manner. "You have ever been all that is good and kind to me, and I shall
never forget it."
"Talk of my kindness to you, Lucy, when you parted with every cent you had
on earth to give me the gold you possessed, on my going to sea. I am
almost sorry you are now so much richer than myself, else would I
certainly make you my heir."
"We will not talk of money any longer in this sacred place," Lucy answered
tremulously. "What I did as a foolish girl you will forget; we were but
children then, Miles."
So Lucy did not wish me to remember certain passages in our earlier youth!
Doubtless her present relations to Andrew Drewett rendered the
recollection delicate, if not unpleasant. I thought this less like herself
than was her wont--Lucy, who was usually so simple-minded, so
affectionate, so frank and so true. Nevertheless, love is an engrossing
sentiment, as I could feel in my own case, and it might be that its
jealous sensitiveness took the alarm at even that which was so innocent
and sincere. The effect of these considerations, added to that of Lucy's
remark, was to change the discourse, and we conversed long, in melancholy
sadness, of her we had lost, for this life, altogether.
"We may live, ourselves, to grow old, Miles," Lucy observed, "but never
shall we cease to remember Grace as she was, and to love her memory, as we
loved her dear self in life. There has not been an hour since her death,
that I have not seen her sitting at my side, and conversing in sisterly
confidence, as we did from infancy to the day she ceased to live!"
As Lucy said this, she rose, drew her shawl around her, and held out her
hand to take leave, for I had spoken of an intention to quit Clawbonny
early in the morning. The tears the dear girl shed might have been
altogether owing to our previous conversation, or I might have had a share
in producing them. Lucy used to weep at parting from me, as well as Grace,
and she was not a girl to change with the winds. But I could not part
thus: I had a sort of feeling that when we parted this time, it would
virtually be a final separation, as the wife of Andrew Drewett never could
be exactly that which Lucy Hardinge had now been to me for near
twenty years.
"I will not say farewell now, Lucy," I observed. "Should you not come to
town before I sail, I will return to Clawbonny to take leave of you. God
only knows what will become of me, or whither I shall be led, and I could
wish to defer the leave-takings to the last moment. You and your excellent
father must have my final adieus."
Lucy returned the pressure of my hand, uttered a hasty good-night, and
glided through the little gate of the rectory which by this time we had
reached. No doubt she fancied I returned immediately to my own house. So
far from this, however, I passed hours alone, in the church-yard,
sometimes musing on the dead, and then with all my thoughts bent on the
living. I could see the light in Lucy's window, and not till that was
extinguished did I retire. It was long past midnight.
I passed hours teeming with strange emotions among hose cedars. Twice I
knelt by Grace's grave, and prayed devoutly to God. It seemed to me that
petitions offered in such a place must be blessed. I thought of my mother,
of my manly, spirited father, of Grace, and of all the past. Then I
lingered long beneath Lucy's window, and, in spite of this solemn visit to
the graves of the dead, the brightest and most vivid image that I carried
away with me was of the living.