The soul, my lord, is fashioned--like the lyre.
Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate.
Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,
A word let fall touching your youthful passion,
Suffused her cheek, call'd to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre, made her pulse
Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate.
Hillhouse.
The approach of night, at sea and in a wilderness, has always something
more solemn in it, than on land in the centre of civilization. As the
curtain is drawn before his eyes, the solitude of the mariner is
increased, while even his sleepless vigilance seems, in a measure,
baffled, by the manner in which he is cut off from the signs of the
hour. Thus, too, in the forest, or in an isolated clearing, the
mysteries of the woods are deepened, and danger is robbed of its
forethought and customary guards. That evening, Major Willoughby stood
at a window with an arm round the slender waist of Beulah, Maud
standing a little aloof; and, as the twilight retired, leaving the
shadows of evening to thicken on the forest that lay within a few
hundred feet of that side of the Hut, and casting a gloom over the
whole of the quiet solitude, he felt the force of the feeling just
mentioned, in a degree he had never before experienced.
"This is a _very_ retired abode, my sisters," he said,
thoughtfully. "Do my father and mother never speak of bringing you out
more into the world?"
"They take us to New York every winter, now father is in the Assembly,"
quietly answered Beulah. "We expected to meet you there, last season,
and were greatly disappointed that you did not come."
"My regiment was sent to the eastward, as you know, and having just
received my new rank of major, it would not do to be absent at the
moment. Do you ever see any one here, besides those who belong to the
manor?"
"Oh! yes"--exclaimed Maud eagerly--then she paused, as if sorry she had
said anything; continuing, after a little pause, in a much more
moderated vein--"I mean occasionally. No doubt the place is very
retired."
"Of what characters are your visiters?--hunters, trappers, settlers--
savages or travellers?"
Maud did not answer; but, Beulah, after waiting a moment for her sister
to reply, took that office on herself.
"Some of all," she said, "though few certainly of the latter class. The
hunters are often here; one or two a month, in the mild season;
settlers rarely, as you may suppose, since my father will not sell, and
there are not many about, I believe; the Indians come more frequently,
though I think we have seen less of them, during Nick's absence than
while he was more with us. Still we have as many as a hundred in a
year, perhaps, counting the women. They come in parties, you know, and
five or six of these will make that number. As for travellers, they are
rare; being generally surveyors, land-hunters, or perhaps a proprietor
who is looking up his estate. We had two of the last in the fall,
before we went below."
"That is singular; and yet one might well look for an estate in a
wilderness like this. Who were your proprietors?"
"An elderly man, and a young one. The first was a sort of partner of
the late Sir William's, I believe, who has a grant somewhere near us,
for which he was searching. His name was Fonda. The other was one of
the Beekmans, who has lately succeeded his father in a property of
considerable extent, somewhere at no great distance from us, and came
to take a look at it. They say he has quite a hundred thousand acres,
in one body."
"And did he find his land? Tracts of thousands and tens of thousands,
are sometimes not to be discovered."
"We saw him twice, going and returning, and he was successful. The last
time, he was detained by a snow-storm, and staid with us some days--so
long, indeed, that he remained, and accompanied us out, when we went
below. We saw much of him, too, last winter, in town."
"Maud, you wrote me nothing of all this! Are visiters of this sort so
very common that you do not speak of them in your letters?"
"Did I not?--Beulah will scarce pardon me for _that_. She thinks
Mr. Evert Beekman more worthy of a place in a letter, than I do,
perhaps."
"I think him a very respectable and sensible young man," answered
Beulah quietly though there was a deeper tint on her cheek than common,
which it was too dark to see. "I am not certain, however, he need fill
much space in the letters of either of your sisters.'
"Well, this is _something_ gleaned!" said the major,
laughing--"and now, Beulah, if you will only let out a secret of the
same sort about Maud, I shall be _au fait_ of all the family
mysteries."
"All!" repeated Maud, quickly--"would there be nothing to tell of a
certain major Willoughby, brother of mine?"
"Not a syllable. I am as heart-whole as a sound oak, and hope to remain
so. At all events, all I love is in this house. To tell you the truth,
girls, these are not times for a soldier to think of anything but his
duty. The quarrel is getting to be serious between the mother country
and her colonies."
"Not so serious, brother," observed Beulah, earnestly, "as to amount to
_that_. Evert Beekman thinks there will be trouble, but he does
not appear to fancy it will go as far as very serious violence."
"Evert _Beekman_!--most of that family are loyal, I believe; how
is it with this Evert?"
"I dare say, _you_ would call him a _rebel_," answered Maud,
laughing, for now Beulah chose to be silent, leaving her sister to
explain, "He is not _fiery_; but he calls himself an _American_,
with emphasis; and that is saying a good deal, when it means he
is not an _Englishman_. Pray what do you call yourself, Bob?"
"I!--Certainly an American in one sense, but an Englishman in another.
An American, as my father was a Cumberland-man, and an Englishman as a
subject, and as connected with the empire."
"As St. Paul was a Roman. Heigho!--Well, I fear I have but one
character--or, if I have two, they are an American, and a New York
girl. Did I dress in scarlet, as you do, I might feel English too,
possibly."
"This is making a trifling misunderstanding too serious," observed
Beulah. "Nothing can come of all the big words that have been used,
than more big words. I know that is Evert Beekman's opinion."
"I hope you may prove a true prophet," answered the major, once more
buried in thought. "This place _does_ seem to be fearfully retired
for a family like ours. I hope my father may be persuaded to pass more
of his time in New York. Does he ever speak on the subject, girls, or
appear to have any uneasiness?"
"Uneasiness about what? The place is health itself: all sorts of
fevers, and agues, and those things being quite unknown. Mamma says the
toothache, even, cannot be found in this healthful spot."
"That is lucky--and, yet, I wish captain Willoughby--_Sir Hugh_
Willoughby could be induced to live more in New York. Girls of your
time of life, ought to be in the way of seeing the world, too."
"In other words, of seeing admirers, major Bob," said Maud, laughing,
and bending forward to steal a glance in her brother's face. "Good
night. _Sir Hugh_ wishes us to send you into his library when we
can spare you, and _my lady_ has sent us a hint that it is ten
o'clock, at which hour it is usual for sober people to retire."
The major kissed both sisters with warm affection--Beulah fancied with
a sobered tenderness, and Maud thought kindly--and then they retired to
join their mother, while he went to seek his father.
The captain was smoking in the library, as a room of all-_head_-
work was called, in company with the chaplain. The practice of using
tobacco in this form, had grown to be so strong in both of these old
inmates of garrisons, that they usually passed an hour, in the
recreation, before they went to bed. Nor shall we mislead the reader
with any notions of fine-flavoured Havana segars; pipes, with Virginia
cut, being the materials employed in the indulgence. A little excellent
Cogniac and water, in which however the spring was not as much
neglected, as in the orgies related in the previous chapter, moistened
their lips, from time to time, giving a certain zest and comfort to
their enjoyments. Just as the door opened to admit the major, he was
the subject of discourse, the proud parent and the partial friend
finding almost an equal gratification in discussing his fine, manly
appearance, good qualities, and future hopes. His presence was
untimely, then, in one sense; though he was welcome, and, indeed,
expected. The captain pushed a chair to his son, and invited him to
take a seat near the table, which held a spare pipe or two, a box of
tobacco, a decanter of excellent brandy, a pitcher of pure water, all
pleasant companions to the elderly gentlemen, then in possession.
"I suppose you are too much of a maccaroni, Bob, to smoke," observed
the smiling father. "I detested a pipe at your time of life; or may
say, I was afraid of it; the only smoke that was in fashion among our
scarlet coats being the smoke of gunpowder. Well, how comes on Gage,
and your neighbours the Yankees?"
"Why, sir," answered the major, looking behind him, to make sure that
the door was shut--"Why, sir, to own the truth, my visit, here, just at
this moment, is connected with the present state of that quarrel."
Both the captain and the chaplain drew the pipes from their mouths,
holding them suspended in surprise and attention.
"The deuce it is!" exclaimed the former. "I thought I owed this
unexpected pleasure to your affectionate desire to let me know I had
inherited the empty honours of a baronetcy!"
"That was _one_ motive, sir, but the least. I beg you to remember
the awkwardness of my position, as a king's officer, in the midst of
enemies."
"The devil! I say, parson, this exceeds heresy and schism! Do you call
lodging in your father's house, major Willoughby, being in the midst of
enemies? This is rebellion against nature, and is worse than rebellion
against the king."
"My dear father, no one feels more secure with _you_, than I do;
or, even, with Mr. Woods, here. But, there are others besides you two,
in this part of the world, and your very settlement may not be safe a
week longer; probably would not be, if my presence in it were known."
Both the listeners, now, fairly laid down their pipes, and the smoke
began gradually to dissipate, as it might have been rising from a field
of battle. One looked at the other, in wonder, and, then, both looked
at the major, in curiosity.
"What is the meaning of all this, my son?" asked the captain, gravely.
"Has anything new occurred to complicate the old causes of quarrel?"
"Blood has, at length, been drawn, sir; open rebellion has commenced!"
"This is a serious matter, indeed, if it be really so. But do you not
exaggerate the consequences of some fresh indiscretion of the soldiery,
in firing on the people? Remember, in the other affair, even the
colonial authorities justified the officers."
"This is a very different matter, sir. Blood has not been drawn in a
_riot_, but in a _battle_."
"Battle! You amaze me, sir! That is indeed a serious matter, and may
lead to most serious consequences!"
"The Lord preserve us from evil times," ejaculated the chaplain, "and
lead us, poor, dependent creatures that we are, into the paths of peace
and quietness! Without his grace, we are the blind leading the blind."
"Do you mean, major Willoughby, that armed and disciplined bodies have
met in actual conflict?"
"Perhaps not literally so, my dear father; but the minute-men of
Massachusetts, and His Majesty's forces, have met and fought. This I
know, full well; for my own regiment was in the field, and, I hope it
is unnecessary to add, that its second officer was not absent."
"Of course these minute-men--rabble would be the better word--could not
stand before you?" said the captain, compressing his lips, under a
strong impulse of military pride.
Major Willoughby coloured, and, to own the truth, at that moment he
wished the Rev. Mr. Woods, if not literally at the devil, at least safe
and sound in another room; anywhere, so it were out of ear-shot of the
answer.
"Why, sir," he said, hesitating, not to say stammering, notwithstanding
a prodigious effort to seem philosophical and calm--"To own the truth,
these minute-fellows are not quite as contemptible as we soldiers would
be apt to think. It was a stone-wall affair, and dodging work; and, so,
you know, sir, drilled troops wouldn't have the usual chance. They
pressed us pretty warmly on the retreat."
"_Retreat_! Major Willoughby!"
"I called it retreat, sure enough; but it was only a march _in_,
again, after having done the business on which we went out. I shall
admit, I say, sir, that we were hard pressed, until _reinforced_."
"_Reinforced_, my dear Bob! _Your_ regiment, _our_
regiment could not need a reinforcement against all the Yankees in New
England."
The major could not abstain from laughing, a little, at this exhibition
of his father's _esprit de corps_; but native frankness, and love
of truth, compelled him to admit the contrary.
"It _did_, sir, notwithstanding," he answered; "and, not to mince
the matter, it needed it confoundedly. Some of our officers who have
seen the hardest service of the last war, declare, that taking the
march, and the popping work, and the distance, altogether, it was the
warmest day _they_ remember. Our loss, too, was by no means
insignificant, as I hope you will believe, when you know the troops
engaged. We report something like three hundred casualties."
The captain did not answer for quite a minute. All this time he sat
thoughtful, and even pale; for his mind was teeming with the pregnant
consequences of such an outbreak. Then he desired his son to give a
succinct, but connected history of the whole affair. The major
complied, beginning his narrative with an account of the general state
of the country, and concluding it, by giving, as far as it was possible
for one whose professional pride and political feelings were too deeply
involved to be entirely impartial, a reasonably just account of the
particular occurrence already mentioned.
The events that led to, and the hot skirmish which it is the practice
of the country to call the Battle of Lexington, and the incidents of
the day itself, are too familiar to the ordinary reader, to require
repetition here. The major explained all the military points very
clearly, did full justice to the perseverance and daring of the
provincials, as he called his enemies--for, an American himself, he
would not term them Americans--and threw in as many explanatory remarks
as he could think of, by way of vindicating the "march _in_,
again." This he did, too, quite as much out of filial piety, as out of
self-love; for, to own the truth, the captain's mortification, as a
soldier, was so very evident as to give his son sensible pain.
"The effect of all this," continued the major, when his narrative of
the military movements was ended, "has been to raise a tremendous
feeling, throughout the country, and God knows what is to follow."
"And this you have come hither to tell me, Robert," said the father,
kindly. "It is well done, and as I would have expected from you. We
might have passed the summer, here, and not have heard a whisper of so
important an event."
"Soon after the affair--or, as soon as we got some notion of its effect
on the provinces, general Gage sent me, privately, with despatches to
governor Tryon. _He_, governor Tryon, was aware of your position;
and, as I had also to communicate the death of Sir Harry Willoughby, he
directed me to come up the river, privately, have an interview with Sir
John, if possible, and then push on, under a feigned name, and
communicate with you. He thinks, now Sir William is dead, that with
your estate, and new rank, and local influence, you might be very
serviceable in sustaining the royal cause; for, it is not to be
concealed that this affair is likely to take the character of an open
and wide-spread revolt against the authority of the crown."
"General Tryon does me too much honour," answered the captain, coldly.
"My estate is a small body of wild land; my influence extends little
beyond this beaver meadow, and is confined to my own household, and
some fifteen or twenty labourers; and as for the _new rank_ of
which you speak, it is not likely the colonists will care much for
_that,_ if they disregard the rights of the king. Still, you have
acted like a son in running the risk you do, Bob; and I pray God you
may get back to your regiment, in safety."
"This is a cordial to my hopes, sir; for nothing would pain me more
than to believe you think it my duty, because I was born in the
colonies, to throw up my commission, and take side with the rebels."
"I do not conceive that to be your duty, any more than I conceive it to
be mine to take sides against them, because I happened to be born in
England. It is a weak view of moral obligations, that confines them
merely to the accidents of birth, and birth-place. Such a subsequent
state of things may have grown up, as to change all our duties, and it
is necessary that we discharge them as they _are_; not as they may
have been, hitherto, or may be, hereafter. Those who clamour so much
about mere birth-place, usually have no very clear sense of their
higher obligations. Over our birth we can have no control; while we are
rigidly responsible for the fulfilment of obligations voluntarily
contracted."
"Do you reason thus, captain?" asked the chaplain, with strong
interest--"Now, I confess, I _feel_, in this matter, not only very
much like a native American, but very much like a native Yankee, in the
bargain. You know I was born in the Bay, and--the major must excuse
me--but, it ill-becomes my cloth to deceive--I hope the major will
pardon me--I--I do hope--"
"Speak out, Mr. Woods," said Robert Willoughby, smiling--"_You_
have nothing to fear from your old friend the major."
"So I thought--so I thought--well, then, I was glad--yes, really
rejoiced at heart, to hear that my countrymen, down-east, there, had
made the king's troops scamper,"
"I am not aware that I used any such terms, sir, in connection with the
manner in which we marched in, after the duty we went out on was
performed," returned the young soldier, a little stiffly. "I suppose it
is natural for one Yankee to sympathize with another; but, my father,
Mr. Woods, is an _Old_ England, and not a _New_-England-man;
and he may be excused if he feel more for the servants of the crown."
"Certainly, my dear major--certainly, my dear Mr. Robert--my old pupil,
and, I hope, my friend--all this is true enough, and very natural. I
allow captain Willoughby to wish the best for the king's troops, while
I wish the best for my own countrymen."
"This is natural, on both sides, out of all question, though it by no
means follows that it is right. 'Our country, right or wrong,' is a
high-sounding maxim, but it is scarcely the honest man's maxim. Our
country, after all, cannot have nearer claims upon us, than our parents
for instance; and who can claim a moral right to sustain even his own
father, in error, injustice, or crime? No, no--I hate your pithy
sayings; they commonly mean nothing that is substantially good, at
bottom."
"But one's country, in a time of actual war, sir!" said the major, in a
tone of as much remonstrance as habit would allow him to use to his own
father.
"Quite true, Bob; but the difficulty here, is to know which _is_
one's country. It is a family quarrel, at the best, and it will hardly
do to talk about foreigners, at all. It is the same as if I should
treat Maud unkindly, or harshly, because she is the child of only a
friend, and not my own natural daughter. As God is my judge, Woods, I
am unconscious of not loving Maud Meredith, at this moment, as tenderly
as I love Beulah Willoughby. There was a period, in her childhood, when
the playful little witch had most of my heart, I am afraid, if the
truth were known. It is use, and duty, then, and not mere birth, that
ought to tie our hearts."
The major thought it might very well be that one child should be loved
more than another, though he did not understand how there could be a
divided allegiance. The chaplain looked at the subject with views still
more narrowed, and he took up the cudgels of argument in sober earnest,
conceiving this to be as good an opportunity as another, for disposing
of the matter.
"I am all for birth, and blood, and natural ties," he said, "always
excepting the peculiar claims of Miss Maud, whose case is _sui
generis_, and not to be confounded with any other case. A man can
have but one country, any more than he can have but one nature; and, as
he is forced to be true to that nature, so ought he morally to be true
to that country. The captain says, that it is difficult to determine
which is one's country, in a civil war; but I cannot admit the
argument. If Massachusetts and England get to blows, Massachusetts is
my country; if Suffolk and Worcester counties get into a quarrel, my
duty calls me to Worcester, where I was born; and so I should carry out
the principle from country to country, county to county, town to town,
parish to parish; or, even household to household."
"This is an extraordinary view of one's duty, indeed, my dear Mr.
Woods," cried the major, with a good deal of animation; "and if one-
half the household quarrelled with the other, you would take sides with
that in which you happened to find yourself, at the moment."
"It is an extraordinary view of one's duty, for a _parson_;"
observed the captain. "Let us reason backward a little, and ascertain
where we shall come out. You put the head of the household out of the
question. Has he no claims? Is a father to be altogether overlooked in
the struggle between the children? Are his laws to be broken--his
rights invaded--or his person to be maltreated, perhaps, and his curse
disregarded, because a set of unruly children get by the ears, on
points connected with their own selfishness?"
"I give up the household," cried the chaplain, "for the bible settles
that; and what the bible disposes of, is beyond dispute--'Honour thy
father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the
Lord thy God giveth thee'--are terrible words, and must not be
disobeyed. But the decalogue has not another syllable which touches the
question. 'Thou shalt not kill,' means murder only; common, vulgar
murder--and 'thou shalt not steal,' 'thou shalt not commit adultery,'
&c., don't bear on civil war, as I see. 'Remember the Sabbath to keep
it holy'--'Thou shalt not covet the ox nor the ass'--'Thou shalt not
take the name of the Lord thy God in vain'--none of these, not one of
them, bears, at all, on this question."
"What do you think of the words of the Saviour, where he tells us to
'render unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar's? Has Cæsar no rights
here? Can Massachusetts and my Lord North settle their quarrels in such
a manner as to put Cæsar altogether out of view?"
The chaplain looked down a moment, pondered a little, and then he came
up to the attack, again, with renewed ardour.
"Cæsar is out of the question here. If His Majesty will come and take
sides with us, we shall be ready to honour and obey him; but if he
choose to remain alienated from us, it is his act, not ours."
"This is a new mode of settling allegiance! If Cæsar will do as we
wish, he shall still be Cæsar; but, if he refuse to do as we wish, then
down with Cæsar. I am an old soldier, Woods, and while I feel that this
question has two sides to it, my disposition to reverence and honour
the king is still strong."
The major appeared delighted, and, finding matters going on so
favourably, he pleaded fatigue and withdrew, feeling satisfied that, if
his father fairly got into a warm discussion, taking the loyal side of
the question, he would do more to confirm himself in the desired views,
than could be effected by any other means. By this time, the disputants
were so warm as scarcely to notice the disappearance of the young man,
the argument proceeding.
The subject is too hackneyed, and, indeed, possesses too little
interest, to induce us to give more than an outline of what passed. The
captain and the chaplain belonged to that class of friends, which may
be termed argumentative. Their constant discussions were a strong link
in the chain of esteem; for they had a tendency to enliven their
solitude, and to give a zest to lives that, without them, would have
been exceedingly monotonous. Their ordinary subjects were theology and
war; the chaplain having some practical knowledge of the last, and the
captain a lively disposition to the first. In these discussions, the
clergyman was good-natured and the soldier polite; circumstances that
tended to render them far more agreeable to the listeners than they
might otherwise have proved.
On the present occasion, the chaplain rang the changes diligently, on
the natural feelings, while his friend spoke most of the higher duties.
The _ad captandum_ part of the argument, oddly enough, fell to the
share of the minister of the church; while the intellectual,
discriminating, and really logical portion of the subject, was handled
by one trained in garrisons and camps, with a truth, both of ethics and
reason, that would have done credit to a drilled casuist. The war of
words continued till past midnight, both disputants soon getting back
to their pipes, carrying on the conflict amid a smoke that did no
dishonour to such a well-contested field. Leaving the captain and his
friend thus intently engaged, we will take one or two glimpses into
different parts of the house, before we cause all our characters to
retire for the night.
About the time the battle in the library was at its height, Mrs.
Willoughby was alone in her room, having disposed of all the cares, and
most of the duties of the day. The mother's heart was filled with a
calm delight that it would have been difficult for herself to describe.
All she held most dear on earth, her husband, her kind-hearted,
faithful, long-loved husband; her noble son, the pride and joy of her
heart; Beulah, her own natural-born daughter, the mild, tractable,
sincere, true-hearted child that so much resembled herself; and Maud,
the adopted, one rendered dear by solicitude and tenderness, and now so
fondly beloved on her own account, were all with her, beneath her own
roof, almost within the circle of her arms. The Hutted Knoll was no
longer a solitude; the manor was not a wilderness to _her_; for
where her heart was, there truly was her treasure, also. After passing
a few minutes in silent, but delightful thought, this excellent,
guileless woman knelt and poured out her soul in thanksgivings to the
Being, who had surrounded her lot with so many blessings. Alas! little
did she suspect the extent, duration, and direful nature of the evils
which, at that very moment, were pending over her native country, or
the pains that her own affectionate hear? was to endure! The major had
not suffered a whisper of the real nature of his errand to escape him,
except to his father and the chaplain; and we will now follow him to
his apartment, and pass a minute, _tête-à-tête,_ with the young
soldier, ere he too lays his head on his pillow.
A couple of neat rooms were prepared and furnished, that were held
sacred to the uses of the heir. They were known to the whole household,
black and white, as the "young captain's quarters;" and even Maud
called them, in her laughing off-handedness, "Bob's Sanctum." Here,
then, the major found everything as he left it on his last visit, a
twelvemonth before; and some few things that were strangers to him, in
the bargain. In that day, toilets covered with muslin, more or less
worked and ornamented, were a regular appliance of every bed-room, of a
better-class house, throughout America. The more modern "Duchesses,"
"Psyches," "dressing-tables," &c. &c., of our own extravagant and
benefit-of-the-act-taking generation, were then unknown; a moderately-
sized glass, surrounded by curved, gilded ornaments, hanging against
the wall, above the said muslin-covered table, quite as a matter of
law, if not of domestic faith.
As soon as the major had set down his candle, he looked about him, as
one recognises old friends, pleased at renewing his acquaintance with
so many dear and cherished objects. The very playthings of his
childhood were there; and, even a beautiful and long-used hoop, was
embellished with ribbons, by some hand unknown to himself. "Can this be
my mother?" thought the young man, approaching to examine the well-
remembered hoop, which he had never found so honoured before; "can my
kind, tender-hearted mother, who never will forget that I am no longer
a child, can she have really done this? I must laugh at her, to-morrow,
about it, even while I kiss and bless her." Then he turned to the
toilet, where stood a basket, filled with different articles, which, at
once, he understood were offerings to himself. Never had he visited the
Hut without finding such a basket in his room at night. It was a tender
proof how truly and well he was remembered, in his absence.
"Ah!" thought the major, as he opened a bundle of knit lamb's-wool
stockings, "here is my dear mother again, with her thoughts about damp
feet, and the exposure of service. And a dozen shirts, too, with
'Beulah' pinned on one of them--how the deuce does the dear girl
suppose I am to carry away such a stock of linen, without even a horse
to ease me of a bundle? My kit would be like that of the commander-in-
chief, were I to take away all that these dear relatives design for me.
What's this?--a purse! a handsome silken purse, too, with Beulah's name
on it. Has Maud nothing, here? Why has Maud forgotten me! Ruffles,
handkerchiefs, garters--yes, here is a pair of my good mother's own
knitting, but nothing of Maud's--Ha! what have we here? As I live, a
beautiful silken scarf--netted in a way to make a whole regiment
envious. Can this have been bought, or has it been the work of a
twelvemonth? No name on it, either. Would my father have done this?
Perhaps it is one of his old scarfs--if so, it is an old _new_
one, for I do not think it has ever been worn. I must inquire into
this, in the morning--I wonder there is nothing of Maud's!"
As the major laid aside his presents, he kissed the scarf, and then--I
regret to say without saying _his_ prayers--the young man went to
bed.
The scene must now be transferred to the room where the sisters--in
affection, if not in blood--were about to seek their pillows also.
Maud, ever the quickest and most prompt in her movements, was already
in her night-clothes; and, wrapping a shawl about herself, was seated
waiting for Beulah to finish her nightly orisons. It was not long
before the latter rose from her knees, and then our heroine spoke.
"The major must have examined the basket by this time," she cried, her
cheek rivalling the tint of a riband it leaned against, on the back of
the chair. "I heard his heavy tramp--tramp--tramp--as he went to his
room--how differently these men walk from us girls, Beulah!"
"They do, indeed; and Bob has got to be so large and heavy, now, that
he quite frightens me, sometimes. Do you not think he grows wonderfully
like papa?"
"I do not see it. He wears his own hair, and it's a pity he should ever
cut it off, it's so handsome and curling. Then he is taller, but
lighter--has more colour--is so much younger--and everyway so
different, I wonder you think so. I do not think him in the least like
father."
"Well, that is odd, Maud. Both mother and myself were struck with the
resemblance, this evening, and we were both delighted to see it. Papa
is quite handsome, and so I think is Bob. Mother says he is not
_quite_ as handsome as father was, at his age, but _so_ like
him, it is surprising!"
"Men may be handsome and not alike. Father is certainly one of the
handsomest elderly men of my acquaintance--and the major is so-so-ish--
but, I wonder you can think a man of seven-and-twenty so _very_
like one of sixty odd. Bob tells me he can play the flute quite readily
now, Beulah."
"I dare say; he does everything he undertakes uncommonly well. Mr.
Woods said, a few days since, he had never met with a boy who was
quicker at his mathematics."
"Oh! All Mr. Wood's geese are swans. I dare say there have been other
boys who were quite as clever. I do not believe in _non-pareils,_
Beulah."
"You surprise me, Maud--you, whom I always supposed such a friend of
Bob's! He thinks everything _you_ do, too, so perfect! Now, this
very evening, he was looking at the sketch you have made of the Knoll,
and he protested he did not know a regular artist in England, even,
that would have done it better."
Maud stole a glance at her sister, while the latter was speaking, from
under her cap, and her cheeks now fairly put the riband to shame; but
her smile was still saucy and wilful.
"Oh nonsense," she said--"Bob's no judge of drawings--_He_ scarce
knows a tree from a horse!"
"I'm surprised to hear you say so, Maud," said the generous-minded and
affectionate Beulah, who could see no imperfection in Bob; "and that of
your brother. When he taught _you_ to draw, you thought him well
skilled as an artist."
"Did I?--I dare say I'm a capricious creature--but, somehow, I don't
regard Bob, just as I used to. He has been away from us so much, of
late, you know--and the army makes men so formidable--and, they are not
like us, you know--and, altogether, I think Bob excessively changed."
"Well, I'm glad mamma don't hear this, Maud. She looks upon her son,
now he is a major, and twenty-seven, just as she used to look upon him,
when he was in petticoats--nay, I think she considers us all exactly as
so many little children."
"She is a dear, good mother, I know," said Maud, with emphasis, tears
starting to her eyes, involuntarily, almost _impetuously_--
"whatever she says, does, wishes, hopes, or thinks, is right."
"Oh! I knew you would come to, as soon as there was a question about
mother! Well, for my part, I have no such horror of men, as not to feel
just as much tenderness for father or brother, as I feel for mamma,
herself."
"Not for Bob, Beulah. Tenderness for Bob! Why, my dear sister, that is
feeling tenderness for a _Major of Foot_, a very different thing
from feeling it for one's mother. As for papa--dear me, he is glorious,
and I do so love him!"
"You ought to, Maud; for you were, and I am not certain that you are
not, at this moment, _his_ darling."
It was odd that this was said without the least thought, on the part of
the speaker, that Maud was not her natural sister--that, in fact, she
was not in the least degree related to her by blood. But so closely and
judiciously had captain and Mrs. Willoughby managed the affair of their
adopted child, that neither they themselves, Beulah, nor the inmates of
the family or household, ever thought of her, but as of a real daughter
of her nominal parents. As for Beulah, her feelings were so simple and
sincere, that they were even beyond the ordinary considerations of
delicacy, and she took precisely the same liberties with her titular,
as she would have done with a natural sister. Maud alone, of all in the
Hut, remembered her birth, and submitted to some of its most obvious
consequences. As respects the captain, the idea never crossed her mind,
that she was adopted by him; as respects her mother, she filled to her,
in every sense, that sacred character; Beulah, too, was a sister, in
thought and deed; but, Bob, he had so changed, had been so many years
separated from her; had once actually called her Miss Meredith--
somehow, she knew not how herself--it was fully six years since she had
begun to remember that _he_ was not her brother.
"As for my father," said Maud, rising with emotion, and speaking with
startling emphasis--"I will not say I _love_ him--I _worship_
him!"
"Ah! I know that well enough, Maud; and to say the truth, you are a
couple of idolaters, between you. Mamma says this, sometimes; though
she owns she is not jealous. But it would pain her excessively to hear
that you do not feel towards Bob, just as we all feel."
"But, ought I?--Beulah, I cannot!"
"Ought you!--Why not, Maud? Are you in your senses, child?"
"But--you know--I'm sure--you ought to remember--"
"_What_?" demanded Beulah, really frightened at the other's
excessive agitation.
"That I am _not_ his real--true--_born_ sister!"
This was the first time in their lives, either had ever alluded to the
fact, in the other's presence. Beulah turned pale; she trembled all
over, as if in an ague; then she luckily burst into tears, else she
might have fainted.
"Beulah--my sister--my _own_ sister!" cried Maud, throwing herself
into the arms of the distressed girl.
"Ah! Maud, you _are_, you _shall_ for ever be, my only, only
sister."