CHAPTER XXIV.
"Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle, News from the armies, talk of your return, A word let fall touching your youthful passion Suffused her cheek, called to her drooping eye A momentary lustre."
I had no difficulty in putting my project of a private interview withGrace, in execution in my own house. There was one room at Clawbonny,that, from time immemorial, had been appropriated exclusively to the useof the heads of the establishment; It was called the "family room," asone would say "family-pictures" or "family--plate." In my father's time,I could recollect that I never dreamed of entering it, unless askedor ordered; and even then, I always did so with some such feeling as Ientered a church. What gave it a particular and additional sanctityin out eyes, also, was the fact that the Wallingford dead were alwaysplaced in their coffins, in this room, and thence they were borne totheir graves. It was a very small triangular room, with the fire-placein one corner, and possessing but a single window, that opened on athicket of rose-bushes, ceringos, and lilacs. There was also a lightexternal fence around this shrubbery, as if purposely to keep listenersat a distance. The apartment had been furnished when the house wasbuilt, being in the oldest part of the structures, and still retainedits ancient inmates. The chairs, tables, and, most of the otherarticles, had actually been brought from England, by Miles the First, aswe used to call the emigrant; though, he was thus only in reference tothe Clawbonny dynasty, having been something like Miles the Twentieth,in the old country. My mother had introduced a small settee, or somesuch seat as the French would call a _causeuse;_ a most appropriatearticle, in such a place.
In preparation for the interview I had slipped into Grace's hand a pieceof paper, on which was written "meet me in the family-room, precisely atsix!" This was sufficient; at the hour named, I proceeded to the room,myself. The house of Clawbonny, in one sense, was large for an Americanresidence; that is to say, it covered a great deal of ground, every oneof the three owners who preceded me, having built; the two last leavingentire the labours of the first. My turn had not yet come, of course;but the reader knows already that I, most irreverently, had oncecontemplated abandoning the place, for a "seat" nearer the Hudson. Insuch a _suite_ of constructions, sundry passages became necessary, andwe had several more than was usual at Clawbonny, besides having as manypairs of stairs. In consequence of this ample provision of stairs, thechambers of the family were totally separated from those of all the restof the house.
I began to reflect seriously, on _what_ I had to say, and _how_ itwas to be said, as I walked through the long passage which led to the"family-room," or the "triangle," as my own father had nicknamed thespot. Grace and I had never yet held what might be termed a familyconsultation; I was too young to think of such a thing, when last athome, and no former occasion had offered since my return. I was stillquite young, and had more diffidence than might have been expected ina sailor. To me, it was far more embarrassing to open verbalcommunications of a delicate nature, than it would have been to work aship in action. But for this _mauvaise honte_, I do think I should havebeen explicit with Lucy, and not have parted from her on the piazza, asI did, leaving everything in just as much doubt as it had been before aword passed between us. Then I entertained a profound respect for Grace;something more than the tenderness of a brother for a sister; for,mingled with my strong affection for her, was a deference, a speciesof awe of her angel-like character and purity, that made me far moredisposed to receive advice from her, than to bestow it. In the frame ofmind which was natural to all these blended feelings, I laid my hand onthe old-fashioned brass latch, by which the door of the "triangle"was closed. On entering the room, I found my sister seated on the"causeuses," the window open to admit air, the room looking snug butcheerful, and its occupant's sweet countenance expressive of care, notaltogether free from curiosity. The last time I had been in that room,it was to look on the pallid features of my mother's corpse, previouslyto closing the coffin. All the recollections of that scene rushed uponour minds at the same instant; and taking a place by the side of Grace,I put an arm around her waist, drew her to me, and, receiving her headon my bosom, she wept like a child. My tears could not be altogetherrestrained, and several minutes passed in profound silence. Noexplanations were needed; I knew what my sister thought and felt, andshe was equally at home as respects my sensations. At length we regainedour self-command, and Grace lifted her head.
"You have not been in this room since, brother?" she observed, halfinquiringly.
"I have not, sister. It is now many years--many for those who are asyoung as ourselves."
"Miles, you will think better about that 'seat,' and never abandonClawbonny--never destroy this blessed room!"
"I begin to think and feel differently on the subject, from what I oncedid. If this house were good enough for our forefathers, why is it notgood enough for me. It is respectable and comfortable, and what more doI want?
"And so warm in winter, and so cool in summer; with good thick stonewalls; while everything they build now is a shingle palace! Besides,you can add your portion, and each addition has already been a gooddeal modernized. It is so pleasant to have a house that partakes of theusages of different periods!"
"I hardly think I shall ever abandon Clawbonny, my dear; for I find itgrowing more and more precious as other ties and expectations fail me."
Grace drew herself entirely from my arms, and looked intently, and, as Ifancied, anxiously at me, from the other corner of the settee. Then sheaffectionately took one of my hands, in both her own, and pressed itgently.
"You are young to speak of such things, my dear brother," she said witha tone and air of sadness, I had never yet remarked in her voice andmanner; "much too young for a man; though I fear we women are born toknow sorrow!"
I could not speak if I would, for I fancied Grace was about to make somecommunications concerning Rupert. Notwithstanding the strong affectionthat existed between my sister and myself, not a syllable had ever beenuttered by either, that bore directly on our respective relations withRupert and Lucy Hardinge. I had long been certain that Rupert, who wasnever backward in professions, had years before spoken explicitly toGrace, and I made no doubt they were engaged, though probably subjectto some such conditions as the approval of his father and myself;approvals, that neither had any reason for supposing would bewithheld. Still, Grace had never intimated anything of the sort, andmy conclusions were drawn from conjectures founded as I imagined onsufficient observation. On the other hand, I had never spoken to Grace,of my love for Lucy. Until within the last month, indeed, when jealousyand distrust came to quicken the sentiment, I was unconscious myselfwith how much passion I did actually love the dear girl; for, previouslyto that, my affection had seemed so much a matter of course, was unitedwith so much that was fraternal, in appearance at least, that I hadnever been induced to enter into an inquiry as to the nature of thisregard. We were both, therefore, touching on hallowed spots in ourhearts, and each felt averse to laying bare the weakness.
"Oh! you know how it is with life, Grace," I answered, with affectedcarelessness, after a moment's silence; "now all sun-shine, and now allclouds--I shall probably never marry, my dear sister, and you, or yourchildren, will inherit Clawbonny; then you can do as you please with thehouse. As a memorial of myself, however, I will leave orders for stoneto be got out this fall, and, next year, I will put up the south wing,of which we have so much talked, and add three or four rooms in whichone will not be ashamed to see his friends."
"I hope your are ashamed of nothing that is at Clawbonny, now, Miles--asfor your marrying, my dear brother, that remains to be seen; young mendo not often know their own minds on such a subject, at your age."
This was said, not altogether without pleasantry, though there was ashade of sadness in the countenance of the beloved speaker, thatfrom the bottom of my heart I wished were not there. I believe Graceunderstood my concern, and that she shrunk with virgin sensitivenessfrom
touching further on the subject, for she soon added--
"Enough of this desponding talk. Why have you particularly desired tosee me, here, Miles?"
"Why? Oh! you know I am to sail next week, and we have never beenhere--and, now we are both of an age to communicate our thoughts to eachother--I supposed--that is--there must be a beginning of all things, andit is as well to commence now, as any other time. You do not seem morethan half a sister, in the company of strangers like the Mertons, andHardinges!"
"Strangers, Miles! How long have you regarded the last as strangers?"
"Certainly not strangers in the way of acquaintance, but strangers toour blood. There is not the least connection between us and them."
"No, but much love; and love that has lasted from childhood. I cannotremember the time when I have not loved Lucy Hardinge."
"Quite true--nor I. Lucy is an excellent girl, and one is almost certainof always retaining a strong regard for _her_. How singularly theprospects of the Hardinges are changed by this sudden liking of Mrs.Bradfort!"
"It is not sudden, Miles. You have been absent years, and forget howmuch time there has been to become intimate and attached. Mr. Hardingeand Mrs. Bradfort are sister's children; and the fortune of the last,which, I am told, exceeds six thousand a-year, in improving real estatein town, besides the excellent and valuable house in which she lives,came from their common grandfather, who cut off Mrs. Hardinge with asmall legacy, because she married a clergyman. Mr. Hardinge is Mrs.Bradfort's heir-at-law, and it is by no means unnatural that she shouldthink of leaving the property to those who, in one sense, have as good aright to it as she has herself."
"And is it supposed she will leave Rupert her heir?"
"I believe it is--at least--I think--I am afraid--Rupert himselfimagines it; though doubtless Lucy will come in for a fair share. Theaffection of Mrs. Bradfort for Lucy is very strong--so strong, indeed,that she offered, last winter, openly to adopt her, and to keep her withher constantly. You know how true and warm-hearted a girl Lucy is, andhow easy it is to love her."
"This is all new to me--why was not the offer accepted?"
"Neither Mr. Hardinge nor Lucy would listen to it. I was present at theinterview in which it was discussed, and our excellent guardian thankedhis cousin for her kind intentions; but, in his simple way, he declared,as long as life was spared him, he felt it a duty to keep his girl; or,at least, until he committed her to the custody of a husband, or deathshould part them."
"And Lucy?"
"She is much attached to Mrs. Bradfort, who is a good woman in the main,though she has her weaknesses about the world, and society, and suchthings. Lucy wept in her cousin's arms, but declared she never couldleave her father. I suppose you do not expect," added Grace, smiling,"that _she_ had anything to say about a husband."
"And how did Mrs. Bradfort receive this joint declaration of resistanceto her pleasure, backed, as the last was, by dollars?"
"Perfectly well. The affair terminated by Mr. Hardinge's consenting toLucy's passing each winter in town, until she marry. Rupert, you know,lives there as a student at law, at present, and will become establishedthere, when admitted to the bar."
"And I suppose the knowledge that Lucy is likely to inherit some ofthe old Bleecker estate, has not in the least diminished her chanceof finding a husband to remove her from the paternal custody of herfather?"
"No husband could ever make Lucy anything but Mr. Hardinge's daughter;but you are right, Miles, in supposing that she has been sought. I amnot in her secrets, for Lucy is a girl of too much principle to make aparade of her conquests, even under the pretence of communicating themto her dearest friend--and in that light, beyond all question, does sheregard me; but I feel as morally certain as one can be, without actuallyknowing the facts, that Lucy refused _one_ gentleman, winter beforelast, and three last winter."
"Was Mr. Andrew Drewett of the number?" I asked, with a precipitation ofwhich I was immediately ashamed.
Grace started a little at the vivacity of my manner, and then shesmiled, though I still thought sadly.
"Of course not," she answered, after a moment's thought, "or he wouldnot still be in attendance. Lucy is too frank to leave an admirer indoubt an instant after his declaration is made, and her own mind madeup; and not one of all those who, I am persuaded, have offered, has everventured to continue more than a distant acquaintance. As Mr. Drewettnever has been more assiduous than down to the last moment of ourremaining in town, it is impossible he should have been rejected. Isuppose you know Mr. Hardinge has invited him here?"
"Here? Andrew Drewett? And why is he coming here?"
"I heard him ask Mr. Hardinge's permission to visit us here; and youknow how it is with our dear, good guardian--the milk of human kindnesshimself, and so perfectly guileless that he never sees more than is saidin such matters, it was impossible he could refuse. Besides, he likesDrewett, who, apart from some fashionable follies, is both clever andrespectable. Mr. Drewett has a sister married into one of the bestfamilies on the other side of the river, and is in the habit of cominginto the neighbourhood every summer; doubtless he will cross from hissisters house to Clawbonny."
I felt indignant for just one minute, and then reason resumed its sway.Mr. Hardinge, in the first place, had the written authority, or request,of my mother that he would invite whom he pleased, during my minority,to the house; and, on that score, I felt no disapprobation. But itseemed so much like braving my own passion, to ask an open admirer ofLucy's to my own house, that I was very near saying something silly.Luckily I did not, and Grace never knew what I suffered at thisdiscovery. Lucy had refused several offers--that was something; and Iwas dying to know what sort of offers they were. I thought I might atleast venture to ask that question.
"Did you know the four gentlemen that you suppose Lucy to have refused?"said I, with as indifferent an air as I could assume, affecting todestroy a cobweb with my rattan, and even carrying my acting so far asto make an attempt at a low whistle.
"Certainly; how else should I know anything about it? Lucy has neversaid a word to me on the subject; and, though Mrs. Bradfort and Ihave had our pleasantries on the subject, neither of us is in Lucy'ssecrets."
"Ay, your pleasantries on the subject! That I dare say. There is nobetter fun to a woman than to see a man make a fool of himself in thisway; little does _she_ care how much a poor fellow suffers!"
Grace turned pale, and I could see that her sweet countenance becamethoughtful and repentant.
"Perhaps there is truth in your remark, and justice n your reproach,Miles. None of us treat this subject with as much, seriousness as itdeserves, though I cannot suppose any woman can reject a man whom shebelieves to be seriously attached to her, without feeling for him.Still, attachments of this nature affect your sex less than ours, andI believe few men die of love. Lucy, moreover, never has, and I believenever would encourage any man whom she did not like; this principle musthave prevented any of that intimate connection, without which the heartnever can get much interested. The passion that is produced withoutany exchange of sentiment or feeling, Miles, cannot be much more thanimagination or caprice."
"I suppose those four chaps are all famously cured, by this time, then?"said I, pretending again to whistle.
"I cannot answer for that--it is so easy to love Lucy, and to love herwarmly. I only know they visit her no longer, and, when they meet her insociety, behave just as I think a rejected admirer would behave, when hehas not lost his respect for his late flame. Mrs. Bradfort's fortuneand position may have had their influence on two; but the others I thinkwere quite sincere."
"Mrs. Bradfort is quite in a high set, Grace--altogether above what wehave been accustomed to?"
My sister coloured a little, and I could see she was not at her ease.Still, Grace had too much self-respect, and too much character, ever tofeel an oppressive inferiority, where it did not exist in essentials;and she had never been made to suffer, as the more frivolous and vainoften suffer, by communications wit
h a class superior to their own;especially when that class, as always happens, contains those who,having nothing else to be proud of, take care to make others feel theirinferiority.
"This is true, Miles," she answered; "or I might better say, both aretrue. Certainly I never have seen as many well-bred persons as I meetin her circle--indeed, we have little around us at Clawbonny to teachus any distinctions in such tastes. Mr. Hardinge, simple as he is, is sotruly a gentleman, that he has not left us altogether in the dark as towhat was expected of us; and I fancy the higher people truly are in theworld, the less they lay stress on anything but what is substantial, inthese matters."
"And Lucy's admirers--and Lucy herself--"
"How, Lucy herself?"
"Was she well received--courted--admired? Met as an equal, and treatedas an equal? And you, too?"
"Had you lived more in the world, Miles, you would not have asked thequestion. But Lucy has been always received as Mrs. Bradfort's daughterwould have been received; and as for myself, I have never supposed itwas not known exactly who I am."
"_Captain_ Miles Wallingford's daughter, and _Captain_ MilesWallingford's sister," said I, with a little bitterness on eachemphasis.
"Precisely; and a girl proud of her connections with both," rejoinedGrace, with strong affection.
"I wish I knew one thing, Grace; and I think I _ought_ to know it, too."
"If you can make the last appear, Miles, you may rest assured you shallknow it, if it depend on me."
"Did any of these gentry--these soft-handed fellows--ever think ofoffering to _you_?"
Grace laughed, and she coloured so deeply--oh! how heavenly was herbeauty, with that roseate tint on her cheek!--but she coloured sodeeply, that I felt satisfied that she, too, had refused her suitors.The thought appeased some of my bitter feelings, and I had a sort ofsemi-savage pleasure in believing that a daughter of Clawbonny was notto be had for the asking, by one of that set. The only answers I gotwere these disclosures by blushes.
"What are the fortune and position of this Mr. Drewett, since you areresolved to tell me nothing of your own affairs?"
"Both are good, and such as no young lady can object to. He is even saidto be rich."
"Thank God! _He_ then is not seeking Lucy in the hope of getting some ofMrs. Bradfort's money?"
"Not in the least. It is so easy to love Lucy, for Lucy's sake, thateven a fortune-hunter would be in danger of being caught in his owntrap. But Mr. Drewett is above the necessity of practising so vile ascheme for making money."
Here, that the present generation may not be misled, and imaginefortune-hunting has come in altogether within the last twenty years,I will add that it was not exactly a trade, in this country--a regularoccupation--in 1802, as it has become, in 1844. There were such thingsthen, certainly, as men, or women, who were ready to marry anybody whowould make them rich; but I do not think theirs was a calling to whicheither sex served regular apprenticeships, as is practised to-day.Still, the business was carried on, to speak in the vernacular, andsometimes with marked success.
"You have not told me, Grace," I resumed, "whether you think Lucy ispleased, or not, with the attentions of this gentleman."
My sister looked at me intently, for a moment, as if to ascertain howfar I could, or could not, ask such a question with indifference. Itwill be remembered that no verbal explanations had ever taken placebetween us, on the subject of our feelings towards the companions of ourchildhood, and that all that was known to either was obtained purelyby inference. Between myself and Lucy nothing had ever passed, indeed,which might not have been honestly referred to our long and earlyassociation, so far as the rules of intercourse were concerned, though Isometimes fancied I could recall a hundred occasions, on which Lucyhad formerly manifested deep attachment for myself; nor did I doubther being able to show similar proofs, by reversing the picture. This,however, was, or I had thought it to be, merely the language of theheart; the tongue having never spoken. Of course, Grace had nothing butconjecture on this subject, and alas! she had begun to see how possibleit was for those who lived near each other to change their views on suchsubjects; no wonder, then, if she fancied it still easier, for those whohad been separated for years.
"I have not told you, Miles," Grace answered, after a brief delay,"because it would not be proper to communicate the secrets of my friendto a young man, even to you, were it in my power, as it is not, sinceLucy never has made to me the slightest confidential communication, ofany sort or nature, touching love."
"Never!" I exclaimed--reading my fancied doom in the startling fact; forI conceived it impossible, had she ever really loved me, that thematter should not have come up in conversation between two so closelyunited--"Never! What, no girlish--no childish preference--have you neverhad no mutual preferences to reveal?"
"Never"--answered Grace, firmly, though her very temples seemedilluminated--"Never. We have been satisfied with each other's affection,and have had no occasion to enter into any unfeminine and impropersecrets, if any such existed."
A long, and I doubt not a mutually painful pause succeeded.
"Grace," said I, at length--"I am not envious of this probable accessionof fortune to the Hardinges, but I think we should all have been muchmore united--much happier--without it."
My sister's colour left her face, she trembled all over, and she becamepale as death.
"You may be right, in some respects, Miles," she answered, after a time."And, yet, it is hardly generous to think so. Why should we wish tosee our oldest friends; those who are so very dear to us, our excellentguardian's children, less well off than we are ourselves? No doubt, nodoubt, it may seem better to _us_, that Clawbonny should be the castleand we its possessors; but others have their rights and interests aswell as ourselves. Give the Hardinges money, and they will enjoy everyadvantage known in this country--more than money can possibly giveus--why, then, ought we to be so selfish as to wish them deprived ofthis advantage? Place Lucy where you will, she will always be Lucy; and,as for Rupert, so brilliant a young man needs only an opportunity, torise to anything the country possesses!"
Grace was so earnest, spoke with so much feeling, appeared sodisinterested, so holy I had almost said, that I could not find, in myheart, the courage to try her any farther. That she began to distrustRupert, I plainly saw, though it was merely with the glimmerings ofdoubt. A nature as pure as her's, and a heart so true, admitted withgreat reluctance, the proofs of the unworthiness of one so long loved.It was evident, moreover, that she shrunk from revealing her own greatsecret, while she had only conjectures to offer in regard to Lucy;and even these she withheld, as due to her sex, and the obligations offriendship. I forgot that I had not been ingenuous myself, and thatI made no communication to justify any confidence on the part of mysister. That which would have been treachery in her to say, under thisstate of the case, might have been uttered with greater frankness onmy own part. After a pause, to allow my sister to recover from heragitation, I turned the discourse to our own more immediate familyinterests, and soon got off the painful subject altogether.
"I shall be of age, Grace." I said, in the course of my explanations,"before you see me again. We sailors are always exposed to more chancesand hazards than people ashore; and, I now tell you, should anythinghappen to me, my will may be found in my secretary; signed and sealed,the day I attain my majority. I have given orders to have it drawn upby a lawyer of eminence, and shall take it to sea with me, for that verypurpose."
"From which I am to infer that I must not covet Clawbonny," answeredGrace, with a smile that denoted how little she cared for the fact--"Yougive it to our cousin, Jack Wallingford, as a male heir, worthy ofenjoying the honour."
"No, dearest, I give it to _you_. It is true, the law would do this forme; but I choose to let it be known that I wish it to be so. I am awaremy father made that disposition of the place, should I die childless,before I became of age; but, once of age, the place is all mine; andthat which is all mine, shall be all thine, after I a
m no more."
"This is melancholy conversation, and, I trust, useless. Underthe circumstances you mention, Miles, I never should have expectedClawbonny, nor do I know I ought to possess it. It comes as much fromJack Wallingford's ancestors, as from our own; and it is better itshould remain with the name. I will not promise you, therefore, I willnot give it to him, the instant I can."
This Jack Wallingford, of whom I have not yet spoken, was a man offive-and-forty, and a bachelor. He was a cousin-german of my father's,being the son of a younger brother of my grandfather's, and somewhat ofa favourite. He had gone into what was called the new countries, in thatday, or a few miles west of Cayuga Bridge, which put him into WesternNew York. I had never seen him but once and that was on a visit he paidus on his return from selling quantities of pot and pearl ashes in town;articles made oh his new lands. He was said to be a prosperous man, andto stand little in need of the old paternal property.
After a little more conversation on the subject of my will, Grace and Iseparated, each more closely bound to the other, I firmly believed,for this dialogue in the "family room." Never had my sister seemed moreworthy of all my love; and, certain I am, never did she possess more ofit. Of Clawbonny she was as sure, as my power over it could make her.
The remainder of the week passed as weeks are apt to pass in thecountry, and in summer. Feeling myself so often uncomfortable in thesociety of the girls, I was much in the fields; always possessing thegood excuse of beginning to look after my own affairs. Mr. Hardinge tookcharge of the Major, an intimacy beginning to spring up between thesetwo respectable old men. There were, indeed, so many points of commonfeeling, that such a result was not at all surprising. They both lovedthe church--I beg pardon, the Holy Catholic Protestant Episcopal Church.They both disliked Bonaparte--the Major hated him, but my guardianhated nobody--both venerated Billy Pitt, and both fancied the FrenchRevolution was merely the fulfilment of prophecy, through the agencyof the devils. As we are now touching upon times likely to produceimportant results, let me not be misunderstood. As an old man, aiming,in a new sphere, to keep enlightened the generation that is coming intoactive life, it may be necessary to explain. An attempt has been madeto induce the country to think that Episcopalian and tory were somethinglike synonymous terms, in the "times that tried men's souls." This issufficiently impudent, _per se_, in a country that possessed Washington,Jay, Hamilton, the Lees, the Morrises, the late Bishop White, and somany other distinguished patriots of the Southern and Middle States;but men are not particularly scrupulous when there is an object to beobtained, even though it be pretended that Heaven is an incident of thatobject. I shall, therefore, confine my explanations to what I have saidabout Billy Pitt and the French.
The youth of this day may deem it suspicious that an Episcopaldivine--_Protestant_ Episcopal, I mean; but it is so hard to get the useof new terms as applied to old thoughts, in the decline of life!--maydeem it suspicious that a Protestant Episcopal divine should careanything about Billy Pitt, or execrate Infidel France; I will,therefore, just intimate that, in 1802, no portion of the country dippedmore deeply into similar sentiments than the descendants of those whofirst put foot on the rock of Plymouth, and whose progenitors had justbefore paid a visit to Geneva, where, it is "said or sung," they hadfound a "church without a bishop, and a state without a king." In aword, admiration of Mr. Pitt, and execration of Bonaparte, were by nomeans such novelties in America, in that day, as to excite wonder. Formyself, however, I can truly say, that, like most Americans who wentabroad in those stirring times, I was ready to say with Mercutio, "aplague on both your houses;" for neither was even moderately honest, oreven decently respectful to ourselves. Party feeling, however, the mostinexorable, and the most unprincipled, of all tyrants, and the bane ofAmerican liberty, notwithstanding all our boasting, decreed otherwise;and, while one half the American republic was shouting hosannas tothe Great Corsican, the other half was ready to hail Pitt as the"Heaven-born Minister." The remainder of the nation felt and acted asAmericans should. It was my own private opinion, that France and Englandwould have been far better off, had neither of these worthies ever had abeing.
Nevertheless, the union of opinion between the divine and the Major, wasa great bond of union, in friendship. I saw they were getting on welltogether, and let things take their course. As for Emily, I cared verylittle about her, except as she might prove to be connected with Rupert,and through Rupert, with the happiness of my sister. As for Rupert,himself, I could not get entirely weaned from one whom I had so muchloved in boyhood; and who, moreover, possessed the rare advantageof being Lucy's brother, and Mr. Hardinge's son. "Sidney's sister,Pembroke's mother," gave him a value in my eyes, that he had long ceasedto possess on his own account.
"You see, Neb," I said, towards the end of the week, as the black andI were walking up from the mill in company, "Mr. Rupert has altogetherforgotten that he ever knew the name of a rope in a ship. His hands areas white as a young lady's!"
"Nebber mind dat, Masser Mile. Masser Rupert nebber feel a saterfactionto be wracked away, or to be prisoner to Injin! Golly! No gentleum to beenvy, sir, 'em doesn't enjoy _dat!_"
"You have a queer taste. Neb, from all which I conclude you expect toreturn to town with me, in the Wallingford, this evening, and to go outin the Dawn?"
"Sartain, Masser Mile! How you t'ink of goin' to sea and leave nigger athome?"
Here Neb raised such a laugh that he might have been heard a hundredrods, seeming to fancy the idea he had suggested was so preposterous asto merit nothing but ridicule.
"Well, Neb, I consent to your wishes; but this will be the last voyagein which you will have to consult me on the subject, as I shall make outyour freedom papers, the moment I am of age."
"What dem?" demanded the black, quick as lightning.
"Why, papers to make you your own master--a free man--you surely knowwhat that means. Did you never hear of free niggers?"
"Sartin--awful poor debble, dey be, too. You catch Neb, one day, atbeing a free nigger, gib you leave to tell him of it, Masser Mile!"
Here was another burst of laughter, that sounded like a chorus inmerriment.
"This is a little extraordinary, Neb! I thought, boy, all slaves pinedfor freedom?"
"P'rhaps so; p'rhaps not. What good he do, Masser Mile, when heart andbody well satisfy as it is. Now, how long a Wallingford family lib,here, in dis berry spot?"--Neb always talked more like a "nigger," whenwithin hearing of the household gods, than he did at sea.
"How long? About a hundred years, Neb--just one hundred and seven, Ibelieve; to be accurate."
"And how long a Clawbonny family, at 'e same time, Masser Mile?"
"Upon my word, Neb, your pedigree is a little confused, and I cannotanswer quite as certainly. Eighty or ninety, though, I should think, atleast; and, possibly a hundred, too. Let me see--you called old Pompeyyour grand-father; did you not, Neb?"
"Sart'in--berry good grandfader, too, Masser Mile. Ole Pomp a won'erfulblack!"
"Oh! I say nothing touching the quality--I dare say he was as good asanother. Well, I think that I have heard old Pompey's grandfather was animported Guinea, and that he was purchased by my great-grandfather aboutthe year 1700."
"Dat just as good as gospel! Who want to make up lie about poor debbleof nigger? Well, den, Masser Mile, in all dem 1700 year, did he ebberhear of a Clawbonny that want to be a free nigger? Tell me dat, once,an' I hab an answer."
"You have asked me more than I can answer, boy; for, I am not in thesecret of your own wishes, much less in those of all your ancestors."
Neb pulled off his tarpaulin, scratched his wool, rolled his black eyesat me, as if he enjoyed the manner in which he had puzzled me; afterwhich he set off on a tumbling excursion, in the road, going like awheel on his hands and feet, showing his teeth like rows of pearls, andconcluding the whole with roar the third, that sounded as if the hillsand valleys were laughing, in the very fatness of their fertility. Thephysical _tour de force,_ was one of those feats o
f agility in which Nebhad been my instructor, ten years before.
"S'pose I free, who do sich matter for you, Masser Mile?" cried Neb,like one laying down an unanswerable proposition. "No, no, sir,--Ibelong to you, you belong to me, and we belong to one anodder."
This settled the matter for the present, and I said no more. Neb wasordered to be in readiness for the next day; and at the appointed hour,I met the assembled party to take my leave, on this, my third departurefrom the roof of my fathers. It had been settled the Major and Emilywere to remain at the farm until July, when they were to proceed to theSprings, for the benefit of the water, after living so long in a hotclimate. I had passed an hour with my guardian alone, and he had nomore to say, than to wish me well, and to bestow his blessing. I did notventure an offer to embrace Lucy. It was the first time we had partedwithout this token of affection; but I was shy, and I fancied shewas cold. She offered me her hand, as frankly as ever, however, and Ipressed it fervently, as I wished her adieu. As for Grace, she weptin my arms, just as she had always done, and the Major and Emily shookhands cordially with me, it being understood I should find them in NewYork, at my return. Rupert accompanied me down to the sloop.
"If you should find an occasion, Miles, let us hear from you," saidmy old friend. "I have a lively curiosity to learn something of theFrenchmen; nor am I entirely without the hope of soon gratifying thedesire, in person."
"You!--If you have any intention to visit France, what betteropportunity, than to go in my cabin? Is it business, that will take youthere?"
"Not at all; pure pleasure. Our excellent cousin thinks a gentleman of acertain class ought to travel; and I believe she has an idea of gettingme attached to the legation, in some form or other."
This sounded so odd to me! Rupert Hardinge, who had not one penny to rubagainst another, so lately, was now talking of his European tour, and oflegations! I ought to have been glad of his good fortune, and I fanciedI was. I said nothing, this time, concerning his taking up any portionof my earnings, having the sufficient excuse of not being on pay myself.Rupert did not stay long in the sloop, and we were soon under way. Ilooked eagerly along the high banks of the creek, fringed as it was withbushes, in hopes of seeing Grace, at least; nor was I disappointed.She and Lucy had taken a direct path to the point where the two watersunited, and were standing there, as the sloop dropped past. They bothwaved their handkerchiefs, in a way to show the interest they felt inme; and I returned the parting salutations by kissing my hand againand again. At this instant, a sail-boat passed our bows, and I sawa gentleman standing up in it, waving his handkerchief, quite asindustriously as I was kissing my hand. A look told me it was AndrewDrewett, who directed his boat to the point, and was soon making hisbows to the girls in person. His boat ascended the creek, no doubt withhis luggage; while the last I saw of the party it was walking off incompany, taking the direction of the house.