Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1852], The golden Christmas: a chronicle of St. John's, Berkeley. Compiled from the notes of a briefless barrister (Walker, Richards and Co., Charleston) [word count] [eaf684T].
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CHAPTER I. A DOUBTFUL CASE OF LOVE ON THE TAPIS.
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It was during that premature spell of cold weather which we so
unseasonably had this year in October,—anticipating our usual
winter by a full month or more,—cutting off the cotton crop a
fourth, and forcing us into our winter garments long before they
were ordered from the tailor,—when, one morning, as I stood shivering
before the glass, and clumsily striving, with numbed fingers,
to adjust my cravat à la nœud Gordien,—my friend, Ned Bulmer,
burst into my room, looking as perfect an exquisite as Beau
Brummell himself. He was in the gayest clothes and spirits, a
thousand times more exhilarated than usual—and Ned is one of
those fellows upon whom care sits uneasily, whom, indeed, care
seldom sets upon at all! He laughed at my shiverings and
awkwardness, seized the ends of my handkerchief, and, with the
readiest fingers in the world, and in the most perfect taste, adjusted
the folds of the cravat, and looped them up into a rose beneath
my chin, in the twinkling of an eye, and to my own perfect satisfaction.
“That done,” said he,—“what have you now for breakfast?”
A bachelor's breakfast is not uncommonly an extempore performance.
I, myself, really knew not what was in the larder, or
what my cook was about to provide. But this ignorance occasioned
no difficulty. I knew equally well my guest and cook.
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“There is doubtless quite enough for two moderate fellows like
ourselves. Let us descend to the breakfast room and see.”
“I warn you,” said he, “I am no moderate fellow at this moment.
I am hungry as a Cumanche. I was out late last night at
the house of that starched framework of moral buckram, the widow
D—e; and got no supper. Her freezing ladyship seems to
fancy that she provides well enough when she surfeits every body
with her own dignity; and, though there was a regular party,—a
monstrous re-union of town and country cousins,—yet, would you
believe it, except the tea service at eight o'clock, cakes and crumpets,
and such like unsubstantial stuffs, we got not a mouthful all
the evening! Yet, in momentary expectation of it, every body
hung on till twelve o'clock. The case appearing then perfectly desperate,
and the stately hostess becoming more freezingly dignified
than ever, people began to disappear. The old ladies lingered to
the last, and then went off breathing curses, not loud but deep!
Old Mrs. F— was terribly indignant. I helped her to the carriage.
`Did you,' said she, `ever see such meanness? I wonder
if she thinks people come to her parties only to see her in her last
Parisian dresses? And that we should stay till twelve o'clock
and get nothing after all! Let her invite me again, and she
shall have an answer.' `Why what will you say?' said I. `What
will I say?' said she. `I'll tell her yes, I'll come, provided she'll
allow me to bring my supper with me.'
`And she'll be very sure to do it too,' said I: `she's just the
woman for it.'”
“I shall not quarrel with her if she does. I calculated something
on the supper myself, took no tea, and was absolutely famished.
I was so hungry that, but for the distance, and my weariness,
I should have driven down to Baker's, and surfeited myself
upon Yankee oysters. You see now why I am so solicitous on
the subject of the sort of breakfast you can provide.”
“Faith, Ned,” said I, “one might reasonably ask, why, being
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so monstrous hungry, you should yet sally forth on an empty
stomach! Why didn't you get breakfast at home? Why come
to sponge upon a needy bachelor, and without due warning given
of the savage character of your appetite?”
“Oh! you penurious monster! You are as stingy as Madame
D—e. But, confound you! Do you think it is your breakfast,
in particular, that I am in search of? Let me quiet your suspicions.
Hungry as I am, I have a much more important quest
in seeking you, and came as soon as I could, in order to catch you
before you should go out this morning. I slept so late, that,
when I sprang out of my bed and looked at my watch, I found I
hadn't a moment to lose. So I took the chance of securing you
and my breakfast by the same operation. Thus am I here and
hungry. Are you satisfied?”
“Quite! But what's in the wind now, that you must see me
in such a hurry. No quarrel on hand, I trust.”
“No! no! Thank God! It is Venus not Mars, at this season
of the year, to whom I address my prayers. It is an affair of the
heart, not of pistols. But to the point. Have you any engagements
to-day? I am in need of you.”
“None!” with the natural sigh of a young lawyer, whose desires
are more numerous than his clients, and whose hopes are
always more magnificent than his fees.
“Good! Then you must serve me, as you can, efficiently.
You alone can do it. You must know, then, that Paula Bonneau
is in town with her grandmother. They came yesterday, and may
leave to-morrow. They are hurried; I don't know why. I heard
of them last night at Dame D—e's. They would have been
present, and were at first expected; but sent an excuse on the plea
of fatigue.”
“And did not accordingly—we may suppose—go supperless to
bed. But what have I to do in this matter? `What's Hecuba to
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me, or I to Hecuba?' You surely don't design that I should take
Paula off your hands.”
“Off my hands, indeed. No! no! mon ami! I wish you
rather to assist in putting her into them.”
“Humph! not so easy a matter. But how did you hear of
their movements and arrangements?”
“From Monimia Porcher! The dear little creature gave me a
world of news last night, and promises me every assistance. But
she is not a favourite with our grandmother, as you know, and consequently
can render me, directly, no great assistance. But you
can.”
“Prithee, how?”
“I have sent word to Paula by Monimia that I will call upon
her at ten. I know that she and the old lady are to go out shopping
at eleven. Now, you will call with me. You are a favourite
with the grandmother, and you are to keep her off. I want to get
every possible opportunity; for I am now determined to push the
affair to extremities. I won't take it as I have done. I shall
bring all parties to terms this season, or keep no terms with them
hereafter.”
“What! You persist, knowing all your father's anti-Gallican
opinions—his prejudices, inherited for a hundred years!”
“In spite of all! His prejudices are only inherited. They
must be overcome! They are surely nonsensical enough. He
has no right to indulge them at the expense of my happiness.”
“To which you really think Paula necessary?”
“Can you doubt! I am a rough dog, you know; but I have
a heart, Dick, as you also know; and I doubt if I could ever feel
such a passion for any other woman as I feel for Paula.”
“She is certainly a rare and lovely creature. I am half inclined
to take her myself.”
“Don't think of it, you Turk! Content yourself with dreaming
of Beatrice Mazyck. I'll help you in that quarter, mon ami,
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and so will Paula. And she can! They are bosom friends, you
know.”
“But, Ned, her grandmother is quite as hostile to the English
Bulmer tribe, as your father is to the Huguenot Bonneaus. You
have a double prejudice to overcome.”
“Not so! It is the old lady's pride only, that, piqued at the
openly avowed prejudices of my family, asserts its dignity by opposition.
Let my father once be persuaded to relax, and we shall
thaw the old lady. She is devotedly attached to Paula, and, I
believe, she thinks well enough of me; and would have no sort of
objection, but for the old antipathy to my name.”
“You are so sanguine!—Well! I'm ready to help as you require.
What is the programme.”
“You must secure me opportunities for a long talk with Paula
alone. You must keep off the dragon. I am prepared to brave
every thing—all my father's prejudices—and will do so, if I can
only persuade her to make some corresponding sacrifice for me. I
am now tolerably independent. In January, my mother's property
comes into my hands; and, though it does not make me
rich, it enables me to snap my fingers in the face of fate! I am
resolved to incur every risk, at all events. Paula, too, is a fearless
little creature; and, though wonderfully submissive to the
whims of her grandmother, I feel sure that she will not sacrifice
herself and me to them in a matter so essential to our mutual
happiness. Things are looking rather more favourable than usual.
There have been occasional meetings of the two families. The
old lady and my father even had a civil conversation at the last
tournament; and he has resolved upon a sort of feudal entertainment,
this Christmas, which shall bring together the whole neighbourhood,—
at least for a day or two. You are to be there: so he
requires me to say, and his guest, of course, while in the parish.
You must do your endeavour for me while there. It will not be
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my fault, if the season shall pass without being properly improved.
Love has made me somewhat desperate.”
“Beware, lest your rashness should lose you all. Your father's
prejudices are inveterate.”
“I think not. They begin to soften. He begins to feel that
he is getting older, and he becomes more amiable accordingly.
He talks old prejudices rather than feels them. It is a habit with
him now, rather than a feeling. He barks, like the old dog, but
the teeth are no longer in capacity to bite. For that matter, his
bark was always worse than his bite. What he says of the Huguenots
is only what his grandfather said and thought. Without
the same animosity, he deems it a sort of family duty, to maintain
the old British bull-dog attitude, as if to show that his blood has
undergone no deterioration. In respect to Paula, herself, he said,
at the last tournament, that she was really a lovely little creature,
and regretted that she was of that soup maigre French stock.
There are sundry other little favourable symptoms which seem to
show me that he is growing reasonable and indulgent.”
Here, we were signalled to breakfast, and our dialogue, on this
subject, was suspended for awhile.
CHAPTER II. A BACHELOR'S BREAKFAST.
It is not often that our fair readers are admitted to the mysterious
domain which entertains a bachelor as its sovereign. They
fancy, the dear conceited little creatures, that such a province is a
very desolate one. They delude themselves with the vain notion
that, without the presence of some one or more of their mischievously
precious sex, a house, or garden, is scarcely habitable; and
that man, in such an abode, is perpetually sighing for some such
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change as the tender sex only can impart. They look upon, as
quite orthodox, the language of Mr. Thomas Campbell, who sings—
“The garden was a wild,
And man, the hermit, sigh'd, till woman smiled.”
But this is all vanity and delusion. We no where have any testimony
that the condition of Adam was thus disconsolate, before
Eve was stolen from his side, in order that she should steal to his
side. This is all a mistake. Adam did very well as a gardener,
and quite as well as a housekeeper, long before Eve was assigned
him as a helpmate, and was very comfortable in his sovereignty
alone. We know what evil consequences happened to his housekeeping
after she came into it, and what sort of counsellors she
entertained. Let it not, therefore, be supposed that we bachelors
can not contrive to get on, with our affairs exclusively under our
own management. I grant that there is a difference; but the
question occurs, `Is this difference for the worse in our case?'
Hardly! There is, confessedly, no such constant putting to rights,
as we always find going on in the households of married men.
But that is because there is no such need of putting to rights.
There is previously no such putting to wrongs, in such a household.
There, every thing goes on like clockwork. There is less
parade, I grant you; but there's no such fuss! Less neatness;
but no jarrings with the servants. To the uninitiated eye, things
appear in exemplary confusion; but the solitary head of the
household can extract order from this confusion at any moment.
It is a maze, but not without a plan. You will chafe, because
there is a want of neatness; but then our bachelor has quiet. Ah!
but you say, how lonesome it looks! But the answer is ready.
The bachelor is not, nevertheless, the inhabitant of a solitude.
His domain is peopled with pleasant thoughts and sweet visitors,
and, if he be a student, with sublime ones. He converses with
great minds, unembarrassed by the voices of little ones. He
communes with master spirits in antique books. These counsel
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and teach him, without ever disputing what he says and thinks.
They fill, and instruct his soul, without vexing his self-esteem.
They bring music to his chamber, without troubling his ears with
noise. But, you say, he has none of the pleasures which spring
from his communion with children. You say that the association
with the young keeps the heart young; and you say rightly. But
the bachelor answers and says—if he has no children of his own,
he sees enough of his neighbours. They climb his fences, pilfer
his peaches, pelt his dog, and, as Easter approaches, break into his
fowl-yards and carry off his fresh eggs. Why should he seek for
children of his own, when his neighbours' houses are so prolific?
He could give you a long discourse, in respect to the advantages
of single blessedness,—that is, in the case of the man. In that of
the woman, the affair is more difficult and doubtful. He is not
prepared to deny that she ought to get married whenever she can
find the proper victim. To sum up, in brief, he goes and comes
when he pleases, without dreading a feminine authority. He
takes his breakfast at his own hours, and dines when in the humour,
and takes his ease at his inn. His sleep is undisturbed by
unpleasant fancies. He is never required to rise at night, no matter
how cold the weather, to see that the children are covered, or
to warm the baby's posset. Never starts with horror, and a chilling
shiver, at every scream, lest Young Hopeful, the boy, or
Young Beauty, the girl, has tumbled down stairs, bruizing nose,
or breaking leg or arm; and, if he stays out late o'nights, never
sneaks home, with unmanly terrors, dreading to hear no good of
himself when he gets there. At night, purring, in grateful reverie,
by his fireside, he makes pictures in his ignited coals, which
exhilarate his fancy. His cat sleeps on the hearth rug, confident
of her master, and never dreading the broomstick of the always
officious chambermaid; and the ancient woman who makes up his
bed, and prepares his breakfast, appears before him like one of
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those seeming old hags of the fairy tale who turn out to be
princesses and good spirits in homely disguise.”
“See now,” said I to Ned Bulmer, as Tabitha the cook brought
in the breakfast things. “See now, the instance. Tabitha is not
comely. Far from it. Tabitha never was comely, even in the
days of her youth. Her nose is decidedly African, prononcé after
the very worst models. Her mouth, a spacious aperture at first,
has so constantly worked upon its hinges for fifty-six years, that
the lips have lost their elasticity and the valves remain apart, open
in all weathers. Her entire face is of this fashion. She looks like
one of the ugly men-women, black and bearded, such as they
collect on the heath, amidst thunder and lightning, for the encounter
with Macbeth. Yet, at a word, Tabitha will uncover the
dishes, and enable us, like the old lady in the fairy legend, to fill
our mouths with good things. Such is the bachelor's fairy. Take
my word for it, Ned, there's no life like that of a bachelor. Continue
one, if you are wise. Paula Bonneau is, no doubt, a delightful
little picture of mortality and mischief. But so was Pandora.
She has beauty, and sweetness, and many virtues, but she
will fill the house with cares, every one of which has a fearful
faculty of reduplication. Be a bachelor as long as you can, and
when the inevitable fate wills it otherwise, provide yourself with
all facilities for dying decently. Coffee, Tabitha.”
Such was the rambling exordium which I delivered to my
friend, rather with the view of discouraging his anticipations than
because I really entertained any such opinions. He answered me
in a huff.
“Pshaw! what nonsense is all this! Don't I know that if you
could get Beatrice Mazyck to-morrow, you'd change your blessed
bachelorhood into the much abused wedlock.”
“Fate may do much worse things for me, Ned, I grant you.”
“It is some grace in you to admit even so little. But don't
you speak again, even in sport, so disrespectfully of the marriage
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condition. Don't I know the cheerlessness of yours. Talk of
your books and ancient philosophers! don't I know that you are
frequently in the mood to throw them into the fire; and, even
while you sit over it, the reveries which you find so delicious, are
those which picture to you another form, of the other gender, sitting
opposite you, with eyes smiling in your own, and sweet
lips responding at intervals to all the fondest protestations which
you can utter. Tabitha, indeed! I verily believe the old creature,
though faithful and devoted to you, grows sometimes hateful
in your eyes, as reminding you of her sex in the most disagreeable
manner;—a manner quite in discord to such fancies as your own
thoughts have conjured up. Isn't it so, Tabitha? Isn't Ned
sometimes monstrous cross, and sulky to you, only because you
haven't some young mistress, Tabitha?”
“I 'spec so, Mass Ned: he sometime mos' sick 'cause he so
lonesome yer. I tell um so. I say, wha' for, Mass Dick, you no get
you'se'f young wife for make your house comfortable, and keep
you company yer, in dis cold winter's a'coming. I 'spec its only
'cause he can't git de pusson he want.”
“True, every word of it, Tab! But never you mind. You'll
be surprised some day with another sort of person overlooking
your housekeeping. What do you think, Tabitha, of Miss Beatrice
Mazyck.”
“Hush, Ned!”
“She's a mighty fine young pusson, and a purty one too. I
don't tink I hab any 'jection to Miss Beatrice.”
“Very well! You're an accommodating old lady. She'll be
the one, be sure of it. So keep the house in order. You'll be
taken by surprise. Then we shall see very different arrangements
in the housekeeping here, Tabby. Do you suppose that she'd let
Dick lie abed till nine o'clock in the morning, and sit up, smoking
and drinking, till midnight?”
“Nebber, in dis world, Mass Ned.”
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“And, if the power is with her, never in the next, Tabitha.
Then, do you think she'd suffer a pack of fellows to be singing
through the house at all hours—and such singing, and such
songs.”
“Nebber guine le' um come, Mass Ned. Him no guine 'courage
dis racket yer at all hours. I tell you for true, Mass Ned, dis
house, sometime, aint 'spectable for people to lib in. You no
know what de young gentlemens do here at night, keeping me up
for make coffee for um, sometime mos' tell to-morrow morning.”
“It's perfectly shocking, Tabitha. She'll never suffer it.”
“Nebber, Mass Ned.”
“Then, Tabby, do you think she'd let these tables and chairs
be so dusty, that a gentleman can't sit in them without covering
his garments with dust as from a meal bag.”
“Sure, Mass Ned, I brush off de tables and chairs ebbry morning.”
And, saying this, the old woman began wiping off chairs
and tables with her apron.
“But she'll see it done after a different fashion, Tabitha. She'll
have you up at cock crow, old lady, putting the house to rights.”
“Hem! I 'spec she will hab for git young sarbant den, for you
see Mass Ned, dese old bones have de rheumatiz in dem.”
“Not a bit of it, old lady. A young wife has no pity on old
bones. She'll make you stir your stumps, if you never did before.
She will never part with you, Tabitha. She knows your value.
She knows how Dick values you. She will have no other servant
than you. You'll have to do everything, Tabby, even to nursing
the children. And, between you and her, the old house will grow
young again. It will make you happy, I'm, sure, to see it full of
young people, and plenty of company, looking quite smart always;
always full of bustle and pleasure; every body busy; none idle;
not a moment of time, so that, when you lie down at midnight,
to rouse up at daylight, you'll sleep as sound as if you were in
heaven.”
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“I don't tink, Mass Ned, I kin stan' sich life as dat. De fac'
is, Mass Dick is berry comfortable jist now, as he stan'. He aint
got no trouble. He know me, and I knows him. I don't see
wha' for he want to get wife. I nebber yer him say he's oncomortable.”
“Ha! ha! ha! The tune rather changes, Tabitha. But this
house, as it is, is quite too dull for both you and your master.
When Beatrice Mazyck comes home, you'll have music. She will
waken up the day with song, like a bird. She will put the day to
sleep with song. You'll have fine times, Tabby—music, and
dancing, and life and play.”
“Wha's people guine do for sleep, Mass Ned, all dis time.
People must hab sleep.”
The old woman spoke this sharply. Ned laughed gaily, beckoned
for another cup of coffee, and the ancient housekeeper was
for the moment dismissed.
“You have effectually cured her of any desire for a mistress,”
said I.
“See how opinion changes,” quoth Ned,—“yet Tabitha is no
bad sample of the world at large, white and black. Our opinions
shape themselves wonderfully to suit our selfishness.—Dick, pass
me those waffles.”
I suppose there is hardly any need to describe a bachelor's
breakfast. Ours was not a bad one. Coffee and waffles, sardines
and boiled eggs,—to say nothing of a bottle of Sauterne, to which
I confined myself, eschewing coffee in autumn—these were the
chief commodities. The table, I must do Tabitha the justice to
declare, was well spread, with a perfectly white cloth, and the
edibles served up, well cooked and with a clean and neat arrangement.
Edward Bulmer soon satisfied his wolfish appetite, and,
when the things were removed, it was after nine o'clock. His
buggy was already at the door. We adjusted ourselves, and having
an hour to consume, went over all the affairs of the parish, of
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which he had recently informed himself. Now, as every body
knows, St. John's is one of the most polished, hospitable, and intelligent
of all the parishes in the low country of South-Carolina;
and the subject, to one like myself who knew it well, and who had
not been thither for a long time, was a very attractive one. On
Ned's account, also, I was desirous of being well informed in all
particulars, that none of the proper clues might be wanting to my
hands, while conversing with Paula's granddame. The hour
passed rapidly, conning these and other matters, and ten o'clock
found us punctually at the entrance of the Mansion House. Our
cards were sent in, and, in a few moments, we were in the parlour
of that establishment, and in the presence of the fair Paula, and
her stately, but excellent granddame, Mrs. —, or, considering
the race, I should probably say, Madame Agnes-Theresa Girardin.
CHAPTER III. KING-STREET SHOPPING, AND SHARP SHOOTING.
Paula Bonneau was as lovely a little brunette as the eye ever
rested upon with satisfaction. Her cheek glowed with the warm
fires of Southern youth; her eye flashed like our joyous sunlight;
her mouth inspired just the sort of emotion which one feels at
seeing a new and most delicious fruit imploring one to feed and
be happy; while her brow, full and lofty, and contrasting with
voluminous masses of raven hair, indicated a noble and intellectual
nature, which the general expression of her face did not contradict.
That was a perfect oval, and of the most perfect symmetry.
The nose, by the way, was aquiline, a somewhat curious
feature in such a development, but perfectly consistent with the
bright eagle-darting glances of her eye. Paula was, indeed, a
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beauty, but I frankly confess quite too petite for my taste. Still, I
could admire her, as a beautiful study,—nay, knowing the amiable
and superior traits of her heart and character, I could love the
little creature also. She was, in truth, a most loveable little
being, and, though she did not inspire me with any ardent attachment—
perhaps, for the sufficient reason that I had fixed my
glances on another object—still, I felt no surprise at the passion
with which she stirred the blood in the bosom of my friend.
The contrast between herself, and her stately grand-dame, was
prodigious. One could hardly suppose that the two owed their
origin to a similar stock. Madame Girardin was tall beyond the
ordinary standards of woman, and very disproportionately slender
for her height. She was one of those gaunt and ghostly-looking
personages, who compel you to think of fierce birds of prey, such
as haunt the shores of unknown rivers or oceans, with enormous
long limbs, long beaks, red heads, and possibly yellow legs. Her
nose was long like her limbs, and tapered down to a point like a
spear head. Her lips were thin and compressed. She could not
well be said to show her teeth, whatever might be the fierceness
of her looks in general. Her eyes were keen and black, her eye
brows thick, furzy and pretty well grizzled, while her locks were
long, thin, grizzled also, and permitted rather snakily to hang
about her temples. The dear old grandmother was decidedly no
beauty; but she was noble of spirit, high-toned, and of that sterling
virtue and stern character, which constituted so large a portion
of our female capital in preceding generations. She had her
faults, no doubt, but she was a brave-souled, and generous woman.
Her great weakness was her family pride—vanity, perhaps,
we should call it—which made her overrate the claims of her own
stock, and correspondingly disparage those of most other households.
Like many other good people, who have otherwise very
good common sense, she really persuaded herself that there was
some secret virtue in her blood that made her very unlike, and
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very superior to other people. Like the Hidalgos, she set a prodigious
value upon the genuine blue blood—perhaps, she even
esteemed hers as of a superior verdigris complexion, the result of
continued strainings and siftings, through the sixty millions of
generations from Adam. Had she been queried on this subject,
perhaps she might have admitted a belief that certain angels had
been specially designated, at the general dispersion of the human
family, at some early period, to take charge of the Girardins, and
to see, whenever the sons and daughters were to be wived and
husbanded, that none but a bonâ fidê first cousin should be found
to meet the wants of the parties to be provided. Enough of this.
It was her weakness—a little too frequent in our country, where
society is required of itself to establish distinctions of caste, such
as the laws do not recognize, and such as elsewhere depend upon
the requisitions of a court. The weaknesses of Madame Girardin,
as I have already said, did not prevent her from being a very
worthy old lady,—i. e., so long as you forebore treading upon the
toes of her genealogy.
Knowing her weaknesses, and forbearing, if not respecting
them, I was something of a favourite with the old lady, who received
me very cordially. Such also was my reception at the
hands of the young one,—possibly, because she knew the part
that I was likely to take in promoting the affaire de cœur between
herself and my friend. But I should not impute this selfishness
to her. Paula was a frank, gentle creature, who had no affectations—
no pretensions—and was just as sincere and generous as
impulsive and unaffected. We had been friends from childhood—
her childhood at least—had played a thousand times together in
the parish, and I had no reason to doubt the feeling of cordiality
which she exhibited when we met. My social position was not
such as to outrage the self-esteem of either. The Coopers of the
parish—an English cross upon a Huguenot stock,—seem not to
have inherited any prejudices of race from either the English or
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French side of the house. We had consequently provoked none
of the enmities of either. In the case of our family, the amalgam
of the two had been complete, and we occupied a sort of neutral
place between them, sharing the friendship, in equal degree, of
the descendants of both. Hence, I was, perhaps, an equal favourite
of old Major Bulmer, Ned's father, and of Madame Agnes-Theresa,
Paula's grandmother.
But, to our progress. Of course, I took special care of the
grandmother during our morning call. By the most watchful
and—shall I say—judicious solicitude—I kept her busily engaged
on such parish topics as I knew to be most grateful to her pride
and prejudices. I got her so deeply immersed in these matters
that she entirely forget her duenna watchfulness over the two
other persons in the apartment. Of course, I took care not to
look towards them, as they sat together near the piano, at the
opposite side of the parlour, lest I should divert the eyes of the
grandmother in the same direction. And thus we chatted, Ned
making all possible amount of hay during the spell of sunshine
which he enjoyed, and Paula tacitly assisting him by never showing
any clouds herself. Time flew apace, and we had consumed
nearly an hour, when the old lady suddenly looked at her watch,
and exclaimed—
“Why, Paula, child, it is almost eleven. What have you been
talking about all this time?”
The good grandmother, like most other old ladies, never dreamt
that she herself had been doing any talking at all. Paula immediately
started, like a guilty little thing, and exclaimed artlessly—
“Dear me, mamma, can it be possible.”
“Possible, indeed!” responded the grandmother rather sharply.
“You young people seem never to think how time flies. But get
your bonnet, child. Mine is here.”
The maiden disappeared for a few moments, glad to do so, for
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her cheeks betrayed a decided increase of the rich suffusion which
owes its fountains to the excited heart. While she was gone, Ned
was most profoundly courteous to the ancient lady, and she most
courteously cold. When Paula came back, I asked of Madame
Agnes-Theresa—
“Do you walk, Madame Girardin.”
“Yes; we have not far to go, only into King-street, where we
have some shopping to do.”
“If you will suffer me,” said I, “I shall be happy to accompany
you. I have quite a taste and a knack at shopping.”
A most deliberate lie, for which the saints plead, and the heavens
pardon me. I know no occupation that more chafes and
fatigues me; but Ned's affairs had rendered my tastes flexible and
my conscience obtuse.
“But it will be taking you from your business. You young
lawyers, Mr. Cooper, are said to be very ambitious and very close
students.”
I did not laugh at the old lady's simplicity, though I might
have done so; but answered with corresponding gravity—
“Very true, ma'am, but that is just the reason why we relish a
little respite, such as a morning's ramble in King-street promises.
Besides, I have really nothing just now to occupy me.”
And this said, too, while the Court of Common Pleas was in
session. Of course, I did not tell the good lady that I had not a
single case on the docket. I suppressed that fact for the honour of
the profession, and the credit of the community. The old lady
was fond of deference and attention, and, as old ladies are not
often so fortunate as to secure the chaperonage of handsome young
gentlemen, she was not displeased that I should urge upon her
my duteous attendance. My services were accepted, and, taking
my arm, only looking round to see that Paula did not take that
of Ned Bulmer, she led the way out of the parlour and into the
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street. From Meeting to King, through Queen-street, was but a
step, and we were soon in our fashionable ladies' thoroughfare.
The day was a bright and mild one, just such as we commonly
experience in November,—cooler and more pleasant than usually
characterizes the present month of October. The street was
crowded with carriages, and the trottoir with fair and happy
groups all agog with the always grateful excitement—to the
ladies—of seeing one another, and—fancy dresses. Our country
cousins were encountered at every turning, and, between town and
country, we had to run the gauntlet of old acquaintance, and
often repeated recognition. It was quite delightful to see how my
dignified and venerable companion met and acknowledged the
salutations of those she knew. Her demeanour varied with strict
discrimination of the caste and quality of each acquaintance. She
was a sort of social barometer, exactly telling by her manner,
what sort of blood flowed in the veins of each to whom she
bowed or spoke. To some few she unbent readily, with a spontaneous
and unreserved and placid sweetness; to others she was
starch and buckram personified, and, to not a few, her look was
vinegar and vitriolic acid. Even where I myself did not know the
parties, personally, I had only to notice her manner as they approached,
to find their proper place, high or low, in the social circles
of town or country. Good, old, aristocratic Dame Girardin
was an admirable graduating scale, for determining the qualities
of the stock, and the colour of the blood, in the several candidates
for her notice, as we perambulated our Maiden Lane. See her in
contact with a person of full flesh—a parvenu, not yet denuded of
vigour by the successive intermarriages of cousins for an hundred
years—and the muscles of her face became corrugated like those of
an Egyptian mummy, who had been laid up in lavender leaves
and balsams, since the time of the Ptolomies;—but, the next
moment, you were confounded to see her melt into sunshine and
zephyr, as she encountered some dried-up, saffron-skinned atomy,
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having legibly written on her cheeks, a parchment title to have
sate at the board of Methuselah. It was absolutely delightful.
Her comments upon the parties were equally rich and instructive.
A fine-looking, cheery lady, the well known and very
attractive Mrs. —, looked out from her carriage window, and
smiled and chirrupped to her as she drove slowly by.
“A vulgar creature!” exclaimed my ancient companion—
“what a coarse voice,—what a fat vulgar face she has. No delicacy.
But how should she have any? She pretends to be somebody
now, because she has a little money; but if I were to say
what she was—or rather what her grandfather was—I knew him
very well, and have bought my negro shoes from him a hundred
times. The upstart. Ah!”—with a deep sigh—“every thing
degenerates. Lord knows what we will come to at last. It is a
hard thing to find any body of pure blood in the city now! Such
a mingling of puddles! This trade! This commerce! I declare
it's the ruin of the country!”
Here I ventured to interpose a word for the fair woman thus
hardly dealt with—one of my own acquaintance, whom I had
every reason to esteem;—and I said—
“It's unfortunate, to be sure, that Mrs. —'s grandfather
dealt in negro shoes; but she seems to have got over the misfortune
pretty well. She is now every where acknowledged in the
best society.”
“The more's the pity. Best society, indeed. There are half a
dozen circles, calling themselves the best society in Charleston,
and don't I know that, in each, they are crowded with parvenus—
people of yesterday—without any claims to blood or family—descendants
of Scotch and Yankee pedlars,—mechanics—shopkeepers—
adventurers of all sorts, who have nothing but their impudence
and their money—made, heaven knows how—to help them
forward.”
“But,” continued I, “Mrs. —, is really a very charming
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woman—she is very clever, very pretty, and is considered very
amiable.”
“It's impossible. As for pretty, that, I suppose, is a matter of
taste; and I can hardly allow even that. Mere health, and smooth
cheeks, and youth, are very far from constituting beauty. Beauty
depends upon delicacy, and symmetry, and—blood. As for
clever—I suppose you mean she's smart.”
“Yes!”
“Smartness is vulgar. Rank and family don't need to be
smart. Talent is necessary to poverty, or to inferiority of social
position, since it is, perhaps, necessary that there should be something,
by way of compensation, given to persons who are poor
and without family rank. But wealth, talent and beauty, even—
if all combined—can never supply those graces of manner and
character, which are the distinguishing qualities of high birth.”
“But successive generations in the possession of wealth and
talent, my dear madam,” I suggested, “must surely result in
those excellencies of manner, taste and character, which you properly
insist upon as so important.”
“Impossible! Let me warn you against any such conclusions,”
responded the old lady, with a parental shake of the head and
finger.
“But,” said I, “of course, even the most select stocks in the
world, must have had a beginning once, in some of the ordinary
necessities of life.”
“No, sir; no, Mr. Richard”—almost with severity—“certain
families have been always superior, from the beginning! Here
now, here comes Colonel —. He is one of those, whose
families were always, beyond dispute, in the highest circles. Ah!
the poor gentleman, how feeble he is—see how he walks, as if
about falling to pieces.”
“Yet he is scarcely more than fifty.”
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“Ah! he is so wretched. He has no children, and he so longs
for a son, and his name will probably die out.”
“Yet, he has been thrice married.”
“Yes! yes! he first married Mary — then her sister Jane,
and lastly, her younger sister, Matilda;—and no children.”
“All were his cousins, I think?”
“Yes! and Matilda is even now, I hear, a dying woman! I'm
sure I pity him from the bottom of my soul. That such a family
should become extinct.”
“He is now poor, I am told. Has run through his fortune.”
“Run through his fortune, Mr. Cooper! I don't like the phrase.
He has lived like a gentleman and a prince, and has become impoverished
in consequence. He has erred, perhaps, by such extravagant
living; but I cannot think severely of a person who has
spent it in such a noble style of hospitality. My heart bleeds for
him!”
Here the person spoken of approached,—a person well known
about town,—one who had wasted his means like a fool, and had
not the soul to recover them like a man,—whose ancestors had
exhausted the physical vigour of the family by a monstrous succession
of intermarriages; and who had consummated the extreme
measure of their follies, by himself marrying three cousins in succession.
The natural consequence was physical and moral imbecility.
The race had perished, and it was, perhaps, just enough
that its possessions should disappear also. I confess that I felt but
little sympathy for such a person; and as he tottered up to us,
and smirked, and smiled, and sniggered, and talked with an inanity
corresponding exactly with his character, the pity which his
poverty and feebleness might have inspired, was all swallowed up
in the scorn which I felt for such equal impotence and vanity.
“Ah! it's melancholy,” said the old lady, as he left us; “such
a name, such a family, so reduced—reduced to one, and he, you
may say, already half in the grave.”
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I had half a mind to ask the old lady, if she didn't think it
would have been preferable had his father married some vigorous
young woman of no family at all, and brought up his son to some
manly occupation; so that he himself might be now vigorous, with
sense enough to marry, in turn, some vigorous young woman, of
no family at all; having health all round, numerous children to
perpetuate the name, and energies sufficient to preserve the fortune;—
but I felt the danger to the cause of Ned Bulmer, of touching
upon ground so delicate; and, at this moment, the worthy
granddame looked about her for Paula and her companion. In
her disquisitions upon the new and vulgar people, and her long
talk with the dying Castilian of rare blue blood, she had quite forgotten
the young couple. They had enjoyed the field to themselves,
and were now not to be seen. The old lady took the alarm.
I told her they had probably popt into Kerrison's, and we went
back to look for them. There they were, sure enough, Paula
looking over silks and velvets—a wilderness of beauty, in the ample
world and variety of the accommodating house in question—
but with Ned Bulmer close to her side, whispering those oily delights
into her ear, with which young lovers are apt to solace
themselves and their companions, in this otherwise very cheerless
existence. It was evident to me, from the grave face of the damsel,
and the conscious one of Ned, that he had done a large
amount of haymaking that morning. Whether the old lady suspected
the progress which he had made or not, it was not easy to
determine. She did not show it, and was soon as much interested
in the examination of the various and gorgeous fabrics around
her, as any younger person in the establishment,—which, as usual,
was crowded like a ball-room. Kerrison's, indeed, is quite a lounge
for the ladies;—a place where, if you wish to find your friends
and acquaintance, without the trouble of looking them up,
you have only to go thither. The dear old grandmother soon
found sundry of hers, of town and country, and was again in little
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while under full sail over the sea of social conversation—one of
those admirable seas, by the way, in which no one gets out of his
depth. Of course, when Madame Girardin got as deeply as she
could amidst the waters, Ned Bulmer resumed his toil upon the
meadows at the more sunny and profitable occupation. I loitered
at a convenient distance between the duenna and the damsel, contriving,
in the most unconscious manner in the world, to interpose
as a sort of shield for the protection of the latter from the occasional
glances of the former. When Madame seemed to have
bathed long enough, in her favourite streams, and turned again to
the counter, she found me promptly at her elbow turning over for
her inspection piles of changeable silk, chintzes of the finest patterns,
shawls and other stuffs, for which my experience in the dry
goods business is not sufficient to allow me to recall the proper
names. Fancy the dreariness of this employment—reviewing for
a mortal hour all sorts of fabrics, coarse and fine, silk and frieze,
cloths worthy of a nobleman, and cloths not unworthy of Sambo
and Sukey! Verily, friendship required of me great sacrifices
that day, and I inwardly swore that Ned should suffer, in a basket
of champagne at least, to be sent the very next day to my lodgings.
(Par parenthese, he did so—and helped me to drink it
too!) I even undertook, such was my good nature, to get the
good grandmother's orders for groceries supplied—listening patiently
to a volume of instructions touching the quality of raisins,
citron, almonds, and other matters, all portending cakes, pies, puddings,
and other Christmas essentials and essences. But this
aside.
From Kerrison's we sauntered off to Lambert's and Calder's,
the old lady being sworn to a new tapestry carpet, and being very
choice about colours and figures. The choice was made at last,
and after picking up some rings, chains, and other pretty trinkets
at Hayden's, intended for Christmas presents, dear little Paula
recollected that she required books; so we went to Russell's. Here
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the stately grandmama, trained in the stiff old schools, recoiled
with a feeling akin to horror, as her eye rested on the exquisite
and elaborate busts of Psyche and the Greek Slave. I couldn't
persuade her to a second look at them.
“Such shows,” said she, “would not have been permitted in
my day. Powers, indeed! He must be a very bad person. But,
I have said already, I see what we're coming to. The good old
stocks die out, and every thing degenerates. Loose morals, vulgar
fashions, bad manners, and gross, coarse, nameless people, of
whom nobody even heard ten years ago.”
A large picture in front arrested her eye. Certain chubby angels,
suspended in air, were waiting for the escaping soul of a
dying martyr. The old lady seemed quite distressed about the
angels. Her criticism would, no doubt, have greatly afflicted
the artist.
“Why,” said she, “they look as if they were going to tumble
upon the heads of the people. And well they may; for the painter
has made them so fat and vulgar that no wings in the world
can keep them up. As if an angel should have fatness. They
look as if they fed upon pork and sausages. It's very shocking—
very vulgar. Why, Paula, those angels look for all the world like
the great-cheeked, troublesome fat boys of old Cargus,—only he
don't let em go quite so bare in cold weather.”
Russell nearly fainted at this criticism, but he did not despair of
the old lady, and modestly suggested that he could show her
something which he fancied would please her better.
“Only step back here, ma'am,” said he in his most courteous
manner. But the dear old Castilian grandmama was not to be
inveigled even by the profound bow and graceful smile of our
courtly Bibliopolist.
“No! sir!” quoth she with stately courtesy—“I thank you; I
have seen enough—quite enough. Such things are not grateful
to my eyes. I am only sorry that they should please any eyes.”
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And she looked as if she were about to add—“I have lived only
too long.” And she nodded her head slowly several times, as if
over the wickedness of the modern Nineveh,—by which, of course,
you must understand, our poor little city of Charleston. Paula was
less sensitive, and of course more sinful. She looked with eager
eyes at the beautiful busts, hung upon the Psyche, much to the
disquiet of grandmama, even contemplated the picture of the hideous
looking saint, and the vulgarly fat little angels, and, following
Russell into the back room was startled into admiration by the exquisite
ideal of the Escaping Soul. I can't say that she was much
impressed by the Transfiguration—certainly not with the tributary
scene at the foot of the mountain. But we must stop. It was
three o'clock before we had finished the shopping ramble through
King-street. When we left the ladies again at the Mansion
House, Ned Bulmer was quite in high spirits, and full of commendations.
“You did the thing handsomely, Dick, and I flatter myself I
have done the thing handsomely too. Paula does not promise me
positively to run up the flag of independence; but she has suffered
me to see that she will never compel me to commit matrimony
with any body else, or suicide for the want of her. And now for
dinner. You take your soup with me to-day, of course.
CHAPTER IV. THE PARISH. —THE BULMER BARONY.
Our scene now changes from town to country—from St. Philip's
and St. Michael's to St. John's surnamed of Berkeley. Dame Agnes-Theresa
and Paula Bonneau had taken their departure from
Charleston, the second day after our shopping expedition through
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King-street. I had seen them that night and the next, on both
occasions accompanied by Ned Bulmer. I am happy to inform my
pleasant public that nothing transpired during those two visits to
undo the favourable results which have been already reported. By
dint of the utmost vigilance and solicitude, I contrived to steer
wide of the morbid sensibilities of our grandmother, or so to handle
them as to leave her as amiably soothed as under the passes
of a scientific magnetizer. Miss Martineau could not have operated
more admirably for the recovery of her favourite dun cow,
which all the doctors had given up. The auspices thus favourable,
we beheld their departure for the country with confident anticipations,
and after the lapse of a week Ned Bulmer followed them.
Not, be it remembered, that he proceeded to visit them at Rougemont,
the plantation seat of the Bonneau family for a hundred
years—so called, because the house was erected on a red clay
bank,—but that he went into the same parish, and somewhat in
the immediate neighbourhood, trusting to the chapter of accidents,—
being always in the way—for an occasional meeting with the
lovely Paula. As for going straight to Rougemont, even for a
morning call, that was a thing impossible. The good old grandmother,
hospitable and courtly as she was, had never honoured
him with the slighest intimation that his presence there would be
agreeable. She was somewhat justified in this treatment, according
to parish opinion, by the long feud which had existed between
the Bulmer and Bonneau families. Ned was unfortunate in his
operations, and baffled in all his plans and hopes. It so happened
that he never met with Paula, nor could he contrive any mode of
communicating with her. The consequence was, that after fruitless
experiments for ten days, he wrote to urge my early coming
up. As a strong inducement to me to anticipate the period which
I had assigned for my visit, he advised me of the return of Beatrice
Mazyck from the mountains. He knew my weakness with
regard to this young lady, and, though he knew my doubts of
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success, and could himself hold out no encouragements, his selfish
desires prompted him to counsel me to hurry up and look also to
the chapter of chances for those prospects which he could not
base upon reasonable probabilities. Was it friendship, or my own
passion, that moved me to an instant compliance with his request?
The reader is permitted to suppose just which he pleases. I pushed
for the parish in three days after receiving his letter, leaving
my law office in the hands of my young friend A— T—;
who so happily divides himself between Law and Poesy, without
having the slightest misgivings of the jealousy of either mistress.
The legal control of my bachelor household was yielded to Tabitha,
my cook,—who, since the awkward hints of Ned Bulmer, had
taken frequent occasions to assure me that the peace of my house
was secure only so long as it was that of a bachelor.
The Bulmer Barony—for old Bulmer, great-great-grandfather to
Ned, had been one of the Barons of Carolina, when, under the
fundamental constitutions ascribed to Locke, the province had a
nobility of its own—was still a splendid estate, though considerably
cut down from its old dimensions of twenty-thousand acres.
I suppose the “Barony,” now, includes little more than four thousand.
Still, it was a property for a prince, and the present incumbent,
Major Marmaduke Bulmer, was accounted one of the
wealthiest of our landholders. He owned some three hundred
slaves, of whom half the number, perhaps, were workers. Ned's
own property, in right of his mother, was a decent beginning for a
prudent man, and he was looking about for the purchase of a
small plantation in the neighbourhood on which to settle, as soon as
his negroes came under his own control. At the “Barony” I
was received with such a welcome, as none knows better how to
accord than the Carolina gentleman of the old school. Major Bulmer
had been trained in this school, which, by the way, in the
low country parishes, was of two classes. There was an English
and a French class. The one was distinguished by frankness, the
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other by propriety;—the former was rough and impulsive, the
latter scrupulous and delicate; the former was apt to storm, occasionally,
the latter to sneer and indulge in sarcasm; the former
was loud and eager; the latter was tinctured with propriety which
sometimes became formality. In process of time, the two schools
modified each other; at all times, they were equally hospitable
and generous: fond of display, scorning meanness, and, accordingly,
too frequently sacrificing the substantial securities of life,
for the more attractive enjoyments of society. This will suffice to
give an idea of the general characteristics of the two classes. Major
Bulmer was not an unfair specimen of the former. He did not
belong to the modern mincing school of the English, which has
somewhat impaired its manners by graftings from the Continent
which sit but awkwardly on the sturdy old Anglo-Norman stock.
He was not a nice, staid, marvellously measured old gentleman,
who said “how nice!” when he was delighted with any thing,
and hemmed and hawed over a sentence, measuring every word
as if he dreaded lest he should commit a lapse in grammar. On
the contrary he was apt to blurt out the words just as they came
uppermost, as if perfectly assured that he could say nothing amiss.
So again, instead of the low, subdued, almost whispered tones
which the modern fine gentleman of England affects, he was apt
to be somewhat loud and voluminous—boisterous, perhaps—when
a little excited, and at all times sending out his utterances with a
sort of mountain torrent impulse. In a passion, his voice was a
sort of cross between the roar of a young lion, and the scream of
an eagle darting after its prey.
But, the reader must not suppose that Major Bulmer was a sort
of American Squire Western. He was no rough, ungainly, sputtering,
swaggering, untrained, untrimmed north country squire,
bull-headedly bolting into the circle, and storming and splurging
through it, wig streaming and cudgel flourishing on every hand.
The Major was a man of force and impulse, but he was a man of
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dignity also. His character was bold and salient—his nature
demanded it—but it had been trained, and in not a bad school.
It had the sort of polish which was at once natural to, and sufficient
for it, and his impulse was not without its grace, and his
vehemence was not wanting in the necessary forbearance. No
doubt, he sometimes shocked very weak nerves; and, knowing
that, he was not apt to force his way into sick chambers. If the
invalid sensibility came in his way, it was at its own peril. So
much for the Major's morale. His personnel was like his moral.
He was large, well made, erect at sixty, with full rosy cheeks, lively
blue eyes, a frosty pow, but a lofty one, and he carried himself
like a mountain hunter. On horseback, he looked like a natural
captain of cavalry, and, I have no doubt he would have led a
charge such as would have made Marshal Ney clap hands in
approbation.
The Major met me at the porch of “The Barony,” and took
me by the shoulders, instead of by the hands.
“What, Dick, “said he, “what, the devil! You are letting
hard study and the law kill you up. You are as thin as a cypress
pole, and look quite as melancholy. You are pale, wan, and quite
unlike what you were two years ago. Then, you could have stood
a wrestle with any of us,—now,—deuce take me Dick, if I can't
throw you myself.”
And he seemed half disposed to try the experiment.
“But this Christmas in the parish will bring you up again.
You must recruit. You must throw those law books to the devil.
No man has a right to pursue any study or profession which impairs
manhood. Manhood, Dick, is the first of virtues. It includes, it
implies them all. Strength, health and courage,—these are the
first necessities—without these I would'nt give a fig for any virtue.
It could'nt be useful without it, and a stagnant virtue might as well
be a vice for all the benefit it does society.”
I report the Major literally. His speech will show the reader
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the sort of character with whom he has to deal. I need not say
that I was received at “The Barony,” as if I had been one of the
household. Miss Janet Bulmer, the maiden sister of the Major, a
calm, quiet, sensible, and rather pretty antique—she certainly had
been pretty, and, by the way, had been crossed in love—welcomed
me as affectionately as if I had been her own son. She was the
Major's housekeeper, shared some of his characteristics, if not his
prejudices, but was subdued even to meekness in her demeanour.
Not that she had lost her spirit; but its exercise seldom suffered
provocation. She rescued me from the clutches of her brother,
and conducted me to my chamber, in what was called the garden
wing of the establishment. It was near sunset when I arrived,
and Ned Bulmer was absent; no one knew whither. He had
gone out on horseback; I suspected in what direction. I was
busy at the toilet, adjusting myself for presentation at supper,
when he burst into the room, with a cry of joy and welcome. He
had a great deal to say, but the report was not favourable. He had
not yet been able to meet with Paula.
“But now that you are come, my dear fellow, you will call upon
the old lady, and convey the necessary message to the young one.”
All of which I promised. We were yet busy in details when
Zack, the most courtly negro that ever wore gentleman's livery,
made his appearance.
“Happy to see you, Mr. Richard,—very happy, sir;—not looking
so well as in old times, Mr. Richard;—hope you'll improve,
sir, at the Barony. Mr. Ned,—Miss Janet says—supper's on
table, gentlemen.”
Stately, courteous, deliberate, respectful, considerate, proper, reserved,
always satisfactory, Zacharias! You are a treasure in any
gentleman's household! We promptly obeyed the summons of
Aunt Janet—for so I had long been accustomed to call her, in the
language of my friend.
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CHAPTER V. SUPPER AND PHILOSOPHY.
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
If, dear reader, you have been one of those luckless earthlings
to whom an indulgent providence has never permitted the enjoyment
of the hospitalities of a Southern plantation, the proprietors
of which have been trained to good performances, by long practice,
under generous tuition, derived from the habits, customs,
manners, tastes and wealth of long time ago,—I can only pity
your ignorance, for, it is not possible, in the brief space allotted to
me in this narrative, to undertake to cure it. You must gather
up from incidental suggestions and remarks, as I proceed, what
faint notion I may thus afford you, of the thousand nameless
peculiarities which so gratefully distinguish social life in the regions
through which we ramble together. It is not pretended,
mark me, that in this respect we have undergone no changes.
Far from it. The last thirty years have done much to render traditional,
in many quarters, those graces of hospitality which constituted
the great charm of our old plantations; and, in particular,
to lose for us the solid advantages of an English training and
education, as it was taught eighty years ago to our planters in Europe,
without giving to their descendants any corresponding equivalent
for it. Still there are tokens and trophies of the past,
making dear and holy certain ancient homesteads—an atmosphere
of the venerably sweet in the antique, the spells of which
have not entirely passed away. But these tokens no longer exhibit
the usual vitality, though they retain the familiar form. Their
traces may be likened to the withered rose leaves in your old cabinet,
that still faintly appeal to the senses, but rather recall what
they cannot restore, and pain you by the contrasts they force upon
you, rather than compensate you by their still lingering sweetness.
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It was the pride and passion of Major Bulmer,—who was fully conscious
of the changes going on in the country,—that “Bulmer
Barony” should be the last to surrender those social virtues which
constituted the rare excellence of our old plantation life in the
South.
His home was a venerable brick mansion, after the old English
fashion in most respects,—a great square fabric, with wings. The
passage-way or hall was spacious, and the massive stair-flight that
ascended from it, was of mahogany of the most solid fabric. No
miserable veneering was the broad plate, and the elaborate moulding.
This great house was always kept in thorough repair;—
not looking fresh and shiny, with paint and plaster, and green
blinds,—but kept whole,—no decay suffered,—no sign of decay,
even though the ivy was suffered to creep and clamber, greeming
the whole north wall, leaving but narrow space for the windows
even, and stretching round and hanging over the corners of the
house on the east and west. Not a service or a servant was lessened,
or cut off from the establishment as it was known in the
days of his grandfather. The butler, the porter, the waiters, the
out-riders, the post-boy,—all were the same. He still drove his
coach and four, though he permitted himself a buggy with four
seats and driven by a pair, occasionally giving it a curse, not because
it did not exactly please him, but because it was an innovation.
Breakfast, dinner, lunch, supper—all after the old fashion—
recurred ever at the same period. The cook had been so regulated
that she herself had become a first rate time-piece. It was
surprising how admirably her time corresponded with that of the
hall clock, which was always kept in proper order. Then, there
could be no possible change in the character of the dishes. These
were rigidly old English,—nay, almost Saxon in their solidity.
“None of your French kickshows for me,” quoth the Major, when
his son spoke of pâté de foiè gras. What! eat the liver complaint!
and that of a goose too. May I swallow my own liver
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first. No! Ned! none of that nonsense, boy. It is quite enough
to sicken me to see you with that d—d swallow-tailed republican
French coat, which you properly call a Lamartine.”
“Why, father, it is a mere elaboration of an English shooting
jacket.”
“Nonsense! You are speaking of the modern English, who are
nothing but continental apes and asses. The real old English,
before they became corrupted with their paltry affectations, would
have scorned such a popinjay fashion. At all events, if you will
wear such a monstrosity, and disfigure an otherwise good person,
you are at liberty to do so, but by — no French diseases shall
be employed as a substitute for wholesome human food, at the
Barony, while I am the master of it.”
Accordingly, the supper table of Major Bulmer exhibited no imported
meats, unless we include in this category a delicious Buffalo
tongue, of which I devoured more than a reasonable man's proportion.
Some excellent stuffed beef, part of a round from dinner,
a ham into which the first incisions were that day made, some
cold mutton, which I contend to be a specially good thing in
spite of Goldsmith's sneering reference, (in Retaliation,) and a
variety besides, made the table literally to groan under its burden;
and the reader will suppose a corresponding variety of bread
stuffs and cakes, jellies and other matters. Ask Major Bulmer, on
the subject, and he would readily admit the doubtful taste of such
arrangement and display. “But,” says he, “it is the old custom.
I inherited it—it is sacred as the practice of my ancestors,—and in
these days of democracy, which threaten to turn the world upside
down, in which old things are to become new, I do not feel myself
at liberty to question the propriety of the few antique fashions
which I am permitted to retain. I prefer to incur the reproach of
a deficient taste to that of a failing veneration.”
We did ample justice to the provisions—our appetite suffering
no censure from taste in respect to the arrangements of the table.
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After supper we adjourned to the library,—Major Bulmer improving,
by the way, upon his grandfather, having contrived to
make a handsome collection of some three thousand volumes, all
in solid English bindings (done in New-York) and in massive
cases, manufactured out of our native forest growth. These, I am
happy to say, issued from the workshops of Charleston. Here,
with floor finely carpeted, books around us for every temper, a
rousing fire of oak and hickory in the ample fireplace, and each of
us disposed in great rocking chairs, we meditated through the
media of the best Rio Hondos—the Major excepted—who preferred
to send up the smokes of Indian sacrifice, from a native clay
pipe, which he had bought thirty years before from a Catawba.
“Life!” quoth the Major,—“Life!”—that was all. The smoke
did the rest, and each of us instinctively thought of vapour.
“Yes, life is not such a bad thing!” continued the Major.
“Nay! give a man enough to go upon, and life is rather a good
thing in its way. Indeed, I am not sure but I would rather live
than not. Somehow, I get on very well. I make good crops,
and I have a good appetite. I can back a horse against a regiment,
and I have a taste for Madeira. Yet I have had troubles,
and cares, and anxieties. That son, Dick, is one of my anxieties.
I want to see the fellow married.”
“I suspect,” said I, “that he would like to see himself married.”
“No, indeed!” quoth the Major quickly. “Why, the d—l,
should he wish to be married! What will marriage do for such a
fellow. He is quite too young, yet, to understand its importance.
He is too unsettled! He must sow his wild oats first.”
“He wants to settle;—and, as for sowing his wild oats, Major,
I see no reason why he should not sow them in his own grounds.”
“Every chap, now-a-days,” responded the Major, “before he
fairly chips the shell, wants to settle himself as his own master.
Ned has the same foolish hankerings. He talks of buying and
planting. Why not plant with me?”
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“But you, sir, did not plant with your own father. You set
up for yourself, if I remember rightly, before you came of age;”
said Ned, with a chuckle, thinking he had caught the old man
between the ribs.
“So I did,” said he, “and lost by it. I lost, God knows how,
eleven thousand dollars in three years.”
“That was because you were so extravagant,” quoth Ned irreverently.
“Were you to follow my example now.”
“Get out, you young rascal! Follow your example! You
are looking at that place of old Gendron: but you could never
make anything there. It was worn out forty years ago.”
“I don't think it was ever worn at all,” answered Ned—“I
doubt if it was ever ploughed fairly in its life. The surface was
only scratched in those days. The good soil yet lies below, and
can bring first rate cotton under good cultivation.”
“And who made you a planter? What sort of cultivation
would you give it, do you think? Do you suppose I would trust
you with a crop of mine? Don't I know what will come of your
setting up for yourself? In six months you'll be coming to me
for money. In a year I shall have to step forward and assume
your responsibilities to the tune of two or three thousand dollars,
as I did only a year ago.”
“Well, father, you'll do it?”
“Will I, then? Perhaps—for I'm too indulgent to you by a
long shot, and have been ever since I broke your head with that
hickory—”
“Certainly, a decided proof of your indulgence!” cried Ned,
with a laugh.
“So it was, for you deserved to have not only your head but
every bone in your body broken; but when, in my passion I
knocked you down and your blood flooded my best carpet, I
thought I had killed you,—as if it were possible to kill such a fellow
by any hurt done to the head—and since then a proper
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consideration of my own weight of arm and anger, have made me forbear
utterly, until now drubbing would do you no service. You
are ruined, I am afraid, for any future use.”
“A wife will cure him, Major;” said I.
“And perhaps punish him more effectually than anything I
can do; and I shouldn't object provided he could get the right
one. But there, again, he is not disposed to do as I want him.
He has a hankering after that pretty little Frenchified huzzy,
Paula Bonneau, and thinks I don't see—and don't suspect. Answer
honestly now, Ned Bulmer, is it not true what I say?”
“I own the soft impeachment, sir;” was the quiet response
of Ned, lighting a fresh cigar, and reversing the position of his
crossed legs.
“You own—and what a d—d mincing phrase is that. Do
you suppose it proper because it is taken from Shakspeare. You
own it! Well, sir, and why do you suffer yourself to hanker after
such a woman as that? Not a woman in fact—a mere child—a
doll—a pretty plaything—more like a breast pin than a woman—
a very pretty cut Italian cameo, sir; but not fit for a wife. What
sort of children, sir, do you suppose such a woman can bring you?
Such as will do credit to the name of your family—to the State—
able to wield a broad-sword—able to command respect and preside
with state and dignity in a parlour, or at a dinner table! Besides,
Ned, she's French, and we are English, and for a hundred
years there has been an antipathy between our two families!”
“High time to heal it, father;” said Ned, flushed and firing up.
“Don't speak unkindly, sir, of Paula Bonneau. You know, sir, it
is wrong—you wrong her as a lady, young, innocent, intelligent,
of good family, and very beautiful. You wrong yourself as a gentleman,
boastful of family, so to speak;—and you know it—and feel
it, sir. If Paula is petite, as I allow, she is not the less worthy to
be the wife of any man, nor will she fail to command respect any
where. There's no lady in the parish of better manners, more
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dignified and amiable, polished and unaffected. As for these old
family antipathies and grudges, I do think, sir, that it's a disgrace
to common sense that you should entertain them. What if
she has French blood in her veins? So have half the English,
and the best half too. Your Normans who conquered England
infused into it all the vitality that made the race great. All that
their descendants have of the noble and the conquering came
from the Norman side of the house. The Saxon was a sullen boor,
whose sole virtue was his dogged bull-dog tenacity. But the
chivalry, the enterprise, the lofty adventure, and the superior
tastes, were borrowed from the Normans. Your own family, sir
was originally Norman, and you yourself, had you lived three hundred
years ago, might have been proud of your French tongue at
an English court. The fact is, sir, you too much underrate our
family, its antiquity no less than its character, in dating only from
the prejudices of your great-great-grandsire in America. It was
in his ignorance of his own origin that he imbibed those prejudices,
and from his personal rivalries with old Philip Bonneau. It
happened unfortunately that his son had a French rival in Paul
Bonneau, the son of Philip; and his son again, in your father
found an antagonist in the younger Philip. But you, sir, have no
such rival, and why you should, discrediting all gallantry, make a
woman, a girl, the object of your antipathy, simply to perpetuate
the silly personal prejudices of your ancestors, neither justice, nor
generosity, nor common sense, can well see! I protest, sir, it is
positively a reproach to your manhood that you should thus religiously
maintain an antipathy, when its object is a sweet, young,
artless, and unoffending woman!”
The Major was taken all aback.
“Take breath, Ned, take breath,—or let me breathe a little.
Well, sir, have you done?”
“Done!”
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“By the powers, Dick Cooper, did you ever hear a father so
be-rated by a son!”
“Really, sir, he proves his legitimacy by the close resemblance
of his style to your own.”
“Good!—and now Master Edward Bulmer do you suppose that
I would not gladly welcome any man-antagonist of the Bonneau
family?”
“Nobody suspects you of fear, sir; but courage in the encounter
with an armed man, and an equal, is not the sole proof of
manliness. The courage, sir, which is just and magnanimous,
and which shrinks from the idea of wrong-doing, as from death
and shame, is the best proof that one can give of a true nobility.
How, sir, with your general sense of what is right—with your
pride and sense of honour,—can you reconcile it to yourself to
speak sneeringly and scornfully of such a pure, sweet, gentle creature
as Paula Bonneau—one who has never wronged you—one,
too, whom you know to be the object of the most earnest attachment
of your son.”
The Major was disquieted. Ned had caught him tripping. He
knocked the ashes out of his pipe—put fresh tobacco in—knocked
that out also—then stuck the empty pipe into his mouth, and began
drawing and puffing vigorously. Ned, meanwhile, had risen,
and was taking long strides across the floor. The old man, at
length, recovered his tone. He felt the home truths which he had
heard, and was manly enough to acknowledge them. He sprang
to his feet, with the elasticity of a boy of eighteen.
“Ned's right,” said he to me, “after all. He's rough, but he's
right. Ned, my son, forgive me. I have wounded you more
sorely than I meant.”
His arms were extended, and the son rushed into them. For a
moment the Major clasped him closely to his bosom. He was
proud of his boy—his only—he knew his real nobleness of
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character, and he felt how much he had outraged it. I felt my eyes
suffused at the picture.
“You are right, Ned; but do me not the injustice to suppose
that I meant any wrong to Paula Bonneau. She is a good girl, I
verily believe, and a pretty one, I am willing to admit—but, Ned,
for all that, look you,—you shall never marry her with my consent.
There—enough! Good night, boys.”
Thus saying, the Major hurried off, evidently anxious to avoid
any more words.
“Something gained,” said I.
“You think so?”
“Decidedly.”
“Yet, you heard his last words?”
“It doesn't matter! With a magnanimous nature, the conviction
that it has wantonly done a wrong to another, and the desire
to repair it, lead always one or more steps beyond. I should not
be surprised if Paula Bonneau grows into favour after a while.”
“Heaven grant it; but you are tired. Let us to bed.”
CHAPTER VI. OUR AFFAIRS BECOME MUCH COMPLICATED.
Ned Bulmer was too eager and anxious about his affaire du
cœur to give me much respite. His buggy was at the door soon
after breakfast the next morning.
“Whither”—asked the Major of his son,—“whither are you
going to carry Richard to-day? Certainly, there is nothing so
important as to deny him one day's rest when he gets here.”
“I want him to go with me and see this place of Gendron's
I am willing to take his opinion of the lands.”
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“Why, what the deuce can a lawyer know of lands?”
“I shall want him, possibly, to look into the titles and draw up
the papers. And as he is something of a surveyor, he can help
me to find the lines.”
Aunt Janet smiled quietly and whispered to me—“see that you
do not trespass upon the lands of Madame Girardin.”
I saw that our proceedings were no mystery to her, and guessed
that she was not unfriendly to Ned's passion. The Major growled
meanwhile, and, at length, said—
“Don't be persuaded any where at present, boys, for we must
get up a hunt to-morrow. Bryce tells me that there is a fine old
buck that haunts the wood down by the Andrew's bottom field;
he saw fresh tracks only this morning. If we turn out early to-morrow,
we can start him, and, perhaps, others. At all events, I
am for trying. We will see if you youngsters can draw as fine a
sight, and pull as quick a trigger, as the old man of sixty.”
We promised, and the impatient Ned scored, with a flourish,
the brown sides of his bay, sending him forward at a fast city trot,
which took us to Gendron's—about five miles—in half an hour.
Here we drew up and went into the house which was in charge of
the overseer. But here we did not linger. After we had got a
draught of cold water and had a little chat with the overseer, Ned
thrust into my hands a morsel of a billet which he had prepared
before we left “the Barony,” which had no address, but was meant
for Paula.
“Take the buggy and boy, old fellow, and visit your friend
Madame Agnes-Theresa. It is a mile round to the entrance, but
the estates join, and—do you see yonder pine woods? They are
about eight hundred yards from this spot, but only two hundred
from the house at Rougemont. My note says only that I shall be
there, and if you can entertain the old lady, so that the young
one can make her escape unseen, I am in hopes that she will suffer
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me to entertain her there for a season. Only keep the grandmother
quiet for a good half hour.”
I was successful; being so fortunate as to find Paula alone in
the drawing-room. I gave her the note, which she was able to
read and conceal from the grandmother. I found the old lady in
the best of humours, quite satisfied with her own purchases in the
city, and particularly pleased with those which I had selected for
her. Upon the raisins, crushed sugar, and almonds, she was especially
eloquent, and was graciously pleased to assure me—to my
horror—that hereafter she should employ me to make all her purchases
of this nature. My judgment was so highly extolled in
this matter, that I trembled lest she should conclude by proposing
to invest a few thousands, and to go into the grocery business
with me. While she talked, Paula disappeared. Of course, I
encouraged the eloquence of the grandmother. I knew the topics
to provoke it; but the reader has already had a sufficient sample
of them, and I will not require him to partake of my annoyances.
I was patient, and held on for nearly an hour, until the sweet face
of pretty Paula once more lightened the parlour. Of course, I
had something to say to her, interrupted, however, by the grandmother,
who sharply rebuked her for leaving me during the whole
time of my visit. Paula looked to me with the sweetest gravity
in the world, and made the most gracefully evasive apology, which
I perfectly understood, though it was by no means satisfactory to
Madame Girardin. Invitations from both of them, to renew my
visit, dine, and spend the day, were gratefully acknowledged, and,
shaking affectionate hands, I took my departure.
I found Ned Bulmer rather under a cloud. The interview between
himself and Paula, under those famous and friendly pines,
had not been quite satisfactory to his ardent and impetuous nature.
Paula entertained some natural feminine scruples at an intercourse
not only secretly carried on, but notoriously against the desires of
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both their parents. The little creature had shown herself quite
chary and somewhat sad.
“I urged upon her,” said Ned, “all that I could in the way of
argument to convince her that there was a natural limit to parental
rights—that parents had no right to oppose their own mere antipathies
to the sympathies of others—that, to indulge these antipathies
at the expense of our affections, was a gross and unfeeling
injustice—that the right of the parent simply consisted in being
assured of the morals and the character of the parties concerned—
perhaps, to see, farther, that the means of life were at their command.
Beyond this, I contended, that any attempt at authority
was usurpation. I urged upon her, in the event of our parents
continuing to refuse, that we should marry without regard to their
objections. To this, the dear girl positively objected. This roused
me a little, and I showed some temper. Then she wept bitterly
and called me unkind,—and I—would you believe it, Dick, I wept
too,—I suppose for sympathy, and then she was more distressed
than ever. The tears of a man, to a woman, are certainly very
awful, or very ridiculous. They either show great weakness, or
great suffering. Certainly, when Paula saw the drops on my
cheek she was positively terrified. But, she was firm still. She
would consent to nothing. Dick,—I half doubt if she loves me.”
“Pooh! pooh! you are unreasonable. I don't see what more
you could require. She gives you the highest proof of love she
can,—and you expect her to tear herself away, in defiance, from
her only kinswoman—she who has trained her, protected her, been
to her a mother. Nonsense! you are too fast! Patience, we
must work upon the rock with water. Time! time, man! That
is all that you want. The game is more than half won when the
lady herself is willing.”
“But, I see no progress.”
“That is because you only see through the medium of your
impatient desires. Time, I say! That is what you require.”
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We looked about the Gendron plantation of course, which Ned
was really disposed to buy, and I gave my opinion in concurrence
with his. This task done, we drove to the “Barony,” and got in
in good time for dinner. There were several guests, several old
friends, parishioners, and a couple of strangers. The dining-saloon
was a large one, and a noble board was spread. The supplies of
such a board in the South need no recital. But I may mention
that Major Bulmer was famous for his muttons, and he had a
choice specimen on table. The Madeira of rare old vintage circulated
freely, and there was no deficiency in the dessert. When
the ladies had retired, and we had finished a bumper or two, we
adjourned to the library, where we rather drowsed and dawdled
away the remnant of the afternoon than conversed. We did not
return to the supper table, but coffee was brought in to us where
we sate, and after a while the guests departed, leaving me pledged
to several houses in the neighbourhood, for dinner in some, and
lodging and a long visit in others. When they were all gone, the
Major brought up the subject of the Gendron estate.
“Well, what think you of the tract?”—this to me.
“There is a good deal of uncleared land, pretty heavily timbered.”
“Only five or six hundred acres, I think.”
“But oak and hickory.”
“Yes; but not remarkable. Light, Dick, very light, and sandy.”
“Better than you think for. There is also some good pine land
too.”
“Not much I fancy. You, perhaps, confounded with it that of
the old French woman, Girardin, alongside of it. By the way,
did you think to go and see her. She is an old friend of your
family, at least, and very exacting. If you did not call upon her,
and she hears of you in the neighbourhood, you are out of her
books forever.”
“I did call. I left Ned at Gendron's, and went over and saw
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the ladies. Madame Girardin and myself confabulated for an hour.
I saw her in the city, and have fortunately found favour in her
right by a successful selection of groceries. I so pleased her, that,
to my horror, she assures me I shall always be permitted to choose
her groceries,—the sugars, raisins, citron, almonds, &c., in particular.”
“Ha! ha! ha! What a creature! Yet she has some good
points. She is a fast friend, and hates like the devil! And I call
these the inevitable companion-virtues, as clearly indispensable to
each other as good and evil in the world. What a bunch of prejudices
she is, tied up like a bundle of vipers in a hole throughout
the winter. I believe she hates every thing English.”
I smiled in my sleeve, and was about to add,—“as you hate
every thing French,”—but in truth, Major Bulmer's prejudices did
not amount to hates. There was really no passion in them at all.
He had simply imbibed certain habits of speech,—perhaps certain
prescriptive thoughts—nay, notions would be the better word—and
simply stuck to them as persons of insulated life will naturally do,
wanting that attrition of intellectual society which rubs off salient
angles, and deforming protuberances. It struck me, however,
while thinking thus indulgently of the Major's prejudices, that it
might be no bad policy to show up those of Madame Girardin in
their true colours. His dislike of her would perhaps enable him
to see how equally loathsome and ridiculous is the indulgence of
a blind, insane hostility to things and persons of whom, and which,
we really know no evil. Accordingly, I was at pains to report the
conversation which was had between the old lady and myself in
our shopping expedition, in which she emptied so freely her bag
of gall upon trade and tradesmen, parvenus and clever people. I
did not spare her, you may be sure, and made the portrait as fantastically
true as possible. The Major laughed and clapped his
hands delightedly.
“What an atrocious old monster. Who ever heard the like?
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To think favourably of such a meanspirited, unperforming, snivelling
creature as —, to think indulgently even of such a base
fardel of inanities, seems to me an equal outrage upon decency and
common sense; but to denounce commerce, which has made
England queen of the seas, mistress of the destinies of nations,
which carries civilization and art wherever it goes, which stirs up
and inspirits intellect, endows the animal with soul, and informs
the clay with energy and action. What a diabolical old fool.
But she hates commerce because it is so thoroughly English!
That's it! And yet to think that Ned Bulmer is really anxious to
marry into such a family, so blind, ignorant, conceited, and bitterly
prejudiced. It can't be but that the granddaughter shares in all
the foolish notions of the grandmother. She has been trained up
in the same school. She thinks and feels precisely as the old woman
does. That a son should desire to wed a woman who hates
and despises the very race to which his father owes his origin!”
I must here advise the reader that this was said after Ned Bulmer
had left us for the night, and when the Major and myself were
lingering over our cigars, and a hot vessel of whiskey punch. Ned
had disappeared purposely, in order that I might have every opportunity
of subduing, if that were possible, the asperities and objections
of the old man.
“You are mistaken, Major,” said I, in reply, “in your opinion
of Paula Bonneau. She shares in none of the prejudices of her
grandmother, which she properly regards as most unhappy weaknesses.
She is, herself, as liberal and intelligent a young woman
as you will find in the country, noways arrogant or presumptuous,
noways conceited or bigoted, and I believe quite as much an admirer
of the English as of the Huguenot stock. Nay, the very favour
with which she regards Ned seems to me quite conclusive on this
point.”
“Favour with which she regards Ned!” exclaimed the Major.
“Why you don't mean to say it has got to that? You don't mean
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to tell me that they have already come to an understanding—that
Ned has been so d—d precipitate as to propose, knowing my
objections, and—”
Here he started to his feet, clapt his doubled fists into his ribs,
and stood, arms akimbo, confronting me as if prepared for a regular
engagement. I saw that I had been guilty of a lapse—had gone
a step too far—and must recover.
“By no means,” I answered with laborious coolness and deliberation,
stirring my whiskey punch and blowing off the smoke.
“That Paula favoured Ned is only a natural conclusion from her
demeanour when they meet, and from the manner in which she
speaks of him and of yourself. She looks as if she might love
him, and speaks very kindly to and of him.”
“Oh that is all, is it! and well she may love him, and perfectly
natural that she should desire him for a husband, for a better fellow
and a better looking fellow—though his own father I make
bold to say it,—is nowhere to be found between the Santee and
the Savannah. And she, too, is a clever girl enough, in her way,
I do not doubt. I don't deny that she is pretty, and people
every where say that she is amiable and intelligent; but nevertheless
she is not the girl for Ned. She is too — small, Dick;
that is one objection.”
“Rather a recommendation, I should suppose, if, according to
the proverb, a wife is, at best, a necessary evil.”
“What! of evils choose the least. But the smartness of the
saying don't prove the philosophy to be good. Still, the objection
of size might be overcome, if there were others not also insuperable.
There's our family prejudice, Dick, against the race.”
“Certainly—that objection could not be more impressively
urged than by Madame Girardin, speaking of the English!”
“Confound her impudence. But there's no sense, Dick, in
that. Her prejudices against the English, indeed! What an old
fool. Prejudices against the noblest people that God ever
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created, and whom he created to be the masters of the world,—the
true successors to the Romans.”
“That's just what she thinks of the French.”
“Pshaw! the stubborn old dolt. Dont bring her up to me,
Dick Cooper. The antipathy of the English to the French is
based upon reason and experience. That of the French to the
English is the natural result of fear and hatred, as the whipt dog
dreads the scourge that has made him writhe and tremble. But,
putting all this matter aside, Dick, there is still a better reason for
my opposition to this passion of my son. The truth is,—and, for
the present, this must be a secret between us,—I have already
chosen a wife for Ned—”
“The d—l you have!” I exclaimed, starting up in my turn.
“No! But an angel I have; one of the most lovely creatures
in the world—the very ideal of feminine beauty—a noble person,
an exquisite skin, the sweetest and most brilliant eyes, lips that
would make the mouth of a saint to water, and persuade an anchorite
perpetually to sip,—and,—but enough. The woman upon
whom I have set my eyes for Ned is, I hold, the perfection of
woman!”
“And pray who is she?” I demanded, somewhat curious to
know who could have inspired the Major with such raptures.
“Who! Can you doubt. Why, man, Beatrice Mazyck, to be
sure!”
It was my turn to be confounded. Beatrice Mazyck! I wae
staggered. You could have felled me with a feather. Beatrice
Mazyck! My heart whirled about like the wheels of a locomotive.
Beatrice Mazyck! What, the d—l, thought I, can the
Fates be about? What do they design? What should put this
notion into Major Bulmer's head, for my particular disquiet—perhaps
defeat and disappointment. His wealth, his rank in the
parish, his son's personal claims,—all rushed through my brain in
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a moment, filling me with terror, and seeming conclusive of my
own fate. I showed my consternation in my face.
“What's the matter with you, Dick,—you seem flurried?”
“Nothing, I thank you, Major; only I fancy this whiskey punch
is a trifle too strong for my brain.”
“Too strong! Too weak rather! Why, man, when I was of
your age, we made no mouths at a pint of such liquor as that.
A liquor which would laugh to shame all the nectar that the
Greek gods stored away in their Olympian cellars. But the
young men of this day are mere milksops. They have no heads—
I may add no hearts also—such as they had when I was a boy.
But what say you to Beatrice Mazyck? Don't you approve of
my choice?”
The speech of the Major on the days of his youth, the strong
heads and better hearts which they then enjoyed, afforded me time
to recover from my consternation.. I felt that it was necessary for
me to clothe myself in all my stoicism and meet the danger with
becoming fortitude. I succeeded in the effort, and said—
“But, Major, how do you reconcile it to your English prejudices
to think of Beatrice. She's as much French as Paula!”
“Hem!—yes!—not exactly. She has French blood in her
veins, I grant you. But she is decidedly not French. The English
predominates. Look at her figure. How thoroughly English.
What a noble stature—what a fine bust—how well developed
everywhere—then her face is Saxon—her skin fair, her eyes
blue, her hair auburn—English all over!”
I laughed, in spite of my disquiet, at the ease with which prejudices
may be overcome, when there's a will for it.
“You have reasoned yourself very happily into a new conviction,
Major.”
“Well, sir, and how should a man acquire new convictions, but
through his reason. I claim to be a reasoning animal. Now,
what objection have you to Beatrice Mazyck?”
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“For myself, none; but for Ned—”
“Well, sir, for Ned? What objections do you make to her as
a wife for Ned?”
“First, then, I fancy he does not desire her.”
“He's a fool, then, for his pains—but he will desire her, if his
eyes can be reasonably opened. And you, my dear Dick, must
assist me in becoming his occulist.”
“Me, sir!—me, Major!”
“Yes, you! Why not! Why do you look so amazed at the
suggestion? You are the very man to do it! You are Ned's friend—
his confidant, his counsellor,—I may say his oracle. Give me
your assistance, and we shall soon contrive to persuade him that
Beatrice is worth a hundred of his little French Paula.”
“But, Major, suppose Beatrice should not altogether favour the
arrangement. What does she say about it?”
“She will favour it, I'm sure. Ned's not the fellow to sue for a
lady's smiles in vain.”
“Do you build solely on this. Has Beatrice been sounded on
the subject?”
“Not yet, but she will be. Her mother favours it.”
“Ah!—well, sir;—I am not sure that I can, for two reasons at
least.”
“Indeed!—well!—what are they.”
“Firstly, as I said before, I'm pretty certain that Ned will never
consent to substitute Paula for Beatrice. He will never love Beatrice.
Secondly, my dear Major, I want Beatrice for myself.”
“The devil you do!” exclaimed the Major aghast, starting to
his feet, and seizing me by the shoulder.
“Richard Cooper,—do you really mean it?—are you in earnest.”
“As a prophet, sir.”
“You love Beatrice Mazyck?”
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“From the bottom of my heart. I have loved her for two
years.”
“And she?”—
“I have never approached her on the subject, sir.”
“Then you are both uncommitted?”
“Entirely—to each other.”
“But has any thing served to encourage you, Dick?”
“Nothing, sir, which a merely reasonable man would construe
into a hope. I have sometimes fancied that she was not indifferent
to me, and I have perhaps estimated her looks and words as
significant of more than I could define or assert. But, beyond
this, which may be wholly in my imagination, I have nothing upon
which to found a hope.”
“But, Dick, even did she favour you, are you in a condition to
marry? She is not rich, you know, and you—”
“Less so! But that, Major, is a sufficient reason why we
should both assert our independence. Poverty must not always
stand upon ceremony. But, I frankly tell you, Major, were Beatrice
willing, I should fearlessly venture upon matrimony with all
its perils and expense!”
The old man strode the room with cloudy forehead and irregular
motion. I, meanwhile, lighted a fresh cigar, and suffered my
head to subside heavily between my shoulders, while I gazed into
the fire sullenly, brooding upon newly aroused anxieties. After a
while, the Major stopt in his walk, and confronted me:
“Dick, my boy, this is devilish unfortunate. You know my
friendship for you, Dick,—my love for you, in fact,—for, in truth,
I feel for you, next to my own boy, as if you were my own son.
You rank next after him. I loved your father,—we were bosom
friends, and stood beside each other in many a fight and frolic,
even as you and Ned would, I am sure, stand up for each other.
I would do a great deal for you, Dick, and should be glad to see
you happy with the woman that you love; but Dick, my heart is
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set upon this marriage between Beatrice and Ned. I must do all
I can to promote it. I can think of no other woman for him, and,
in fact, have committed myself to her mother. But, Dick, it shall
be fair play between us. All shall be open and above board. You
will say nothing to Ned of my present objects, as I can now not
hope that you will say any thing in their favour; but I give you
notice, my boy, that I shall now go to work in earnest. What you
have so frankly told me compels me to anticipate as much as possible,
and to urge, as rapidly as I can, an affair about which I had
meant to be deliberate. You, meanwhile, will do your best, and if
you can win the girl, in spite of all that I can do for Ned, then it
will prove that she is the proper person for you; and your success
shall be as satisfactory to me as to yourself. Nay, further, Dick, if
money can help you to a start in the world with Beatrice, you
shall have it. I can spare to you, without making bare myself,
and Ned, I'm sure, will do his part. Do your devoir, therefore, my
boy, with all your skill and spirit, as I am in honour bound to do
mine, and, as the old judges cried out in the courts of chivalry,
`God defend the right!' What's the old Norman French of it?
But, d—n the French of it! The English is good enough for my
purpose! Go ahead bravely,—there shall be no want of money,
Dick, for your progress, and we shall both equally acknowledge
that vital maxim to which our English ancestors owe, perhaps,
nine-tenths of their successes—`fair play!'”
The old man seized my hand, and shook it with a sternly sincere
emphasis. I answered the grasp with like fervour, but I could say
nothing. I was very deeply touched with his nobleness and
generosity. Certainly, with all his prejudices, the Major is one of
the most noble specimens of modern manhood.
“And now, Dick,” said he, “to bed. Finish your punch, and
we'll be off. We must rise by daylight for the hunt to-morrow.
`This day a deer must die!'”
And he went off humming the ballad.
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CHAPTER VII. “Bucks have at ye all. ”—Old Song.
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At dawn the horns were sounding, and the beagles yelling all
around the premises. Major Bulmer had a noble pack of hounds,
thirty in number. This was one of his weaknesses—he was ambitious
of keeping up the old practice of his grandfather,—to say
nothing of his English authorities,—although circumstances had
quite changed. Ours are no longer the vast forests that they were
prior to '76. The swamps are no longer inaccessible, and the
population, greatly increased, give the deer no respite. Accordingly,
they are terribly thinned off, and it is quite an event when an
overseer or driver can say to the planter, “there's an old buck
about,”—or, “there's tracks of deer in the peafield.” What a
blowing of horns follows such an annunciation! What a chorus
of dogs! What a mustering of Mantons and full-bloods. There
is no slumbering thence, for the household, till we have “got the
meat!” “This day a deer must die!” cried Ned Bulmer, booming
into my room before the sun had fairly rubbed his eyes for a rising,
echoing the burthen which had sounded last in my ears, when I
lay down to sleep. I was upon my feet in the twinkling of an eye,
for, though a bookworm of late, and a city lawyer, I had been once
a famous fellow for the chase, was a free rider, a good shot, and
altogether a good deal of a hunter. It had been a passion with
me once, but—what has poverty to do with passion! Mine seemed
bent equally to interfere with me in my pursuit of deer and
dear. I thought of Beatrice, and the last night's conversation
with the Major, the moment I opened my eyes; and I confess I
looked at Ned Bulmer, born to fortune and having it forced upon
him, as it were, with a momentary feeling of envy. Thanks to
the Virgin, I soon dismissed the despicable feeling with scorn.
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The frank, noble features of my friend, in which every secret feeling
of his soul was declared, soon set mine to rights; and I said to
myself—“Be it so! At all events, Beatrice, whether you get Ned
Bulmer or myself, you will be equally fortunate in the possession
of one of the best fellows in the world.” It might have made
Ned blush had I repeated this compliment in his ears, so I prudently
kept it to myself, satisfied that there was no sort of necessity
for my own blushes.
Adonization is not a difficult process with the hunter, when
the dogs are at the overture. I had soon made my toilet. Our
guns had been put in order the night before. By candlelight we
now loaded them. Then followed a bowl of coffee all round, and
the horn of the old Major sounded for the start. We were soon
off at an easy pace, having about two miles to ride before we reached
the stands. These were well known places, gaps and openings,
by certain favourite runs of water, or crossing places from wood to
wood. The simple secret of a hunter's stand, is to find out the
avenues which the deer lays out for himself. All animals are
creatures of habit, and, unless under good and sufficient reasons,
the herd usually adheres to its ordinary pathways. But these, in
a very large tract of forest, are apt to be numerous, and to require
a large number of hunters. Our present drives, however, were
small ones, and soon covered. There were no hunters in our present
party, but the Major, Ned, myself, and the overseer, a sprightly
and intelligent young fellow named Benbow. In all probability
the name was that originally of an old English archer, and was
corrupted and contracted from Jack, or Dick, Bend the Bow, to its
present narrow and unimpressive limits of two syllables short. We
had all of us stanas, each watching his avenue. Sam, the negro
driver, put in with the dogs, some three quarters of a mile above
us, eating his way through all the denser coppices of a thick mixed
wood of scrubby oak and pine, having a close underbrush, and
sundry good feeding places, from which the fire was carefully kept
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out. But I must not linger on these details. Every body nearly
knows what is the usual deer hunting among the gentry of the
South. There is little about it that is complicated; its success depending
upon a knowledge of the drives, the stands, a cool head,
quick eye, sure shot, and occasionally a keen spur to the flanks of
a smoking courser; for it is no small accomplishment to know
how to head a deer, and to succeed, by a swift circuit, in doing it.
Let it suffice that we had not long to wait. The dogs soon gave
tongue—the cries thickened—anon I heard a shot from the Major,
who was just above me, and a few moments after, head forward,
tail up, streaking away for dear (deer) life, at about eighty yards
to the left, I got a glimpse of the victim, a buck in full feather, i.e.
with a noble pair of branches. It was instinct purely—a word
and a blow, and the blow first. I popt away at him, and saw him
describe a short turn, setting his head in the opposite direction. I
concluded he had got it, but could not afford a second glance, as I
caught sight of a couple of does following steadily his course,
though a little nearer to me than he had been when I first shot,
and almost in the same line. I had another barrel, and bestowed
it successfully. Down dropt one of the brown beauties, and I
sounded. The dogs, meanwhile, began to glimmer, on full foot,
through the leaves. My horse was hitched twenty feet behind
me. It took but a minute to unhitch and cross him, and I pushed
for my victims. In a few moments the Major came dashing up,
like a fiery boy of eighteen, shouting out—
“Well, Dick, what's the sport. I fancy you've wasted lead, for
I gave it to the old buck that passed you, and I never miss. But
you emptied both barrels.”
“Here's one of my birds,” I answered, pointing to the doe, from
which we drove off the dogs, setting them on the track of the
old buck, who had shed a gill of the purple fluid within fifteen
steps of the place where the dead doe lay.
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“Do you see that, Major,” I said, pointing to the crimson droplets
still warm upon the yellow leaves of autumn.
“Yes,” said he, “a mortal hit! frothy; from the lungs! Push
on, Benbow, or the dogs will tear the meat. But I am sure that
he carries my lead also. I never missed him, Dick; couldn't do
such a thing at my time of life.”
“Well, sir, we'll see. I can tell you, when the buck was nearing
me, he didn't show signs of hurt! There may have been
two.”
“No! only one! I've surely hit him. I'll stake a cool hundred
on it.”
And we rode forward, Ned joining us meanwhile. The deer had
left him entirely to the right. He had seen nothing of either.
We soon found the old buck, just dead. The shot that killed him
was mine, given directly behind the right fore-quarter, as he pushed
obliquely from me. But the exulting Major discovered other
button holes in the jacket of the beast, to which he laid confident
claim. It was not a matter which could be proved, so, accordingly,
it was not exactly the matter to be discussed. We all readily
recognized the claim of the old man to have certainly made his
mark, if he had not exactly made his meat. It was admitted,
however, to be quite a feather in my cap, that, fresh from the
dingy chambers of the law, and the ponderous volumes of the frosty
wigs, I should still have had my nerves and senses in such good
training for the sports of the field.
“The law has not spoiled you for a gentleman and a hunter yet,”
quoth the Major encouragingly. “And that is saying something;
for many's the pretty fellow whom I've known it ruin for all proper
purposes.”
Our hunt was over by two o'clock, and our game bagged.
When we reached “the Barony,” we found it full of guests. Several
fine spirited fellows were there, the Porchers, Ravenels,
Cordes, and others, as guests to dinner; and they were all
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fullmouthed in their reproaches that they had not been summoned
to the hunt. We made up a party for another day, and adjourned
to dinner. Night found us still at the table, for the Major's wines
had a proverbial smack of ancient magic. They were such as Mephistophiles
himself could scarcely have made to spout out from
the best timber in the Black Forest. Whist that night, and whiskey
punch in the library, kept us busy till twelve, when, by common
consent, we called in Morpheus to light us to our chambers.
CHAPTER VIII. INTRIGUE AND LOVE—SHUFFLING THE CARDS.
Days and nights pass with singular rapidity at a southern plantation.
Visitor succeeds to visitor, dinner to dinner, and every day
is employed, during the winter holidays at least in preparing for
the recreation of its successor. What, with old acquaintances to
be seen, and the promotion of Ned's affair, I was incessantly employed.
Besides, the Major's circle was perpetually full; and I
was frequently detained at “the Barony” engaged in seeing visitors,
when both Ned and myself desired to be abroad. The day
after the hunt, after making a circuit and two or three calls, we
found ourselves, at one o'clock, once more at the Girardin estate,
where I left my friend, to make another visit to the stately Madame
Agnes-Theresa. Ned, meanwhile, wandered off to the
grove between the two places, an anxious waiter upon that friendly
Providence which is supposed generally to take the affairs of
love in hand. Talk of true love's course not running smoothly!
The fact is, that, after certain consideration and a certain experience,
I am assured that few true lovers ever have much reason to
complain. Love has an instinct in discovering its proper mate,
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and suppose there are obstacles? These really heighten the
charm of pursuit, and increase the luxuries of conquest. Stolen
fruit is proverbially the sweetest, and stolen kisses are such as the
lips never quite lose the taste of. The first kiss lingers in memory,
softening the heart to fondness, even after the time has passed
when any kiss affords a pleasure; and, to man or woman, I suspect,
he or she who has first taught us the subtle and delicious
joy of that first kiss, is remembered with a sense of gratitude, even
when there is no warmer emotion inspired by the same person.
To Ned and the lovely Paula, I am persuaded that the stolen interviews
which I succeeded in procuring them, will be among their
dearest recollections in after days. Not that dear little Paula
ever crept away to that grove without fear and misgiving. She
wasn't sure that it was right to do so; but that did not lessen the
pleasure of the thing. Again and again they met, and the child
murmured, and sighed, and wept, and was made happy through
all her fears and tears. And Ned was happy too, though he always
came back growling from the interview. It was always so
short. Paula was always in such a hurry to break away! Certainly,
make them as happy as you please, you cannot easily
make young lovers contented. He who steals the fruit, is always
sorry to leave the tree behind him. Enough, that on this, as on
the preceding evening, I was quite successful in beguiling the
grandmother with long discourse, thus affording Paula an opportunity
to steal away and meet her lover. Do not be angry with
her, ye prudes who have survived these sympathies of seventeen.
You have done likewise, every one of you, in turn, or, if you have
not, the merit of forbearance was none of yours. You would
have done so, loving with the innocent fondness of Paula, and
with such a manly and noble swain as Ned Bulmer to persuade
you to the groves. Well, they met, and mingled sighs and promises
of fidelity; but in vain did Ned entreat his beauty to a
clandestine marriage. Believing that he should never conquer
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the prejudices of his father, or subdue the stubborn pride of Madame
Bonneau, Ned was thus desperate in his projects. But
sweet little Paula was firm on this subject.
“I will never love any but you, Edward—never marry any but
you—but cannot consent to a secret marriage.”
“But they will always oppose us, Paula!” said the lover, vehemently.
“Then I must die!” murmured the maiden, with her head
drooping on his bosom. And then he protested that she should
not die; that he would sooner die himself; nay, kill a great many
other people, not omitting the obstinate grandmother, and the
cruel father, and many other desperate things; all of which dear
little Paula begged him not to do, “for her sake,”—and for her
sake only, he magnanimously consented to forbear these bloody
performances. But why linger on the child prattle of young
lovers—so sweet but so simple; so ridiculous, to our thoughts,
as we grow older; yet so precious and full of meaning when we
took part in it, and in which the heart never becomes quite too
old to partake, when ever the opportunity and the object are afforded
it. At last they separated, with the sweet kiss, and the assuring
promise of fidelity; both believing implicitly as if specially
guaranteed by heaven. Paula reappeared, and relieved me of
my friendly drudgeries with grandmamma, suffering the same rebuke,
as before, for her disappearance. The next day, the Major,
Ned and myself, rode over to Mrs. Mazyck's, about four miles distant,
to make our obeisance. Our readers know what are the
objects of the `Baron.' Ned, already, I fancy, suspected the designs
of the father, from the pains he took to discourage them.
But, supposing me ignorant of these designs, and knowing my
passion for Beatrice, he was scrupulously careful to avoid the subject.
His deportment, when we met the ladies, gave me no occasion
for jealousy. We spent an hour with them, and the Major,
devoting himself to the mother, left the field to us wholly, so far
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as the young lady was concerned. Ned, in a degree following
his father's example, now left the field to me, and strolled off from
the parlour into the library, giving me sufficient opportunity to
play what card I pleased in the game. When the Major and
Mrs. Mazyck returned from the garden, whither they had gone
to trace the progress of certain rare seedlings in the hot-house,
they found Beatrice and myself, alone together.
The mother looked grave, and the Major impatiently asked
after his son. Of course, neither of us knew where he was.—
When he was hunted up, we found him stretched, at length,
on the sofa in the library, enveloped in the most downy embraces
of sleep. The Major roused him with a fierce shake
of the shoulder, and looked at him with the scowl of a thunder-storm.
Ned took the whole affair very quietly; and we mounted
our horses a few moments after. When fairly off, and out of the
gates, the old man blazed out with his volcanic matter.
“A d—d pretty puppy you are, sir, to go to sleep when visiting
a lady! Do you not know, sir, how much I respect Mrs.
Mazyck, sir?”
“Well, sir, so do I, but you took her off yourself. You did'nt
leave me to entertain her. I had reason to be jealous, sir, of
your attentions.”
“Jealous! The d—l! But I left you and Dick to entertain
the young lady, sir.”
“And I assure you, father, that Dick is perfectly adequate to
the task alone. I felt that I should be de trop.”
“De—what! why the devil will you abuse my ears with that
atrocious lingo? Leave it off, sir, if you please; in my hearing,
at least. I repeat, sir, you treated Miss Beatrice with marked disrespect.”
“You are quite mistaken, sir. I treated her with marked consideration.
Ask the question of herself, and she will tell you
that she greatly appreciates the attentions which I paid her. Be
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assured, she has no sort of cause for, or feeling of, disappointment.”
“Blockhead! you know not the mischief you do by this conduct.”
“Indeed, sir! Pray how? Anything serious?”
“Puppy!” exclaimed the complimentary sire, looking at me
with a glance, as if to say—“what a beautiful game of mine does
the fellow strive to spoil,”—but he forbore his speech, and only
used his spurs; driving them into his horse's flanks, and setting
off at a canter that soon left us far behind him.
“Let him go, Dick, while we quietly jog on, and do the civil
thing to one another. Dad is by no means in a complimentary
mood to-day. The truth is, he is for making up a match between
Beatrice Mazyck and myself, but that match won't burn, mon
ami. I see what he's after, and must prepare for the explosion.
It will blow out, and blow over, before many days.”
When we got to “the Barony,” the Major was no where to be
seen. He had retired to his chamber to soothe his anger by a
temporary resort to solitude.
“But,” says Ned, “solitude was never a favourite passion with
him; and we shall have him down upon us directly. Meanwhile,
let us have some wine.”
We had just filled our glasses when the old man, sure enough,
made his appearance. He was cloudy, but no longer savage. He
treated me with rather marked civilities, which I did not exactly
like; but for Ned he had very few words. Dinner brought him
soothing; and that night, when Ned left us together, as he thought
it his policy to do, the Major recovered his wonted kindness and
frankness, over a hot glass of whiskey toddy.
“That boy put me out to-day, Dick, as he gave you all the
chances. Of course you made the best use of them. I confess
it makes me angry. His reluctance spoils a favourite plan. I
don't despair of him yet, and the game will need to be played
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frequently, before it finishes. You have made a point in it; and
I could almost say that I am glad, for your sake, that you have.
Certainly, Dick, though you may see me ruffled with that cub of
mine, in this matter, don't suppose that I shall ever feel any unkindness
towards you. Go ahead, as I said before. There shall
be `fair play' between us.”
Such was the purport of our chat that night, the Major getting
over his moody humour before he had entirely got through
his toddy. And so, day and night went by in rapid succession;
society daily; the hunt, the dinner, the visitor, and, I confess, the
nightly potation, sometimes with larger liberties than are usually
accorded by the just Temperance standards. Another morning
call upon Madame Girardin, which she received only as my own
proper tribute to herself—proof of my good taste and good sense,
and her acknowledged rights—and then came a formal invitation
to the widow Mazyck's on a certain evening, by which we knew
that a grand party was intended. Ned smiled, as the billets were
handed in by the waiter.
“Miching malico!” quoth he. “The fight thickens, Dick.—
It will soon become highly interesting. Well; we shall go of
course. I have a faith in parties, and some taste for them. I
love dancing, and I shall find Paula there, who is an angel on the
wing on such occasions. I mean to be quite attentive this time,
so that Dad shall have no reason to complain. Whether I shall
altogether please him by the sort of person I shall choose, on
whom to bestow my attentions, is a question which he may resolve
for my benefit, or his own, hereafter.”
When, an hour after, in the library with the Major, he showed
me his invitation, and said—
“Well, Dick, here are the chances for both of us. I shall have
a talk with Ned, and try to spirit him on to his duty. He can't altogether
neglect the lady; and when he sees Beatrice in contrast
with his little Frenchified puppet, I am in hopes that he will see
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her somewhat with your eyes. At all events, Dick, if we are to
be beaten by you in the game, it will be some consolation to me
that you are the successful player. But I shall do my best to thwart
you, my boy, if I can, so long as it is possible to do any thing for
Ned. But all in love, Dick, be assured; nothing in malice!”
And with a warm and friendly gripe of the hand, we separated
for the night.
CHAPTER IX. “Let me help you to a wife, sir. ”“Help yourself, sir. ” —Old Play.
Let us suppose the time to have elapsed, and the night to have
arrived for the party at Mrs. Mazyck's. We set out an hour by
sun for her place, the Major and Ned taking the buggy of the
latter, while I accompanied Miss Bulmer, the maiden sister of the
former. The Major contrived this arrangement the better to inform
his companion, along the way, touching his wishes, and the
particular deportment which he expected of the latter, when he
had reached the scene of action. He had, during the day, been
showing me, in part, what he meant to say to Ned; painting
Beatrice Mazyck to me in the most glowing colours, and evidently
memorizing, for future use, certain wonderfully flowery phrases,
which he had recalled from his early reading of such poets as
had been popular in his day. He was as impatient for the hour
of starting as myself, and we set off, all of us, under some excitement;
Ned anticipating all that he should hear; the Major anxious
to be delivered of his eloquence; Miss Bulmer thinking of
large revenues of parish chit chat; and I, shall I confess it, eager
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for the meeting with one whom I yet approached with fear and
trembling, no less than love!
Ned and his father followed us, the latter having delayed his
movements purposely to suffer the carriage to go ahead. To my
friend, subsequently, I owed a full account of the conversation.
`The Governor,' said he, `began with a long exordium, intending
to show me that he had lived solely for my happiness and
not for his own. To hear him, one would suppose, that, but for
the well-beloved son, he would have been better pleased to lie
down in the grave in peace. Yet no man loves a good dinner
more sincerely, or smacks his lips after a glass of madeira with a
more infinite sense of prevailing thirst. To see me happy and
successful—to see me well married, in brief, before he died—was
to him the only remaining desire of his life. He asked me almost
sternly, if I did not believe the marriage state, the natural and
proper state of man? I told him—as I really thought—`and of
woman too.' `No jests, Ned,' said he, `the subject is a very
serious one.' `Even gloomy I should say, sir, judging from your
visage and tones at this moment. Really, sir, if you look so
wretched on the subject, I shall be frightened forever from its consideration.
' `Pshaw! you are a fool,' said he, `it is so far serious
as the subject of human happiness is the serious question of human
life.' `Don't agree with you!' said I. `I don't see that
we've any need to bother our brains with such a subject. The
business of mortal life is not happiness, if it be true that our business
is the establishing of a right to happiness hereafter. I suppose
it is the proper question for mule, horse, cow or dog, which
have nothing but the present to take care of; but is clearly not
the one for us.' `And what is the question for us, Mr. Philosopher?
' `Clearly duty!' `Precisely,' quoth the Governor, `and is it
not your duty, at a certain time in life, to get yourself a wife?' `Tolerable
rhyme enough,' said I, `no matter what may be the value of the
philosophy.' `Don't vex me, Ned,' said he, `but speak seriously.
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Don't you conceive it to be your duty, now that you are twenty-one,
or near it, to be looking about you for a help-meet?' `Or a
help-eat meat—which I take to be the more appropriate phrase
usually.' `You are enough, sir, to vex Saint Francis? Can't you
answer a straight question?' `How can that be a straight question
which concerns a rib?' `What a vile attempt at wit! A
punster is always a puppy!' `And if so a physician!' `Why,
sir?' `He deals in bark!' `Pshaw, Ned! Have done with
that, and answer me like a man of sense. I tell you that I am
very serious. I contend that you ought to be thinking of a wife.'
`Well, sir, I have given you to understand that I have been thinking
of one.' `What! that little Bonneau! But that's out of the
question, I tell you. I will never consent to any such folly. Let
me choose a wife for you?' `Really, sir, that's almost as reasonable
a demand as if I had claimed the right before I was born to
have chosen my own mother. I protest, sir, I hold it abominable
that, not content with choosing for yourself, you should also assert
the privilege of selecting for me the mother of my children. Don't
you think, sir, that you might just as reasonably make it a requisition
in your will, that your grand-children, male or female, shall
only marry persons of a certain figure—measured proportions, defined
temperaments, colour of hair, and skin, form of chin and
mouth—all accurately described?' `And it would be a devilish
sight better for the race, could the thing be done. We should
then have fewer puppies and dolls to destroy the breed in noble
families. But to the point. I tell you, sir, you must think no
more of this little Frenchwoman.' `Frenchwoman, sir! Why
Paula Bonneau is as much an American and a South Carolinian
as yourself.' `The Americans are not a race, sir. As for the
South Carolinians, sir, I doubt if, just at this moment, we ought
to speak of them at all. I am not satisfied that the subject
affords us any cause of satisfaction. We are not in a condition for
boasting, sir, any longer. All of our great men have gone; and
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the labours of our little men, to put on the strut of greatness, is
that froggish emulation of oxlike developement which the old fable
finds for our benefit. Indeed, the condition of our country is one
of the reasons why I am so anxious that you should marry wisely.
There is nothing so important as that you should get a woman,
sir, a real woman, and not a child—not a chit—as the mother of
my grand-children. I want the name of Bulmer, sir, transmitted
through a race fearless in spirit, generous in impulse, active in
thought, and noble in figure. Sir, it is impossible that such hopes
can be realized in wiving with such an insignificant little thing—'
`Stop, sir,' said I, `go no farther. I will listen to you reverently
enough so long as you forbear what is offensive to Paula Bonneau!
' The old man muttered something savagely between his
closed teeth; then, impatiently—`Well, sir, I will endeavour not
to treat upon your corns, since you are so monstrous sensitive
about them. I will say nothing in disparagement of the one,
while urging the claims of the other lady. Ned, my son, you do
not doubt that I love you; that I think for you, strive for you,
and that my chief solicitude in life is that you may be settled in
such a way, before I leave it, as will be most likely to ensure your
happiness.' The Governor was evidently disposed to try the pathetic
on me. `But, sir, you are hardly likely to do this, if you
deny me the right of thinking for myself. On a matter of this
sort, sir, a young man is more apt to be tenacious of his rights,
than upon any other subject. I am perfectly persuaded that you
should choose a horse for me, sir. I know you have an excellent
eye to horses, can trace blood and determine pedigree to a fraction,
and know the good points of draught or saddle horses at the
glance of an eye. I am not unwilling to believe, sir, that your
judgment is equally infallible in hounds and pointers. I've observed
that, sir, a hundred times. In the matter of dogs and
horses, sir, I would leave everything to your judgment; but really,
sir, regarding a woman, or a wife, by standards wholly
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different, I confess, if a wife is to be chosen, I should prefer pleasing
my own eye to pleasing yours. I assure you, sir, that if it were
your present purpose to choose one for yourself, I should not interfere
with your judgment in the slightest degree.' `You are
enough to irritate a Saint, Ned Bulmer, and I have half a mind
to take you at your word, marry again, and cut you off without
a shilling. But I know you for a teazing puppy, and you shan't
ruffle me. If I did not know that you conceal a good heart and
a noble nature under this garment of levity—did I not know that
you have a proper veneration for me as your father, sir, I should
tumble you headlong out of the buggy. You shall hear me nevertheless.
I want you to marry. I have said so. You wish to
marry.' `I have said it.' `But not the right woman. Now, I
have chosen the right woman for you; I have opened a negociation
with Mrs. Mazyck for her daughter, Beatrice, for you!' `What,
sir, have you two wicked old people devoted us as a burnt offering,
two innocent lambs to the sacrifice, without so much as saying
a word to either of us on the subject.' `I am saying it to
you now.' `But after you have managed every thing. And
here you would drag us away, with flowers perhaps about our
brows, and chain us, a pair of consecrated victims at the altar of
your pride and avarice. Shame on you, papa, and shame on you,
mamma, for these cruel doings.' The mock heroic was too much
for the old Major's philosophy. But his rage strove with the ludicrous
in his fancy. He swore and laughed in the same breath.
`Papa,' I continued, `you're going to make me behave cruelly.
Whenever you say or do a foolish, or wicked, or cruel thing, I'll
whip the horse. You'll see! I can't lay the whip on you, but
I'll show my sense of what you deserve, by scoring the flanks of
White Raven! I will! I owe him more than twenty cuts already.
' And, saying these words, I popped the lash over the
quarter of the horse twice or thrice, before he could arrest my
hand. `Why, are you mad?' said he, seizing the whip, or making
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an effort to do so. `No, sir, not mad, but highly indignant.
Somebody wants a sound whipping, and I must bestow it on
something.' `Well,' said he, with more composure than I expected,
`I fancy your next proceeding will be to try your whip on my
shoulders.' `Oh! no, sir! never; though, if you were seriously
to ask me the question, I should say, that if grand-papa were
still living, I should be apt to request him to subject you to some
of the ancient forms of mortification and flagellation.' `Ned,'
said he, `my dear son, let me entreat you to give me your serious
attention. Believe me, I was never more serious in my life. I
wish you to look upon Beatrice Mazyck with the eyes of a lover,
and pay all proper court to her in that capacity. I have spoken
with her mother. She favours the match, and I am therefore
really and earnestly committed to her. Now, my son, do not
forget what you owe to the wishes of your father. It is probable
that Mrs. Mazyck has spoken with Beatrice, even as I have spoken
with you, and, in all probability, the young lady will expect your
attentions, as I know her mother will. Do not trifle with her
feelings, my son, and I pray you respect mine.' He said a great
deal more, when, becoming seriously vexed, I kept still while
he exhausted himself. Finding I still kept silence, he asked—
`Well, Ned, what do you say?' `What can I say, sir? It seems
to me that I am the person for whom a wife is wanted. I choose
one woman, and you another. I don't see, sir, how we are to reconcile
our differences in taste.' `But, Ned, the woman of whom
you speak is by no means suitable.' `That, sir, seems a question
proper only to myself to determine. The whole question resolves
itself to this. Either I am under a despotism, or I am not. You
would not undertake, sir, to force me to eat cabbage at your table
whether I wanted it or not. Yet, sir, it would be quite an innocent
tyranny to force me to eat cabbage against my will, compared to
that of compelling me to take a wife against my will!' `Do you
mean to compare Beatrice Mazyck to a cabbage?' `Heaven
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forbid, sir, that I should do any thing so irreverent or ungallant.—
But I do not take to Beatrice, nor I suspect, she to me.' `But
try her, at least. `Why, sir, when I don't want her, and when,
in all probability, she is as little desirous of me?' `For my sake,
Ned, do the courteous thing, and we know not but you will come
to relish one another.' `I will do anything in reason for your
sake, father, but this is not reasonable; and your intriguing negociations
with the mother of the one lady may do equal wrong to
her and to myself, and lead to confusion, if not misery, all round.'
`It's too late now, Ned; I am commited—think of that! I am
committed! My honour is committed. Your father's honour.'
`You have no doubt erred, sir, but your committal is one for
which reason, common sense, human nature, will all furnish you
in a moment, a reasonable apology to any reasoning and intelligent
mother. But, that you are committed, does not seem to me
to involve any necessity why you should commit me also. This
philosophy is that of the old fox, who went once too often to the
rat-trap, and then discoursed to his brethren of the indecency of
wearing tails. You have never found me a wilful or disobedient
son, my father; why force me now, by a tyranny which society
no longer tolerates—which has become wholly traditional with
the tales of Blue Beard and other Barons—not of Carolina—to
show that insubordination which I never exhibited before.' `Tyranny!
You call me a tyrant, Ned?' `According to my notions,
if you urge this matter, you will be. People think differently
about tyranny and tyrants. One man, doing a merciless
act, will fancy no cruelty in the performance if he smile upon the
victim, and use the gentlest language, while he goads him to extremity.
Your Jack Ketch is a notorious humanitarian—a fellow
of most benevolent stomach, who will beg your forgiveness and
your prayers, while adjusting the knot in `gingerly fashion' under
your left lug. I've no doubt you'd carry me to the altar,—
which, unless I am suffered to choose my own wife, I'd as lief
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should be the halter—with the most parental tenderness. You'd
try to reconcile me to the rope by giving me a glorious wedding-supper,
and the next morning, I should receive deeds conveying
to me your best plantation and a hundred negroes.' `Well, sir?'
`Well, sir, I say, rather than marry the wife of another man's
choosing, I'd fling deed, and estate, and negroes into the fire, and
plough my own road to fortune in the worst sand lands of the
country. You have not the fortune, sir, even if you gave me all
that you have and could bestow, that can reconcile me to the
bitter physic you require me to take as the condition by which it
is obtained.' With that I scored the horse, saying as I did so—
`But here we are, sir, at Bonneau Place; I suppose it will be proper
only to say no more, just now, on the subject.' He put his
hand on my arm—`My dear Ned, for my sake, do the civil thing
by Miss Mazyck. Pay her every attention, dance with her, see
her to supper, and—' `Enough, my dear father, enough! I shall
certainly not do anything to forfeit the character of a gentleman.
But, be sure, I shall not do any thing which shall lead her to suppose
that I am ambitious of the attitude of a lover.' The old
man threw himself back in the buggy in a desponding attitude,
muttering something which I did not make out, and in the next
moment we dashed into the court among a dozen other vehicles.
CHAPTER X. HOW WE DANCED, AND SUPPED, AND SO—FORTH!
The Mazyck establishment was on an extensive scale. It was
its ancient baronial features that had insensibly impressed the
imagination of Major Bulmer. The house was a vast one for our
country—a massive mansion of brick, opening upon a grand
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passage way, or hall in the centre, from which you diverged into
double rooms on either hand. These were of larger size than
usual in our country seats. These also had wings, consisting each
of a single room over the basement, and lower by one story than
the main building. One of these, devoted to the library, was
thrown open on the present occasion. The other was a sort of
state chamber, meant for guests of distinction, special favourites,
or for newly married couples. The floors were magnificently carpeted,
and the rooms elegantly furnished. They were already
beginning to fill on our arrival; the custom of the country differing
from that of the city in requiring the guests to come early,
however late they may be persuaded to stay. Very soon the bustle
of first arrivals was at an end; only now and then, an occasional
annunciation betokened some visitor who still held to the
city rule of late arrivals, or who, most probably, was ambitious of
an innovation upon country habits. A vulgar self-esteem always
comes late to church or into society, if only with the view of making
a sensation. At eight o'clock tea was served, with the usual
accompaniments of cake and cracker. Quite a creditable display
of silver plate was justified by this service, and the green beverage
sent up such savoury odours of the Land of Flowers, as would
have stirred even the obtuse olfactories of Sam Johnson. Suppose
the company all arranged, rather formally around the parlour,
with glimpses of groups of young persons especially in the
library, all busy in the kindred occupations of tea and talk, fifty
cups smoking and as many tongues making music, and we may
now look round the circle, and take in its several aspects. Tall,
stately, the form and features of my antique friend, Madame Agnes-Theresa,
rise, supreme over all presences, in erect dignity,
starched cap and handkerchief, scant locks of pepper and salt, and
sharp eyes that suffer no evasion or escape. I approach, I bend
before her, I crave to be blessed with her smiles, and she accords
them. But where is pretty Paula? In the library with the
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young people. Ah! and Ned Bulmer is already hovering about
her, as the moth about the flame. The Major sees him not as
yet, being exceedingly earnest in his attentions to Mrs. Mazyck.
The veteran is displaying the graces of manner which constituted
the ton thirty-five or forty years ago. Then it was all elaborate
courtesies—a bow was a thing of ceremonial—the right toe had
its given route prescribed in one direction, the left in another—off
at right angles; the arms were spread abroad in a waving course,
the hands inclining to the knees—which, as the back was bent like
a bow at the stretch, enabled them almost to clasp them.—
The head slightly thrown back, the chin peering out, an ineffable
smile upon the lips, and a profound admiration expressed in the
eyes, and you have the attitude, air and manner of the ancient
beau ready to do battle and die in your behalf. That careless,
effortless, informal manner, which marked the insouciant character
of our day, was, with the excellent Major, only a dreadful proof
of the degeneracy of the race.
“A fellow now-a-days,” quoth he, “enters a room, as if he
sees nobody or cares for nobody; as if he owned pretty much all
that he sees; he slides, or rather saunters in with the listless air
of a man picking his teeth after dinner—anon, he catches a glance
of somebody whom he condescends to know; and it is—`Ah,
Miss Eveline, or Isabella, or Maria, or Teresa, how d'ye—glad to
see you looking so—ah!—well! and how's your excellent mamma?
Hope the dear old lady keeps her own. Good for fifty
years yet; and how long have you been from town? Very dull
here; don't ye think so?—ah-h-h!' yawning as if he had toiled
all day and caught no fish. Talk of such fellows, indeed. They
seem to be made out of nothing but wire and whale-bone, with a
pair of butterfly wings which they can't fly with, and such a voice,
like that of an infant frog with rather a bad cold for such a juvenile.
Sad degeneracy! Very different, Mrs. Mazyck, from the
men of our day.'
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Talking with Beatrice Mazyck, three removes from him, I contrived
to hear every syllable, and whispered her at the moment.
He turned just then, and detected the movement. He joined us
in a second, and with a profound bow to the lady, and a smile of
kindness to me, he said—
“I see you heard me, my dear Miss Beatrice, by the laughing
smile upon your countenance. I do not know whether you agree
with me, or can agree with me, since you have no opportunity of
knowing the manners of a day long before your own.”
“Unless,” quickly and archly answered the lady, “unless from
the excellent occasional example which has been preserved to the
present time, and from which we are compelled to feel that there
is more truth in your report, than we are willing to acknowledge.
What say you, Mr. Cooper?”
“Nay, do not ask him,” said the Major, “for, of a truth, to do
him justice, he is one of the few exceptions which the present
day offers to the uniform degeneracy of its young men. Dick
Cooper is a favourite of mine, and particularly so from his freedom
from all affectations. He doesn't affect ease, by a most laborious
suppression of dignity and manhood—to say nothing of grace.”
This was very handsome of the Major, and I felt that I ought
to blush if I did not, but I replied without seeming to notice the
compliment.
“I am inclined to think, Major, that the two periods simply occupied
extremes, neither significant of sincerity. In fact, conventional
life seems of its own nature to forbid sincerity, inasmuch as
it denies earnestness. Now, the school which you so admirably
represent, Major, appears to me to have sought for finish at every
sacrifice; and to have aimed at the application of court manners on
reception days to the business of ordinary social life. I confess,
for my own part, though I try to be as profound in my courtesies
as possible, I can not well persuade myself to emulate or imitate,
even if that were possible, the elaborate bow with which you
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bent before Mrs. Mazyck, or even that still more elaborate, if less
courteous obeisance which you made when passing Mrs. Bonneau.
There is no doubt that the contrast which you speak of is indicative
of moral changes of a serious character in the race. As the
court usher of Louis XV. detected the approaching revolution in
the ribands in the shoes of the courtier noble, in place of the
golden buckle, so does the substitution of the jaunty, indifferent
manner of the modern gentleman betray the dislike to form, restraint,
and all authority—in a word, that utter decline of reverence—
which promises to be the great virtue in the eyes of ultrademocracy,
the maxim of which is—`The world's mine oyster.'
The eye of our times takes in all things that it sees, and at once
acquires a right therein; and even the smiles of beauty, are
things of course, which to behold is necessarily to command.—
Whether we do not lose by this confidence in ourselves,—for this
is the true signification of it all,—is a question which I do not
propose to argue. I am of the opinion, my dear Major, that a
compromise might well be made between the manners of your
day and ours—when ease of manner might be regulated and restrained
by a courtly grace, and a gentle solicitude, and when dignity
might be held back from the embraces of formality.”
“Ah! Dick, that would be quite a clever essay, and full of
suggestiveness, but for that atrocious word `compromise.' The
compromises of modern democracy are the death of our securities,
and democracy is but that `universal wolf,' as described by
Shakspeare,
“Which makes perforce an universal prey,
And last, eats up itself.”
You remember the passage; and that which follows is the clue
to the whole evil—
“This chaos when Degree is suffocate,
Follows the choking.”
The Major had got upon a favourith text, and was not soon
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suffocate himself. It is not possible for me to follow him, nor is
it desirable that I should. He gave me at the close a sly look,
saying—
“I must go see after Ned. Ah! Dick, if he only had the good
taste which you have, and knew as well how to lead out trumps
in a game like ours.”
This was all said in a whisper. He disappeared leaving me
still to play the cards in my possession. What need I speak of
the game? Suffice it that I played, not presumptuously, and yet
I trust manfully. At all events, I secured the hand of Beatrice
Mazyck—for the first cotillion.
Tea disappeared, an interregnum followed, in which the buz
was universal, and mostly unintelligible except to a few who contrived,
like myself, to monopolize a corner and a companion. Soon,
there was a slight bustle, and a fair-haired and fair-cheeked girl,
a Miss Starke, from one of the middle districts, was conducted to
the piano, which she approached with hesitating steps; but the
hesitancy ceased when her fingers began to commerce with the
keys. She executed the Moses in Egypt of Rossini, with a nice
appreciation, and secured a very tolerable hearing from the audience;
a song followed from a Miss Walter, of some one of the
parishes; and then a lively overture from the violin in the passage-way
silenced the piano for the rest of the night, signalizing
a general and very animating bustle. There were two violins,
one of them, as usual upon large plantations in the South, being
a negro—a fellow of infinite excellence in drawing the bow. The
other was an amiable young gentleman of the neighbourhood,
whose good nature and real merits as a musician, led him frequently
to perform at the friendly reunions in the Parish. Between
the two we had really first rate fiddling; and the carpets
soon disappeared from the hall and the opposite apartment to the
parlour, affording ample room and verge enough for our purposes;
and to it we went with a merry bound, and a perfect
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exhilaration of the soul, wheeling about in all the subdued graces
of the quadrille, and forgetting phlegm and philosophy in a
moment. The dancers were surrounded by the spectators, and,
with Beatrice Mazyck as my partner, I confess to being as little
disposed for grave thoughts and sober fancies, as any of my
neighbours.
Your country ball is quite a different sort of thing from that of
the fashionable city. It is more distinguished by abandon. There
is a less feeling of restraint in the one situation than the other.
Nobody is critical, there are few or no strangers, not sufficient to
check mirth or irritate self-esteem, and the heels fairly take entire
possession of the head. I had not been in such a glow for months.
I had not conjectured the extent of my own agility, and Beatrice
swam through the circle, proudly and gracefully, as the Queen of
Sheba, over the mirrored avenues (according to the Rabbinical
tradition) of Solomon.
“You are a lucky dog, Dick,” whispered the Major in my ears.
“Your partner is worthy to be an Empress. That scamp of a
son of mine, he has possessed himself of that little French devil,
in spite of all I could say. Just look at her, what a little, insignificant
thing she is—yet she can dance—but that is French, of
course. See how she whirls—egad! she can dance—she goes
through the circle like a bird. But to dance well, Dick, don't
make the fine woman! No! no! Deuce take the fellow that
has no eyes for a proper object.”
I was whirled away at this moment, but when I got back to
my place, he was there still, continuing his running commentary.
“Look at Mrs. Methuselah, there—the stiff embodiment of
Gallic dignity in the days of Louis le Grand—I mean, Madame
Agnes-Theresa. Oh! she's a beauty. See how she smiles and
simpers, as if she thought so herself. I suppose, however, it's
only her pride that's delighted at the fine evolutions of her little
French apology for a woman. And see, Ned, the rascal—he sees
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nobody but her. He does not dream that I am watching him all
the while. I fancy, by the way, he does not greatly care! But
I'll astonish him yet, Dick, you shall see! If he vexes me, I'll
marry again, by all that's beautiful!”
Well might the soul of Ned Bulmer be ravished out of his
eyes. Paula Bonneau is certainly the most exquisite little fairy
on the wing in a ball-room, that ever eye-sight strove in vain to
follow. Never sylph wandered or floated along the sands under
the hallowing moon-light and the breathing spells of the sweet
south, with a more witchlike or bewitching motion. She was the
observed of all observers; and it was a perfect study itself, appealing
to the gentle and amiable heart, to behold the rapt delight
in her stiff old grand dame's eyes, as she followed her little
figure everywhere through the mazes of the dance. At that moment,
the old lady's heart was in good humour with all the world.
She even smiled on Major Bulmer as he approached, though, the
instant after, meeting with a profound and stately bow from him,
she drew herself up to her full height, lifted her fan slowly, with
measured evolutions before her face, and seemed to be counting
the number of lustres in the chandelier.
“What a conceited, consequential old fool!” muttered the Major,
as he passed onward. “Strange! that poor old French woman
actually persuades herself that she is a human being, and of
really the fairest sort of material.”
Had he heard the unspoken comment of Madame Girardin at the
same moment upon himself!
“It is certainly very singular that you can never make a gentleman
of an Englishman. Physically, they are certainly well made
people, next to the French. Mentally, they are capable in sundry
departments. They are undoubtedly brave, and, if the French
were extinct, might be accounted the bravest of living races. They
have wealth and numerous old families, but all derived from the
Norman French. Still, there is a something wanting, without
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which there can be no grace or refinement. They have the manners
of oxen,—Bulls,—hence the name of John Bull, the propriety
of which they themselves acknowledge. You cannot make them
gentlemen by any process.”
But these mutual snarlers and satirists did not disturb the progress
of the ball. My next partner was Paula Bonneau. I looked
to see with whom Ned Bulmer had united his dancing destinies,
curious to ascertain how far he was disposed to comply with the
wishes of his father; but he was no where that I could see, while
Beatrice might be beheld floating away like a swan with my friend,
Gourdin. The Major came up to me in one of the pauses of the
drama.
“That cub of mine,” says he, “has let the game escape him
again. I could wring his neck for him. He is now hopping it
with Monimia Porcher,—dancing with every body but the person
with whom I wish him to dance. What does he not deserve!”
And so the time passed till the short hours wore towards; and
then between 12 and 1, the supper signal was given, when we all
marched into the basement. I had secured the arm of Beatrice
Mazyck in the procession; and when I entered the supper saloon,
conspicuous near the head of the table was Ned Bulmer, supplying
the plate of Paula Bonneau. The Major saw him at the same moment,
and was evidently no longer able to control his chagrin. He
looked all sorts of terrors. Mars never wore fiercer visage on a
frosty night. His fury lost him his supper, but he drank like a
Turk in secret. Beaker after beaker of rosy champagne was filled
and emptied, and when I returned up stairs with my fair companion,
I left him with the young men still busy below at the bottle.
When he came above, which was some half an hour after, he
abruptly strode across the parlour to the spot where Ned was still
in attendance upon Paula.
“Come, sir,” said he, “if you mean to drive me home to-night.
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I am ready—and your buggy is ready, sir,—I have already ordered
it.”
Ned was disquieted at the summons, but he quickly saw that
the old man's nerves were disordered by the wine, and the filial
duty of the son became instantly active, prompting him to take
him off, lest other eyes should see his condition as clearly as his
own. He said cheerfully—
“I am also ready, sir, and will only make my bow to Mrs.
Mazyck.”
“Bow be —!” muttered the Major. “You've been bowing
it all night with a vengeance.”
This was scarcely heard by more than the son and myself. His
sister, Miss Bulmer, upon whom I was in attendance, now came up.
“Brother,” said she, “hadn't you better take a seat with us in
the carriage, and let Ned drive home with Tony only.”
“And why, pray,” he responded sharply, “should I change any
of my plans? Am I so old as to need back supporters and cushions?
or do you fear that I shall catch rheumatism? Rheumatism
never ran in my family. No! no! I drive home as I came—in the
buggy.”
There was no more to be said. The Major, giving himself a
fair start, crossed the room to Mrs. Mazyck and Beatrice, and to
each severally, in the deliberate style of King Charles's courtiers,
made his elaborate bow, the right foot thrown back and toe turned
out, as the base of the operation, and the left foot drawn with a
sweep, so as to lodge its heel almost within the inner curve of the
right: arms describing the well known half circle, and body bent
forward, so as to enable the hands, if they so wished it, to rest
upon the knees. And the operation was over, and Ned and sire
passed out of sight, leaving Miss Bulmer in my charge. We did
not linger long after. I had a few more sweet words to exchange
with Beatrice—who treated me, evidently, with a greater degree of
kindness than her good mother was prepared to smile upon—and
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to roll forth sundry sentences of rotund compliment to Madame
Agnes-Theresa, upon the performances of Paula, whose bright
eyes returned their acknowledgments for a very different sort of service.
They took their departure before us, and I saw them to the
carriage. It appears that Mrs. Mazyck had some private words
with Miss Bulmer, and detained her after the departure of most of
the guests. Of course, I did not scruple to enjoy a corresponding
tête-a-tête with Beatrice, and had no complaints to make of the
delay. This was much shorter than I could have wished, and, all
too soon, I found myself in the carriage with Miss Bulmer, and
hurrying off for “The Barony.” Before we reached that place,
however, other adventures were destined to occur, and those of a
sort to require a chapter to themselves.
CHAPTER XI. WHAT TURNS UP ON A DRIVE, AND WHO TURNS OVER.
To drive by night, two or four in hand, through our dim but
picturesque avenues of pine, faintly lighted only by moon or stars,
is an operation that is apt to try the nerves and skill of the city
bred Jehu, accustomed only to broad streets, under the full blaze
of gas lamps every fifty yards. But to the country gentleman, the
thing is as familiar as one's garter, and without a thought of accidents,
he will start for home at midnight, the darkest night, or
drive to a frolic five or ten miles off, and never give the mere compassing
of that distance a moment's consideration. Persons bred
in the country see farther and better than citizens. So do sailors.
Neither of these classes, accustomed to broad and spacious land and
water scopes, is ever troubled with the infirmity of nearsightedness.
This belongs wholly to city life, where the eye, from the earliest
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period, is made familiar to certain bounds, high-walled streets and
contracted chambers. A faculty grows from its use and exercise,
and is more or less enfeebled by non-user. The eye, tasked only
within certain limits, loses the capacity to extend its range of vision
when the occasion requires it. The muscles contract, and the
shape of the eye itself undergoes a change corresponding immediately
with the sort of use which is given it. But, I digress.
Exercised in the woods, night and day, the country gentleman
never hesitates about the darkness, and starts for home, at all
hours. Nobody, therefore, leaving the party at Mrs. Mazyck's,
between one and two in the morning, ever regarded the lateness of
the hour as a reason for not departing. Some few old ladies remained
at Mazyck Place all night. The rest, in backwoods
parlance, `put out,' as soon as supper was fairly over. Some had
a mile or two only to go, and others found quarters among the
neighbours, as is the custom of the country everywhere in the
South. Others pushed on for home, and some few went probably
eight or ten miles. We had barely five to go, and counted it
as nothing. The night was clear but dark. The stars gave but a
faint light, sprinkling their pale beams upon us through crowding
tree tops. The young moon had gone down early; but the horses
knew the way as well as the driver, or better, and were bound
homewards. Ours was a negro driver, and one of that class, with
owl faculty and visage, which sees rather better in the night than
the day. It was this faculty, rather than his personal beauty,
which secured for Jehu—that was really his name—the honourable
place of coachman to Miss Bulmer. Off we went spinningly,
whirling out of the court and into the open road at a keen pace,
which promised to bear us home in short order. Miss B., well
wrapped up, occupied the back seat of the carriage. I took my
place with Jehu, preferring a mouthful of the cool, bracing air of
morning. Merrily danced the pines beside us,—oaks nodded to
us, doffing their green turbans as we sped; now we rolled through
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a little sand hill, now we dashed the waters up from the bottom
of a sandy brooklet. The faint light of the stars gives a strange,
wild beauty to such a scene and drive, and I was lost in mixed
meditations, in which groves were found pleasantly convenient,
and through which I caught glimpses of a damsel, well veiled,
coming to meet me, when I was disturbed in my reveries by Jehu
suddenly pulling up the horses, and coming to a dead halt.
“What's the matter, Jehu?”
“There's a break down here, sir,” quoth he, calling to the boy
to descend, who rode behind the carriage,—“Go look, boy, see
what's happen.”
I could now distinguish a carriage ahead, and a confused group
beyond it. A lantern was borne in the hands of some person who
seemed moving with it across the road. Of course, I leapt down
in a moment, and, begging Miss Bulmer to keep quiet, and bidding
Jehu keep back, I went forward to see into the extent of the
misfortune, and ascertain who were the sufferers by it. This was
quickly known;—but, perhaps, I had better go back in my history,
and report the progress of those whom the matter most concerned.
I give particulars, now, which I gathered subsequently from certain
of the parties.
It appears that, from the moment of starting with his son, Major
Bulmer began reproaching him with his conduct during the evening,
and his neglect of Miss Mazyck. He barely suffered the
buggy to get out of the court yard and into the main road, when
his indignation broke forth into angry words.
“Well, sir; and how do you propose to excuse your conduct this
evening.”
“My conduct, sir? I don't understand you. I really flattered
myself that I had been doing the handsome thing all the evening,
making myself very agreeable all round, and certainly finding a
great deal that was greatly agreeable to myself.”
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“You are a puppy, sir, and a fool, with your self-complaisance.
I can tell you that, sir.”
“Choice epithets, certainly, and very complimentary.”
“Well, sir, you deserve them. Why do you provoke me?”
“You provoke yourself, father. Speaking reasonably, sir, I see
nothing of which you can properly complain in my conduct.”
“Indeed, sir; and who, pray, taught you to speak reasonably.
No man, sir, speaks reasonably, unless he thinks rationally.”
“A logical conclusion, truly.”
“So it is,—and no man who acts like a fool, can be held a reasoning
animal.”
“True, again, logically.”
“I say, sir, you are a dolt, a mere driveller, committing suicide
morally, and striving against those who would help you out of
deep water.”
“Who would drown me rather—deny me the privilege to swim
in the places which I most prefer.”
“Hear me, Ned Bulmer,—why do you not listen to what I'm
saying?”
“I have been listening, sir, very patiently. Go ahead!”
“Go ahead! Why will you, sir, knowing your family and
breeding, indulge in those vile samples of Western slang? Speak
like a gentleman, sir, even if you do not understand how to behave
like one!',
Ned said nothing, gave the horse the goad, and waited for the
next volley.
“Well, sir; after what I said to you on our way to Mrs. Mazyck's,—
after a full showing to you of what I desired—what did
you mean, sir, by so entirely slighting my wishes?”
“Your wishes were not mine, sir,” answered Ned very coolly,
“and even if they were, sir, a ball room, though a very good place
for a flirtation, is not exactly the scene for a bona fide courtship.”
“I may grant you that, sir, but I did not ask that you would
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would make it the scene of a courtship. I only asked that you
would offer such civilities and attentions to Miss Mazyck,—”
“As she, her mother, and everybody else might construe to
mean courtship.”
“You will oblige me not to finish my sentences for me, sir. I
say, Edward Bulmer, that you were not even decently civil to Mrs.
Mazyck and daughter.”
“There I must deny you, sir. The matter is one of opinion.
I contend that I was as civil, considerate and respectful in my attentions
to both the ladies, as the elder had a right to require, and
the younger desired to receive.”
“And how know you, sir, what the younger desired to receive?”
“By infallible instincts. The fact is, father, it is of no use to
trouble me or yourself in regard to Beatrice Mazyck. I assure
you, sir, that every body sees, if you do not, that another man has
won her heart.”
“You mean Dick Cooper.”
“I do.”
“Well, sir, I have Dick's assurance, from his own lips, that
there have been no love passages between them; that they are entirely
uncommitted to each other.”
“And no doubt what Dick told you, sir, is perfectly true; but
things have changed since your day, sir. People have become
more refined and less formal. It don't need, now-a-days, to make
a declaration in words in order to be understood. In your day,
when all gentlemen were moulded upon one model, and all affections
spoke through one medium, and after a particular form—
when, in fact, the affections were not recognized at all—and when
father or mother could swap off their children as the condition by
which alone they could unite certain acres of swamp and uplands,—
such an intercourse as that of Beatrice Mazzyck and Dick Cooper
would pass for nothing. Mais, nous avons changé tout cela!”
“Ah! d—n that gibberish. Speak in English if you will speak.
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Though, by the way, speaking such consummate nonsense and
stuff as you do, perhaps French is the proper dialect. Well, sir,
what more;—use what lingo you please.”
“Oh! sir, any thing to please you. I have few more words to
say; and I do say, that, though no words may have been exchanged
between Beatrice Mazyck and Dick Cooper on the subject, yet
their hearts, sir, are as irrevocably engaged, as if the Reverend Mr.
Hymen, of the old Greek Church, had been called in to officiate.
Hearts, sir, have a language in our day, which was denied them in
yours. Perhaps this is one of the redeeming features of ultra
democracy!”
“You have talked a long farrago of nonsense, Edward Bulmer,
in which, as far as I can perceive, you have aimed at nothing more
than to accumulate together all those topics which, in their nature,
might offend me. I will meditate this hereafter. To make my
complaints of your conduct more specific, why, sir, did you attach
yourself the whole evening to the Bonneau fiction, neglecting
wholly Mrs. Mazyck and her daughter.”
“Your charge is not more specific now than before. It is quite
as easily answered. I join issue with you on the fact, sir.”
“What, do you question my word?”
“No, sir, by no means,—only the correctness of your opinion.”
“Sir, it is a matter of mere testimony. I beheld it with my own
eyes.”
“Your eyes deceived you, father.”
“How, sir? Did you not dance repeatedly with Miss Bonneau?”
“I did, sir.”
“Did you ever dance once with Miss Mazyck?”
“I did not, sir.”
“Well, sir;—yet you persist that you were attentive to the latter
lady.”
“I do, sir, as far as it was possible. I proposed to dance with
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her, and she was engaged. This sir, on two occasions—quite often
enough, I think, to try a lady's mood towards you.”
“Edward Bulmer, is it possible that you resort to evasion! Sir,
I know too well what is the practice with young men, where they
wish to escape a duty. In my day, sir, and I confess I was guilty
of this conduct myself, it was not unfrequently the trick—trick, I
I say, sir, trick!—to ask a lady after she was known to be engaged
for the coming set. Now, sir, answer me honestly, was not this
your trick, sir, on this occasion.”
“A practice deemed honourable in your day, cannot surely be
regarded as discreditable; and I have now only to plead your own
example, sir, if I desired to escape your anger. But, in truth, sir,
I did not, on any occasion, know that Miss Mazyck was engaged
to another partner when I asked.”
“But you conjectured it, sir,—you kept off untill the last moment,
sir. You well know that Beatrice Mazyck is not likely to
hang as a wall-flower, and you gave everybody the desired opportunity,
sir. Edward Bulmer, it was a mere mockery of Miss Mazyck,
to solicit her hand when you did.”
“She, I fancy, was very well pleased with that sort of mockery.”
“Sir, did you ever, on any one occasion, offer yourself to her
for the second or third dance, when she pleaded previous engagement.
That, sir, is a common custom with young gentlemen—is
it not.”
“Yes, sir,—and one more honoured in the breach than the observance.
I don't approve of it myself, and don't encourage it in
others.”
“You don't, eh! Well, sir, I made you a special request that
you would see Miss Mazyck to the supper-table. Why did you
not?”
“Dick Cooper was before me, sir.”
'`Dick Cooper before you! Yes, indeed, he will go before you
all your life; That man will be somebody yet. Not a mere Jehu
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or Jockey, sir. He will not waste his life among the pumpkins. I
would to God he could drive into your empty noddle some of that
good sense and proper veneration which distinguish himself.”
“Well, sir, you will admit that if I'm unworthy of Miss Mazyck,
he is not.”
“Who says you are unworthy, sir?”
“My humility, sir.”
“D—n your humility. I wish you knew how to exercise it in
the right place. You are a puppy and a scrub, and fit only for
such a petty little French popinjay as that—”
“Stop now, father, or I'll be sure to upset you! If you speak
disrespectfully of Paula Bonneau, you will certainly so outrage my
nervous sensibility, that I shall turn the buggy over into the first
bramble bush that I see; and then, sir, you'll be in the condition of
the man who lost both his eyes in a similar situation. You remember
the pathetic ditty—
“And when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main,
He jump'd into another bush,
And scratch'd 'em in again.”
But that feat's not to be performed every day. You might try
from bush to bush between here and home, and fail to scratch back
your pupils.”
`'Pshaw—you blockhead! But where the deuce are you driving,
sir? You are out of the road.”
“No, sir,—I am in the road far enough. I confess I'm on the
look-out for the briar patch; and should I see one,—”
“Zounds, man, you are out of the road. I see the track to the
left.”
“No, sir, it runs to the right. I see it well enough. Don't
touch the reins, sir,—you'll do mischief.”
“Do mischief! You would teach your grandmother how to
eat her eggs, would you? Teach me to drive! You would
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provoke a saint, Ned Bulmer! Give me the reins, or you will have
us in the woods.”
“Fear nothing, sir; I see exactly where I am going. I see the
road perfectly, every step of it!”
“You see nothing, sir, I tell you, but your own perverse disposition
to foil me in every thing. If I did not know, sir, that you
are a temperate man, I should suspect you of taking quite too
much champagne to-night”
Ned Bulmer could not resist the disposition to chuckle.
“What do you mean by that laugh, sir? There, again,—you
will have us in the woods. It is either your hands that are unsteady,
or it is your horse that shies?”
“Isn't it barely possible, sir, that it is the stars that shy?” was
the response of Ned, conveying thus what was designed to be a
very sly insinuation. But the Major's faculties had not been so
much bedevilled as his eye sight. He caught the equivocal import
of the suggestion in a moment.
“Really, sir, this is most insolent. You are drunk, sir, positively
drunk, and will break both our necks, in this atrocious
buggy. Give me the reins, I tell you.”
“Hold off, father,” cried the son earnestly; “we are going right.
There is no danger, but the road here is narrow and the fence on
the left is pretty close.”
“Fence on the left! Where the d—l do you see any fence on
the left? Where do you think we are, sir?”
This was the first time that Ned suspected that his father's sight
was becoming bad. He knew not whether to ascribe it to his own
age, or that of the wine.
“At Gervais's corner.”
“Pshaw! we have passed it long ago. You are in no condition
to drive. That's plain enough.”
With the words he grasped one of the reins furiously, whirled
the tender-mouthed grey round before Ned could guard against the
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proceeding, and in a moment, striking the corner of the rail fence,
the buggy was turned over, and the horse off with it. The Major
made a sudden evolution in the air and came down heavily against
the fence. Ned was pitched in among the pines, on the opposite
side of the road, and both lay for a time insensible.
CHAPTER XII. A GROUP ON THE HIGHWAY. A NEW STUDY FOR THE PAINTER.
It is not yet known how long the father and son lay in this condition
before they received assistance. They were first discovered
by the coachman of Madame Agnes-Therese Girardin, as he drove
that lady and her grand-daughter slowly home from the ball.
“Wha' dis yer?” quoth Antony, the coachman. “I see somet'ing
in de road.”
“What do you see, Antony?” demanded the lady.
“I yer somebody da grunt,” quoth Tony. “He's a pusson—
(person)—he's a man for certain.”
“A man in the road, groaning!” said the old lady. “Peter!
Peter!”—to the boy riding behind. Antony drew up his horses at
a full stop. Peter jumped down and came forward.
“Take one of the lamps, Peter, and see who is lying in the
road.”
The urchin moved promptly, and, hurrying forward, stooped
over one of the victims, holding the light close to his face. He
came back instantly.
“Its Mass Ned Bullimer, missis.”
“Mr. Edward Bulmer!” said the ancient lady, and she hemmed
thrice and began violently to agitate—her fan.
“Edward!—Edward Bulmer!” cried the young lady, almost
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with a scream, beginning violently to agitate—herself. “Oh! mamma,
let us get out and see. He is hurt. He is killed.”
“No, Miss Paula, he aint dead yet,—he da grunt.” This was
meant to be consolatory.
“Be quiet, Paula, my child; do not excite yourself—we will
see—we will inquire. But—”
“Open the door, Peter!” cried Paula, with an energy and resolution
which she did not ordinarily exhibit, and of which the old
lady did not altogether approve, though the occasion was one
which did not allow of any deliberation. Peter, meanwhile, opened
the door of the carriage, and the young lady darted out.
“Stay, Paula, stay, till I get my cologne, and—”
But the damsel was off, and a bound brought her to the side of
her lover, stretched out partly upon the road, his shoulder resting
against a pine sapling. She knelt beside him, called to him with
the tenderest accents, and was answered by a groan. These groans
were signs of returning consciousness, at once to suffering and life.
Meanwhile, the good grandmother had hobbled out, and approached
the scene of action; a bottle of cologne water in one hand and her
vinaigrette in the other.
“Rub his head, my daughter, and sprinkle him with cologne;
hold this vinaigrette to his nostrils, and tell him to snuff.”
Another groan, and then the maiden heard him in faint accents
say—“My father—see—my father.”
“His father! Oh! Major Bulmer,” quoth the old lady. “Yes,
they went away together.`'
“In de buggy, missis,” interposed the knowing Peter. He himself
had opened the gate for the buggy, and had received a shilling
for his attentions.
“Look for him, Peter,” said the old lady—and she muttered to
herself, as if to justify her humanity, “He is one of God's creatures,
at least; it is our Christian duty only.” And with these
words she followed Peter in his search.
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The Major was found in the fence corner, lying partly across one
of the stakes, which his weight had broken, his head striking
against a rail. The old lady was quite terrified when she beheld
him. His head had been cut, an ugly gash, ranging from the
upper part of one ear to the temples. He was still bleeding freely.
Antony was immediately summoned to bring the other lamp of
the carriage, while Peter was made to mount one of the horses,
in order to ride back for Dr. Porcher, who was at the party, and
who, it was hoped, might be still found there. Madame Agnes-Therese,
in the meanwhile, to her credit be it said, forgetting old
prejudices and antipathies, forgetting all forms and restraints, and
stiffnesses and formalities, kneeling beside the insensible Major,
proceeded to staunch the blood and close the wound. She had
lived a long time in the world, and had acquired much of that
household practical knowledge and dexterity which enables one
to be useful in almost any emergency. And she pursued her present
labour with a good deal of skill and success. The vinaigrette
and the cologne were passed from patient to patient, as they severally
seemed most to need it. Antony was despatched to the
branch, or brooklet, which they had passed only a few moments
before, to bring his carriage bucket full of water. The faces of
the two were sprinkled with water, cologne poured into their
mouths, and both seemed to revive about the same time. The
first words of the father were significant of quite a different feeling
from that which he exhibited during the unlucky drive.
“Ned, my dear boy; Ned, are you hurt?”
The old lady, holding the lamp up to his face, endeavoured to
press him down, in order to keep him quiet.
“Do not speak; do not agitate yourself, Major Bulmer; your
son is doing well. He is not much hurt—not much, I assure you—
I, Mrs. Girardin.”
“Heh!—you—Mrs. Gi—.”
He resolutely sate up, in spite of all her efforts, and stared her
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in the face with a countenance in which surprise was so extreme
as almost to seem horror. Fancy the spectacle. Madame Girardin
holding the carriage lamp with one hand, kneeling on one knee,
and with the other hand striving to press the old gentleman backwards.
He, now sitting, his arms supporting him in the position,
with his hands resting on the ground; and staring with such
a face into her own. He had almost recovered his senses quite,
and astonishment had partly overcome his pain. It was at this
moment, and while the expression was still upon his visage, that
our carriage drew up to the scene of the accident. We necessarily
halted also, soon got out, and almost as soon learned all the
particulars. In a moment after, Dr. Porcher arrived, fortunately
having met Peter on the route, and proceeded to examine into the
condition of the sufferers.
The evil was not so serious as we had at first reason to apprehend.
The real sufferer was Ned Bulmer, whose left arm was
broken, and who was otherwise considerably bruized about the
body. The Major had an acre of bruizes, according to his own
phrase, over back and shoulders and sides. But, excepting the
ugly gash over his temple, there was nothing to disquiet him for
more than a week. But he had a narrow escape. The skull was
uninjured, but a little more obliquity in his fall would have crushed
it. As it was, the wound was really only skin deep; but it left
an ugly scar forever after, which, as a fine-looking man, who had
always been particularly well satisfied with his visage, occasioned
the proprietor many and frequent regrets.
But we must take our groups out of the highway. The arm
of Ned Bulmer was temporarily bandaged, and we lifted him into
the carriage with as much tenderness as possible. This carriage
was Madame Girardin's. The moment she discovered that each
of the wounded men would require two seats, she graciously accorded
the use of her vehicle. Of the two, she perhaps preferred
the son to the father as an inmate; but dear little Paula, clinging
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to her lover tenaciously, disposed of the matter without leaving
any thing to the option of the grandmother; and, at her requisition,
as soon as Ned was fully restored to consciousness, the Doctor,
myself and Antony, lifted him in, not a little helped by Paula.
The same service rendered to the Major, and the Doctor led
the way in his own vehicle. We drove slowly, and day was
dawning as we entered the court. The patients were carefully
taken out, put to bed, and more methodically and scientifically
attended to. But before Madame Girardin departed, and as she
was preparing to do so, the Major begged to see her in his chamber.
“Mrs. Girardin, I am too feeble and sore to rise, but you will
believe me, as feeling very deeply and warmly your kindness and
the succour which you rendered to my son and myself.”
To which the old lady replied:—
“Major Bulmer, you will please believe that I am grateful to
God in permitting me to be of any help to any of his creatures.”
When she had departed, the Major said:—
“Well, I owe the old lady my gratitude. She has good stuff
in her, though she is of French stock.”
The old lady had her comment also, muttered to Paula as she
rode:—
“If Major Bulmer did not sometimes make himself so offensive
by his pride,—his Bull family pride,—he might yet be made a
gentleman.”
I must not omit to mention that, while the grandmother visited
the father, the grand-daughter visited the son; but what was said
between the two latter, has never, that I know of, been reported to
any third person.
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CHAPTER XIII. THE PROGRESS OF DOMESTIC REVOLUTION.
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The misadventure, happening so near to Christmas—that sea
son when we require to have all our limbs in perfection, our bodies
free from bruises, and our spirits buoyant over all restraints,—was
the great subject of annoyance with the Major. Christmas was assigned
by him for a great festival—a something more than was
customary in the country, in which every body that was any body,
was to be at the Barony. The accident happened on the 13th of
December. But twelve days, accordingly, were allowed to the
sufferers to get well. With respect to the Major himself, this, perhaps,
bating the scar upon the forehead, was not a matter of much
doubt or difficulty. But the case was otherwise with poor Ned,
whose arm, the Doctor affirmed, could not be suffered to go free
of splint and sling under a goodly month. What a month of
vexation. So, at least, it seemed. But the good grows out of
the evil, even as the cauliflower out of the dunghill. Evil, according
to the ordinance, is the moral manure for good. The Major
lost something of his imperious will in the feelings of self-reproach
which seized upon him. He now beheld, what he did not then,
that it was the champagne which he had imbibed, and not that
which he had imputed to his son, that had tumbled the pair into
the pathway. He also began to suspect, what Ned would never
have hinted to him, that age was giving certain premonitions in the
shape of a failing eye-sight. Strange that he had never seen that
fence. Was it the wine or the years? Both, perhaps. This conclusion
humbled the old man. He sought the chamber of his son.
“My dear boy,” he said, “I won't ask you to forgive me, for
such a request will give you more pain, I know, than any thing
besides; but I feel that it is not easy to forgive myself. I had drank
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too much champagne, that is certain. But I was angry with you,
Ned,—and you know what one of our modern poets says:—
“And to be wroth with those we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.”
I am not sure that I quote literally, but I am pretty near it. I
could not eat, and drank freely on an empty stomach. This made
me wilful; and Ned, my boy, you provoked me. You were a little
too cool,—too cavalier. Had you drank freely too—had you
been angry or quarrelsome—all would have gone right. But, no
matter now. It does not help to go over the same ground again.”
“No,” quoth Ned, between a writhe and a smile, a grin and a
contortion, not able to resist the temptation—“More likely to
hurt—perhaps the other eye, the other arm.”
“Well,” good humoredly responded the Major, “you are doing
well, so long as you can perpetrate a pun.”
“Of old, you held that to be doing ill.”
“What! another! Dick,”—to me—“is he not incorrigible!
But, Ned, my boy, you must hurry your proceedings. It won't
do to have you laid up at Christmas. Get well as fast as you can,
and, as an inducement, I have sent to town already, to Reynolds,
ordering a new buggy. Your horse is badly hurt in the flanks. I
must take him off your hands. You shall have two hundred dollars
for him, or the pick of any draught horse in my stable—they
are all free.”
“I'll take the money, papa. I have suffered too much from
your free draughts.”
“What a propensity. But I forgive you, considering your arm.”
“Strange, too, that I should owe my safety to that which I can
no longer count upon.”
“A pun again! I give you up. But look at my phiz. Am I
in a condition to call upon Madame Agnes-Theresa this morning?”
Ned looked up with some curiosity—anxiety perhaps—in his
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glance. We both agreed that the scar had an honourable appearance.
“Ah!” quoth the Major, I should not have been ashamed of it
had it been won in battle—driving an enemy instead of driving a
horse.”
“At the head of the Fencibles, instead of the foot of the fence,”
murmured Ned languidly.
“You did serve in the war of 1815, Major,” was my remark.
“Yes, after a fashion, along the sea coast; but we never had any
encounter with the enemy. Their shipping lay in sight of the
coast, and their boats sometimes put into the creeks and rivers, but
they fought shy of us.”
“Knowing, perhaps, that they would have to deal with shy
fighters,” quoth Ned.
“No, indeed. We were brave enough, under the circumstances.
Once we thought we had a chance. It was after night, but starlight;
the tide was coming in, and one of our sentinels discovered
a boat making straight for shore. We crouched among the sands,
flat on our faces, making ready. When within gun shot, we
poured in a terrific fire and rushed up to finish the work with the
bayonets. We found the boat riddled admirably with our balls,
but nothing in her but a junk bottle and a jacket, and both empty.
She had drifted from the Lacedemonian man-of-war. Her capture
was thought no small evidence of our prowess, showing how we
could have fought. The Charleston papers were particularly eloquent
in our praise, and I'm not sure but salutes were fired from
Castle Pinckney in our honour. It was no fault of ours that the
British feared us too greatly to venture any soldiers in the skiff.
That was our only achievement, unless I mention a somewhat ineffectual
fire at a barge, about seven miles off. It is barely possible
that the enemy saw the smoke of our muskets. They could not
have heard the report. But, you think I will do to see Madame
Girardin?”
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“As well as any gallant of us all,” was my reply.
“Very good. I'll ride over this morning.'`
“Eyes right, father, and look out for fences on the left.”
“Get out, you dog. Trust me, never again to take champagne
or any other liquor on an empty stomach.”
“And, beware of the black dog, father.”
“The tiger is becoming pacified, Ned,” was my remark after
the departure of the Major. “He has had a bad scare. He will
come round by degrees. All the symptoms are favourable.”
“He will give up some favourite projects then. His heart has
been more earnestly set on this marriage than I had suspected. I
am now convinced he has been planning it for months, and I have
reason to believe that he opened the subject to Mrs. Mazyck before
she went to travel last summer. He is tenacious of such
matters.”
“No doubt; and without some extraordinary event he would
have continued so. This accident has been a great good fortune.
The Major has too uniformly escaped successfully from those evils
to which flesh is heir. Uninterrupted good fortune is quite too
apt to harden the hearts of the very best men. They finally believe
themselves to be entitled to impunity. It requires a disaster
to rebuke arrogance; and one should pray for an occasional
mischance, knowing our tendency to self-reliance. We must every
now and then receive a lesson which teaches us that God is still
the Ruler of the Universe, and that the richest, the strongest,
the bravest, the wisest, are but feathers and straw before his
breath. Your father has just had one of these excellent lessons.
He has been taught the exceeding shortness of the step between
an imperial will, a haughty temper, a glorious future, and suffering,
agony, the grave, the loss of the thing most precious, the overthrow
of the most cherished pride and vanity. You are the only
son, and the very will which threatened to wreck your hopes, was
based upon the desire to subserve your success and prosperity.
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Strange as it may seem, parents are thus constantly employed, at
once for the good and the mortification of their children. Keep
up your spirits. Do not vex him. Say nothing of your hurts.
He will see them, and suppose them, fast enough; and your very
forbearance to complain will, in his mind, exaggerate the amount
of your suffering. There will be a degree of remorse at work
within his bosom, which shall impel his moods hereafter in an entirely
opposite direction.”
“But, you do not augur any thing from this visit to Madame
Girardin?”
“By no means. As a gentleman, he could do no less. He had
to go. There is no merit in the act. He owes the old lady and
the young one the visit, and something more. But, there is something
favourable in the fact that he does it willingly, cheerfully,
and with a grace, showing that the duty is now by no means an
irksome one. A week ago, and to be required to visit the Bonneau
plantation would have been like taking a pill of myrrh and aloes.”
Let us follow the Baron, and see the issue of his visit.
When it was announced to Madame Girardin that Major Bulmer
was in the parlour, she was quite in a fidget. “Bonita,” her
own maid, a mulatto of Cuban origin, and “Marie,” the waiting
maid of Paula, were both summoned.
“Bonita, what has become of my mantua cap? Marie, I told
you to put away my Valenciennes. Dear me, Paula, I can find
nothing, and these servants are positively in the way of each other.
They are certainly the most awkward and useless creatures in the
world. Paula, child, do look into your drawers for the Valenciennes
tippet. Ah! there it is. Paula, child, do fix me,—pin the
cap for me, and put on that bunch of crimson ribbons. Crimson
always suited my hair best, and complexion. Do get away, Bonita—
you only disorder me. You are getting quite too fat and
clumsy for any useful purpose about house. I'll have to send you
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into the field. Heavens, what will Major Bulmer say to being
kept so long? Why, Paula, where are you, child?”
Paula was already down stairs. Madame Agnes-Theresa was
still a long time fixing. For years she had never taken such pains
to caparison herself for any encounter with the other gender.
Strange! that she should be so solicitous about her personal appearance,
when she was to meet with one whom she had always
regarded with prejudice and the bitterest hostility. Yet, not
strange! Oh! woman, after all, claim what you please for yourself;
assert what rights you please; estimate your charms at the
highest; pride yourself as you may upon your intrinsic worth; suppose
yourself, if you please, of the purest and most precious procelain
clay that ever afforded materials for celestial manufacture;—
then, put what rough estimate you may on man—suppose him all
that is rude, and wild, and rough, and tough,—all dough and
mortality if you think proper,—a mere savage in beaver and
breeches,—a mere beast of burden, with only half the usual allowance
of legs and ears—still, my dear creature, all your painstaking
are for him, even when he is of the rudest, and you the
softest—all these careful caparisonings before the mirror,—all this
assiduous training of the tresses—all this nice adjustment of the
features,—the very disposition of that scarf and tippet, the careful
twofold concealment and display of that white neck and bosom,
that adroit placing of the jewel just where it is best calculated to
inform him how much more precious is the jewel that hides beneath,—
that confining zone,—that flowing drapery,—that bracelet
spanning the snowy arm,—all, all,—the grace, the taste, the toil,
the care, the smile, the motion,—all, all are designed to win his
smile, to charm his fancy, provoke his admiration, compel his love.
Talk of your rights! Confess the truth, for once, now, at this holiday
season, and admit that the most precious of your rights, even
in your own estimation, is that of winning his affection, wild colt,
fierce tiger, beast of prey and burden as he is!
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Dear, good, antique, frigid, stately, stiff, and bigoted Madame
Girardin, was not superior to her sex; and this, by the way, my
dear, is the one most precious jewel of her humanity. She was a
good half hour in fixing, even after Paula Bonneau had descended
to the parlour. The latter has gone down to meet the Major after
the fashion of Nora Creina:
“Oh! my Nora's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free,
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina;
Nature's dress,
Is loveliness,
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.”
Never sticking a pin in her dress, never adjusting tippet or ribbon,
the artless child bounded down to the meeting with Ned's father
with a joyous, cheerful sentiment of delight and expectation. She
knew that he would come,—that he was bound to come to make
his acknowledgments,—but, somehow, there was a vague, undefinable
feeling in her little heart, that his coming augured something
more grateful,—something more positive than a mere formality.
She fancied that the snows of winter were about to thaw, and, like
a glad bird, she bounded forth with song to welcome in the first
sunshine and the infant promise of the spring. And the old
Major, bigoted and prejudiced, and feeling, as he did, that she
stood in the way of one of his most cherished schemes in behalf
of his son, he could not resist the child-like confidence, the unaffected
and pure innocence of soul and spirit which displayed itself
to his eye on her approach—so frank, so free, so joyous, the union
of child and angel, so sweetly mingled in look and manner! She
came towards him with extended hands, but he caught her in his
arms, and kissed her, I fancy quite as affectionately as he would
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have done Beatrice Mazyck; then he put her from him at arm's
length, and looked kindly into her large, bright, dewy eyes.
“Oh! I'm so glad to see you, and to see you well again, Major.”
“My dear child, I owe it, perhaps, to you and to your good
grandmother, that I am well again—or nearly so.”
Paula did not disclaim the service, as many foolish people would
do. She acted more wisely—said not a word about it; but looking
at the scar, cried out, with child-like freedom:—
“But you have got a mark for life, Major. That was a terrible
cut.”
“Ah! my dear, but not half so severe as that which you would
have made upon my heart, were I thirty years younger. As
it is, I don't know how much love I do not owe you, old as I am.”
And he took her again into his arms, and seated her upon his
knees, and began to think that, after all, it was really not so strange
that Ned Bulmer should take a fancy to the little damsel, though
she was of that pernicious French stock. And the old man and
the young girl prattled together like two children that have chased
butterflies together, until the moment when that gem from the antique,
Madame Girardin, strode into the apartment, looking very
much like a crane on a visit of special ceremonial feeding, at the
Court of the Frogs.
“Mrs. Girardin,” quoth the Major, rising and making his famous
bow, though at the cost of a few severe twitches of the back and
arms,—“I come, my dear Madam, to return you my best thanks
for your kindness and singular attention to myself and son, at a
moment of very great pain and imminent danger to both. You
acted the part, my dear Madam, of the good Samaritan, and
when I think of the coldness of the night, your exposure on the
damp earth, your fatigue, at an hour when repose was absolutely
necessary,—the judicious efforts you employed, and the prompt
intelligence which made you provide for immediate help,—I feel
utterly at a loss for words to say how deeply I am penetrated by
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your kindness and benevolent consideration. I trust, my dear
Mrs. Girardin, that you will receive my assurances in the spirit in
which they are tendered, and that, hereafter, we shall become
more to each other than mere passing acquaintances of the same
parish.”
The Major had evidently meditated this speech with a great
deal of care. It betrayed cogitation, and this was its fault. His
object was to express his feelings distinctly, and to declare his conviction
of the friendly and useful assistance of the lady; yet without
falling into formality. But, that he meditated at all, what he
had to say, necessarily led him into formality. This is always the
error with impulsive men, who forget that when impulse has become
habitual, it has also become equally polished, proper and expressive.
I am speaking now of educated people, of course. A
man so impulsive as Major Bulmer, it is to be expected, must occasionally
err in speech; but a man who is so free and frequent a
speaker, is never apt to err very greatly, if he will leave himself
alone, and wait for the promptings of the occasion. Had he, by
accident, encountered Mrs. Girardin the morning after the accident,
he would have thanked her in a single sentence and a look; and
his gratitude would have seemed more decidedly warm from the
heart, than it now declared itself.
But I am not so sure, remembering the sort of frigid person
with whom he had to deal, that his present mode of address was
not the most appropriate. It sounded dignified,—it appealed to
her dignity. He made it an affair of state, and her state was accordingly
lifted by it. It showed him deliberate in his approaches,
even when his object was to give thanks, and this displayed his
high sense of the service, and of the importance of the person addressed.
All of which was rather grateful than otherwise to a
person who still longed for the return of hoops and high head
dresses. She answered him in similar fashion,—`She had done
her duty only. We must give help to one another in the hour of
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distress and affliction. Major Bulmer's rank in society justified
her departure from some of its strictnesses, in the effort to assist
him. She was conscious of the impropriety, ordinarily, of stooping
beside a gentleman, particularly on the high road; but she begged
him to believe that, before she did so, she ascertained that he was
actually insensible. She herself saw the blood streaming from
his brows. She heard his groans. Otherwise, he was quite speechless.
Under the circumstances, she had a Christian charity to fulfil.
She thanked God she was a Christian,—true; a most unworthy
one,—but she prayed nightly for Heavenly Grace to make her
better. She was happy to believe that her prayers had been
somewhat heard; assuming the very casualty of which the Major
had been so nearly the victim, to be designed as affording her a
special opportunity of serving one whom she had not been taught
to recognize as a friend.”
“Cool indeed,” thought the Major. “Certainly very cool. I am
to be upset by Providence, my own and son's neck perilled, only
to afford her an opportunity to play the good Samaritan. Very
cool, indeed!' thought the Major, though he suppressed the very
natural comment. The self-complacency of the old lady now began
to please him as a sort of study of character. But he spoke
again. She had referred to his bloody appearance, to his groans
unconsciously uttered. It was in something of the spirit of a certain
Frenchman, of famous memory, that he said,—
“Really, Mrs. Girardin, when I was in that condition, I must
greatly have disquieted you by my groans and shocking appearance.
I am afraid I made some horrible wry faces. Believe me,
my dear Madame, it was purely unintentional. Had I been conscious
of your presence, I certainly would have constrained myself.
I trust you did not construe my wry faces into any feeling of disapprobation
at your presence, or the kindly succour you were giving
me.”
“No, sir; I thank God, who kept me from putting any such
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uncharitable construction on your conduct. Suffering as you did, in
such a situation,—or had it been any body else,—I should have
begged you to pay no attention to my presence, but to be as much
at ease as possible!”
“At ease!” thought the Major. “What an idea!—what a
strange woman.” His spoken words were of another sort.
“I thank you, Mrs. Girardin,—from the bottom of my heart I
thank you,—for myself and son. He, too, sends his thanks, though
too great a sufferer to offer them in person. He will present himself
as soon as he is able. To you, and this sweet angel of a
daughter, we owe more than we can ever acknowledge.”
To this, the good lady had a set speech, deprecating all acknowledgments.
The delight of doing good was sufficient for her. To
this the Major had his response; to which the lady had hers; the
former replied again; and Madam Agnes-Theresa answered him.
By and by, the Major began to speak more at his ease, and, after
a little while, making a prodigious leap from one point to another,
he exclaimed abruptly:—
“The fact is, my dear Mrs. Girardin, we have been all our lives
a couple of old fools—”
“Sir!”
“I beg pardon,—a thousand pardons. I meant to say that I
have been a couple of old fools—not merely one fool—that would
not answer to express my sense of my stupidity for so many years
of my life. No, Madam, I have been a pair of fools; for living
beside you in the parish so long, knowing your worth, and the
honourable family to which you belong, yet never once seeking to
show my estimation of it. It is thus, my dear Mrs. Girardin, that
one will hunt for years after a treasure which is actually lying all
the while in his path—that one will sigh and yearn after possessions
for which he has only to open his eyes and stretch forth his
hands,—and that we hourly lament the growing weakness, wickedness,
and ignorance of the world around us, without being at
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the proper pains to welcome and value the good, the great, the
wise and the virtuous, even when we find them. I have been a
fool of this description of forty horse power. By God's blessing,
my dear Mrs. Girardin, and, with your favour, I will show that I
am recovering my senses. Permit me, then, to acknowledge my
past stupidity in not knowing you better, and do not punish the
offence, for which I feel a becoming remorse, by denying me permission
to make proper amends in the future for the past.”
Madame Agnes-Theresa was proud, and vain, and haughty, and
clannish, and full of ridiculous notions of what was due especially
to herself and family,—but she was not wilful or perverse. Properly
appealed to, she was accessible, and, if she had no question
of the sincerity of the offender, she was forgiving. Besides, as
we have before hinted, her hostility to the Bulmer household arose
from pique and a mortified spirit. She did not hold herself aloof
from them, or toss her head haughtily when she heard them mentioned,
because she felt her superiority over them, but simply
because they seemed tacitly to assert theirs over her. Vain people
are easily mollified. The very attempt to mollify them, soothes the
self-esteem which you have outraged. Major Bulmer was a great
beguiler of the sex. In his youth, a splendid figure, with a handsome
face, he was irresistible. Even now, his figure was noble and
erect, his eye open, manly, and of a glad, generous blue; and his
whole air was that of the born gentleman. Madame Girardin did
not prove incorrigible. The signs of yielding were soon manifest,
and when, pointing to an ancient portrait of a Knight in
armour, hanging against the walls, the Major afforded her an opportunity
of tracing the Girardin family to the fountain head
which they were content to claim, he made a formidable advance
into the champagne country of her affections. He put her on the
right strain, and she told the story which he had heard from other
sources a hundred times before, of that famous warrior, the Lord
Paul St. Marc Girardin, who accompanied Saint Louis to the Holy
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Land, and helped to bury him there. Then the old lady showed
him the antique seal ring of the family, the crest being a crosshandled
sword, the blade dividing a crescent at an awful swoop;
then followed the narrative of the Lord Paul St. Marc's feats of
arms, his prowess, the number of ladies he saved, hearts he won,
Turks he slew. The Bonneaus, the old lady was pleased to admit,
had never been quite so distinguished as the Girardins, but they,
too, had done no small mischief upon Turks' heads and ladies'
hearts. To slaughter foes, and jilt damsels, by the way, was,
among the fine people fifty years ago, the two preferred processes
for being honourably famous; and, with all her religion and bigotry,
the good grandmother held rather tenaciously to the old faith in
these performances.
And so the two talked away, and about the strangest things,—
strangely communicative, for the first time in their lives, to one
another, until, by the time the hour was ended,—you will scarce
believe it, dutiful reader of mine, but it is a solemn and truthful
chronicle which I indite,—but,—certainly I shall surprise you.
Prepare yourself. What think you then? The old lady herself,
Madame Agnes-Theresa, taking Major Bulmer by the arm, actually
conducted him out to look at a new smoke-house she had been
building, and to show her new plans for curing hogs; then led him
away, in the same style, to look at some new fowls of foreign varieties,
roosters big as giraffes, and pullets that might have pacified
Polyphemus, which her factor had bought for her at the great
Fowl Fair in Charleston. “Fair is foul and foul is fair!” says
Shakspeare, so that nobody need be offended at my present collocation
of words. The Fowl Fair in Charleston had contributed
largely to our grandmother's hen coop, and afforded material upon
which the old lady and her guest could expatiate with equal eloquence.
Little Paula thought there would be no end of it; but
the sly little puss, seeing that things were going rightly, never interposed
an unnecessary word,—and her forbearance displayea
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eminent wisdom. Half the world are fools in this very particular.
They put in an oar, just when the boat is making the best headway,
with tide, wind and current in favour, They stop the currents,
they head the winds, and, in the effort to help progress,
mar the enterprise forever. Keep your tongues, fools; hold off
your hands, donkies, and let “Go ahead” and “Do well,” work
their own passages, without clapping unnecessary steam to their tails.
“Well,” quoth the old lady to Paula, after the Major had departed,—
“well, my child, who would have thought it! Who
ever expected to see Major Bulmer in my house. Who ever listened
to hear me welcome him! There's some great change at
hand, my child, when such things happen.”
“The great change has happened, mamma.”
“Yes; but it always betokens other changes yet. The Major
has had a narrow escape. But he is old, and he may have suffered
some secret injury, of which he never dreams. When people
thus suddenly change in their dispositions, look for a singular
change in their fortunes. Well, God be thanked for making him
sensible, in his old age, and before it became too late, of what he
owed to society and his neighbours. It is late, but not too late,
and I pray that no evil consequences may follow the present change
for the better in his disposition.”
“How can it, mamma?”
“Oh! I don't know; but change is an awful thing always, even
when it happens for the better, and there is always some evil following
in the footsteps of what is good. We must only hope and
pray, and leave it all to heaven.”
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CHAPTER XIV. WHICH AUGURS AN AFFAIR OF BOARS!
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It is the tendency of all revolutions, when they once fairly begin,
to precipitate themselves with fearful rapidity. The impetus once
given, and the car rolls onward, with a growing head of steam.
The development is as eager as light in its progress, from the moment
when the germinating principles begin to be active. It will
be admitted that the transitive steps were soon overcome, in the
overthrow of the ancient prejudices between the Bulmer and Bonneau
families. Major Bulmer was a man of locomotive temperament,
who could not well arrest himself in his own movement,
having once begun it. Scarcely had he returned home, and reported
what he had done, when he hurried to the library, in order
to prepare billets of invitation for Madam Agnes-Theresa, and
the fair Paula, to his proposed Golden Festival at Christmas.
These performances were not so easy. Every precaution had to
be taken by which to avoid offending the amour propre of the
old lady and re-awakening her ancient prejudices. Twenty notes
were begun, and were dismissed, because of some unlucky word or
phrase. I was finally called in to the consultation, and required
to prepare an epistle, possessing all the accuracy of a law paper,
with all the blandness of a billet doux. Some hours were spent
in devices, and doubts, and arguments, and objections, and quiddities,
and quoddities, in order that we might not chafe rabidities and
oddities. The work was done at length, but there was still a
shaking of the head, on the part of the Major and Miss Bulmer,
as to certain words, and dots, and consonants; and it was finally
decreed that Ned should decide as to which, of half a dozen epistles,
should be sent. The great, final consultation was held in his
chamber,—and he decided,—and we may suppose with judgment,
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concerning the result. The billets were sent, for the old lady and
her grand-daughter; and before an answer could be received, Miss
Bulmer,—a most benevolent and gentle soul as ever lived,—took
the carriage and drove over to Madame Girardin, in order, if need
be, to smooth over difficulties and overcome objections; at all
events, to add her eloquence to that of her brother, to persuade
the parties to acceptance. But, before her arrival, the discussion
had taken place between the old lady and the grand-daughter.
“Well, Paula,” quoth she, “wonders will never cease. What
do you think? Here is an invitation to me,—to me,—to spend
Christmas day and night at Bulmer Barony. And here is a note
to yourself, I suppose, to the same effect.”
And the old lady read her billet aloud, and then required the
young one to re-read it, and to read her own.
“And now what do you say, my child. Don't you think it very
surprising?”
“I don't see any thing to surprise us, mamma. I confess it's
only what I expected, after the Major's visit yesterday.”
“Well! these sudden changes are very awful. No one can tell
what is to happen. I declare they make me quite nervous. Major
Bulmer has never been on friendly terms with our family, but I
think him a very worthy man, and I should be very sorry if any
thing evil was to occur. I knew once of a person who was a great
sinner, a very wicked man, who swore like a trooper, and drank
like a dragoon horse; who was always quarrelling with somebody,
and fighting and lawing with his neighbours; who all at once became
converted from his evil ways, renounced his bad habits,
joined himself to the church, became really pious, and suddenly
died of apoplexy only a month after he had become religious.”
“That was surely better than if he had died before becoming
so. I don't think the change for the better, in his character, produced
the change in his body for the worse; or that the danger to
his life was the consequence of the improvement in his morals.
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It may be that certain changes in his physical condition, of which
he was better conscious than anybody else, brought about the
change of heart within him; and, fortunately for him, brought it
about soon enough for his spiritual safety. I don't see why you
should infer anything unfavourable to Major Bulmer's health, in
consequence of the improved feeling which he shows towards us.”
“I don't know, my child; there's no telling. It's all a mystery;
but I have my fears. I'm dubious that he is not altogether
so sound of body after that accident.”
“Why, mother, he walks as erect as ever.”
“Oh! that's owing to his pride. These Bulmers were always
so. My poor brother used to say that if they were dying, they'd
still carry their heads up, and would draw on their boots and put
on their spurs as for a journey. But, what's to be done, my child,
about these invitations?”
“Oh! we must accept them, mamma, as a matter of course.”
“I don't see that, Paula.”
“Surely, mamma, if Major Bulmer makes the first advances to
reconciliation, you are not going to show a less Christian spirit than
he.”
“There is something in that, my dear, but—”
“Let the but alone, mamma. It properly belongs to the Bull
family.”
The old lady laughed.
“So it does, my child, so it does; that is very well said;—
but—”
“Again, mamma! Now let me give you a sufficient reason for
acceptance. You would not have me go alone; and I must be
there, you know, as the whole neighbourhood will be present, and
you would not have it appear that I was slighted, or that I had
shown myself too little of a Christian to accept the overtures of a
family between which and ours so long a feud has existed. You
must accept the invitation, and go for my sake.”
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“Well, my dear, for your sake!” replied the indulgent dame,
concealing, under the expression of her desire to gratify the damsel's
wishes, some hankering tastes and curiosity of her own. The
great object had thus been, safely and easily attained when Miss
Bulmer made her appearance, and by some ill-judged, though
very benevolent attempts to argue Madame Agnes-Theresa into
the consent already won, had nearly driven the vessel out to sea
again; like certain politicians of our acquaintance, who mar
the pleasant progress of their own objects, by the too great passion
for listening to their own eloquence. Many a good measure has
been defeated in legislative assemblies, by a pert speech and an
amiable epistle: both possessing more wind than wisdom. Our
lady politician was of this unlucky brood, and, but for certain looks,
nods, winks, and other sly proceedings—to say nothing of an absolute
nudge or two—administered by pretty Paula, the ragoût of
compliance, to use an oriental form of speech, would have certainly
been spoiled in the cooking. But Miss Bulmer was fortunately
silenced at the most dangerous crisis of the affair, and was persuaded
to listen quite long enough to learn that grand-mamma had
already consented, in regard to the especial wishes of the damsel,
to attend the Golden Christmas at Bulmer Barony—the importance
of the event seeming to justify the concession—it being the
hundredth year since Christmas was celebrated in the same family
and household. You may see on the gables of the house, in
huge iron figures 1-7-5-1! It was the Golden Year in the history
of the ancient fabric—ancient for the civilization of our country—
which promises to attain the decrepitude of age, without realizing
any of the famous dust and dignity of the antique. Though
not exactly a favourite with Madame Girardin, our excellent maiden
sister was not by any means the object of such dislike as had
hitherto been felt for her brother by the former; and the first business
over, that of the invitation, the parties had a long domestic
and parish chat together, which brought them still nearer in social
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respects. Of course, the two more ancient ladies looked together at
the pigs and poultry, and—a matter of equal unctuousness in the
sight of both—the best way of dressing and curing sausages, occupied
an interesting half-hour to itself. You will at length suppose
the interview over, and the maiden sister departed.
“Well, really,” quoth Madame Girardin, “it shows that the good
folks of the `Barony' are coming to their senses at last. I do not
see, my child, after the solicitude they have shown, how I could
possibly escape this visit; and then, my dear, it's on your account
too, you must remember.”
“Certainly, mamma,” returned the artful little puss, “you have
always been good to me! You know, mamma, you have to yield
to my wishes.”
And she wrapt her fairy-like arms about the neck of the venerable
Hecate, and kissed her as fondly as you or I would have
done the most rose-lipped virgin in the world.
But kissing is not now our cue—
“This is no world
To play with mammets, and to tilt with lips.”
We have other and very different games on hand. I am signalled
for the Wallet and the Strawberry Clubs—both hunting Societies—
and both occurring the same week. Everybody knows, of
course, that the clubs of the gentry exist in all our parishes, the hunters
assembling weekly or semi-monthly, hunting the better part of
the day, dining together at the Club House, or at some central
point in the neighbourhood. The wallet club, by its name, shows
the process for providing the dinner. Each hunter carries his wallet
stored with creature comforts and a doomed bottle. The Major
and myself were parties to both hunts, but neither of us succeeded,
on these occasions, in getting a shot. We spent a merry
day, however, with the good fellows of the parish. But we
had another sport in reserve, of rather different character, to
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which a large party was invited; the affair to come off two
days before Christmas. You are aware that, in the larger
swamp and forest ranges of our low country, where population is
sparse, the hog runs absolutely wild. He is hunted up as the
season approaches when it is necessary to fatten him for the shambles.
Sometimes hogs will escape all notice for years. Turned
into the range after being marked, they flourish, or famish, on the
mast, just as the seasons decree. Sometimes they will show
themselves sluggishly fat, lying on sunny days of the winter in
heaps of half-rotted pine straw, enjoying themselves in the fashion
of Diogenes—asking nothing from man or fate but the small
amount of sunshine which reaches their repose through the tops
of two or three grouped pines or gums. The acorns are plenty.
They have fed fat that season, and are gruntingly good natured,
and growlingly sedate. You may walk over them and into them,
without irritating their self-esteem; almost without disturbing their
slumbers. But the case is otherwise in seasons when the mast
fails. Then they are gaunt and wolfish. Then they growl savagely,
and you must not tread wantonly upon their sensibilities.
They drowse no longer in the sunshine than they can help. The
goad of necessity is ever at their flanks. They hear perpetually in
their ears the voice of a beastly fate which cries, “Root pig or die!”
and as they hear, each lank and angular porker thrusts his long
snout into the earth, and stirs the fields, from which the planter
has reaped, more thoroughly than the plough-share. The potato
fields, the ground-nut patch, are thus burrowed into, and the meagre
supplies, thus gleaned after the progress of the farmer, suffice
for a while, not to fatten the animal, but to keep him alive.—
Even these fail, in season, and the farmer then, through rare benevolence,
sends forth his grazier, who, with a daily sack of corn,
apportions to each, a small allowance, upon which he consents to
live a little longer. In this condition, the neglected hogs, grown
larger, and given to wandering through extensive and almost
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impenetrable recesses of swamp and thicket, become very wild and
savage. They turn readily upon the dogs, and it requires a very
vigorous cur, indeed, and a very bold one, to take them by the
throat. They will sometimes give fierce battle to the hunter
even, on horseback, and have been known to inflict serious if not
fatal wounds upon the horse; while the rider, himself, must be
wary enough in the encounter if he would escape from hurt. The
long white tusks of an angry boar, which has never been honoured
by the annual tribute of the barn, or mollified by the pickings
of the farm-yard, are no trifling implements of battle, rashing
short and sudden, against the thighs or ribs of the heedless hunters.
It was with no small pleasure that Major Bulmer was advised
a week or so before Christmas, by his overseer, that he had found
out the hiding place in a neighbouring swamp, of a gang of “wild
hogs” having his brand. Two of them were described as boars
of the largest size and fiercest character. The Major instantly
conceived the idea of a boar-hunt. It was his pride to emulate
as much as possible, the character of the ancient English, and to
practice those sports, the neglect of which, he insisted, were the
first signs of the degeneracy of the age. The introduction recently,
into the parish, of the jousts and tiltings of the knights
of the middle ages,—as hath been well recorded by the antiquarian
chronicler of the Charleston Courier,—served, perhaps, to
suggest the present enterprise particularly to his mind. And the
fact that the Boar's Head constituted, in old times, the prëeminent
dish at every feudal English table on Christmas day, made him
resolve that this grim trophy should also adorn his own, on the
approaching anniversary. To some six or eight of the young
knights who had distinguished themselves at the last tournament,
proper notice was given, and, at the time appointed, we had the
pleasure of seeing them assemble, each armed with a boar spear
and couteau de chasse. There were the Knights of St. John, and
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of Santee; Knights of the Rose and of the Dragon; Knights of the
Bleeding Heart, and of the Swan; and others, whom I need not
name. I confess to figuring as the Knight of Keawah,—the old
Indian name of Ashley River,—while a young friend, from the city
also, came up in season to enact the part of the Knight of Etiwan—
or of Cooper River. It was a proper day which we took for the
sport,—dry, and a mellow sunshine in the heavens and upon the
earth. We rode under the guidance of the overseer, and under
the lead of the Knight of the Dragon,—the Major being still
a little too sore and stiff to head the party, though nothing short
of a broken limb could have kept him from partaking of the adventure.
We took with us but five dogs, but these were of known
blood and courage. These were Clench, Gripe, Wolf, Bull, and
Belcher. It happened, though we did not know it when we set
out, that we were followed by another,—a stranger,—which nobody
knew,—a gaunt, gray beagle, of very long body, and a modest,
rather sneaking deportment, He had not waited for enlistment,
received no bounty, and, seeking only the honour of the
thing, went as an obscure volunteer. We never noticed his appearance
until we were in the thick of the fight.
The dogs knew very well what we were after. One of them,
following the overseer, had tracked the prey before. We had,
however, some trouble and a long ride to find them, as they had
changed their hiding places repeatedly since the day of their discovery.
The dogs scattered in the search. They had penetrated
a great mucky bog, at several points, while the hunters skirted it,
waiting for the signal. An occasional yelp, or bark, would at times
excite us, but, for a while, we were disappointed. At length, one
of the dogs gave tongue, shortly and quickly, and with evident
anger in his tone. The hunter is apt to know his dogs by their
voices. The Major said,—
“That's Belcher,—a sure dog,—better to report truly than to
fight fiercely. Let's put in.”
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With the words, we spurred forward in the direction of the
sounds, making but slow headway through the thick matted copse
and underbrush which covered the entrance. But we got through
at last, and found ourselves in a wood, where the trees were of
considerable size, standing sufficiently open,—gum, water-oak, and
pine,—with occasional patches of gall bushes, and dense masses,
here and there, of cane, bramble and shrubs, with thin flats of
water lying between, and leaving little tussocky beds, high and dry,
on which we found frequent but abandoned beds of the beasts we
were in search of. We rode forward now at a trot, Belcher, the
dog giving tongue more rapidly, and, being now joined by another
dog, whose bark was less frequent, but very fierce; and one which
the Major did not recognize;—a fact which somewhat worried him.
Soon, we saw the overseer, with two other dogs, approaching from
a point on our right; and, as we were joining, the form of the absent
dog, Gripe, came rushing by us from the rear, and making for
the scene of clamour, which appeared to rise from a recess in the
wood still beyond us. This we could attain only by passing through
another dense skirt of undergrowth, vines, shrubs, canes and gall
bushes. Four dogs we had just marked as they passed, yet we
had heard two tongues within the covert. We had no time to
speculate upon the surplus `tongue'; the clamour was momently
increasing. The enemy was evidently brought to bay. Poising
our boar spears aloft, we forced our way through the copse, at the
expense of some scratched faces, torn skirts, and caps lost for the
moment. Breaking into the opening, the whole scene was apparent
at a glance, and in one of those very spots where, our object
being to see and to engage in the meleé, we should have chosen it
to occur. There was a spectacle indeed. There were three hogs
of immense size, of the breed, called, I think, the `Irish Grazier.'
They were long bodied animals, with long legs, grisly and angular
in aspect and outline, and all with ominous tusks. There was
a huge sow, very thin, with some eight or ten pigs. There were
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besides, two or three good sized shoats. A single boar, and he, the
largest, seemed to be in good condition. He was evidently one
of those fierce, insolent and powerful beasts, who are known to
plant their shoulders against a worm fence, and by main force to
shove it over. These were all grouped together, the pigs within
the circle, so as to present a front on every hand, when we came
in sight. The dogs had surrounded them, but kept at a decent
distance. They became more adventurous the moment we appeared,
and dashed gallantly in among the herd. But it was a
word and a blow only; the sharp bark was followed by a sharper
cry, and we could see the blood-stains instantly upon the shoulders
of one limping beast, and the gash along the ribs of another,
who howled himself out of the fight, only to sink down, seemingly
fainting in the water.
“Bull has got his quietus, I'm afraid,” quoth the Major, poising
his spear, and preparing for a charge.
“Stop, Major,” quoth the Knight of the Dragon; “let's have
fair play. It will not be easy to have a chance, or to work successfully,
while they keep herded in that hollow square. We must
try and separate them. If you will suffer me, I will but prick one
or more of the beasts with my spear, and allow the dogs to break
into their ranks. At all events, suffer me to try it.”
The Major held up somewhat unwillingly, and the young Knight
darted forward gallantly, brought up his steed, which was equally
fiery and shy, with a sharp thrust, into both flanks, of a Spanish
rowell, and, rising in his stirrups, dexterously passed the broad iron
spear along the shoulder and sides of one of the largest boars.
The savage beast in a moment snapped at the assailing instrument,
but fortunately took hold of the part only where it was sheathed
with iron. He shook himself free from it a moment after, and as
it was withdrawn instantly, he wheeled about in the direction
of his assailant, who had now ridden past. This changed his attitude,
exposing his broad flank to the Major, whom nothing now
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could keep from the charge. He made it with commendable
spirit, and drove his spear clean through the neck of the boar.
The wounded beast, with an angry cry, turned suddenly before the
shaft could be withdrawn, and the iron head was broken off in the
wound. The suffering must have been extreme, for he wildly
dashed at the steed of his assailant, which backed suddenly against
a cypress, reared, plunged and dashed forwards, almost into the
circle where the other hogs were still collected; and, but that the
Major was a famous horseman, he would have been unseated. The
wounded boar was not, however, permitted to carry the affair after
his own fashion. The Knight of Santee came to the Major's rescue,
and adroitly drove his iron in between the gnashing teeth of
the brute, piercing obliquely through the neck again, and compelling
another cry, between a grunt and a roar. The blood gushed
freely from the wounds, and the scent of it had the usual stimulating
effect upon the dogs. The first in was the gaunt gray, of
whom nobody knew anything,—the volunteer in the expedition.
He had the boar by the nose in a moment. A single toss and
twist threw the monster down, and, leaping from his horse, the
Knight of the Dragon passed his keen couteau de chasse over his
weasand.
The other parties, hogs, dogs, and knights, were by no means
idle during this progress. The operations of the Major, by which
one of the grimmest of the boars had been withdrawn from the
circle, left it penetrable. The dogs dashed in once more. The
pigs squealed, the sow gave battle fiercely, but was taken by the
snout, by the dog Gripe, and turned over in a jiffy; the overseer,
jumping down and tying her with certain buckskin thongs, with
which he had come properly provided. The capture of the pigs
continued to employ him during the rest of the affair. For this,
we had a fair field; and, by the way, the noblest quarry. The
Knight of the Dragon, like a courteous gentleman, kept aloof,
leaving the sport to those who had taken no hand in the killing of
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the first boar. Major Bulmer was disarmed, by the breaking of
his spear, and looked on with rare impatience, while the conflict
continued. It was not allowed, be it remembered, to use any other
weapons than spear and knife. There had been little sport, and
none of the classical, in the affair, but for this restriction. The two
remaining boars confronted us, with their little, round, sharp, malignant
eyes, telling us, as well as words could do, what we might
expect from their monstrous white tusks, which stuck out three
goodly inches or more from either jaw. To seperate these two, to
divide our forces against them, and to begin the attack, were all
matters of very brief arrangement. To the Knights of St. John,
the Bleeding Heart, and myself, were assigned the conquest of the
largest of the grim graziers. The second named dashed forward
valiantly, and delivered his spear, well addressed, fairly at the throat
of the brute; but, turning suddenly, at the moment—not disposed
to wait for the assault—he made at the horse of the attacking
knight, who barely recovered himself in season to wheel about and
escape the glaring tusks that almost caught the courser's sides.
Following up his onslaught, I put in, successfully taking the fierce
brute just behind the ear and below the junction of the head and
neck. The spear passed in,—a severe thrust,—which was only
arrested by the skull. I was fortunate in drawing forth the weapon
before he could turn about, and seize upon it, as he strove to
do. At this moment, no aspect could be more full of rage and
fury than that which the boar presented. His back was absolutely
curved like a bow, the bristles were raised, erect, and standing out
in points like those of the porcupine; his eyes seemed to flash a
grey, malignant light, like so much white heat, while the bristling
brows, long and wiry, stood out straight. The teeth and tusks
were bare; and, standing, regarding us with a sidelong watchfulness,
there was a mixture of rage and subtlety in the look of the
boar, that showed him no merciful customer, could he ever make
himself fairly felt. That he had the fullest purpose to do so, every
raised and corded muscle of his body seemed to declare.
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It was a point of honour to give the Knight of St. John a
chance, so I held my spear uplifted, and suffered him to ride up to
the charge. To say that the Cavalier in question is one of the
best riders in the country, one of the best exercised in the lance, and
can ride at a ring with a grace to charm the most fastidious of the
damsels of the parish, would be mere surplusage. To see him,
with his beaver up,—by which I mean his fur cap, with patent
leather peak,—his enormous mass of sable whiskers, and elaborately
twirled mustache,—to behold him rising in the stirrup and
levelling the spear,—then, as he drives the spur into the sides of
the courser, to see him lance the direct shaft into the throat of the
beast, a seemingly mortal thrust—would have given a grim delight
to any ancient Nimrod of the German forests. One would have
supposed such a thrust, so well delivered, with so much equal address
and force, quite enough to have settled the accounts in full
of the victim; but not so! It seemed to act only as a new spur
to his fury. He dashed headlong at the horse of his assailant—
which curved with a sweep handsomely out of his way—then, with
a strange caprice, dashed on the opposite side, just as the Knight
of the Bleeding Heart was slowly approaching, lance uplifted, and
never dreaming of his enjoying another chance at the grim enemy.
He was taken completely by surprise, and, before he could anticipate
the danger, or wheel out of the way, the sharp, white, felonious
tusk of the boar rashed against the foreshoulder of his beast,
swift and deep, so that you could hear the griding of the keen instrument
against the bone. With a terrible snort of fear, his
mane rising and ears backing, the horse dashed wildly off, at an
acute angle, turning as if upon a well oiled pivot, working under
electricity; and, in the twinkling of a musquito's wing, the handsome
young Knight of the Bleeding Heart, might be seen describing
a short evolution in the air, vulgarly called the summerset—
supposed to be only a vulgar contraction for “some upset,” or
“some overset,”—and falling incontinently into the midst of the
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conflict going on just then, between the remaining boar and the
Knights of Etiwan, the Rose, and the Swan. Out of one peril
into another, the Knight of the Bleeding Heart seemed in danger
of literally verifying his claim to the title. Of a certainty, that of
the Broken Head, seemed absolutely unavoidable. Nor was this
the only danger; for, at the precise moment when he fell into the
midst of the striving parties, the spears of the Knights of Etiwan
and the Rose, had actually crossed in the throat of the boar, and
he was gnashing, and rashing, and dashing, on both sides alternately,
keeping up a sort of see-saw motion, the crossed spears
maintaining for him the balance admirably, and the two knights,
during his phrensied movements, finding it difficult to withdraw
their weapons from his tough side. You have heard of the little
Canadian hunter, who was pitched by his horse among a herd of
galloping buffaloes, and straddled the great bull, and was horsed
from him to the back of the great cow, then precipitated among
and over and between and through and above, a forest of little
calves! Such, on a minor scale, was the sort of progress made by
our Knight of the Bleeding Heart—first over the great boar, then
flirted off upon the sow—who lay prostrate and tied—then rolling
from her embrace among the swarm of little piggies, who were
grouped around her, ten in number, each with nose to the
ground, and tail curling in the air. He was thus tossed about,
with a most feathery facility, for a moment, settling down finally
like a stone, in very close proximity to the sow. Their groans were
so mingled, that it was not easy to distinguish between them;
and, confounding them together for a moment, we almost apprehended
that the Knight of the Bleeding Heart would soon be in
want of an epitaph. Several of us dismounted and rushed to his
assistance, Major Bulmer, in the meanwhile, eagerly rushing in to
slit the jugular of the boar, who had succumbed to the Knight of
Santee and myself; and the Knights of the Dragon and Swan doing
the same good service for the third boar, with which he and
the Knights of the Rose and Etiwan had been doing battle. We
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picked up the champion of the Bleeding Heart, and found him
with bleeding nostrils. This was his worst injury. He was stunned
and considerably scratched, but, alighting just upon the boar's
back, titled next upon the sow's, and, rolling over finally among
the pigs, the shock of his fall was measurably broken. It might
have been otherwise a fatal one; for he was slung from the saddle,
headlong, like a stone. It was surprising, too, that he should have
been thus unhorsed, for he ranked as a first rate rider. But he was
taken by surprise, and the lack of vigilance is usually the wreck of
skill. The worst of his misfortune is to come. That he should
have suffered so little was the evil feature in his case. Had leg, or
arm, or neck, been broken, the mishap would have risen into tragic
dignity. As it resulted, it was simply ludicrous, and the Knight
of the Bleeding Heart was every where laughed at as the Knight
of the Bloody Nose!
CHAPTER XV. A FLARE UP BETWEEN MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
We bagged our prey as well as we could. The overseer had
providently ordered a cart to follow the party, and our spoils filled
it:—the dead hogs being at the bottom, while the maternal
porker, still unhurt, with her numerous progeny, grunted all the
way home, from a spacious but bloody couch in the centre of her
slain associates. I forbear numerous small details of our adventure,
satisfied to have given all the material facts. I may mention here,
that, subsequently, one of the party, who possessed a wonderful
faculty for caricature, executed a drawing to the life, and brimfull
of spirit, of the serio-ludicro exhibition of the Knight of the
Bleeding Heart, at the moment of his unexpected descent among
the swine. He is bestraddling the mammoth boar, on all fours,
hands thrown forward, as if grasping at the tail of the beast, while
his legs are scattered `all abroad' over the animal's neck. The
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rest of the hogs are grouped around in various attitudes, more or
less influenced by the advent of the Knight. The little pigs, in
particular, with snouts uplifted and tails upcurled, are recoiling
with evident awe and apprehension, seeming to ask,—`Heavens!
what are we to look for next?' The picture is preserved with great
care at the Bulmer Barony, where it may be seen at any moment,*
much to the secret disquiet of the graceful young Knight, who is
the hero of the scene.
But I must not linger in the narration of such episodes, even
though they constituted the chief exercises and amusements of the
Christmas holidays. Day and night, for two weeks, we were on
the move,—now to this club house, or that,—this or that dance or
dinner party,—seeing new faces daily with the old ones, and having
no moment unemployed with brisk and pleasant exercises. I
must not forget to mention that, in the meanwhile, Ned Bulmer
grew better, and, as his sorenesses of body lessened, those of his
heart seemed to increased. As soon as he was able to go forth, we
went together on a visit to Bonneau Place, where he had the felicity
of enjoying a more civil welcome from the grandmother than
he had altogether expected, and where I succeeded, by going out
with that excellent old lady to admire her poultry, in giving him
a chance for a half hour's sweet secret chat with Paula. Of course,
nobody cares to listen to the prattle of young lovers, who are mere
children always, the sympathies and affections leaving them no
motive for the exercise of thoughts.
Leaving it to the reader's imagination and experience, to supply
this portion of my chapter, let me peep, for a while, into the habitation
of my own cynosure. We will suppose ourselves, therefore,
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at Mazyck Place, on the morning of the day when Madame Girardin
and Paula received their invitations to the grand festival to come off
on Christmas, at the Barony. Mrs. Mazyck and Beatrice had received
invitations at the same time, and they, too, required to sit in
council upon the matter. The subject was one of great doubt and
deliberation in the one household as in the other. Most people of
insular life, living in the country, and only occasionally in society,
are tenacious and jealous of their social claims in much greater degree
than people of a city. Seclusion is a great nurse of self-esteem,
and all matters, however minute and unimportant, which
affect the social position or estimates, are weighed with a nicety
and observance, in rural life, which really provoke a smile only
among persons to whom the jostle with humanity is a daily and
constantly recurring thing. In the city, the crowd is always compensative
for the ill-treatment of the clique. You care little for
that denial or neglect from the one group, which is more than made
up to you by the attentions of another. You find refuge in one set
from the exclusiveness of its rival; and, where the city is a large
one, there is no class or street, without a sufficiently solacing circle,
in which you may find wit, intelligence, grace of manner, and virtue,
quite adequate, at once, to your claims and your desires.
Accordingly, you miss no consideration, and are comparatively heedless
of neglect. People, tacitly, make their communities on every
side, and he must be a poor devil, indeed, who may not readily find
all the companionship which suits his tastes and necessities. But,
the case is far otherwise in the sparsely settled abodes of our interior;
and this is just in degree with the real wealth and resources
of the planters. Large plantations push away permanent society,
and make it inconvenient to procure it regularly. Hence, the hospitality
of all those regions which continually welcome their guests
from abroad. Hence, again, a sort of rivalry among the several
proprietors in the state which they keep and the entertainment of
their guests. But this aside. Enough here to indicate the sort of
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influence which helps to make people tenacious of every claim or
right, and resentful of the most shadowy appearance of neglect or
slight. The self-esteem which is continually nursed, while it is the
parent of a character which delights in noble exhibitions and revolts
at meannesses, is yet apt to be watchful, jealous, suspicious,
and forever on the qui vive to let you understand that it feels
itself quite as good as its neighbour; that it is quite independent
of the social sunshine issuing from your portals; that it has friends
enough, and fortune enough, and guests enough, all of its own,
and no thanks to any body,—et cetera, et cetera, et cetera!
Mrs. Mazyck was a proud and stately lady, of real worth, of excellent
habits and family, some wealth, and great hospitality. But
she was touched with this very infirmity of self-esteem, and jealous
self-esteem, in considerable degree. She noted your absences,
the infrequency of your calls, your failure in solicitude, your want
of reverence when present. She seemed to keep a calendar, in
which all things were regularly set down against your account.
She would receive no excuses,—she had no faith in apologies,—
took nothing into consideration,—made no allowances,—when
these charges were once entered on her books. You had been
sick perhaps,—“Hum! Yes! so I hear, but he could find health
enough to call on Mrs. G— or Mrs. B—.” You had been
very much employed in settling the affairs of the estate, had been
to the city, and had really been too busy to make any visits.—
“Perhaps! Yet it is something curious that business could not
keep him away from the party at Mrs. —'s.” True: but that
was a family rëunion, and you went by special invitation. “Oh!
I don't need to be told of the difference between a lively party, a
dance and a supper, and the dull duty of calling to see a tedious
old woman.” So, you must beware, when actually within the
charmed circle of her presence, that you linger not too long beside
any other dame, whose state or position is at all comparable to her
own;—so, beware also, that, when making your respects to her, you
betray not too much eagerness to cross the room to listen to the
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gay chat of the P's, or G's, or B's, or S's. You will be remembered
for all these offences against her amour propre. The haughty
lady will as indifferently detach you from her hooks of favour, and
cast you out into the stream, as the angler casts off the worm, that,
having suffered the infliction of frequent nibblings, is no longer
able or willing to wriggle upon the hook.
Behold her, as she sits, grave, dignified and stern, beside the fire
place, stately in her purple-cushioned and luxurious rocker, in that
trim, well-furnished parlour, great mirrors lining the lofty walls,
and rich curtains of blue and white, trimmed with silver, subduing
still more the feeble light of the December sun, as it glides, like
an unnoticed angel, into the apartment. The old lady has evidently
clad herself that morning in her ancientest social buckram.
Her toilet, as usual, has been elaborately made;—and her black
velvet, flowing and abundant, is as smooth as the daily goings on
of her household. Her tiring woman has dressed her hair with
more than her wonted nicety; and the few curls which nature has
left to her, or which,—making a certain feminine sacrifice to worldly
notions,—she has allotted to herself, are admirably balanced on
each side of her high forehead. Her movements are quite too
measured to suffer her to decompose them throughout the whole
day. There they will keep their place till folded out of sight for
the night, either beneath her night-cap, or in the nice little antique
rose-wood cabinet of her boudoir. She belongs to an old school,
in which state and form are habitual, and where, if any thing fails,
it is nature only, and that art which is its proper shadow,—which
is modestly content and happy when suffered to be its handmaid.
The good lady meditates bolt upright. A work table is beside
her, on which rests a gold-edged, pink-hued billet, the contents
partly legible to her eye where it lies. She takes it up, scans it
over, lays it down, and uplifts her eyebrows. Her lips, you see,
are closely compressed. The effect is not a pleasant one on an
antique visage, particularly where the lips are thin. She again
takes up the billet, but as she hears a voice and a footstep, she
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again lays it upon the table, this time with a little hurry in her
manner. She evidently does not desire to be seen meditating its
contents.
Beatrice enters, calm, sweet, as if all her passions were subdued
to angels. Beatrice possesses real dignity,—a quality that is free
from any ostentatious consciousness of its possession. She has no
affectations of any kind. No temper could be more serene,—no
sunshine more agreeable in its warmth, or less broken by the interposing
shadows of vanity, or arrogance, or pretence, or presumption.
But I will let Beatrice,—my Beatrice,—reveal herself.
I will not undertake to describe her, for I should never know where
to begin, or where to stop. Beatrice quietly approaches her mother,
and takes up the billet.
“Sould this not be answered to-day, mother?”
“What is it, my child?” was the answer of mamma, profoundly
ignorant of the nature of the note.
“The invitation of Major Bulmer for Christmas!”
“Oh!—ah!—and what answer do you propose to send, Beatrice?”
“What answer, mother? We accept, of course!”
“I don't see why of course.”
The damsel looked her surprise. The mother proceeded.
“I am not sure that I shall accept.”
“Indeed! Why not?”
“You are at liberty to do as you please. You are young, and
will like to be among the young people; but, as it is quite as much
on your account as my own, that I shall decline going to Major
Bulmer, you, too, perhaps, may see the propriety of following my
example.”
“On my account.”
“Yes, my child, on your account partly, and partly on my own.”
“Why, mother, this is very strange.”
“You may think so. Young people are very unobservant, and
the young people of the present generation, I must say, are quite
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too indifferent to the sort of treatment they receive. They love
society too much; they are ever ready to take it on any terms.
Now, for my part, I have always been taught to receive it as a
due, and not as a favour, and to welcome it as a right rather than
a benevolence.”
Beatrice had witnessed quite too many instances of this sort of
crotchettiness on the part of her excellent mamma, not to see, at
once, that her soup had been temporarily under-seasoned. She
had acquired some skill in the business of soothing the irritated
appetite, and supplying the ingredients necessary,—to use an
orientalism,—for the conserve of a delicious temper. But she
was really taken by surprise at this demonstration in the present
quarter. She had seen the Major and her mamma exceedingly intimate
only a week or two before. Nay, she had seen sufficient
proofs, by which she had been greatly disquieted, of the secret
object which the two parties had equally meditated of bringing
Ned Bulmer and herself together. What had brought about the
present alteration in the state of affairs? What had cooled off
the parties? Beatrice was not unwilling, I may say in this place,
that there should be an end to the conspiracy against her happiness
and that of Ned. But she had no desire that there should
be a cloud and a wall between the two families. She was worried
accordingly. Mammas, she well knew, having single,—ought I
not rather to say only,—daughters, are apt to be fussy and fidgetty;
just as you see an old hen, whom the hawk has robbed of every
chicken but one,—making more clack and clutter, and showing
more pride and pother, than all the poultry yard beside;—and
the dear girl had long since resolved, that she, at least, would not
contribute in any way to make herself the chicken so ridiculously
conspicuous. There was no more unpresuming, unpretending
damsel, for one of her pretensions, in the world. Now, as the last
sentence of her mamma was tingling in her ears, she fancied she
could catch the clues of her difficulty; but her guess did not persuade
her to spare the excellent old lady any portion of the
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necessity of speaking out, in proper terms, the subject of her embarrassment.
“Really, mamma, you speak in oracles. I can't conceive why
you should speak of society accorded to you as a benevolence
rather than as a due,—and that, too, on the part of the Bulmer
family. They seem to me to have always distinguished you with
the most becoming attentions. Miss Janet is one of the most docile
and humble creatures in the world, and she has been solicitously
heedful of us both; the old Major, himself, has been so attentive,
particularly of late, that, really, mamma, I had begun to
entertain some apprehensions that the Fates were about to punish
me with a step-father, in order to make me atone for some of my
offences.”
“Beatrice,—Miss Mazyck,”—with a most freezing aspect of rebuke,—
the old lady drawing up her knees and laying her hands
solemnly in her lap,—“You know not what you are saying.”
“Oh! yes, mamma, I know very well. How else could I account
for the long letter you received from the Major last summer,
and the long letter you wrote to him in return, neither of
which did you suffer me to see, though you do me the honour
usually to make me your amanuensis with all your other correspondents.”
“There were reasons for the exception, Miss Mazyck.”
“Precisely, mamma; that's what I'm saying,—there was a special
reason for that exception —”
“I said reasons, not a special reason, Miss Mazyck.”
“Well, mamma, and I thought it only reasonable to conclude
your reasons to be resolvable into a special reason. When, after
our return, the Major was the first to call upon you, and when
you took him out, under the pretext of visiting the loom-house,
and the smoke-house, and the poultry-yard, and heaven knows
what else; and when you were gone together almost an hour,—
how could I suppose any thing else, than the particular danger to
myself, if not to you, that I have mentioned?”
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“You are disrespectful, Beatrice.”
“Surely not, mamma.”
“You know not what you are saying. You know not the business
on which Major Bulmer wrote me that letter and paid me
that visit.”
“Certainly not, mamma, I only conjectured, and I give you my
conjecture. As you never condescended to let me into the secret,
I naturally thought that it more particularly concerned yourself.”
“You are a very foolish child, Beatrice. The letters concerned
you, rather than me. The visit was paid on your account. If I
went out with Major Bulmer, you were left here with his son.”
“No, mamma, you mistake; I was left with Mr. Cooper.”
“Yes, Miss Mazyck, and that reminds me of the first show of
disrespect, to our family, on the part of Major Bulmer's. Mr. Edward
Bulmer treated you with so little consideration, that he left
you as soon as our backs were turned, and, when found, was
stretched off and sleeping in the library. Was that proper treatment
of my daughter?”
“Really, mamma, I never missed him.”
The old lady gave her daughter a severe and suspicious glance,
but did not answer the remark. She proceeded thus:
“Whether you missed him or not, does not alter the fact with
regard to his conduct on that occasion. It was highly improper,
and very disrespectful. But his disrespect did not end here. On
the night of the party, he did not dance with you once.”
“In that, if there be any thing to blame, I am the offender.
He applied to me twice or three times for the privilege of dancing
with me, and each time I was engaged.”
“Yes, but could he not have engaged you for the dance afterwards?”
“I am not sure but he sought to do so. It is certain, that, throughout
the evening, I was engaged, most usually, one or more dances
ahead.”
“If there had been a will for it, Beatrice, there had been a way.”
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“That is, if both our wills agreed. There, I conceive, the difficulty
to have lain. I confess, I see nothing in Mr. Bulmer's conduct,
on that occasion, which could be construed into slight or disrespect.”
“You do not want to see, Beatrice.”
“You are right, mamma. I am not anxious, at any time, to pick
out and seek for the flaws and infirmities in my neighbour.”
“That may be a very pious principle of conduct, my daughter,
which, in every day matters, I cannot disapprove of; but there are
cases where a proper pride requires the exercise of proper resentment.
The conduct of Major Bulmer and his son, has not satisfied
me since the night of the ball. They have neither of them darkened
these doors since.”
“Why, mother, how could they? You surely could not expect
them, suffering, as they did, from such an accident that night.
Mr. Edward Bulmer has been laid up with a broken arm, and the
old Major was covered with bruises.”
“But he could find his limbs and body sound enough to visit
Mrs. Girardin.”
“Surely, and he was bound to do so; the friendly care, the
charitable kindness, the magnanimity of the old lady, that night,
in giving her assistance, so promptly, and with so much real benevolence
and kindness to the sufferers, called for the earliest and
most grateful acknowledgment. As a gentleman, merely, if not
as a Christian and human being, Major Bulmer could do no less
than pay her a visit, of thanks and gratitude, as soon as he was
able.”
“Yes, and Miss Bulmer could go too. Both could pay their
respects in that quarter, and neither in ours.”
“Ah! mamma! so you find cause of complaint in poor Miss
Janet, too, one of the best of human creatures.”
“Yes, indeed; if they could visit one house, they might well
visit another; and there were reasons why they should have been
here, if only to explain.”
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“Explain!”
“Yes, explain! You can't, at present, understand; but I mean
it when I say explain! There's another thing, Beatrice. Mrs.
Girardin and Paula Bonneau have both been invited to the Christmas
party at Major Bulmer's. I have it from Sally, the cook. Her
husband, Ben, belonging to Paula, told Sally of the invitation, and
of the very day when it was given.”
“What more natural. The Major and Miss Bulmer could not
surely have omitted them.”
“What! after the long quarrel between the families?”
“For that very reason, mother. A quarrel is not to be kept up
for ever in a Christian country; and what better occasion for reconciliation
than when one of the parties assists the other in a case
of extremity; and what better season than this, when God himself
despatches his only Son on a mission of Love, Forgiveness, and
final reconciliation between himself and his offending people?
Really, mamma, if you were to say to others what you have said
to me, people would begin to suspect you of Paganism.”
“Better call me a Pagan, at once, Miss Mazyck!” growled
mamma, gathering herself up in the attitude of one about to spring.
“But, it is not that Mrs. Girardin and her grand-daughter have
been invited, that I complain. But when I know that the invitation
was sent to them, a whole day and night before any was sent
to us, that, Miss Mazyck —”
“That, mamma, is one of those offences that cannot but be committed,
and which there is no helping. It is done every day. All
cannot be served at the same moment. While one's soup is
scalding him, another, at the extremity of the table, finds his a
little cooler than soup ought to be. Somebody must always be last.”
“But I am not pleased to be that somebody, Miss Mazyck.”
“And, in this case, mamma, I am very sure you are not. I
would wager something that if Mrs. Girardin received the first,
you had the second invitation.”
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“Perhaps; but that does not altogether satisfy me, considering
the terms on which Major Bulmer and myself stood together.”
“Ah! those terms, mamma,” said Beatrice archly and with a
smile. The mother did not attend to the remark, but proceeded
as if she had not heard it:
“But, I see the whole secret. The fact is, that Mrs. Girardin
has a good deal of foresight and a grand-daughter, and Major Bulmer
has a handsome fortune and a son; and charity by the wayside,
may bring its benefits into the parlour; and they do say that
Miss Paula is not insensible to the wealth and person of Mr. Edward
Bulmer, and so —”
“Mother, mother!” cried Beatrice reproachfully; “do not suffer
yourself to speak such things. Mrs. Girardin, I am sure, would
have done for the blind beggar, by the highway, all that she did
for Major Bulmer —”
“What! with her pride?”
“Her pride is ridiculous enough, I grant you, but so far as I
have ever seen, it has never been indulged at the expense of her
humanity. I am sure, at least, that her pride would have been
enough to keep her from any calculations in respect to the Bulmer
family, its son and wealth. She is certainly too proud for any
scheming to obtain any thing from that or any other family. As
for Paula Bonneau, I know no woman who better deserves the best
favour of fortune in a husband; but she is to be sought, mother,
and she will not herself be found on the search for a lover. Let
me so far correct your opinion as to tell you what the world reports
in respect to Paula Bonneau. It says that Edward Bulmer has
long been her devoted, if not her accepted lover, and that she is truly
attached to him, in spite of the hostility of her grandmother, so that
most of your suspicions are wrong, if those of the world be right.”
“It is impossible, Beatrice,—it is impossible!” said the mother,
pushing away the stool beneath her feet, and rising with an air
of outraged dignity. “The terms between Major Bulmer and myself—”
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“Ah! those terms again, mother. Pray, what is the mysterious
nature of this affair between you and Major Bulmer? Really, unless
you tell me plainly the state of the case, I shall have to fall
back upon my old suspicions. My powers of divination yield me
no other conjectures.”
The mother quickened her movements across the room, then
wheeling about, confronted the daughter with a somewhat imperious
manner, as she said,—
“Well, if you must know,—and, under present appearances, I
see no reason to maintain a useless secrecy,—you must know that
Major Bulmer has proposed for you, and that I consented —”
“Major Bulmer, for me,—why, mamma, he is old enough for
my grandfather!” cried the girl in unaffected astonishment.
“Pshaw, Beatrice, you surely know what I mean. He proposed
far you on behalf of his son.”
“And you consented?”
“Yes,—I consented. I thought the match a very eligible one.”
“But how could you consent, mother, to any thing of the sort?
Did you mean that I was to have no voice in the matter?”
“No, by no means; but I took it for granted, my daughter, that
you would see the thing in its proper light,—see the advantages of
such a match—and I consented that the Major should open the
matter to his son —”
“Heavens! mother! what have you done!” exclaimed Beatrice,
the rich red suffusing cheeks and neck, while a singular brightness
flashed freely out from her dilating eyes. It was her turn to rise
and pace the apartment. “What have you done! How have
you shamed me! So, Edward Bulmer is to be persuaded, under
an arrangement with my own mother, to behold in me the proper
handmaid upon whom it is only necessary that he should bestow
his smiles, in order to obtain submission. I am to be made happy
by the bounty of his love. Oh! mother! mother! how could you
do this thing?”
“But, my dear, you see it in a very peculiar and improper light. I—”
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“I see it in the only light. It appears by your own showing,—
and, indeed, I know the fact,—that Mr. Bulmer has had no part in
this beautiful arrangement. He must be argued into it; and his
father must provide him with the proper spectacles—his or your's,
mother,—looking through which, he is to discover what he never
of himself could see, that I am the proper young woman whom he
should espouse. You have done wrong, mother,—you have been
guilty of a great cruelty. You have shamed me in my own eyes.”
“How!—how!”
“Who will suppose,—Major Bulmer or his son, think you?—that
you would venture to pledge the affections of your daughter, to
one whose affections have yet to be persuaded.”
“Oh! no! by no means. I told the Major that you knew nothing—”
“Of course! and had I known every thing, it still would have
been an amiable maternal error—quite venial and rather pretty,
perhaps—to have made exactly the same assurance. The Major
believes just as much of it as he pleases,—the son as little;—and
I—and I—I am to appear as the humble virgin, dutiful at the
threshold, as another Ruth, entreating to be taken into the household
of the wealthy Boaz. Oh! what have you done, mother!
What have you done!”
And a passion of tears followed the drawing of the humiliating
picture. The mother was astounded, and began to fear that, in her
previous consideration of the subject, she had excluded from view
some of the proper lights for judging it. She began to falter, and
to make assurances. But the daughter had risen in strength and
dignity, just in degree as the mother had declined. Her tears had
ceased to flow, but her soul was up in arms, and the fires now
flowed from the eyes that lately wept. Her form, always lofty and
noble, now rose into a sort of queenly majesty, that filled the old
lady with admiration.
“As for Edward Bulmer,” said Beatrice, “he is not for me, nor
I for him. I have long known that he loved Paula Bonneau;
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and I have good reason to believe that his love is requited. But
even had he been willing, mother, his father willing, and you willing,
I should not have willed the connexion.”
“But, Beatrice, my daughter,” interposed the mother, now
thoroughly alarmed, “you do not tell me you will marry against
my consent.”
“No mother; but I mean to tell you that I will never marry
until I have my own consent!”
A carriage at this moment rolled into the court below. The
mother looked through the blinds.
“It is Major Bulmer's, and Miss Janet is getting out.”
“One word then, mother,—we both must accept this invitation,
and it must be frankly and unreservedly—unless we wish the whole
parish to suspect that, in the union of the houses of Bulmer and
Bonneau, Beatrice Mazyck has suffered a mortification,—Beatrice
Mazyck has been rejected by him to whom her mother has offered
her in sacrifice.”
“Oh! my child! How can you say so?”
The dialogue was interrupted by the entrance of the ancient
but amiable maiden, whom Beatrice received with an affectionate
kiss, and her mother with a laborious smile. It need not scarcely
be said, that Beatrice had her own way, and that the invitation
was accepted.
eaf684n1* This was true at the moment of the writing; but, in a note just received
from Mr. Cooper, he tells me that the picture has disappeared, no body knows
how, feloniously cut out of its frame, while it hung in the passage way; Major
Bulmer being inclined to think that the deed was done, either by the young
Knight or some of the Porker family, they being the only parties interested in
destroying the proofs of such an adventure.—Editor.
CHAPTER XVI. CHRISTMAS EVE.
Time, meanwhile, had been hobbling forward, after the usual
fashion, and with his wonted rapidity. He brings us at length to
Christmas eve. But the old Egyptian don't find us unprepared.
He does not catch us napping, though he may at the `nappy.'
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We have taken him by the forelock. We have been getting steam
upon him for a goodly month or more. Major Bulmer has failed
in none of his supplies; and aunt Janet has been doing the crusty,
in spite of her proverbial sweetness of temper,—and because of
it—in the pantry and bake-house, for a week of eleven days.
What a wilderness of mince-pies have issued from her framing
hands; what a forest of patties and petties, cocoanut and cranberry;—
what deserts of island and trifle; what seas of jelly; what
mountains of blanc mange. Eggs have grown miraculously scarce.
There is a hubbub now going on between the fair spinster and her
lordly brother.
“But, Janet, by Jove, this will never do! You mustn't stint us
in Egg-nog. Better give up a bushel of your pudding stuff, than
that we should have less than several bushels of eggs.”
“But, brother, there will still be enough. You know the ladies
seldom take egg-nog, now a days.”
“I know no such thing, and don't believe it. We must provide
enough, at all events. Send out Tom and Jerry; let them scour
the country and pick up all they can. These women with their
parties!”
“Was ever such a man as brother!” cried Miss Janet to me,
with bare arms, uplift, and well sprinkled with flour. She had
been kneading that her public should not need, which is certainly
patriotism, if not Christian charity. But I have no time to listen
to her, or to speculate upon her virtues. The Major summoned
me forth to look at the hogs. Thirty were slaughtered last night.
There they hang, the long-bodied, white porkers, thoroughly cleaned,
like so many convicts, decently dressed for the first time in
their lives, when about to pay the penalty of their offences. “Not
a rogue among them,” quoth the Major, “that weighs less than
250 nett.” Yesterday, there was a beef shot. We must go and
look at him, see him quartered, and estimate his weight and importance
also. Huge tubs and wooden platters of sausage meat
entreat our attention, and I assist Miss Janet in measuring out
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pepper, black and red, and sage and thyme, and salt and saltpetre,
that the sausage meat may be as grateful to the taste as it is fully
great to the eye. The Major and his sister are the busiest people
in the world. Ned Bulmer is abroad and busy also, as much so
as he can be, his arm in a sling. He is anxious about certain oysters
ordered from the city, and is pacified by the response from the
gentlemanly body servant,—“The oysters have arrive, Mr. Edward,
in good order.” Boxes are to be unpacked, in which I help.
Miss Janet is feverish about the fate of several barrels of crockery.
I assist in relieving her. The Major needs my help in opening
and unfolding certain cases of fire-works, and in preparing sockets
for rockets, and reels for wheels, posts, and platforms, &c., for a
display by night. Our Baron, like other Princes, is fond of, and
famous for, his pyrotechny. He has invented a new torpedo, by
the way, for blowing up the fleet of the Federal Government, whenever
they shall attempt to bombard the city; and one of the problems
which now occupies his mind, is the preparation of a balloon
for dropping hollow shot into the forts of the harbour. The Major
is a fierce secessionist. At one time, he rather inclined to co-operation;
and I fancy he voted the co-operation ticket for the Southern
Congress; but, since the resolutions of the Committee at Columbia,
he denounces them as mere simulacra,—using the vernacular
for the learned word,—plainly saying, in brief, burly phrase,
“Humbugs!”—and has very devoutly sent them all to the devil.
From Cheves and Chesnut, Burt, Barnwell and Orr,
To Preston and Pressley, and twenty-five more,
With Petigru thrown in to make up the score!
But we must eschew politics, in a Christmas Legend, lest we
take away some poor devil's appetite for dinner. Our cue is to be
genial and gentle, tender and tolerant, not strategetical and tragical.
The fire-works arranged and disposed of, we turned in upon a
Christmas Tree, which was to be elevated within the great hall.
This was a beautiful cedar, carefully selected, and brought in from
the woods, the roots well fitted into the half of a huge barrel,
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rammed with moss, the base being so draped with green cloth as
to conceal the rudeness of the fixture. This, planted and adjusted
in its place, we enclosed the piazza, front and rear, with canvas,
and hung the interior in both regions with little glass lamps of
different colours. Half of the day, Christmas eve, was employed
in these and a score of other performances. Nothing that we
could think of was omitted. Then, there were boxes of toys for
the children to be unpacked, and trunks of pretty presents to be
examined, and the names written on them of the persons for whom
they were designed. They were, that night, after the guests had
all retired, to be suspended to the branches of the Christmas Tree,
which was, in the meanwhile, to be kept from sight by the dropping
of a curtain across the hall! Ned Bulmer had his gifts prepared,
as well as his father and aunt. I, too, had bought my petty
contributions, calculating on the persons I should meet.
Before noon, the company began to pour in. Several came to
dinner that day. Afternoon brought sundry more, who were to
spend the night, and perhaps several nights. The mansion house
was entirely surrendered to the ladies and married people;—the
young men were entirely dispossessed and driven to sheds and outhouses,
in which, fortunately, `the Barony' was not deficient. Ned
and myself lodged with the overseer, and had a snug apartment
to ourselves. At dinner, it was already necessary to spread two
tables. Every body was becomingly amiable. Care was kicked
under the table, and lay crouching there, silent and trembling,
like a beaten hound, not daring to crunch even his own bones aloud.
The ladies smiled graciously to our sentiments, and we had funny
songs and stories when they had gone. After dinner, some of the
guests rode or rambled for an hour, others retired to the library,—
chess and backgammon; others to the chambers;—and the work of
preparation still went on. The holly and the cedar, twined together
with bunches of the `Druid Mistleto,' wreathed the doors
and windows, the fire-place, the pictures. Red and blue berries
glimmered prettily among the green leaves. At night, we had
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the tea served sooner than usual, for the Major was impatient for
the fire-works. The discharge of a cannon was the signal for
crowding to the front piazza. There, as far as the eye could extend,
ranging along the green avenue, at equal distances, were
piles of flaming lightwood, showing the way to the dwelling.
They failed to show the spectators where the Major was preparing
for his rockets. Suddenly, these shot up amid the darkness; a
flight of a dozen, with the rush of the seraphim, flying, as it were,
from the glooms and sorrows of the earth. Then came wheels,
Roman candles, frogs, serpents, and transparencies—quite a display,
and doing great credit to the Major, besides singing his cheek
and hair, and drawing an ounce of blood from his left nostril—
the result of a premature and most indiscreet explosion of a turbillon,
or something of the sort. But this small annoyance was
rather agreeable than otherwise, as tending somewhat to dignify
the exploit.
The display over, and the spectators somewhat cooled by standing
in the open air, we returned to the rooms and the violin began
to infuse its own spirit into the heels of the company. Then followed
the dances; quadrilles, cotillon, country dances, Virginny
reels, and regular shake-downs. We occupied two saloons at this
business till 12 o'clock, when the boys and girls, obeying the
signal of Miss Janet, descended to the rooms assigned to offices
purely domestic. Huge bowls might here be seen displayed, and
mammoth dishes. A great basket of eggs was lifted in sight, and
upon a table. Knives and forks, sticks and goose feathers, were
put in requisition. Eggs were poised aloft and adroitly cut in
twain; the yolk falling into the bowl, the white into the dish—
seperating each, as it were, with a becoming sense of what was
expected of it. Then the clatter that followed,—the rubbing and
the rounding,—the twitching and the clashing! How fair arms
flashed, even to the elbow, and strong arms wearied, even to the
shoulder blade, to the merriment and mockery of the damsels.
With some, the unskilful, it wouldn't come;—in Western
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parlance, `they couldn't come it';—and the dish had to be transferred
to more scientific hands. At length, the huge tray being uplifted,
turned upside down, and the white mass clinging still solidly to the
China, it was pronounced the proper moment for rëuniting the
parties so recently separated. Then rose the golden liquid, a
frosted sea of strength and sweetness and serenity, that never
whispered a syllable of the subtlety that lurked, hidden in the
compound, born of the glowing embraces of lordly Jamaica and
gallant Cognac. Lo! now the strong-armed youth, as they bear
the glorious beverage on silver salvers to the favourite ladies. They
quaff, they sip, they smile, they laugh; the brightness gathers in
their eyes; they sparkle; the orbs dance like young stars on a
frosty night, as if to warm themselves;—when suddenly, Miss
Janet rises, stands for a moment silent, looks significantly around
her, and is understood! A gay buzz follows; and, with smiles
and bows, and merry laughter, and pleasant promises, the gay
group disappears, leaving the tougher gender to finish the discussion
of that bright, potent beverage, in which the innocent egg is
made to apologize for a more fiery spirit than ever entered into the
imagination of pullet to conceive! Merry were the clamours that
followed;—gay songs were sung;—some of the youngsters, just
from college, took the floor in a stag dance;—while half a dozen
more sallied forth at one o'clock, called up the dogs, mounted their
steeds, and dashed through the woods on a fox hunt. But the fox
they hunted that night was one of that sort which Sampson let
loose among the Philistines—a burning brand under his brush—
not suffering him to know where he ran!
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CHAPTER XVII. CHRISTMAS—HOW GOLDEN.
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Christmas Dawn! The day opened with bursting of bombs
from the laboratory of Major Bulmer. He was up and at work,
bright and early, having summoned me to his assistance. In fact
neither of us had done much sleeping that night. We had employed
more than an hour of the interval, after the termination of
the dance, in arranging the gifts among the branches of the cedar,
and in other matters. Then we had adjourned to an out-house,
where the Major kept his fire-works, and had gotten the explosive
pieces in readiness. They did famous execution when discharged,
routing every body out of his sleep, though it should be as sound
as that of the Famous Seven! The children were all alive in an
instant.
“Had old Father Chrystmasse really come.”
There was a rush to the chimney places in every quarter, where,
the night before, the stockings and satchels had been suspended
from the cedar branches. Dear aunt Janet had taken good care
that the “Old Father” should make his appearance; and there was
a general shout, as each took down his well-stuffed stocking. Ah!
how easy to make children happy—how unexacting the little
urchins—how moderate in their desires—how innocent their expectations—
how pure, if fervent, their little hopes! Treat them lovingly—
give them gifts such as love may wisely give—and you impress
the plastic and hospitable nature with a true moral for the
seventy years of vicissitude that may follow! Ah! shouts of
blessed children! as if there lay a sweet bird in the soul, all wing
and voice, soaring together in sweetness, earth not yet having
stained the one, or made discord in the accents of the other! The
dear little creatures! on what sly steps they stole to the several
chambers, lingering at the door, waiting to `catch' the parties as
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they issued forth. How they crouched at the entrances of hall
and library; in the porches, behind the doors, beneath the stairs,
under the eaves—wherever their little bodies could find snug harbourage—
till they could spring out upon the victim. Three of them,
at the same moment, had aunt Janet about the neck. They pulled
off her curls,—they disordered her lace,—they deranged her
handkerchief,—almost entirely demolished her toilet,—and pulled
her down upon the carpet, with their wild-colt displays of affection;
and the dear old maid took it all so sweetly, and smiled
through it all, and only begged where she might have scolded, and
promised good things to escape, when she might have threatened
birch and brimstone! And the fierce old Baron, the Major himself,
even he, Turk as he is in some respects, he, too, was as
meek under the infliction as if he shared fully the spirit of his sister.
The boys and girls, half a dozen in number, seized upon him
as he entered the hall from the court. The girls tugged at arms
and skirts, the boys had him by the neck, arms and shoulders, at
the same moment.
“Merry Christmas, Major”;—“Merry Christmas, uncle;”—
“Merry Christmas, grandpa.” Merry Christmas saluted him, under
all sorts of affectionate titles, from their wild, gay, innocent little
voices. And how graciously the old Sultan submitted to be tugged at
and hugged. How he laughed and tossed them up, and suffered them
to sway him to and fro, until they all came down upon the carpet
in a heap together! There was no growling, or grunting, or complaining;
no rebukes and wry faces; but, giving himself up to the
humour of the children, he became for the moment a child himself.
And measurably he was. He had kept his heart young,
and could thus still identify himself with the child humours of the
little throng about him. He knew what he had to expect, and had
prepared for them. His pockets were a sort of fairy wallet, such
as we read of in the Oriental and German fables, which is always
giving forth, yet always full. Balls, knives, thimbles, dolls in
boxes, pretty books with gold edges and gay pictures, very soon
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unfolded themselves from his several pockets, and each of the happy
children took what he pleased. They went off laden with treasures,
and making the house ring with cries of exultation.
At sunrise that morning, the egg-noggin passed from chamber
to chamber. Why eggs at Christmas as well as Easter? There
is a significance in their use, at these periods, which we leave to the
theelogical antiquarian. They are doubtless typical. Enough that,
in the Bulmer Barony, the old custom was religiously kept up.
Every guest was required to taste, at all events. The ladies mostly,
the dear, delicate young things in particular, were each content
with a wine-glass. Some of the matrons could relish a full cup or
tumbler, and there were some of these who would occasionally find
their way into the contents of a second, and—without getting in
their cups! We are to graduate the beverage, be it remembered,
according to the capacity of the individual; and he alone is the
intemperate—we may add the fool also—who takes a power into
the citadel which he cannot keep in due subjection.
The bell rings for breakfast. The hour is late. All are assembled.
There is joy in all eyes; merriment in all voices; what a
singular conventionalism, established by habits so prolonged, for so
many hundred years, by which, whatever the secret care, it is
overmastered on this occasion, and the sufferer asserts his freedom
for a brief day in the progress of the oppressive time! Breakfast
at the `Barony', is, of course, a breakfast for a Prince. Take that
for granted, gentle reader, and spare us the necessity to describe.
The event over, we group together and disperse. The horses are
saddled below. The young gallant lifts his fair one to the saddle.
The carriages are ready; and there are parties preparing for a
drive. Some of the young men have gone to the woods, pistol
and rifle shooting. Others are in the library, companioned by the
other sex, at chess and backgammon. We are among these, Ned
Bulmer and myself. We have duties at home. We know not
what moment will bring to the door our respective favourites. And
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so, variously engaged and employed, all more or less gratefully,
the hours pass until meridian. A little after, the rolling of wheels
is heard below. We are at once at the entrance. Major Bulmer
is already there. The carriage brings Mrs. Mazyck and her fair
daughter. The old lady is not exactly thawed, but the ice is of a
thin crust only. The Major tenders her his arm; mine is at the
service of Beatrice. Scarcely have we ascended when other vehicles
are heard below. It is now Ned's turn, and while the Major
is bowing and supporting Madame Agnes-Theresa, Ned brings in
the dear little witch, Paula, hanging on his sound limb, and turning
an inquiring and tender glance of interest upon that which
pleads for pity from the sling. The Major and his sister divide
themselves between the matrons; while Ned and myself share the
damsels between us. We slip out, unobserved, for a walk, leaving
the ancient quartette in full chase of parish antiquities, recalling
old times and making the passing as pleasant by reflection as possible.
Shall I tell you how we strayed, whither we went, what
we said together? Not a word of it. If you have heart, you
may conceive for yourself; if fancy only, you may trust to conjecture.
What is said by young persons, with hearts in full agreement,
will seldom bear reporting. It is so singularly the faculty
of the heart, under such circumstances, to endow the simplest
matters with a rare significance, that ordinary reason becomes utterly
unnecessary, and the affections find a speech and a philosophy
of far more value, more grateful to the ear, and more profound
to the sense, than any that belongs to simple intellect. We were
gone fully two hours from the house, yet, so well had the Major
and aunt Janet done their parts, we had not been missed by
mamma and grandmamma, and neither frowns nor reproaches
waited our return. It was evidently fast proving itself a Golden
Christmas. The golden period had come round again as so long
promised. The lion and the lamb were about to lie down together.
That is,—Major Bulmer, seated in the centre of the sofa,
with Madame Agnes-Theresa on one hand, and Mrs. Mazyck on
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the other, had them both in hand as a dextrous driver two fiery
and intractable steeds, whom he has subdued; and the free smile
playing upon all three countenances, as we entered, was conclusive
of such a conjunction of the planets, as held forth the happiest
auguries for the future, in respect to the “currents of true love!”
Company continued to arrive. The groups which had ridden
forth returned. The house was thronged. The respectable body-servant
looked in at the library. The Major rose, went to the
door, looked at his watch, came back, said a few words, by way of
apology, to the ladies with whom he had been doing the amiable,
and then disappeared. The dinner hour was approaching. It was
soon signalled. The Major returned. His arm was tendered to
Mrs. Mazyck; Madame Agnes-Theresa was served with that of
another ancient Major, quite as conspicuous in the parish as he of
Bulmer; and then, each to his mates, we followed all in long procession.
Need I say, that, while Ned Bulmer, by singular good
fortune, was enabled to escort Paula, by the merest accident, I
happened to be nigh enough at the moment to yield my arm to Beatrice.
Really, the thing was thoroughly providential in both cases.
Such a dinner! The parish, famous for its dinners, had never
seen one like it. It is beyond description. Two enormous tables, occupying
the whole length of the spacious dining room, were loaded
with every possible form and variety of edible. But the turkey was
not allowed, as is usually the case in our country, to usurp the place
of honour on this occasion. There was a couple of these birds
to each table; but they stood not before the master of the feast.
At our entrance, the space on the cloth was vacant at his end of
the table. He stood erect, knife in hand, evidently in expectation.
He had one of his famous old English cards to play. One of the
turkies was at one of the tables where I was required to preside,
the fair Beatrice on my right. The others were interspersed along
the two boards. Presently, we heard solemn music without. Then
the door was rëopened, and the steward, napkin under chin, made
his appearance with an enormous dish.
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“My friends,” quoth the Major, in a speech that was evidently
prepared, and which we abridge to our dimensions, “I am about
to restore a custom common in all the good old English establishments,
even within the last hundred years. The turkey has been
raised to quite unmerited honour among us. I am willing to assign
him his place upon our table; but I shall depose him from
the first place hereafter. That properly belongs to the Boar's
Head! The Boar's Head was the famous dish at Christmas, in
old England; not the turkey. The turkey is an innovation. He
is purely an American fowl, and was utterly unknown in Europe
until after the Spaniards found this continent. He is a respectable
bird, particularly in size; but in flavour, cannot rank with the
duck, or even a well-dressed young goose. There is no reason
why he should supersede the Boar's Head. I am willing to give
him the first place on New Year's day, as representing a new era
and a new country; but on Christmas, as a good Christian, I am
bound to stick to the text of the Fathers. Their creed I give you
in their own language, as it was chaunted five hundred years ago.
The steward who placed the Boar's Head on the table, brought it
in with the sound of music, and chaunted, as he advanced, the
following Christmas carol, which, by the way, I have, with the assistance
of my young friend, Richard Cooper here, somewhat ventured
to modernize to correspond with the vernacular.”
The Major then proceeded to repeat, in the formal, sonorous
manner of a schoolboy, whose voice is in the transition state, a
cross between squeak and croak, the following ditty:
Caput apri defero,
Reddens laudes Domino!
“Lo! the Boar's Head, he that spoil'd
The goodly vines where many toil'd,—
Merrily masters, be assoil'd,—
I pray you all sing merrily,
Qui estis in convivio.
The boar's head, you must understand,
Is the chief service in this land—
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And here it lies at your command,
Clad in bay and rosemary;—
Servite cum cantico.
With song we bring the wild boar's head,
He spoiled our vines—with mustard spread,
The beast is good and gentle dead,
Pray, masters, eat him heartily,—
Reddens laudes Domino.”
But the Major was not allowed to finish his recitation. We had
prepared a surprise for the strategist. Ned and myself, having
copies of the carol, had secretly adapted it to appropriate music,
and, suffering the Major only to make a fair entrance upon the verse,
we broke in with a loud chorus. At first, he stopped and looked
at us with a face of doubt. Was it an offence to be resented?
We had taken the words out of his mouth. We had converted
the recitation into a chant, the chant into a song. Ought he to
be angry? A moment decided the question. Certainly, a carol
ought to be sung. We had only carried out his purpose more effectually
than he was able to do it himself. We had surprised him,
but it was a tribute to his objects and tastes that we had prepared
in this surprise. The cloud disappeared; he laughed; he clapt
his hands; he joined with stentorian lungs in the chorus, and other
voices chimed in. We obtained a magnificent triumph.
Meanwhile, the Boar's Head, with a mammoth lemon in his
huge jaws, and enveloped in bay leaves and rosemary, was set
down in state before us. It was the head of one of the largest of
the wild boars that we had slain in our hunt. It was well dressed—
it was delicious. Our old English fathers knew what was good;
but I am not sure that any of the ladies partook of the savage
dish. “Milk for babes, meat for men!” muttered the Major, in a
tone between scorn and pity. The feast proceeded, the Baron expatiating
occasionally on Boar Heads and Boar Hunts, insisting
that, as on every large plantation in the swamp country, wild hogs
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were numerous, the proper taste required that we should always
have the dish for Christmas. I shall not report his several speeches
on this and incidental topics. The champagne made its own frequent
reports about this time, and left it rather difficult to follow
any orator. The Major now drank with Madame Agnes-Theresa;
then with the widow Mazyck, and almost made the circuit of the
table, in doing grace with the matrons. The younger part of the
company were not slow to follow the example. What sweet and
significant things were whispered to the several parties beside us—
over the wine, but under the rose. The meats disappeared,
the comfits took their place, and disappeared in turn. The best of
pleasures find their finale at last. Up rose the ladies, and, with a
bumper, well drained in their honour, we followed them to the parlour
and the library. A brief pause, and a new summons brought
us into the hall. The curtain was raised; the Christmas Tree was
there in all its glory. The doors being closed and the dusk prevailing,
the little coloured glass lamps had been lighted among the
branches; and, behind the tree, peering over it, raised upon a scaffolding,
stood a gigantic figure—a venerable man, fit to be emblematic
of the ancient Jupiter, with a fair, full face, large, mild blue
eyes, features bold and expressive, yet gentle; but, instead of hair,
his head was covered with flowing gray moss, and, from his chin,
streaming down upon his breast, the gray moss fell in voluminous
breadth and burden. He realized the picture of the British Druid.
In one hand he bore a branch of the mistletoe, in the other a long
black wand, with a silver crook at the extremity. The children
clapped their hands as soon as they saw the figure, and cried
out,—“Oh! look at Father Christmas! Father Christmas! Father
Christmas!” And they were right. Our saint is an English, not
a Dutch saint, be it remembered; and Father Christmas, or the
“Lord of Chrystmasse,” as he used to be styled, is a much more
respectable person, in our imagination, than the dapper little Manhattan
goblin whom they call Santa Claus.
With the clamours of the children, the good father was fully
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awakened to deeds of benevolence. His crook was in instant exercise.
The crook with a gift hanging to it, was immediately
stretched out to one after the other—a sweet female voice from the
back-ground, naming the little favourite as he or she was required to
come forward. When the juveniles were all endowed, they disappeared,
to weigh and value their possessions; and the interest
began for the more mature. The former voice was silent, and that
of a man was heard. He named a lady, then another, and another;
and as each was called and presented herself at the foot of the tree,
the ancient Druid extended his crook towards her, bearing upon it
a box, a bag, or bundle, carefully enveloping the gift, her name being
written upon it. Soon the voices from the back ground alternated.
Now it was a male, now a female voice, each calling for
one or other of the opposite sex, until all the tokens of love and
friendship were distributed.
“See,” said Beatrice Mazyck to me,—“see what the Father has
bestowed upon me”; and she showed me a lovely pair of bracelets
and a breast pin, in uniform style. She did not see, until I showed
her, a plain gold ring at the bottom of the box. She looked at it
dubiously, and at me dubiously, tried it on every finger but the
one, then put it quietly back in the case, and had no more to say
on the subject.
But who played the venerable Father, and who played the sweet
voices! What matter? Better that the juveniles should suppose
that there is an unfamiliar Being, always walking beside them, in
whose hands are fairy gifts and favours, as well as birch and bitterness!
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CHAPTER XVIII. DENOUEMENT.
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Old Father Chrystmasse, in the South, does not confine his favours
to the palace. The wigwam and the cabin, get a fair portion
of his smiles. In other countries, poverty is allowed but a
single privilege—that of labour. The right of one's neighbour to
work, is that which no one questions any where. In all countries
but those in which slavery exists, poverty is supposed to enjoy no
other. But there is little or no poverty in the South. Even the
slave is rich. He is rich in certainty—security;—he is insured
against cold and hunger,—the two terrible powers, that, more than
all others, affright the civilized world. Secure from and against these,
the slave is absolutely free from care. He has to work, that is
true, but work adapted to one's capacity, suited to one's nature,
and not too heavy for one's strength, is perhaps the greatest of all
human blessings, since it is the best security for good health and
good morals. Cuffee and Sambo are thus secure and thus made
happy. But Cuffee and Sambo, like other handsomer and happy
people, would never be content with these; and the good-natured,
benevolent, and accommodating Father Chrystmasse has a tree
bearing good fruits also for them. When, accordingly, the guests
of Major Bulmer had each received his little token of Christian
sympathy and good will, the Christmas cedar was removed to the
overseer's house, and that night the old Druid officiated behind
its branches for the benefit of the negroes. How they crowded
and scrambled about, one over the shoulders of the other, each
in his best garments, for the favours of the kindly wizard! There
were, among the guests at “The Barony,” a learned professor from
one of the Northern Colleges, and a young English gentleman, the
younger son of a noble house. They watched the scene with a
staring curiosity. It enabled them quietly to revise a hundred
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erring notions and stupid prejudices. When they beheld ten
or a dozen superannuated negroes, from whose feeble and failing
limbs, sometimes utterly palsied, no labour could be obtained,
and who were yet to be fed, and clad, and nursed, and physicked,
until Death should close the scene,—negroes who had been in this
situation for perhaps a dozen years;—when they beheld fifty more
little urchins, barely able to toddle about and be mischievous, who
must be provided also with food, clothing and shelter, for which
they could give no equivalent in labour for ten or a dozen years at
least;—they began to conceive something of that inevitable charity
which characterizes the institution of Southern slavery. And when
they saw that this charity did not confine itself to the mere necessaries
of life, but bestowed its little precious luxuries also;—leaving
no pang to poverty,—leaving no poverty;—the slave permitted
play and pleasure, and showing at every bound and every breath,
and every look and every word, that he lived in his impulses as well
as in his limbs,—was permitted to gratify impulses and yearnings,
and desires, which the poverty in other lands is only permitted to
dream of;—they began to shift and change the argument, and
gravely to contend that this was another objection to the institution;
that it left the negro in a condition of too much content: in
other words, the condition was so agreeable as to leave him satisfied
with it. But we will not discuss the matter with such bullet-headed
boobies. Enough that Sambo, and Cuffee, and Sibby and
Dinah, Tom and Toney, are all making off with something under
the arm, derived from the bounty of the benevolent Father Chrystmasse,
whom they half believe to be a real personage—a sort of
half Deity, half mortal, coming once a year, to see that they are
and deserve to be happy. Leaving them in groups about the
grounds, we prepare for another display of fire-works, after which
we adjourn to the mansion, obedient to the call of the violin.
Supposing you, dearly beloved reader of either gender, the tender
and the tough, to be in some degree familiar with the laws of art, you
will see that we have this night left only for our denouément. The
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artist is a creator, and so—a Fate. He has established his premises,
and the results are inevitable; they bind him just as rigidly
as they do his Dramatis Personæ. What we do, accordingly,
must be done quickly. The “Golden Christmas” ends with this
night, and our parties must be disposed of. Who must be disposed
of? How must they be disposed of? Who are the victims?
What the processes? You, perhaps, can all of you answer
these questions—all except the last. And that is a question
to which I can only help you to an answer, as I proceed, and in
the natural progress of events. You must not be surprised at this.
The artist does not make events; they make themselves. They
belong to the characterization. The author makes the character.
If this be made to act consistently,—and this is the great necessity
in all works of fiction,—events flow from its action necessarily, and
one naturally evolves another, till the whole action is complete.
Here is the whole secret of the novelist. Now, all that I can tell
you of a certainty is this,—that the action must be complete to-night;
and that the persons of the story may be expected to exhibit
just the same sort of conduct which they have shown from
the beginning. More I cannot report. You must judge for yourselves
of what you have to expect. You may ask, Shall the sequel
be a happy one? That, of course, or it would not be the
“Golden Christmas.” Will Ned Bulmer be allowed to marry
pretty Paula Bonneau? Do you suppose, with such characters as
they have shown, they will be happy together? And what of
Dick Cooper and Beatrice Mazyck? The question naturally occurs,
in answer to this,—What will Tabitha say to it, the housekeeper
of that bachelor? But, really, if you thus go on making
these inquiries, we shall never make an end of it. Even now,
Messrs. Walker, Richards & Co., are crying aloud for “copy,”
through the lungs of forty printing office fiends. The readers,
they cry, are becoming impatient. Nothing, but a marriage, or
some other catastrophe, of equal magnitude, will satisfy them. If
so—revenons à nous mouttons! Let us see what our folks are about.
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The tea service over, the fire-works displayed, all preliminaries
at an end, the violins in full tune, the dancers are preparing for
their partners. Ned Bulmer, arm in sling, is standing in the floor.
The Major approaches him with a whisper. His eyes turn upon
Beatrice Mazyck.
“Ned, my boy, let me repeat my wishes once more. It is not
too late. Paula Bonneau is no doubt a good girl, a fine girl, a
pretty girl, but there is no such woman in the parish as Beatrice.”
“Father,” answered Ned very solemnly, though in a whisper
also,—“Your taking the reins out of my hand has already broken
my arm: your further attempts at driving me may break my heart.”
“Break the d—l!” burst out from the old man, who turned
away in a huff. He came up to me, muttering,—
“He's as stubborn as Ben Fisher's mule, that always reared
going up hill, and took the studs going down! How to excuse
myself to Mrs. Mazyck!”
I could give him neither advice nor consolation; and he wheeled
out of the room as soon as he saw that Ned, lame as he was, was
taking Paula Bonneau out for the cotillion. I took out Beatrice
at the same time. How we danced, with what glee, what perfect
abandonment to the influences of the season, must be left to conjecture.
Description is impossible. The happiness was not confined
to the dances. The elderly folks had their own and various
modes of recreation. Some, of course, looked on, enjoying the
dancing, just as much as if they themselves had a foot in it.
Others were gathered together in side rooms, in the wings, finding
solace in conversation; others, apart also, were engaged in whist;
and in the hall, or grand passage way, the curtain still being suspended
across it, others were preparing for tableaux. For these,
the characters and scenes were numerous; and a couple of cotillions
and a reel being ended, the little bell summoned the spectators
to the hall, where, in the area outside of the curtain, they
awaited its rising. I was among the actors, and can say nothing
of the exhibition, except that it was apparently quite successful
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with the audience. But it led to other scenes, more important to
the event, to which I must hasten. It happened that, among the
arrangements, I was cast for the part of Ferdinand, and Beatrice
for Miranda, the scene taken from “The Tempest.” Beatrice
looked admirably the Miranda. Her fair complexion, calm, innocent
features, the simple dignity in her expression, the artless grace
of her action, all became the presentment wonderfully well. I
flatter myself I made a comely Ferdinand enough. I have never
doubted that. I am a tolerably good looking fellow, as the world
goes. Well—we were together in the library, which we had converted
into a sort of green room. We were preparing for the
moment when we should be called to the stage. Beatrice had just
joined me from the ladies 'tiring room in the rear, and, under the
pretence of surveying her costume, I took her hand, held her a
little off, and allowed my eyes to devour greedily all her beautiful
proportions. There was nobody at that moment in the room. The
hall was again empty, the audience having returned to the parlour
until the bell should again give the signal when the stage should
be occupied. There is a moment in the career of a lover, when
some instinct emotion spurs him to an audacity, from which, at
most other moments, he would be very apt to shrink. The courage
of love wonderfully comes and goes. I was now carried away by
mine. The blood rushed in a torrent about my heart. It mounted
to my brain, as billows of the sea to the shore. I whispered passionate
words;—I breathed passionate assurances;—I uttered
vows and entreaties in the same breath; and the bosom of Beatrice
heaved beneath her bodice; and her eyes rose, large and
dewy, till they met the gaze of mine. She did not speak, but
silently lifted the hand which I clasped, and I beheld the ring
which she had found in the Christmas box, securely circling the
particular finger. Then she spoke, in a tremulous whisper,—
“Was it not your's?”
I carried the hand to my lips; the next moment my arm
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encircled her waist; I drew her up to my bosom, and our lips met in
the first most precious kiss of love!
We forgot the world—heard nothing—saw nothing—feared
nothing—in that delicious moment of certain bliss. Little did we
dream, then, that any eye was upon us but that of Heaven. Yet
so it was! It so happened, that the excellent Madame Agnes-Theresa,
looking out for Paula, who had temporarily disappeared,
came to the inner door of the library from the 'tiring room. Her
light footstep was unheard upon the heavy and yielding carpeting.
Our backs were to the door. She beheld us in that first, fond, allforgetting
embrace—my hand about the waist of Beatrice—her
lips held fast beneath the pressure of mine. Madame Agnes-Theresa
stole away as silently as she came. She was all in a
pleasurable glow of excitement. She had a spice of mischievous
malice in her composition, spite of her Christian benevolence, and
she amiably resolved to make somebody uncomfortable. For me,
she had the best of feelings,—nay, sympathies,—and it really rejoiced
her to see that I was successful with Beatrice. But for Mrs.
Mazyck she had other feelings, equivocal at least, if not unfriendly.
That good lady had a pride equal to her own, and when two proud
planets encounter in the same sky, there is no telling which is most
anxious to put out the light of the other. She suspected the understanding
between Major Bulmer and Mrs. Mazyck, for the union
of their two houses, and it did not greatly displease her to see
the scheme defeated. Such being her temper on the subject, she
hurried back to one of the side rooms, where Mrs. Mazyck was
engaged in chat with a little circle; but, on her way, fortunately
for us, encountered our maiden aunt, good Miss Janet Bulmer.
With a chuckle, she whispered in her ears the discovery which she
had made, and hurried onwards. Miss Bulmer immediately conjectured
the use which she would make of the secret. With a
more amiable spirit, she immediately hastened to us, and found us
upon the sofa, in an attitude not less significant than that in which
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Madame Agnes had beheld us. We started up at her entrance.
“What are you children about?” she asked. “You have been
seen by Mrs. Girardin, and she is so full of the merits of her discovery,
that she will surely summon all the world to see it. Here—
to the stage—get out of the way, if you would avoid all sorts of
scandal.”
With these words, she hurried us through the private door, and
upon the stage, she herself going out of the large door into the
part of the hall in front of the curtain, and making her way to
the parlour. We closed the door behind us. I then left Beatrice
upon the stage, and throwing a cloak over my gay costume, I
lifted a corner of the curtain, and made for the parlour also. Our
escape was complete, and not made three minutes too soon. The
amiable Madame Agnes, in the mean time, had found Mrs. Mazyck.
She was so eager of speech, that she momentarily forgot
her dignity. She stooped over the table, and whispered in the
ear of the latter,—
“Come, quickly, if you would see a couple practising in a tableau
which they will hardly show us upon the stage.”
Mrs. Mazyck was not unwilling to see sights. She never dreamed,
however, that the desire of her friend was to show her “the Elephant.”
She got up quickly, and hurried off with her conductor.
Well!—was she gratified? See how events shape themselves
upon one another. It so happened, that, scarcely had we disappeared
from the library, than Paula Bonneau entered it, costumed
for Juliet. She was joined the next moment by Ned Bulmer, in
the character of Romeo, his broken arm being concealed by the
dark cloak, with which he only in part disguised his rich attire.
Their love experience was not so recent and fresh as that of Beatrice
and myself. They had no preliminaries to overcome.
“Why, Paula, my nonpareil, you look a thousand times lovelier
than ever.” And he caught her in his arms, and she lifted
her little mouth, as if she quite well knew what was coming, and—
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Mrs. Mazyck stood at the door, with Madame Agnes-Theresa,
utterly confounded, looking over her shoulder! She had come to
witness a very different scene, or with very different parties. She was
dumb—done up—dead—all in an instant. That one glance showed
her all the world in confusion. She began to listen for the
thunder. She took for granted that a world's hurricane, wrecking
every thing, was about to break loose. In the twinkling of an
eye, she thought of all the conflagrations and disasters that had ever
threatened and devoured mankind. She thought of the French
Revolution; the explosion of Mount Vesuvius; the massacre of the
Holy Innocents; the crusades and death of Saint Louis; the great
fire in Charleston, which destroyed St. Philip's Church; the late
snow storm which had demolished her orange trees; the burning
of the Richmond theatre; the killing of the hundred school-children
in New York, and the speeches of Kossuth and Lola Montes. All
these terrible things and thoughts rushed through her brain in the
same moment;—all together, piled up one on top of the other,—
rolled together, one in the wrappings of the other—Mount Vesuvius
head over ears in the snow storm, and Kossuth and Lola
Montes, somehow busy with the guillotine and the Parisians,
in the Reign of Terror. The poor old lady had prepared a
terrible surprise for herself, and was `hoist with her own petard.'
“One stupid moment motionless she stood,” and, all the while, the
lips of Romeo were doing fearful execution, spite of her struggles,
upon those of the lovely little Juliet.
You should have seen the quiet, sly, expressive glance of Mrs.
Mazyck, looking round and upward into the vacant visage of her
companion. It said volumes. It did not need that she should
whisper—“truly, this is a tableau, such as they never would have
given to the public!” That glance restored our venerable grandmother
to speech.
The sounds broke forth in a sort of sobbing shriek.
“Why, Paula,—Paula Bonneau, I say!”
Then the guilty couple started, looking fruitlessly round for the
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means of escape, hardly seeming to conjecture where the sounds
came from, and both utterly dumb with consternation. Never was
surprise, on all sides, so complete. Says Mrs. Mazyck satirically,—
“Why, Mrs. Girardin, was this, indeed, the tableau which you
meant me to see.”
The good grandmother gave her a savage look, then pushed by
her, and striding into the room, confronted the young people.
“Paula Bonneau, can I believe my eyes.”
The exigency of the case made the little damsel strong. She
lifted her eyes to the face of the old lady: her voice grew strong;
her heart recovered all its courage.
“Yes, mamma, it is true, I love Mr. Bulmer, and he loves me,
and—”
“Indeed! Do I hear? Can I believe my own ears? Why,
Paula Bonneau, this is the most astonishing boldness. I'm
ashamed for you! Was ever heard such language!”
“It is plain enough!” quoth Mrs. Mazyck, drily, and she seemed
greatly to enjoy the consternation of the grandmother. The latter
gave her another fierce look and proceeded.
“Oh! mamma, you must not be angry!” cried the dear little
girl, now attempting to throw her arms about the old lady, who
resisted the endearment. “It is true, mamma, what I tell you. I
love Edward more than any other person. I will never marry
any man but Edward.”
“Heavens! what a child! You will never marry any other
man! What impiety—what indelicacy! And you will force
yourself into a family which hates and despises your family—
which will always look upon you as an intruder—”
Here Ned Bulmer found an opportunity to interfere. His courage
returned to him at the right moment.
“No, Mrs. Girardin, never! You do us wrong, madam, very
great wrong, I assure you. You and your family—we shall—
He was arrested in his speech. His father, who had entered
the room unseen, now interposed.
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“It is proper that I should speak now,” said he. “Mrs. Girardin,
let me plead with you for these young people. I have not
urged or countenanced this proceeding in any way; in fact, I have
hitherto opposed it; not because of any objection or dislike to
you or your family which, now, I honestly respect and honour, but
because I had looked in another quarter for my son. But, since
my choice, is not his, I owe it to him, and to your daughter, to
do all I can to make them happy. Their young hearts refuse to
follow the course which ours would prescribe for them; and, perhaps,
they are the wiser, and will be the happier for it. We would
have perpetuated prejudice and hatred between our families; they
will drive out these evil spirits with Love. Let us not oppose this
better influence. Let me entreat you to forego your frowns. Give
them your blessing, as here, at this blessed season, when all the
influences of life are meant to be auspicious to human happiness,
I freely bestow upon them mine. My son has thwarted some of
my most favourite wishes; but shall I not make my son happy if I
can? Will you be less merciful to your daughter? Take her to
your arms, my dear madam, and let our families, hitherto separated
by evil influences, be now united by blessing ones.”
The voice of Mrs Mazyck sounded immediately in my ears, for
by this time I had joined the circle also.
“Mr. Cooper, will you be pleased to order my carriage.”
Though her words were addressed to me, they were loud
enough to be heard over the whole room. Major Bulmer started
and approached her. She turned away at his approach. But he
was not a man to be baffled.
“Nay, nay, Mrs. Mazyck,” he said gently, taking her hand—
“this must not be. You must not be angry with me, my dear
madam, because I failed to do what I wished, and had believed
myself able to do. I have been disappointed—defeated in my
purpose—and I honestly assure you that I greatly regret it.—
Though compelled to yield now to an arrangement which seems
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inevitable, yet I do so with real sorrow. I should greatly have
preferred the arrangement which would have given my son to
your daughter—”
Another voice now arrested that of the Major. It was that of
Beatrice Mazyck. The explosion in the library had brought her
down from the stage where I had left her, as Miranda, and she
had been a silent auditor and spectator of the scene, in which she
now found it necessary to take part. She touched the Major on
his arm, and said, in a whisper—
“I thank you, Major Bulmer, for your good intentions; but
mother and yourself were greatly mistaken in this matter. Let
me say to you, now, and prevent further mistakes, that the proposed
arrangement was quite impossible. Ned Bulmer knew perfectly
well, long ago, that we were not made for each other. We
have been friends quite too long to suffer any misunderstanding
between us on any such subject. So, I beg you to relieve yourself
of all further disquiet in regard to it, and if you will suffer
me to take mamma into the other room, I will soon satisfy her,
that if there be anybody to blame in the business, I am the person.
Mamma—”
And she took the arm of the severe lady, but paused for a moment,
and said in undertones to me—“Don't order the carriage.”
The mother heard her.
“But, why not? I am about to go.”
“You can't go, mamma. I will show you good reasons for it.”
And the two went into the 'tiring room together. They were
gone full half hour, and when I met them again, they were in the
parlour, the mother apparently resigned to her fate. I saw at a
moment that the revelation had been made. The maternal eyes
rested on me with a searching expression, full of meaning,—not exactly
placid, I confess, but not severe. The way was opened for
me, and I had to do the rest.
Meanwhile, the progress in the library, with the other parties,
had reached a similar conclusion. The feud between the rival
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houses of Bulmer and Bonneau, was adjusted. An hour later, in
the parlour, standing before the fire, John Bull fashion, the Major
rubbed and clapped his hands together, with as much glee as if
his projects had succeeded just as he had devised them.
“This,” said he, “is, indeed, a Golden Christmas. Two pair
of hearts made happy to-night. Positively, ladies, I could be
tempted to look about me myself, for a consoler in the shape of a
wife. I feel quite as young as at forty. I am not ice. There is
still a warm current about my heart, that almost persuades me to
be in love. Ah! if I could find somebody to smile upon me!”
And he looked, comically fond, now upon Mrs. Mazyck, and
now upon Madame Agnes-Theresa. The former lifted a proud
head, and the latter waved her fan deliberately between her face
and the Major's glances, as if dreading their ardency. The latter
was too wary to continue the subject. He changed it rapidly, and,
being in a free vein of speech, he gave us a most interesting history
of the settlement of “The Barony,” by his great grandfather.
This involved a full account of the ancient feuds of the Bulmer
and Bonneau families, showing how it was begun, and how continued
through successive generations. The episode, had we
space, should be given here. It was full of animation and adventure,
and gave an admirable picture of early life in the colony.—
The subject was a favourite one with the Major, and he handled
it with equal skill, spirit and discretion. We must reserve it for
a future Christmas Chronicle. The reader may look for it some
day hereafter, God willing, under the title of “The Ancient Feud
between the Houses of Bulmer and Bonneau.” They shall form
our York and Lancaster histories in time to come. Enough, that
we succeeded in healing the feud after royal example—blending
our roses, white and red, for the benefit of other hearts that do
not know how to be happy—showing them how to throw down the
barriers of prejudice, hate, self-esteem and superstition, by letting
the heart, under natural impulses, act according to its own nature,
and under those benign laws which are privileges rather than laws.
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Well!—what need of further delay?—Does it need that I should
say we went to supper that night, after all our excitements?—Say
what we had for supper, and who ate, and who, with hearts too
full already, had no appetite for meaner food? And that the old
ladies went finally to bed; that the young ones followed them;
that the lads would wind up the night with egg-nog, and that
some did not go to bed at all? We may dispense with all this.
“So may the fates,
The future fashion, that it shall not cheat
The true fond hearts which welcome it.”
Early in January, at the entreaties of Major Bulmer himself,
Ned led Paula Bonneau to the altar. We had a famous wedding.
Are you curious to know how fares that other couple with
whose affairè du cœur I have somewhat employed your attention?
Ask Tabitha, my present housekeeper. Nay, hear her, what she
says to me, at the moment I am writing.
“Look yer, Mass Dick, wha' dis, I yer?”
“What, Tabitha?”
“Old Sam Bonneau bin to de gate yesterday, and he say you
and Miss Be'trice Mazyck guine to get married in two mont' from
now. You no bin tell me nothing 'bout 'em.”
“No, Tabitha; but now that you have heard it, I may as well
confess the truth. God willing, the thing will happen.”
“Spec' den, Mass Dick, you no want me wid you in de housekeeping.
Don't 'tink I kin 'gree wid young woman that lub see
heap o' people—and keeps much comp'ny, and is always making
fuss ob house cleaning, and brushing up, and confusions among
sarbants.”
“Can't do without you, Tabby. You must try Miss Beatrice.
I think you'll get on very well with her.”
“Bin git on berry well widout 'em,” growled my domestic Hecate
as she flung herself out of the breakfast-room.
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Here ends our story. `Story, quotha!' The reader is half inclined
to blaze out at the presumption which dignifies, with the
name of story, a narrative which has neither duel, nor robbery,
nor murder—neither crime nor criminal. Yet, not too fast. It so
happens that there was a criminal that Christmas, and a crime, at
the `Barony.' and I may as well give the affair, as it concerns two
of the persons employed in our chronicle. You remember Jehu,
the coachman of Miss Bulmer? He was the criminal. The
crime committed was theft. The thing stolen was a fine fat shoat,
the property of Zacharias, the gentlemanly body servant of Major
Bulmer. Zacharias made his complaint the day after Christmas.
Jehu was brought up for examination at the home of the
overseer. Zack stated his case in the most gentlemanly style and
language. He was the owner of seven hogs. The shoat stolen
was one of the fattest. He had designed it for his New Year's
dinner. He had invited certain friends to dine with him on that
day—Messrs. Tom, Tony, Peter, Sam, Fergus, &c.,—gentlemen
of colour, belonging to certain planters of the neighbourhood.
His shoat disappeared two days before. Jehu gave a supper on
Christmas night. On that occasion the stolen shoat was served
up to numerous guests.
Here Jehu, shifting his position so as to transfer the weight of
his body from his right to his left leg, and throwing his head
sideways upon his left shoulder, put in snappishly—
“Ax 'em, maussa, ef he no eat some of de pig he se'f.”
The question was accordingly put. Zacharias admitted that, as
the guest of Jehu that night, he had partaken of his own pig. He
was ignorant of that fact. Had he known it while eating, he does
not know what might have been the consequence. He might
have been very angry—he might have been taken ill. He would
have felt deeply the death of the favourite shoat, cut off before its
appointed time.
The case was fully established. But Jehu insisted upon his
merits in making a frank and free confession.
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“I won't tell you bit o' lie, maussa. You know, maussa, I always
bin tell you, I can't help it—I must tief pig. I nebber, so long
as I know dis place, bin tief noting else but pig. Maussa, you trus'
me wid heep o' tings—Miss Janet, him trus' me wid heep o' tings—
clothes, hank'chif, money, silber spoon, ebbry ting—nobody kin say
Jehu ebber tief so much as a copper wort'. But maussa, I can't help
it—I must tief pig. Fat pig aint mek for run an grunt jis' where he
please, and nebber gee anybody brile and sassage. I can't le' 'em
pass. I must knock em ober when I see 'em so fat and sassy.—
Der's a someting mek me do it, maussa. Der's a somebody dat's
a saying in my ear all de time—`kill de pig, Jehu!' I kill 'em:
I kill Zach pig—I tell you trute, maussa—da me kill 'em—but wha'
den? Ef Zach had a bin say to me—`Jehu, da's a fat pig o'
mine—I guine kill 'em and hab supper New Year night, Jehu,
and you shall hab taste ob 'em, wid de oder coloured gentlemen
sarbants,'—ef he bin say dat to me, maussa, I nebber bin touch he
pig. But he nebber say de wud, maussa; ax 'em ef he ebber say sich
'ting to me.”
Zacharias admitted that he had been guiltless of the suggested
civility; but he submitted whether he was required to do so, unless
he pleased it; and whether his forbearance to do so, afforded
any justification to Jehu, for slaughtering his innocent porker before
its time. The subject was one of grave discussion, and was
closely argued. Jehu particularly insisted upon it, thinking it a
great point gained to establish the allegation. His next point
was of like character, and he urged it with even more tenacity.
“Zach,” said he, “ent I come to you, cibbil, like a gentleman,
and ax you to my supper?”
Zach admitted the civility. But, by the way, he took care to
insinuate that he thought his acceptance a great condescension, to
which he was influenced simply by the nature of the season—
Christmas inculcating condescension among the other charities.—
He was by no means an admirer of Jehu—did not rank him
among his acquaintance—thought his manners decidedly vulgar—
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thought his language particularly low. But was himself of an
indulgent and amiable temper, and frequently condescended,
through mere charity, to the sacrifice of good taste. He now
avowed his resolution never to be caught in such company again.
Jehu eyed him savagely while he made this answer, as a wild
western hunter would eye a Broadway dandy, making a similarly
complacent speech, with the secret determination to `take the
change out of him,' the moment he caught him on the high road.
“Ax um, ef he no eat hearty ob de pig, maussa.”
Zacharias admitted that the pig was well-dressed, in excellent
condition, and his own appetite was not amiss. He was not troubled
much with indigestion. Had on some occasion suffered from
this disease, but not latterly.
The evidence was finished. Jehu was called upon for his defence.
He made it with rare audacity. Admitted that he could
not resist the temptation to steal hog meat. It was a law of his
nature that he should steal it. Denied that he ever felt a disposition
to steal anything else. Thinks that if Zacharias had given
him due notice of his intention to kill the shoat for New Year's
night, and had included him among the invited guests, he might
have withstood the Tempter. Admits that the right of property
in most things is sacred. Doubts, however, whether there can be
any right of property in pigs. Owns pigs himself. Would'nt
be hard upon one who should steal his pigs; but, added slyly, that,
knowing the tempting character of fat pig, he never encouraged
his in becoming so. It did not need; there were always a sufficient
number of fat pigs about for his purposes. To conclude,
Jehu held it to be a justification of his offence, that Zach kept his
pig fat and did not kill him—that, when he resolved to kill, he betrayed
a niggardly (not niggerly—a negro is seldom niggardly, by
the way,) unwillingness to give any portion of the supper to him,
the said Jehu; and that, when the pig was stolen snd slaughtered,
he was honourable enough to invite the owner to partake of the
feast, which was not confined to pig only. There were sundry other
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excellent dishes—a fowl, a flitch of rusty bacon, a peck of potatoes,
and no less than fourteen loaves of corn bread. Jehu boldly
threw himself upon the virtue of his case and of the court, and the
spirit of justice prevailing in the land.
They did not suffice for his safety. He was found guilty, and
sentenced to the loss of three of his lean pigs to Zacharias, in
compensation for his fat one. The Major said to him, however—
“If you keep honest till next New Year's, Jehu, and kill no more
fat pigs of other people, I will give you three out of my stock.”
The decision did not seem to give that satisfaction to either
party, which was anticipated from it. Jehu growled between his
teeth unintelligibly, while Zacharias openly suggested his fears
that when he had fattened the three hogs thus assigned him, they
were still in the same danger of being stolen and eaten in consequence
of the reckless voracity of the offender's appetite for hog's
flesh, and his loose ideas on the subject of pig property. Says
the Major quickly—
“If he eats your pigs again, Zach, you shall eat him.”
“Thank you, sir,” quoth the gentlemanly Zacharias, with a look
of sovereign disgust, “but, don't think, sir, such meat would set
easy on my stomach.”
There was a laugh, and Ned Bulmer, with that pernicious propensity
to punning, which was perpetually popping into play, exclaimed—
“Zach would be evidently better satisfied, before such a meal,
that the meat should be well dressed.” And he shook his twig
whip significantly over the shoulders of the criminal. No ways
discomfitted, Jehu, with a dogged reiteration of his moral nature,
growled out as he retired—
“Lick or kill, jes de same—dis nigger can't help tief fat pig in
sassage time.”
THE END.
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