CHAPTER I.
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“Ah, whither away, Fitzhurst?” said Colonel
Bentley to his friend as they met in a fashionable
street of a certain gay metropolis; “you step as if you
were carrying your skirts from a rascally bailiff, and
that's more in character with me than with you.”
“Colonel, how does the world treat you?” rejoined
Fitzhurst, taking the proffered hand of the military
gentleman of the militia,—for the command of a regiment
of such soldiers had given the colonel his
title.
“So, so—merely so, so,” replied the colonel;
“which way are you going, Fitzhurst?”
“I am walking towards the wharf,” replied Fitzhurst,
raising his hand from his side with a letter in it
as he spoke; “I have just received this from my friend,
Howard Pinckney. He has arrived in New York
from England, and I expect him to spend some time
with me before he returns to Charleston.”
“Ah, the gentleman you travelled on the continent
with, whom I have heard you speak of so often and
so highly?”
“The same.”
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“Egad, if your account of him be true, he'll make
a sensation among the fair folks—hey?”
“Yes, if he tries; but he writes as if he were worn
out with excitement, and wished to get into some
quiet nook and vegetate awhile. My father, in consequence
of the gout, thinks he will remain in the
country this coming winter. The old gentleman
fears that the temptations of the table at the dinner
parties in town will be too much for him. My aunt
and sister will not of course leave him, and I of
course must not leave them; so if Pinckney has any
wish of imitating those beasts that burrow through the
winter, I can accommodate him with quarters.”
“`Quarters!' that's a military phrase, Fitzhurst,
hey? quartering on the enemy—that's a good tale,
is'n't it? I must quarter somewhere, and as I don't
believe I have an enemy in the world, I must quarter
on my friends. Fitzhurst, I tell you that she-dragon
of an aunt of mine is as close as a money-box that is
only meant to receive and not to yield a cent until
its dissolution, or until it bursts with the hoarding. I
am almost tempted to wish her mortal,—oh! I tell
you, Fitzhurst, I want the trifling matter of a hundred
dollars—can't you let me have it?”
“Yes, colonel, I can accommodate you, and will do
so with pleasure. I must step down to the boat,
which must be in by this time, and will meet you at
the hotel in half an hour.”
“Fitzhurst, I shall be obliged to you.”
“Not at all. Good luck to you till then, colonel,”
replied Fitzhurst, and they parted—the colonel proceeding
directly to the hotel to await the coming of
Fitzhurst, while that gentleman hastened to the
wharf.
Preferring to walk, Fitzhurst had ordered Pompey,
the woolly-headed official of the coach-box, to drive to
the place. There he was, sure enough, propt high up in
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his seat, and looking with an air of aristocratic disdain
upon the hacks and hackney-coachmen around. The
hackmen had ordered Pompey not to approximate
too closely to their stand, as they had taken upon
themselves to call the right of way, and he with much
such a feeling as one of the noblesse of the ancient
regime would have entertained if ordered by a mob
of the canaille not to approach them, was holding
back his horses in fear and contempt.
“See here, darkey,” said one of them to him on
observing that there was no one in the coach, “keep
back and wait till your betters are served; you're
sure of your load, old boy, so just wait for it there.
A little walking wont hurt 'em, and if it does I'll bring
'em to you for a small charge.”
“I say, Bob,” called out another hackman to him
who had just spoken, “twig that blackey's wool, will
ye; hang me, if it don't stand out like a turkeycock's
feathers when he's a strutting, and its combed
back as if the feller was a preacher. I took just such
a looking feller the other day, only he had a white
skin on him; dang me, if I know how far—I only
charged him two dollars for the ride, and he poked
the new ordinance at me, and I had to let him off for
fifty cents. I say, Mr. Darkness (to Pompey), what
will you take to take me all about town?”
Pompey disdained to reply. If any one had been
sitting along side of him, he would perhaps have heard
him murmur something about “white poor trash
being below a coloured gentleman's notice.” Nothing
that Pompey said, however, reached the ears of those
around. Pompey was evidently, in the abundance
of his contempt, doing his best to produce the impression
upon the hackmen that not a word of their's fell
upon his ears, and that his eyes fell upon vacancy,
though the latter organs every now and then, by a
sharp glance, betrayed the fear, on the part of their
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owner, that the hackmen might play him some
scurvy trick or other.
If they entertained any such designs against Pompey's
peace and dignity, they were deterred from fulfilling
them, for it was at this moment that Mr. Fitzhurst
made his appearance, and Pompey took care to
address him, and ask if he should move any farther
forward. His young master said “No,” and stood in
the crowd, near by, watching the advance of the steamboat,
which, unlike those of the western waters,
could be seen in a near bend of the harbour hurrying
to its place of destination—punctual to the time at
which it was advertised to appear.
Fitzhurst could not but be amused, as the boat was
approaching, with the crowd about him. “Will you
have a Gazette, sir; the last news is in it,” asked a
ragged boy, poking at the same time a newspaper
almost in the face of Fitzhurst. “This is the
Courier,” said another boy, dovetailing himself
between the first vender of news and the person
addressed; “it has all the news of the week, and to-day's
into the bargain, and its only a `levy.”' “This,
sir, is only a penny,” quoth another lad, who, like his
paper, was smaller than either of the others, and had
contrived to get before both of them as Fitzhurst
drew back to avoid the personal contact of the last
supplicant.
“No, no; I want none of them,” said Fitzhurst
good-humouredly.
“Stand aside, boys,” exclaimed a great lubber
gruffly, as he edged the boys away with two large
baskets that he bore on either arm containing cakes
and fruit, by the sale of which he gained his livelihood.
“Stand aside, you're always in the way of gentlemen.”
Then, in a coaxing tone, after he had shoved
the boys aside, he said to Fitzhurst, “Won't you have
some fruit or cakes, sir?” Fitzhurst shook his head.
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“Do, sir, they're very cheap;” and, thrusting his
right arm through the handle of the basket which
he carried on that member, so as to enable him
to raise the napkin from the cakes which he
bore in the left-hand basket, he turned his head
in the act, when the smallest boy took the opportunity
slily to slip his hand in and purloin an apple. As soon
as he grasped the forbidden fruit he withdrew it so
suddenly as to strike the arm of the fruitman, who
turned quickly and detected him. Enraged at the
theft, and having his hands occupied, the fruit-vender
drew back his foot to inflict summary vengeance on the
boy. As he kicked at the urchin, a hackman, standing
by, raised his whip, the thong of which he held in his
hand, so that it formed a loop, and caught in it the
foot of the fruitman, who consequently lost his balance
and pitched over on his back, scattering his
fruit and cakes around like the gifts of Ceres—though
certainly not making a free-will offering. On the
first moment of the fellow's confusion at his mishap
the boy made his escape, while the hackmen caught
up hastily sundry of his cakes and apples, to save him
the trouble. The moment he recovered himself they
stood with their hands in their pockets, whistling and
gazing at the steamboat which had now reached the
wharf, as if they were perfectly unconscious of his
misfortune.
Fitzhurst had just time to offer the fellow the only
consolation he could appreciate—a pecuniary consideration
for his loss, when, on glancing towards the
steamboat, which was now rapidly discharging her
passengers, he beheld his friend, Howard Pinckney.
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CHAPTER II.
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It was not without reluctance that the family of Mr.
Fitzhurst, senior, consented to remain on his estate
during the winter. That family consisted of the son
whom we have already introduced to our readers,
whose Christian name was Sidney, a daughter Frances,
or, as she was generally called, Fanny Fitzhurst, and
a maiden lady, the aunt of these two last-named individuals;
a sister of Mr. Fitzhurst, senior, named
Rachellina Fitzhurst.
Paul was the Christian name of the old gentleman.
He had lately been suffering severely under an attack
of the gout, and it was not without several mental
struggles, in anticipating those of speech which he
feared to hold with his sister on the subject, that he
made up his mind, if the contest alluded to should not
be too severe, that he would remain in the country.
He determined if he could not hold out, however, to
capitulate upon what terms he might—perhaps yield
himself a prisoner, and be taken into town.
“In the country,” thought he, in turning over the
advantages of the project in his own mind—“in the
country I shall have my children's society more. I
shall escape such an eternal round of company, for,
though I like company when I am well, what good
does it do me when I have the gout? In town if I
go into the parlour I must be fixed off into something
like what becomes a gentleman of the old school; yes,
from self-respect—for company will be constantly
coming. It's not so delightful a matter to deprive
myself of the comforts of a morning-gown and squeeze
my limbs into the tight circumference of a coat. If
I go into the parlour I feel I ought to do it, for I am
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not comfortable if I don't; and if I do, the gout takes
possession of every limb;—and then if I remain in
my room I have no company at all. Fanny's willing
to stay with me, I know, but when her friends call, she
must see them—and parties—parties—she must go to
parties; and if I send for Joe Hartley to come and
take a game of chess with me up in my chamber for
company's sake, the fellow only irritates me. He
must make, he does make, a sly move when a twitch
seizes me, for I know I am the better player. He
never beat me in his life when I was well, if I was in
the humour for playing; and there's Sidney, he
must be out and about, I don't like to confine him to
the game, and what's the use of playing with him.
I can always beat him, and he never cares if I do; he
pays no attention to the game whatever; it's throwing
time away. No, no; I must stay in the country; then
Fanny will be with me, and not so much company to
take her off. When she goes, Sister Rachellina can't
attend me, and I'm left to that black jade, Beck. She
tosses my bandages about and around my poor limbs
as though she were playing with Rachellina's pet
puppy. It don't signify: old maids are a crabbed set. I
have no doubt before I can accomplish this arrangement
the excitement and worry of mind will increase
greatly my gout. But I must remain here—I must
settle it the first favourable opportunity.”
It was some time, however, before this favourable
opportunity occurred. Miss Rachellina had suggested
several alterations in the furniture, and was somewhat
surprised to hear her brother instantly consent to them.
On the next morning the order was given, and Pompey
was despatched to the city, twenty miles off, to
hear it fulfilled. On Pompey's return, he brought with
him a package which he said Colonel Bentley had
told him to give to his master. It proved to be a
splendid set of jewellery, which, without informing his
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daughter of his intention, Mr. Fitzhurst had ordered
from Paris for her.
With perhaps less of parental ostentation than he
would under other circumstances have exhibited, Mr.
Fitzhurst presented them to Fanny. While she was
looking at and admiring them, her father, after two or
three premonitory coughs, and after twisting in his
huge arm-chair as if his gout was more than usually
severe, said:
“Fanny, my dear daughter—ah, ah! oh, my Fanny,
my dear, fix this bandage a little looser. Be very
careful, my dear child, do not in mercy touch my
great toe. I feel as if it were a pincushion—as if ten
thousand pins and needles were running into it.
Daughter, do draw the centre table a little nearer to
me, and spread the map of the county on it. Ah, our
county road has been so well mended, the supervisor
tells me, as he was here for the tax yesterday, that it
will be almost as good as if it were M`Adamised.”
“As if it were M`Adamised, brother!” ejaculated
Miss Rachellina Fitzhurst in some heat.
“Upon my honour, sister,” rejoined the old gentleman
with considerable emphasis, “you said that like
the report of a pistol. Yes, as good, almost as good as
if it were M`Adamised—so the supervisor tells me. I
don't know the fact of my own knowledge—I have
not, as you know, travelled the road for a month. I
don't believe I shall see a foot of it for the whole winter.
Sister and daughter (in a subdued voice as
though his regret was great), I don't believe but what—
that is, I fear we shall have to spend this winter in
the country.”
“In the country!” exclaimed Miss Rachellina in
the tone of one who had heard some awful calamity.
“Why, brother, twenty miles from the city—the
Hartleys gone to town, and the Bentleys going—with
no neighbours but the farmers about here and the
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people of the village; and the road to the city so bad
that it will be impossible—it's worse than imprisonment.
I would not myself, nor would I have Fanny, travel
that road in winter. Twenty miles! and such'a road—
no. I would not travel it, brother, for your estate. The
consequence is, we shall be here all winter without
once seeing the city.”
Mr. Fitzhurst, who claimed some honour himself
for the locality of the road, which he was often heard
to assert would be an excellent one when it come to
be M`Adamised, felt somewhat offended by what his
sister had said against it. He, therefore, replied—a
twitch of the gout seizing him at the same time—with
more than his usual asperity:
“Upon my honour, Miss Fitzhurst—you do not,
upon my honour, madam, deserve the safety, and
convenience, and pleasure, of a direct road. Show me
a straighter road? There are five miles of it M`Adamised
now—and as soon as the spring will allow, it
will be finished to the city. It has been thoroughly
repaired—the supervisor told me so yesterday,—you
saw him here yourself. Why, yes; now I remember,
you spoke in praise of the road.”
“In praise of the road,” replied Miss Rachellina,
feeling that at this point it was necessary for her to
make some defence; “so I did speak in praise of the
road, such as it was in the summer—but summer is
not winter, brother.”
“Sister, I am certainly aware of the fact,” said Mr.
Fitzhurst with a solemn inclination of the head; “I am
certainly aware of that fact—but the supervisor, Mr.
Lenson, tells me that arrangements are made to have
hands on the road all the winter;—that thereby all
the mud-holes will be filled up, and that rails will be
laid across the soft places.”
“Rails! such travelling, I suppose, you call riding
on a rail-road. Do you, brother?”
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“Yes, sister, it's a rail-road, I suppose, if it's composed
of rails, but”—
“Yes, brother, but the jolting, the jolting—it will
be enough to shake one to pieces.”
“I know it, sister; upon my honour, I know it;
and how do you think that I, with my gout, my infirmities,
am to get into town over it?”
During this discussion Fanny said not a word.
She received the announcement of her father's intention
of staying in the country with a face that was
quite solemn at first, but which soon relaxed into an
arch expression as the debate waxed warm. These
discussions between her father and aunt never had
anything serious in them; they generally ended in a
miff of the moment, which was soon forgotten. There
is no telling how far, however, this solemn subject
might have carried them, for it was one of the gravest
controversies they had ever held, when the servant
entered—Miss Rachellina's especial servant, a little
black girl, named Thisbe by the lady herself—and
announced that there was a carriage coming up the
lane, and that she believed it was Miss Bentley's.
Miss Bentley and Miss Rachellina were especial
friends. The latter rose, therefore, to proceed to the
door, receive her friend, and herald her in; but as a
parting shot, ere she closed the door after her, she
said:
“Well, brother, I suppose, as usual, you will have
your own way; but I don't see how you can reconcile
it to your conscience, to your duty as a parent, to
keep your daughter out here all winter without any
society, except such plebeian people as we shall have
visiting us from the village. I don't see, for my part,
how you can reconcile it to your notions of family
respect and regard for your daughter.”
So speaking, Miss Rachellina, with her highest
touch of dignity, threw back her head till the bow
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of ribbon on the top of her cap bobbed as if it would
snap off like a hollyhock in a high wind, and closed
the door.
“Ahem! ahem!” commenced Mr. Fitzhurst, clearing
his throat, on being left alone with his daughter.
“Fanny, my dear, how do you like your present?”
“Very much indeed, father; they are set so chastely,
and are indeed beautiful, exceedingly beautiful; but,
father, indeed I wish you were well of your gout, for
you suffer so much with it; and if you were, I would
lean on your arm at the parties this winter, and wear
my present, and say that my dear father gave it to
me.”
“Well, daughter, I tell you, you shall have the
carriage whenever you choose, and no doubt my gout
will be better with your good nursing; and then you
shall go in town and stay as long as you wish, and
go to all the parties.”
“Heigh, ho! father, it is for your gout I care, not
for myself; but last winter was such a delightful one,
and I don't see why you should have the gout this
winter. No matter; I will stay at home and read, and
improve myself, for indeed I felt a great many self-reproaches
last winter after I had returned from a
party and sat over my solitary fire in my room. I
used to think so often that I had wasted time, or
been giddy, or something always arose to worry me.
Recollect now, father, whenever I want a book,
no matter what Pompey or the servants are
doing, they must go to town for it. I don't believe
Mr. Pinckney's brother's friend will stay very long
with us if he has to spend his time in the country.”
“My daughter, I hope that”—
Mr. Fitzhurst was interrupted in his remark by the
entrance of his sister and her friend.
“Niece,” said Miss Rachellina, with a much
brighter look than that which sat upon her brow when
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she left the room, “we have one consolation and comfort
in remaining in the country at any rate: Miss
Bentley has just come over to tell me that she thought
of remaining; and when I told her that brother had
made up his mind to stay in consequence of his gout,
she at once decided upon it.”
“Yes,” said Miss Bentley, after saluting Mr. Fitzhurst
and his daughter, “I have repeatedly thought
to myself that I should like to spend this winter in
the country, and now I am resolved.”
Both Mr. Fitzhurst and his daughter expressed
themselves delighted at the news. As it was growing
dark, lights were now brought in by the servants; and
as Mr. Fitzhurst could not move, without pain, to the
parlour, the evening meal was handed round in the
room in which they were assembled.
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Paul Fitzhurst was the son of a former governor
of the state in which the scenes of our narrative
occurred. He was descended from a very old and
noble family of England: one of the younger branches
of which emigrated to the United States when they
were colonies of Great Britain. They acquired
wealth in their new homes, and transmitted it to their
descendants, who were so fortunate as to retain it,
notwithstanding the repeal of the law of entail. Mr.
Paul Fitzhurst was as proud of his pedigree as any
Hidalgo of Spain could possibly be, notwithstanding
he avowed himself a thoroughgoing republican. His
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ancestors, however, at the time of the revolution, were
not supposed to be remarkably attached to the new
order of things. In fact, the cry of “tory” had been
raised against one of them about the time that the colonial
cause was darkest; but in the progress of events,
when the thirteen stars waved to successive victories,
and threatened their stripes in the shape of confiscations
to the disaffected remnant who might remain
after their national establishment, this ancestor of
Mr. Fitzhurst received new light, and though he might
have been reproached, in the phrase of the present day,
with being an “eleventh hour” man, it is certain that
what he lost in time he made up in zeal as soon as his eyes
were opened upon the error of his way. Since the
conversion of this ancestor to the republican cause, all
the Fitzhursts had been advocates of it. The election
of one of them to the gubernatorial chair, fully proves
that the people of their state believed, at least, one of
them sincere.
Mr. Paul Fitzhurst, while he loved republicanism,
was wont to eulogise privately the British system in
some respects, but he never could bring either his
son or daughter to his way of thinking, though, strange
to say, his sister coincided with him.
In fact, Mr. Fitzhurst looked upon himself, particularly
when he caught the reflection from a mirror of
his powdered head and queue, and his face calculated
to set them off, as one of the last surviving representatives
of the old aristocracy. Though of a quick
temper, Mr. Paul Fitzhurst was never known to have
but one quarrel, and that was with his elder brother,
who, at the period at which our narrative commences,
had been dead many years. The circumstances were
as follows: His elder brother Josiah was a bachelor, a
most singular being, a man of most eccentric habits, who
became a fanatical member of the methodist church,
a class of Christians against whom, we wish it
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understood, we would not say one word, for we consider
that they have done as much good as any other religious
denomination. It was thought that Josiah had
gotten a maggot in his head before he joined the
methodists, but, be this as it may, a short time after
his membership he came to the conviction that his
brother's queue was a mere adornment of vanity, a
meretricious, unsightly, and unrighteous appendage to
the human form, and that it ought by all means to be
abated—cut off from setting a bad example.
After this conscientious opinion had for some time
possessed Josiah's head, he made a serious call upon
his brother, formally introduced the theme which had
caused himself so much uneasiness, and concluded by
begging and praying him to lop off that excrescence
of vanity forthwith.
As may justly be supposed, Paul was highly indignant
thereat. He peremptorily refused; and so strongly
was the impression that Josiah was insane made upon
Paul's mind by the interview, that he had strong notions
of taking out a commission of lunacy, for he was
fearful if Josiah was left to himself he would not only
squander his estate, but that under his strange hallucination
he would commit some rash, perhaps awful
act.
While Paul was debating this subject with himself,
Josiah called one day, and with even more earnestness
than before, renewed his supplication that Paul would
consent to his proposition. Josiah averred, that he
felt satisfied that, if Paul did not comply, some
terrible dispensation would overtake both of them.
Paul, as firmly as before, refused to part with his
queue, but he became thoroughly convinced in his own
mind that Josiah was insane, and he resolved that the
very next day he would ride into town, and consult
counsel as to what steps he should take with regard
to his brother's unfortunate mental malady. Finding
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that he could not prevail with Paul, Josiah appeared
to drop the idea. He remained with his brother for
several hours conversing upon indifferent topics, until
dinner was announced, when the brothers sat down
together, and partook of a very hearty meal. They
broached some of Paul's best Madeira, and afterwards,
when reflecting upon the matter, Paul could not but
be of the opinion that Josiah tried to get him to drink
more than was his custom. However, it is not known
whether Josiah succeeded or not, but after they had
cracked a bottle apiece, and smoked several segars,
Paul fell asleep in his chair as they sat together.
It is not known what could have tempted Josiah;
whether the deed was predetermined, or whether, on
beholding his brother's queue sticking out at full length
over his coat collar in pugnacious defiance, the sudden
hallucination entered his mind, must ever remain in
doubt. But this is a fact, that as soon as Paul gave
evidence that he was asleep by a lengthened nasal
announcement, Josiah deliberately drew a pair of large
shears from his pocket, and with one clip he cut his
brother's queue close off.
On the instant of the decapitation, and before Paul,
awakened by the deed, was aware of the extent of the
injury done him, Josiah made a precipitate retreat,
bearing with him the dismembered trophy, like an
Indian with the scalp of his enemy. Paul, notwithstanding
he had asserted and believed that his brother
was non compos mentis, and should therefore have
forgiven misdeeds for which Josiah could not have
been held morally responsible, nevertheless became
maddened almost to insanity himself. The brothers
never spoke together again. Paul always maintained
that Josiah was insane, though from a brotherly regard
he never cited the decapitation of his queue as a
proof of the fact. Josiah, after a life of eccentric and
humorous adventures, gave himself a mortal injury,
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in attempting, from the top of his house, the experiment
of flying with a machine which he had made
for that purpose. He humorously said, as his servants
were bearing him to the house, that he had come
to the conclusion of the Dutchman who had tried a
similar experiment with similar results—“`That flying
was easy enough, but that lighting was the devil.'
But,” said he, when he had been laid on the bed, “hurry
to the village for Mr. Maulsby, the lawyer; I'll leave all
my property to my little nephew Sid, and that I think
will prove to my brother that I am not clear cracked,
if I did cut his queue off. Ha, ha!—oh, my side! No,
there's some method in my madness.” And this was
the end of a most eccentric scion of the family of
Fitzhurst.
Miss Rachellina Fitzhurst was a maiden lady, of
whom we might say, as of Campbell's beechen tree:
“Thrice twenty summers has she stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude.”
This “single blessedness,” however, we have the best
authority—her own—for averring, was her own fault.
But Miss Rachellina's heart could not be said to resemble
the bark of the above-named tree, on which,
we are told by the poet, was carved
“Many a long forgotten name.”
On the contrary, though it was evident from the
maidenhood of the lady that the impressions made
upon her heart were not very deep, it nevertheless could
not be said that they were “forgotten,” as Miss Rachellina
was in the habit of recounting to Fanny the
names of a list of despairing swains whom she had
known in her time. But then it might have been
that the impressions were only made upon the hearts
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of those unfortunate gentlemen, and that Miss Rachellina,
as she could not reciprocate their passions, remembered
them in pity.
Miss Deborah Amelia Bentley, whose visit to Miss
Rachellina we have recorded in our last chapter, was
also a maiden lady of about Miss Rachellina's age.
In a little back parlour which Miss Rachellina held
to be her especial room, over a fragrant cup of tea,
it was much the custom of these ladies to rehearse, for
the edification of Fanny, the chivalrous attentions
which they had received in their bellehood. If Fanny
did not allow something for the imagination of these
ladies, the degeneracy of the present age must have
been made manifest to her. Fanny knew the history
of every beau they ever had, or even thought they
had. When alone, however, with her aunt, Miss Rachellina
would more than insinuate, after one of these
conversations, particularly if Miss Deborah had taken
the lead in it, that her friend was a little fond of exaggeration
with regard to her beaux. And Miss
Bentley, when similarly situated with Fanny, would
frequently renew the theme which had been broken
by the absence of Miss Rachellina, when she would
smile with peculiar incredibility while alluding to the
interpretations which her absent friend had given to
the alleged attentions of certain gentlemen. Miss
Deborah would, moreover, recount, as if she designed
a set off to Miss Rachellina's narrative, certain passages
between those very gentlemen and herself
which had a marvellous cast towards the tender.
But these two fair maiden ladies were devoted
friends; and for years past, at least, nothing had disturbed
the harmony of their friendship. Miss Deborah
had a large fortune, and Colonel Bentley was
her orphan nephew. As the colonel was a gentleman
at large, and had no means of his own, he depended
entirely upon his aunt for resources; and as the
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good lady did not bleed as freely as he could have
wished, the greatest source of annoyance that the
colonel had in the world—quite a common annoyance
by the by—was the occasional want of the needful.
CHAPTER IV.
The estate of Mr. Fitzhurst was called “Holly,” from
a singular event, which was the subject of a tradition in
the family. The first Fitzhurst who came from England
received a large tract—a grant from the crown. He
was fond of hunting; and one day, in an excursion of the
kind, he ascended a precipitous hill. In the reckless
pursuit of game, his foot slipped on the very brow of a
precipice, and he would have been dashed to pieces
in the valley below, had he not seized on the instant
a holly bush, and regained his foothold. One of his
descendants subsequently built a house near this hill,
and in commemoration of the event called his estate
Holly.
The evening of the day on which we introduced
Sidney Fitzhurst to our readers, he made his appearance
at Holly a little after dusk; but without his friend
Pinckney. When he had disencumbered himself of his
cloak and riding cap, Fanny took a seat on his
knee, and passing her hand playfully through his hair,
asked:—
“Well, brother, what news do you bring from the
city? Did you see Jane Moreland? What did she
say?”
“Fanny, Howard Pinckney has arrived.”
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“Has he—come at last—but, I suppose, as he cannot
bear the dulness of the country, he will only pay
us a flying visit, and then flit away like a summer
bird.”
“Daughter,” said Mr. Paul Fitzhurst, who, with his
gouty limb on a cushion, was seated in a velvet-covered
arm-chair, which would have delighted the Sybarite,
provided he were goutless, “I hope we have inducements
enough even in the country at Holly to interest
even Mr. Pinckney. His father was an old friend of
mine, a gentleman of capacity and distinguished, and
he found amusement enough here when we were
young men together to spend some time with me.”
“Ah, but father, that was in the summer.”
“In the summer—yes, it was in the summer. His
duties required his presence in Washington City in
the winter; and if they had not, I trust he would not
have died of ennui if he had spent a winter with me;
upon my word, daughter, it is a bad habit you are getting
into of jeering at the country.”
“Oh, father! this is the very first intimation I have
uttered, that could lead to the suspicion that I did not
think the country a very paradise. I am satisfied that
such an intellectual gentleman as the elder Mr. Pinckney
could easily have killed a winter in the country.
That is (and she spoke in a whisper to her brother), if
the winter did not kill him. But (aloud) do, brother,
tell us what kind of a gentleman is your Mr. Howard
Pinckney.”
“Why, my dear Fanny,” replied her brother,
playing with her side curl as he spoke, “a very
clever fellow—so you must look out for your heart.”
“Look out for my heart—heigh ho, there is no need
of looking out for it here—it's of no use to me—I can
let it run entirely at large. Who's here to catch it?
I'd give it for the asking.”
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“That's right; but mind and keep it till it is asked
for; don't let any one steal the stray, Fanny.”
“But, brother, tell me what kind of a looking man
is Mr. Pinckney; is he tall or short, or ugly or handsome?”
“Fanny, you have heard me speak of him before.”
“I know it—but now that he has returned from
his travels I suppose his head's turned, and indeed I
have forgotten your description of him, if you ever
did describe him—I think you said he was good
looking.”
“Good looking! yes, I should say so—very.”
“But tell me,—particularize.”
Sidney laughed—“Fanny, you are a regular descendant
of Mother Eve—well, then, he is tall, and
very slim.”
“Like his father,” remarked Mr. Paul Fitzhurst.
“He has a high forehead, shaded with dark hair
that is rather thin—he has a deep, sunken, and very
black eye; a nose inclining to the Roman; a dimple
on his left cheek and chin.”
“Dimples! that's a woman's beauty.”
“And whiskers that meet under his chin according
to the fashion.”
“Whiskers!” exclaimed Mr. Paul Fitzhurst,—
“that's a most disgusting fashion. The old school of
dress,—the old school of dress, Sidney, is the true
habit for a gentleman.”
“Father,” said Fanny, mischievously, “I don't
think—indeed I don't, that whiskers are stranger looking
appendages than a queue.”
“A queue—why, daughter, all the most distinguished
men of England of the last age wore queues—
most all the signers of the Declaration of Independence
wore queues.”
“Father, if you won't think I am saucy, I'll say that
in the progress of human events they should have
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made a Declaration of Independence against them—
that when they cut off their allegiance from the crown
they should have cut—”
“Daughter,” interrupted her father, a disagreeable
reminiscence crossing his mind at the moment, “that is
being saucy,”—and after an instant he added, smiling,
“you are a rebel, you—in all respects, but I forgive
you.”
“You should, my dear Pa,” said Fanny, laughing;
“for, to tell the truth, I do think powder and a queue
set off a fine face admirably.”
“I think so,” said the old gentleman complaisantly.
“But, father,” continued Fanny, “there are some faces
that a queue makes very funny—there's Mr. Hartley's
(here the old gentleman laughed), his nose sticks up
before, and his queue sticks out behind, just as if there
was a rivalry between them (at this the father laughed
heartily); indeed I never see his queue sticking out so
but I want to cut it off.”
This last remark caused a frown to gather on the
parental brow. Sidney turned his face from his
father to hide a smile, and said:
“Fanny, Mr. Pinckney will come out with me to-morrow—
he talks as if he would spend the greater
part of the winter with us.”
“Does he?—well I hope he'll like the country.
Now I must play my lady—throw off my dishabille,
and prim myself up.”
“Fanny, Fanny,” said her father, reprovingly, “I
hope you always play the lady.”
“To be sure I do, father; but, you know, I sometimes
play it in dishabille, and that won't do before a
strange gentleman.”
“Daughter, it won't do before any gentleman,—
there's excuse for me in my age, my gout, and my
infirmities, but a lady,—fie, Fanny! there's none
whatever.”
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“There, father, you agree with Aunt Rachellina—
you said that precisely like her. Now, brother, as
you have told us how very good looking Mr. Pinckney
is, pray what are his other good qualities?”
“He is a man of talents, sister—his fellow collegians
thought, of genius; he has a large fortune, does
nothing, and is of course sometimes afflicted with
ennui.”
“Well, well,” said Fanny, and she sighed, and
turning to her father, said: “father, I did not mean
that sigh for town, but I could not help thinking
that sometimes when it is my lot to entertain Mr.
Pinckney, while you are lying down, and brother is
out, and Aunt Rachellina is at Miss Bentley's, particularly
when this Mr. Pinckney is affected with ennui,
that he will sit on one side of the fire-place and I on
the other, and we will yawn at each other so sentimentally.
No, father! don't frown so, you know it's
the captive's privilege to complain, and I am in a very
bad humour to-night. But,” she continued, rising
from her brother's knee, “I must go and tell aunt, that
all due preparations may be made for the reception of
this courtly Mr. Pinckney from abroad—I do believe
that aunt will find out that Mr. P.'s father was
an old beau of hers.”
So saying, Fanny, with the agile and graceful
steps of youth and health, and hope and beauty, glided
out of the room.
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CHAPTER V.
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My Dear Matemon:—
Here I am once more on the terra firma of my
native land. We were just twenty-four days on our
voyage. No accidents, or incidents, except the loss of
one poor fellow overboard in a gale. My fellow
passengers were not much to my liking, and so I
spent the most of my time in reading, or in leaning
over the vessel sides and musing on the waste of
waters around me.
“The sea, the sea, the open sea.”
What a glorious song that is. You should hear it
as I have heard it, while the stiff breeze bore us
rapidly ahead, sung by a sailor whose enthusiastic
tones made the nerves tingle, while they seemed to
stretch to an illimitable distance over the waters, and
make the wild waves merry with their melody and
language so appropriate to the scene.
How sometimes a scrap of verse lives in one's
memory. We know not how the deuce it got into
our minds, but out it pops on some occasion, and
then for the first time we know that we have remembered
it. Often as I have looked out upon the waves
I found myself repeating Byron's lines, as though they
were my own spontaneous thoughts:
“Once more upon the waters—yet once more;
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows its rider.”
I have trod the deck beneath a bright and holy
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moon, and felt as if the sensation of drowsiness would
never weigh my eyelids down again. Those three
lines which I have quoted pleased me more than all
Byron's Address to the Ocean, in the conclusion of
Childe Harold. There is too much effect in the
address—too much theatrical effect—it seems studied
for the occasion, like a player's dignified exit in the
last scene; but what has this to do with my whereabout
now. On my arrival at New York I received
a letter from our old friend, Sid Fitzhurst, inviting
me to go to — and spend some time with him.
Well, as I had nothing else to do, no fair cynosure to
draw me east or west, or north or south, I determined
to accept his invitation. You know well what a fine
fellow he is, and I felt satisfied that his society would
afford me great pleasure. Besides, as I wrote you, I
have business relative to my pecuniary matters, which
requires my presence here for a while.
On my arrival in —, in the steamboat, I met
Fitzhurst on the wharf ready to welcome me. Business
detained me in town that day, and the next I
proceeded with him to his father's.
Holly is the name of the estate, and it is beautifully
situated. Arriving from a country so richly cultivated
as England, the scene around me, as I proceeded
to Holly, arrested my attention from the striking contrast.
After passing five or ten miles from the city,
the country appeared apparently uncultivated compared
with those to which my eye has been lately
accustomed. After journeying in an aristocratic old
family coach (I like these family vehicles), over hill
and dale, and through stream and woodland, we wound
for several miles around the foot of a chain of hills
through a wild country, and came all at once in view
of a baronial-looking estate, with a village romantically
situated beyond it. The village is called Springdale,
and appears picturesque and beautiful; but I
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suppose on visiting it, if I ever do, it will disenchant
me, as have many beauties, whose attractions,
reversing the general law, were greater in the distance.
I remember you wrote me that you met Sidney's
father and aunt in one of your flying visits
through their city, but that you were not fortunate
enough to see Sidney's sister, as she was then indisposed.
Well, sir, I have seen her for you. The
family received me with the greatest kindness. Old
Mr. Fitzhurst and his sister appeared to vie with each
other in welcoming me with old-fashioned courtesy.
Sidney's sister—I was impressed with her beauty at
the moment of presentation—greeted me as demurely
as her aunt, and yet I thought I saw a lurking humour
in her eye. In the course of the afternoon we
chanced to be left alone, when the lady changed her
manner instantly, and said laughably:
“Do tell me, Mr. Pinckney, don't you think when
I come to be aged—as old as aunt—that I will make a
most dignified old maid? I am now in the course of
study to that desirable end; and if I am not a little
perfect, as the actors say, it will not be Aunt Rachellina's
fault.”
Before this I had felt dull as an oyster: but the
maiden gay so completely altered her address—I had
thought her the very pink of primness—that I really
laughed outright.
“Come, Mr. Pinckney,” said she archly, at the
same time putting her finger to her lip to enjoin
silence, “if aunt hears you I shall get a lecture;
and aunt will insist upon it that, notwithstanding you
are a gentleman of travelled experience and practised
courtesy, you could not resist my hoydenish ways,
and your mirth exploded in spite of you.”
Matemon, this fair Fanny is certainly well calculated
to make the hours pass uncounted. You are a
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marrying man—therefore do I advise you at your
earliest leisure to make a visit to Holly. I do, upon
my honour, believe that this fair one would soon
become your ladye love.
I will describe her to you—paint her with my pen.
She is, perhaps, above the middle height. I am, you
know, a connoisseur in beauty, and I hold her height
the very one for woman—at least if her lover be tall.
Her form slightly approaches embonpoint, and she has
a wavy walk—do you understand—like Celeste's, for
instance. I fancy that when Pigmalion's prayer was
granted, the creature of his creation, endowed by the
merciful gods with Promethean heat, approached him
with her tread. How prettily her feet, as that saucy
fellow Suckling has it,
Like little mice stole in and out
As if they feared the light.
Nothing in the wide world, Matemon, arrests my
attention quicker than Cinderella's slipper when it is
performing duty. She has a fairy little hand full of
rings, and when I see it playing with her curls I understand
the poetry of motion. Her bust is like the young
swan's when it first swells to the wave, and her neck
is worthy of it, and delicately fair. As the southern
sun has browned my cheek, I confess my devotion
to its contrast, and therefore worship I a fair complexion.
The mouth of this gay girl you would call, perhaps,
a thought too large, were not her lips so finely
moulded—the upper the very type of the little god's
bow, and the under one pouting, and apparently
formed of a rose-leaf—and did they not develop
teeth of dazzling white. Her nose is straight, and
the chisseled curve of the nostril would have bewitched
Canova. Her forehead is high and fair—I might
say pale; and, being shaded by dark brown hair, it
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gives an intellectual cast to features which otherwise
would be marked only for their beauty and archness.
Her eye—here's Byron again—
“Which, wild as the gazelle's,
Now brightly bold, or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wonders, dazzles where it dwells,”
is of dark hazel and the best feature in her face. It
is formed for every expression—the gayest or the
gravest. Her voice is music itself, and she repeats
poetry as a nightingale sings. She would have made
a great actress—a very great actress. In short, such
a form, when I have been drunk with the witchery of
the arts, has come to me beneath Italian skies,
when my spirit was lapped in the fairy land, and my
dreams were of heaven.
There, sir, is not this a phœnix of a fair one? I
think I hear you say as Sheridan said of Whitbread's
treatise on this celebrated bird:
“A poulterer's description of a phœnix.” Maybe
it is such—I described her to you just as she appears
to me, and just as I would describe a picture which
had touched my imagination, but which could make
no impression on my heart. I do certainly admire
Miss Fitzhurst—but, Matemon, I have seen enough of
the sex. “Man delights not me, nor woman either.”
I make one or two exceptions to the first assertion,
but the other is the rule without an exception, a rare
thing in logic, but you know there is no logic for the
heart.
Furthermore of the above described lady (you
must court her, Matemon), I believe, though you
would not think so at first, that she possesses not only
wit and playfulness, but deep sensibility. I think, too,
she has a superior genius: she has read much, particularly
James's plays and novels. And if I might
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say so, I suspect she has a little wilfulness and waywardness
mixed up with her good qualities. But,
Matemon, she will suit you exactly; come and court
her; make me your groomsman, and I'll go south with
your bridal party, and enjoy happiness by reflection;
I never shall catch it in any other way—shadows,
shadows.
“Who lost Mark Antony, the world,” &c.?
You know the rest, and I know the sex are now
as they always were and always will be. No, I have
seen enough of them abroad; and of one in particular,
but no matter—I have written you upon that
theme, and would to God that I could make by-gones
by-gones in all respects.
I have made up my mind to spend this winter with
Fitzhurst. I think I can quite sedately enjoy myself
here in the country, and should I want excitement
the city is not many miles off, and I can soon throw
myself in its whirlpool.
It is wearing towards night. I have been setting
alone up in my chamber, which commands a glorious
prospect of hill and dale, and river winding through,
writing to you. Such is not solitude. For the last
five minutes I have been nibbling my pen unconsciously,
while looking out on the setting sun as he hides his
broad disk behind a clump of oaks that caps the very
summit of a hill not far off. He flings his parting
radiance there like the halo round the brow of the martyr,
while the vale below is as rayless as the valley of
the shadow of death. This coming of still twilight on,
particularly of an autumn evening, has always had a
melancholy fascination for me. The many tinted,
rustling leaves that fall in the silence around you,
seem like the hopes which a few months ago were
green, but which are now strewed on the ground—
midst the dirt and ashes of the past—never to rise more.
I tell you what, Matemon, a man should have some
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steady aim in view through all his wanderings—to
travel in pursuit of pleasure is to chase a butterfly,
that only lives in a summer's day, or a phantom that
lures you to the shades of unrest and inquietude. I
have a kind of moody, morbid discontent hanging
about me which I cannot dispel. I seek for enjoyment,
and find it not. The fruit whose taste gives
pleasure to others turn to ashes on my lips. This is
expressing myself, perhaps, too strongly; but what I
mean to say is, that I have a perpetual and wayward
restlessness upon me, from which I in vain endeavour
to escape. The cause of it, I do believe, is the want
of a settled object in life. Until I was eighteen, you
are aware I expected that it would be my lot to make
my own fortune. While preparing myself in college
with the double motive of necessity and ambition, as
incentives to action, my energies were elastic, and my
spirit fearless and, panting not only for collegiate honours,
but the broader and showier ones of the world.
True, sometimes I wished for wealth, for I knew if I
possessed it the harassing cares of pecuniary want
would not intrude upon me—and all others, while
health remained, I believed would be merely a pleasurable
excitement in the career of ambition.
One gloomy evening in college, while I was indulging
in such a reverie, and longing for the philosopher's
stone, the postman brought me a letter sealed with
black. I started—from whom could it be—I paused
ere I opened it. My father and my mother were in
their graves;—I was an orphan with extensive connections,
but without any near relation except a
cousin. I left him in high health, on the eve of being
married to a lovely woman, and in the possession of
one of the largest fortunes in all the south. He was
several years my elder, and it was by his assistance
that I was then at college. A strange, unnatural, and
shuddering excitement ran through me as I thought
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of my cousin, of his immense possessions, of my dependance,
of that black seal. I tore it open. My cousin
was no more. He had been shot in a duel by a
former rival in his love affair, whom he had supplanted.
The rival had been secretly practicing for
months previous to challenging him. He had succeeded
in his murderous intent. My cousin was
shot through the heart. Before going on the ground
he had made his will, and left me his sole heir. I
sprang to my feet with a bound, at the thought of
the immense wealth of which I was master. The
next moment I threw myself on my couch in humiliation
and shame. I cursed myself from my heart at
the idea that I should have such an impulse on the
acquirement of wealth by the death—and such a death—
of one so near and dear to me. One who had been
my benefactor, and had left me his all. Matemon,
the deepest sense of self-degradation I have ever
known was then. You were at college with me
when this occurred. I do not know why I should
call it up now except to say, that the wealth I thus
acquired, while it left me open to pursue any path of
ambition I might desire—what I had been so ardently
wishing for—gave me also the means of sensual gratification—
presented the Circean cup, and all the deity
within me became of the earth, earthy. But though
I did taste of this cup, my “misery” was not so
“perfect” as Milton, in his splendid Masque of Comus,
describes that of Circe's votaries to have been, who,
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,
But boast themselves more comely than before,
And all their friends and native home forgot,
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.
No! I panted to see my native home again. You
must present my remembrances warmly to all our
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mutual friends. In a few months I shall be with you
all. Write me, write me; give me all the news. I
have an idea of following Washington Irving's example:
taking a tour upon the prairies; or something
like it. There would be excitement in such adventures—
and what a contrast with the scenes I have
left behind me! This contrast would be the zest of
the enjoyment. Is it not wonderful that he who had
been housed so carefully and luxuriously should have
been exposed to the open lodgings of the wilderness,
the skiey canopy, not only without detriment to his
health but to its improvement. He tells us that, after
returning from his tour, he experienced a sensation of
suffocation on awaking in the night and finding himself
in a room. How many of our aches and troubles
we bring upon ourselves. What a free pulse I should
have now were I treading on the prairies!
Sidney Fitzhurst and myself have been reading
Irving to-day together. Sid has just entered my
room, he says:—
“Come, Pinckney, if you wish to imitate Irving,
suppose you accompany me to a neighbouring farmer's,
where there is to be a husking match.”
What is that? I asked.
“After the corn,” said he, “has been gathered
from the field, it is arranged in a pile near the corn-crib,
and the labouring people, white and black, meet
there on some night and strip it of the husks. They
form themselves into parties, divide the corn heaps
equally, and the contest is, which shall finish their
pile the soonest. Come, it will amuse you—I do not
know but that I may be a candidate some of these
days for popular favours, and shaking hands with
the sovereigns; these may be of service to me;—and
frankly, apart from such considerations, I like these
gatherings.”
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I agreed; and so here I go, Matemon, to a husking-match.
Sidney sends a thousand good wishes to
you. Adieu!
Howard Pinckney.
CHAPTER VI.
The country road to which we have alluded passed
between Holly and the village of Springdale. A
gravelled and winding lane led from it to the residence
of Mr. Fitzhurst. At the entrance of the lane
stood a cottage, or log-house of the better sort, to
whose precincts we would call the attention of our
readers. The cottage was inhabited by an old
woman, named Gammon, who was known in the
neighbourhood for miles around as Granny Gammon,
together with her grandson, Robert Gammon, a lame
boy, and a granddaughter, a cousin of the boy, named
Peggy Blossom. These two last were all that remained
out of a large progeny of the race of Granny
Gammon. She had been married twice, and had had
a very large family, but they seemed destined, both by
fate and nature, for a short life, as accident or disease
had carried them all off. Peggy Blossom was the
daughter of one of Granny Gammon's sons by her
first marriage. A short time after the birth of Peggy
her parents both died, and she was left to the charge
of her grandmother.
Robert Gammon was the descendant of the Granny
by her second marriage. His mother died in giving
him birth, and some years afterwards his father was
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blown up in the explosion of a powdermill in which
he was a labourer. Robert Gammon, or Bobby
Gammon as he was generally called, was extensively
known in the neighbourhood.
In his childhood he had been remarkable for his
beauty. Now beauty of face was all that was left to
him. Bobby was very fond of horses, and as he was
a most expert horseman Mr. Paul Fitzhurst had employed
him to ride several races for him, in all of
which, except the last, Bobby was successful. It was
thought by the jockies that his skill and management
as much as the speed of the horse led to results
favourable to Mr. Fitzhurst. In the last race Bobby
rode, as he was approaching the goal the foremost
rider, the girth of his saddle broke, and he was precipitated
to the ground with great violence. By the
accident his collar bone was broken and his left leg.
Bobby was taken to his grandmother's, the physician
of the village sent for, and the broken bones set, but
after such a fashion as to leave Bobby a cripple for
life, with his right shoulder much higher than his left
one, and his left leg much shorter than its brother.
Bobby lay a long time at the point of death. He
slowly recovered, but the accident gave such a shock
to his frame that, though he grew older, he did not appear
to increase much either in size or height. The
accident happened when he was in his fourteenth
year,—he was now approaching his seventeenth. His
cousin Peggy, who was a year his elder, had watched
over his long confinement with the faithfulness of a
sister, by which she had acquired more control over
Bobby than other human being, not excepting his
grandmother.
Mr. Fitzhurst, as some remuneration to Bobby for
the injury he had received in his service, gave him a
deed for fifty acres of land, and had built on it the log
house in which Granny Gammonlived. Besides which,
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he frequently sent flour or marketing to the grandmother
and her grandchildren; in fact, it might be
said that he entirely supported them. Their condition
was much better now than it had been before
Bobby's mishap.
Peggy was a great favourite at Holly; particularly
with Miss Rachellina and Fanny. She was a
good milliner, and was often sent for by the former lady
to make caps, &c., for her, when Peggy would remain
at Holly for a week or two; for Miss Rachellina
was very careful in her toilet, and had her habiliments
made under her own eye. Besides pecuniary recompense,
she frequently made presents of articles of dress,
capes, bonnets, edging to her protegé. Peggy's costliest
gifts, however, of this kind, were received from
Fanny, for Miss Rachellina had no idea of putting
notions into the girl's head above her station, by giving
her the means of extravagant display. Fanny often
thwarted her aunt's views in this respect; and Peggy
was wont to make her appearance at the meeting-house
in Springdale in an attire which created more
envy amidst her female acquaintances than even her
superior beauty—for Peggy was beautiful, and not
unconscious of it. Her form was fine, her step
springing, her cheek rosy, her eye bright, and she had
caught, with a quick spirit of imitation, a certain air
in her sojournings at Holly, from her observance and
admiration of Fanny Fitzhurst, that distinguished her
as much as her beauty. The girls of the village who
envied her were in the habit of speaking of her, tauntingly,
as “Lady Peggy.”
Peggy was an arch coquette. There was Bill
Hitt, the blacksmith, he had been suing and suffering
for years. Bill Hardy, the miller, was in the same
predicament. Though he had his Sunday suit on, scrupulously
freed from the least speck of flour, Peggy
could make his face wear its every-day hue, and turn
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him as pale as one of his own meal-bags. It was
even said that the village doctor, who had a pretty
practice, was not insensible to her charms. It is a
fact that he often stopped at Granny Gammon's unsent
for, to inquire about the old woman's rheumatism,
and he prescribed for her without charge. Lawyer
Lupton, too, was known to visit Mrs. Gammon, to
make inquiries as to what she had heard in by-gone
days concerning certain landmarks, whose locality
was involved in a suit in which he asserted he was
engaged. It must have been a case of considerable
perplexity, for Mr. Lupton had frequently to repeat
his visits, in order thoroughly to understand what
would be the evidence of Mrs. Gammon should he
require her testimony. And often, when the old
woman has been doing her best at an explanation,
she was not a little offended at Mr. Lupton for suffering
himself to be drawn off entirely from the subject
by the idle conversation of Peggy.
Notwithstanding all these demonstrations against
the heart of Peggy, as the village gossips held them
to be, it could not be said that she herself had any
very decided preference. Latterly, Peggy had very
little to say to the lawyer when he visited her grandmother,
and when some one asked her the reason,
she replied:
“She didn't believe in people who could laugh
and talk with her at home, but who couldn't be the
same when they met her at other places.”
There was one John, or Jack Gordon, as he was
called, a—handsome, reckless fellow—who formerly
lived in the village, but who had left it within the last
six months, though he frequently visited it, for whom
it was thought Peggy entertained a liking. Gordon
had a dashing, daring way with him. He was a
hanger on about races; sometimes had a faro-table at
such places, and he spent much more money than he
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apparently earned. His character did not stand well
with the villagers; he bore himself with a swagger
among them, but he spent his money freely, would
treat anybody, and everybody, and was not without
tact—and a power to hide his natural propensities,
where he had an object in view. Latterly, when
Jack Gordon visited Springdale he made a much more
ostentatious appearance than formerly. He dressed
with the flare and flash of a circus-rider; wore a gold
watch, with an immense chain; rode a horse that he
alleged had cost three hundred dollars, and for which
he wouldn't take five hundred, and put up at the best
tavern in the place.
We opened this chapter by conducting our reader
to the plain but comfortable domicil of Granny Gammon.
It was the evening of the husking-match.
The little family had just finished their supper.
Peggy, with a cloth caught on the end of a fork so
as to save her hands, which were delicate and fair,
was washing the cups and saucers. Her grandmother
was sitting in a high-backed, rush-bottomed, old-fashioned
chair, engaged in knitting a coarse woollen
stocking. Near her lay a large house-dog asleep,
and between the dog and Peggy sat Bobby. He
eyed the dog a moment as the animal lay upon his
side, with his large ear thrown back, and, unperceived
by his grandmother or cousin, he stepped to a broom
which stood in the corner, and extracted from it the
largest and longest straw he could find. Bobby then
resumed his seat very demurely, and amused himself
with inserting the straw into the dog's ear. The boy
seemed to derive no little amusement in beholding
the dog's efforts to rid himself of what he doubtless
considered a fly. The animal shook his head, and
twisted his ear, all to no avail. At last he uttered a
fierce growl.
“Be still, Towser!” exclaimed the old woman in
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a querulous tone. What's the dog after: there's nobody
here.”
At this remark Bobby renewed his efforts to make
Towser growl louder, and in the act his grandmother
turned and observed him.
“Bobby, Bobby Gommon! its you, is it, teazing
the dog? You'll ruin him; don't you know that's the
very way to ruin a dog? Be done, you—indeed, indeed,
you'll worry me to death. Yes, you'll be the
death of me yet—and Iv'e nursed you from a baby:
you don't mind me no more 'an I was a log.”
“Granny,” said Bob, in a half expostulating, half
quizzing, tone, “I want to wake Towzer up—he must
go with me to Mr. Elwood's.”
“To Mr. Elwood's—can't you call the dog if you
want him, and not spoil him in that way, and worry
me as you do—And for what do you want to go to
Mr. Elwood's?”
“To the husking, granny.”
“To the husking! what can such a cripple and
limater as you are—and so weakly, do at a husking?”
“Granny, you needn't be always telling me I'm a
cripple, a limater as you call it—I do hate that word.
I can't help it—and don't I know it?”
“Yes, know it—and don't I know it! And didn't
I warn you agin riding races long since—didn't I—
answer me that? It's a judgment on you—this racing
is an abomination in the sight of the Lord—You'll be
punished for it worse yet, if you don't mend your
ways.”
“Granny, Granny!” remonstrated Peggy.
“Peggy, my child, hold your peace—Didn't I see
Bobby riding by here this very day on that fiery varmint
of a horse that belongs to Mr. Elwood; the worst
cretur in all the country? Yes, didn't I; He didn't
think I'd be a standing at the door—no, he thought
his poor old granny was sick in the chimley corner
-- 050 --
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and he come tearing by like mad. It was such a
sunshinyday that I crawled to the door while you
were up at the big house; and I declare I han't got
over it since. Yes, he turned his head away, and tore
by like mad; and I wouldn't ha' known him if he
hadn't a had Towser jumping after him. He wants
to have another fall, and wear us all down attending
on him. He'll come to no good, never; and he'll
ruin the dog.”
“Granny,” said Bob, “I was a riding bare back.
I'd like to know if I was ever thrown from a horse
a riding that way. It was a riding a race I was
thrown. Roanoke's saddle turned with me—broke
the girth. There's many a chap's been throwed before
me, without being hurt at all. And,” continued
Bob, with bitterness, “I think the hurt is enough,
without telling a body of it. You need not think,
Granny, that I can forget it—there's cousin Peggy's
big looking-glass there, that Jack Gordon give her, it
tells me of it all the time.”
“Robert Gommon,” exclaimed Peggy, quickly,
“I told you before to day that Jack Gordon didn't give
me that looking-glass. He was driving by here one
day in a cart, and he said he had won some things
at a raffle, and he asked me if I wouldn't take care
of the glass for him till he could call for it, as he was
afraid of breaking it.”
“You've had it here long enough to make it a gift,
any how, Cousin Peggy,” said Bob, though in a subdued
tone. “And I wonder if there's any harm in
riding, if every body don't know that Jack Gordon is
a torn down rider—he rides at all ho—”
“Bobby,” interrupted Peggy, “Granny don't care
about your riding if she didn't fear that you would
get hurt again.”
“Hurt again,” exclaimed the old grandmother;
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“yes, and only think how he wears out his clothes
riding horseback!”
“Well, Granny; I reckon Mr. Fitzhurst give me
the clothes.”
“And don't I know it; and is that the reason you
should wear them out—Mr. Fitzhurst won't live forever,
and who will you get clothes from then—I had
a dream last night, and it bodes no good to nobody.”
“Granny,” said Bob, rising from his seat, and stepping
from before the glass, so that the reflection of his
person might not appear in it, “I don't care what you
say to me, so as you let me alone about being a limater.
My God! I can't help it.”
“Robert, don't you know better than to take the
Lord's name in vain! That's a sin, now that's a sin—
Mercy on me, this rheumatiz.
“Come, Towser,” said Bob, to the dog. The animal
arose, shook himself, and stood prepared to follow.
“Come along old boy, we shant see the fun.” Saying
which, and followed by the dog, Bob left the house.
“Be back, Bobby, early,” screamed the old woman
after him; but Bobby unhearing or unheading walked
on with Towser by his side. He had not proceeded
ten steps when the door opened, and Peggy called to
him. He turned with alacrity to meet her. She
closed the door after her and advanced to the fence
that lay between them.
“Bobby,” asked she, “have you seen Jack Gordon
lately.”
“No, I have not, Cousin Peggy; why?
“How the moon shines. Look at your hat—put it
back further on your head, that way (and Peggy fixed
it); why don't you brush your hair, Bobby, and keep
yourself more tidy? The ladies at the big house think
you have such a good looking face—I'm sure I mend
your clothes and make your shirts—let me turn over
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that collar better—and do all I can to keep you neat—
you ha'nt seen Jack Gordon, lately.”
“No, Cousin Peggy?”
“Well, Bobby, if you see him, tell him that I say he
must come and take his glass away?”
“You ha'nt seen him neither, lately, have you,
cousin Peggy?” asked Bob, archly.
“No, no,” replied Peggy, quickly; “and I don't
want to see him—Tell him, if you see him, to come
and take his glass away.”
“I don't believe I shall see him—he's got above
husking matches—or below them, I don't know which.”
“Bobby, are you going through Holly.”
“Yes, I am—don't you hear them chaps hallowing,
now, Cousin Peggy? theyr'e going; its the nearest,
an' I want to see old Pompey.”
“Then, Bobby, if you do, just step and ask Miss
Rachellina if she will want me to-morrow. You can
bring me word as you come home. They're got a
noble, polite gentleman up there; and I do believe he's
come to court Miss Fanny.”
“Have they,” said Bob, “well I'll tell Miss Rachellina
what you say, and Jack Gordon too, if I see him.
Good night, Cousin Peggy.”
“Good night, Bobby, be back soon,” rejoined
Peggy as she turned and entered the house; while
Bob, with Towser playing round him, went whistling
on his way.
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CHAPTER VII.
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
Notwithstanding the difference between the
colour and years of Robert Gammon and Pompey,
the formal old negro coachman of Mr. Fitzhurst, to
whom we called the attention of our readers in our
first chapter, they held quite a partiality for each
other. When Bobby was thrown from the horse on
the race course, Pompey was the first to hasten to
his assistance; and the faithful old negro frequently
called at Granny Gammon's during her grandson's
confinement, to inquire after, and have a talk with
him. 'Twas by Pompey's hand, too, that Miss Rachellina
sent him many little delicacies; when the
coachman never failed to take a seat, and hold long
discourses about horses and races—for the boy's fall,
poor fellow, had not changed his partialities for the
race course and the stable.
Bobby, too, a short time after he was able to go
out had done Pompey an essential service. A neighbour
of Mr. Fitzhurst named Thompson, had had
with that gentleman a lawsuit, concerning a certain
tract of land, in which he was defeated. Thompson
was a malicious man, and the result rankled in his
bosom, and aroused feelings of intense hatred within
him towards the victor. One day as Pompey was
returning from market his wagon broke down; and
with a hatchet and rope that he happened to have
with him, he entered a wood belonging to Thompson,
which skirted the road, to cut a sapling with which
to mend his vehicle, and proceed homeward. While
Pompey was in the act of cutting it Thompson came
through the wood with two of his slaves; and,
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
knowing the intruder to be the slave of Mr. Fitzhurst, he
determined to inflict revenge on him. He charged
Pompey with the intention of stealing his wood; said
he believed he was sent to do it by his master; and,
in spite of his prayers and entreaties, ordered his
slaves to seize, and tie him to a tree, while he, himself,
proceeded to cut a stick of no inconsiderable size,
with which to inflict the castigation. At this very
moment Bobby, who had borrowed a gun from Jack
Gordon, for the purpose of a little sport, came up to
the group just as Thompson was trimming his weapon,
and swearing that he would flog Pompey within an
inch of his life.
“What's the matter?” said Bobby, in astonishment.—
“What's the matter, Pompey?”
“O, my mercy, Mister Bobby,” exclaimed the
affrighted black, “indeed I meant no harm—O! do
beg Master Thompson for me.”
“Beg for you!” exclaimed Thompson, furiously,
“You're past begging for, you black rascal—I'll
learn you to steal. Tie him up, you knaves—strip
him, strip him, I'll make you beg.”
“What's he done, Mr. Thompson?” inquired Bobby.
“Done! what's it your business?” exclaimed
Thompson—“I've caught him stealing my wood,
and, by G—d, I believe he's at it by his Master's
orders.”
“What,” says Bobby, “do you mean to say that
Mr. Fitzhurst sent him to steal your wood?”
“Yes, I do.” replied Thompson, flourishing his
stick and advancing towards Pompey.
“Mr. Thompson; I don't believe you think that
yourself,” exclaimed Bobby, indignantly.
“Begone, you limping little rascal—quit my presence
immediately,—or I'll serve you the same as I
mean to serve him.”
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
“Limping rascal! Try it if you dare!” said
Bobby, lifting his gun from his shoulder.
Thompson looked at Bobby for a moment, firmly,
and said, “Dont you mean to quit my ground? are
you stealing too?”
“Look here,” said Bobby, who was a boy of high
spirits when aroused, and who was stung deeply by
Thompson's taunts on his lameness, and his last remark;
“I'm no negro, mind that; if you hit that
old fellow, if I don't shoot you it will be because my
arm is as lame as my leg.”
Thompson was an arrant coward; and he knew
the character of the boy. He, however, exclaimed;
with an effort at fierceness. “Do you mean to say
you'll commit murder—I'll have you hung, Robert
Gammon—mind that, my boy.”
“Try it,” said Bobby; “I'll abide by the law; and
if Pompey's been stealing let him abide by the law
too.”
“Seize him,” said Thompson to his slaves; “seize
the boy.” But the negroes, notwithstanding their
dread of their master, dared not obey his mandate.
“I'll make you sweat for this,” exclaimed Thompson,
firmly, to Bobby; but seeing the fixed resolution
of the boy's manner, he ordered his slaves to follow
him, and hastened through the wood, swearing as he
went that he would put Bobby in the Penitentiary for
life. Bobby speedily released Pompey. The black
hurried off, leaving his rope and hatched in his fright.
“Stop, Pompey,” said Bobby to the negro, as he
was hastening from the fatal wood, “take your things,
now. Thompson can't scare me if I am a weakly
boy. He insulted Cousin Peggy one day, an' if I'd
a been by them with this gun he'd a caught a load
to a certainty; you see, Pompey, being that I'm cripple
I won't put up with these things from nobody.”
Pompey hurried out of the wood without attending
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
to what Bobby said. The boy, however, picked up
the hatchet and rope; and following after him observed;
“I always thought Thompson was a coward,
and now I know it.”
Pompey begged Bobby in mercy not to leave him;
and with the boy's assistance he soon repaired the
wagon, and, attended by him, reached home in safety.
Pompey told the matter to his master, who was most
indignant at the treatment which his favourite servant
had received at the hands of Thompson, and loud in
the praise of Bobby.
Thompson, in the meantime repaired to Squire Morris,
to obtain a warrant against Bobby for threatening
his life, but the Squire, on hearing the whole affair
advised him to drop it, which he reluctantly did. The
story nevertheless became the talk of the neighbourhood;
and Bobby was as highly praised as Thompson,
who was generally unpopular, was censured.
Merrily, in the bright moonlight of a mellow autumn
evening Bobby proceeded to Holly. As he walked
round the house to enter the kitchen he met Pompey,
and asked him if he would not go to Mr. Elwood's
to the husking match.
“Mister Bobby, that's the very place I purpose
visiting. Don't you see I've got my violin,” said
Pompey, with an air of self-respect, holding out at the
same time the instrument which he carried in his
hand, and which was carefully covered in a green
baize bag. I thought at first I should not be able to
enjoy myself fully, 'cause Miss Fanny, I thought,
would want me to drive her over to Mr. Elwood's
this afternoon; but Master Sidney drive her over,
with company that we have, in the open carriage; so
I can go—Its a good distance from here, let's proceed.”
Pompey was an aristocratic, old family servant,
who by personal attendance on his master had heard
the best conversation among “the quality,” as
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
he called his master's acquaintance; and he had
no slight ambition in the way of correct phraseology.
He held himself as far above the field negroes as his
master held himself above the daily labourers. Pompey
was generally known by the title, and answered
to the name of Pompey Fitzhurst.
“You observe, Mister Bobby, I don't care much
bout playing the violin at these places, because I play's
for the quality at all their parties, and it is a descention,
but I suppose Nat Ramsey, being that his leg is
as big as his body with whisky, won't be there; and
if he is, you know he can't give the company any
satisfaction, for he's only a squeaker. You disciver
Mister Bobby, a coloured gentleman, no more an' any
other gentleman, should never demean himself. If
old master had kept me to driving the coach, what I
was brought up to, and not put me to that market-wagon,
that are affair in Thompson's wood would
never have begun to happen.”
“That's true,” rejoined Bobby, as he limped along
beside the old negro. “But, Pompey, I like some of
old Nat's tunes.”
“Not meaning to disparage your liking, Master
Bobby, replied Pompey, with the air of a connoisseur,
“but you disciver and observe that you have an
uncultivated taste, else you would like some of the
quality tunes better. When I am in Room I does as
Room does, Mister Bobby, and I am not gainsaying
that I like some of our husking tunes after all. I am
going to give 'em to the boys to-night, with a little quality
touch to set 'em off. Its to be a pretty big husking
they tell me; and when I gets tired about the big house
here, I like the relaxation of going about among the
Africans.
Proceeding along the lane, that led by the mansion
through the estate, to the foot of the hills, and there
terminated in a country road that led up a valley,
our worthies continued their conversation. Every
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now and then a wild halloo, uttered by an individual,
perchance by a party, bound to the same point, would
reach the ears of our characters, at which they would
hasten their speed with increased hilarity. The
moon had by this time arisen and o'er topped the
hills. The moonbeams, struggling through the trees
that skirted the road, shed their checkerd light
upon their path, and added to their cheerfulness. To
an observer of character it would have been amusing
to have seen Bobby limping by the side of Pompey,
with Towzer following close at his heels; while the
old negro walked very erect with his snub more
elevated, and holding his violin under his arm in a
professional manner, like a dancing master, as he trips
it to a fashionable party. Bobby held his head down,
with an old hat cocked careless on the side of it,
which every now and then he would take off for a
moment, and bear in his hand while he glanced up
at Pompey.
“There's fun in husking, Pompey,” observed the
boy, as a loud halloo broke over the silence; “them
fellows are ahead of us.”
“Yes, Mister Bobby, I like it, considerably; it is
a harmless gathering, as old master says, and he likes
to see it going on.”
“I wonder if Jack Gordon will be there.”
“I don't know, Mister Bobby; you observe and
discover that Mr. Jack Gordon ain't liked among the
folks much; they say hard things agin him.”
“I know they do.”
“Yes, he has a power of money for one who haint
got any property; and it's all got by gambling, if it
ain't got in a worse way. We'll soon be there
now.”
In a bend of the valley to the left, and joining the
estate of Mr. Fitzhurst, lay the farm of Mr. Elwood.
He was a plain, rough farmer, and owned some
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
hundred or more acres, which he prided himself in keeping
in a high state of cultivation. He was a widower,
and childless. An orphan neice was living with him;
the mistress of his household: her name was Sarah
Grattan; and she was remarkable for her mental as
well as personal attractions. Though she had received
none of the advantages of a city education, her manners,
from the native delicacy of her mind, were prepossessing;
she was strangely timid and shy, and easily
influenced by those around her. She scarcely ever
went to the city; seldom to Springdale, and she shrinkingly
received the attentions of those who visited her.
Fanny Fitzhurst occasionally went to see her, and
would have gone much oftener had her visits been
sooner returned. But while Miss Grattan was delighted
to see her, and entertained her each time with
less embarrasment, she hesitated to return the call
until requested to do so by her uncle. And when she
did visit Holly, the splendour of that establishment
compared with her uncle's dwelling, together with the
superior beauty, intelligence, ease, and fashion of Fanny,
without exciting her envy, awoke all her diffidence,
and kept her in a state of nervous inquietude for fear
her demeanor should not be proper, and might excite
ridicule. For hours after she had returned home
she would sit and think over every thing she had said
and done, and torture herself with the idea that she
had committed some impropriety. Her situation
was lonely, and she seemed deeply to feel it. It was
thought, too, that her uncle was not as kind to her as
he might have been; and those who esteemed themselves
gifted with penetration thought they could at
times observe that she brooded over some secret sorrow.
There existed no particular reason for believeing
it, however. Her uncle—a rough, blunt man, somewhat
addicted to his cups, and when excited fierce
in his speech, and severe to his slaves—appeared kind
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[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
to her, and anxious to press her into society. He gave
her not only every comfort, but every elegance of
dress; yet he seemed to expect that she was to have
no will of her own. Mr. Elwood was unpopular in
his neighbourhood; though fond of company it was not
always of a character to interest his neice. When
Fanny has been at Mr. Elwood's he would often jest his
neice, doubtless with a view of showing her off, about
certain persons whom he asserted were her beaux;
which would make the maiden glance at Fanny, and
blush as much with a sense of shame at the characters
and standing of her imputed admirers, as from any other
feeling. Her uncle did not understand such to be her
feelings, or if he did he paid very little regard to them.
Some held the opinion that Colonel Bentley was not
indifferent to Miss Grattan's charms. On this afternoon
the colonel had visited Holly; and when Sidney
made the proposition that his sister, with Mr. Pinckney
and himself, should visit Mr. Elwood's, he agreed with
alacrity. Perhaps the pleasure though of Miss Fanny's
company of itself influenced the colonel. There was a
person named Joseph Bronson, a store keeper in Springdale,
and reputed wealthy, who boasted himself a most
honest and pious citizen, who, it was notorious in the
neighbourhood, aspired to Miss Grattan's favour.
He was a large, raw-boned, freckled-face man, and he
wore an immense sandy wig, that did not, certainly,
subtract from his homeliness, though he was not himself,
as might be supposed, aware of the fact. It was
gossipped around that Mr. Elwood favoured Mr. Bronson's
suit, Bronson's modest assurance was proverbial.
He had repeatedly transacted business for Miss
Deborah Amelia Bentley, and the colonel's friends used
jocosely to tell him, that this worthy only wanted encouragement
from his aunt to forsake Miss Grattan
for the much larger and surer fortune.
-- 061 --
CHAPTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
Bronson, no unusual occurrence, happened to be at
Mr. Elwood's on this evening when our party from
Holly called. While they were at tea, the voices of the
huskers, gathering from all quarters singing and giving
a loud halloo as they came, sounded widely through
the valley. In a short time nearly a hundred negroes,
with a few whites, had met by the corn-crib, which
stood some distance from the house, where the corn
had been thrown from the carts in a continuous line.
This was equally divided, and several rails were laid
between the two rows of corn, to mark the division
and prevent foul play. After these preliminaries, and
after taking all round several drams of whisky from
a tin cup, into which the liquid was poured from a
large earthen jug of which one of Mr. Elwood's trusty
servants had the charge, the huskers divided themselves
into two parties, and set to work joyously, the
contest being which party should finish their pile first.
While they worked, some negro or other, reputed a
good singer, sung a sort of song, with a chorus, in
which all joined. Their united voices swelled wide
and far through the valley. A poetic mind hearing
them at a distance might almost have supposed that
the Indians still held possession of the land, and were
preparing, by a war-dance in the deep woods, for some
fearful excursion, or were shouting their exultations
round some victim at the stake. This harmless amusement
of the humble negro has no such terrors;
and here these joyous, good-natured beings, making
a pleasure of a labour, after performing their allotted
day's work, were gathered, and accomplishing, in a
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
frolic, what, to the unaided hands of the farm, would
have been the task of days. On this occasion Pompey
was not a little chagrined, by the fact that Nat Ramsay,
the negro whom he had pronounced a mere scraper
to Bobby, was requested to sing. Not having the
affected diffidence of the connoisseurs of the art in the
refined circles of humanity, Nat instantly complied.
He sang a song of which the following verses are a
literal specimen. The four first lines of each verse
he rolled out with a stentorian voice in solo, while all
combined the power of their lungs to give effect to
the chorus. Our readers have all heard the celebrated
Rice, the Jim Crow of two hemispheres, sing
similar songs. Could Nat have heard him, he would
not have been as vain of his powers as he was to-night.
He certainly, if at all an envious individual,
would have hung his harp on the willow. The following
is the specimen:
“Work on, boys, if we work 'till morn,
The nigger boys will husk de corn;
You mind your pile, an' I mind mine,
The coon he listen, de moon she shine.
O! clar de kitchen, old folks, young folks,
Clar de kitchen, old folks, young folks,
Old Virginny never tire.
“When massa come de work to see,
The possum laugh in de old gum tree,
When winter come me set de trap,
Den nigger laugh at dat ar' chap.
O! clar de kitchen, old folks, young folks,
Clar de kitchen, old folks, young folks,
Old Virginny never tire.
When the moon had entirely cleared the tree tops
the party at the house walked forth to observe for
awhile the care-defying huskers. Pinckney, who appeared
to be struck with the womanly shrinking and
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sensitiveness of Miss Grattan offered her his arm, and
exerted all his powers of address to interest her.
Fanny took the arm of Colonel Bentley. Mr. Bronson,
somewhat in the dumps at the attention shown
by Pinckney to Miss Grattan, made at first an attempt
to keep by her side, but in a few moments he fell back
and joined Mr Elwood and Sidney Fitzhurst, who
brought up the rear.
“Do you feel very romantic to night, Miss Fitzhurst?”
asked Mr. Pinckney, turning towards Fanny,
who was a few steps behind Miss Grattan and himself.
“You proclaim yourself such a skeptic about love
and romance, and all such things, sir,” rejoined
Fanny, “that you act upon me as the disenchanter of
such dreams. I declare your conversation for this last
week has been that of a staid old bachelor of fifty
or seventy, rather than that of a travelled gentleman
who I hope still holds himself young.”
“Young in years, I hope, Miss Fitzhurst, but still
old enough to believe that your true love is a dream,
which like all other dreams must be interpreted adversely.”
“Ah, is that it? I thought it was only an old woman's
privilege to interpret dreams?”
“Precisely so, Miss Fitzhurst; and a young woman's
fate to find that all her golden ones lead to such
an issue. The misfortune is though, Miss Fitzhurst,
that she does not find it out until she herself is qualified
to become an interpreter; and then to all the
youthful of her sex her fate is that of Cassandra.”
“Sir,” rejoined Fanny, laughingly, “then were I
to prophesy that Mr. Pinckney would one day become
a gallant gentleman, and a believer in love, would mine
be like all other prophesies?”
“I fear so, Miss Fitzhurst; a prophet is not without
honor save in his own country. Could they see
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the prophetess in that far land I've left, I have no
doubt, however, that then they would believe the prophecy.”
“Thank you, sir; Iowe you one,” replied Fanny, and
she made some remark to Colonel Bentley, which
Pinckney did not overhear.
“Do you know, Miss Grattan,” said Pinckney to
the lady by his side, in a low voice, “that our fascinating
friend behind us spoke of you so highly, as we
rode here, that if she were of my sex I should say
most decidedly that she had fallen in love with you.”
“Did she?” replied Miss Grattan tremulously, and
with a blush that might have been detected by the
moonbeam. “Indeed I know no one whose good opinion
I would rather have. But,” rejoined she, with
confusion, “you are jesting with me.”
“Jesting with you! You do me great injustice. I
suppose you have plenty of time to grow romantic
here. And really, notwithstanding Miss Fitzhurst's
allegations against me, I should be surprised if you
did not. What a beautiful sweep those hills have!
And look at the graceful windings of that silvery
stream, stealing away like a great and happy life to be
lost in the great ocean. Yes! you might fall in love
here; have some one who should be
`The ocean to the river of your thoughts.”'
“Ah!” exclaimed Fanny Fitzhurst, who had overheard
the latter part of this remark, “remember, Mr.
Pinckney, that you are quoting from a dream—a
most powerful poet's dream.”
“Yes, Miss Fitzhurst, you have me fairly; for that
dream tells of two beings, the life of one of whom
ended in madness, and both in misery. Remember
that dream was `shaped out like a reality, and from
a reality. It was a foregone conclusion.”
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Here the party had approached so near the huskers
as to be seen distinctly by them. This was apparent
from the increased and ambitious alacrity
with which they worked, and the evident effect which
they tried to throw into their song. When Nat, the
singer, saw them coming he did not join the chorus of
the last verse, but paused longer than usual before he
commenced again. He was taxing his powers to
produce something extemporaneous in honor of the
ladies. His gifts as an improvisatore were proven by
the following verse, which he gave forth in his best
manner:
“The coon likes corn, and we like he,
Wid the possum fat and the hominee,
O! the ladies come; don't you see e'm dar?
Their lobely eyes shine like a star.
O! clar de kitchen, old folks, young folks,
Clar de kitchen, old folks, young folks,
Old Virginny never tire.
“There's poetry and romance for you, Miss Fanny
Fitzhurst,” said Pinckney, with a hearty laugh.
“In intention, at least, Mr Howard Pinckney,” rejoined
Fanny, “and that, when it is good, makes the
humblest offering praiseworthy.”
“True, true; and truth in this instance is poetry's
handmaid. We have the authority of the poets of all
time for comparing the ladies eyes to stars. They
are not only brilliant, like the stars, but like them they
control our destiny.
At the foot of an oak, near the west end of the
corn heap, not at all satisfied, so far, with the
events of the evening, sat Pompey. He had mingled
with the huskers but for a short time after Nat
commenced his song; when, complaining that he
could not keep time with such a grunter as the
singer, he withdrew from among them. He sat
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wrapped in an old coat with his back against the
tree to keep the cold off, and with his feet and
part of his person entirely covered with corn husks.
His wool was amplified into the dimensions of an
ancient wig, and his hat was cocked a little on one
side, on the top of it, as much from an air of selfimportance,
as for the purpose of hearing the conversation
of his companion. Bobby had his hands
thrust into the pockets of his pantaloons, which
were made of the stuff called corduroy, and considerably
worn. The collar of his jacket was
turned up, and the brim of his hat turned down so
as to meet it, and keep him, as he said, as snug as
a possum in a gum tree.
It was not at all cool to any one who was exercising
the least; but after walking and husking a
short time the worthies paused from their labours
and sat down, when feeling slightly chilled they
had resorted to the mode of keeping themselves
comfortable which we have described. At Bobby's
feet, by way of a footstove, Towzer, his dog, was
crouching. Every now and then, when the huskers
sang remarkably loud, Towzer would lift his
head lazily from his master's feet, glance carelessly
around, and nestle in the corn husks again. Occasionally
Bobby would pat him on the head, when he
would wag his tail, and gather himself up closer
to his master's person.
“Ah,” exclaimed Bobby, “look out in the moonlight,
Pompey, there's Miss Fanny—I forgot cousin
Peggy told me to ask Miss Fanny if she would
want her at the big house to-morrow.”
“There's time enough,” said Pompey. “Master
Bobby, aint that Colonel Bentley there?”
“Yes,” said Bobby, “I believe it is.”
At this point Nat Ramsay rolled forth his
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compliment to the ladies. Pompey jerked his hat over his
eyes as he heard it, and exclaimed:—
“Mister Bobby, now just listen to that nigger—
he's in liquor now, he's in liquor—'nebriated, an' he
thinks he's taking the shine off of everything. To
give you a hidear, Mister Bobby, of what a fool nigger
that Nat is, I'll tell you. You diskiver and observe
that one day I driv my young Mistress, Miss
Fanny, over to Miss Bentleys, and I was a setting
on my coach box a thinking a great many things. I
can think my hardest on a coach box. In the midst
of it here comes Nat Ramsey, black as the driven
charcoal, toting his big foot right by Miss Bentley's
door, between me and the coach and the
house.”
“But I tell you, Pompey,” observed Bobby, “Nat
can't help it if he has such a leg. It aint his fault—
he cut it with an axe last winter, and now its all out of
shape.”
“Its hard drink, Mister Bobby, its hard drink—he
gets 'nebriated. Well, as I was telling you, there
he comes, black as the driven charcoal, right between
me and the house, and sure enough he stops. You
know he's a Guinny nigger—he was caught on the
Gold Coast when a boy, running wild as a baboon,
and brought to this country to be sold as a slave, and
civilized. For my part, I was born in my master's
family; and so was my mother and father before me.
Well, Nat did'nt know that I knowed whar he come
from, and so we got to talking 'bout the difference
between a coloured man and a nigger; and I
'lightened him on the subject. I told him what are a
fact, that a nigger is a black man what comes from
over the waters, an' that a coloured man may be a
mulatto or a darkey, but if he is born in this country
he can't no how be a nigger. Now aint that plain?
I was born in a free country, for I heard Master Sidney
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say this was a free country in a speacharification, last
fourth o' July. I 's a American coloured person.
Nat, being that he's born in Guinney, is a African
nigger. Nat was hit all aback, I tell you. He tried
to laugh, an' chawed and hawed right out. Colonel
Bentley was a standing all this time right by the side,
neither of us observed or diskivered him, till he stepped
right out and laughed, so I thought Nat would
ha' turned white with shame.”
“What did Colonel Bentley say?” asked Bobby.
“When he had done a laughing at Nat, he put his
hand in his pocket and give me a half-dollar. He said
I was a magician in argufication.”
“Did'nt he give Nat any thing?” asked Bobby,
archly.
“Yes,” replied Pompey, “he give him a half-dollar
too, for sticking up for his country—a pretty
country to stick up for—that's what the Colonel said
he give it for; but sticking up for one's country, Mr.
Bobby, aint argufication.”
“Indeed, Pompey,” said Bobby, “I must leave you,
I'll be back again; but I must go up to the house and
ask Miss Fanny if she will want Cousin Peggy.”
“Mister Bobby, before you go, just oblige old Pompey
so much as to get him a drink of the whisky.
As I have not been husking much, Sambo might want
to say no to me; an' I don't want to object myself
to insults from any African nigger.”
“Yes, I'll get it for you,” replied Bobby. “Keep
Towzer there—Towzer! stay back, sir.” The dog
which had arisen now lay down again; and Pompey,
as Bobby went to obtain the liquor, said, patting the
dog:
“Keep still, Towzer; I like you, old pup—I like Mister
Bobby, too—he good to Pompey, accommodating—
Pompey good to him. I should ha' catched a awful
scorching in the woods thare from that varmint
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Thompson, if it had'nt been for Mister Bobby. He
would ha' shot him to a certainty, if he had put the
weight of that stick on Pompey. I never could diskiver
or observe how any one so small as Mister
Bobby could have so much spunk in him. Ah! there
comes Master Bobby; hang that horse, I wish he had
been racing in Nat Ramsey's country afore he had
throwed Mister Bobby.”
“Here, Pompey,” said Bobby, advancing to the negro,
and handing him a tin cup, “here's the stuff.”
“Won't you take some first, Mr. Bobby?”
“No, Pompey, Cousin Peggy will find it out if I do,
and Granny will talk all day about it—I can't, neither;
I'm weakly, and can't stand it. Come, Towzer.”
And Bobby whistled to his dog, stood for a moment
listening to the song of the huskers, and then hastened
to the house after the party, to deliver the message of
his Cousin Peggy.
CHAPTER IX.
Bobby soon reached the house. It was a comfortable
two story brick building. Its best room was on
the ground-floor. The windows of this room opened
three feet or more above the grassy yard, in which,
on this side of the house, there were many cedar trees.
Clinging around and above the windows was a wild
vine, which Miss Grattan had taught to spread its
graceful tendrils about them. Seeing the light from
the windows, and hearing the voices, Bobby walked
up to it. The centre and lower pane happened to be
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broken; and the lad leaned his arms on the sill of
the window and looked in, while Towzer stretched
himself at his feet. A curtain spread its folds on
either side of the window, and partly obstructed an
observation of the room from the point where Bobby
stood through every pane except the broken one,
which being in the centre was not hidden at all by the
drapery. There was still an obstacle in the way of
Bobby's vision, and that was the wig-covered head
of Mr. Bronson, which was within a foot of the
broken glass, and towered up nearly to the top of it.
Bobby could only catch glimpses of the room on
either side of Mr. Bronson's head, and an imperfect
view over it. While Bobby stood there Colonel
Bentley observed him. A sudden thought seemed to
strike the colonel. He arose from the side of Miss
Fitzhurst, by whom he had been sitting, passed out,
and walking round to the side of the house, touched
Bobby on the shoulder. The boy turned round, when
the colonel stepped aside from the window under the
shade of the trees, and beckoned Bobby to him.
“Bobby, I want you to do something for me.”
“What's that, colonel? I expect I can do it.”
“Wait till I return into the house and then stretch
your hand into the window and pull that fellow's wig
off—”
“Ha! ha! ha!”
“Hush; don't laugh so.”
“Colonel, I wanted to do it of myself, but I mus'nt—
Granny would never let me hear the last of it, and
it would displease Mr. Elwood.”
“Bobby, I know you don't like Bronson.”
“To be sure I don't, sir. Did'nt he call out to me
the other day in meeting. He said I made the noise
when it was Joe Giles, and he knew it. And you see
Granny's religious-like; and if she hears it she'll
pester me to death. I don't hide that I don't like
him.”
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“I don't like him either, Bobby.”
“Folks say so, sir. They say he's a courting over
at your house as well as here.”
“The devil they do. The plebeian rescal—he
never was there but on business in his life. I tell you
what it is; if you will do it I'll give you that beautiful
little fowling-piece, with the powder horn and
shot bag complete.”
“Will you, indeed, colonel?”
“I will, upon my honor.”
“Then hang me if I don't do it,” said Bobby.
“Mind, colonel, the gun, powder horn, and shot bag
complete.”
“Yes; and plenty of powder and shot into the bargain.”
“I'll do it, sir. When shall I have the things?”
asked Bobby, as the colonel was leaving him to enter
the house.
“To-morrow morning early, if you come for them.
Wait until I get into the house before you do it.”
As the colonel walked away, Bobby turned and beheld
a cat with its back bent up in a belligerent attitude
towards Towzer. A sudden thought struck
Bobby, by which he believed he could save himself
from the risk of discovery. He felt that the cat in
her fear of the dog would, if held to the window,
having first been held to her foe, make an effort to
escape into the room, which doubtless was familiar
to her, and where her instinct told her she would be
in security. And he knew that by giving her tail a
pinch and pull at the instant it would mingle fury with
her fear.
In the mean time Colonel Bentley re-entered the
room, and, as he resumed his seat by Fanny, he asked:
“Did you really, Miss Fitzhurst, mean what you
said, when you remarked the other day that you
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considered there was no impropriety in wearing false
hair.”
“I do really think so, colonel,” replied Fanny, in a
satirical tone. “Pray what suggested this profoundly
interesting question to you.”
“Mr. Bronson there, Miss Fanny, has some pretentions
to pretty, as I am told; and as I differ with
you in opinion, suppose you take my arm, and we step
up to him and ask him the question?”
“Colonel, you are pleased to be facetious! I never
ask Mr. Bronson any questions, sir, but the price of
his ribbons.”
“Well, Miss Fitzhurst, as you won't ask him, I
must do so myself. Do listen to his answers, and observe
him.”
Accordingly, the colonel advanced to Bronson
where he sat by the window, beside Miss Grattan,
who was listening to the conversation of Mr. Pinckney,
who was seated on the other side, and said:
“Mr. Bronson, I have had a dispute with a lady,
sir, which, as you are the oldest man in the company
(Bronson looked grave at this, but endeavoured to look
honoured), and the most rigid in your morals, I have
determined to leave to you—”
“What's that, Colonel Bentley? asked Bronson,
putting on an amiable look.”
“Do you think, sir, it is proper to wear false hair?
a wig for instance.”
“Colonel, sir—I—do I—”
At this instant the angry growl of a cat was heard
at the window; the next moment, looking as furious
as an enraged wild one, it sprang on Bronson's head,
and fixed its claws deep into his wig.
With a cry of horror Bronson started to his feet, and
dashed the cat from her perch. The animal fell to the
floor, but bore the wig with it; and, furious with the pain
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which the blow and fall had inflicted, she tore and bit
it at a desperate rate.
The ladies ran to the gentlemen for protection,
while Bronson, for a moment, stood speechless and motionless
like Hamlet, the Dane, when he sees the ghost
of his father. Recovering himself, he caught up the
the chair on which he had been seated, and made at
the cat.
“Hiss, cat!” ejaculated the colonel. The affrighted
animal at this darted into the passage, the door of
which chanced to be open, leaving the tattered wig
beyond a barber's art.
“Really, sir,” said Colonel Bentley to Bronson, “I
should not have been surprised if your hair had stood
on end at the sinfulness of my question, but I had no
idea that it would run away with affright.”
Amidst the confusion, and forgetting his Cousin
Peggy's request, Bobby hurried away to mingle with
the huskers, and escape suspicion if any should arise
as to whether the cat had any instigator to its misdeeds.
Bobby had some fears, for Towzer had
barked fiercely when he heard the din within. He
found Pompey where he had left him, seated snug
against the tree, and a little elevated by the drink
which he had obtained for him. The huskers were
engaged might and main. They had nearly gotten
through with their labour, and it was very doubtful
which side would gain the victory, for their respective
piles, though very much reduced, were about the
same size. A large pile of loose and rustling husks
had accumulated behind the workmen, while some ten
feet before them the husked corn, thrown into a heap,
glittered in the moon-beam. Nat, in the intensity with
which he worked, had ceased his song; silence prevailed,
except now and then when some enthusiastic
negro would send forth a shout that started the echoes
around. The negroes of each party glanced at the
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[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
pile of their opponents, and in intense and low tones
exhorted their comrades to “go ahead.” Each party
seemed fearful that the other might discover the exertions
they were making. It was an interesting scene.
“They'll soon be done, Mister Bobby,” said Pompey,
“You diskiver and observe they're going their death:
it'll be about a tye. I don't take much interest in it.
But I want to wait and get a bit of something to eat,
and may be I'll give 'em a touch on my violeen.
Some body has hid Nat Ramsey's away,—the nigger
was jumping about here just after you went, axing
every body if they had seed his “fiddle.” He call
his violeen a fiddle. It's just so with vulgar persons.
He hates it, so he stopped his pipes. I never liked
his singing no how. He thinks he can play the violeene.
But he don't even understand how to hold it.
He jams it up way down below his shoulder. Now
that's not the way to hold a violeene. You must
hold it light an' easy, and just rest it agin the shoulder.
And another thing, master Bobby, them are niggers
what works in the cornfield you know, and does every
thing about the farm, they are a kind of stiff in the jints,
they aint got the touch in the eend of their fingers to
make a violeene speak. And as for Nat's singing; I
assure you, Master Bobby, that I has heard a wite
gentleman in the circus beat that very Nat Ramsay
all hollow at one of his own nigger songs.”
“Who is that?” asked Bobby.
“Why, Mister Bobby, its Mr. Rice,—Mister Jim
Rice.”
“I heard Jack Gordon speak of him,” said Bobby,
“an' I must go and hear him some of these nights
when we stay in town.”
“Yes, I assure you, Mister Bobby, he can do it.
When he comed out he was blacked all over, and I
would ha' sworn that he was a real African nigger.
He had them same kind of legs, an' his leg seemed
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right in the middle of his foot.” Here a loud, prolonged
shout disturbed the further conversation of our
worthies.
“Hurra, for our side!” shouted Nat Ramsay; and,
notwithstanding the condition of his foot, he threw
himself in the cornhusks and rolled about in delight,
throwing them over him as a frolic swimmer would
sport with the waves.
“Look here,” exclaimed one of the opposite party,
a black, named Cæsar, belonging to Mr. Elwood,
kicking the husks aside where Nat had worked, “see
how they've shyed and chiseled—I axe you if dem ar
husks haint got corn in 'em.”
Nat jumped up, and, throwing aside the husks of the
other party, he picked up several ears of corn with the
husks on them.
“Look a here now,—I wonder if them are aint got
corn in 'em too. You don't think niggers is as cute
as coons, do ye, to find ebery single corn. There's
some o' your side husking yet—dar a heap afore em
as big as a barrel.”
This part, plain to every eye, decided the victory.
“The Lord ha' mercy,” exclaimed Nat, going to
the tree where he had deposited his fiddle; “did any
body ever see the like of the niggers about here,”—
come help me look for it, boys—it's smashed I speck,
or stole.”
While some of Nat's friends were assisting him to
search for his fiddle, Pompey was called on for a
tune. The husks were cleared away from the place
where Pompey sat preparatory to a dance. The old
fellow brought forth his violin with great dignity,
arose, and placed his back against the tree with his
hat off, and removing the husks from his foot so that
he might keep time with it, he gave them the juba
song in great style.
When Bobby saw Pompey fairly underway he went
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to the spot where Nat was looking for his fiddle.
After affecting to assist him in the search for a few
minutes, Bobby looked up into the crotch of a tree, a
foot or two above his head, and pointing to an object,
he asked Nat if that was not his fiddle.
“Master Bobby, you're right—the very cretur,” said
Nat, taking the instrument from the place; “concarn
it, who could put it thar?”
“Cæsar,” said Bobby to that person; “tell Pompey
that I had to go home.” I musn't stay for him, said he
to himself, but I must get up early and go for the gun.
Bobby congratulated himself as he proceeded on
the successful issue of the trick. He stopped short;
and, placing his hands upon his knees, laughed aloud at
the idea of the ridiculous figure which the baldpate
of Bronson cut, of which, ere he retreated, he had
suffered himself to snatch a glance. As Bobby jogged
on he looked round through the woods, and thought
to himself what gunning he should have therein, and
with such a gun—the very best one he had ever
seen.
Bobby was interrupted in his pleasant reveries by
the quick tramp of horses, which he thought from the
sound must be descending a precipitous bridle-path
which led to the hills. Bobby listened, and looked, and
in a few moments distinguished two horsemen entering
the road on which he trod. The road, an old county
one, led round the hills by the property of Mr. Fitzhurst
and Elwood to a mill, which some years before
the date of our narrative had been burnt down by the
carelessness of the miller. Since this event the road
was of no use to any one, but Mr. Fitzhurst and Elwood,
in the transportation of their wood or grain from distant
parts of their property.
Bobby wondered who the horsemen could be, and
what they were after. As they approached him they
seemed in anxious conversation, and Bobby, without
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any fear, but with the desire of observing them unnoticed,
withdrew to the shadow of the wood at the very
point that Mr. Fitzhurst's lane, which passed through
his estate, let into the old road.
“You think its all right, then,” Bobby heard one of
the horsemen say, as they neared the spot.
“Yes, I'm up;” replied the other, whom Bobby
recognised both by voice and person as being Jack
Gordon. “You ride on to the village in that way,”
continued Gordon, “and I'll cut through this lane.
We'd better not be seen together,—I know the folks
all about here, and can take liberties. And I've got
other reasons two that I'll tell you of some day; don't
be so fast.” They had slackened the pace of their
steeds as they drew near the mouth of Fitzhurst's
lane, and this enabled Bobby to hear so much of what
was said. At the last remark of Gordon they stopped,
and he asked:
“Do you think that husking match is over yet?”
“I should say not,” replied Gordon's companion;
who wore his hat very much over his face, which
prevented the lad from observing his features.
“Then I'll push ahead,” replied Gordon, “and meet
you at the village to-morrow—keep dark.”
“Never fear me,” replied the other person. So
saying, they put spurs to their horses, and parted
company: Gordon entering the lane, and the other
pursuing the road.
“Gordon's at some devilment,” said Bobby to
himself, as he stepped into the lane again. “There
now, I forgot to tell him what Cousin Peggy said.
Jack Gordon wont bear watching. I've forgot twice
to-night what Cousin Peggy told me. I wonder what
he's after.”
When Bobby passed by Mr. Fitzhurst's mansion
it was wrapped in profound repose. As he approached
his home, the sound of a horse's tread broke
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suddenly on his ear, as if it had just started from
some point or other. In a musing mood, he quietly
entered the back door of his grandmother's humble
dwelling, and stole to bed.
CHAPTER X.
Bobby was up with day-dawn in the morning on
his way to Colonel Bentley's, which was perhaps a
mile or more from his granny's, for the purpose of
closing the fulfilment of the promise made him on the
previous evening.
The colonel had not yet arisen when Bobby
reached his residence. On learning the fact, the boy
sat down very impatiently by the front door, determined
not to leave until he had received the “gun,
powder-horn, and shot-bag complete.”
At last Colonel Bentley, having been informed by
a servant that Bobby was at the door, made his
appearance, bearing in his hand the gun and its
appendages.
“Good morning, Bobby,” quoth the colonel.
“Good morning, colonel,” rejoined Bobby, eyeing
the gun.
“Bob, you certainly managed adroitly last evening,
ha, ha. I wonder if Bronson has another wig?”
“I don't know indeed, colonel. Did the cat use
that one up?”
“Pretty much so, Bobby. Here Bobby,” handing
him the gun, &c., “you must never mention this
affair.”
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“Me mention it! It was the very thing I was
going to ask you, colonel. If it gets out they'll be
for playing the deuce with me. But aint this gun a
peeler. Thank you, colonel, I must go home,” said
Bobby, as he arose to depart.
“Take care of yourself, Bobby.”
“Ay, aye, sir,” said the delighted lad, as he proceeded
homeward. If ever since his misfortune
Bobby dwelt upon his shadow with complacency, it
was now as he beheld it elongated by the morning
sun, with all his brave equipments. As he marked his
shadow, almost stretching across the road, his egotism
mounted nearly as high as Richard's when, after
that worthy's successful suit with Lady Ann, he resolved
to buy a looking-glass. Bobby for once
thought with what pleasure he would stand plumply
before Jack Gordon's mirror, and take a good look,
at least, at the comeliness of the gun, powder-horn,
and shot-bag, when properly arranged on his person.
As it was yet quite early in the morning, Bobby
concluded that he would go on to Mr. Fitzhurst,
where he could deliver his message of the previous
evening, which he had forgotten; and learn from Miss
Rachellina if his cousin's services would be needed at
the mansion that day. Accordingly, he resolved to
pass by his grandmother's, which was situated between
Miss Bentley's and Mr. Fitzhurst's, if when he got there
he found the family were not up. He had scarcely
formed this resolution, while he still gazed at the shadow
of his gun, when a well-known voice addressed
him:
“Bobby, where did you get that gun? Aint you
ashamed, you; to leave the door open this morning on
your poor old granny?—aint you a pretty boy?”
“Cousin Peggy, indeed I shut the door after me—
I ask you, what do you always call me boy for? aint
-- 080 --
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I seventeen come next May? I don't suppose I am
always to be a boy?”
“Always to be a boy!” rejoined Peggy, repeating
his language and laughing; “shall I call you a man
then—I was seventeen a year ago, and I believe I am
a girl, Mr. Man! Your thinking about your shadow,
Bobby—that I caught you looking at, though you
don't like Jack Gordon's looking-glass.”
“If a girl is a woman at seventeen, and folks say
she is, I want to know why a boy aint a man. I hope,
Cousin Peggy, you are not making game, 'cause I'm
stunted.”
“No, Bobby, I am not—that's your misfortune, not
your fault,” said Peggy, in a serious tone; “it would
be a sin if I did—I am sure I never thought the less
of you on that account, but where did you get that
gun?”
Bobby felt perfectly reconciled to his boyhood by
this remark; and, to the interrogation, he replied:—
“Isn't she a peeler? she's mounted with silver, and
has a gold touch-hole—that's to keep her from burning
out. Then here's a powder-horn and shot-bag, in
style. Cousin Peggy, the birds 'll have to look out, I
tell you—I'll shoot you and granny just as many as
you want. Do you see where the old road comes
in by the burnt house; now suppose that black thing
was a bird”—as Bobby spoke, he elevated his gun as
if to take aim at the object, which was within ten feet
of him; when, at the very instant, Mr. Bronson, well
mounted on his gelding, issued from the side of the
house into the road on which Peggy and her cousin
stood. He had his hat tied over his ears with a large
black, silk pocket-handkerchief, and was on his way
to the city to renew the lost honours of his brow.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Mr. Bronson, dodging his
head, and jerking his horse back, as he beheld the gun
pointed at him.
-- 081 --
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Bobby shouldered the gun, and said, “Good morning,
Mr. Bronson.”
“Bob—Robert Gammon, a little more, sir, and you
don't know what might have happened. Merciful
father! such a sudden death—such an unaccounted
for life! Are you aware, Robert Gammon, that it is
against the law to be firing on the highway?”
“Why, Mr. Bronson, I was only making believe
here to Cousin Peggy.”
“Ay, Peggy, my good girl, how do you do? how
is your grandmother?”
“Granny is still ailing, sir; but we hope she will be
better soon.”
“Let me tell you, Robert,” exclaimed Mr. Bronson,
turning to the boy, “you do very wrong to be trifling
with fire-arms. Have you forgotten Mr. Thompson's
business already? your grandmother told me, after
you had threatened my friend, Mr. Thompson's life,
that she would not suffer you to have a gun. I shudder
to think of the consequences if you had discharged
that instrument of death. The result would have been
the death of a peaceable, I may say, I hope, pious and
useful citizen, in the harmless pursuit of his vocation,
shot down on the public highway—Murder!” (Here
Bronson caught the eye of Bobby fixed keenly on him.)
“I don't say that you would have designedly shot me—
heaven forbid that any one should entertain any such
feeling against me. But you might have been hung,
nevertheless. Circumstances would have worn the
appearance of evil intention, very evil intention. Suppose
the evil one had caused you to fire at the very
moment I appeared—the evil one I say—would'nt that
have been murder? And that, I take it, is what the
lawyer's call being moved by the instigation of the
devil.”
“If the old boy had instigated, as you call it,” said
Bobby, with a cunning smile, “I couldn't ha' done
-- 082 --
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any harm,—this gun is like some people's heads, Mr.
Bronson.”
“Robert Gammon, what do you mean by that,”
said Bronson, with a menacing look.
“Cause she empty, Mr. Bronson,” replied the lad,
with a simple smile.
“Robert, I do not know what to make of you,”
said Bronson, endeavouring to hide his indignation
under the cloak of pity. Before you were thrown
from Mr. Fitzhurst's racer, you were comparatively
a steady, sober, sedate lad,—I never had any fault
to find with you, but that you were fond of the improper
and carnal gatherings of horseraces, but in that
you had the example of your betters, and you got
your bread by it. But, poor child, since your fall, I
agree with my friend Doctor McVittee, who is of
the opinion that the contusion on your head and
shoulders has caused an aberration of mind.”
“What do you mean by that, sir; Mr. Bronson?”
inquired Bobby.
“Poor lad; Robert, Robert, you are very ignorant.
Why, in the name of mercy, in consideration of your
welfare here and hereafter does not your grandmother
compel you to go to school. Peggy, my good girl,
why don't you prevail on your grandmother and use
your influence with this misguided lad to make him
go to school.”
“He's agoing, sir, in the winter. But, O! Mr. Bronson,
what's the matter with your head?”
“An accident, Peggy, my good girl; an accident.”
“What does that word mean, though, Mr. Bronson?
I want to know that.”
“Robert, indeed, you are very ignorant: how old
are you?”
“Seventeen, come next May, sir.”
“It means, Robert, that Dr. McVittee and myself
are of opinion, that since you were thrown
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
from Mr. Fitzhurst's horse—it is not your fault,
Robert, only inasmuch as you would ride races—it is
our opinion that since that unfortunate event for you,
that at times you are a little flighty.”
“Mr. Bronson,” said Bobby, in a tone of sympathy,
“I hope the cat what jumped on your head there, and
cut up so, didn't hurt you?”
“When did you hear that?” inquired Bronson, with
much confusion.
“Last night, at Mr. Elwood's husking, sir.”
“What did folks say about it, Robert?”
“They said it was a trying sight. Hangnation, but
I hope though that the cat didn't bite or scratch your
head; did it, Mr. Bronson?”
“Robert, do you mean to be impertinent.”
“Impertinent! I don't know what that means. Folks
say that if the cat did bite you it will be awful; she was
raving mad; she bit a dog that's agoing to have the
hydrophoby.”
“The hydrophobia,” exclaimed Bronson, horror-striken,
“impossible! Mercy! impossible!”
“Folks say so, sir,” rejoined Bobby; “but, Mr.
Bronson, did the varmit bite or scratch you?”
“Robert, my good boy, I fear so; I fear so—I did
not examine my head particularly this morning, but
I did think I did see a bite or a cratch there. It can't
be a bite; my God! it can't be a bite.”
“Are you sure it is only a scratch, Mr. Bronson?”
asked Bobby.
“Sure, sure, no I'm not sure; come here, my good
children—Peggy, my good girl, come here.”
Mr. Bronson, so speaking, dismounted, and with nervous
haste untied the handkerchief, and took off his
hat. He had another handkerchief tied close round
his head in the place of the wig, for he was very
careful of his health, and was fearful that he might
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
take cold. This he jerked off, and presenting his head
to the inspection of Peggy and Bobby, said:—
“See, my good children; see—are there any marks,
any scratches, any bites?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Bronson, there's one right on the tiptop
of your head,” said Bobby: and at the same instant,
unobserved, he contrived to hit the horse with
his gun. Bronson had dropped the bridle as he sprang
from the horse, and the animal on being striken by
Bobby, darted with a neigh round the corner of the
burnt house in full speed for his stable in the village.
“My horse; my head!” ejaculated Bronson; “catch
him; catch him.”
“He's too quick for me, sir,” said Bobby; “he's
off, as hard as he can go it.”
“What shall I do, what shall I do?” exclaimed
Bronson, trying to feel the affected part with his finger;
“look, Peggy, my good girl, is it very bad!”
The bewilderment of Peggy at the whole scene
had prevented her usual loquacity. Now directly appealed
to, she examined Bronson's head particularly,
and could not but observe quite a large scratch across
his crown.
“Yes, sir; it is some hurt,” said Peggy.
“Mercy, is it a bite or a scratch?” eagerly enquired
Mr. Bronson.
“Indeed, sir, I can't tell,” said Peggy; “but it
looks to me like a scratch—it is long across the
head.”
“I hope it is not, but it may be a bite,” said Bobby.
“Yes, it may be, it may be,” exclaimed Bronson,
clasping his hands together; “I may go mad; the
creature was certainly furious, rabid, mad, herself; and
I may go mad.”
At this Peggy started from Bronson's side, and got
some feet from him, when she stood staring at him in
evident alarm.
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
“If I was you, Mr. Bronson,” said Bobby, “as
you know Doctor McVitte knows everything, I would
go right off to Springdale and ask him.”
“But my horse is gone,” said Bronson, wofully;
“it will take me so long to get there; come, go with
me—I may go mad on the road.”
“Then I'd best not go with you, sir,” said Bobby;
“cause you know, Mr. Bronson, if you should go mad
on the road, you'd be for jumping right at me to bite
me, and then I'd have to shoot you down to save myself—
I must load my gun.”
“Wait, wait,” exclaimed Bronson, springing up,
“wait till I'm off;” and, so speaking, he darted round
the burnt house, and made with all speed for Springdale.
“Bobby, what does this mean?” asked Peggy, in a
moment.
Bobby was too busily engaged in loading his gun
to reply. As soon as he had done so, he discharged
it upon the track of the flying Bronson, and said:
“That 'll quicken his speed. Hangnation, if he
was to go mad I'd much rather shoot him down than
I would the poor cat.”
Then the ridiculous figure Bronson cut occurred
to Bobby, and he threw himself on the side of the
road, clapped his hands, struck his heels together, and
shouted with laughter.
“Bobby—Robert Gammon,” exclaimed Peggy, angrily,
“what does all this mean?—a second time I ask,
won't you tell me?”
Bobby arose to his feet and told his cousin all that
had occurred, except his own agency in the matter.
“My stars,” said Peggy; “you say, Bobby, that a
mad cat jumped right through the window on to Mr.
Bronson's head, bit and scratched him, tore his wig
off, and tore it up.”
“May be she might a' eat it,” said Bobby, “for
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
what I knows. It would be just like such a wild
varmint if she was to—”
“What become of the cat, Bobby?”
“I don't know, Cousin Peggy.—Folks say that she
hissed an' spluttered, and snarled about the room like
mad; and for a good reason, she was raving mad.”
“An' the thing bit his head.”
“You saw it, Cousin Peggy.”
“Yes, yes; I did so.—It looked like a scratch; but
a scratch, Bobby, may be just as bad as a bite. And
if Mr. Bronson don't go right off hydrophoby crazy
now, yet he may some time or other. Joe James
didn't go mad, it was said, till more than a year after
he was bitten by squire Norris's dog. Some people
thought it was drink that made him carry on so; but
the best judging thought it was the bite. I know one
thing.”
“What's that, Cousin Peggy?”
“Why, I wonder how Miss Gratton ever could 've
thought in the first place of having such a looking
man as Bronson.”
“Looks is nothing, Cousin Peggy,” said Bobby,
quickly.
“Well, he's not only an ill-favored man, but he is
an ill-grained man, I believe, in spite of his church-going;
and then he's old enough to be Miss Gratton's
father, and she's such a sweet young lady. As I was
saying, I don't see how she could ever have thought
of having him, but if she has—if she has made up her
mind, if I was in her place I would change it,—I
couldn't be made to have him—only to think, Bobby,
who can tell at what time he may go mad—it may
come on him like the thief in the night, in the very
night he's married, and he might bite his poor young
wife to death before any one could get to her. No,
if I was Miss Gratton I wouldn't stand it.”
“What's one man's meat is another man's poison,”
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
said Bobby, “there'll be another wig to make, that's
certain, if he lives,—I hope he won't go mad for he's
not worth the powder that would blow his brains out.
He speaks against everybody—I reckon I understand
his big words better an' he thinks I do. He runs
down everybody, Cousin Peggy,—I want to know
did you see Jack Gordon last night?”
“Did you see him, Mr. Bobby?” said Peggy, with
some confusion, but with the effort to look archly.
“Yes, I did see him.”
“You did, Robert Gammon?” Bobby nodded his
head solemnly. “Then why didn't you tell him to
come and take his glass away. That's a pretty way
to do what I ask you.”
“How did you know I did'nt tell him?”
Peggy made no reply, but hummed carelessly the
words of the Scotch song:
“Come up the back stair when you're coming to see,
But come as you were na' coming to me.”
The words of the song irritated Bobby, for he said,
“Cousin Peggy, if folks come as they was'nt coming
to see me, I'd tell 'em to talk as if they war'nt talking
about me.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Peggy, with
alarmed curiosity.
“I said to myself that I would'nt tell you, but I
will. The last time I was at Springdale there was
Jack Gordon, Joe Hitt, and the Miller, afore Mr.
Bronson's door, and all a little corned. They got to
cutting at me because I always walk by your side
to church; and Jack Gordon asked me if I did it to
keep the dogs off. I told him I was not big enough to
keep the dogs off; but that I was too much for a
puppy. At this he got right red in the face, and the
other fellers laughed at him. Then he asked me if
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
I had ever kissed you. Well I hav'nt kissed you since
I was so high, though I am your born cousin; but I
told him that if I had he hadn't. He laughed outright
such an infernal laugh, and said I had better keep
beside you. An' I think so, too.”
“What do you mean, Robert Gammon?” said
Peggy, angrily.
“Cousin Peggy, so help me God, and that's what
they say in the court-house when they kiss the bible,
an' its perjury to break the oath, now I've got a gun,
so help me God, if them chaps get —”
“I thought,” exclaimed Peggy, “that that gun would
lead you into mischief; you've got to threatening
already.”
“If you had heard Jack Gordon?”
“He lies,” said Peggy, “he never kissed me; I
never scarcely shake hands with him. But you believed
him, you mean thing, you believed him; and
so you don't go with me to meeting and about, because
I'm your cousin, and for relationship, but to
keep a watch on me? That's it; go your ways,
Robert Gammon, go your ways; you can go your
gaite an' I'll go mine; I've done with you.” And
Peggy walked away from him, indignantly, and burst
into tears.
“Cousin Peggy, indeed,” exclaimed Bobby, advancing
to her, “I didn't;” but Peggy forbid him to
speak to her, and hastened away.
“Hangnation to Jack Gordon, the gun, and everything!”
said Bobby, as he threw himself beneath a
tree by the road side, and cast a regardless eye upon
his gun which he tossed carelessly from him.
-- 089 --
CHAPTER XI.
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
A few weeks after Howard Pinckney had arrived
at Holly, we find him alone in his room on a cloudy
autumnal day, when the wind moaned and sighed
through the branches of the trees, from which the
whirling leaves fell by thousands. Pinckney's feelings
seemed in unison with the day. Sidney Fitzhurst had
gone to town, whither Pinckney had declined accompanying
him, saying, “Excuse me, I'm not in the
vein.”
After Sidney left, Pinckney sat for a short time
conversing with Fanny, when seizing the first opportunity
to leave her without abruptness, he gracefully
withdrew and repaired to his chamber. He closed
the door, stirred the fire which he had requested should
be lighted, and paced his apartment like one who felt
restless and unhappy. One moment he would pause
before his window with folded arms, and look out upon
the hills on which the dark masses of cloud seemed to
rest; and the next, he would turn and bend his brow
to the floor, and with quickening footsteps tread it.
“While through the shadowy past,
Like a tomb-searcher, memory ran,
Lifting each shroud that time had cast
O'er buried hopes.”
At last he drew his large travelling trunk near the
fire and seated himself beside it. After opening it,
he took from it a small case or casket, which he unlocked
with a key that was suspended to his watch-chain.
The casket contained several rings of great
value, and a number of letters, most of them written
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
in a female hand, together with a miniature of a lovely
woman. The miniature was beautifully set in gold,
and in the back of it a lock of fine dark hair was inserted.
There was a singular expression in Pinckney's
countenance as his eye rested on it, a frown clouded
his brow, while a smile, that had a touch of sorrow,
played upon his lip.
“A fair, false face,” said he to himself, “and yet
how beautiful — thy power is departing, even the
memory of it grows dim. My heart is like the ocean
after a storm, a fearful storm; while the fragment of
my hopes are around me, a calm has come so deadly,
that those very hopes sleep in its bosom, as though
they wished not life—sought death. Yes! I could gaze
upon you now,” said he, looking upon the miniature,
“and feel as little emotion as your image feels beneath
my eye. But to no one, to man, nor to woman, will
I ever tell, or shall they ever know, all you have made
me suffer. The hell of passions—jealousy, love, pride,
hate—have all at once been at war within my heart,
have scathed it like the angry elements when they
meet in wrath and desolate the earth; but the blackness
and desolation that they leave may afterwards
produce a more abundant fertility—you have not seared
me to the quick, my gentle goddess. I have discovered
that my worship was idolatry; and when I reach the
true shrine my zeal shall be the more constant—yet
how she wrote, and in such language, beyond her sex's
custom.”
So speaking, he opened one of the letters and read
as follows:
“My dearest Howard:
“In the land of your birth, which is to be that
of my adoption—mine own becomes yours.
`East, West, alas! I care not whither,
So thou art safe—I'm with thee.'
In that land of yours the travellers hold there were
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
fountains of perennial flow, from which they might
drink and perpetuate their youth and comeliness.
Our hearts shall be unto our loves such a fountain;
and like the waters in the vale of Avoca, they shall
mingle into one.
“As you discovered my secret without my knowledge,
as Romeo discovered Juliet—I, like her, throw
off my maidenly reserve, and give utterance to the
language of my heart. Though descended from American
parents—but an Italian by birth—my native skies
have touched my heart with Italian influences and
feelings. To meet some one whom I could love, and
on whom with undoubting faith I could fling all the
wealth of my heart, has been the only dream to which
my imagination has been constant. And if, sometimes,
o'er the heaven of my hope a cloud arose, the
winged torch-bearer would flash the mists away and
reveal the star. O! Howard, Howard! your letters
speak such a strength of love, that while my heart
echoes it I feel my pen cannot express it. And yet
confess, do you not think less of me for attempting it—
is there not a feeling in your sex, which, while it
hoards a woman's love with a miser's care, yet experiences
a sensation of coldness towards her when she
tells it? While your sex tell their love with a prodigality
of language, and while they expect all devotedness
from ours, why is it that there is so much waywardness
mingled with it, for I maintain that your sex
are much more wayward and capricious—start not—
in love than mine own. When a woman gives her
love, she gives her all—her diffidence may have kept
it hidden in her heart for a while, but that very
secresy increases its powers like the restrained waters
of a torrent, which, when they break forth, can never
be rolled back again. Tell me, tell me, do you not
think less of me because I have spoken so plainly to
you—you are a Southerner, and while your blood is all
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
meridian, yet is it not, tell me, is it not sometimes capricious
in its currents, if not icy in its flow. I will believe
that you will never suffer it to become frozen
towards me; but am I as sure that it will never become
chilled?”
“Chilled!” exclaimed Pinckney with bitterness;
“yes it is chilled, and I would that it were frozen.”
“But,” said he, and he made the quotation from his
favourite, slowly, like one who is impressed with the
truth of every word. “I suppose the thinks
`The deepest stream that ever froze,
Can only o'er the surface close;
The living stream lies quick below,
And flow'st and cannot cease to flow.'
“But why should I read them. Often,” said he, as
he placed the letters and likeness in the casket, and
locked it within his trunk, “often have I determined to
destroy those memorials, as I have flattered myself I had
overcome my foolish passion. But what folly; the
very effort that I vainly make to destroy them, shows
that some of the old feeling survives. There let them
remain; yes, there they shall be until they are as indifferent
to my eyes as the commonest object in
nature, which I look on without being aware of it.”
Here the sound of Fanny's voice, as she sung and
accompanied herself on the piano, reached Pinckney's
ears. He pushed the trunk from him, arose, and with
scrupulous care adjusted his dress before the glass;
and after taking two or three turns up and down the
room, as if to compose his feelings, he repaired to her
presence.
As Pinckney entered the room, Fanny arose from
the piano, humming as she did so the words of the
song:
Its good to be off with the old love,
Before you are on with the new.
“Do you believe that, Mr. Pinckney?” she asked
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
gaily. The shadow of a moment passed over Pinckney's
brow, and then he answered as gaily.
“Had I experience, Miss Fitzhurst, I should probably
say with the poet. But I am no believer in love,
as I have told you, and therefore my advice would be
not to be on with any love at all. Love is the vitality
of a novel, the life of it; but to life itself, to the reality,
it is the simoon of the desert to the flower that springs
by the fountain; it withers up both fountain and
flower. There,” said he, changing his tone, and
seating himself beside her, “in so fair a presence have
I not spoken like a most skeptical cynic. But, Miss
Fitzhurst, maybe I have found the grapes sour.”
“I should really think so myself,” said Fanny,
“sometimes; did not brother and others give such
account of the smiles you have won.”
“And lost,” interrupted Pinckney; “say they
nothing of the smiles I have won and—lost.”
“No, not a word of what you have lost; as their
authority for what you had won was probably an
autobiographical account, the hiatus may be accounted
for.”
“You are severe, Miss Fitzhurst, this morning;
what has perplexed you? would not your curls obey
the schooling of your fingers or your maids? or
were you disappointed in getting your new bonnet
yesterday?”
“No, sir; neither of those awful calamities has
occurred. I have my hair this morning plain as a
Madonna's, not because of the merits of the morning,
but because it suited my whims. And as for new bonnets
I am condemned all this winter to the country, Mr.
Pinckney, and a new bonnet would be my aversion,
for it would put me in mind of town.”
“I am to be envied,” said Pinckney. “How many
of the gay gallants of the city would like to have the
pleasure of sharing your exile. Alas! there is this
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
great difference, however, that you sigh for town, while
you put me in raptures with the country. There
be those in town who could make you think, are
there, that the country was a paradise?”
“No, sir,” said Fanny, with perhaps a little frankness,
as though she were provoked at the levity of
Pinckney, “no, sir; there be no such person either in
town or country.”
Pinckney fixed his eye for a moment on the carpet,
and then, laughing, said: “I am like many an unfortunate
fellow who is envied for what I acknowledge
is most enviable; but for that may eventually make
him miserable.”
“You said that quite gallantly, Mr. Pinckney.
Like many a dramatic gentleman whom I have seen
upon the stage, who having been often applauded for
the fine way with which he uttered compliment by
rote, always does it with a consciousness—”
“That his fair listener deserves it,” said Pinckney,
continuing the sentence; “come, will you not play
for me.”
“Certainly, sir. And as you would have me believe
that you are the victim of unrequited love, O!
la”—
“You do me wrong, Miss Fitzhurst, I am as
heartless as the bamboo that grows up without a heart—
hollow.”
“There is many a true word spoken in jest. I
don't believe you are capable of love. You are a
male flirt and a flatterer. But, sir, hoping that some
day you may require by art, what you have not by
nature,—a heart, I will sing you a song on `Love.'
The words were written by a college chum of brother's,
so you may say of them what you please; but I'd
have you know, sir, that I set them to music myself.
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LOVE.
Love has a home in every heart,
A consecrated shrine,—
The natural and the schooled in art,
Both hail him as divine;
One greets him with a smile or nod,
The other as a household god.
Love has a home in every heart,
Yet there are some who love
As though it come but to depart,
To rest not, but to rove;
As bees that are for summer born,
Woo the rich flower and fly the thorn.
Love has a home in every heart,
And there are some who love
As though it formed of life a part,
And blessed them from above:
A dream, which when awake, they keep,
And yet they do not wake to weep.
Love has a home in Mary's heart,
'Twas Henry placed him there,
And taught him many a wily art,
And many a burning prayer:
Happy Love! who would not be
Nestling in that heart with thee.
Love has a home in Henry's heart,
'Twas Mary's eye and smile,
That struck him with the Parthian dart,
She trembling all the while;
Half fearless, and yet half afraid,
He whispered to the blushing maid.
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Love has a home in every heart,
And O! how happy they,
Who when they their deep trust impart
Throw not their love away,
But who receive for what they give
A love that bids their passion live.
CHAPTER XII.
“What a great admirer you are of Byron, Mr.
Pinckney,” said Fanny.
“Yes, Miss Fitzhurst, I love his poetry as much as
ever lady loved himself. Byron is as remarkable an
instance as can be quoted in proof of the fact that
circumstances hold a controling influence over, give
the hue and colour to talent, while they develop it.”
“How?” asked Fanny.
“In his early youth he was very poor; by the death
of his uncle he received his title and fortune, at a
time of life when so sudden a change of fortune would
be very apt to have an injurious effect on an unregulated
mind like his. He burst into tears, such was the
proud swelling of his heart, the first time he was called
Lord Byron. Such a susceptible and sensitive spirit
should have been most carefully watched and instructed.
How was he instructed? The mother was
more wayward even than the son; and, withal, the victim
of that vice that makes a man a brute, and a woman a
fiend. “Stop,” said Pinckney, “excuse me one moment;
I saw an article to day in the library, in a late
number of the Edinburgh Review, which is written
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with a force of language that is seldom surpassed—I
will get the Review.”
Pinckney left the room, and Fanny sat musing upon
his literary enthusiasm. He returned in a moment
and read as follows:
“The pretty fable by which the Duchess of Orleans
illustrated the character of her son, the regent, might
be with little change applied to Byron. All the
fairies save one had been bidden to his cradle. All
the gossips had been profuse in their gifts: one had
bestowed nobility, another genius, a third beauty; the
malignant elf, who had been uninvited, came last, and
unable to reverse what her sister had done for their
favourite, mixed up a curse with every blessing. The
young peer had great intellectual gifts, yet there was
an unsound part in his mind. He had naturally a
generous and tender heart, but his temper was wayward
and irritable. He had a head which statuaries loved
to copy, and a foot, the deformity of which the beggar
in the street remarked. But, capriciously as nature
had dealt with him, the relative to whom the
office of forming his character was assigned was
more capricious still. She passed from paroxysms of
rage to paroxysms of fondness; at one time stifled him
with caresses, at another insulting his deformity.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Fanny.
“All except where the Review says, that there
was an unsound part in Byron's mind; and it certainly
must have called forth all his penetration to
have discovered that. Byron had violent passions,
and they often eclipsed his judgment; but his letters,
and particularly his journal, show that the sagacity of
his observation was equal to the brilliancy of his
genius. His mother would fly in a passion, and
throw the shovel and tongs at him; at other times
she would run furiously out of the room, and as she
did so, he would exclaim, `exit Mrs. Byron in a
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rage.' To such a height did their natural misunderstanding
arise, and such was their mutual idea of each
other's temper, that after one of their quarrels, they
both have been know to slip round to the apothecaries
to inquire if the other had been there to purchase poison.
At school, Byron was not remarkable for anything
except for his fighting propensities and very superior
talents for declamation, which leave us no reason to
doubt that if he had devoted himself to oratory, Brougham
and Canning would have had a fearful rival—
in all human probability, a superior.”
“But, Mr. Pinckney,” interrupted Fanny, “did
not Byron make one or two speeches in the House of
Lords, but without remarkable success?”
“He did; but that does not prove that he would
not eventually have succeeded. Sheridan, who failed
himself in his first attempt, and who, one of the
best judges of character and talent, frequently advised
Byron to turn his attention to oratory; telling
him that he felt satisfied he would succeed if he did.
Oratory is the art of all others the most difficult to
excel in—with one or two exceptions almost every
great orator has failed in his first attempts. Byron
had all the qualifications to make an orator—voice,
manner, expression of countenance, depth of passion,
wit, sarcasm, sublimity, and he possessed a fearlessness
which would have given him full power in the
combat over all their intellectual weapons. In all
probability if he had not inherited a title, but had been
compelled to devote himself to a profession, he would
now have been the first statesman of the day, the
Chatham of the age.”
“Mr. Pinckney,” said Fanny, smiling at his enthusiasm,
and yet fascinated by the deep tones of his
voice and the intense lustre of his eye, “the world
would say that there is great speculation in that opinion.”
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Pinckney smiled in return, but continued, “Not so
much speculation as at first blush appears. Canning
was a devotee to literature. At the age of seventeen
he wrote many numbers of the Microcosm. He has
written a satire and fugitive pieces of poetry which
are beautiful. It was imperious poverty which
drove him into the arena of politics. He set out with
the determination of becoming prime minister of
Great Britain, and succeeded; but the wear and tare
of ambition laid him prematurely in the grave. If
we may conclude from Byron's superiority over Canning
in literature that he would have been as far his
superior in politics if he had devoted himself to them,
there could be no comparison between the two. But I
weary you.”
“No, no,” said Fanny, impatiently, “go on; unless,”
she added, in a sarcastic tone, “it has just occurred
to you that you are wasting your breath upon
a woman, and a very young one?”
Pinckney gazed on Fanny for a moment with an
eye of open admiration, ere he said, “Byron, Miss
Fitzhurst, we are told once stood before the glass and,
as he contemplated his pale features said, `I should like
to die of consumption.' `Why so?' asked a friend who
was by; `because,' he replied, `the women would say,
`poor Byron! how interesting he looks.”' A commonplace
man would call that affectation and folly, but
one who can appreciate such gorgeous dreams of
beauty as Byron personified—such creations as Zuleika,
Medora, Zelia—would say that it was the intense
passion of a poet for an abiding interest in gentle hearts.
A longing to have those interested in his fate who
suggested to his imagination such life devoted love—
and such matchless beauty.
“My own, Medora sure thy song is sad—
In Conrad's absence would'st thou have it glad?'
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“Therefore, before your fair self would he wish to be
vindicated. At school, as I have observed, Byron was
remarkable only for his fighting propensities, and his
powers of declamation. He was self-willed, obstinate
and wayward, but frank and generous. His friendships
were at least as lasting as his enmities. The
letters he received from his school-fellows he treasured
up—he delighted to read them in after years, and to
dwell upon the companions of his boyhood. He was
the champion of all the smaller boys, and would suffer
none of the larger ones to domineer over them. These
are high traits in a boy. His first love—his strongest
and his purest—loved another; and this unrequited
affection cost him many a pang. How coldly she
treated the unknown and fameless boy. She afterwards
repented, but alas! too late—her regrets came
like the monarch's gift to the dying pihlosopher. In
that, to me the best of his poems, how elegantly he
describes his feelings when he dreamed that Miss
Chaworth loved him not:
`As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had look'd
Upon it till it could not pass away:
He had no breath, no being, but in hers;—
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers,
Which colour'd all his objects: he had ceased
To live within himself—she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share.'
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“O! how beautiful,” exclaimed Fanny with enthusiasm,
“I have read the dream often, but I never
felt that passage so forcibly before.”
Pinckney bowed, and flattered by Fanny's evident
attention, he continued:
“Byron flew from love to seek fame, and published
his first poem, the “Hours of Idleness.” Fame at
first was as unkind as his mistress. The unmerciful
and unmanly critique of the Edinburgh Review on
them, bruised his feelings to the heart's core. He tells
us, himself, that on the evening he read the review he
drank three bottles of wine, but oblivion would not
come. He soon determined on a better course than
oblivion—he set to work, and wrote his satire of the
`English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' and damned
his foes to everlasting fame. He reminds me of
Curran, who said that he was always frightened to
death in the Court House until one day the judge insulted
him. `When sir,' said he, `I looked him steadily
in the eye and broke out upon him, and he has not
looked me in the eye since.' So it was with Byron,
he met the
`Lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall.'
And the lion roused him as gently as a sucking
dove. To a spirit so proud and haughty, and acutely
sensitive as Byron's, such a triumph as this must have
given moments of intense and burning exultation.
After the publication of “The English Bards and
Scotch Reviewers,” he repaired to the Continent, where
he travelled, and wrote the first cantos of Childe Harold,
and returned and published it. On its publication
the Edinburgh Review, who had said that Byron's
first poem was `fit for neither God nor man,' declared
that he was the first poet of the age. It but echoed
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public opinion throughout Great Britain. Thus, he
who had left England unnoticed, and almost unknown,
returned to be courted and eulogised more than any
other man in the kingdom. For him the daily press
teemed with approbation; for him the fete was given;
the proud courted him; the ambitious sought his applause.
For Lord Byron the brilliant hall was lighted;
for Lord Byron beauty wore her most winning
smiles, and put on all her fascinations—it was discovered
that he had the head and bust of an Apollo; his address,
too, was so insinuating, there was such blandness in
his smile—his very deformity was a grace, it made
him so interesting. What young man would not
have been guilty of indiscretions under such circumstances?
What old man's head would they not have
turned? Amidst all this, Byron met Miss Milbanke,
a beauty, a fortune, a favourite; one, too, who wrote
poetry and loved it; quite a blue, blue as the sky, but
without storm or cloud.
`Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers.'
“How interesting to be the town talk, and to reform
such a man. They were married; soon quarrelled
and separated. The fashion, then, like that from
abundant sleeves to no sleeves at all, changed completely.
It became the rage to abuse Byron. He
was called vain, conceited, haughty, overbearing,—
a perfect monster, with passions darker than the
darkest he had drawn. His deformity was pointed
at, in proof that he was the imp of the old one, with
the curse stamped upon him, like Cain's, by the hand
of Deity. All the hearts that might, or could, or
should, or would have been broken by him, now were
up in judgment against him; and many an old
dowager, and many a young duchess abused the
abominable Byron. Those who thought themselves
entitled to be the talk, but whom he had entirely
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eclipsed, now made at him. What a beautiful moral
spectacle! Lady Caroline Lamb published her celebrated
novel of “Glenarvon,” in which his character
was so darkly painted, and which it was said contained
many of his letters to her. But one of your
sex, I think he states, had boldness enough to be his
friend. In this state of things he left England to return
no more. The ban of ostracism was against
him; whether justly or unjustly, I shall not pretend
to determine. I mention all this to show how
greatly circumstances influenced the development of
his talent, as well as his morals. He had all that
ambition can aspire to—fame, fortune, friends, the
world's applause; he drained the burning bowl to the
dregs. Yet amidst it all, he could not be happy.
Look at his early life. Think of his temperament;
his sensibilities; his passions; his untutored youth;
his pride. His mother, had she been a mother to
him—his father was in the grave, but his memory
was a stain and a reproach. His first affections were
blighted. He plunged in revel, perhaps in crime, to
forget it. But think of the peasant poet's prayer,
who resembled the peer much:
`Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.'
And, in reflecting upon it, it will perhaps occur to us
that, from the difference of men's impulses arose the
justice of the text `judge not.' He published his
first poems—they were satirised—he retaliated. His
reputation came upon him so suddenly, that, as he
himself said, `he awoke one morning and found himself
famous.' He ran his brief career of splendid
misery; for unhappiness was at his heart even then.
He was banished by public opinion, without the public
knowing anything of the facts of the case in
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which they condemned him. Let me repeat you his
own language on the subject; I have it by rote, and
it is as eloquent a passage as any in his poetry. He
says: `I felt that if what was whispered, and muttered,
and murmured was true, I was unfit for England;
if false, England was unfit for me. I withdrew,
but this was not enough. In other countries,
in Switzerland, in the shadow of the Alps, and by
the blue depth of the lakes, I was pursued and
breathed upon by the same blight. I crossed the
mountains, but it was the same; so I went a little
farther, and settled myself by the waves of the Adriatic,
like the stag at bay, who betakes himself to the
waters.”'
“Indeed,” said Fanny, “that is eloquent.”
“Disgust, satiety, wounded pride, impaired health,
were his companions in exile. Then came forth the
dark strains of his muse; in which loathing and love,
sadonic laughter, heartfelt anguish, misery and pride,
were so strangely and so strongly blended. His soul
was a chaos of passion, and his poetry expressed his
soul. His was
`The settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore;
That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for peace before.”'
All at once, remembering the length of his talk,
Pinckney stopped abruptly, and in some confusion.
“Ah, Mr. Pinckney,” said Fanny, shaking her
head, “but he should `have looked beyond the tomb.'
O! you enthusiast, I did not think you were capable
of as much admiration of anything—of a man, not to
speak of a woman. Well, sir; you have treated me
like a rational being to-day!”
“Take my arm, Miss Fitzhurst, will you not? and
let us walk. And you believe I have impulses of
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admiration.” Fanny took his arm; and as she did so,
Pinckney continued, “If you had been anything of a
physiognomist, you must have discovered it before;
but no eyes are so blind as those that will not see.”
CHAPTER XIII.
As the season advanced Pinckney frequently visited
Miss Grattan, and frequently attended Fanny to Mr.
Elwood's; for between her and Miss Sarah there was
a much greater social intercourse than formerly.
Fanny began to understand Miss Grattan's character;
she perceived that there was a settled melancholy
preying upon her mind, which seemed to be increasing.
Yet it was evident that, while Miss Grattan's sensitiveness
appeared to be augmented to an almost nervous
degree, she loved Fanny's company more and more,
she would press her with almost weeping earnestness
not to leave her yet, when Fanny would rise to depart.
This was particularly the case when Mr.
Bronson was present. Fanny considered Bronson as
a low, vulgar, unfeeling man, and she could not be
made to believe, notwithstanding the reports she had
heard, that Miss Grattan could, under any circumstances,
possibly consider him as a suitor. She thought
that Bronson was the friend of Mr. Elwood, and that
Miss Grattan received him as such, and was possessed
of so shrinking a sensibility, that she knew not how
to reject attentions which were evidently revolting
to her.
One afternoon, while the girls were sitting together
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at Mr. Elwood's alone, Fanny interrupted the silence
of several minutes, by saying, with the abruptness of
one who cannot refrain from giving utterance to the
thought over which she has been brooding—
“Sarah, is it possible that what I hear is true; that
you and Mr. Bronson are engaged?”
Sarah clasped her hands together, as if startled by
an electric shock, fixed her eyes vacantly on the wall
for a moment, and then turning them imploringly on
Fanny, burst into tears.
Fanny was shocked at the effect which her hasty
question had produced. After a moment of amazement
she said, taking the hand of Sarah,
“My dear Sarah, you must forgive me; indeed, I
would not have wounded your feelings for the world;
I am prejudiced against Mr. Bronson.”
“Oh! no, no; I know you would not wish to wound
my feelings. It's not prejudice; but what shall I do?
I owe my uncle everything; what shall I do? what
can I do if he wishes it?”
“But, Sarah, I can't think that he does wish it.
You are mistaken, if you do not like Mr. Bronson;
your uncle would not certainly have you make a
sacrifice of your feelings.”
“But, Miss Fitzhurst, uncle does not think that
there is much feeling on such subjects.”
“You do him injustice.”
“No, no, no; but no matter, no matter.”
“I am sorry, indeed I am, that I should have spoken
so unguardedly,” said Fanny; “but, Sarah, you must
not consider me other than as a friend.”
“A friend; I want a friend. Oh! I have so wished
that I could find some one to whom I could unbosom
myself. Indeed, Fanny, when I first saw you I thought
I should be so happy if I could only find a friend in
you, one to whom I might say what I thought, and
who would feel for me. Will you listen to me.”
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“Listen to you, yes, Sarah; but be comforted. I
don't see why you should be so cast down.”
“Fanny, Miss Fitzhurst, my character and situation
have been entirely different from that of most
girls. I am an orphan; I lost my parents when I was
so young that I do not even faintly remember them.
On their death my uncle brought me to the country,
where I was nursed by Aunty Agnes, you know her,
she watched over my infancy. As I grew up I saw
no company at all but those who came to visit my
uncle. I am entirely ignorant of the formalities of
fashionable society, and I have suffered more on that
account than I could possibly tell you; I have had
no one to talk with; to exchange thoughts with. I
brooded over my thoughts and feelings in my own
mind until I hardly know what I thought or felt
myself. What I had seen and heard, and known,
seemed mingled in a confused mass in my memory,
and from the want of companionship, and maybe the
bias of my character, I grew into a dread of the
very society that I panted so much for, which I felt
to be a want. I don't know how it was, but an indefinable
dread of something that was to happen to me,
hung over me like a cloud. I could not escape the
idea—it followed me like a shadow; I had no mother
to watch over me, to advise me, to tell me of things
of the world, of all around me. If I could write down
all the strange and awful feelings I have had, it
would fill a volume; but my life is without an incident.
But I was saying, just from this loneliness
and want of communion with some one of my own
sex whom I could look up to, this dread grew over
me. Indeed, I became so superstitious that a thousand
things disturb me that I know should not—which
have no reason in them; but it seems a kind of fatality
that they should perplex me. But I've nothing to say—
what should—what have I to tell you—yes. Well,
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Mr. Bronson has been visiting my uncles for years
past, and some months since he addressed me. I was
startled; I had no idea he thought of such a thing. He
said I had given him encouragement, he spoke to my
uncle the other day. He—my uncle—had often hinted
to me his wishes with regard to Mr. Bronson, but
lately he has spoken them out directly—indeed, Miss
Fitzhurst, almost like a command. He says, but don't
mention it for the world—that there is a necessity that
I should marry—should marry Mr. Bronson.”
“What necessity can there be for such a step,
Sarah?” asked Fanny.
“Indeed I cannot tell, but my uncle says that there
is a stern necessity; my God, it is a necessity to me,
indeed.”
“And you, Sarah—”
“I have asked for time, for time to think; but I
should not have told you this, should I—was it not wrong?
Certainly if I can please my uncle, should I not do
it?”
“No, you should not do it at the sacrifice of your
happiness; certainly not. Marry that Bronson—why
I see, Sarah, that you do not love him—that you cannot
bear him. I would'nt—father, aunt, and brother,
all combined, could not induce me to marry such a
man.”
“Don't speak so, Fanny—Miss Fitzhurst, it tortures
me. I cannot tell you all now, but—”
The further conversation of the ladies was interrupted
by the entrance of Mr. Elwood. He was
much more kind to his niece than usual, and seemed
anxious to keep her in good spirits. Fanny exerted
herself for the same purpose. In the evening her
brother called with the carriage to take her home,
and on the way Fanny could not resist telling him
what Sarah had told her. Sidney was very much
surprised. As soon as Fanny arrived at home, she
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hurried to her aunt's room, and after enjoining secrecy
on her, as she had on her brother, narrated to
Miss Rachellina, with feelings of tearful sympathy
for Sarah, and of deep detestation for Bronson, and
of condemnation of Mr. Elwood, every word that Sarah
had uttered. Fanny's heart was full of various
emotions; for after this she gave her aunt an account
of the loss of Bronson's wig, to which Miss Rachellina
listened with most portentous solemnity, and
Fanny recurred to poor Sarah again, and burst into
a flood of tears.
“I declare, my niece,” said Miss Rachellina, “you
are quite hysterical; you act worse than if you had
been reading a novel.”
“This is worse than a novel, my dear aunt—it is a
reality.”
“It is shocking, certainly, my niece; but I cannot
think that Mr. Elwood would wish to force his niece
into a marriage connection against her will with such
a man; though, for my part, I can see not the least
harm in the mere circumstance of his wearing false
hair, nor why you should laugh one moment and
cry the next, in such a childish manner. It is decidedly
unbecoming of you as Miss Frances Fitzhurst.
There, you have your bonnet on. You come rushing
into my room, my niece, as nervous as if the house
was on fire. See, you have spoilt that new satin ribbon
on your bonnet with your tears. Upon my word
and honor you wiped your eyes with it. Now, Fanny,
that is acting without the least reflection—a child,
Fanny, a child would have done just so. I don't blame
you, niece, for having your sympathies awakened for
Miss Grattan. Mr. Bronson is certainly a very common,
vulgar spoken person, and not fit even to be the
waiter of a lady of refinement and delicacy, both of
which qualities Miss Grattan, considering her advantages
and education, eminently possesses. Indeed, I
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have wondered, repeatedly, why Miss Bentley receives
him as she does; but she must be polite to him, as he
transacts her business for her. Still, there is reason
in all things. But, niece, I wish to impress upon you,
that you should on no occasion loose your self-control.
It is unbecoming in a lady, and it often leads
her into a great many misdeeds.”
“My dear aunt,” exclaimed Fanny, rather pettishly,
“by the time I have learned to control all my feelings
I shall have lost them all.”
“No, niece, that is speaking irreverently,” said
Miss Rachellina, fondly; “I hope I have all the
warmth of my early feelings; I am sure my young
days have not been gone so long that I should not
have them—but I pride myself on my self-control.
No woman can be a perfect and finished lady, I
assure you, niece, who has it not. I have had to
school myself to acquire it, I don't deny. All that I
wish is to impress upon you the necessity of doing so,
too. You have no idea in what a flurry you entered
my chamber! Your bonnet-strings were all flying
loose. I suppose you had not tied them at all. The
collar of your cloak—your new cloak—was all rumpled
in; enough to put it out of set for ever; and
your side hair was all uncurled and draggling on
your cheek. My child, I would not wound your
feelings unnecessarily, but you looked frightful. Suppose
I had been in the parlour, and I might just as
likely as not have been there, and suppose Mr. Pinckney
had been sitting with me; you would, I suppose,
have bounced right in to tell me this, looking as you
do. Indeed, if you had, I should have wished the
floor to open and swallow me up. I can assure you,
niece, I have known engagements broken off by gentlemen,
yes, by gentlemen, on discovering the lady's
extreme want of personal neatness. There is no excuse
for the want of it in a lady. I say, decidedly,
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no excuse whatever. Let me beg of you, never to
make your appearance anywhere—not even in my
room, looking so dowdy, when you have pretended
to dress yourself. I tremble to think if I had been
in the parlour with Mr. Pinckney, such a polished
and accomplished gentleman, and you had come
dashing in in such a flurry of face and dress. Niece,
I am exceedingly sorry to learn that Mr. Pinckney
leaves us in a few days.”
“Leave us in a few days!” ejaculated Fanny;
“this is the first I've heard of it.”
“Yes, niece; he told me so this afternoon, after he
returned from town, where he received a letter,
which, he says, requires him to be at home soon. I
regret it very much; we shall all miss him. I discovered
the other day that an uncle of his, who is
dead, was an old beau of mine. Where are you
going, Fanny?”
“I am going to my room to arrange my dress,
aunt.”
“My dear niece, what you have told me about
Miss Grattan, poor thing, and then Mr. Pinckney's
going to leave us, too, has quite unsettled me. Fanny,
if you see Pompey, tell him to bring me a slice
of the poundcake which he will find in the sideboard;
that which has plumbs in it; the other is not
quite done. Dickson is getting quite careless with
the pastry and cakes lately: tell him to bring me
that on the salver, with a glass of wine.”
Fanny obeyed her aunt's request. She then went
to her room, where she with much care removed all
the traces of negligence and “flurry,” as her aunt
expressed it, from her dress and fair countenance,
and then proceeded to the drawing-room. On looking
in, she discovered no one there but her father asleep on
the sofa; and wanting a book to amuse her, we
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suppose, she entered the library, and there found Pinckney
seated alone.
“Ah! Miss Fitzhurst,” said he, rising as the lady
entered, “you have the impulses of Mother Eve, I
discover.”
“Yes, sir; and instead of riding over with brother,”
replied Fanny, taking a novel from a book-case, and
opening it carelessly, as if she were about to leave the
room, but lingering for a moment, “instead of riding
over with brother, and thereby showing your gallantry
to forlorn ladies imprisoned in the country,
you choose to mope in the library, and pretend to be
literary.”
“I was moping, indeed, fairest flower of the wilderness
and brightest belle of the city; but it was in
trying to reconcile myself to your absence.”
“Then you do leave us, Mr. Pinckney?”
“Yes, Miss Fitzhurst, such is my necessity; and in
a few days. Business! Hours were made for slaves,
and for what was business made, but for the same
animals. Business brought me here—other influences
threw their fascinations around me, and held me here;
and now business, like the disenchanting wand in
some glorious spell, bears me away. In truth, Miss
Fitzhurst, my estate has suffered much in my absence.
I have been squandering money; and now I must
nurse and attend to it. When shall we two meet
again?”
“Heigh, ho! I am indeed sorry that you're going.
Only think, I shall have no one to dispute with about
love, and poetry, and romance, when you are gone.
And Miss Grattan—do not fail to made your adieus
to her.”
“I shall not, indeed: she is a most interesting lady;
she is deeply attached to you, Miss Fitzhurst; and
you should go frequently to see her. I am persuaded
she has `a silent sorrow here,”' said Pinckney, laying
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his hand on his heart. “I feel greatly indebted to
your family for their hospitality, Miss Fitzhurst.”
“We shall see you again, Mr. Pinckney, certainly—
you will come this way in the summer, will you
not?”
“Will you bid me come, Miss Fitzhurst?” said
Pinckney, advancing to her, and taking her hand.
At this moment the servant entered, and announced
tea.
CHAPTER XIV.
The next day in the afternoon Pinckney proceeded
to the city to make arrangements for his departure.
On his way in he met Sidney returning home, and
communicated to him his intention. Sidney received
the information with deep regret.
As Sidney was passing by Granny Gammon's, the
old woman hurried to the door, and begged him for
mercy's sake to step in a minute, for that something
awful had happened to Bobby. Sidney dismounted,
and throwing his horse's reins over the pailings, instantly
complied.
“Oh, Mister Sidney!” exclaimed the old woman,
tottering aside from the door, to suffer Sidney to enter
it. “I'm disgraced, Peggy's disgraced, we're all disgraced—
the boy is wilful and worrying; but I don't
believe it—no, as God's my judge, I don't believe it!”
“What's the matter, granny?—sit down—where is
Peggy?”
“Gone up to the big house to see your father and
you, and everybody, on this very thing—on the poor
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boy's befalment—that I should live to see it,” she
continued, wringing her hands “I thought my troubles
couldn't be worse when he was throw'd from that
racer and limated for life; but they just began then.
You see the day before yesterday, he, that's Bobby,
was pestering round, and he said as how he meant to
go to town. Well, I suspicioned no good of it, and I
axed him for what, and he grew deceptious right off,
and didn't seem to like to tell. Howsomever, I talked
to him so, wo's me, that he up and said that he wanted
to go in to go to the circus. Soon as I heard that, I
knew that the evil one had beset him—I knew that he
was tempted to the pit of iniquity, and defilements, and
abominations—I told him he should go on no account;
but in his perversity he'd set his mind right on it, and go
he would; and his cousin Peggy (Peggy Blossom is not
the gal she used to be), took side with him, and what
could I do? Consent, I couldn't and wouldn't; I felt
that something must happen, and I told them both so,
and made my mind a kind a up to it. To think of
this; I'd no hidea it was coming to this, though. Joe
Hitt came out from the city this blessed day, and he
stopt in and told us that they had Bobby, my Robert,
poor child, Robert Gammon, up for passing counterfeit
money.”
“It can't be possible, granny—who could have put
him up to it?”
“Who? Satan, the circus, the black devil himself,
with his conjurations that he carries on in them places;
but I don't believe one word of it—I don't believe he'd
do such a thing, do you, Mister Sidney?”
“I do not, indeed, Granny; but what did Joe Hitt
tell you about it?”
“That he was up for passing counterfeit money;
that was all he knowed—that he seed them dragging
the poor child through the street: he was all knocked
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aback, he says, and he left his horse and cart right in
the street, and followed after the crowd a good piece.
He says he tried to get a chance to speak to Bobby,
but it was too big a crowd; and that the people told him
a site of money was catched on him—Joe Hitt said
he couldn't go on to hear tell it, for fear his horse and
cart would run off, and that's all he knowed; but he
saw the child as plain as day; he says that Bobby
looked at him, but didn't speak—that he seemed bewildered
and stunned like. Mr. Sidney, oh! can't
you do something for him; see, there—there's Towzer,
poor dumb beast, he knows Bobby's in harm—he's
been kind a dumpy all day.”
“This is a strange business,” said Sidney, musing;
“when he went in I gave him three hundred dollars,
which I had collected at the iron works, to leave with
Colonel Bentley.”
“You did! my mercies, Mister Sidney; how could
you do it? That's it—the evil one has, just on account
of his sins, took away the good money, and put the
counterfeit in.”
“It will all come right, granny, I hope, in spite of
the evil one. I have often sent money by Bobby; I
have every faith in his integrity. The money I gave
him certainly was good, but if it were bad, who could
he have attempted to pass it on? I requested him to
give it to Colonel Bentley—I desired him to make no
purchase whatever.”
“O! I have had awful dreams lately; I warned him
of it the night of Mr. Elwood's husking; but no, they
think I'm old, helpless, and a know-nothing old woman.
He's been beset by Satan himself in some lonely part
of the road, and has the whole money changed in his
pockets unbeknown to him. I mind many years gone
by, that old Michael Cash was served that very way.
He was an old well-to-do farmer, that's now dead
and gone, and he used to tend market of Saturday's.
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Well, he gets belated with some wild chaps—cronies
of his'n, who was no better an they should be; and
after drinking with 'em till long after night-fall he
starts for home—he always said that his money was
safe in his pocket when he left 'em, for he counted it
afore 'em, and got on his horse, and come right hom—
and when he got there, and cometo look the next morning
for it, there was just nothing but a bit of old rumpled
newspaper where he had put his money. I've often
heard him say, after he joined the church, that he believed
the devil himself tricked him—for he said as
how he felt his head go round by the old grave yard,
which everybody knows is haunted, and that his horse
a kind of stopt there in spite of him, and jerked down
his head so, that the reins went over his neck, and
Michael had to get down to get things right again.
He says somehow a stupor a kind of overtook him,
and that he heard horses gallop by faster than any
natural horse could go, and he hardly knows how he
got on his horse to get home in such a bewilderment—
some people used to laugh at this, and as some of the
money, was money that Michael was bringing home for
his neighbours, they talked hard agin him; and some
said one thing and some said another; but I've heard
him tell every word on it after he jined. Mercies, how
I'm running on—but the poor boy—you'll see to him;
wont you, Mister Sidney?”
“I certainly shall, granny—I'll ride over to the
house, instantly change my horse, and return to town.
Peggy, I suppose, can tell all that Hitt said?”
“Every word—poor thing, she was in a terrible
taking, and hurried up to the big house. I knowed
all this was coming,” continued the granny, calling
out after Sidney as he rode off, “I knowed all this was
coming.—I've had awful dreams lately,” she muttered
to herself as she gazed after him.
Sidney on arriving at Holly found Peggy weeping
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over the misfortunes of her cousin, and between her
tears relating, for the twentieth time, what Joe Hitt
had said. He could learn nothing more from her
than he had already gathered from her grandmother.
He therefore ordered another horse, and determined
to proceed to the city, where, on inquiring at the
Mayor's office or jail, he hoped to hear the particulars
of the boy's case. His fear was that he should not
be able to reach the city until some time after night-fall,
which might prevent him from being of service
to Bobby until the next morning.
Sidney therefore proceeded at a quick pace. As he
passed by Granny Grammon's the old woman came
to the door, and looked anxiously after him.
He had not advanced more than half way when
the gathering shades of night began to render objects
indistinct, which warned him to increase his speed.
He did so; and as he entered an uninhabited part
of the road, that was skirted on either side by tall
majestic trees, whose falling leaves and autumnal
hues rendered the twilight still darker, just where a
bridle-path led to the hills of which we have spoken
that bound the western side of Holly, a horse without
a rider galloped by him in evident afright, with its
bridle broken, and the stirrups dashing against its
sides. It occurred to him as he marked the horse,
that it was the animal that his friend Pinckney had
ridden to the city. He was soon satisfied that such
was the fact; for the horse had scarcely passed him,
when it turned its head, neighed as if in token of recognition
of the animal he bestrode, and cantered to
his side. Sidney grasped the broken bridle, quickly
knotted the ends, and hastened down the road to the
succour of his friend. He had proceeded nearly a
quarter of a mile in fruitless search, which the increasing
darkness rendered every moment still more
difficult, when he thought he saw a man hurry away
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at his approach from a spot in the skirt of the wood
on the right-hand side of the road.
This awakened his suspicions, and though, unarmed,
he hurried to the place, without thinking of any
danger to himself. The person disappeared rapidly in
the forests towards the hills as Sidney drew near. His
fears were true; for, on dismounting beside an individual
who was stretched insensibly on the ground, he discovered
Pinckney. His watch and pocket-book were
gone, and he seemed to be wounded, though in what
manner Sidney could not discover. Sidney supported
Pinckney's head upon his knee, and while in the act
of removing his neckcloth, Pinckney opened his eyes,
and after a moment's confusion recognised him.
“Fitzhurst,” he said, faintly.
“My God, Pinckney, what has happened?”
“I have encountered a gentleman of the road—
that's all. The rascal has given me a dangerous
wound. I was stunned by a blow when you came up;
have you been here long?” asked Pinckney, as he
leaned on his friend, and endeavoured to regain his
feet.”
“Do you think you can ride?”
“Yes, I hope so—I hope so. He stopped me with
a pistol at my breast; and after I had delivered up to
him my watch and pocket-book, he snapped it at me.”
“There, my friend, so, place your hand so. This exasperated
me, and I struck him a severe blow with my
whip, and endeavoured to ride him down, at which he
drew a Bowie knife, I suppose it was, and struck at me;”
Pinckney paused a moment from pain, and continued,
“the weapon cut the bridle and pierced my side. The
horse sprung from under me as he made another blow,
and I, not being able to control him, fell to the ground
with great violence. Your coming up must have
saved my life, for the ruffian was, I believe, determined
to take it.”
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While Pinckney spoke, with the assistance of Sidney,
he uncovered his person, and bound a handkerchief
round him, and over the wound, which was
bleeding profusely. The shadows of night would not
permit Sidney to observe the extent of the injury. He
assisted his friend on his horse, saying:
“Holly is as near as the city; we had better go that
way, and stop at the nearest farm-house,—the nearest
one to us is in that direction. You could not have
staid but a very short time in town.”
“But the half of an hour. I expected letters, and
not receiving them, there was nothing to detain me in
the city. Hang the ruffian, I wish I had been armed.
You have not been home?”
Sidney briefly narrated to Pinckney the purpose
of his return, and while he was speaking—they reached
the farm-house.
Here Sidney examined Pinckney's wound, and as
far as he could judge, not having any medical skill, it
did not appear to be a dangerous one. The farmer,
with his wife, pressed Pinckney to remain beneath their
roof through the night, but he insisted that his wound
was but a slight one; and after thanking them for their
hospitality, he departed with his friend at a slow
pace towards Holly.
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CHAPTER XV.
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The night of the robbery of Pinckney, about nine
o'clock, a horseman came in the direction from the hills,
and proceeded to Granny Gammon's. He hitched his
horse at the palings, and after pausing a moment, perhaps
in thought, or perhaps to distinguish the voices
of the individuals within, he rapped with the end of
his riding whip against the door. Granny Gammon,
in a querrulous tone, bid him enter.
He did so, and after saluting the old woman in a
half-respectful, half-dogged manner, like one who felt
he was not liked by her on whose premises he stood,
he asked if Peggy was in.
Granny Gammon gave a short cough before she
answered. “No, she's out; what would you with my
Peggy, Jack Gordon?”
“Has she gone to the village?” proceeded Jack,
without answering the question.
“John Gordon, you are no respecter of age,” said
the old woman, sharply; “I axed you what you
wanted with my Peggy.”
“Why, Granny,” said Gordon, in a coaxing tone,
“I want to see her.”
“She's gone out, I tell you, gone out. The Lord
in his mercies be merciful, we're sore afflicted. Are
you from the city, Jacky? did you see or hear anything
of our Bobby?”
“What's happened?” asked Gordon, throwing himself
into a chair.
“Happened! was it you that took him to the circus,
Jack Gordon? answer me now that question.”
“He took himself, I suppose; I saw him there.”
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“Well, well, an' do you know anything of this
money, of this counterfeiting. In my old age, to think
of this; the very first one of our fam'ly that was ever
taken up. Jack Gordon, you've been misleading
him.”
“I mislead him?” exclaimed Jack, starting; “who
said I misled him?”
“I say so: you've been putting races and circuses
in his head, this long time; and now you see what's
come of it.”
“Ay, I thought you said, old lady, that I put counterfeiting
in his head. I know nothing about it; and as
for the circus, I see no more harm in the circus than
some people do in the meeting-house.”
“John Gordon, don't speak to me in that way;
now don't, I tell you. Peggy's not to home, an' I'll
just out and tell you, that there's no occasion for
yo're coming here.”
“Granny, I suppose if Peggy wants to see me,
you don't care?”
“But Peggy don't want to see you, nor I don't
want to see you, nor Bobby don't want to see you.
An' I can tell you the whole neighbourhood would be
mighty glad to get quit of you. I lay the whole ruin
of Bobby at your door. Yes, you may look; I do.
An' I don't see why people should come where the're
not wanted.”
“Maybe I can be of service to Bob?”
“No you can't be of sarvice to him; he's clean
ruined now, by bad samples. Only to think what a
condition I'm in, a lone woman. And Peggy, poor
thing, she's gone up to the big house, crying all the
way; and I suppose she'll go crying to the village,
to hear what she can hear.”
“Ay, has she!” said Gordon; and, after lingering
a moment, he arose and, bidding the old woman good
night, left the cabin. Gordon mounted his horse and
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road slowly to a clump of trees that stood in an old
field, some twenty yards from the house, when he
dismounted and fastened his horse within the shadow.
After doing this, Gordon placed himself with his back
to a tree, in a situation to command a view of the
lane that led by Granny Gammon's to Holly. He
had not remained there long when, on hearing footsteps
approaching from the village, he stepped forth,
and met the person, who proved to be Peggy. He
had gained her side, and addressed her before she observed
him.
“Is that you, Mr. Gordon?” she asked, in a tone
very different from the lightsome one that was her
wont.
“Yes, Peggy, it's me. I was down at the house,
but the old woman was in such a brimstone humour,
that she fairly turned me out.”
“Old woman! brimstone humour! Who are you
speaking of, Mr. Gordon?”
“You're as short as pie crust too, Peggy; what's
turned up? I'm speaking of your Granny.”
“Persons wouldn't think you had much opinion of
your company, to speak in such a fashion of one's
relations, Mr. Gordon.”
“I've told you often enough what I thought of you,
Peggy,” said Gordon, in a subdued tone; “it seems you
don't think well of me—though it didn't always seem
so.”
“Have done with that, Jack Gordon; I'm in no humour
for such talk to night—good evening; Granny's
alone, and it's late.”
“Not so very late,” said Gordon; “we've talked together
later than this.”
“Well, there's no occasion to waste time hereafter,”
replied his companion; and she walked on, briskly.
Gordon, however, kept her side, and asked:
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“Peggy, what does all this mean? you did'nt use
to treat me so.”
“I told you the night of the husking what it meant.
Granny's against it—Bobby's against it.”
“Bobby's against it,” exclaimed Gordon, mimicking
her in a tone of anger that he seemed unable to
suppress. “What do I care for Bobby's being against
it? Bobby 'll have enough to do to take care of himself.”
“And suppose he has,” said Peggy, indignantly,
“enough to take care of himself. Well, I've got
enough to do to take care of myself. Yes, Granny's
against it; Bobby's against it; and, to tell you the
truth, John Gordon, I'm not for it, and I've told you
so before.”
“Peggy, stop one moment.” Peggy hesitated. “Do
stop one moment, Peggy, and listen to me.” She
stopped. “Why should there be such words between
us? I know I spoke tauntingly the other night, and
said what I oughtn't say; but you kept throwing up
to me what the villagers said about me, and it aggravated
me. What do I care for them, Peggy? I tell
you I have money enough to buy them. I can make
as fine a lady of my wife as is your Miss Fanny.
As for Joe Hit, why he's a foul blacksmith. I don't
see how a girl with a fair skin could come near him,
unless she wished to be made black.”
“Pretty is that pretty does,” interrupted Peggy.
“What does he do that's pretty?” exclaimed Gordon,
contemptuously; “the chap's a fool. Peggy, you
don't think well enough of yourself. Bill Hardy's of
no account—he mills; gets a few dollars a week by
the hardest kind of labour, and goes about as mealy
as a rat from a bin. I can buy and sell both of
them.”
“And where did you get the money?”
“From the old country, my pretty Peggy; from
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the old country. I was under the weather at one
time, because I was waiting for it; and as I was
brought up a gentleman, I couldn't turn my hand to
anything but gentlemanly sports to get a living by.
People here pretend to say such things are wrong—
it's because they know no better where I come from.”
“I must go; good night,” said Peggy.”
“Peggy, not so quick,” said Gordon, seizing her
arm; “you think to cast me off in your tantrums; and,
I suppose, if it's for neither Joe Hitt or Bill Hardy, it's
for Cousin Bobby, whose name you don't seem to
like to mention to-night.”
“No, not to you; for if the boy's gone wrong, it's
you that's to answer for it.”
“I answer for it! do you mean I led him to counterfeiting.
By G—d, I let nobody say that of me.”
“Tell that in the village. I don't say it of you,”
exclaimed Peggy.
“If a man was to say it of me, I'd have his heart's
blood!” continued Gordon, “but, Peggy, I've borne
from you what I never bore from man or woman
before; and all, Peggy, for the love of you: but I've
found you out. It's `Cousin Bobby' that cuts us all
out. Yes, `Cousin Bobby,'—whew! you're against
me, after all that's past, just because folks don't
choose to like me, and think hard things against me,
what will you say to `Cousin Bobby' now, when he's
done the thing?”
“Done it! I don't believe it: the whole world
couldn't make me believe it,” exclaimed Peggy,
bursting into tears, and stepping away from Gordon.
Gordon compressed his lips, as if with a stern resolution
he was suppressing an emotion; and then said,
soothingly:
“Peggy, if you'll consent to that—if you say you'll
have me, Bobby shall be cleared. He shall—I'll
it swear to you on a stack of bibles. I like him;
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and I've money to buy them land sharks up, and
make 'em talk their tongues off, and their brains out
for him.”
“He's got help, if any one can help him,” said
Peggy, proudly.
“What help?”
“As soon as Mr. Sidney Fitzhurst heard it, he rode
right into town; and there he'll see Mr. Pinckney:
they together will do for him, if anybody can.”
“Ha! Mr. Pinckney—he's the one that you heard
say did'nt like my looks. He thinks his looks are
mighty taking at Holly, does he. Maybe I know
something of him, and know people that didn't like
his looks: let him look to himself. I tell you, Peggy,
I can help Bobby more than any of them. I know
all the officers and deputies in town.—An' I'm the
boy what can manage 'em. I've got friends afore
now out of scrapes worse 'an this—let us be friends—
say—I know you like your Cousin Bobby; I like
him, but it aggravates me to hear you repeat what
these village people say against me, and I bolt out in
a passion what I don't mean: there's no harm in me
towards Bobby: just say that things shall be where
they were before our little spat, and I'll stand Bobby's
friend. Shake hands and say so; an' if he's not out
here by to-morrow night, then never speak to me
again.”
As Gordon spoke, he took Peggy's hand; when the
sound of some one approaching caused her to start,
and hasten towards her grandmother's.
Gordon, with a noiseless step, proceeded to the
clump of trees, where he stood watching for the
walker to go by, e're he mounted his horse. The
starlight was bright enough to suffer him to observe
the direction the passer-by took. It was directly to
Granny Gammon's; which he entered immediately
after Peggy. When the door had closed on the
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visiter, Gordon trod with noiseless steps to the house,
and, placing himself beside the window, where he
could look in unobserved, and overhear what was
said, he remained for nearly a quarter of an hour.
He then repaired again to the clump of trees, and
when the cottage door opened, to suffer the departure
of the visiter, which Gordon knew by the flashing
forth of the light, he mounted his horse and rode forward,
apparently with the wish to overtake him,
though at some distance from the house. On reaching
the individual, he said, in a respectful tone:—
“Mr. Sidney Fitzhurst, is that you?”
“Yes, it is I; are you Jack Gordon?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Fitzhurst; I was just going to your
house to see you; I'm just from town, sir; where I
heard that they had Bobby, the old woman's grandson
that lives there, up for passing counterfeit money,
an' I thought I'd come and tell you, being as I know
that you wish him well, and that he's your tenant.”
“Yes,” replied Sidney; “I am now returning from
his grandmother's, whither I went to speak to the
old woman on the subject. Do you know the particulars;
I am satisfied the boy is not capable of such
a thing. Do you know if they have him in jail?”
“I don't know, sir, much about it. He went, I
believe, to the circus last night; I believe he drank
too much there; this morning I heard from one of the
neighbours that I met in town that he was in trouble,
and as I was bound out to Springdale to night, I
thought I'd ride over to your house and tell you.”
“Thank you, Gordon, thank you; I shall ride in
to-morrow and see if I can do anything for him; I
started this evening. Which way did you come out?”
“Sir, oh! early this afternoon; good night, sir.”
“Good night, Jack,” replied Sidney as he proceeded
homeward.
Gordon turned his horse as if it were his intention
to visit Springdale, but after Sidney was out of
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hearing of the animal's steps he spurred at a brisk
rate towards the city.
“I must take a near cut through the hills,” he
muttered to himself, “where I can change my horse.
The thing was done well: I've good proof of what a
friend I am to the little limping rascal.”
With a fearless rein at the top of his horse's speed
Gordon struck for the hills. If his object was to
gain the city as soon as possible a cut through the
hills was certainly much shorter than the roundabout
way of the road; but then the difficulties in this direction
were held hazardous both to man and beast.
And surely the night would not facilitate his progress
if such were his object. The hills were in many
places barren, entirely uncultivated, and scarcely ever
traversed, for game was scarce upon them, and they
were mostly uninhabited. Here and there where
there was a spot capable of cultivation, and there
were many such, a miserable shanty might be seen,
but it was often uninhabited, and was evidently built
for some temporary purpose. In some places
through the hills, in strong contrast with the barren
and bold masses of rocks, immense forest trees would
stretch along for miles, of the shortest and most
luxuriant growth. A long tract of wood marked the
head of a stream, which was called the Falls. Over
the water, and through the wood, and along the very
brow of the precipice, Gordon rode as fearlessly as
if he had been travelling on the common county
turnpike. However, there did not appear any great
management of the steed on his part, though, no doubt,
the rider was capable of it. The horse seemed to
know the road as an old stager would the turnpike,
and dashed on apparently with a similar desire to
reach the goal. Gordon had perhaps penetrated seven
miles into the hills, when he came to a place where
the stream ran deep and narrow for a considerable
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distance between overhanging precipices. Here it
was so dark that Gordon could scarcely see his hand
before him; yet horse and rider advanced recklessly
into the stream, as if its bed were their road. They
guided themselves by the glimmering of starlight that
flashed from the water, where it broke a way from
jutting rock, and hill, and tree, and sported unshadowed.
Before, however, he reached the opening,
Gordon turned his horse to the right, and spurring
him up a steep ledge of rock, he stopped where two
huge trees were entirely covered with clustering
vines, that descended in such luxuriance from their
topmost branches as to dip in the water. A quantity
of drift-wood and brush seemed to have floated against
the face of the rock to which there was evidently no
approach but by the watery pathway Gordon had
chosen. Here Gordon dismounted, and busied himself
in removing the brush-wood, while he did so he
imitated the rough note of the screach-owl, when a
portion of the rock appeared to give way, disclosing an
aperture large enough to admit the horse. A very
dim light, such as might easily be mistaken for the
phosphorescent glimmer from decaying wood, appeared
for a moment, and with it disappeared both
the horse and rider.
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CHAPTER XVI.
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
About an hour after Sidney left the dwelling of
Granny Gammon, as the Granny and her granddaughter
sat together talking over Bobby's misfortune, the
door opened, and that worthy covered with mud and
dirt, and much exhausted, entered the room.
“Father of all mercies!” ejaculated the old woman,
clasping her hands together with an hysteric
scream. “Bobby! cousin Bobby!” exclaimed Peggy,
springing towards him, and giving relief to her feelings
in tears, “we have been so troubled about you.”
Towzer leaped upon his master, and then darted
around the room in wild delight.
Bobby threw himself on the floor without saying a
word. His old grandmother looked at him as if expecting
him to speak, and then said, impatiently:
“Why don't you speak, child? why don't you speak,
after bringing all this trouble on us? why don't you
speak?”
Peggy had taken a seat by Bobby, and was gazing
on him intently. As his grandmother spoke he hid
his head in his cousin's lap, and said in a low voice,
“Cousin Peggy, you will not believe anything
against me, will you?”
“No, Bobby, not a word that goes against your
honesty.”
“I knew you wouldn't,” said Bobby, rising proudly,
while the tear started to his eye. “I knew you
wouldn't. I'll tell you all about it.”
“Do, child,” said the old woman, impatiently.
“Well, you know, I started off for the circus?”
“Yes, yes; what, Bobby? ha! I always told you
about the circus.”
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“Granny, if you don't let me speak, how can I
tell? Well, I went into the circus, and there I saw
Jack Gordon and a whole parcel of fellows. But
before I went to the circus though, I went to Colonel
Bentley to give him the money. Jack Gordon knows
I did; for the pin somehow came out of my pocket
where I pined the money in, and it dropped out just
as I was standing talking to him. The money was
wrapped up in a bit of printed paper; and Gordon
said (it was near by Colonel Bentley's lodging place
that I met him); he says to me, `Bobby, you dropped
something.' I stooped down and picked up the money.
I was so awful frightened, thinking that something
had gone wrong; but I turned in and counted the
money and it was all right. Well, after that, as I
couldn't see Colonel Bentley that night, I thought as
I'd come in to go to the circus, I'd go.”
Here Granny Gammon heaved a deep sigh, and
shook her head ominously.
“To the circus I went,” continued Bobby, affecting
not to notice his grandmother, and addressing Peggy,
“and everything was right My own money—two
paper dollars, a silver one and a quarter I had in
my other pocket, and Colonel Bentley's by itself and
pined down. Well, I'm not a going to tell a story; so
I'll tell the whole truth. Jack Gordon got me to
drink with him, and so did another fellow. After
the circus was out, when we got to the tavern where
we were going to stay all night, I treated all round,
and all I know is that the next morning I was seized
while I was in bed, and accused of passing counterfeiting
money. The constables, or whoever they was,
searched my pockets, and there they found ever so
much money; it wasn't the money though that Mr.
Fitzhurst gave me, for that was rolled up in a bit of
paper. This looked like newer money. Somebody
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must have come in my room and tricked me, indeed
they must.”
“What become of you then, Bobby?” interrupted
Peggy.
“Why,” said Bobby, “they called it a penitentiary
affair, and said they must take me before a squire;
they did so, sure enough. They took me away over
into old town, where I did'nt think a squire would
keep, it was in such a mean-looking place. When
they got me there, they threatened me awful, but then
Jack Gordon came in—and, and—”
“What about Jack Gordon, Bobby?” said Peggy,
“speak it out.”
“And Jack Gordon come to me, and asked me about
it, and I told him everything. He said that he'd stand
my friend, but that it was an awful business; he talked
to the squire, and the squire said as how as Gordon
asked it, that he would keep me locked up till evening
in his own house and would not send me to jail; and
that, by that time, Gordon maybe could get some witnesses
for me, and would let my friends know. Then
Gordon come and spoke to me—I asked him to keep
it away from you if he thought I could be got off
without telling you. He promised to do his best for
me, and said he was all sorts of a friend of mine.
There I staid in that room locked up, hour by hour;
you may know how I felt. While I was standing
looking out the window near night time, I see Jack
Gordon a laughing and talking in the road with the
landlord and the man that searched my pockets, and
they were laughing and as merry together as pick-pockets.
Jack Gordon looked up at the window and
saw me, and then they stopped talking together, and
Jack said that he would be with me presently. There
I staid. It grew long after night—no Jack come, and
I began to mistrust something, so I thought I'd get off
if I could—I watched round, and after a while I got
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out of the window softly on to a shed, slipped down
into the yard, climbed the fence, and after puzzling
about the town at an awful rate, I found the market,
and then I knew which way to strike for home—Hangnation.”
“You a cussing, Robert, hey? you a cussing, are
you?” said the granny. “What's to be done about
this business? it's an awful sum of money that's lost,
child; they'll be after you to a certainty.”
“Let them come,” said Bobby, “I know I shan't
go to them. But if I only could get Mr. Sidney's
money. They give me liquor just to trick me—I
ought to have knowed it, I ought to have knowed it.
I must first see Mr. Sidney and tell him the whole
truth—I can't help it, I can't help it.”
We leave Bobby in the shelter of his grandmother's
roof, and return to Jack Gordon. Two hours or more
after his mysterious entrance into the cave, in the dead
of the night, the quick tramp of his horse's feet might
have been heard in the purlieus of the city. He rode
quickly on, with the confidence of one to whom the
streets were as familiar as the dangerous pathways
of the hills, and stopped not until he arrived at the
house from which Bobby had a few hours before
effected his escape.
The house was a two story frame building, through
a shutter of which a dim light twinkled forth. Gordon
kept his seat on his horse until after the echoes
of its footsteps had died away, apparently for the
purpose of listening if any one approached. All was
silent; and he threw himself from the horse, peeped
into the room through the shutter where the light
shone forth, and then with confidence stepped to the
door, and gave three distinct raps. A voice from
within asked, `Who's there;' and on Gordon's answering
“A true man,” the door was immediately opened, and
he entered. The person who admitted Gordon was
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a tall and remarkably slim man, who seemed, as the
vulgar phrase is, double-jointed, for he appeared to
have the power of bending in any direction. His
forehead was villanously low, and his nose long and
snipe-like, with very narrow nostrils; nothwithstanding
which, he did that member the honour to speak
through it. He had a small, twinkling, gray eye,
which was keenly suspicious in its glance, and
conveyed to you the idea that its possessor was both
cunning and timid. He was so; though more than
once the hope of great gain had led him into acts of
daring that had surprised himself.
“Benbow, let me see, my chap,” said Gordon to
the worthy we have described, for such was his
name.
“The bird has flown,” said Benbow, trying to
throw an honest expression into his face, for he was
aware that such was not its habitual one, for even
when he told the truth his face seemed to contradict
him.
“Flown! Benbow, this is some trick of yours.”
“No trick, on my conscience. What motive have
I for tricking you? I'm running deep risks to please
you,—the boy never did me any harm.”
“Never did you any harm! And I suppose for
that reason you must let him off.”
“I tell you I didn't let him off. I went up into the
room to see if all was right, and I found that he had
hoisted the window and escaped. The risks I ran
was for you. I made my mind up to do it, and I did
it. Maybe it's a good thing that the boy has gone.
I don't believe that you could have convicted him if
he had showed a good character, and since you have
been gone Tom Fenton was here, and he thought it
was a foolish business. He couldn't see what you
were after; he says the boy can show a good
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character; and that old Mr. Fitzhurst and his son would
stand by him to the last.”
“It's not needful that I should tell Tom Fenton
what I am after—it's my own business.”
“It's our business too, Mr. Gordon, I calculate, on
my conscience; it's our business, too, if we run risks,
sir: and I suppose you'll admit that I'm under some
responsibility.”
“I told you,” said Gordon, “I didn't wish to push
matters to the hardest. I wanted the money—I
wanted to ruin the character of the boy, and to seem
to stand his friend. You've been well paid for it, and
be damned to Tom Fenton. And so he's clean
gone?”
“Yes, clean gone.”
“Well, I suppose I'm somewhat baffled—if the
boy's friends come to see you in the matter you must
tell them that I stood by him, and stuck to it he could
not be guilty. Say the boy was drunk, and hint hard
against him. Speak it out, and say you believe him
guilty, but that considering his youth it had better be
dropped.”
“I will, I will, Gordon; but I don't like these proceedings
out of the regular business. No good will
come of it. You're too fond of going on your own
hook, Gordon; and that's the complaint about you.
I tell you plumply that's the complaint.”
“You're a lilly-livered chap, Benbow; never fear
me. Well, I must make the best of these matters—
but I wish you'd kept a tighter eye on the little rascal.
He's keen, and if he hadn't been so infernally corned—
but I must stop, or I suppose you'll get frightened at
that child. You think he's gone home, do you?”
“To be sure I do.”
“Yes; I suppose he has—I'd like to hear the tale
he'll tell. Mind, tell them I was his fast friend. Here,
give me something to drink—brandy, brandy. I've
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done more things than one to night, and I must to the
hills.”
Benbow produced a flask, which he said contained
champagne brandy of the highest proof. He bid
Gordon say when, as he poured the liquor in a tumbler
which that worthy held for the purpose, and it
was not until the glass had lost more than half its
natural hue, that the word was pronounced.
After seeing the bottom of this stump cup, Gordon
left the house, and, mounting his horse, departed.
CHAPTER XVII.
Sidney with his wounded friend reached Holly
with less difficulty than he had imagined. Pinckney's
loss of blood, though, was considerable; and on
being placed in his chamber, it was with great difficulty
he was kept from fainting. Pompey was immediately
despatched to the city for the best medical
aid. It was not until after daybreak that the surgeon
arrived. After examining the wound he expressed
himself uncertain as to the extent of it. He thought
it critical, if not dangerous; and said he believed
that the patient had received some inward injury
from the violence of his fall from his horse. By his
advice, and for the sake of his frequent attendance,
Pinckney resolved to remove to the city as soon as
practicable. Another consideration which induced
this resolution, notwithstanding the pressing invitation
of Mr. Fitzhurst and his family that he would
remain with them, was the fear of the trouble he
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should give. A week had elapsed, however, and the
patient was not yet in a state to be removed. In the
meantime every exertion was used to discover the
robber. A description of the stolen watch and
pocket-book was left at the pawnbrokers, and published
in the public prints, with an account of the
contents of the pocket-book, so far as Pinckney could
recollect them; but as yet it was without avail. A
source of great annoyance to Pinckney was the loss
of a peculiarly-formed locket, containing the hair of
the same lady whose miniature he possessed. From
a feeling of delicacy, or from some other motive, he
did not mention it in enumerating the contents of the
pocket-book.
As soon as Sidney could spare the time from his
friend, he turned his attention to Bobby's misfortunes.
The boy, after many internal struggles, had called on
Sidney the morning after his escape from Benbow's,
and narrated to him the circumstances attendant on
the loss of the money, just as he related them to his
grandmother and cousin. Sidney asked Bobby if he
could find the way to the squire's where he had been
confined. He said he thought he could not, and evidently
had no wish to try. Sidney then sent word to
the tavern in the village at which Gordon stopped,
for that person to call at Holly. In reply to the message,
he learned that Gordon was not there; that he
had said, on leaving, he should be absent a week or
more.
At the expiration of that time Gordon returned to
the village; but without waiting on Sidney sent, by
Joe Hitt, with apologies for not calling in person, the
name and residence of the magistrate from whose
house Bobby had escaped. Gordon asked Hitt to say
that he would have gone in person to Holly, but that
he had pressing business that took him away. That
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day as Sidney was proceeding to the city, for the
purpose of seeing Benbow, he stopped at the village,
and there saw Gordon himself, who gave him a full
account of all he knew of the matter, as he asserted,
making, as he did, so many protestations of his friendship
for Bobby.
Gordon offered to accompany Sidney to the magistrate's;
but Sidney said it was not worth while, and
proceeded thither alone. Benbow gave him no clue
to the mystery. He exhibited from among his papers,
where he had it carefully placed, the counterfeit
money which had been found on the boy; and told
Sidney the name of the tavern-keeper who lived
nearly, at whose house Bobby had been arrested.
Thither Sidney repaired, but not before Benbow had
repeatedly told him what a friend Gordon was to
Bobby, remarking at the same time—as Bobby was
young, that the affair had better, on his account, be
dropped.
All that the tavern-keeper could inform Sidney of,
was, that a man offered a note at the bar which was
counterfeit; and on being told so, he said he got it
from Bobby, who was a stranger to him, and that he
had changed it for the boy. The man grew angry;
the tavern-keeper asserted and insisted that Bobby
should be searched. The search was accordingly
made, and the counterfeit money which had been left
at the magistrate's was found on the boy. The next
day, the man who had changed the note, according
to the tavern-keeper, went to Benbow's to appear
against Bobby, and returned and said that the magistrate
told him the boy had escaped. The witness,
after much fault-finding, said that he could not stay and
throw more money away, that he lived in the country,
and he departed.
For the mere loss of his money Sidney cared not.
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He was provoked at the villany practised on the boy;
but he discovered that at present any effort to find
out the perpetrators of it would be fruitless.
Poor Bobby's troubles arising from this matter were
not to stop here. The whole village and neighbourhood
received with various exaggerations the history of the
affair, and somehow or other the majority of them—
particulary those in Bobby's own sphere, were disposed
to look upon him in a different light from that
which the facts warranted. Divers persons had been
busy in putting a dark colour on his conduct. Among
these, if not the most open, at least of the busiest, were
Bronson and Thompson. The consequence was, that
whenever Bobby went to the village, or met the villagers,
either in groups or singly, he was sure to be
questioned on the subject; and had often to undergo
the infliction of no very delicate hints with regard to
the matter. Once he was required to give an account
of the manner in which he obtained his gun, and the
powder, which it was asserted, he wasted by the
pound. Colonel Bentley happening to pass by at the
very moment, Bobby appealed to him, and put their
fears as to his integrity on that score at rest at once.
If the majority were disposed to think ill of the boy,
he, nevertheless, had many well-wishers, not only
among his own class, but among the wealthier portion
of the neigbourhood. Mr. Fitzhurst and family were
his fast friends. Indeed the old gentleman felt many
misgivings as to the effect which the misfortune at the
horse-race might eventually have on the boy's character.
Not that he believed him at all a bad boy now,
but he began to fear the result of idle habits upon him,
and he resolved to send him to school by way of
weaning him from his ways, and give him a liberal
education if his capacity proved superior. Perhaps
push him forward in some profession. When this
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idea struck the old gentleman, he wonders at himself
for not thinking of it before.
While Mr. Paul Fitzhurst was indulging his benevolent
imaginings in Bobby's behalf, the lad one day, as
was much his custom of late, proceeded to the village
with his gun on his shoulder. It was the day of the
election for members of the legislature, and as the
polls were held in the village of Springdale, there was,
consequently, a large concourse of people assembled.
It being in the afternoon, the political excitement,
assisted not a little in its throes by the stimulus resorted
to on such occasions, had reached its height.
Groups, containing many noisy and drunken men,
might have been seen wrangling about the corners,
and before the polls, which were held at a tavern
window.
In the midst of one of these stood Lawyer Lupton, the
gentleman who had formerly been fond of talking
with Granny Gammon about certain boundaries
while he glanced at Peggy. Mr. Lupton was shaking
hands and making friends with might and main. To
the groups that encompassed Lupton, Bobby stepped
up just as the village politician and pettifogger was
pressing the hand of Joe Hitt, who had not yet voted,
by way of squeezing a vote out of him. The night
before Hitt had been to see Peggy, who, having no
other person to play off upon him, had been prodigal
of the repetition of “Cousin Bobby” in her tenderest
manner. The memory of this fact had added to the
cups in which Hitt had toasted his political sentiments.
As Bobby approached, Hitt cast a lowering brow on
him, and exclaimed:—
“Here, squire, here comes a case; a full blown
chap—if he ain't I'm blowed—he thinks himself a man
any way you can fix him; though they do say that he
did the thing that some men wouldn't. Get him to
vote for you.”
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“He's but a boy, Mr. Hitt, he's but a boy,” said
Mr. Lupton, with dignity. “It is the universal law,
sir, throughout our whole country, even, I assure you
in those states where there is a property qualification—
a principle which I am opposed to, gentlemen,
ab initio, root and branch, as being totally anti-democratic—
it is the law, I pledge you my professional
reputation—the law in every state that no person is
entitled to a vote who is under twenty-one years of
age. I approve of it—I go for it—I sanction it heart
and hand. I would not have the Constitution altered
in that respect, though I could get thereby the vote
of every child in Christendom. I have no doubt were
such the law here that my vote would be considerably
increased; don't you think so, Bobby, my boy?”
“Why, squire, I haint got a vote yet,” said Bobby,
“so it's no use to ask the question—though I'm not
so far off, neither.”
“Not so far off,” exclaimed Hitt, contemptuously,
“why, you blasted little runt, you—you'll never be
a man.”
“Joe Hitt, speak when you're spoken to,” said Bobby,
angrily—“I didn't say I was a man, and I don't
believe you're much of a one either.”
“Hush up, `Cousin Bobby,' ” said Joe, scornfully, and
making at the same time a gesture suited to the word,
“or I'll serve you as they serve a naughty baby, you
can't call on Granny, or `Cousin Peggy' here.”
“You'd better keep away, and not call on `Granny'
or `Cousin Peggy' either,” said Bobby, significantly,
as he walked away.
Hitt was not an ill-natured man when sober, but
he was one of those in whom intoxication awakens
the worst passions. This taunt of Bobby maddened
him. As the lad walked off Hitt stepped into the
middle of the street and, picking up a stone, threw it
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at him. The first missed; but a second took effect,
and struck Bobby so forcibly on the back that it
nearly knocked him down. As soon as Bobby recovered
himself, he turned round and faced Hitt, who
was in the act of hurling another stone at him. They
were by this time thirty or more feet apart. As soon
as Bobby turned, he clapped his gun to his shoulder,
exclaiming, “I can't stand every thing.” Hitt had
scarcely time to change his position, and save his
front, when the whole of the load of Bobby's gun,
luckily it was small, bird shot, took effect in the most
fleshy part of his person.
Hitt fell to the ground, uttering a yell that awoke
an echo from the hills. He rolled over and over,
calling out “murder! I'm a dead man!” in tones that
soon drew the crowd from the polls in a mass around
him. They bore him into the tavern. On an examination
of his wounds by Doctor M`Vittee, they were
pronounced not to be mortal.
Thompson, while they were bearing Hitt to the
tavern, called on the constable to arrest Bobby. That
worthy deemed it his duty to do so, and attended by
Thompson, and followed by the crowd, he conducted
the unfortunate lad to Squire Norris's. Here there
was a deal of confusion. Popular opinion, however,
notwithstanding Bobby had lost ground lately, set in
his favour. Thompson openly told the magistrate
that it was his duty to commit the rascal to save the
lives of the citizens, asserting that his own life was
once put in deadly peril by him. Bronson, who had
hurried over from his store as soon as he heard of
the matter, took the squire aside on pretence of especial
business, and advised him by all means to commit
Bobby instantly, and to refuse to take any bail.
The squire said he'd think about that, but in the meantime
he would commit him until Hitt's situation was
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decidedly known. Deprived, therefore, of his gun,
powder-horn, and shot-bag, and attended by a gaping
crowd, Bobby was led to the jail, and locked up with
a care that certainly conveyed a high idea of the
jailor's notion of his prowess.
CHAPTER XVIII.
In one of the merchant palaces of the gay city
near which we have laid the principal scenes of our
narrative, dwelt Richard Langdale, between whom
and Pinckney, it was not necessary to mention it before,
there had grown up a close intimacy. Whenever
Pinckney went to the city he spent his time
chiefly with Langdale, and though their characters
in many points were entirely different, yet there was
something in each that deeply interested the other.
Perhaps the difference in their ages, pursuits, and opinions,
gave more zest to their friendship than if the
affinities between them had been apparently closer.
It is often as difficult to account for the impulses of
friendship as for those of love, and those of the last
we know are of such unaccountable characteristics
that the deity who controls them is painted blind.
When he heard of Pinckney's misfortune he visited
him daily, taking the surgeon in his carriage with him;
and as soon as Pinckney could suffer a removal, Mr.
Langdale had him borne to apartments in his own
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house in the city, where he could have every advantage
of medical attendance.
Pinckney suffered more from weakness, and consequent
nervous irritability, than from his wound,
which was healing very fast. He was oppressed
with low spirits, which Langdale exerted all his conversational
talents to remove. Pinckney was one
day so struck with his powers in this respect that he
said:
“Langdale, pardon me if I compliment you at the
expense of your vocation; but really you are an exception
to the generality of merchants. I know that
you have held high political stations, and I wonder
merchants do not oftener aspire to them.”
“Well, that is a wonder, for it can be shown that
some of the leading men in the tide of time were merchants.
Think how much commerce has done for the
world! How much the world is indebted for its enlightenment
to commerce. And surely there is as much
liberality among merchants as among any other class.
I venture to say this, that merchants, take them as a
body, are as conversant upon the general matters and
concerns of men, apart from professional subjects, as
either the professors of medicine or law.”
“I am inclined to think you are correct,” said
Pinckney. “Yet you are generally self-made men.”
“Not more so than the generality of lawyers or
doctors.”
“You have more of a professional air,” said Pinckney,
“have you not?”
This remark Pinckney felt did not apply to his
friend, for Langdale possessed remarkably the air of
a man of the world. His address was polished and
easy, and his person very handsome. His eye was
brightly blue; his nose well formed; his lips full but
expressive; and his forehead high, a slight baldness
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made it appear higher than it really was. This, with
the wrinkles which began to gather about the eye,
and as yet only gave to it a shrewd expression, denoted
to the observer that Mr. Langdale had reached
the meridian of life,
“Why, there is an air of great precision about your
thoroughbred merchant,” replied Langdale to Pinckney's
remark, “but not more so than that of the physician,
to say nothing of the lawyer.”
“Precision certainly is not the characteristic of
the lawyer?”
“No, it is not,” replied Langdale, “a free air, and
an affectation of bustle and business mark them.
Doctors are the most precise race in the world, with
the gravest faces. We naturally take our hue from
the associations to which we are most accustomed,
and as doctors see more death-scenes than anything
else, their phizes are gravitated, accordingly look
like death-heads. A bank clerk has generally a precise
air, they are generally very cleanly in their persons.
Bank hours are closer kept by them than the trysting
time with their lady-love. Instead of the poet
saying, `punctual as lovers to the moment sworn,' he
should have said, punctual as bank clerk to the hour
of opening. All those connected with banks are
generally courteous but prim. It has been to me a
source of no small amusement to look around and
mark the difference that professions make in the character.
At the same time, how amusing to observe
individual traits in spite of habits long engendered,
and the enforced routine showing themselves and
marking the man from the mass.”
“Do you think a city life makes a man better?”
“Yes; in the qualities of the rat and the wolf, who
congregate to prowl and to plunder. You and I,
Pinckney, have looked on life from different positions
and associations—now, I'll lay my life, you believe in
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such poetic things as disinterested friendship and devoted
love?”
“Why, yes; I hold,” said Pinckney, “that such things
have been—are, in fact; but I don't believe they are
plants that grow spontaneous in every soil.”
“You have been in love, then?”
Pinckney really blushed. After a slight hesitancy,
he said, “Yes; I have been in love;” and then in a
lighter tone he added, “that is, I fancied myself in
love; do you believe a man may love twice?”
“Why not! Yes, I think every man of ardent
imagination and southern temperament, like you, who
has led a life of easy indolence, which give the
passions the full play of rumination and imagination,
has indulged, ere he arrives at your age, in scores of
`fancies,' as a boarding-school Miss would say; has
perhaps, done all he could in the power of indolence
to nurse a little cross of the kind into a sullen misanthropical
despair.”
Pinckney laughed. It was not a happy laugh,
but the laugh of rumination whose retrospection was
not all sunshine.
Langdale observed it; but without noticing it,
said:
“My life has been somewhat an odd one. The
links of events in it have not been all bright ones;
there are a great many hard knots in the chain.
Love! ha! I fancied myself in love once; maybe I
was. I'll tell it to you—there is a moral in it; but
situated as you are, I do not think its point will be of
any service to you; but it may amuse you. I am,”
said Langdale, with a smile of self-complacency upon
the lip, but with something disagreeable upon the
brow, which plainly told that the present could not entirely
gild the past. “I am entirely a self-made man.
I take a pride in it, Howard, notwithstanding the
pain this self-making gives in the operation. How
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we shrink from pain when enduring it; yet the fact that
we have endured has pleasure in it. I am the youngest
of five children; my father died when I was fourteen,
leaving us nothing but an honest name, and poverty
to the lips. I had three brothers and one sister,
she next to me, and I loved her with the devotion of my
whole heart, more than all the rest of my family
together. My brothers were men grown, but they
hung loose upon society; and it was plain even to me,
then a boy, that their lives, if not criminal, would be
obscure, and their ends wretched. My father was a
merchant in a very large business, and by indorsements
became a bankrupt to an immense amount a
short time before he died. In fact, it killed him.
While he was reputed wealthy my brothers lived in
fashionable prodigality, and after his death—but no
matter, I need not dwell upon them; two of them are
dead, and the other, after scenes which I will not rehearse,
went to sea, a sailor, before the mast—I have not
heard of him since. My mother was compelled to
keep boarders; and my sister, then in the bloom of
beauty, and she was beautiful, was reduced from being
a leading belle, with high expectations, to the drudgery
of assisting my mother in the menial offices about the
house. I was almost the servant of the boarders.
Faith, Pinckney, the very heart of boyhood is corrupt.
The youths of expectations about town, my former
associates, knew me no more. Then it was that the
iron entered into my soul. To make the bitterness
still more bitter, an adventurer, a boarder in our house,
won the affection of my sister, married, and left her
in a month. A year afterwards my mother and myself
were almost the only attendants on her funeral.
My mother did not long survive my beloved sister.
While she was lying on her death-bed the officers of
the law entered her room, with an execution at the
suit of the livery stable keeper from whom the hearse
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for my sister's funeral had been hired. My poor
mother looked at me when she heard the purpose of the
intruder, and said, in the very bitterness of her soul,
`My child, it will not cost much for my funeral, there is
no one to attend it but yourself. Oh, God!' she added,
in an altered tone, `that I should leave you so destitute:
' saying which she covered her eyes, as if to shut
from them some terrible sight, murmured a prayer,
cast on me a glance of unutterable wo, and never
spoke after.”
Langdale rose, and paced the apartment, hurriedly,
several times, and then stopping by the couch of
Pinckney, he said:
“'Tis strange that I should call up these things
after so many years have transpired, and after striving
so long to forget them. What an intense egotism
there is in our very sorrows, Pinckney. I pass over
my mother's funeral. How often in a melancholy,
if not misanthropical moment like the present, I have
wished that I had passed away with it, and had been
placed by the side of my mother and sister. You
know for what a worldly man I am taken by the mass,
for a cold, callous, wordly man. I hope I am mistaken
in my species as much as they are mistaken in
me. `Ha!' as Voltaire said after expressing a good
opinion of Haller, and on being told that Haller had
not expressed a good one of him: `Perhaps we are
both mistaken.' That's a good sarcasm upon my
egotism—hey, is it not?”
“A Scotch merchant, a friend of my father's, not
one of those for whom he had indorsed, but one who
had advised him against his frequent indorsements,
and with whom my father quarrelled on that account,
with the request that he would mind his own business—
this friend, a merchant, took me home with him. He
domesticated me in his own family, and after giving
me schooling sufficient to render me a good
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accountant he placed me as a clerk into his counting-room.
He had a daughter, Pinckney, two years my
elder; a fat, tumid creature, who considered herself a
beauty upon the principle of the Chinese, with whom
bulk is beauty. She was as vain and envious as she
was protuberant, and malignant as Zantippe. I was
attentive to her, of course; my duty to my benefactor
required that I should be, and I never, I hope, have
wanted gallantry. A fellow clerk of mine had a
beautiful sister about my age. He and I were
intimate, and I frequently visited him at the house of
his parents, who were poor, and in the lower walks
of life. With his sister, Henrietta, I fell in love, but
while the insidious passion crept over me, my worldly
interest, like a fiend at my elbow, or like a better
prompter, as many would say, was perpetually reminding
me of the opportunity of wealth there was
in the winning of Mr. Churchill's daughter, Miss
Clarissa Churchill. The lady, the while, accepted
my attentions when there were no other beaux present:
she made me her convenience. The old gentleman
thought he perceived a growing affection
between us, and one day with the most benevolent
and fatherly feelings he broadly hinted to me that he
was pleased to see how matters were going; and that
if I continued to please him as I had done, when I
became of age he would take me into business with
him.
That very night I visited Henrietta—she never
looked lovelier. A rival of mine was by her side, and
she seemed not indifferent to his attentions; you know
the ways of women. I out sat him; and when he had
gone I told my tale of love, and was accepted. I had
hardly left the house, with her kisses glowing on my
lips, when this worldly fiend I wot of, whispered me
what a fool I was. On entering Mr. Churchill's house
there was Miss Clarissa, looking the full consciousness
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of her powers, and surrounded by a whole bevy of
beaux. Success with Henrietta had elated my feelings,
given me a strange excitement, and I joined in the
conversation with a gaiety and wit, if you will pardon
the vanity of the phrase, which was not usual to me.
At the same time I did not display that devotion to
the lady, which at all other times I had been most
studious of practising. Here, now; behold the foul inconsistencies
of human nature, or rather, not to libel
human nature, of my nature. My master this very
day had as much as told me that he wished my alliance
with his daughter. That alliance, whenever I
thought it a matter of impossibility, I looked to as the
greatest advancement that could happen to me—yet
here was I indifferent to the lady, and, to tell the truth,
not so much from thinking of the one I had won, as
that there was not such a great difficulty after all in
winning the other. I am laying bare not the most
honourable impulses in the world to you, Pinckney;
but I believe I share them with the rest of my species,
and thus divide the burden, and lessen the infamy.
“My new manner to the lady piqued her to the core; I
saw it instantly, and felt my advantage. She thought me
one she could play on and off ad libitum; and that she
held me as a cat does a harmless mouse, which she
could torment to death if it pleased her. She deemed
herself a very hero, and me, a Leander, I suppose, who
would have braved the Hellespont, or deeper difficulties,
to win her. Oh! the wrath of a woman, and
such a woman, when she finds herself at fault in such
a calculation.
“For several days she treated me with high-wrought
indifference, which I bore with the philosophy of a
stoic. Then she relapsed into tenderness, almost tearful
tenderness, and by some promptings of the archenemy
I met her half-way. It was her pride that was
wounded, not her love, and I had my reward—I never
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should have acted as I did, had not several debts in
which I had involved myself pressed rather heavily
on me at this juncture, and reminded me forcibly of
the advantages of wealth. When we feel one want
heavily, we forget that we may make sacrifices to
gratify it, which will eventually give more pain than
the relief can possibly afford pleasure.
“Well; I shared my leisure time between Henrietta
and Miss Clarissa Churchill; or rather, I devoted most
of my time to the first, and made the apology of
urgent business as preventing me from devoting more
to the latter.
`O! what a tangled web we weave,
When first we venture to deceive.'
This state of affairs could not last forever—Henrietta
made her brother, my fellow clerk, her confidant;
and one day Mr. Churchill paid him the same compliment,
and told him that I was addressing his daughter
with his approbation and consent. This was a great
error of my life, as old Franklin would say. Here
was an explosion for you. My fellow clerk, Mr.
Knight, on the instant, informed Mr. Churchill of my
engagement with his sister. He asked me—I did not
deny the fact; he informed his daughter; she said
she scorned me for my base conduct—asserted I had
made love to her over and over again, and but in pity,
and because it was her father's wish, she had thought
of accepting me. I did'nt know that I had addressed
her. However, it was all right. The old gentleman
dismissed me at short warning—I flew to my Henrietta
determined to marry her, and live on love. She
let me down the wind, by informing me that on hearing
of my `perfidy,' she had plighted her faith to my
rival. I quarrelled with her brother on the strength
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of it, and nearly added murder to my other virtues;
we fought, and I gave him a desperate wound, and
flew for it. He recovered; and while I was a wanderer
without a sixpence, my kind Clarissa solaced
him for all his suffering by giving my rival her hand—
she now is Mrs. Knight.”
“Mrs. Knight—the lady I know!” exclaimed Pinckney.
“The very she. Knight took my place in the
counting-room, and in the daughter's heart instanter.
A short time afterwards, her hand followed her heart.
Last of all, to end this strange eventful history, the
father's fortune blest their love. There's a tale of
love all round for you, Pinckney, hey—all for love and
a little for the lucre.”
Pinckney smiled. “Upon my word, Langdale, you
are a strange man.”
“No, sir; quite a common-place one.”
“Knight, I know Knight; why he's a very indifferent
fellow.”
“Yes, yes; but it is circumstances, Pinckney, that
have made him so. He has been vegetating upon his
father-in-law's fortune—he suffers as much from the
twitches of gout, as ever I suffered from those of conscience;
and either of the ladies is as happy as I believe
she would have been had she married your
humble servant—and yet we all had our first loves—
—`that all
That Eve has left her daughters since her fall.”'
“And what became of Henrietta?” asked Pinckney
“She is the happy mother of a host of heroes—
that are to be,” replied Langdale, laughing.
“Go on with your history, Langdale.”
“Some other time. I thought I'd give you this by
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way of my experience. Allow me to say this for
myself, though; that afterwards, when Mr. Churchill
became embarrassed, and I had gained a fortune, I
assisted him and saved him from bankruptcy.”
“Do you believe not in love?”
“Not in its martyrdom. Henrietta's conduct shows
you that she had what the world would call towering
pride, and what I would call towering temper. She
leads, I am told, her lord a life of it; had I married
her, we should have realized the happy habitude of
cat and dog, with occasional make-up by way of
variety. They would have come through like sunshine
in a Lapland winter. As for Clarissa, if I had married
her my life would have been a continual mortification
over the flesh and folly of my bride. I like a large
woman, observe you, for my taste is Turkish; but
give me one who has sweetness of disposition, intellectual
cultivation, and ease of manner. I have known
such a one; and were I to tell you about her, I could
prove to you that a second love may be stronger than
the first.”
“Let's hear it.”
“No, no; some other time.”
Pinckney mused in silence, and the conversation
took another turn.
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CHAPTER XIX.
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Now there dwelt in the village of Springdale a
certain widow, in whose bosom the storms of life had
turned the milk of human kindness sour—if the peculiar
temperament of the lady had not soured it at her
birth. Mrs. Maddox was a starch widow, who had
a starch daughter, as renowned for her ugliness and
ungainliness, as was Peggy Blossom for her beauty
and grace. This fact had engendered no very kind
emotions towards Peggy in the bosoms of the mother
and daughter. The feeling was reciprocal; for it
cannot be denied that Peggy was wont to toss her
head with the airs of a My Lady wherever she encountered
Mrs. or Miss Maddox.
Mrs. Maddox and her daughter were the fashionable
milliners of Springdale. Miss Maddox read
novels, and was sentimental and spiteful; qualities
which she inherited, and which, like an estate entailed
in the hands of a careful heir, had not been suffered
to run to waste.
“Yes,” said Miss Maddox to her mother, on the
evening of Bobby's incarceration, as they sat together in
the backroom of their shop; “it's all that hussey Peggy's
fault. She'll come to no good, ma; I know it, and
feel it. Only to think how she cuts up with Mr. Gordon,
Mr. Hardy, and Mr. Hitt. Hitt's a vulgar person,
I know; and I suspect she didn't like him, and put
that abominable Bob up to shooting him.”
“Vulgar person, Lucinda; that's the very reason
that she used to like his visits. He is the most vulgar
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spoken person I ever knew. But he's but a blacksmith;
and you can't expect fur off of a sow's back.
I understand it, my dear. She was all smiles to Hitt
and the rest of them, until Lawyer Lupton used to go
there. She thought he used to go to see her—just
like her vanity, when he went to ask her old grandmother
concerning a boundary line, as he told me himself—
he, he. Yes, she thought she'd catch the lawyer,
and so dropped the others; and Mr. Lupton, as he
told me himself, dropped her. Then she took up with
Hitt, and misled the fool into thinking that she liked
him, and now it's all for Gordon. This aggravated
Hitt, and he spoke her whole character out before the
people this evening; and that caused the fuss with
Bob Gammon. That child is raising this moment for
the gallows. It's so plain to me, that I see him swinging
now.—It shocks me. How I pity that poor,
wretched, old woman.”
“That Peggy has been ruined by the Holly folks,
ma; they have made too much of her. Miss Rachellina
gives her her cast off dresses, and Miss Fanny gives
her new ones, and this has put her above herself.”
“That reminds me, Lucinda, that Miss Rachellina—
such an old thing, to think so much of dressing herself
up,—wants to see the new pattern of a cap I got
yesterday,—what caps that Peggy makes for her; so
I'll put it in a bandbox and call by Mr. Bronson's, and
take his Tom with me, and go to Holly.”
“Do, ma, do; and see what they have to say for
Miss Peggy Blossom—what a name—now.”
Mrs. Maddox accordingly placed the cap in a
bandbox, put on her bonnet, and departed, saying:
“Lucinda, if Mr. Lupton comes, show him how beautifully
you stitched his collars. I told him this blessed
day that they were all your work. Put on your other
cape, my dear, and tye it with the pink ribbon—it
becomes you most.”
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Mrs. Maddox proceeded directly to Mr. Bronson's
store; and after telling him that his prophecies about
Bobby Gammon had come exactly true, she asked
if he would suffer his boy Tom to attend her to Holly.
The milliner and Mr. Bronson, in their respective
vocations, were of great service to each other; and
consequently very good friends. Her request was
therefore politely complied with, and Tom, with the
bandbox under his arm, was ordered to attend Mrs.
Maddox.
Holly was but a short distance from Springdale,
and Mrs. Maddox soon arrived there. She was
shown into Miss Rachellina's especial room, where,
with the profoundest deference, she exhibited the
cap, and expatiated upon its beauties to that good
lady.
“Indeed, Miss Rachellina, don't it suit your taste—I
hope it will, ma'am,” she said, displaying the cap on her
hand, and bobbing it about as though it were on her
head. “Your taste in caps is quite according to the
prints. Miss Blossom, too, is quite a milliner,—poor
thing, indeed she is to be pitied, though it's somewhat
her fault, yet misfortunes never come single.”
“Her fault—what's the matter,” exclaimed Miss
Rachellina, somewhat astonished at the volubility of
Mrs. Maddox, “what's her fault, Mrs. Maddox?”
“Haint you heard it, Miss Rachellina”—
“Heard it! no, ma'am, I have not heard it—what's
her fault, what's she been doing?”
“Then you hav'nt heard, Miss Rachellina, as what
a trouble she's got her poor lame cousin into.”
“Trouble! why no, tell me—do tell me?”
Mrs. Maddox composed her features into a sympathetic
expression ere she said:—
“Why, Miss Rachellina, I know that Miss Blossom
is a great favourite of yours, and I wouldn't say anything
for the world that would hurt the child in your
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good opinion. She is pretty—very, everybody says
that, and they say that your kindness to her and the
many presents you give her, gives her looks and
ways far above her situation in life.”
“No matter what people say, Mrs. Maddock; tell
me, what has she done?”
“Why, ma'am, you must know, that folks say that
she is a great flirt-coquette; and that she trifles with
the feelings of the young men who call to see her,
with the best intentions.”
“What's that to do, Mrs. Maddox, with the present
business.”
“Why, ma'am, give me time; your indulgence, Miss
Rachellina. There be many young men who go to
see her, and she, ma'am,—I only say what folks say,
I don't want to harm her in your good opinion, but
folks say that she has caused somehow or other frequent
quarrels amongst them. This I have heard
over and over again. Indeed, they do say that she
gets sometimes a little above herself. But the long
and short of it is this; that Mr. Hitt, Joe Hitt, the
blacksmith, ma'am, to whom everybody said she was
going to be married, he was there last night, and
they do say she treated him very badly, indeed. She
has involved herself with that scamp Gordon. This
morning, ma'am, Hitt's feelings were so hurt, and it
being election day, he got intoxicated, ma'am, and he
being in liquor asked Bobby what his cousin meant.
Bobby took him up, snubbed him on the spot, and told
him he had no business to come to the house. At
this, as was natural, you know, Miss Rachellina, considering
what had passed between Miss Blossom and
Mr. Hitt, he, Mr. Hitt, got angry, and spoke his mind
out against Miss Blossom. Bobby all the while had
his gun on his shoulder,—a gun Colonel Bentley gave
him, ma'am—it was injudicious to give a gun to such
a boy who, everybody says, is disposed to be vicious.
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Well, ma'am, Mr. Hitt could scarcely turn round before
the boy fired the whole load into him.”
“Terrible!” ejaculated Miss Rachellina; “is he
dead?”
“No, ma'am; but dangerous—very dangerous.”
“Where was he wounded—where was he wounded?”
inquired Miss Rachellina, with intense earnestness.
“Ahem, ahem. Mr. Hitt now turned round, when
the boy fired, and the load, ma'am, nearly half a peck
of buckshot, hit him in the back. Indeed, ma'am, it was
the doings of Providence, for if it had have been before
it would have ruined him forever.”
At this moment there was a tremulous tap at the
door, and on Miss Rachellina saying “Come in!” Peggy,
with a face pale as Mrs. Maddox's cap, entered
the room.
“Peggy, my child, this is sad things, I hear,” said
Miss Rachellina, with much sternness.
Poor Peggy burst into tears.
Mrs. Maddox stood with her cap in her hand, not
knowing what to say. “Not now, Mrs. Maddox, not
now,” said Miss Rachellina, turning away from the
milliner and her cap, and looking compassionately at
Peggy, “my nerves, my sensibilities have been too
much tried. You must call again, Mrs. Maddox.”
The milliner lingered for a moment with the wish
to hear what Peggy should say; but on Miss Rachellina's
repeating, “Not now, Mrs. Maddox,” with a
bow that said as plainly as ever did a regal one that
the audience was over, she felt compelled to take her
departure. As soon as the door had closed on Mrs.
Maddox, Miss Rachellina seated herself in her high-backed
rocking chair, and motioning Peggy to a
seat, she crossed her arms in her lap, and said:—
“Peggy Blossom, this is terrible news I hear of
your cousin and yourself.”
“Of me, Miss Rachellina?”
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“Yes! of you, Peggy; I am astonished; shocked
beyond measure. My kindness to you was founded
upon the opinion that you were a superior young woman.
Not superior as to mere appearance—I do not
mean personal appearance, that is a very fragile and
fleeting quality—but superior in disposition, in conduct,
in that which constitutes the chief charm of the female
character. I am surprised to hear, Peggy, that you
are given to flirtation and coquetry (here Peggy's
astonishment subsided into a sheepish expression), and
in this way—a very common way, Peggy Blossom,
you have caused perhaps the death of two persons.”
“It can't be, Miss Rachellina,” said Peggy; “for
they say Joe Hitt is not hurt badly; and if he is not,
how can they harm Bobby. Besides, if he was, he
threw at Bobby, a poor lame boy as he is, three or
four times, and once like to have knocked him down,
before Bobby fired.”
“Well, child,” resumed Miss Rachellina, “you have
relieved my mind from an oppressive load, if such is
the fact; I rejoice to hear it. Peggy, Peggy, let this
be a lesson to you, let what may be the event. I am
told, much to my surprise and grief, that you suffer
that young man Gordon, whose character is, to say
the best of it, on a very doubtful footing, to visit you
on familiar terms. Peggy, let me caution you; do not
at all encourage that man. I am told it is notorious
that you prefer his company and conversation to that
of any other young man in the village.”
Here Sidney Fitzhurst entered his aunt's room,
and that lady, ere she turned to him, said to the girl,
“I hope I have said enough to you Peggy;” and then,
addressing her nephew, asked: “What news do you
bring, Sidney? you are late; can you tell me of Robert
Gammon's unfortunate case?”
“Yes, aunt; I am fresh from the village, and can
tell you all about it,—I have just had the honour of
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becoming Mr. Robert Gammon's bail; the poor fellow
was in a peck of troubles.”
“Bail! what's that, Mr. Fitzhurst, if you please,
sir?” asked Peggy.
“Why, Peggy, I have become his security for his
appearance at court, for his future good behaviour,
and they have let him out of jail on that condition.
So you must tell Bobby, that if he does not behave
himself I shall have ten times as much money to pay
for him as he has lost.”
“I will, sir! is he out, sir? has he gone home?”
“He has, Peggy.”
“Then good night, Mr. Fitzhurst; good night, Miss
Rachellina,” said Peggy, as she hastened to the
door.
“Good night, Peggy,” replied Miss Rachellina.
“Remember, child,” she continued, impressively
raising her finger, “what I have said to you.”
With a downcast head, Peggy closed the door
and hastened out of the house. Without stopping to
speak to any one she took her solitary way home.
“If I were to meet Jack Gordon,” thought Peggy,
as she drew near grandmother's, “I'd be bound I'd
tell him a piece of my mind. I always had a misgiving,
just like one of granny's dreams, that he would
bring trouble on me.”
The adage, which says talk of a certain person
and he appears, was not verified in this instance, perhaps
it might have been because Peggy was only
thinking. She entered the house without meeting
any one; and beheld Bobby giving an account of the
day's adventure to his grandmother.
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CHAPTER XX.
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Pinckney, in the city, under the constant attendance
of the best medical aid which it afforded, recovered
rapidly.
“Langdale,” he said to his friend one day, “I have
arranged my business by letter, and I shall be in no
haste to leave your city.”
“I rejoice at it,” replied Langdale, “and, Pinckney,
I have certain suspicions that there are attractions
for you here, which the north, with all its allurements
of home, cannot offer you. Do you know that you
talk in your sleep? and that one night when I watched
with you, I made discoveries?”
“Ay! of what character were they? If you had
been laid up about the time of Miss Henrietta's cruelties,
some watching friend might also have made
discoveries in your case.”
“Do you believe in second love?”
“Suppose I subscribe myself your convert, what
then?”
“I should say that you were rapidly recovering,—
that the sound state of your mind was a prognostic
of the sound state of your body. Second love, Pinckney,
upon the heart, is like the moonlight upon Rome,
as your favourite bard has described it.
`Leaving that beautiful which still was so
And making that which was not.”'
“Ah, Langdale,” replied Pinckney, “your quotation
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is poetical, but not true: remember, that the bard
says the moonlight
—`softened down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation.”'
“Certainly,” rejoined Langdale, interrupting Pinckney,
— `and filled up
As 'twere anew, the gap of centuries.'
“That's the idea, my dear Pinckney; all these
`gaps' in the heart on the first love will be `filled up
as 'twere anew' by the second passion. There's poor
Burns who, though peasant-born, had such a capacious
heart for true sentiment—whose songs upon
love are the best and truest that were ever written,
he fell in love with fifty different women.”
“Yes; but do you not believe that his love for highland
Mary—the girl who died, and to whom he addressed
those touching lines to “Mary in heaven”—
Do you not believe that his love for her was the
strongest passion of his heart?”
“He might have thought so; she died after their
loves were plighted, and so strongly plighted, over the
running stream on the Bible, as they were parting.
Nothing occurred—no jealously or suspicion between
them to make one doubt the other. When those
lines were written she was in her grave with associations
of youthful tenderness around her, close as her
shroud—hallowed, not buried by its folds.
`The love where death has set his seal
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal
Nor falsehood disavow.”'
“But, remember, all first loves have not such
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hallowed remembrances, and all lines to Mary are not to—
Mary in heaven.”
Pinckney laughed. “True as the book,” he said;
“I'll tell you, Langdale, and it is strange, as we are
men of such different views of life, that I should wish
to tell you. But `'mid the chief beauties of almighty
Rome' on such a night as the bard has described I
made the acquaintance of a lady who has considerable
influenced my destinies, at least the destinies of
my heart for some time. Though descended from
American parents she was an Italian. She had that
style of beauty; the dark hair and eye, and the voluptious
grace—but I won't weary you with a description
of a loveliness that I thought equal to anything that
sculptor or artist of that fairy land had ever fancied;
you would laugh at me. She was some one or two
years my elder, and knew the world. I have since
discovered this, like one on whom had been particularly
conferred its master-key. I left home for foreign
travel full of deep-wrought sentiment and romance.
After some rough trials, I had received by the death
of a dear relative, a very large fortune, and, like the
o'ertasked labourer when the day of feasting comes,
I plunged too deeply into pleasure, forgetful of the
high hopes to which before I had been sacrificing my
health. Pleasure did quickly, what study was slowly
doing. My energies were prostrated. I wanted an
object in life, and I determined on travel, as I have
said. To Italy I looked as the land on which the
Promethean fire descended. There I promised myself
all that the prospects of the beautiful which one
of our own country's best bard has painted as well as
ever yet did poet paint them. Did you know my namesake,
Edward C. Pinkney, of Baltimore, the poet?”
“No: I have often heard of him; was he a relation
of yours?”
“No, not relations; he spells his name without the
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c; he was a son of the celebrated lawyer. I knew
him slightly. He was one of the handsomest men I
have ever seen. He was older than I—I met him
some years ago when I was in my teens, in New
York. He presented me with a copy of his poems.
They are beautiful exceedingly—gems all. That serenade
of his, `Look out upon the stars my love,' is the
best in the language. It puts one in mind of the two
or three fragments we have of Lovelace, the chevalier
poet of the olden time, who wrote so touchingly to
his mistress from prison:
`Look out upon the stars, my love!
And shame them with your eyes,
On which—thou or the lights above,
There hangs more destinies.'
“How beautiful, hey?—again:
`Sleep not, thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast,
Sleep not, from her soft sleep should fly.
Who robs all hearts of rest.'
“There is the spirit of the loves of the knights of
old in that; and then his piece called `The Health.'
I made his poems my companion. I have been
wandering. I introduced his name to say, that I
looked upon Italy as he has described it in a short
poem bearing that title. Pardon me, if I quote a
stanza or two.”
`It looks a dimple on the face of earth,
The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth;
Nature is delicate, and graceful there,
The place of genius, feminine, and fair;
The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud,
The air seems never to have borne a cloud,
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Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curled
And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.
Thrice beautiful to that delightful spot
Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot.'
`There art, too, shows, when nature's beauty palls
Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls;
And there are forms in which they both conspire
To whisper themes that knows not how to tire;
The speaking ruins in that gentle clime,
Have but been hallowed by the foot of time,
And each can mutually prompt some thought of flame,
The meanest stone is not without a name.
Then come, beloved! hasten o'er the sea,
To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy.'
“There, is not that most beautiful; surpass that
description from any poet!”
“What became of Mr. Pinkney?”
“He died some years ago. A thousand times have
I beneath Italian skies repeated those lines. I could
not woo a beloved one to go with me to `blooming
Italy,' but I thought I had found one there who would
win me to stay. I had no premonitory symptoms. I
took the disease at first sight; perhaps it was owing
to the climate.”
“Ah, you're getting cured,” said Langdale, laughing,
“inasmuch as you can jest with the wounds, they
will eventually heal over without a scar. Nothing
turns the arrow of the blind god aside like a jest,
after all. But, go on; go on.”
“Her parents being from America—she claiming to
be an American woman, though born in Italy; and
speaking the mutual language when I could not
speak Italian; all this, had she not been so beautiful,
would have thrown me into her society. As it was,
every hour that I possibly could, I devoted to her.
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Her mind, naturally strong and highly cultivated; her
manners, though I have thought since, they possessed
no little mannerism and display, were winning beyond
resistance, and her form was such as Pinkney, my
namesake, speaks of in the last stanzas which I repeated
to you. I used frequently to tell her so. I
was a year under her spell. What's the purpose of
dwelling upon what a fool I was; I might have done
so then, but a light has broke in upon me since,
enough to give me an inkling of what a Billy Lackaday
I was.”
Langdale laughed heartily.
“Confound you,” said Pinckney, “your comical
laugh won't let me be sentimental. What a fool I
was to pretend to talk to you on such a subject.”
“Indeed, you were not—believe me, I think you'll
remove the image by an' by. The best way to prevent
its return, remember, is to put another in its place—
but go on.”
“Some other time, Langdale; your laugh has scattered
all my sentimental reminiscences. I could give
you but a history of my feelings. But to probe them—
they are a little sore yet, maybe.”
“You're convalescing. But, believe me, I laughed
in reflecting upon myself, not at you. I think our
characters are alike in many points, but there is a great
difference between them, and in that difference consists
what would make you happy, I believe, as a married
man. That is, provided you did not marry your
Italian love.
“That's a strange remark”—
“Not at all; it is a just one. That fair lady of
`blooming Italy,' I plainly discover, even from what
little you have said, was a splendid—an accomplished
woman—of the world. And from all such deliver me.
She would have spent your fortune—not cared to
have any hold upon your affections, except as she
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could hold some purse, and would have worried you
to death with her whines and waywardness.—Kept
all her amiability for company, and all her fault-finding
for your private ear. Such a woman is worse,
Pinckney, in my opinion, than those of her sex who,
in the world's opinion, are deemed the most worthless.”
Pinckney coloured deeply at this remark. 'Tis
strange when one man of the world meets with
another profounder in its knowledge than himself, how
almost child-like he will frequently become when
with him. His elder's knowledge and experience
place him in the predicament of the schoolboy, who
not only feels that his teacher is his superior in knowledge,
but that he thoroughly understands and penetrates
the feelings of his pupils. Pinckney's confinement,
however, and debility, which affected his nerves,
assisted much in producing at the time a state of feeling,
which at another he would not have believed
was natural to him under any circumstances.
“Understand me,” said Langdale, quickly observing
Pinckney's emotion; “let not your feelings be aroused
for the lady. I mean to speak of your class of worldly
women. And maybe she is not of that character—is
without the rule if she is. She may furnish one of
those exceptions that logicians tell us make general
rules stronger.”
Pinckney remained silent, but he smiled archly,
and Langdale continued:
“I'm held to be a man of the world—but as the
world goes, I flatter myself I am not so much so as the
world thinks—not so much so as the generality of its
good people.”
“You are proverbially so,” said Pinckney.
“Well, then, perhaps I am so heartless myself, that
I want a person all heart, as a friend or mistress, to
make up the deficiency on my part. We love our
opposites, you know—I must confess that I have what
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is called a liking for a man of the world—one who
has travelled and knows a thing or two, and is withal
a gentleman. I have, I say, for such a man a liking;
and for such a woman, an admiration—and that's all.
If I have not the domestic ties about my hearth, I
have their appreciation about my heart the stronger—
you start?”
“Start!” only think of the history of your first love
which you gave me.”
“True, think of it; the antagonist principles were
then fighting in me, which plainly prove I was not a
worldly man. Had I been such, I should certainly
have married Clarissa Churchill; as it was, I never
even courted her, but went in for love. It is true I
may have wavered for an instant, but never when
brought to the point. The vast majority of young
men would not have wavered for a moment. They
would have fawned, the sycophants of Clarissa, and
never once have thought of Henrietta but as a `poor
girl,' which, from being repeated by them in a depreciating
tone, would soon in their minds have
taken its broadest signification, and they would have
got to denouncing her as a `poor girl in every sense
of the word.”'
“You are too harsh, Langdale, in your opinion of
the world; I don't esteem men so mercenary. I
believe that most young people would make any
sacrifice to their affections.”
“Most of them will tell you so; but I believe in
original sin in that respect if in no other. Selfishness
is inborn in us; it is as strong in the young man as in
the old one; but it has different ways of developing
itself in them, because their aims are different. No
really great scoundrel ever made a confession of his
rascality except on his death-bed, or under the gallows,
and then he was for being heroic and dying game.
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I never knew a man yet, who frankly confessed his
vices who had not many virtues. And I never knew
a man who made proclamation that he had all the
virtues, whose vices did not greatly out-number them.
The man who knows himself a thorough-paced scoundrel,
does all he can to hide the least delinquency,
because he fears if one is discovered, it will furnish a
clue to his whole character. The tendency of these
remarks might seem to eulogize a character like my
own, perhaps; but I make them because I know they
are true. I lay my life, this bird of the Italian skies,
and who was just suited for its glories, and pined if met
them—I lay my life she spoke much more plainly to
you about love, and made much freer acknowledgment
of her passion, voluntarily, perchance, than
you could ever wring from Fanny Fitzhurst, though
you had courted her, and she had accepted you.
What we feel deeply, we treasure deeply. Lip service
is easily uttered. And when we are profoundly
good or bad we never tell it; the first from modesty,
the second from interest: but when we would be what
we are not, the lips very easily play their part; 'tis
our actions that betray us. Suppose two streams to
be endowed with language, the shallow one would
no doubt make its ripples tattle to you of its depth,
while the deep one would roll upon its waveless
course, satisfied that it was deep, and wait for the
testing if it was doubted.”
“What, pray tell me, put Miss Fitzhurst in your
thoughts by way of illustration?”
“What caused you to ask me the question? Pinckney,
the condition of a man, as described by Shakspeare,
`between the acting of a heedful thing and
the first motion,' is pretty much like the struggle
between first and second love. Not that the contest
has any ferocity in it:
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`But the state of man
Like to a little kingdom suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.”'
“No,” said Pinckney smiling, “your illustration to
me is not a good one. My notion is, that between
the first and second love there is an intervention of
a blank, an unimpassioned blank; darkness like the
night between two days—that one gradually fades off
like a summer sunset, leaving the highest hopes last
like the highest hills; and that the other rises out of
deepest darkness, long after the past day has gone to
the years beyond the flood. There is no passing
from the one to the other without a long interval of
calm, like night between.”
“You won't admit any thunder-storm through the
night then,” interrupted Langdale, “engendered by the
heat of the previous day.”
“Oh, yes; perhaps a little through the night to
make pure the atmosphere for the second love; but
if there be any through the day, I claim it as a proof
of what my favourite said:
`The day drags on though storms keep out the sun,
And thus the heart will break yet brokenly live on.”'
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CHAPTER XXI.
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After Pinckney had been some weeks the guest of
his friend Langdale, one day, when the inmates of Holly
were assembled round their social hearth, for it
was now generally cold enough for fires, though on
some days they were not necessary, the following
conversation occurred:
“Well, brother, how is Mr. Pinckney?” asked
Fanny.
“He is better,” replied Sidney, “though he has not
been out but once since the day he did us the honour
to dine with us in town.”
“That was a most imprudent step,” said Miss Rachellina.
“I have never thought of it since without
being provoked with you. To invite a gentleman
so much injured as Mr. Pinckney to a house, so damp
and unaired as I know our town-house must be, was
the height of imprudence.”
“My dear aunt, I can assure you,” rejoined Fanny,
“that fires were made in the rooms early, and everything
was comfortable. Mr. Pinckney, in proof of
it, received no injury whatever—not the slightest.”
“I wished Fanny to go with me to our friend
Langdale's and see him, but she foolishly refused,”
said Sidney.
“Foolishly! I think not, nephew. If it had been
necessary for Fanny to go, it would have been from
the necessity proper, not otherwise.”
“Why aunt,” replied Pinckney, “did not all the ladies
on Mr. Langdale's birthday attend a splendid
party there?”
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“Yes, nephew; but remember one of the first ladies
of our city, Mrs. Allan, did the honours for him.”
“Aunt,” said Sidney, archly, “you have called repeatedly
to see Pinckney.”
“There is a difference, Sidney,” replied Miss Rachellina,
bridling, “between the age and situation of
myself and niece.”
Sidney bowed low to his aunt, and then said to
his sister, as if he were determined to teaze somebody:
“I believe Fanny meant to have gone, until she
heard that Pinckney was able to go out, and then she
proposed that I should invite him to the house.”
“There was some manœuvring in that, I confess,”
said Fanny, blushing but rallying, “and, brother, it's in
our family. At least you and I have the gift, for you
have practised considerable diplomacy in finding excuses
for visiting Mr Elwood's lately.”
Sidney looked at his sister, and unobserved by his
aunt and father, shook his head.
“Niece,” said Miss Rachellina with a decided air,
“I have heard you rally your brother repeatedly lately
on the frequency of his visits to Mr. Elwood's. But
there are some things that should not be jested on—
I beg you will drop it. Miss Sarah Grattan is a very
fine girl, considering her advantages. A very fine
girl; but the possibility of her alliance with our family
is not to be even remotely hinted at. This familiar
jesting upon certain subjects takes off imperceptibly
their impropriety in our minds. Your brother's
visits to Mr. Elwood's have no such character
as your jests would imply; yet by your raillery upon
the subject, the impression may be made upon the
servants and upon the neighbours, which would compel
us to treat Miss Grattan coldly,—a thing I should
be very sorry to do.”
“That is what I don't think I shall ever do under any
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circumstances, my dear aunt, for she is the very best girl
I ever knew; and, indeed, she has a great deal of mind.
As for brother, aunt, they say in town, you know, that
he is courting Jane Moreland.”
“A very fine young lady is Miss Moreland; her
family is one of the best in the state, and her fortune is
ample.”
“Who told you that, sis?” asked Sidney.
“O! how very ignorant you are, brother of mine,”
rejoined Fanny. “Mrs. Allan asked me if it were true
the last time I was in town; and so did the Swifts.”
Mr. Paul Fitzhurst was seated in his arm-chair,
apparently reading the newspaper and inattentive to
the conversation. A frown succeeded Fanny's remark,
when the old gentleman laid the newspaper on
his knee, and said:
“There has always been something mysterious
about the intimacy existing between Mr. Elwood and
Bronson, who, some one told me, was to marry Miss
Grattan. I wonder at her choice. Miss Grattan's
father was a highly respectable man; he was a physician
in extensive practice, and a fine companion he
was, too. I knew him well. He married a very respectable
girl, a Miss Gilmore, I think, of an old but
reduced family. Elwood bore in those days a very
bad character; he was held to be a low, dissipated
gambler; and it was a matter of surprise to every one
when the other Miss Gilmore ran away with him.
He and Bronson were always intimate; I remember then
that both of them were held in little repute. Elwood,
however, I have always thought a much better man
than Bronson.”
“I think not, brother,” interrupted Miss Rachellina;
“he treated his wife shockingly. I, in respect to her
family, used to visit her occasionally, and I protest
that the brutality of her husband shocked me. I gave
him a setting-down once that he remembers to this
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day. Bronson, though, is a low creature—and now I
remember, brother, notwithstanding Bronson always
pretended to be pious, there was a great intimacy between
them. It was said at the time that Bronson
had done him some favour—relieved him from a debt
that threatened to deprive him of his farm; that's the
only thing he cares for. I have often repented since,
that when his niece was growing up, I did not show
her some kindness; but I attended Mrs. Elwood's
funeral; and, notwithstanding the awful occasion, Elwood
remembered the setting-down I gave him, and
treated me rudely. This prevented my taking the interest
in Miss Sarah that I else would have done.”
“Aunt, old Agnes, who lives in the old cabin by the
burnt mill, is a very intelligent old woman. I have
heard her say she knew all about the Grattan's; she's
very old—yes, very; she remembers all about your
grandfather, and can tell about the revolutionary war.
I don't like her.”
“She was Dr. Grattan's mother's housekeeper,”
said Fanny, “and she is so full of old romantic notions
that I like to go and talk with her. Why, aunt, she
expresses herself as well as any lady—all the village
people pay her a great deal of respect. She tells fortunes,
and believes in true love.”
“True love,” interrupted Miss Rachellina; “Fanny
you said that just as I suppose that giddy thing,
Peggy Gammon, would have spoken it.”
“Well, aunt, over such as Peggy, and over the village
girls, she has great influence—it is believed she
is a fortune-teller—I like to listen to her; she certainly
is interesting.”
“It is such fortune-telling old women as she!” exclaimed
Miss Rachellina, “who have ruined the happiness
of many a poor girl. Such a worthless fellow
as this John Gordon, for instance, will pay her well,
and then persuade a giddy thing like Peggy Gammon
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to go and have her fortune told. The result is, that
the worthless hag describes him as her `true lover,'
as you, or she would call it, and when he offers himself
she considers it destiny, and takes him.”
“It is recorded of Tom Foote, the celebrated wit,”
said Sidney, “that he, by turning fortune-teller for a
friend of his, Lord Debaral—if I remember rightly—
got five thousand pounds—at any rate, a very large
sum. The lady was superstitious, my lord knew it,
and told Foote, who was a great mimic, and could
assume any disguise, that if he would play the fortune-teller
and describe him exactly to the lady as her
future husband, and the stratagem succeeded, he would
pay him that sum. Foote agreed. The lady sought
to know her fate, and he told it. My lord courted
and won her with her fortune, and paid Foote out of
it. So, take care Fanny how you consult the oracle;
some mercenary gentleman may anticipate your questions,
and purchase the response.”
“I shall be beforehand with the gentleman, brother;
for the first one that I fall in love with I will get you
to invite to Holly; then I will apprize Aunt Agnes
of the fact, describe him to her, fee her well, tell my
gentleman of her skill in palmistry, and when he repairs
to the oracle I shall be described to him to a T,
as the only one who can make him happy.”
“If you have such designs, sis, I advise you by all
means to cultivate the good graces of Aunt Agnes.”
“I have done so, sir. Almost every fine day when
I visit Sarah, we call over by the mill to see her,
when I never fail to give her something; besides
which, I have despatched Pompey repeatedly to her
cabin with flour, butter, eggs, ham, and many other
things; for Aunt Agnes, though she be a witch, lives
not upon air, and therefore are my purposes in the
full promise of accomplishment. You may further
know, sir, that I intend to spend to-morrow with Sarah,
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and that we will certainly call and see, not the White
Lady of Avenel, but the White Lady of the Woods.
, if you promise to come for me in the afternoon, I
promise to intercede and make your future fate bright.”
“Agreed!” said Sidney, “it is a bargain.”
CHAPTER XXII.
The burnt mill of which we have spoken stood at
the foot of the hills, at the termination of a road
which was called the mill-road, but which, since the
fire, had not been used except by Mr. Fitzhurst and
Elwood for farming purposes, or by such wayfarers
and rovers as Gordon and his companion whom
Bobby overheard the night of the husking-match.
The mill was of rude stone construction, and nothing
was left but its bare and blackened walls. The
scenery about it was picturesque. A stream called
the Falls dashed down by it, with its full supply of
water, for the mill-dam was broken down and the
mill-race choked up by deposits from its sides, made
by various rains, and overgrown with reeds.
About twenty feet above the mill, towards what
was once the dam, stood an old log-cabin, formerly
occupied by an assistant of the miller, who attended
to keeping the dam and race in repair. After the fire
he left his humble dwelling, and old Agnes took possession
of it.
Agnes had been housekeeper to Doctor Grattan's
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mother, and her attachment to his daughter was so
great, that at Mr. Elwood's request she removed to
his house when he took the child home, and nursed
her with parental care. Had it not been for her
attachment to Sarah, Agnes would not have staid a
day at Mr. Elwood's. He treated her, it is true, better
than any other person about his farm, but then
she was a white woman, and she was very kind to
her little charge. This did not, however, prevent Mr.
Elwood from using towards her when in his cups the
roughest language. His unkindness to Agnes as
Sarah grew up, and her nurse became more helpless,
increased; and one day, on his telling her that she did
nothing, and that she must be off, she removed to the
miller's cabin.
The Falls, the descent of which was very rapid
opposite the cabin, dashed on wildly over projecting
rocks, throwing its silver spray against their faces,
and forming in their hollows many fantastic eddies
and pools, in which the leaves and pieces of bark and
wood floated round and round, ere they were borne
onward. Above these rocks the stream lay comparatively
quiet and lake-like; and jutting prominences,
covered almost entirely by moss and wild vines,
gave beauty to the view, which, on the right, as you
looked up the stream, stretched out into the valley,
and on the left was bounded by a bold chain of hills.
There had been an inclosure around the cabin, but
it was broken down before Agnes domesticated herself
there; and the wild honeysuckle and wild sweet
brier grew almost up to the very door. A single tall
oak stretched its branches above and over the cabin,
which had the appearance of leaning against it, as if
for support: the ruins of the mill below towered over
the cabin in aristocratic solemnity; its blackened
walls, relieved to the eye here and there by the “parisite”
plant, the ivy, which, unlike parisites in general,
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was giving beauty to what all the rest of the vegetable
kingdom shrink from; but in this it was justifying
the simile of the poet, who, in comparing woman to it,
said, that—
“Like ivy, she's known to cling
Too often round a worthless thing.”
A worthless thing to whom she has sacrificed everything,
and whose worthlessness and vice, in the abundance
of her love, she is endeavouring to hide.
A path from the cabin led to a garden spot by the
mill, which had been formerly cultivated by the miller,
and which was roughly inclosed by what in that
country is called a Virginia fence. It was formed
by laying a number of rails in zigzag manner on each
other. By the corners of the fence, on the outer side,
blackberry bushes and wild roses grew in abundance.
Agnes continued with the assistance of some of her
neighbours to keep the little inclosure free from
weeds, and to raise within vegetables sufficient to
supply her frugal wants. She also cultivated a quantity
of herbs, which were thought to possess greater
medicinal virtues when administered by her than
similar simples purchased from the apothecary.
The morning after the badinage between Fanny
and her brother, she visited Sarah Grattan according
to her promise. Her friend was delighted to see
her, and in much better spirits than usual. Though
the autumn was now far advanced, the day proved a
delightful one—one of those sunny remembrances of
summer, and Fanny proposed that they should make
a visit to Aunty Agnes.
Sarah readily assented; and, unattended, they proceeded
together, following a sheep-path through the
woods to the old woman's cabin.
On rapping at the door, the voice of old Agnes
bade them enter. They did so; and found the old
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woman engaged at her spinning-wheel by the hearth,
in which a slight fire, which she fed from a quantity
of brushwood that lay in the corner, crackled and
sparkled. Agnes was dressed in a homespun frock,
with a plain, but clean cotton cap on her head.
Though very old, she was hale and hearty. Her
countenance expressed cheerfulness, but with an air
of character and decision. When young, she must
have been handsome, for though her skin was wrinkled,
it was evident that it had been fair; her nose was strait,
and her eye blue and bright. Her forehead had fewer
wrinkles than one might have supposed, and her hair,
silvered with years, was gathered neatly under her
cap.
The furniture of her humble room—the cabin had but
one—consisted of a small table, a pair of old drawers,
four old chairs, and a bed. A shelf beside the chimney
contained a few plates and tea-cups with an old-fashioned
tea-pot which had belonged to Sarah's
grandmother. Under the shelf was a tea-kettle, with
two or three articles for cooking. Different kinds of
herbs, together with strings of dried fruit, were hung
by nails to the wall, as were, also, two or three bundles
of wool.
“Come in, dears,” said Aunt Agnes, with a delighted
smile; “it makes my old eyes glad to see you—you
look so young and blithesome. Did you see anything
of my little dog, Benny, as you came along?”
“No, nurse; has he left you?” said Sarah.
“No, child; but I've missed him all this noon. He
followed me out to my garden; my cat seemed ailing,
and I went there to get some catnip for her with the
dew-freck on it; she did'nt seem to like the dried I
gave her; I suspect it had lost its qualities. A merciful
man is merciful to his beast, you know, dears, and
these dumb things are a great comfort to me. I
wonder how Mrs. Gammon's rheumatism is? That
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granchild of her's, Bobby, they tell, is out of his
trouble.”
“Yes, aunty,” replied Fanny, “he is; he was up at
the house yesterday.”
“To be sure the old woman's health is bad, and
when that's bad, nothing appears bright to us; but I
think she ought bear it better; I don't think there is
any evil in the boy.
“He's a little mischievous,” said Fanny, “but we
all like him; he is now going to school in the village.”
“I hope he'll be a comfort to the old woman
yet, if she lives,” said Agnes. “Come, dears, it's such
a bright day, now I've got your company, I'll walk up
the little path, and look at the waters and the woods.
They're gladsome to old eyes: the nearer we grow
to the time when we must leave nature, the more we
like to look upon her face when it is smiling. It
gladdens an old heart, and makes it feel young again.
This, so far, has been a cheerful autumn; we've not had
many dark days yet; I think it will be a mild winter.
It will be a blessing for the poor, particularly for
those in the cities, if it is; I'm hale and hearty for one
of my years, but I can't expect, in the nature of things,
to see many more winters.”
“Nurse, you walk very firm yet,” said Sarah, as
she assisted the old woman to make a step from her
door, and fixed the hood of an old-fashioned cloak
upon her head.
“Oh! yes, dear, I can walk miles yet; but I'm
ninety-three, come next spring.”
With a very light step for one of her years, Agnes
walked between the girls, conversing in a similar strain
to that which we have recorded. They proceeded
up the Falls to where the waters lay lake-like, as we
have described, and seated themselves under an aged
elm, near a clump of willows.
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“How beautiful this is,” said Sarah.
“Yes, dears, I've always liked it. The waters
glide along so quietly here, that they remind me of
my life. Heaven send that it shall not be so wild and
rough in its fall. See the hills there; how bold and
proud they look, like a haughty man upon a humble
one; but up the valley it appears so quiet and calm, and
there's something solemn, solemn,—death-reminding
in the turn and fall of the leaf. It comes like a
warning to be prepared.”
“Aunty, you never go to church now-a-days. If
you can't walk I'll send and have you taken,” said
Sarah.
“Thank you, child; thank you, no; our good minister
often comes to see me. And the variety of new
faces and the changes of things take my thoughts
away—make them wander at church. This is the
very spot, as I told you, where a young girl—I knew
her well when we were young together,—this is
the very spot, they say, where she drowned herself.
Lean over, dears, but mind you don't fall,” continued
Agnes, stretching out her hands as if to hold the girls
as they arose and looked over; “see, it's a deep distance
down, and the water is so quiet there that you
can see your own sweet faces in it. It is said that
ever since the poor thing drowned herself, the
waves grew calmer and calmer. 'Tis true they used
to be rough here, and the old miller, who was a hard-hearted
man, used to say it was because there was
a rock just above this that made the stream break
this way, and that it had been rolled down by the
force of the Falls in a terrible storm to the rocks
below; but the superstitious old folks about maintain,
that the spirit of the poor girl hovered over the place
where she leaped in, and made the waters calm.”
“Oh! I've heard something about it,” said Fanny,
musingly, turning to Sarah; “the poor girl who
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imitated Sappho, without knowing there was such a
person, but who felt all that Sappho has expressed.”
“A character, Sarah, for whom somehow or other I
never could feel much sympathy; I suppose this suicide
first started the idea that the mill was haunted.”
“No, dear,” replied Agnes, “they had not the
idea that the mill was haunted then. It was always
said that her spirit hovered about this spot; but it
was never called an evil spirit. For my part I am
over-persuaded, at least I have got the idea, since I
have been living so much alone, that there are such
things as good spirits and evil spirits; but I believe the
worst of them are harmless to good people, though
they may tempt them.”
“I thought Jane Lovell, as you told me, nurse,” said
Sarah, “was the daughter of the miller. Was he the
hard-hearted man who, you say, asserted that the water
became quiet here because the rock was removed?”
“No, child, no; he was the one who took the mill
after Mr. Lovell, who built it. You must know,
after his only child drowned herself, that he and his
wife, as was natural, could'nt bear to stay, so they left.
The mill and his house, then, were the only places between
this and the village, except, dear, yon place,”
said Agnes, addressing Fanny. “I think, dear, that
the property was leased from yon people, and after
the mill was burnt down, it being not worth the rent,
it went back to them. It was the old miller, a rank
tory, who got the mill from Lovell, that used to have
folks to say it was haunted. They do say it was
haunted by flesh and blood, by some of the tories
that he gave meal to, in the night-time, when they
would steal through the hills here from where the
British lay at.”
“What was this story, aunty, about Jane Lovell?
do tell it to me?”
“Did'nt I tell it to you, children, together, one day?”
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“No, nurse,” replied Sarah, “it was only to me;
tell it again, tell it again; I love to hear it, though it
always makes me sad.”
“That's natural, dear, and bless your heart; I, that
have nursed you, know that you feel for such poor
things. Then, dears, sit one on each side of me.
Mrs. Gammon, you tell me, is better; I am glad to
hear it; health is like a quiet conscience; we can't be
happy without it, but one we may lose, and it may not
be our fault. Yes, I was young as you are, dears, when
I first knew Jane Lovell. It was thought that the
British would take the city; as they lay just below it,
and the country round was full of tories. So, your
grandfather, Sarah, who was a good and true soldier
in the continental cause, sent your mother to Springdale,
which was pretty much such a place then, as it
is now, and I attended her. Some of the old villages,
dears, wear the same face they used to wear,
when everything else is so changed that, when amidst
present scenes, you look back and try to recollect
former ones, it seems impossible, as scarcely a vestige
of them remains to assist your memory. But Springdale
is much the same. I was young then, blithe
of heart, and blithe of limb, knowing no sorrow or
trouble, the world all seemed cheerful to me: but I
lost all that was left to me in that war, before it was
over—two brothers and a father. It comes like a
pride to my old heart, though, that they died in a
rightful cause, if ever fight was rightful.
“Your family then, dear, (to Sarah,) were among
the richest in the land, and your grandmother did
all she could to comfort me; and well she might, for
your grandfather was a soldier, and commanded the
very company that my father was killed in. It seems
strange that the troubles of other people should lessen
our own: but so it is; for when I came to think of
poor Jane Lovell for some time after, I felt it was
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sinful to grieve so much. Poor thing! how she must
have grieved; it was a complete heart-break and despair.
I am old now, dears, but I have been young;
and I can feel for a poor young thing, and I believe
that, to forsake one that loves you, and whom you
have won to love you, is a sin that's set down among
the direst and the deepest. I believe it, and I always
have believed it.
“I knew Jane, as I tell you. She was the merriest,
truest-hearted girl in the neighbourhood; and
she and I grew as intimate as you two; for I spent
with your mother nearly a year in the village.”
“One day the militia had a skirmage with a number
of tories who haunted the hills, and who could
prowl about in the night and rob and steal, and be off
on the swiftest horses. The tories were led by a
British officer, and they got the worst of it, and fled
like cowards, as they were, and left him wounded up
the Falls, they say, not two miles from here. He was
hurt badly; so the militia, by the command of their
officer, made a litter out of some poles that they cut
in the wood, together with coats enough, which they
took off their backs for the purpose, and brought him
towards the village. He was so exhausted by the
time they got to the mill that it was thought he would
die, so they carried him in to Mr. Lovell's, and hastened
off for a doctor.”
“I remember that very day well; for in the afternoon
Jane came to the village and told me about it,
and she said what a handsome man the officer was,
and that she must hurry home, for he might need a
poultice or something else that she might make.”
“What kind of a looking girl, aunty, was Jane?” inquired
Fanny.
“One that was pleasing to look upon: she was
thought as pretty then over all the young girls of the
place, as is Peggy Gammon now. That child
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reminds me of her—only Jane was not so lively, and
was more diffident; besides, she had a good education.
It made me happy to look upon her; nobody envied
her, everybody loved her.”
Here Fanny drew nearer to Aunt Agnes, and asked
her to go on, while Sarah, who had often heard the
story, arose from the side of the old woman, and often
gazing over the bank for a moment with a kind of
mental fascination, resumed her seat with renewed
interest.
“Well, it was a long time before the officer, who
was named Maynard, Lieutenant Maynard, recovered
even so that he could go out; and all the while
Jane's visits to the village grew fewer and fewer.
When she did come she was always talking of the
officer. After he got so as he could go about, he
was put upon his parole, but he continued to board
at the mill, saying that he liked the situation better
than the village. Mr. Lovel and his wife liked him
very much, and were glad of his staying: they were
unsuspecting people.
“Well, then, he staid; and folks who went to the mill
used to observe that Jane cared nothing for company,
and that she was always sitting in the room with the
officer, who would be found reading or talking to her.
On this very spot they would sit together for hours.”
“When Lieutenant Maynard recovered, he was
still upon his parole, and he frequently came to Springdale.
Everybody liked him: there he was thought to
be a fine, amiable young man. He used to call and
see your grandmother, child, (to Sarah,) and she
thought the world of him. Jane, too, whenever she
came to Springdale would call and see me, and her
perpetual talk was, as I have told you, about Mr. Maynard.
Poor thing! I hear her now; with what a fluttering
heart she would talk and talk, and of nothing
but him.”
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“Was he handsome?” inquired Fanny.
“Yes, dear, as handsome as you find in a thousand.
So, one day I taxed her with being in love with him.
She was confused, but she laughed; and asked why
not. I spoke my mind to her. I told her that I did
not think he was in love with her, and that if he was,
did she expect to marry him and to go to England
among his high relations. Such a shade came over
her face! but she said no more, and I felt for her, and
changed the subject. Still Mr. Maynard staid at the
mill; but Jane, when I saw her after this, did not speak
so much of him, and she was not so lively; or rather
sometimes she was more lively, and then she
would get sad suddenly, and leave me.
“Unexpectedly one day, the news came that prisoners
were to be exchanged. Mr. Maynard walked
over from the mill to the village; and, without taking
leave of anybody, he left under the escort of the guard
who were to see him safe to the British lines. This
was about noon. As it grew towards night, Jane
came to Springdale to your grandmother's house, and
asked to see me. I didn't know her at first, she
looked so corpse-like, and her voice sounded as though
it came from the grave. She talked upon indifferent
things for a while, but it was too plain that something
was on her mind. I asked her what was the
matter? She affected to be in a joke, and said that Mr.
Maynard had bid them good-bye at the mill, but that
she wondered if he had gone, and would'nt I just
step over to the tavern for her and ask—that her mother
wanted to know. I told her that he had gone,
for that I myself had seen him depart under the escort.
She said no more; for some time she seemed
bewildered. Then she asked me if I did not think he
would come back. I told her I thought not: when I
said this, she got up and said good-bye, and after she
had passed out of the door she returned, and said:
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“`Come Agnes, let you and I shake hands; for when
two part in this world, there's no knowing when
they'll meet again.”'
“I shook hands with her, and tried to cheer her,
saying, gaily, that I meant to come early in the morning
to see her, and that I would catch her before
she was up.
“`O! I shall sleep sound,' said she, `come, mother
will be so glad to see you.'
“She left me, and her words sounded so strange to
me that I stood in the door gazing after her. She
walked on at her usual step, when she stopped as if
she had forgot something; I advanced towards her,
but she went on, and I entered the house thinking of
her.
“The next day early, though there had been a most
awful storm that night, and the walking was bad in
consequence, I went over to the mill, for I could
not banish from my mind the idea that something had
happened to Jane. As I drew near the mill I met
Mr. Lovell like one distracted; the first word he
asked me was, if I had seen Jane. I told him that
I had not seen her since the afternoon before, and I
repeated all that she had said. He seemed beside
himself. He said that she had been at home until
nine o'clock in the evening, and that his wife said
she then stepped out the door just before the storm
came on, but that she thought she had returned and
gone to bed. They had not seen her since. He
bade me, for God's sake, to go and comfort his wife, and
he would go to the village in hopes of hearing something
of his daughter there. He started on like one
half crazy, and I entered the house. There I saw
Mrs. Lovell; Jane, as I have said, was a good scholar
for a girl like her, and her mother had been searching
the drawers and trunks to see if Jane had left anything
that would tell of what had become of her. She
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discovered nothing; but in a looking-glass drawer
that belonged to the officer she found a lock of her
hair. When I opened the door, and I rapped twice
before I did so, and there came no answer, there was
the mother, standing by the drawer as motionless as
though she had been stone, and gazing on the lock
of hair which she had just taken out of it. When
she saw me, she threw herself in my arms and burst
into tears: it saved her heart from breaking on the
spot. All that I could get from her was, that Jane
had returned home that night, got supper as usual,
but did not eat any, though she made the efforts; nor
did she name Mr. Maynard once. The mother suspected
Jane's feelings, and did what she could to comfort
her, but never spoke of the officer. Mr. Lovell,
she said, was fatigued from working hard all day,
and he lay down on a settee and went to sleep. The
mother said, that she herself went into the next room,
and in looking through she saw Jane kiss her father
on the forehead, and clasp her hands together; that
then Jane entered the room where she was, and kissed
her and said good night. Mrs. Lovell, who was a
simple woman, told her daughter—as she told me—that
was right; that she had better go to bed, and she
would feel better in the morning. Jane, she said, left
the room, and she was certain that she heard her go
out; and until the morning she felt as certain that
she heard her footsteps as she returned and ascended
the stairs. In the morning, surprised that Jane had
not arisen, she entered her room to awake her, when
there was the bed untumbled, with Jane's bonnet and
shawl on it.
“When I entered the house I left the door open after
me, and while Mrs. Lovell was telling me about
poor Jane, their house dog, which was a great
favourite with the daughter, came in, and kept jumping
up and wagging his tail around us, as if to draw our
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attention, and then he would run out of the door; but
finding we did not follow him, he returned and renewed
his solicitations. I remarked it to Mrs. Lovell,
and proposed that we should follow him, she said:
“`Well do, so; for he has been going on so all the
morning; and now I remember he was not in the
house last night where he usually stays, for when I
opened the door this morning he come in and acted
as you have seen him.'
“We followed the dog; he dashed impatiently ahead
of us, in this direction, and as we did not walk fast
enough to keep close behind him, he came to this
very spot, and then returned to us, and came again
here. When we reached this place I looked over
the bank—it has been washed away below since, and
it is steeper now than it was then—I looked over, and
the first thing I saw hanging to the end of a stump,
that stood near the water—the stream was very high
then, remember, for it was swollen by the storm—was
a bit of ribbon—pink ribbon. Though it was all
draggled in the water, I thought instantly it was
the very piece that poor Jane had had round her neck
when I saw her in the afternoon. I was young then—
I thought nothing of jumping down and getting it;
indeed I did'nt think at all but of poor Jane. In an
instant I snatched it loose from the stump, when a part
of it remained, it had caught so fast, and climbing up
the bank, handed it to Mrs. Lovell. Soon as she saw
it she exclaimed, `'Tis her's! 'tis my dear daughter's!
she's gone—gone!'
“'Twas with great difficulty I could get her to her
house. She looked wildly round for the tracks of her
daughter to the fatal spot, but the heavy storm had
washed them all away. There was no trace of her
but the bit of ribbon.
Mr. Lovell returned with several of his neighbours:
he had heard nothing of her, except what was in
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confirmation of our fears. One of them stated that he
had been up the valley, and was hastening home, by
the mill road, late at night to avoid the storm, and
about ten steps from this spot he met Jane. He asked
her whither she was going so late, and she made him
no reply, but passed on. He said the gathering clouds
had nearly obscured the little starlight left, so that
he could not clearly distinguish the person of Jane, if
it was she; that he passed on in doubt, feeling assured
that if it was, she would have answered him had she
heard him, but his doubts were resolved on hearing
her well known voice speak to the dog. This was
all that was ever heard of poor Jane. The storm
that night was awful. I remember it well; and it was
in this storm the old miller who succeeded Mr. Lovell
used to say that the rock was rolled to the rocks
below, and that, according to him, accounted for the
calmness in the waters beside us which always had
been rough before, and which, as is the belief of many,
has never been rough since, in calm or storm, rain or
shine.”
“Aunty, what become of the father and mother?”
asked Fanny, wiping her eyes.
“They could not stay here after Jane's death.
Dears, it was sorrowful to see them. The father
neglected his mill, and the mother just did nothing
but look over her daughter's things and talk about
her. They grew so sad that they resolved to move
into another neighbourhood. The day of the removal
I came over to bid them good-bye, and when I entered
the room there was Mrs. Lovell with the lock
of her daughter's hair, which she had found in the
drawer of the officer's looking-glass. Poor childless
thing! she was folding it up in the bit of Jane's neckribbon
that I had taken from the stump. A mother's
love is next to God's—dear's, it's next to God's.”
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“Where did the father and mother go, aunty?” inquired
Fanny.
“To the city, dear, they became very poor; he
hired out as a miller near by the city, and one morning
his body was found in the mill-race. It was not
known whether he had drowned himself or not—he
drank hard after his daughter's death, and he might
have fallen into the race in a fit of intoxication.”
“And the mother—”
“Poor thing, she went crazy, and was found roving
about the streets, and was taken to the poor-house.
She kept asking for her husband and her daughter,
but, they say, behaved perfectly harmless until the
keeper, who was a harsh man, and who, seeing her
hand closed upon something that looked like a purse,
attempted to take it from her. She then grew frantic,
raving mad, but the keeper insisted upon taking it,
and at last succeeded in doing so; but she died in
the struggle to keep all that was left her of her daughter—
the lock of hair with the ribbon round it.”
Both the girls wept bitterly; Sarah as much, if not
more, than Fanny, although she had heard the sad
narrative often before.
“And the officer!” exclaimed Fanny through her
tears, “was nothing ever found out? what became of
him? maybe Jane left with him.”
“No, dear, it was never thought so: an account of
his marriage with an earl's daughter, and of his promotion,
was republished from a London paper years
after the peace. Perhaps he never heard of the miller's
daughter again, and never thought of her in this
world—but there is another, at whose awful bar he
must hear and think of her—another when the retribution
must fall on him. Children, God is just; justice
is his highest attribute; and if it is, there must be a
future state from whose terrible punishment all those
broad hills cannot cover him. No; they and this
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stream, and these woods, and these lands, and the
very ashes of that house that witnessed their meeting—
her innocence and his guilt—and her poor father and
her frantic mother—will rise up when she rises at the
great day, and bear testimony against him. Merciful
Father!” exclaimed old Agnes, elevating her face and
hands, “I am not certain that he was guilty; let me not
judge thy creatures. Be merciful in thy judgment,
but O! forget not those who, like this poor girl and
her broken-hearted parents, have suffered unto death.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
Ever since Fanny had told her brother of the conversation
she had held with Sarah with regard to her
uncle's wish that she should marry Bronson, Sidney
had been a constant visiter at Elwood's. Previously,
he had occasionally visited Sarah, for he had always
entertained a high esteem for her; but latterly, his
feelings had assumed a tenderer cast—that emotion
which is said to be akin to love proved its relationship
in his bosom, for, imperceptibly to himself, the
latter passion was stealing over him. Sidney's was a
spirit of high and manly impulses. They were written
plainly in his expansive forehead, and in his full, hazel
eye. Inheriting a large fortune from his uncle, and
expecting one nearly as large from his father, he had
received the best education, but had not been brought
up to any profession. His father had wished him to
travel, but Sidney had the domestic virtues too much
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at heart to permit him to wander far from the parental
hearth. The gaiety of the city had but little attraction
for him; he preferred the freer and franker intercourse
of the country. Yet, whenever he sought the
society of the former, he never failed to impress those
who met him with the gentleness and ease of his
bearing. He was not, however, a man to make a
display in general society; he cared not enough for
its applause; yet no one could be more popular
than he was with all who knew him. There was no
false pride or presumption in his character; he was
happy in seeing others happy; those who did not
know him, might take him at first blush to be an easy
man, who wanted decision of character; but a short
observation, when he was tested, would soon show
them their error.
Sidney had been passingly attracted by several fair
ones, but before his heart had been the least touched
something had disenchanted him, not from any waywardness
on his part; but having a quick perception of
the ludicrous, and more knowledge of the world than he
had credit for, he had discovered, without even mentioning
it to his sister, the artifice of more than one
manœuvring mother and fashionable daughter, who
estimated a lover as a merchant does a customer.
Sidney was entirely without vanity; but this, in more
than one instance, he could not but see. In truth, the
secret admiration which he had always felt for Sarah,
without, in fact, knowing it himself, had made him indifferent
to much visiting among the fair. When he
came to hear the general rumour of the neighbourhood,
that Bronson was proffering his suit to Sarah,
with the consent of her uncle, he felt somewhat surprised;
but he soon discovered that Sarah disliked her
suitor, and he thought no more of it but as an idle report.
But when Fanny told him what Sarah had said to her
of Bronson, his kindest sympathies were awakened for
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her, and they soon, as we have said, without his
knowledge, kindled deeper feelings. Sidney was
not accustomed to self-observation, and he generally
gave himself up to his impulses. His attentions,
therefore, to Miss Grattan, under these circumstances,
were likely deeply to interest her. He had, as yet,
never spoken to her of love; for in his own bosom he
had not recognised its existence; but his attentions to her
became daily more and more subdued and gentle.
His eye had learned to follow her's, and after he had
met it, the next moment would find him by her side.
He got books and music for her; when in roaming
through the woods he chanced to meet one of Mr. Elwood's
slaves returning home, he was sure to pluck a
flower, if but a wild one, or a sprig of ivy, and send
it to her. She scarcely ever heard of him, or from
him, that something from himself—a word, or a look,
or a flower, or a piece of music, did not show her that
she had occupied his thoughts: and when they were
together, a thousand little circumstances, the more
effective, as he thought not of them, produced the fluttering
consciousness in her heart. Then the witchery
of his quiet, but devoted manner; the natural cloquence
of his conversation, and the unstudied grace
and beauty of his person, so different from the loathed
Bronson, for she could not but loathe him—her very
sensibilities, which forbade her to hate, checked the
disgust; all these corresponded to make her heart irretrievably
Sidney's.
For the last three weeks Bronson had been absent
from Springdale. He had gone suddenly to a distant
state on urgent business. Almost daily, during that
time, Sarah had seen Sidney without the disgusting
presence of Bronson, and she looked to his return, as
we contemplate a fearful evil awaiting us.
After Pinckney had gone to the city, that he might
be under the care of the physician, Sidney, having
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his time entirely to himself, visited Sarah much oftener,
as did his sister. He roved with her over the farm,
and loved to accompany her to the cabin of old
Agnes. The mellow influence of the autumn, instead
of saddening, gave cheerfulness to her spirit; or perhaps
the autumn had nothing to do with it: the absence
of Bronson and the presence of Sidney made
her happy. Sarah was a girl of genius, of deep and
poetic susceptibilities; and often in her conversation
and strolls with Sidney, she would lose her shyness
and reserve, and betray the deep and impassioned
fervor of her character. It was in such a mood as
this, the very evening after Aunt Agnes had told the
story of Jane Lovell to herself and Fanny, that she
and Sidney chanced to wander to the spot, where,
seating themselves beneath the old tree, she repeated
to him the tale in tones of eloquence and pathos that
surprised him. In fact, her feelings were so excited
that her utmost efforts could not control them, and
they found rent in a flood of tears.
“My dear Sarah,” said Sidney, taking her hand;
it was the first time he had used the word dear to her,
and as he spoke he put back with the other hand her
hair from her forehead; for, in giving way to her
emotion, a lock had fallen over it; “my dear Sarah,
you should not visit this spot if it produces such an
effect on you. Aunt Agnes must have told you the
tale as eloquently as you have repeated it to me.”
Sarah looked up into his face with ineffable sweetness,
and said:
“There's a luxury in wo, we are told, Mr. Fitzhurst;
sorrow breaks from us like the rain from the
cloud, which gathers till it bursts—the bursting of
one makes the sky clearer, and the other the heart.”
As Sarah spoke Sidney played with the tangles of
her hair, and, leaning over her, impressed a kiss upon
her forehead. With a blush, that mantled brow and
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bosom, she arose from Sidney's side without yielding
her hand; he placed her arm in his, and thus together
they entered the cabin of Nurse Agnes.
This was all the declaration Sidney had as yet
made. But Sarah loved, and with a devotion and
constancy which knew no intermission: Sidney's
shadow had rested upon her heart longer than she was
aware. Perhaps much of the timidity and bashfulness
which she had felt in visiting Holly proceeded
from the fear that he would contrast her unfavourably
with the splendid belles of the city whom he
knew. The source of this feeling was in her secret
admiration of Sidney; but it lay unobserved by herself
or by others, deep in her own heart, like the hidden
currents of the fountain, flowing dark and deep, and
solitary and sunless, away from the smile of hope
and light of heaven, which at last breaks out in some
lonely, lovely spot, unobserved by all but one silent
watcher. O! how in the bright day it sparkles, how
many flowers like young affection spring up around
it, how many birds like young hope lap their wings
and lave in its pure gushing waters, and circle over
it in the warm air, and go caroling up to heaven with
their woods not wild, and return to nestle in the trees
that shade it—when, under its holy influence, Nature
becomes a brighter worshipper of him who made it
flow.
Sarah loved: the very association with the unpoetic
beings of her uncle's household had made stronger
her tendencies to the passion, as the virgin ore ripens
deep down in the mine. In her loneliness, her
romantic imagination had formed a thousand dreams
of the holiness and happiness of throwing a woman's
faith and affection upon one worthy of her love.
From the presence of Bronson she revolted at times
with a revulsion that words cannot express; and it
was only in dreaming of the happiness of others
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whose affections found something that they could cling
to, that she forgot for a moment her own melancholy
situation. Alas! the contrast, when truth
forced it upon her, came with the more bitter blight.
From it she could only turn again to romance, to
poetry, to music, to flowers; and from the sense of
ill around her, tax hope to the uttermost. Her intercourse
with Agnes nursed such thoughts; and in
listening to the old woman's tales, she would fain win
her heart to the belief, that her life might be like
some one of the maidens' whose history her old
nurse delighted to tell—a history dark and ominous—
of broken-heartedness in its commencement and impervious
to love, but which ended at last in a realization
of all that makes romance beautiful. Often
would poor Sarah dwelt upon her darker stories, with
the forboding that such was to be her fate, and as often
she would shut them from her mind, and bid Agnes
tell some happier tale.
“It was no marvel—from her very birth
Her soul was drunk with love, which did pervade
And mingle with what'er she saw on earth;
Of objects all inanimate she made
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers,
And rocks whereby they grew, a paradise,
When she did lay her down within the shade
Of waving trees, and dream uncounted hours.”
Now, in the birth of love in a bosom so well calculated
to be its home, it was beautiful to observe
the dreamy and persuading spirit that possessed her.
Everything around her took the colour of her hope.
The falling of the autumn leaf had no sadness—it will
be green again in the spring. The cloud-capt hills
that lie so dark beneath the driving mists of the
morning, will be gilded with the very earliest beams
of the sun, and the birds will ere long haunt them
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with a thousand merry notes. The songsters may
fly, but to no returnless distance. The gathering
leaves and the drifting wood may obscure the sparkling
waters—but they rest not forever there; they are
like the petty ills of life to one who is sure to be
happy—the onward wave will bear them hence, and
they shall return no more; and flowers shall spring
up on the banks by which they passed, and woods
and wilds, and hills and fields, shall rejoice together,
like merry hearts at a festival.
How emphatic the words of the Moor to the gentle
Desdemona:
“But I do love thee,
And when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.”
And are there not actions that speak as loud as
words? Are there not thoughts that the tongue cannot
fashion forth like the heart's speechmaker—the
eye? Does not the tone tell more than the tongue?
How often a careless word comes from an overflowing
heart! a word which, but for the betrayal in its
utterance, and the glare that accompanies it, would
be as idle as the mocking-bird's notes.
When heart speaks to heart in the silence of two
lovers musing side by side, who can give language
to their tenderness? Had speech the power, they
would not be silent.
“But I do love thee.”
How many of Sidney's actions had told this to
Sarah in his language? and though the mere words
had not been uttered, yet through the sunny day, and
by the starry night, she believed that they were meant.
And the breeze came to her pale cheek with a kiss
from the rose, and the starry light of heaven imparted
its lustre to her eye, and the arrowy flash of
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thickcoming fancies gave their swiftness to her blood; the
bird in air its gracefulness to her motions; and the fairy
in the dewy morning her lightness to her step—and the
merriest thing in mythology, and the holiest thing in
revelation, their brightness and purity to her heart.
If love could make of the clown Cymon a dignified
and noble being, it can realize and personify, in a lovely
woman, the angel of our brightest dreams.
And Sarah! how she would sit in loneliness at
home,—but now no longer lonely,—and meditate the
dreamy hours away. She would pause with the
needle half-drawn through the cambric, and watch
the butterfly disporting by on gilded wing, and wish
that the dark days of winter might be delayed—not
for her sake—nature could not, would not darken her
joy—but for the giddy insects. Her heart ran over
with worship of all created things. The worm to
her mind had lost its insignificance—the reptile its
venom—the brute its brutality. Poor Sarah! even
Bronson was a much better man than she had thought
him—the devil is not so black as he is painted.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
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“And so, Howard,” said Langdale, one day after
dinner, as he arose from the table, and taking a seat near
the window, extended his feet across another chair,
while with his finger he struck the ashes from his
segar, “and so you believe in love?”
Pinckney, who had almost entirely recovered from
the effects of his wound, and who had been out riding
before dinner, was reclining on a sofa in the recess by
the window, musingly, but with the complacency of
one who feels the vigour of returning strength in his
veins, was teaching his whiskers, which he had
neglected during his confinement, to assume their
wanted smoothness. He glanced, with a half-humourous
expression, at Langdale, and replied:
“Yes, I believe in love. You, I suppose, think with
the rhyme—
`Love is like a dizziness
It winna let a puir body
Gang about his business.'
I believe in love, and, in spite of some transatlantic
experience, in women, also.”
“You do, hey?” replied Langdale. “They're jades
all, Howard—maybe you may know one exception,
but she is like the phœnix, companionless. Therefore
you observe this love has no `dizziness' for me.
Ha, ha! I delight in studying the sex. They're
thought riddles—I think not. Vanity is their ruling
passion, whether they play or pray—whether they
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sinner it or saint it. Can an inferior woman bear the
pain of a superior, without a but, an if, or an and.
And did ever woman yet forgive a slight?”
“Ah, my dear sir,” said Pinckney, “it won't do;
among older men than I, you must seek for disciples.
Love, you know Rochester said, would cause the Deity
to be worshipped in a land of atheists.”
“Yes; and was there ever a more miserable devil,
and a greater satirist of women, than that very Rochester?”
“Then the greater the compliment, as coming from
their satirist.”
“Think of his life—he was incapable of sentiment;
he lived a life that will not bear repeating—all his
love was sensuality.”
“True; but, Langdale, you've a turn for teazing—
I understand you.”
“No, no; I have told you that matrimony might
make you a happier man, but then that you may be
happier I would have you entertain a just notion on the
subject. Your poets and imaginative men are scarcely
ever happy in marriage. Why? because they
have an exaggerated opinion of the excellencies of
women, which they never realize. Marriage disenchants
such a man; it is your plain, dull fellows who
endures matrimony with patience—'tis a chain at
best.”
“A gilded chain, then”—
“But not a golden one, Howard, and the gilding
soon wears off. However, there are exceptions, I admit.
Some years ago I was descending the Mississippi,
bound on business to New Orleans. We had a
host of passengers on board—as motley a set as
man ever yet met with—Gamblers, horse-jockeys,
preachers, lawyers, speculators, and doctors. Among
them I observed a tall, gentlemanly man, whose
health appeared delicate. We soon scraped an
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acquaintance, and I discovered that he was a Colonel
B—, a Virginian gentleman, of an old family,
who was travelling for his health. He had a friend
with him from the same state. We three smoked
our segars together on the guards, and had a merry
and intellectual time of it. We talked of the high
names of Virginia, with whom the colonel was familiar;
and his anecdote and agreeable conversation,
with his state of health, interested me in him very
much. I more than once discovered him perusing
letters in a female hand, and I took him for a bachelor
who had caught the fever for matrimony, and of
course, as he had become a victim at rather a late
period, that he was far gone. Sunday came. Our
fellow travellers paid very little respect to the day.
Early in the morning some gentleman given to music
struck up his violin, while others seated themselves
at the card-table. These things have since, as I am
told, been reformed. The colonel walked the cabin
observing the players, and listening to the music,
when all at once a sudden thought seemed to seize
him, and he opened his trunk, took from it a book,
and taking a seat apart, he was soon lost in attentive
perusal of it. I observed on opening the book he read
several times an inscription on its title page before
he turned to its contents.
“Towards evening his companion came to me, and,
smiling, said:—`I have a good joke upon the colonel.
' `What's that?' I asked. `He replied, that
when the colonel left home, his wife, who was a pious
woman, had given him a Bible, and that he had promised
to read it every Sunday; but he did not know
it was Sunday, said he, until I chanced to make the
remark, when he stole away from me, and there he is,
you see, studying theology.'
“`What kind of a lady is his wife?' I asked. `The
finest woman I ever met with,' was the reply.
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“I said nothing, but in walking up and down the
cabin, I at last chanced to catch the colonel's eye as
he raised it from the book, and advancing towards
him, I asked—
“`What book is that which interest you so deeply?'
“He blushed slightly as he put it into my hand—
strange that he should blush, hey? and said, `Read
what's on the blank leaf.' I turned to it and read
the following simple line:
“`To J. B—, from his devoted wife.
Susan B—.'
You may think it odd, but from that moment I felt the
deepest interest in the colonel. We became quite intimate,
and when we parted he made me promise that
if ever I went to Richmond, where he lived, I
would call on him, and we exchanged hands. Last
year in going to the Springs I went to Richmond, and
doubtful if the colonel was living from the state of his
health when we parted, and anxious to renew our acquaintance
if he was, I made inquiry for him, and
found that he was in town with restored health. I
sent my card, and he instantly called, and with true
Virginian hospitality, insisted that I should make his
house my home while I staid. I could not resist. I
found his lady a most fascinating and lovely woman.
Pious, without a touch of fanaticism; cheerful, without
the least frivolity; intelligent, without the least
taint of blue—a pattern of all that becomes a woman.
I understand, indeed, from his own lips, that she had
reclaimed him from a most dissipated life; and his
neighbours told me that the change for the better
which she had wrought in him was radical and almost
miraculous. I have not for my own mother more respect
than I have for that fair Virginian. I really
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felt a respect approaching awe in her presence—the
only woman who ever touched me with a shadow of
such a feeling. On leaving them, I could not but tell
her that she was more than a Roman matron—she
was a Christian one. The fact is, Pinckney, I cannot
bear irreligious women: a sense of religion is to
them a sheet-anchor amidst the allurements and vices
of society—without it they are adrift, and are often
taken as a waif.”
“I agree with you,” replied Pinckney, musing.
“How beautifully the poet has spoken of women:
`Not she with treacherous kiss her Saviour stung,
Not she betrayed him with unholy tongue,
She when Apostles shrunk could danger brave,
Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave.”'
“Ha, ha! treacherous kiss,” repeated Langdale,
“do you ever court the muse, Pinckney?”
“I have courted them as I suppose every young
man has, but I've a poor knack at rhyme.”
“I was given that way when I was at your age.
Some lines that I wrote to a fair lady once, in the
Tom Moorish style, upon `blushing' and `kissing,'
involved me in a duel that nearly cost me my
life.”
“Where are the lines? how was it?”
“Some years since I met a fair lady at the Springs,
who was a beauty, a coquette, and all that kind of
thing; and once, in a moon-lit ramble, I desecrated her
virgin lip—heaven save the mark! she taxed me with
being impudent—and asked me if I ever blushed. In
reply, I wrote the verses I speak of. Well, we parted,
with nothing between us, as I believed, but the harmless
kiss, and I thought no more of her. Some two
months afterwards I received a tender epistle from
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the lady, who lived some three hundred miles off,
couched in the kindest terms, and intimating very
plainly that she considered herself engaged to me!
Well, having no idea of being `blest upon compulsion,
' as Tom Moore says, I replied in as gallant a
strain as I possibly could under the circumstances,
stating that I had no idea that there was such happiness
in store for me, and that if ever the consummation
of my bliss occurred, it must be in leap year.”
Pinckney laughed heartily. “And what then?” he
asked:
“With the return of post came her brother, post haste,
with a friend. The friend waited on me; and, presenting
the fatal lines, inquired if I was not the author
of them; and if I had not addressed them to the
lady.
“I confessed that I had addressed the lines to the
lady, but I protested that I had not addressed her in
any other way.
“He assured me it was no jesting matter, and forthwith
handed me a challenge; at the same time remarking
that he should be happy to accommodate
the matter. I expressed my great willingness to have
it accommodated, and asked him in what way it should
be done. He replied it would give him great pleasure
to act as my groomsman. I told him I was obliged
to him for such a friendly offer upon so short an
acquaintance, but that I had no idea of matrimony.
He then peremptorily said there was no backing out;
that I must fight. I tried to ridicule him out of the
affair. He took it in high dudgeon, and said I would
certainly be posted. I prepared pistols and coffee
for two, and we accordingly met on the ground. I
remonstrated; but the lady's brother and the gentleman
who wished to be my groomsman insisted upon
the duello. I stood two shots from the furious brother,
firing each time myself in the air. His second shot
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struck my watch, and, as Judge Parson's said, `time
kept me from eternity.' He insisted upon another fire,
and my patience became a martyr for my life and
died a violent death. I grew angry, and determined
not to waste my saltpetre like the fragrance of Gray's
flower on the desert air. I used to be a capital shot,
and on the third fire I maimed my brother-in-law
that would be, in his right arm, and so the affair
ended. The sacred nine were frightened by the report
of our pistols, and have never visited me since.
“The lines,” said Pinckney, “the lines.”
“Here they are,” replied Longdale, advancing to
the book-case, and taking them from a private drawer.
“Here they are, in the identical condition in which
I gave them, and in which they were returned to
me.”
Pinckney opened the gilt-edged note which Longdale
handed him, and read as follows:
TO—, WHO, WHEN I KISSED HER, ASKED ME IF I
EVER BLUSHED.
“O! yes, I know what 'tis to blush,
I've often felt the feeling,
The sweet confusion of its flush
O'er every feature stealing.
But then, dear maid, I've such a face,
So dark I can't reveal it—
For, though I know I feel the grace,
'Twould seem that I conceal it.
But you are like, with such a hue,
Yon cloud of purest white,
Where heaven's own smile is stealing through
With all its rosy light.
Dearest! I love thy kiss to woo,
And think thee like the flower,
That droops its head, yet yields its dew,
To the warm sunbeams power.
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And when I press thy lips to mine,
I love thy censuring themes—
Fairest! from a brow like thine
How sweet forgiveness beams.
Believe me, I thy sweet lips press,
As saints would press a shrine;
I feel thy willing power to bless,
And wish that power were mine.
If yielding's wrong, thy fairy brow
Can blush away the harm;
We veil the shrine when'er the vow
Would violate its charm.
Nay, dearest, do not be afraid,
And yet seem something loath;
And while I'm kissing, gentlest maid,
Be blushing for us both.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Pinckney, “the lady must have
thought that there are as many kinds of declarations as
there are puffs, according to Sheridan's critic. As
this could not have been the declaration direct, it
must have been considered the declaration preliminary.”
“No, it was considered the declaration direct.
The lady's susceptibilities were quick, almost as quick
as her's whose hand a gentleman, when assisting her
into a carriage, chanced to press with the harmless
intention of preventing her from slipping. `O! la,
sir,' said she “if you come to that, you must ask Pa.”
“What became of the lady?” inquired Pinckney.
“My volunteer groomsman, no doubt, knew that
there was good reasons why she ought to be married,
and as he could not get me to take her, he made me
happy by proxy, and took her himself; there was a
take-in somewhere, you may depend upon it.”
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CHAPTER XXV.
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The servant here interrupted the conversation
between Pinckney and his master, by informing the
former that Mr. Fitzhurst's carriage was at the door
waiting to convey him to Holly.
“Come, Langdale, will you not accompany me?”
said Pinckney, as he arose.
“Thank you; no, not now; but your friend, Sidney,
has been pressing me to call out and see him, and
while you are there, I shall avail myself of the invitation;
make my respects to the ladies, particularly to
the fair Fanny; and remember, when you come to
town, I shall feel hurt with you if you do not make
my house your home, at least while Fitzhurst's town-house
is unoccupied. Guard your heart, Howard, if
you have any respect for bachelorism.”
“I intend to do so,” replied Pinckney, in a gay
tone. “`My heart's in the Highlands,' as Burns says,
“and I am going to take charge of it.”
“Keep close watch over it,” said Langdale as
he followed his friend to the door, “or it will refuse
to quit the Highlands with you, though you went
wandering in search of the t'other fair one that you
wot of.”
Pinckney grasped his friend warmly by the hand,
and, bidding him adieu, entered the carriage, which
soon dashed away under the guidance of Pompey.
Pinckney was alone in the carriage, and reclining
back in luxurious ease, he gave himself up to a
thousand cheerful imaginings. Just as the very
last rays of the sun had hidden themselves behind the
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hills, the carriage entered the lane leading to Holly.
As the wheels moved almost noiselessly along, Pinckney
leaned forward, and asked Pompey if there was
any company at the house. Pompey checked his
horse to a walk, and replied, “Yes, Master Pinckney,
there be one of young master's friends there, that be
come from the inferior (interior) of the state; he's
been there three days.”
“What's his name, Pompey?”
“Mr. Bradley, sir; he be an old friend of young
master's.”
“I've heard of him,” said Pinckney to himself.
“He is the one of whom Sidney speaks praisefully;
a beau, and a man of intellect, and all that. Go
on, Pompey,” he said aloud.
Pompey cracked his whip, and in a moment more
the carriage whirled around a grass-plat, in the
centre of which stood a holly-bush, and Pinckney
alighted. He entered the house without rapping, for
he was intimate enough with the household to waive
all ceremony. He passed along the hall, intending
to enter the usual sitting-room of the family. As he
did so, he glanced into a large withdrawing room,
and there beheld Fanny promenading—leaning on the
arm of a very handsome man, whom he had no doubt
was Mr. Bradley.
Pinckney started, and the feeling which shot through
his heart convinced him that of late he had not practised
self-examination. Not thinking exactly what
he was doing, he passed on in the direction of the
chamber which he formerly occupied, when the
voice of Fanny arrested him.
“Mr. Pinckney!” she exclaimed, “did you not see
me?”
“See you,” said Pinckney, recovering himself, and
with an air of gallantry, “to be sure I saw you, Miss
Fitzhurst, and should have felt your presence though
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you had been surrounded by Egyptian darkness. I
passed by that I might make my toilette fit for your
presence.”
“Still ceremonious; I am glad to see you looking
so well. Mr. Pinckney, allow me to introduce you
to Mr. Bradley.” The young gentlemen saluted each
other, and Fanny, still holding Mr. Bradley's arm,
asked:
“How is Mr. Langdale?”
“Well; and he loaded me with compliments to
present—”
“O! he's completely harmless. I suppose now, that
he has had you in care so long, you have returned,
if possible, less romantic, and less of a believer in love,
than ever?”
“Quite the contrary: I have been vindicating the
tender passion so warmly from his assaults and
stoicism, and thinking so much of you, that my heart
has turned to tinder, and a single flash from a bright
eye will set it in a blaze.”
“'Tis lucky for you, then, sir,” said Mr. Bradley,
“that the twilight surrounds us.”
“Yes, sir; but you must remember, that in this
fair presence the twilight has not always surrounded
me; and though it did, that there are some spirits
who
`Move in light of their own making.”'
So speaking, Pinckney bowed and repaired to his
apartment, where much of his apparel had been left.
“A fair spoken gentleman, Miss Fitzhurst,” said
Mr. Bradley, in a cold tone, as Pinckney's footsteps
died away in the passage.
“And a fascinating one, Mr. Bradley,” replied
Fanny, in a musing manner.
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“Whiskers, and all the et cetera of a travelled
gentleman, I discover.”
“Yes, sir; every one of them, except their vanity
and passion for telling of foreign sights.”
“Very much of a man of the world. Is he callous
to beauty and to love?”
“He says so,” said Fanny, still musing.
“Your brother has spoken much to me of him.”
“O! brother thinks him past all parallel.”
“What a confiding spirit your brother possesses;
he flings his friendship with as much reliance upon a
friend, as would a woman upon a lover after long
years of trial and observation.”
“Flings!” exclaimed Fanny, passing from her
musing tone, and unconsciously releasing her arm from
Bradley's; “upon my word, Mr. Bradley, you pronounced
that word `flings' as though you were about
to add, immediately afterwards, `his friendship away,'
and then the tone of sarcasm in which you are pleased
to indulge, has not been for the first time erroneously
applied, though never more erroneously.”
Bradley bit his lip, and asked Fanny to take his
arm, which she declined, saying, she must prepare
for supper.
“You wish to arrange your toilette for Mr. Pinckney,
do you?” he said.
“Certainly, Mr. Bradley; as Mr. Pinckney pays me
that compliment I must return it,” and she withdrew.
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CHAPTER XXVI.
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
When Pinckney entered his apartment he threw
himself into a chair, and soliloquised:
“Well, the state of my heart is like that of a person
who inhabits some romantic apartment, and who
thinks he knows all its appurtenances—its whole condition—
when suddenly a hidden spring is touched in the
wall which discloses to him scenes that he dreamed
not of—breathing glowing pictures where he dreamed
there was nothing but the cold marble. Ha! my
heart was stone, thought I—a petrifaction brought
about by Miss Clara Atherton's unworthiness, and
never to be impressed again—when lo! at the word—
no, the look of another—the marble melts, the rock
gives forth the waters. Is it smitten but to flow fruitlessly?
If I have not lost my sagacity, this Mr. Bradley
has designs upon Fanny. But it is all folly; why
should I yield to such feelings? I had given them up—
I must aim at some object in life; as it is, I am tossed
about by every wayward circumstance and impression.”
While Pinckney communed with himself, he arranged
his toilet with more care than a disregard to
the fair presence he was about to enter would warrant.
The servant rapped at his door to announce
tea before he left his mirror. Tea was scarcely
over when a couple of carriages drove up to the door,
and a number of Fanny's city acquaintances entered the
house. They were her intimates, and had come sans
ceremonie, as they said, to make a social party. In
the withdrawing room they formed a brilliant
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circle. In spite of himself, Pinckney was abstracted
and silent. Bradley kept close to Fanny, and was
evidently exerting all his powers of address to please
her. Pinckney could not but confess to himself, as
Sir Lucius O'Trigger says, that there was a great
probability of success about him. Fanny was in
high spirits, and Pinckney attributed it to the presence
of Bradley.
Miss Moreland and Colonel Bentley were of the
party, and a short time after their arrival, Sarah Grattan,
who had been sent for by Fanny, entered the
room. Pinckney took a seat beside her, and they entered
into conversation, but their thoughts wandered
from each other; for Sarah could not but perceive
that Sidney was apparently deeply interested in Miss
Moreland, with whom he was conversing, while
Pinckney had not yet gained his self-possession.
With a searching eye he glanced at Bradley, and discovered,
as he thought, something in his manner that
implied a consciousness of Pinckney's feelings, and of
his own powers of pleasing.
In a morbid mood, Pinckney rose and left the room.
He passed out of the house, notwithstanding the chilliness
of the evening, sauntered forth under the noble
oaks that formed an extensive park beside the mansion.
“What a fool am I,” said he; “where is my boasted
self-control? gone to the winds. Am I really in
love with Fanny? This Mr. Bradley thinks so, 'tis
evident; and what a conscious air of success he bears
about him. I found her hanging on his arm—he is
an old acquaintance—has been here for days, and—
yes, thinks himself successful. I thought I had created
an interest in her feelings, and while I thought so
I forgot to examine my own, and deemed them but
passingly awakened. My senses are not in the best
plight, and this night air won't string them anew. This
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Bradley is a man of manner, and, they say, of intellect.”
As this last thought passed his mind, Pinckney
entered the house, paused at the drawing-room door,
and then passed on into the library. He stood leaning
against a book-case, in deep abstraction, when
the door opened, and Fanny entered.
“Ah, Mr. Pinckney!” she exclaimed, “what makes
you such a truant from gay company.”
“Listen to me, Miss Fitzhurst, but for one moment,”
said Pinckney, as he gently closed the door;
“but for one moment.”
The impassioned tone in which he spoke produced
an instantaneous effect upon Fanny; the lively expression
of her countenance became subdued, and
she looked on him with emotions, in which there was
evidently some surprise.
“Miss Fitzhurst, listen to me: I cannot control
my feelings, why should I hide them. I have been a
wanderer, you know, in other lands, and there for a
passing hour I deemed my feelings interested; they
were interested in one who soon broke the charm. I
left Europe with the conviction that the shadow of
the wing of love, not even upon his flight, should ever
cross my heart again. I held it a romance which
thereafter was to be to me like the bowl that was
broken and the wine that was spilt;—a romance that
pleased me but for a moment, and left me the next to
feel, but more keenly, the dull reality to which sober
truth abandoned me. Since then, I have made a jest
of love and of myself, for fancying that I was possessed
of the emotion—yes, made a jest of it until I
saw and knew you; and even then, I struggled with
my own heart as man never struggled. I cultivated
the stoicism that Langdale inculcates, and tried to
hug it to my heart, as a miser would his gold. I
struggled in vain: there was a fair image there that
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melted the icy philosophy. I saw you to-night; I
saw another attentive to you, and the truth—the full
conviction of the state of my affections—rushed upon
me with a force which I could not resist or conceal.
I have been wandering this half hour in the park,
trying in vain to school my feelings into something
like a fitness for society. I could not—I could not.
I repaired hither to look at some old sentence of
philosophy, and catch the feeling, when you—the
bright creator of all this tumult in a heart I deemed
callous to your sex, entered. Forgive me, I know I
have been hasty; but as you—but, Miss Fitzhurst,
as you value the peace of mind of another, think of
what I say when I declare how much I love you.”
At this moment the library door opened, and Mr.
Bradley appeared.
In the meantime the feelings of Sarah Grattan, who
still sat in the withdrawing room, were as disquieted
as those of her late companion. Colonel Bentley had
taken Pinckney's place when he left the room, and,
being fond of teasing, and not indifferent to Sarah
himself, and suspecting her interest in Sidney, he
said:
“I suppose you have heard the news, Miss Grattan?”
“What news, colonel?” she asked.
“Why, that our friend Sidney is to marry Miss
Moreland.”
“Ah,” said Sarah, faintly; “yes, yes—is it so?”
“A fact I have every reason to believe.”
At this moment Miss Rachellina, in all the dignity
of antiquated maidenhood, approached them in her
way to the other side of the room, and the colonel
said to her—“Miss Rachellina, I am just telling Miss
Sarah of the news; I am surprised she has not heard
it, and she seems surprised at hearing it.”
“What is it?” Colonel Bentley.
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“That my friend Sid is to change the name of Miss
Moreland.”
“I don't see why Miss Grattan should be surprised,”
said Miss Rachellina, sharply, for at the moment
Fanny's jests with her brother with regard to Sarah
arose in her memory; “I don't see why Miss Grattan
should be surprised, I am sure it is a most desirable
match in every respect. Miss Moreland's family is
highly respectable in every way; her connections are
all among our first people; she has been brought up
in the very best of society, and is an accomplished,
fashionable, and beautiful woman.”
So speaking, with a stern glance at Sarah, Miss
Rachellina passed on. A few moments afterwards
Sidney went up to Sarah, and said to her that arrangements
which he had been making with Miss
Moreland to pay a visit to some of her acquaintance
with her for a few days, had prevented him from taking
a seat by her sooner, when Miss Rachellina called
him to her, and gave him some commission to execute
in another room. Sarah's heart sunk within her.
Colonel Bentley, not suspecting the depth of her emotions,
but observing her ashy paleness, supposed she
was seized with sudden indisposition, and exclaimed:
“Bless me, Miss Grattan! you are ill.”
“Yes, sir; yes—rather so. May I take your arm,
and will you walk with me into the open air for a
moment? the room is close—I shall recover myself in
a moment.”
“Certainly, certainly;” and the colonel assisted
her out of the room. Arrived in the entry, she begged
him to wait for a moment; and hurrying to the
chamber where she had deposited her bonnet and
cloak, she returned, and, taking his arm, went out into
the air.
“I really wish that I were at home,” said she. “I
feel, indeed, ill.”
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“You had better enter the house, Miss Grattan, and
go to a chamber, and lie down.”
“No, no; I thank you—no. Colonel, is not that
carriage there, with the lamp burning, the one in which
you came out?”
“It is,” Miss Grattan.
“Do—do, then, in pity's sake, let your driver take
me home.”
“Certainly; if you wish it I will accompany you,
but had you not better remain here?”
“Indeed I must not; my uncle will expect me.
You need not accompany me.”
“It gives me pleasure, if you will go,” said the
colonel, and he handed her into the carriage, and gave
the driver directions.
Before they arrived at Mr. Elwood's, Sarah, by a
powerful effort, had somewhat rallied her spirits.
She contrived to say, in a tone of cheerfulness, that
she was much better as they drove to the door, and
the colonel, after handing her in, and lingering for a
few minutes, bid her adieu.
Sarah followed him to the door, and requested him
to make apologies for her to Fanny. He promised
to do so, and the coach drove off. Sarah stood unconsciously
gazing after it, when her uncle came up to
her, and said:—
“Sarah, you're soon home; suppose you got tired
of the flummery there, child. I got a letter from Bronson
to-day; he expressed bushels of love for you. He
pressed me very much upon your marrying him.
Come, girl; come, now; don't dilly-dally so; say
when.”
“Uncle, in mercy spare me upon that subject.”
“Spare the devil, Sarah; I tell you it must be.
Now, that's a good girl; say when.”
“Spare me now a little while, and you may dispose
of me as you choose,” said Sarah, in an agonised tone,
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and she passed into the house, and, lifting a light,
repaired to her chamber.
Poor Juliet in her agony was not sadder than
Sarah that night. She took her needle-work, and
tried, by a strong effort, to compose her mind; but, alas!
the mournful tales of blighted love that Nurse Agnes
was so fond of telling her, rose so vividly to her
memory, that they seemed to pass between her and
the wall, as though she were sitting at a play—more
as though she witnessed the reality. Her mind particularly
dwelt upon the story of Jane Lovel—her
fearful end, and the desolation that fell upon her parents,
and their deaths seemed to press like a weight
at her heart. Sarah often attempted poetry, though
she was too modest to show any of her attempts to
even her nearest friends. The following fragment
which she blotted with many tears as she wrote it,
and thus found in weeping some relief, may, perhaps,
dimly shadow forth to the reader her emotions. They
were written some days after this event:
He never said he loved me,[1]
Or vowed to me a vow;
Yet, when I recollect his smile,
Methinks I hear him now.
For he would tell of those who loved,
And tell their tale so true,
And gaze upon me when he told,
As if he meant to woo;
And if he wished that I should love,
Would he not love me, too?
For he would ever talk of love,
And say true hearts should be
An echo of each other's thoughts—
A ceaseless constancy.
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And he would take my hand and smile,
And say 'twas passing fair;
And when I bowed my head to blush,
He'd part my braided hair,
And whisper burning words to me
As fervent as a prayer.
He'd tell me of the poet's tale,
Which is but told to prove,
Why the maid should love forever,
And marry with her love.
Thus, when he told what happy thoughts
Into my heart would steal,
Methought, too, that his very look
Did happy thoughts reveal;
But maybe love's a phantasy
That only maidens feel.
I recollect the evening well,
The moon was bright above,
And heav'n, and earth, and all around,
Seemed telling of their love.
He told me of two parting lovers
Allotting such an hour
To bless the light of yon far star—
And by its loneful power
To vow their hearts in every fate,
Whatever storms might lower.
We roved along the clear stream's side,
Down by the aged tree—
The moonbeams o'er the rustling leaves
Seemed to flit and flee.
And thus, all tremulous the wave
Mirrored the light above,
Like one who feels, yet fears to tell,
Her early hope of love;
Yet wildly will her young heart beat,
As the trembling ripples rove.
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And further down, the shadeless wave
Received within its breast
Heaven, and all its hosts of stars,
Like love when all confessed.
Thus is it that our wayward life
Is like a wayward stream—
There, and not a ray can pierce,
And here, there's but a gleam;
While further down, the cloudless wave
Reflects a cloudless beam.
Here and there a meteor star
Fell from the holy sky,
As hope that is not fixed in heaven
Is always sure to die.
I've thought since, in a musing mood,
Of treacherous memory,
The lover's star it was that fell,
And love no more should be.
Many a night I'll see it yet,
But there's a cloud on me.
The merry stream was rippling on,
It seemed a living being,
Glorifying him above—
All-knowing, and all-seeing.
It stole along, in waveless haste,
Over the maiden's sleep,
Under the rock, and by the willow,
Rolling dark and deep.
'Tis said, her spirit rests at last,
And has forgot to weep.
I, weeping, told the maiden's tale,
And pointed out the willow
That weeps forever o'er the fate
Of the love forsaken's pillow.
In tenderest tone he told me
I should not seek the spot,
That my heart would be too mournful
If thus I mourned her lot.
But now I'm there the live-long day,
Remembering—but forgot.
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Oh, God! and when I view the stream
A rolling on in peace,
Methinks that if I slept with her,
My troubled thoughts would cease;
For it ever seems to woo me—
That quiet, holy stream,
And for me it has no false smile,
And there I could not dream.
I am not what I used to be,
Alas! I cannot seem.
'Tis said, that she he seeks to woo
Is fairest of the throng,
And gayest in the laughing bowers
Of revelry and song.
He used to braid wild flowers for me,
But now, with altered tone,
He tells how soon the flowers will fade,
And what a splendid zone—
And vows he never loved but her,
And loves but her alone.
My hope has been a late-born flower
Nipt by an early frost,
When the flower was blooming brightest
All its bloom was lost.
The maid who builds the airy dream,
Forgets it must depart—
The bird will fly the drooping flower,
And hope the broken heart.
I feel I am an orphan now,
With the abiding sorrow,
That I am all forlorn to-day,
And must be so to-morrow.
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'Tis said, that hope is everywhere,
Even with the broken-hearted—
It smiled upon me when we met,
Where was it when we parted?
The fairest flowers we know must blight,
The earth is tempest riven,
The maiden gives her heart in love—
When given, all is given;
Though earth forsakes the broken heart,
There's always hope in heaven
eaf386v1.n1[1] The author deems it but justice to himself to say, that this fragment
was written several years ago, and before he had seen the beautiful song
entitled “He never said he loved.”
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CHAPTER XXVII.
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As twilight gathered in on the evening of Sarah's sad
return home, a humbler personage of our tale, Peggy
Blossom, might have been seen emerging from the
cabin of Aunt Agnes. Her face wore a melancholy
expression, and she looked round as if she were surprised
it was so near night. Her grandmother was
ill, and had frequently expressed a strong desire to
see Agnes, saying, that the cheerful voice and conversation
of the old woman would comfort her. Aunt
Agnes had promised to visit Granny Gammon the
next day. With a quick, but not as cheerful a step
as was usual with her, Peggy trod along the old road
by the mill. To beguile the loneliness of the way,
she carolled forth, as if with a light heart, the following
song, which was known in Springdale as the
composition of a drunken shoemaker, just such a
“Souter Johnny,” as Burns has described in his Tam
O'Shanter.
THE MERRY MILLER.
“O! my mother's always scolding
At the miller in the glen;
And my father, he just calls him,
The very worst of men.
But I've seen the merry miller,
And the miller has seen me;
But not through father's specs, my Joe,
Did I the miller see.
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O! I've seen the merry miller,
I met him in the glen;
And the stars that shone so brightly,
They only know the when.
And the stars that shone so brightly,
They will not tell the tale;
But I've seen the merry miller,
And true love shall prevail.
The leafy tree was o'er my head,
And I was in my pride;
The stream was smiling at my feet;
The miller by my side.
But one short day the mill shall stop,
While off to church we steal;
And leave my mother scolding there—
A scolding for her meal.
But one short day the mill shall stop,
And then my merry mill,
Click, clack, the busy wheel shall go,
And tick shall go the till.
O! merry is the mill, my Joe,
And merry rings the siller,
And merry is the miller's wife,
And merry is the miller.”
As Peggy was humming over for the third time the
last verse of the song, she heard footsteps behind her,
and, on turning round, Jack Gordon stepped up to her,
and said:
“The merry miller, and the merry miller's wife;
I suppose that's Hardy and yourself, Peggy?”
“And suppose it was,” replied Peggy, in a careless
tone.
“But by —; I won't suppose it was,” said Gordon,
angrily; “Hardy would do like Joe Hitt, all he
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could to injure Bob; and I did all I could to save
him, and I expect other returns for it.”
“You must go to Bobby for returns, Mr. Gordon;
I have none to make.”
“None to make! I have, then. You must marry
me, Peggy,—yes, must, or you, and your granny, and
your Bobby, your Cousin Bobby, will rue the day you
ever saw John Gordon.”
“I rue it now,” said Peggy.
“You do, hey? you shall rue it worse than this;
for what do you rue it? tell me what harm have I
done to you—and have you not made a fool of me?”
“Mr. Gordon, I want to have no quarrel with you—
why can't you let me alone; why do you beset my
path in this way?”
“Your path—beset your path; didn't you show
me all sorts of favours over the other chaps when I
first saw you. Did you not, I ask you?” said Gordon,
in a stern tone.
“My favours, as you call them, are my own, Mr.
Gordon, and I can give them as I please—it's enough
for you. I don't see, if you have the spirit of a man
in you, how you can beset me in this way: it's
enough for you to know that I have no favours for
you.”
“Yes, but I have favours for you!” exclaimed
Gordon; “an' death and destruction shall come of
this, before I'm jilted in this fashion. Do you think
I'll be made a fool and lick-spittle of by a girl, and
come and go at her beck and call? No! once when
I talked to you about having me, you didn't refuse;
you said nothing; you as much as gave consent. You
took presents from me; you knew that the looking-glass
was meant for you—you had it hanging up in
your house—and you must take a miff all at once,
and send it to the village, and get it broke by the
way, and I must have the clowns and fools laughing
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at me. No! by hell, I won't stand it! you must have
me, Peggy. You listened to me once, why not
listen to me again.”
“Listening is not consenting, Mr. Gordon. To tell
you the plain truth, I don't like you, I can't like you,
and I won't like you.”
“Peggy, don't drive me desperate,” said Gordon,
laying his hand with some violence on her shoulder.
“You must have me; I've sworn it; and through death
and destruction I'll wade before I let you off.”
Peggy was frightened at the deep vindictive tone
of Gordon, and walked on, rapidly, without saying a
word. He kept up with her, however, and seemed
to be aware of the effect which he had produced, and
by such means he hoped to control her, for he said:
“I'll see you dead before I'll suffer you to jilt me
in this way. Do you think I'll have the whole village
laughing at me. What I offer you is fair—honourable—
what you listened to: and because folks don't
choose to like me, and that infernal old buck-roe hussey
(alluding to Miss Rachellina) don't approve of
my conduct, do you think I am going to give up for
them. Blast them, I'll burn them out first. If you
make me desperate, Peggy, you must take what it
brings.”
“Do you make such threats in the face of the law,”
said Peggy, endeavouring to rally her spirit, which
was not a tame one.
“Yes!” exclaimed Gordon, furiously, “in the face of
heaven and earth. Your treatment is such lately that
my mind's made up. You wouldn't even speak to me
in the village the other day—my mind's made up.
You must stop here on this very spot, and give me
your promise, or worse will come of it;” and as Gordon
spoke, he stopped and seized her hand, but in an
instant he released his grasp on hearing the voices of
persons who were evidently advancing towards them.
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On hearing them, Peggy darted away from Gordon,
and hastened on to meet them. Gordon sprang after,
and seizing her, bid her stop and listen to him. “At
least promise to say nothing about this,” he said; “I'll
come and see you to morrow—don't make me desperate.”
This fear of exposure on the part of Gordon gave
courage to Peggy, and she broke from him and advanced.
Gordon turned for a moment as if with the
intention of passing towards the hills, and then, with a
careless air, followed Peggy, who soon met those
whose voices they had heard. They proved to be
her Cousin Bobby, and Hardy, the miller. Hardy
was a blunt, honest fellow, and one of Peggy's admirers.
He glanced at Gordon, and said:
“Good evening, Miss Peggy. How are you, Gordon?
Miss Peggy, I reckon you and Gordon have been
sparking it, as you are together here.”
“Sparking it,” said Peggy, with a toss of her head,
“together here; I hope this is the last time Mr. Gordon
and I will ever be together—with my free will
we shall never meet again.”
“There, Jack Gordon!” exclaimed Bobby, “I hope
you'll mind that.”
“Mind! O, certainly!” replied Gordon; “I'll mind
whatever a woman says to me, or such a mighty
man as yourself, Mr. Robert Gammon.”
“I'm man enough for you, Jack Gordon!” said
Bobby, poising himself upon his longest leg, and supporting
his equilibrium with the point of his lame one.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Gordon, in bitter derision.
“John Gordon,” said Peggy, with firmness and
even with dignity, “there's been enough of this; go
your way. Never come to my Granny's again—
never speak to me again. I tell you here, before
Robert Gammon and Mr. Hardy, that I despise and
hate you; that you have been a pest to me, and I'm
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thankful that this has happened, for I shan't be tormented
by you any more.”
“You don't know that, Peggy, my girl,” said Gordon,
affecting to laugh. “I'll call and see you when
you're in a better humour; but I won't tell tales out
of school. Good-bye, Cousin Bobby; I reckon you
think yourself man enough for Cousin Peggy, too;
don't you? ha, ha!” So speaking, Gordon walked off
in the direction of the hills.
END OF VOL. I.
Back matter
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Thomas, Frederick W. (Frederick William), 1806-1866 [1840], Howard Pinckney, volume 1 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf386v1].
