Afloat and Ashore Part 46

After settling the figures, Mr. Hardinge and I mounted our horses, and rode over the property to take a look at the state of the farm. Our road took us near the little rectory and the glebe; and, here, the simple-minded divine broke out into ecstasies on the subject of the beauties of his own residence, and the delight with which he should now return to his ancient abode. He loved Clawbonny no less than formerly, but he loved the rectory more.

"I was born in that humble, snug, quiet old stone cottage, Miles," he said, "and there I lived for years a happy husband and father, and I hope I may say a faithful shepherd of my little flock. St. Michael's, Clawbonny, is not Trinity, New York, but it may prove, on a small scale as to numbers, as fitting a nursery of saints. What humble and devout Christians have I known to kneel at its little altar, Miles, among whom your mother, and your venerable old grandmother, were two of the best.

I hope the day is not distant when I shall meet there another Mrs. Miles Wallingford. Marry young, my boy; early marriages prove happier than late, where there are the means of subsistence."

"You would not have me marry, until I can find a woman whom I shall truly love, dear sir?"

"Heaven forbid! I would rather see you a bachelor to my dying day. But America has enough females that a youth, like you, could, and indeed ought to love. I could direct you to fifty, myself."

"Well, sir, _your_ recommendations would have great weight with me. I wish you would begin."

"That I will, that I will, if you wish it, my dear boy. Well, there is a Miss Hervey, Miss Kate Hervey, in town; a girl of excellent qualities, and who would just suit you, could you agree."

"I recollect the young lady; the greatest objection I should raise to her, is a want of personal attractions. Of all Mrs. Bradfort's acquaintances, I think she was among the very plainest."

"What is beauty, Miles? In marriage, very different recommendations are to be looked for by the husband."

"Yet, I have understood you practised on another theory; Mrs. Hardinge, even as I recollect her, was very handsome."

"Yes, that is true," answered the good divine, simply; "she was so; but beauty is not to be considered as an _objection_. If you do not relish the idea of Kate Hervey, what do you say to Jane Harwood--there is a pretty girl for you."

"A pretty girl, sir, but not for me. But, in naming so many young ladies, why do you overlook your own daughter?"

I said this with a sort of desperate resolution, tempted by the opportunity, and the direction the discourse had taken. When it was uttered, I repented of my temerity, and almost trembled to hear the answer.

"Lucy!" exclaimed Mr. Hardinge, turning suddenly to towards me, and looking so intently and earnestly in my face, that I saw the possibility of such a thing then struck him, for the first time. "Sure enough, why should you not marry Lucy? There is not a particle of relationship between you, after all, though I have so long considered you as brother and sister. I wish we had thought of this earlier, Miles; it would be a most capital connection--though I should insist on your quitting the sea. Lucy has too affectionate a heart, to be always in distress for an absent husband. I wonder the possibility of this thing did not strike me, before it was too late; in a man so much accustomed to see what is going on around me, to overlook this!"

The words "too late," sounded to me like the doom of fate; and had my simple-minded companion but the t.i.the of the observation which he so much vaunted, he must have seen my agitation. I had advanced so far, however, that I determined to learn the worst, whatever pain it might cost me.

"I suppose, sir the very circ.u.mstance that we were brought up together has prevented us all from regarding the thing as possible. But, why 'too late,' my excellent guardian, if we who are the most interested in the thing should happen to think otherwise?"

"Certainly not too late, if you include Lucy, herself, in your conditions; but I am afraid, Miles, it is 'too late' for Lucy."

"Am I to understand, then, that Miss Hardinge is engaged to Mr. Drewett?

Are her affections enlisted in his behalf?"

"You may be certain of one thing, boy, and that is, if Lucy be engaged, her affections are enlisted--so conscientious a young woman would never marry without giving her heart with her hand. As for the fact, however, I know nothing, except by inference. I do suppose a mutual attachment to exist between her and Andrew Drewett."

"Of course with good reason, sir. Lucy is not a coquette, or a girl to encourage when she does not mean to accept."

"That's all I know of the matter. Drewett continues to visit; is as attentive as a young man well can be, where a young woman is as scrupulous as is Lucy about the proper forms, and I infer they understand each other. I have thought of speaking to Lucy on the subject, but I do not wish to influence her judgment, in a case where there exists no objection. Drewett is every way a suitable match, and I wish things to take their own course. There is one little circ.u.mstance, however, that I can mention to you as a sort of son, Miles, and which I consider conclusive as to the girl's inclinations--I have remarked that she refuses all expedients to get her to be alone with Drewett--refuses to make excursions in which she must be driven in his curricle, or to go anywhere with him, even to the next door. So particular is she, that she contrives never to be alone with him, even in his many visits to the house."

"And do you consider that as a proof of attachment?--of her being engaged? Does your own experience, sir, confirm such a notion?"

"What else can it be, if it be not a consciousness of a pa.s.sion--of an attachment that she is afraid every one will see? You do not understand the s.e.x, I perceive, Miles, or the finesse of their natures would be more apparent to you. As for my experience, no conclusion can be drawn from that, as I and my dear wife were thrown together very young, all alone, in her mother's country house; and the old lady being bed-ridden, there was no opportunity for the bashful maiden to betray this consciousness. But, if I understand human nature, such is the secret of Lucy's feelings towards Andrew Drewett. It is of no great moment to you, Miles, notwithstanding, as there are plenty more young women to be had in the world."

"True, sir; but there is only one Lucy Hardinge!" I rejoined with a fervour and strength of utterance that betrayed more than I intended.

My late guardian actually stopped his horse this time, to look at me, and I could perceive deep concern gathering around his usually serene and placid brow. He began to penetrate my feelings, and I believe they caused him real grief.

"I never could have dreamed of this!" Mr. Hardinge at length exclaimed: "Do you really love Lucy, my dear Miles?"

"Better than I do my own life, sir--I almost worship the earth she treads on--Love her with my whole heart, and have loved, I believe, if the truth were known, ever since I was sixteen--perhaps I had better say, twelve years old!"

The truth escaped me, as the torrent of the Mississippi breaks through the levee, and a pa.s.sage once open for its exit, it cleared a way for itself, until the current of my feelings left no doubt of its direction.

I believe I was a little ashamed of my own weakness, for I caused my horse to walk forward, Mr. Hardinge accompanying the movement, for a considerable distance, in a profound, and, I doubt not, a painful silence.

"This has taken me altogether by surprise, Miles," my late guardian resumed; "altogether by surprise. What would I not give could this have been known a year or two since! My dear boy, I feel for you, from the bottom of my heart, for I can understand what it must be to love a girl like Lucy, without hope. Why did you not let this be known sooner--or, why did you insist on going to sea, having so strong a motive for remaining at home?"

"I was too young, at that time, sir, to act on, or even to understand my own feelings. On my return, in the Crisis, I found Lucy in a set superior to, that in which I was born and educated, and it would have been a poor proof of my attachment to wish to bring her down nearer to my own level."

"I understand you, Miles, and can appreciate the generosity of your conduct; though I am afraid it would have been too late on your return in the Crisis. That was only a twelvemonth since, and, then, I rather think, Andrew Drewett had offered. There is good sense in your feeling on the subject of marriages in unequal conditions in life, for they certainly lead to many heart-burnings, and greatly lessen the chances of happiness. One thing is certain; in all such cases, if the inferior cannot rise to the height of the superior, the superior must sink to the level of the inferior. Man and wife cannot continue to occupy different social positions; and, as for the nonsense that is uttered on such subjects, by visionaries, under the claim of its being common sense, it is only fit for pretending theories, and can have nothing to do with the great rules of practice. You were right in principle, then, Miles, though you have greatly exaggerated the facts of your own particular case."

"I have always known, sir, and have ever been ready to admit, that the Hardinges have belonged to a different cla.s.s of society, from that filled by the Wallingfords."

"This is true, but in part only; and by no means true to a degree that need have drawn any impa.s.sable line between you and Lucy. You forget how poor we then were, and bow substantial a benefit the care of Clawbonny might have been to my dear girl. Besides, you are of reputable descent and position, if not precisely of the gentry; and this is not a country, or an age, to carry notions of such a nature beyond the strict bounds of reason. You and Lucy were educated on the same level; and, after all, that is the great essential for the marriage connection."

There was great good sense in what Mr. Hardinge said; and I began to see that pride, and not humility, might have interfered with my happiness.

As I firmly believed it was now too late, however, I began to wish the subject changed; for I felt it grating on some of my most sacred feelings. With a view to divert the conversation to another channel, therefore, I remarked with some emphasis, affecting an indifference I did not feel--

"What cannot be cured, must be endured, sir; and I shall endeavour to find a sailor's happiness hereafter, in loving my ship. Besides, were Andrew Drewett entirely out of the question, it is now 'too late,' in another sense, since it would never do for the man who, himself at his ease in the way of money, hesitated about offering when his mistress was poor, to prove his love, by proposing to Mrs. Bradfort's heiress.

Still, I own to so much weakness as to wish to know, before we close the subject for ever, why Mr. Drewett and your daughter do not marry, if they are engaged? Perhaps it is owing only to Lucy's mourning?"

"I have myself imputed it to another cause. Rupert is entirely dependent on his sister, and I know Lucy so well as to feel certain--some extraordinary cause not interposing--that she wishes to bestow half her cousin's fortune on her brother. This cannot be done until she is of age, and she wants near two years of attaining her majority."

I made no answer; for I felt how likely this was to be true. Lucy was not a girl of professions, and she would be very apt to keep a resolution of this nature, a secret in her own breast, until ready to carry it into execution. No more pa.s.sed between Mr. Hardinge and myself, on the subject of our recent conversation; though I could see my avowal had made him sad, and that it induced him to treat me with more affection, even, than had been his practice. Once or twice, in the course of the next day or two, I overheard him soliloquizing--a habit to which he was a good deal addicted--during which he would murmur, "What a pity!"--"How much to be regretted!"'--"I would rather have him for a son than any man on earth!" and other similar expressions. Of course, these involuntary disclosures did not weaken my regard for my late guardian.

About noon, the Grace & Lucy came in, and Neb reported that Dr. Bard was not at home. He had left my letter, however, and it would be delivered as soon as possible. He told me also that the wind had been favourable on the river, and that the Wallingford must reach town that day.

Nothing further occurred, worthy of notice. I pa.s.sed the afternoon with Grace, in the little room; and we conversed much of the past, of our parents in particular, without adverting, however, to her situation, any further than to apprise her of what I had done. I thought she was not sorry to learn I had sent for Lucy, now that I was with her, and it was no longer possible her illness could be concealed. As for the physicians, when they were mentioned, I could see a look of tender concern in Grace's eyes, as if she regretted that I still clung to the delusion of hoping to see her health restored. Notwithstanding these little drawbacks, we pa.s.sed a sweet eventide together. For more than an hour, Grace lay on my bosom, occasionally patting her hand on my cheeks, as the child caresses its mother. This was an old habit of hers, and it was one I was equally delighted and pained to have her resume, now we were of the age and stature of man and woman.

The next day was Sunday, and Grace insisted on my driving her to church.

This was done, accordingly, in a very old-fashioned, but very easy Boston chaise, that had belonged to my mother, and with very careful driving. The congregation, like the church-edifice of St. Michael's, was very small, being confined, with some twenty or thirty exceptions, to the family and dependants of Clawbonny. Mr. Hardinge's little flock was hedged in by other denominations on every side, and it was not an easy matter to break through the barriers that surrounded it. Then he was not possessed with the spirit of proselytism, contenting himself with aiding in the spiritual advancement of those whom Providence had consigned to his care. On the present occasion, however, the little building was full, and that was as much as could have happened had it been as large as St. Peter's itself. The prayers were devoutly and fervently read, and the sermon was plain and filled with piety.

My sister professed herself in no manner wearied with the exertion.

We dined with Mr. Hardinge, at the Rectory, which was quite near the church; and the irreverent, business-like, make-weight sort of look, of going in to one service almost as soon as the other was ended, as if to score off so much preaching and praying as available at the least trouble, being avoided, by having the evening service commence late, she was enabled to remain until the close of the day. Mr. Hardinge rarely preached but once of a Sunday. He considered the worship of G.o.d, and the offices of the church, as the proper duties of the day, and regarded his own wisdom as a matter of secondary importance. But one sermon cost him as much labour, and study, and anxiety, as most clergymen's two. His preaching, also, had the high qualification of being addressed to the affections of his flock, and not to its fears and interests. He constantly reminded us of G.o.d's _love_, and of the _beauty_ of holiness; while I do not remember to have heard him allude half a dozen times in his life to the terrors of judgment and punishment, except as they were connected with that disappointed love. I suppose there are spirits that require these allusions, and the temptations of future happiness, to incite their feelings; but I like the preacher who is a Christian because he feels himself _drawn_ to holiness, by a power that is of itself holy; and not those who appeal to their people, as if heaven and h.e.l.l were a mere matter of preference and avoidance, on the ground of expediency. I cannot better characterize Mr. Hardinge's preaching, than by saying, that I do not remember ever to have left his church with a sense of fear towards the Creator; though I have often been impressed with a love that was as profound as the adoration that had been awakened.

Another calm and comparatively happy evening was pa.s.sed, during which I conversed freely with Grace of my own intentions, endeavouring to revive in her an interest in life, by renewing old impressions, and making her partic.i.p.ate in my feelings. Had I been with her from the hour spring opened, with its renewal of vegetation, and all the joys it confers on the innocent and happy, I have often thought since, I might have succeeded. As it was, she listened with attention, and apparently with pleasure, for she saw it served to relieve my mind. We did not separate until I insisted Grace should retire, and Chloe had made more than one remonstrance about her young mistress's exceeding the usual time. On leaving my sister's chamber, the negress followed me with a light, lest I should fall, among the intricate turnings, and the ups and downs of the old building.

"Well, Chloe," I said, as we proceeded together, "how do you find Neb?

Does he improve by this running about on the ocean--especially do you think he is tanned?"

"De _fel_-ler!"

"Yes, he is a fellow, sure enough, and let me tell you, Chloe, a very capital fellow, too. If it can be of any advantage to him in your favour to know the truth, I will just say a more useful seaman does not sail the ocean than Neb, and that I consider him as of much importance as the main-mast?"

"What be _dat_, Ma.s.ser Mile?"

"I see nothing, Chloe--there are no spooks at Clawbonny, you know."