Miles Wallingford Part 7

"I don't understand you," Kitty answered, after a short pause, during which she was doubtless endeavouring to comprehend what she had heard.

"Grandmother has no wish to go to town; she only wants to pa.s.s the rest of her days, quietly, at the old place, and one church is enough for anybody."

Had the little girl lived a few years later, she would have ascertained that some persons require half-a-dozen.

"And you, Kitty, do you suppose your grandmother has no thought for you, when she shall be called away herself?

"Oh! yes--I know she thinks a good deal of _that_, but I try to set her heart at ease, poor, dear, old grandmother, for it's of no use to be distressing herself about _me_! I can take care of myself well enough, and have plenty of friends who will never see me want. Father's sisters say they'll take care of _me_."

"You have one friend, Kitty, of whom you little think, just now, and he will provide for you."

"I don't know whom you mean, sir--unless--and yet you can't suppose I never think of G.o.d, sir?"

"I mean a friend on earth--have you no friend on earth, whom you have not mentioned yet?"

"I am not sure--perhaps--you do not mean Horace Bright, do you, sir?"

This was said with a bright blush, and a look in which the dawning consciousness of maiden shame was so singuarly blended with almost childish innocence, as both to delight me, and yet cause me to smile.

"And who is Horace Bright?" I asked, a.s.suming as grave an air as possible.

"Oh! Horace is n.o.body--only the son of one of our neighbours. There, don't you see the old stone house that stands among the apple and cherry trees, on the banks of the river, just here in a line with this barn?"

"Quite plainly; and a very pretty place it is. We were admiring it as we drove up the road."

"Well, that is Horace Bright's father's; and one of the best farms in the neighbourhood. But you mustn't mind what _he_ says, grandmother always tells me; boys love to talk grandly, and all the folks about here feel for us, though most of them are afraid of 'Squire Van Ta.s.sel, too."

"I place no reliance at all on Horace's talk--not I. It is just as your grandmother tells you; boys are fond of making a parade, and often utter things they don't mean."

"Well, I don't think that is Horace's way, in the least; though I wouldn't have you suppose I ever think, the least in the world, about what Horace says concerning my never being left to want. My own aunts will take care of _that_."

"And should they fail you, my dear," cried Marble, with strong feeling, "your own _uncle_ would step into their places, without waiting to have his memory jogged."

Again Kitty looked surprised, a very little startled, and again she pressed to my side.

"I have no uncle," she answered, timidly. "Father never had a brother, and grandmother's son is dead."

"No, Kitty," I said, giving a look at Marble to keep him quiet; "in the last you are mistaken. This is the good news of which we spoke. Your grandmother's son is not dead, but living, and in good health. He is found, acknowledged, has pa.s.sed the afternoon with your grandmother, has money more than enough to satisfy even the unjust demand of the miserly Van Ta.s.sel, and will be a father to _you_."

"Oh! dear me--can this be true!" exclaimed Kitty, pressing still closer than ever to my side. "And are _you_ uncle after all, and will it all come out as you say? Poor, poor grandmother, and I not at home to hear it all, and to help her under such a great trial!"

"Your grandmother was a little distressed of course, at first, but she bore it all remarkably well, and is as happy at this moment, as you yourself could wish her to be. You are under a mistake, however, in supposing I am your uncle--do I look old enough to be your mother's brother?

"Dear me, no--I might have seen that, hadn't I been so silly--can it be this other gentleman?"

Here Marble took his hint from nature, and clasping the pretty young creature in his arms, he kissed her with an affection and warmth that were truly paternal. Poor Kitty was frightened at first, and I dare say, like her grandmother in a slight degree disappointed; but there was so much heartiness in the mate's manner, that it rea.s.sured her in degree.

"I'm a b.l.o.o.d.y poor uncle, I know, Kitty, for a young woman like you to own," Marble got out, though sorely tempted to blubber; "but there's worse in the world, as you'll discover, no doubt, in time. Such as I am, you must take me, and, from this time henceforth, do not care a strap for old Van Ta.s.sel, or any other griping vagabond like him in York state."

"Uncle is a sailor!" Kitty answered, after being fairly released from the mate's rough embrace. "Grandmother heard once that he was a soldier."

"Ay, that comes of lying. I don't think they could have made a soldier of me, had two wicked nurses run away with me, and had they placed me on fifty tombstones, by way of commencing life. My natur' would revolt at carrying a musket, for sartain, while the seas have always been a sort of home to me."

Kitty made no answer to this, being a little in doubt, I believe, as to the manner in which she was to regard this new acquisition of an uncle.

"Your grand-parents did suppose your uncle a soldier," I remarked, "but, after the man was seen the mistake was discovered, and now the truth has come out in a way that will admit of no dispute."

"How is uncle named?" demanded the niece, in a low voice, and a hesitating manner. "Mother's brother was christened Oloff, I have heard grandmother say."

"Very true, dear; we've been all over that, the old lady and I. They tell me, too, I was christened by the name of Moses--I suppose you know who Moses was, child?"

"To be sure, uncle!" said Kitty, with a little laugh of surprise. "He was the great law-maker of the Jews."

"Ha, Miles, is that so?"

I nodded a.s.sent.

"And do you know about his being found in the bulrushes, and the story of the king of Ethiopia's daughter?"

"The king of Egypt, you mean, do you not, uncle Oloff?" cried Kitty, with another little laugh.

"Well, Ethiopia or Egypt; it's all pretty much the same--this girl has been wonderfully edicated, Miles, and will turn out famous company for me, in the long winter evenings, some twenty years hence, or when I've worked my way up into the lat.i.tude of the dear, good, old soul under the hill yonder."

A slight exclamation from Kitty was followed by a blush, and a change of expression, that showed she was thinking, just at that moment, of anything but uncle Oloff. I asked an explanation.

"It's _only_ Horace Bright, out yonder in the orchard, looking at us. He will be puzzled to know who is with me, here, in the old chaise. Horace thinks he can drive a horse better than any one about here, so you must be careful how you hold the reins, or use the whip.--Horace!"

This boded no good to Marble's plans for pa.s.sing the evenings of his old age with Kitty to amuse him; but, as we were now on the brow of the hill, with the cottage in sight, Horace Bright was soon lost to view. To do the girl justice, she appeared now to think only of her grandmother, and of the effects the recent discovery of her son would be likely to produce on one of her years and infirmities. As for myself, I was surprised to see Mr. Hardinge in earnest conversation with old Mrs. Wetmore, both seated on the stoop of the cottage, in the mild summer's evening, and Lucy walking, to and fro, on the short gra.s.s of the willow bottom, with an impatience and restlessness of manner it was very unusual for her to exhibit. No sooner was Kitty alighted, than she ran to her grandmother, Marble following, while I hastened to the point where was to be found the great object of my interest. Lucy's face was full of feeling and concern, and she received me with an extended hand that, gracious as was the act itself, and most grateful as it would have proved to me under other circ.u.mstances, I now feared boded no good.

"Miles, you have been absent an age!" Lucy commenced. "I should be disposed to reproach you, had not the extraordinary story of this good old woman explained it all. I feel the want of air and exercise; give me your arm, and we will walk a short distance up the road. My dear father will not be inclined to quit that happy family, so long as any light is left."

I gave Lucy my arm, and we did walk up the road together, actually ascending the hill I had just descended; but all this did not induce me to overlook the fact that Lucy's manner was hurried and excited. The whole seemed so inexplicable, that I thought I would wait her own pleasure in the matter.

"Your friend, Marble," she continued--"I do not know why I ought not to say _our_ friend, Marble, must be a very happy man at having, at length, discovered who his parents are, and to have discovered them to be so respectable and worthy of his affection."

"As yet, he seems to be more bewildered than happy, as, indeed, does the whole family. The thing has come on them so unexpectedly, that there has not been time to bring their feelings in harmony with the facts."

"Family affection is a blessed thing, Miles," Lucy resumed, after a short pause, speaking in her thoughtful manner; "there is little in this world that can compensate for its loss. It must have been sad, sad, to the poor fellow to have lived so long without father, mother, sister, brother or any other known relative."

"I believe Marble found it so; yet, I think, he felt the supposed disgrace of his birth more than his solitary condition. The man has warm affections at the bottom, though he has a most uncouth manner of making it known."

"I am surprised one so circ.u.mstanced never thought of marrying; he might, at least, have lived in the bosom of his own family, though he never knew that of a father."

"These are the suggestions of a tender and devoted female heart, dear Lucy; but, what has a sailor to do with a wife? I have heard it said Sir John Jervis--the present Lord St. Vincent--always declared a married seaman, a seaman spoiled; and I believe Marble loves a ship so well he would hardly know how to love a woman."

Lucy made no answer to this indiscreet and foolish speech. Why it was made, I scarce knew myself; but the heart has its bitter moods, when it prompts sentiments and declarations that are very little in accordance with its real impulses. I was so much ashamed of what I had just said, and, in truth, so much frightened, that, instead of attempting to laugh it off, as a silly, unmeaning opinion, or endeavouring to explain that this was not my own way of thinking, I walked on some distance in silence, myself, and suffered my companion to imitate me in this particular. I have since had reason to think that Lucy was not pleased at my manner of treating the subject, though, blessed creature! she had another matter to communicate, that lay too heavy on her heart, to allow one of her generous, disinterested nature to think much of anything else.

"Miles," Lucy, at length, broke the silence, by saying--"I wish, I _do_ wish we had not met that other sloop this morning."

I stopped short in the highway, dropped my beautiful companion's arm, and stood gazing intently in her face, as if I would read her most inmost thoughts through those windows of the soul, her serene, mild, tender, blue eyes. I saw that the face was colourless, and that the beautiful lips, out of which the words that had alarmed me more by their accents than their direct signification, were quivering in a way that their lovely mistress could not control. Tears, as large as heavy drops of rain, too, were trembling on the long silken eye-lashes, while the very att.i.tude of the precious girl denoted hopelessness and grief!