Afloat and Ashore (58 page)

"That being the case, this parcel is for you, Lucy; and, Grace, that
is your's."

Grace rose, put her arms affectionately around my neck, and gave me
one of the hundred kisses that I had received, first and last, for
presents of one sort and another. The deep attachment that beamed in
her saint-like eyes, would of itself have repaid me for fifty such
gifts. At the moment, I was almost on the point of throwing her the
necklace in the bargain; but some faint fancies about Mrs. Miles
Wallingford prevented me from so doing. As for Lucy, not a little to
my surprise, she received the pearls, muttered a few unintelligible
words, but did not even rise from her chair. Emily seemed to tire of
this, so she caught up her gypsy, said the evening was getting to be
delightful, and proposed a walk. Rupert and Grace cheerfully
acquiesced, and the three soon left the place, Lucy preparing to
follow, as soon as a maid could bring her hat, and I excusing myself
on the score of business in my own room.

"Miles"—said Lucy, as I was about to enter the house, she herself
standing on the edge of the piazza on the point of following the
party, but holding towards me the little paper box in which I had
placed her portion of the pearls.

"Do you wish me to put them away for you, Lucy?"

"No, Miles—not for
me
—but for
yourself
—for Grace—
for
Mrs. Miles Wallingford
, if you prefer that."

This was said without the slightest appearance of any other feeling
than a gentle request. I was surprised, and scarce knew what to make
of it; at first, I refused to take the box.

"I hope I have done nothing to merit this, Lucy?" I said,
half-affronted, half-grieved.

"Remember, Miles," the dear girl answered—"we are no longer children,
but have reached an age when it is incumbent on us to respect
appearances a little. These pearls must be worth a good deal of money,
and I feel certain my father, when he came to think of it, would
scarce approve of my receiving them."

"And this from
you
, dear Lucy!"

"This from me, dear Miles," returned the precious girl, tears
glistening in her eyes, though she endeavoured to smile. "Now, take
the box, and we will be just as good friends as ever."

"Will you answer me one question, as frankly and as honestly as you
used to answer all my questions?"

Lucy turned pale and she stood reflecting an instant before she spoke.

"I can answer no question before it is asked," was at length her
answer.

"Have you thought so little of my presents as to have thrown away the
locket I gave you, before I sailed for the North-West coast?"

"No, Miles; I have kept the locket, and shall keep it as long as I
live. It was a memorial of our childish regard for each other; and, in
that sense, is very dear to me. You will let me keep the locket, I am
sure!"

"If it were not you, Lucy Hardinge, whom I know to be truth itself, I
might be disposed to doubt you, so many strange things exist, and so
much caprice, especially in attachments, is manifested here, ashore!"

"You need doubt nothing I tell you, Miles—on no account would I
deceive you."

"That I believe—nay, I see, it is your present object to
undeceive
me. I do not doubt anything you tell me, Lucy. I
wish I could see that locket, however; show it to me, if you have it
on your person."

Lucy made an eager movement, as if about to produce the locket; then
she arrested the impetuous indication, while her cheeks fairly burned
with the blushes that suffused them.

"I see how it is, Lucy—the thing is not to be found. It is mislaid,
the Lord knows where, and you do not like to avow it."

The locket, at that moment, lay as near the blessed creature's heart
as it could be placed; and her confusion proceeded from the shame of
letting that fact be known. This I could not see, and consequently did
not know. A very small and further indication of feeling on my part,
might have betrayed the circumstance; but pride prevented it, and I
took the still extended box, I dare say in a somewhat dramatic
manner. Lucy looked at me earnestly; I saw it was with difficulty that
she kept from bursting into tears.

"You are not hurt, Miles?" she said.

"I should not be frank if I denied it. Even Emily Merton, you saw,
consented to accept enough pearls for a ring."

"I did perceive it; and yet, you remember, she felt the impropriety of
receiving such large gifts from gentlemen. Miss Merton has gone
through so much, so much in your company, Miles, that no wonder she is
willing to retain some little memorial of it all, until—"

She hesitated; but Lucy chose not to finish the sentence. She had
been pale; but her cheeks were now like the rose, again.

"When Rupert and I first went to sea, Lucy, you gave me your little
treasure in gold—every farthing you had on earth, I fancy."

"I am glad I did, Miles; for we were very young, then, and you had
been so kind to me, I rejoice I had a little gratitude. But, we are
now in situations," she added, smiling so sweetly, as to render it
difficult for me to refrain from catching her in my arms, and folding
her to my heart; "that place both of us above the necessity of
receiving aid of this sort."

"I am glad to hear this—though
I
shall never part with the
dear recollection of the half-joes."

"Or I with that of the locket. We will retain these, then, as
keepsakes. My dear Mrs. Bradfort, too, is very particular about Rupert
or myself receiving favours of this sort, from any but herself. She
has adopted us, in a manner; and I owe to her liberality, the means
of making the figure I do. Apart from that, Miles, we are all as poor
as we have ever been."

I wished Rupert had half his sister's self-respect and pride of
character. But he had not; for in spite of his kinswoman's
prohibitions, he had not scrupled to spend nearly three years of the
wages that accrued to me as third-mate of the Crisis. For the money I
cared not a stiver; it was a very different thing as to the feeling.

As for Lucy, she hastened away, as soon as she had induced me to
accept the box; and I had no choice but to place all the pearls
together, and put them in Grace's room, as my sister had desired me to
do with her own property before proceeding on her walk.

I determined I would converse confidentially with Grace, that very
evening, about the state of affairs in general, and if possible, learn
the worst concerning Mr. Andrew Drewett's pretensions. Shall I frankly
own the truth? I was sorry that Mrs. Bradfort had made Lucy so
independent; as it seemed to increase the chasm that I fancied was
opening between us.

"Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,
A word let fall touching your youthful passion
Suffused her cheek, called to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre."

I had no difficulty in putting my project of a private interview with
Grace, in execution in my own house. There was one room at Clawbonny,
that, from time immemorial, had been appropriated exclusively to the
use of the heads of the establishment; It was called the "family
room," as one would say "family-pictures" or "family—plate." In my
father's time, I could recollect that I never dreamed of entering it,
unless asked or ordered; and even then, I always did so with some such
feeling as I entered a church. What gave it a particular and
additional sanctity in out eyes, also, was the fact that the
Wallingford dead were always placed in their coffins, in this room,
and thence they were borne to their graves. It was a very small
triangular room, with the fire-place in one corner, and possessing but
a single window, that opened on a thicket of rose-bushes, ceringos,
and lilacs. There was also a light external fence around this
shrubbery, as if purposely to keep listeners at a distance. The
apartment had been furnished when the house was built, being in the
oldest part of the structures, and still retained its ancient
inmates. The chairs, tables, and, most of the other articles, had
actually been brought from England, by Miles the First, as we used to
call the emigrant; though, he was thus only in reference to the
Clawbonny dynasty, having been something like Miles the Twentieth, in
the old country. My mother had introduced a small settee, or some such
seat as the French would call a
causeuse;
a most appropriate
article, in such a place.

In preparation for the interview I had slipped into Grace's hand a
piece of paper, on which was written "meet me in the family-room,
precisely at six!" This was sufficient; at the hour named, I proceeded
to the room, myself. The house of Clawbonny, in one sense, was large
for an American residence; that is to say, it covered a great deal of
ground, every one of the three owners who preceded me, having built;
the two last leaving entire the labours of the first. My turn had not
yet come, of course; but the reader knows already that I, most
irreverently, had once contemplated abandoning the place, for a "seat"
nearer the Hudson. In such a
suite
of constructions, sundry
passages became necessary, and we had several more than was usual at
Clawbonny, besides having as many pairs of stairs. In consequence of
this ample provision of stairs, the chambers of the family were
totally separated from those of all the rest of the house.

I began to reflect seriously, on
what
I had to say, and
how
it was to be said, as I walked through the long passage
which led to the "family-room," or the "triangle," as my own father
had nicknamed the spot. Grace and I had never yet held what might be
termed a family consultation; I was too young to think of such a
thing, when last at home, and no former occasion had offered since my
return. I was still quite young, and had more diffidence than might
have been expected in a sailor. To me, it was far more embarrassing to
open verbal communications of a delicate nature, than it would have
been to work a ship in action. But for this
mauvaise honte
, I
do think I should have been explicit with Lucy, and not have parted
from her on the piazza, as I did, leaving everything in just as much
doubt as it had been before a word passed between us. Then I
entertained a profound respect for Grace; something more than the
tenderness of a brother for a sister; for, mingled with my strong
affection for her, was a deference, a species of awe of her angel-like
character and purity, that made me far more disposed to receive advice
from her, than to bestow it. In the frame of mind which was natural
to all these blended feelings, I laid my hand on the old-fashioned
brass latch, by which the door of the "triangle" was closed. On
entering the room, I found my sister seated on the "causeuses," the
window open to admit air, the room looking snug but cheerful, and its
occupant's sweet countenance expressive of care, not altogether free
from curiosity. The last time I had been in that room, it was to look
on the pallid features of my mother's corpse, previously to closing
the coffin. All the recollections of that scene rushed upon our minds
at the same instant; and taking a place by the side of Grace, I put an
arm around her waist, drew her to me, and, receiving her head on my
bosom, she wept like a child. My tears could not be altogether
restrained, and several minutes passed in profound silence. No
explanations were needed; I knew what my sister thought and felt, and
she was equally at home as respects my sensations. At length we
regained our self-command, and Grace lifted her head.

"You have not been in this room since, brother?" she observed, half
inquiringly.

"I have not, sister. It is now many years—many for those who are as
young as ourselves."

"Miles, you will think better about that 'seat,' and never abandon
Clawbonny—never destroy this blessed room!"

"I begin to think and feel differently on the subject, from what I
once did. If this house were good enough for our forefathers, why is
it not good enough for me. It is respectable and comfortable, and what
more do I want?

"And so warm in winter, and so cool in summer; with good thick stone
walls; while everything they build now is a shingle palace! Besides,
you can add your portion, and each addition has already been a good
deal modernized. It is so pleasant to have a house that partakes of
the usages of different periods!"

"I hardly think I shall ever abandon Clawbonny, my dear; for I find it
growing more and more precious as other ties and expectations fail
me."

Grace drew herself entirely from my arms, and looked intently, and, as
I fancied, anxiously at me, from the other corner of the settee. Then
she affectionately took one of my hands, in both her own, and pressed
it gently.

"You are young to speak of such things, my dear brother," she said
with a tone and air of sadness, I had never yet remarked in her voice
and manner; "much too young for a man; though I fear we women are born
to know sorrow!"

I could not speak if I would, for I fancied Grace was about to make
some communications concerning Rupert. Notwithstanding the strong
affection that existed between my sister and myself, not a syllable
had ever been uttered by either, that bore directly on our respective
relations with Rupert and Lucy Hardinge. I had long been certain that
Rupert, who was never backward in professions, had years before spoken
explicitly to Grace, and I made no doubt they were engaged, though
probably subject to some such conditions as the approval of his father
and myself; approvals, that neither had any reason for supposing would
be withheld. Still, Grace had never intimated anything of the sort,
and my conclusions were drawn from conjectures founded as I imagined
on sufficient observation. On the other hand, I had never spoken to
Grace, of my love for Lucy. Until within the last month, indeed, when
jealousy and distrust came to quicken the sentiment, I was unconscious
myself with how much passion I did actually love the dear girl; for,
previously to that, my affection had seemed so much a matter of
course, was united with so much that was fraternal, in appearance at
least, that I had never been induced to enter into an inquiry as to
the nature of this regard. We were both, therefore, touching on
hallowed spots in our hearts, and each felt averse to laying bare the
weakness.