Afloat and Ashore (71 page)

"You see how it is with me, Miles—feeble as an infant, and almost as
troublesome. You must bear with me, for you will be my nurse. One
promise I must have, dearest, before we leave this room."

"It is yours, my sister, let it be what it may; I can now refuse you
nothing," said I, melted to feminine tenderness. "And yet, Grace,
since
you
exact a promise,
I
have a mind to attach a
condition."

"What condition, Miles, can you attach, that I will refuse? I consent
to everything, without even knowing your wishes."

"Then I promise not to call Rupert to an account for his conduct—not
to question him—nay, even not to reproach him," I rejoined, enlarging
my pledges, as I saw by Grace's eyes that she exacted still more.

The last promise, however, appeared fully to satisfy her. She kissed
my hand, and I felt hot tears falling on it.

"Now name your conditions, dearest brother," she said, after a little
time taken to recover herself; "name them, and see how gladly I shall
accept them all."

"I have but one—it is this. I must take the complete direction of the
care of you—must have power to send for what physician I please, what
friends I please, what advice or regimen I please!"

"Oh! Miles, you
could
not—
cannot
think of sending for
him
!"

"Certainly not; his presence would drive me from the house. With that
one exception, then, my condition is allowed?"

Grace made a sign of assent, and sunk on my bosom again, nearly
exhausted with the scene through which she had just gone. I perceived
it would not do to dwell any longer on the subject we had been
alluding to, rather than discussing; and for another hour did I sit
sustaining that beloved form, declining to speak, and commanding
silence on her part. At the end of this second little sleep, Grace was
more refreshed than she had been after her first troubled repose, and
she declared herself able to walk to her room, where she wished to lie
on her own bed until the hour of dinner. I summoned Chloe, and,
together, we led the invalid to her chamber. As we threaded the long
passages, my sister's head rested on my bosom, her eyes were turned
affectionately upward to my face, and several times I felt the gentle
pressure of her emaciated hands, given in the fervour of devoted
sisterly love.

I needed an hour to compose myself, after this interview. In the
privacy of my own room, I wept like a child over the wreck of the
being I had left so beautiful and perfect, though even then the canker
of doubt had begun to take root. I had yet her explanations to hear,
and resolved to command myself so far as to receive them in a manner
not to increase the pain Grace must feel in making them. As soon as
sufficiently calm, I sat down to write letters. One was to Marble. I
desired him to let the second-mate see the ship discharged, and to
come up to me by the return of the sloop. I wished to see him in
person, as I did not think I could be able to go out in the vessel on
her next voyage, and I intended him to sail in her as master. It was
necessary we should consult together personally. I did not conceal the
reason of this determination, though I said nothing of the cause of my
sister's state. Marble had a list of physicians given him, and he was
to bring up with him the one he could obtain, commencing with the
first named, and following in the order given. I had earned ten
thousand dollars, nett, by the labours of the past year, and I
determined every dollar of it should be devoted to obtaining the best
advice the country then afforded. I had sent for such men as Hosack,
Post, Bayley, M'Knight, Moore, &c.; and even thought of endeavouring
to procure Rush from Philadelphia, but was deterred from making the
attempt by the distance, and the pressing nature of the emergency. In
1803, Philadelphia was about three days' journey from Clawbonny, even
allowing for a favourable time on the river; with a moderately
unfavourable, five or six; whereas the distance can now be passed,
including the chances of meeting the departures and arrivals of the
different lines, in from twelve to fifteen hours. Such is one of the
prodigious effects of an improved civilization; and in all that
relates to motion, and which falls short of luxury, or great personal
comfort, this country takes a high place in the scale of nations. That
it is as much in arrears in other great essentials, however,
particularly in what relates to tavern comforts, no man who is
familiar with the better civilization of Europe, can deny. It is a
singular fact, that we have gone backward in this last particular,
within the present century, and all owing to the increasingly
gregarious habits of the population. But to return to my painful
theme, from which, even at this distance of time, I am only too ready
to escape.

I was on the point of writing to Lucy, but hesitated. I hardly knew
whether to summon her to Clawbonny or not. That she would come, and
that instantly, the moment she was apprised of Grace's condition, I
did not in the least doubt. I was not so mad as to do her character
injustice, because I had my doubts about being loved as I had once
hoped to be. That Lucy was attached to me, in one sense, I did not in
the least doubt; this, her late reception of me sufficiently proved;
and I could not question her continued affection for Grace, after all
the latter had just told me. Even did Lucy prefer Andrew Drewett, it
was no proof she was not just as kind-hearted, as ready to be of
service, and as true in her friendship, as she ever had been. Still,
she was Rupert's sister, must have penetration enough to understand
the cause of Grace's illness, and might not enter as fully into her
wrongs as one could wish in a person that was to watch the sick
pillow. I resolved to learn more that day, before this portion of my
duty was discharged.

Neb was summoned, and sent to the wharf, with an order to get the
Wallingford ready to sail for town at the first favourable moment. The
sloop was merely to be in ballast, and was to return to Clawbonny with
no unnecessary delay. There was an eminent, but retired physician of
the name of Bard, who had a country residence on the other bank of the
Hudson, and within a few hours' sail from Clawbonny. I knew his
character, though I was not acquainted with him, personally. Few of us
of the right bank, indeed, belonged to the circles of the left, in
that day; the increasing wealth and population of the country has
since brought the western side into more notice. I wrote also to
Dr. Bard, inclosing a cheque for a suitable fee; made a strong appeal
to his feelings—which would have been quite sufficient with, such a
man—and ordered Neb to go out in the Grace and Lucy, immediately, to
deliver the missive. Just as this arrangement was completed, Chloe
came to summon me to my sister's room.

I found Grace still lying on her bed, but stronger, and materially
refreshed. For a moment, I began to think my fears had exaggerated the
danger, and that I was not to lose my sister. A few minutes of close
observation, however convinced me, that the first impression was the
true one. I am not skilled in the theories of the science, if there be
any great science about it, and can hardly explain, even now, the true
physical condition of Grace. She had pent up her sufferings in her own
bosom, for six cruel months, in the solitude of a country-house,
living most of the time entirely alone; and this, they tell me, is
what few, even of the most robust frames, can do with impunity. Frail
as she had ever seemed, her lungs were sound, and she spoke easily and
with almost all her original force, so that her wasting away was not
the consequence of anything pulmonary. I rather think the physical
effects were to be traced to the unhealthy action of the fluids, which
were deranged through the stomach and spleen. The insensible
perspiration was affected also, I believe; the pores of the skin
failing to do their duty. I dare say there is not a graduate of the
thousand and one medical colleges of the country, who is not prepared
to laugh at this theory, while unable quite likely to produce a
better,—so much easier is it to pull down than to build up; but my
object is merely to give the reader a general idea of my poor sister's
situation. In outward appearance, her countenance denoted that
expression which the French so well describe, by their customary term
of "
fatigué
," rather than any other positive indication of
disease—Grace's frame was so delicate by nature, that a little
falling away was not as perceptible in her, as it would have been in
most persons; though her beautiful little hands wanted that fulness
which had rendered their taper fingers and roseate tint formerly so
very faultless. There must have been a good deal of fever, as her
colour was often higher than was formerly usual. It was this
circumstance that continued to render her beauty even unearthly,
without its being accompanied by the emaciation so common in the
latter stages of pulmonary disease, though its tendency was strongly
to undermine her strength.

Grace, without rising from her pillow, now asked me for an outline of
my late voyage. She heard me, I make no doubt, with real interest, for
all that concerned me, in a measure concerned her. Her smile was
sweetness itself, as she listened to my successes; and the interest
she manifested in Marble, with whose previous history she was well
acquainted, was not less than I had felt myself, in hearing his own
account of his adventures. All this delighted me, as it went to prove
that I had beguiled the sufferer from brooding over her own sorrows;
and what might not be hoped for, could we lead her back to mingle in
the ordinary concerns of life, and surround her with the few friends
she so tenderly loved, and whose absence, perhaps, had largely
contributed to reducing her to her present state? This thought
recalled Lucy to my mind, and the wish I had to ascertain how far it
might be agreeable to the latter, to be summoned to Clawbonny. I
determined to lead the conversation to this subject.

"You have told me, Grace," I said, "that you send and receive letters
weekly, to and from Lucy?"

"Each time the Wallingford goes and comes; and that you know is
weekly. I suppose the reason I got no letter to-day was owing to the
fact that the sloop sailed before her time. The Lord High Admiral was
on board; and, like wind and tide,
he
waits for no man!"

"Bless you—bless you, dearest sister—this gaiety removes a mountain
from my heart!"

Grace looked pleased at first; then, as she gazed wistfully into my
face, I could see her own expression change to one of melancholy
concern. Large tears started from her eyes, and three or four followed
each other down her cheeks. All this said, plainer than words, that,
though a fond brother might be momentarily deceived, she herself
foresaw the end. I bowed my head to the pillow, stifled the groans
that oppressed me, and kissed the tears from her cheeks. To put an end
to these distressing scenes, I determined to be more business-like in
future, and suppress all feeling, as much as possible.

"The Lord High Admiral," I resumed, "is a species of Turk, on board
ship, as honest Moses Marble will tell you, when you see him,
Grace. But, now for Lucy and her letters—I dare say the last are
filled with tender secrets, touching such persons as Andrew Drewett,
and others of her admirers, which render it improper to show any of
them to me?"

Grace looked at me, with earnestness, as if to ascertain whether I was
really as unconcerned as I affected to be. Then she seemed to muse,
picking the cotton of the spotless counterpane on which she was lying,
like one at a loss what to say or think.

"I see how it is," I resumed, forcing a smile; "the hint has been
indiscreet. A rough son of Neptune is not the proper confidant for the
secrets of Miss Lucy Hardinge. Perhaps you are right; fidelity to
each other being indispensable in your sex."

"It is not that, Miles. I doubt if Lucy ever wrote me a line, that you
might not see—in proof of which, you shall have the package of her
letters, with full permission to read every one of them. It will be
like reading the correspondence of another
sister
!"

I fancied Grace laid an emphasis on the last word she used; and I
started at its unwelcome sound—unwelcome, as applied to Lucy
Hardinge, to a degree that I cannot express. I had observed that Lucy
never used any of these terms, as connected with me, and it was one of
the reasons why I had indulged in the folly of supposing that she was
conscious of a tenderer sentiment. But Lucy was so natural, so totally
free from exaggeration, so just and true in all her feelings, that one
could not expect from her most of the acts of girlish weakness. As for
Grace, she called Chloe, gave her the keys of her secretary, and told
her to bring me the package she described.

"Go and look them over, Miles," said my sister, as I received the
letters; "there must be more than twenty of them, and you can read
half before the dinner hour. I will meet you at table; and let me
implore you not to alarm good Mr. Hardinge. He does not believe me
seriously ill; and it cannot benefit him or me, to cause him pain."

I promised discretion, arid hastened to my own room, with the precious
bundle of Lucy's letters. Shall I own the truth? I kissed the papers,
fervently, before they were loosened, and it seemed to me I possessed
a treasure, in holding in my hand so many of the dear girl's
epistles. I commenced in the order of the date, and began to read with
eagerness. It was impossible for Lucy Hardinge to write to one she
loved, and not exhibit the truth and nature of her feelings. These
appeared in every paragraph in which it was proper to make any
allusions of the sort. But the letters had other charms. It was
apparent, throughout, that the writer was ignorant that she wrote to
an invalid, though she could not but know that she wrote to a
recluse. Her aim evidently was to amuse Grace, of whose mental
sufferings she could not well be ignorant. Lucy was a keen observer,
and her epistles were filled with amusing comments on the follies that
were daily committed in New York, as well as in Paris, or London. I
was delighted with the delicate pungency of her satire, which,
however, was totally removed from vulgar scandal. There was nothing in
these letters that might not have been uttered in a drawing-room, to
any but the persons concerned; and yet they were filled with a humour
that rose often to wit, relieved by a tact and taste that a man never
could have attained. Throughout, it was apparent to me, Lucy, in
order to amuse Grace, was giving a full scope to a natural talent—one
that far surpassed the same capacity in her brother, being as true as
his was meritricious and jesuitical—which she had hitherto concealed
from us all, merely because she had not seen an occasion fit for its
use. Allusions in the letters, themselves, proved that Grace had
commented on this unexpected display of observant humour, and had
expressed her surprise at its existence. It was then as novel to my
sister as it was to myself. I was struck also with the fact, that
Rupert's name did not appear once in all these letters. They embraced
just twenty-seven weeks, between the earliest and the latest date; and
there were nine-and-twenty letters, two having been sent by private
conveyances; her father's, most probably, he occasionally making the
journey by land; yet no one of them contained the slightest allusion
to her brother, or to either of the Mertons. This was enough to let me
know how well Lucy understood the reason of Grace's withdrawal to
Clawbonny.