Afloat and Ashore (72 page)

"And how was it with Miles Wallingford's name?" some of my fair
readers may be ready to ask. I went carefully through the package in
the course of the evening, and I set aside two, as the only exceptions
in which my name did not appear. On examining these two with jealous
care, I found each had a postscript, one of which was to the following
effect: "I see by the papers that Miles has sailed for Malta having at
last left those stubborn Turks. I am glad of this, as one would not
wish to have the excellent fellow shut up in the Seven Towers, however
honourable it may have been." The other postscript contained this:
"Dear Miles has got to Leghorn, my father tells me, and may be
expected home this summer. How great happiness this will bring you,
dearest Grace, I can well understand; and I need scarcely say that no
one will rejoice more to see him again than his late guardian and
myself."

That the papers were often looked over to catch reports of my
movements in Europe, by means of ships arriving from different parts
of the world, was apparent enough; but I scarce knew what to make of
the natural and simply affectionate manner in which my name was
introduced. It might proceed from a wish to gratify Grace, and a
desire to let the sister know all that she herself possessed touching
the brother's movements. Then Andrew Drewett's name occurred very
frequently, though it was generally in connection with that of his
mother, who had evidently constituted herself a sort of regular
chaperone
for Lucy, more especially during the time she was
kept out of the gay world by her mourning. I read several of these
passages with the most scrupulous attention, in order to detect the
feeling with which they had been written; but the most practised art
could not have more successfully concealed any secret of this sort,
than Lucy's nature. This often proves to be the case; the just-minded
and true among men daily becoming the profoundest mysteries to a
vicious, cunning, deceptive and selfish world. An honest man, indeed,
is ever a parodox to all but those who see things with his own
eyes. This is the reason that improper motives are so often imputed to
the simplest and seemingly most honest deeds.

The result was, to write, entreating Lucy to come to Clawbonny; first
taking care to secure her father's assent, to aid my request. This was
done in a way not to awaken any alarm, and yet with sufficient
strength to render it tolerably certain she would come. On deliberate
reflection, and after seeing my sister at table, where she ate nothing
but a light vegetable diet, and passing the evening with her, I
thought I could not do less in justice to the invalid or her friend. I
took the course with great regret on several accounts; and, among
others, from a reluctance to appear to draw Lucy away from the society
of my rival, into my own. Yet what right had I to call myself the
rival or competitor of a man who had openly professed an attachment,
where I had never breathed a syllable myself that might not readily be
mistaken for the language of that friendship, which time, and habit,
and a respect for each other's qualities, so easily awaken among the
young of different sexes? I had been educated almost as Lucy's
brother; and why should she not feel towards me as one?

Neb went out in the boat as soon as he got his orders and the
Wallingford sailed again in ballast that very night. She did not
remain at the wharf an hour after her wheat was out. I felt easier
when these duties were discharged, and was better prepared to pass the
night in peace. Grace's manner and appearance, too, contributed to
this calm; for she seemed to revive, and to experience some degree of
earthly happiness, in having her brother near her. When Mr. Hardinge
read prayers that night, she came to the chair where I stood, took my
hand in hers, and knelt at my side. I was touched to tears by this
act of affection, which spoke as much of the tenderness of the sainted
and departed spirit, lingering around those it had loved on earth, as
of the affection of the world. I folded the dear girl to my bosom, as
I left her at the door of her own room that night, and went to my own
pillow, with a heavy heart. Seamen pray little; less than they ought,
amid the rude scenes of their hazardous lives. Still, I had not quite
forgotten the lessons of childhood, and sometimes practised on
them. That night I prayed fervently, beseeching God to spare my
sister, if in his wisdom it were meet; and I humbly invoked his
blessings on the excellent divine, and on Lucy, by name. I am not
ashamed to own it, let who may deride the act.

"Wherever sorrow is, relief would be;
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd."
As You Like It.

I saw but little of Grace, during the early part of the succeeding
day. She had uniformly breakfasted in her own room, of late, and, in
the short visit I paid her there, I found her composed, with an
appearance of renewed strength that encouraged me greatly, as to the
future. Mr. Hardinge insisted on rendering an account of his
stewardship, that morning, and I let the good divine have his own way;
though, had he asked me for a receipt in full, I would cheerfully have
given it to him, without examining a single item. There was a
singular peculiarity about Mr. Hardinge. No one could live less for
the world generally; no one was less qualified to superintend
extensive worldly interests, that required care, or thought; and no
one would have been a more unsafe executor in matters that were
intricate or involved: still, in the mere business of accounts, he was
as methodical and exact, as the most faithful banker. Rigidly honest,
and with a strict regard for the rights of others, living moreover on
a mere pittance, for the greater part of his life, this conscientious
divine never contracted a debt he could not pay. What rendered this
caution more worthy of remark, was the fact that he had a spendthrift
son; but, even Rupert could never lure him into any weakness of this
sort. I question if his actual cash receipts, independently of the
profits of his little glebe, exceeded $300 in any one year; yet, he
and his children were ever well-dressed, and I knew from observation
that his table was always sufficiently supplied. He got a few presents
occasionally, from his parishioners, it is true; but they did not
amount to any sum of moment. It was method, and a determination not to
anticipate his income, that placed him so much above the world, while
he had a family to support; whereas, now that Mrs. Bradfort's fortune
was in the possession of his children, he assured me he felt himself
quite rich, though he scrupulously refused to appropriate one dollar
of the handsome income that passed through his hands as executor, to
his own uses. It was all Lucy's, who was entitled to receive this
income even in her minority, and to her he paid every cent, quarterly;
the sister providing for Rupert's ample wants.

Of course, I found everything exact to a farthing; the necessary
papers were signed, the power of attorney was cancelled, and I entered
fully into the possession of my own. An unexpected rise in the value
of flour had raised my shore receipts that year to the handsome sum of
nine thousand dollars. This was not properly income, however, but
profits, principally obtained through the labour of the mill. By
putting all my loose cash together, I found I could command fully
$30,000, in addition to the price of the ship. This sum was making me
a man quite at my ease, and, properly managed, it opened a way to
wealth. How gladly would I have given every cent of it, to see Grace
as healthy and happy as she was when I left her at Mrs. Bradfort's, to
sail in the Crisis!

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 tithe 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 circumstance 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
circumstance, 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 passion—of an
attachment that she is afraid every one will see? You do not
understand the sex, 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."