Afloat And Ashore

J >> James Fenimore Cooper >> Afloat And Ashore

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44

How could I enlighten the good old man on the subject of my sister's
malady? That Grace, with her well-tempered mind, was the victim of
religious exaggeration, I did not for a moment believe; but that she
had had her heart blighted, her affections withered, her hopes
deceived, by Rupert's levity and interestedness, his worldly-mindedness
and vanity, I could foresee, and was prepared to learn; though these
were facts not to be communicated to the father of the offender. I
made no answer, but managed to turn the conversation towards the farm,
and those interests about which I could affect an interest that I was
very far from feeling, just at that moment. This induced the divine to
inquire into the result of my late voyage, and enabled me to collect
sufficient fortitude to meet Grace, with the semblance of firmness, at
least.

Mr. Hardinge made a preconcerted signal, as soon as he came in view of
the house, that apprised its inmates of my arrival; and we knew, while
still half a mile from the buildings, that the news had produced a
great commotion. All the blacks met us on the little lawn--for the
girls, since reaching womanhood, had made this change in the old
door-yard--and I had to go through the process of shaking hands with
every one of them. This was done amid hearty bursts of laughter, the
mode in which the negroes of that day almost always betrayed their
joy, and many a "welcome home, Masser Mile!" and "where a Neb got to,
dis time, Masser Mile?" was asked by more than one; and great was the
satisfaction, when I told his generation and race that the faithful
fellow would be up with the cart that was to convey my luggage. But,
Grace awaited me. I broke through the throng, and entered the
house. In the door I was met by Chloe, a girl about my own sister's
age, and a sort of cousin of Neb's by the half-blood, who had been
preferred of late years to functions somewhat resembling those of a
lady's maid. I say of the half-blood; for, to own the truth, few of
the New York blacks, in that day, could have taken from their brothers
and sisters, under the old _dictum_ of the common law, which
declared that none but heirs of the whole blood should inherit. Chloe
met me in the door-way, and greeted me with one of her sweetest
smiles, as she curtsied, and really looked as pleased as all my slaves
did, at seeing their _young_ master again. How they touched my
heart, at times, by their manner of talking about "_ole_ Masser,
and _ole_ Missus," always subjects of regret among negroes who
had been well treated by them. Metaphysicians may reason as subtly as
they can about the races and colours, and on the aptitude of the black
to acquire, but no one can ever persuade me out of the belief of their
extraordinary aptitude to love. As between themselves and their
masters, their own children and those of the race to which they were
subject, I have often seen instances which have partaken of the
attachment of the dog to the human family; and cases in which the
children of their masters have been preferred to those of their own
flesh and blood, were of constant occurrence.

"I hope you been werry well, sah, Masser Mile," said Chloe, who had
some extra refinement, as the growth of her position.

"Perfectly, my good girl, and I am glad to see you looking so
well--you really are growing handsome, Chloe."

"Oh! Masser Mile---you so droll!--now you stay home, sah, long time?"

"I am afraid not, Chloe, but one never knows. Where shall I find my
sister?"

"Miss Grace tell me come here, Masser Mile, and say she wish to see
you in de family-room. She wait dere, now, some time."

"Thank you, Chloe; and do you see that no one interrupts us. I have
not seen my sister for near a year."

"Sartain, sah; all as you say." Then the girl, whose face shone like a
black bottle that had just been dipped in water, showed her brilliant
teeth, from ear to ear, laughed outright, looked foolish, after which
she looked earnest, when the secret burst out of her heart, in the
melodious voice of a young negress, that did not know whether to laugh
or to cry--"Where Neb, Masser Mile? what he do now; de _fel_-ler!"

"He will kiss you in ten minutes, Chloe; so put the best face on the
matter you are able."

"_Dat_ he wont--de sauce-box---Miss Grace teach me better dan
_dat_."

I waited to hear no more, but proceeded towards the triangular little
room, with steps so hurried and yet so nervous, that I do not
remember, ever before to have laid my hand on a lock in a manner so
tremulous--I found myself obliged to pause, ere I could muster
resolution to open the door, a hope coming over me that the impatience
of Grace would save me the trouble, and that I should find her in my
arms before I should be called on to exercise any more fortitude. All
was still as death, however, within the room, and I opened the door,
as if I expected to find one of the bodies I had formerly seen in its
coffin, in this last abiding place above ground, of one dead. My
sister was on the _causeuse_, literally unable to rise from
debility and agitation. I shall not attempt to describe the shock her
appearance gave me. I was prepared for a change, but not one that
placed her, as my heart instantly announced, so near the grave!

Grace extended both arms, and I threw myself at her side, drew her
within my embrace, and folded her to my heart, with the tenderness
with which one would have embraced an infant. In this situation we
both wept violently, and I am not ashamed to say that I sobbed like a
child. I dare say five minutes passed in this way, without either of
us speaking a word.

"A merciful and all gracious God be praised! You are restored to me in
time, Miles!" murmured my sister, at length. "I was afraid it might be
too late."

"Grace!--Grace!--What means this, love?--my precious, my only, my most
dearly beloved sister, why do I find you thus?"

"Is it necessary to speak, Miles?--cannot you see?--_do_ you not
see, and understand it all?"

The fervent pressure I gave my sister, announced how plainly I
comprehended the whole history. That Grace could ever love, and
forget, I did not believe; but, that her tenderness for Rupert--one
whom I knew for so frivolous and selfish a being, should reduce her to
this terrible state, I had not indeed foreseen as a thing
possible. Little did I then understand how confidingly a woman loves,
and how apt she is to endow the being of her choice with all the
qualities se could wish him to possess. In the anguish of my soul I
muttered, loud enough to be heard, "the heartless villain!"

Grace instantly rose from my arms. At that moment, she looked more
like a creature of heaven, than one that was still connected with this
wicked world. Her beauty could scarcely be called impaired, though I
dreaded that she would be snatched away from me in the course of the
interview; so frail and weak did it appear was her hold of life. In
some respects I never saw her more lovely than she seemed on this very
occasion. This was when the hectic of disease imparted to the sweetest
and most saint-like eyes that were ever set in the human countenance,
a species of holy illumination. Her countenance, now, was pale and
colourless; however, and her look sorrowful and filled with reproach.

"Brother," she said, solemnly, "this _must_ not be. It is not
what God commands--it is not what I expected from you--what I have a
right to expect from one whom I am assured loves me, though none other
of earth can be said to do so."

"It is not easy, my sister, for a man to forget or forgive the wretch
who has so long misled you--misled us all, and then turned to another,
under the impulse of mere vanity."

"Miles, my kind and manly brother, listen to me," Grace rejoined,
fervently pressing one of my hands in both of hers, and scarcely able
to command herself, through alarm. "All thoughts of anger, of
resentment, of pride even, must be forgotten. You owe it to my sex,
to the dreadful imputations that might otherwise rest on my name--had
I anything to reproach myself with as a woman. I could submit to
_any_ punishment; but surely, surely, it is not a sin so
unpardonable to be unable to command the affections, that I deserve to
have my name, after I shall be dead, mixed up with rumours connected
with such a quarrel. You have lived as brothers, too--then there is
good, excellent, truthful, pious Mr. Hardinge; who is yet _my_
guardian, you know; and Lucy, dear, true-hearted, faithful Lucy--"

"Why is not dear, true-hearted, faithful Lucy, here, watching over
you, Grace, at this very moment?" I demanded, huskily.

"She knows nothing of my situation--it is a secret, as well as its
cause, from all but God, myself, and you. Ah! I knew it would be
impossible to deceive your love, Miles! which has ever been to me,
all that a sister could desire."

"And Lucy! how has _her_ affection been deceived?--Has she too,
eyes only for those she has recently learned to admire?"

"You do her injustice, brother. Lucy has not seen me, since the great
change that I can myself see has come over me. Another time, I will
tell you all. At present I can only say, that as soon as I had certain
explanations with Rupert, I left town, and have studiously concealed
from dear Lucy the state of my declining health. I write to her
weekly, and get answers; everything passing between us as cheerfully,
and apparently, as happily as ever. No, do not blame Lucy; who, I am
certain, would quit everything and everybody to come to me, had she
the smallest notion of the truth. On the contrary, I believe she
thinks I would rather not have her at Clawbonny, just at this moment,
much as she knows I love her; for, one of Lucy's observation and
opportunities cannot but suspect the truth. Let me lie on your breast,
brother; it wearies me to talk so much."

I sat holding this beloved sister in my arms, fully an hour, neither
of us speaking. I was afraid of injuring her, by further excitement,
and she was glad to take refuge in silence, from the feelings of
maiden shame that could not be otherwise than mingled with such a
dialogue. As my cheek leaned on her silken hair, I could see large
tears rolling down the pallid cheeks; but the occasional pressure of
the hands, told me how much she was gladdened by my presence. After
some ten or fifteen minutes, the exhausted girl dropped into feverish
and disturbed slumbers, that I would have remained motionless
throughout the night to maintain. I am persuaded it was quite an hour
before this scene terminated. Grace then arose, and said, with one of
her most angelic smiles--

"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 "_fatigue_," 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.