Afloat and Ashore

by James Fenimore Cooper

  The next morning we were all punctual, and sailed at the proper hour. The Mertons seemed pleased with the river, and, having a fresh southerly wind in our favour, with a strong flood-tide, we actually landed at the mill the same afternoon. Everything is apt to be agreeable when the traveller gets on famously; and I thought I never saw Emily in better spirits than she was when we first reached the top of the ascent that lies above the landing. I had given her my arm, as due to hospitality, while the others got up as they could; for I observed that Rupert assisted no one. As for Lucy, I was still too much vexed with her, and had been so all day, to be as civil as I ought. We were soon at a point that commanded a view of the house, meadows, orchards and fields.

  "This, then, is Clawbonny!" exclaimed Emily, as soon as I pointed out the place to her. "Upon my word, a very pretty farm, Captain Wallingford. Even prettier than you represented it to be, Mr. Rupert Hardinge."

  "Oh! I always do justice to everything of Wallingford's, you know. We were children together, and became so much attached in early life, that it's no wonder we remain so in these our later days."

  Rupert was probably nearer the truth than he imagined, when he made this speech; my regard for him, by this time, being pretty much reduced to habit; and certainly it had no increase from any fresh supplies of respect. I began to hope he might not marry Grace, though I had formerly looked forward to the connection as a settled thing. "Let him get Miss Merton, if he can," I said to myself: "it will be no great acquisition, I fancy, to either side."

  How different was it with his father, and, I may add, with Lucy! The old gentleman turned to me, with tears in his eyes; pointed to the dear old house, with a look of delight; and then took my arm, without reference to the wants of Miss Merton, and led me on, conversing earnestly of my affairs, and of his own stewardship. Lucy had her father's arm, on the other side; and the good divine was too much accustomed to her, to mind the presence of his daughter. Away we three went, therefore, leading the way, while Rupert took charge of Emily and Grace. Major Merton followed, leaning on his own man.

  "It is a lovely—it is a lovely spot, Miles," said Mr. Hardinge; "and I do most sincerely hope you will never think of tearing down that respectable-looking, comfortable, substantial, good old-fashioned house, to build a new one."

  "Why should I, dear sir? The house, with an occasional addition, all built in the same style, has served us a century, and may very well serve another. Why should I wish for more, or a better house?"

  "Why, sure enough? But, now you are a sort of a merchant, you may grow rich, and wish to be the proprietor of a seat."

  The time had been, when such thoughts often crossed my mind; but I cared less for them, then. To own a seat, was the great object of my ambition in boyhood; but the thought had weakened by time and reflection.

  "What does Lucy think of the matter? Do I want, or indeed deserve, a better house?"

  "I shall not answer either question," replied the dear girl, a little saucily, I thought. "I do not understand your wants, and do not choose to speak of your deservings. But I fancy the question will be settled by a certain Mrs. Wallingford, one of these days. Clever women generally determine these things for their husbands."

  I endeavoured to catch Lucy's eye, when this was said, by leaning a little forward myself; but the girl turned her head in such a manner as prevented my seeing her face. The remark was not lost on Mr. Hardinge, however, who took it up with warmth, and all the interest of a most pure and disinterested affection.

  "I suppose you will think of marrying one of these days, Miles," he said; "but, on no account, marry a woman who will desert Clawbonny, or who would wish materially to alter it. No good-hearted woman, indeed—no true-hearted woman—would ever dream of either. Dear me! dear me! the happy days and the sorrowful days—the gracious mercies of Providence, and the chastening afflictions—that I myself have seen, and felt, and witnessed, under these same roofs!"

  This was followed by a sort of enumeration of the events of the last forty years, including passages in the lives of all who had dwelt at the farm; the whole concluding with the divine's solemnly repeating—"No, no! Miles; do not think, even, of marrying a woman who would wish you to desert, or materially alter, Clawbonny."

  Chapter XXIII

  *

  "If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,

  Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough

  May not extend so far as to the lady."

  Merchant of Venice.

  Next morning, I was early afoot, and I found Grace as much alive to the charms of home, as I was myself. She put on a gypsy, and accompanied me into the garden, where to my surprise, I found Lucy. It looked like old times to be in that spot, again, with those two dear girls. Rupert alone was wanting to complete the picture; but, I had an intimate conviction that Rupert, as he had been at least, could never come within the setting of the family group again. I was rejoiced, however, to see Lucy, and more so, just where I found her, and I believe told her as much with my eyes. The charming girl looked happier than she had appeared the day before, or for many previous days indeed, and I felt less apprehension than of late, concerning her having met with any agreeable youth of a more genteel profession than that of a merchant-captain.

  "I did not expect to find you here, Miss Lucy," cried Grace, "eating half-ripe currants, too, or my eyes deceive me, at this early hour in the morning. It is not twenty minutes since you were in your own room, quite unadorned."

  "The green fruit of dear Clawbonny is better than the ripe fruit of those vile New York markets!" exclaimed Lucy, with a fervour so natural as to forbid any suspicion of acting. "I should prefer a Clawbonny potatoe, to a New York peach!"

  Grace smiled, and, as soon as Lucy's animation had a little subsided, she blushed.

  "How much better would it be, Miles," my sister resumed, "could you be induced to think and feel with us, and quit the seas, to come and live for the rest of your days on the spot where your fathers have so long lived before you. Would it not, Lucy?"

  "Miles will never do that," Lucy answered, with emphasis. "Men are not like us females who love everything we love at all, with our whole hearts. Men prefer wandering about, and being shipwrecked, and left on desert islands, to remaining quietly at home, on their own farms. No, no; you'll never persuade Miles to do that."

  "I am not astonished my brother thinks desert islands such pleasant abodes, when he can find companions like Miss Merton on them."

  "You will remember, sister of mine, in the first place, that Marble Land is very far from being a desert island at all; and, in the next, that I first found Miss Merton in Hyde Park, London; almost in the canal, for that matter."

  "I think it a little odd that Miles never told us all about this, in his letters, at the time, Lucy. When young gentlemen drag young ladies out of canals, their friends at home have a right to know something of the matter."

  How much unnecessary misery is inflicted by unmeaning expressions like this. Grace spoke lightly, and probably without a second thought about the matter; but the little she said, not only made me thoughtful and uneasy, but it drove everything like a smile from the usually radiant countenance of her friend. The conversation dragged; and soon after, we returned together to the house.

  I was much occupied that morning, in riding about the place with Mr. Hardinge, and in listening to his account of his stewardship, With the main results I was already acquainted—nay, possessed them in the Dawn,—but the details had all to be gone over, with the most minute accuracy. A more simple-minded being there was not on earth than Mr. Hardinge; and, that my affairs turned out so well was the result of the prosperous condition of the country at that day, the system my father had adopted in his life-time, and the good qualities of the different agents he had chosen, every one of whom remained in the situation in which he was at the sad moment of the fatal accident at the mill. Had matters really depended on the knowledge and management of the most excellent divine, they would soon have been at s
ixes and sevens.

  "I am no believer in miracles, my dear Miles," observed my guardian, with amusing self-complacency; "but I do think a change has been wrought in me, to meet the emergencies of a situation, in which the interests of two orphans have been so suddenly intrusted to my guidance and care. God be thanked! everything prospers; your affairs, as well as those of my dear Grace. It is wonderful, boy, how a man of my habits has been directed in his purchases of wheat, for instance; I, who never bought a bushel until the whole responsibility of your mills fell upon my shoulders I take no credit to myself for it—no credit to myself!"

  "I hope the miller has not been backward, my dear sir, in giving you all the assistance in his power."

  "Morgan?—yes; he is always ready, and you know I never forget to send him into the market to both buy and sell. Really, his advice has been so excellent, that to me it has the appearance of being almost miraculous—prophetic, I should say, were it not improper. We should avoid all exaggeration in our gratitude, boy."

  "Very truly, sir. And in what manner have you managed to get along so well with the crops, on the place, itself?"

  "Favoured by the same great adviser, Miles. It is really wonderful, the crops we have had; and the judgment that has been so providentially shown in the management of the fields, as well as of the mills!"

  "Of course, sir, old Hiram (Neb's uncle) has always been ready to give you his aid?—Hiram has a great deal of judgment, in his way."

  "No doubt—no doubt—Hiram and I have done it all, led by a Providential counsel. Well, my boy, you ought to be satisfied with your earthly lot; for every thing seems to prosper that belongs to you. Of course, you will marry, one of these days, and transmit this place to your son, as it has been received from your fathers?"

  "I keep that hope in perspective, sir; or, as we sailors say, for a sheet-anchor."

  "Your hope of salvation, boy, is your sheet-anchor, I trust. Nevertheless, we are not to be too hard on young men, and must let them have a little romance in their compositions. Yes, yes; I trust you will not become so much wedded to your ship, as not to think of taking a wife, one of these days. It will be a happy hour to me, when I can see another Mrs. Miles Wallingford at Clawbonny. She will be the third; for I can remember your grandmother."

  "Can you recommend to me a proper person to fill that honourable station, sir?" said I, smiling to myself, and exceedingly curious to hear the answer.

  "What do you think of this Miss Merton, boy? She is handsome, and that pleases young men; clever, and that pleases old ones; well-educated, and that will last, when the beauty is gone; and, so far as I can judge, amiable; and that is as necessary to a wife, as fidelity. Marry no woman, Miles, that is not amiable!"

  "May I ask what you call amiable, sir?—And, when that question is answered, I may venture to go so far as to inquire whom you call amiable?"

  "Very sensible distinctions, and such as are entitled to fair answers; at least the first. I do not call levity, amiability; nor mere constitutional gaiety. Some of the seemingly most light-hearted women I have ever known, have been anything but amiable. There must be an unusual absence of selfishness,—a person must live less for herself, than others—or rather, must find her own happiness in the happiness of those she loves, to make a truly amiable woman. Heart and principle are at the bottom of what is truly amiable; though temperament and disposition undoubtedly contribute. As for the whom, your own sister Grace is a truly amiable young woman. I never knew her do anything to hurt another's feelings in my life."

  "I suppose you will admit, sir, I cannot very well marry Grace?"

  "I wish you could, with all my heart—yes, with all my heart! Were not you and Grace brother and sister, I should consider myself well quit of the responsibility of my guardianship, in seeing you man and wife."

  "As that is out of the question, I am not without hopes you can mention another who will do just as well, so far as I am concerned."

  "Well, there is this Miss Merton—though I do not know her well enough to venture absolutely on a recommendation. Now, I told Lucy, no later than yesterday, while we were on the river, and as you were pointing out to Miss Merton the forts in the Highlands, that I thought you would make one of the handsomest couples in the state—and, moreover, I told her—bless me, how this corn grows! The plants will be in tassel in a few days, and the crop must turn out most beneficent—truly, truly—there is a providence in all things; for, at first, I was for putting the corn on yonder hill-side, and the potatoes here; but old Hiram was led by some invisible agency to insist on this field for the corn, and the hill-side for the potatoes—and, now, look, and see what crops are in promise! Think of a nigger's blundering on such a thing?"

  In 1802, even well-educated and well-intentioned clergymen had no scruples in saying "nigger."

  "But, sir, you have quite forgotten to add what else you told Lucy?"

  "True—true—it is very natural that you should prefer hearing me talk about Miss Merton, to hearing me talk about potatoes—I'll tell that to Lucy, too, you may depend on it."

  "I sincerely hope you will do no such thing, my dear sir," I cried, in no little alarm.

  "Ah! that betrays guilt—consciousness, I should say; for what guilt can there be in a virtuous love?—and rely on it, both the girls shall know all about it. Lucy and I often talk over your matters, Miles; for she loves you as well as your own sister. Ah! my fine fellow, you blush at it, like a girl of sixteen! But, there is nothing to be ashamed of, and there is no occasion for blushes."

  "Well, sir, letting my blushes—the blushes of a shipmaster!—but setting aside my blushes, for mercy's sake what more did you tell Lucy?"

  "What more? Why I told her how you had been on a desert island, quite alone as one might say, with Miss Merton, and how you had been at sea, living in the same cabin as it were, for nine months; and it would be wonderful—wonderful, indeed, if two so handsome young persons should not feel an attachment for each other. Country might make some difference, to be sure—"

  "And station, sir?—What do you think would be the influence of the difference of station, also?"

  "Station!—Bless me, Miles; what difference in station is there between you and Miss Merton; that it should cause any obstacle to your union?"

  "You know what it is, sir, as well as I do myself. She is the daughter of an officer in the British army, and I am the master of a ship. You will admit, I presume, Mr. Hardinge, that there is such, a thing as a difference in station?"

  "Beyond all question. It is exceedingly useful to remember it; and I greatly fear the loose appointments of magistrates and other functionaries, that are making round the country, will bring all our notions on such subjects into great confusion. I can understand that one man is as good as another in rights, Miles; but I cannot understand he is any better, because he happens to be uneducated, ignorant, or a blackguard."

  Mr. Hardinge was a sensible man in all such distinctions, though so simple in connection with other matters.

  "You can have no difficulty, however, in understanding that, in New York, for instance, I should not be considered the equal of Major Merton—I mean socially, altogether, and not in personal merit, or the claims which years give—and of course, not the equal of his daughter?"