Afloat and Ashore

by James Fenimore Cooper

  "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.

  Chapter XXIV

  *

  "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.

  "Oh! you know how it is with life, Grace," I answered, with affected carelessness, after a moment's silence; "now all sun-shine, and now all clouds—I shall probably never marry, my dear sister, and you, or your children, will inherit Clawbonny; then you can do as you please with the house. As a memorial of myself, however, I will leave orders for stone to be got out this fall, and, next year, I will put up the south wing, of which we have so much talked, and add three or four rooms in which one will not be ashamed to see his friends."

  "I hope your are ashamed of nothing that is at Clawbonny, now, Miles—as for your marrying, my dear brother, that remains to be seen; young men do not often know their own minds on such a subject, at your age."

  This was said, not altogether without pleasantry, though there was a shade of sadness in the countenance of the beloved speaker, that from the bottom of my heart I wished were not there. I believe Grace understood my concern, and that she shrunk with virgin sensitiveness from touching further on the subject, for she soon added—

  "Enough of this desponding talk. Why have you particularly desired to see me, here, Miles?"

  "Why? Oh! you know I am to sail next week, and we have never been here—and, now we are both of an age to communicate our thoughts to each other—I supposed—that is—there must be a beginning of all things, and it is as well to commence now, as any other time. You do not seem more than half a sister, in the company of strangers like the Mertons, and Hardinges!"

  "Strangers, Miles! How long have you regarded the last as strangers?"

  "Certainly not strangers in the way of acquaintance, but strangers to our blood. There is not the least connection between us and them."

  "No, but much love; and love that has lasted from childhood. I cannot remember the time when I have not loved Lucy Hardinge."

  "Quite true—nor I. Lucy is an excellent girl, and one is almost certain of always retaining a strong regard for her. How singularly the prospects of the Hardinges are changed by this sudden liking of Mrs. Bradfort!"

  "It is not sudden, Miles. You have been absent years, and forget how much time there has been to become intimate and attached. Mr. Hardinge and Mrs. Bradfort are sister's children; and the fortune of the last, which, I am told, exceeds six thousand a-year, in improving real estate in town, besides the excellent and valuable house in which she lives, came from their common grandfather, who cut off Mrs. Hardinge with a small legacy, because she married a clergyman. Mr. Hardinge is Mrs. Bradfort's heir-at-law, and it is by no means unnatural that she should think of leaving the property to those who, in one sense, have as good a right to it as she has herself."

  "And is it supposed she will leave Rupert her heir?"

  "I believe it is—at least—I think—I am afraid—Rupert himself imagines it; though doubtless Lucy will come in for a fair share. The affection of Mrs. Bradfort for Lucy is very strong—so strong, indeed, that she offered, last winter, openly to adopt her, and to keep her with her constantly. You know how true and warm-hearted a girl Lucy is, and how easy it is to love her."

  "This is all new to me—why was not the offer accepted?"

  "Neither Mr. Hardinge nor Lucy would listen to it. I was present at the interview in which it was discussed, and our excellent guardian thanked his cousin for her kind intentions; but, in his simple way, he declared, as long as life was spared him,
he felt it a duty to keep his girl; or, at least, until he committed her to the custody of a husband, or death should part them."

  "And Lucy?"

  "She is much attached to Mrs. Bradfort, who is a good woman in the main, though she has her weaknesses about the world, and society, and such things. Lucy wept in her cousin's arms, but declared she never could leave her father. I suppose you do not expect," added Grace, smiling, "that she had anything to say about a husband."

  "And how did Mrs. Bradfort receive this joint declaration of resistance to her pleasure, backed, as the last was, by dollars?"

  "Perfectly well. The affair terminated by Mr. Hardinge's consenting to Lucy's passing each winter in town, until she marry. Rupert, you know, lives there as a student at law, at present, and will become established there, when admitted to the bar."

  "And I suppose the knowledge that Lucy is likely to inherit some of the old Bleecker estate, has not in the least diminished her chance of finding a husband to remove her from the paternal custody of her father?"

  "No husband could ever make Lucy anything but Mr. Hardinge's daughter; but you are right, Miles, in supposing that she has been sought. I am not in her secrets, for Lucy is a girl of too much principle to make a parade of her conquests, even under the pretence of communicating them to her dearest friend—and in that light, beyond all question, does she regard me; but I feel as morally certain as one can be, without actually knowing the facts, that Lucy refused one gentleman, winter before last, and three last winter."

  "Was Mr. Andrew Drewett of the number?" I asked, with a precipitation of which I was immediately ashamed.