“Married! Oh, my gracious! Just think of the creature’s talking about it! Well, it is my fault, as you say; but I’ll do the best I can to mend it.”
“Well, I’m really sorry for him,” said Aunt Nesbit. “You are, aunt? Why don’t you take him yourself, then? You are as young and good looking as he is.”
“Nina, how you talk!” said Aunt Nesbit, coloring and bridling. “There was a time when I wasn’t bad looking, to be sure; but that’s long since past.”
“Oh, that’s because you always dress in stone-color and drab,” said Nina, as she stood brushing and arranging her curls. “Come, now, and go down, aunt, and do the best you can till I make my appearance. After all, as you say, I’m the most to blame. There’s no use in being vexed with the old soul. So, aunt, do be as fascinating as you can; see if you can’t console him. Only remember how you used to turn off lovers, when you were of my age.”
“And who is this other gentleman, Nina?”
“Oh, nothing, only he is a friend of mine. A very good man — good enough for a minister, any day, aunt, and not so stupid as good people generally are, either.”
“Well, perhaps you are engaged to him?”
“No, I am not; that is to say, I won’t be to anybody. This is an insufferable business! I like Mr. Clayton, because he can let me alone, don’t look at me in that abominably delighted way all the time, and dance about, calling me Nina! He and I are very good friends, that’s all. I’m not going to have any engagements anywhere.”
“Well, Nina, I’ll go down, and you make haste.” While the gentlemen and Aunt Nesbit were waiting in the saloon, Carson made himself extremely happy and at home. It was a large, cool apartment, passing, like a hall, completely through the centre of the house. Long French windows, at either end, opened on to balconies. The pillars of the balconies were draped and garlanded with wreaths of roses now in full bloom. The floor of the room was the polished mosaic of different colors to which we have formerly alluded. Over the mantelpiece was sculptured in oak the Gordon arms. The room was wainscoted with dark wood, and hung with several fine paintings, by Copley and Stuart, of different members of the family. A grand piano, lately arrived from New York, was the most modern-looking article in the room. Most of the furniture was of heavy dark mahogany, of an antique pattern. Clayton sat by the door, still admiring the avenue of oaks which were to be seen across the waving green of the lawn.
In about half an hour Nina reappeared in a flossy cloud of muslin, lace, and gauzy ribbons. Dress was one of those accomplishments for which the little gypsy had a natural instinct; and without any apparent thought, she always fell into that kind of color and material which harmonized with her style of appearance and character. There was always something floating and buoyant about the arrangement of her garments and drapery; so that to see her move across the floor gave one an airy kind of sensation, like the gambols of thistle-down. Her brown eyes had a peculiar resemblance to a bird’s; and this effect was increased by a twinkling motion of the head, and a fluttering habit of movement peculiar to herself; so that when she swept by in rosy gauzes, and laid one ungloved hand lightly on the piano, she seemed to Clayton much like some saucy bird — very good indeed if let alone, but ready to fly on the slightest approach.
Clayton had the rare faculty of taking in every available point of observation, without appearing to stare.
“‘Pon my word, Nina,” said Mr. Carson, coming towards her with a most delighted air, “you look as if you had fallen out of a rainbow!”
Nina turned away very coolly, and began arranging her music.
“Oh, that’s right!” said Carson; “give us one of your songs. Sing something from the ‘Favorita.’ You know it’s my favorite opera,” said he, assuming a most sentimental expression.
“Oh, I’m entirely out of practice — I don’t sing at all. I’m sick of all those opera-songs!” And Nina skimmed across the floor, and out of the open door by which Clayton was lounging, and began busying herself amid the flowers that wreathed the porch. In a moment Carson was at her heels; for he was one of those persons who seem to think it a duty never to allow any one to be quiet, if they can possibly prevent it.
“Have you ever studied the language of flowers, Nina?” said he.
“No, I don’t like to study languages.”
“You know the signification of a full-blown rose?” said he, tenderly presenting her with one.
Nina took the rose, coloring with vexation, and then, plucking from the bush a rose of two or three days’ bloom, whose leaves were falling out, she handed it to him, and said, —
“Do you understand the signification of this?”
“Oh, you have made an unfortunate selection! This rose is all falling to pieces!” said Mr. Carson innocently.
“So I observed,” said Nina, turning away quickly; then making one of her darting movements, she was in the middle of the saloon again, just as the waiter announced dinner.
Clayton rose gravely, and offered his arm to Aunt Nesbit; and Nina found herself obliged to accept the delighted escort of Mr. Carson, who, entirely unperceiving, was in the briskest possible spirits, and established himself comfortably between Aunt Nesbit and Nina.
“You must find it very dull here — very barren country, shockingly so! What do you find to interest yourself in?” said he.
“Will you take some of this gumbo?” replied Nina.
“I always thought,” said Aunt Nesbit, “it was a good plan for girls to have a course of reading marked out to them when they left school.”
“Oh, certainly,” said Carson. “I shall be happy to mark out one for her. I’ve done it for several young ladies.”
At this moment Nina accidentally happened to catch Clayton’s eye, which was fixed upon Mr. Carson with an air of quiet amusement greatly disconcerting to her.
“Now,” said Mr. Carson, “I have no opinion of making blues of young ladies; but still, I think, Mrs. Nesbit, that a little useful information adds greatly to their charms. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Nesbit. “I’ve been reading Gibbon’s ‘Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,’ lately.”
“Yes,” said Nina, “aunt’s been busy about that ever since I can remember.”
“That’s a very nice book,” said Mr. Carson, looking solemnly at Nina; “only, Mrs. Nesbit, ain’t you afraid of the infidel principle? I think, in forming the minds of the young, you know, one cannot be too careful.”
“Why, he struck me as a very pious writer!” said Aunt Nesbit innocently. “I’m sure, he makes the most religious reflections, all along. I liked him particularly on that account.”
It seemed to Nina that, without looking at Clayton, she was forced to meet his eye. No matter whether she directed her attention to the asparagus or the potatoes, it was her fatality always to end by a rencounter with his eye; and she saw, for some reason or other, the conversation was extremely amusing to him.
“For my part,” said Nina, “I don’t know what sort of principles Aunt Nesbit’s history, there, has; but one thing I’m pretty certain of, — that I’ in not in any danger from any such thick, close-printed, old, stupid-looking books as that. I hate reading, and I don’t intend to have my mind formed; so that nobody need trouble themselves to mark out courses for me! What is it to me what all these old empires have been, a hundred years ago? It is as much as I can do to attend to what is going on now.”
“For my part,” said Aunt Nesbit, “I’ve always regretted that I neglected the cultivation of my mind when I was young. I was like Nina, here, immersed in vanity and folly.”
“People always talk,” said Nina, reddening, “as if there was but one kind of vanity and folly in the world. I think there can be as much learned vanity and folly as we girls have!” And she looked at Clayton indignantly, as she saw him laughing.
“I agree with Miss Gordon, entirely. There is a great deal of very stupid respectable trifling, which people pursue under the head of courses of reading,” he s
aid. “And I don’t wonder that most compends of history which are studied in schools should inspire any lively young lady with a lifelong horror, not only of history, but of reading.”
“Do you think so?” said Nina, with a look of inexpressible relief.
“I do, indeed,” said Clayton. “And it would have been a very good thing for many of our historians if they had been obliged to have shaped their histories so that they would interest a lively schoolgirl. We literary men, then, would have found less sleepy reading. There is no reason why a young lady, who would sit up all night reading a novel, should not be made to sit up all night with a history. I’ll venture to say there’s no romance can come up to the gorgeousness and splendor, and the dramatic power, of things that really have happened. All that’s wanting is to have it set before us with an air of reality.”
“But, then,” said Nina, “you’d have to make the history into a romance.”
“Well, a good historical romance is generally truer than a dull history, because it gives some sort of conception of the truth, whereas the dull history gives none.”
“Well, then,” said Nina, “I’ll confess, now, that about all the history I do know has been got from Walter Scott’s novels. I always told our history teacher so; but she insisted upon it that it was very dangerous reading.”
“For my part,” said Mrs. Nesbit, “I’ve a great horror of novel-reading, particularly for young ladies. It did me a great deal of harm when I was young. It dissipates the mind; it gives false views of life.”
“Oh, law!” said Nina. “We used to write compositions about that, and I’ve got it all by heart — how it raises false expectations, and leads people to pursue phantoms, rainbows, and meteors, and all that sort of thing!”
“And yet,” said Clayton, “all these objections would lie against perfectly true history, and the more so just in proportion to its truth. If the history of Napoleon Bonaparte were graphically and minutely given, it would lie open to the very same objections. It would produce the very same cravings for something out of the commonplace course of life. There would be the same dazzling mixture of bad and good qualities in the hero, and the same lassitude and exhaustion after the story was finished. And common history does not do this, simply because it is not true — does not produce a vivid impression of the reality as it happened.”
Aunt Nesbit only got an indefinite impression, from this harangue, that Clayton was defending novel-reading, and felt herself called to employ her own peculiar line of reasoning to meet it, which consisted in saying the same thing over and over, at regular intervals, without appearing to hear or notice anything said in reply. Accordingly, she now drew herself up, with a slightly virtuous air, and said to Mr. Clayton, —
“I must say, after all, that I don’t approve of novel-reading. It gives false views of life, and disgusts young people with their duties.”
“I was only showing, madam, that the same objection would apply to the best written history,” said Clayton.
“I think novel-reading does a great deal of harm,” rejoined Aunt Nesbit. “I never allow myself to read any work of fiction. I’m principled against it.”
“For my part,” said Nina, “I wish I could find that kind of history you are speaking of; I believe I could read that.”
“‘T would be very interesting history, certainly,” said Mr. Carson. “I should think it would prove a very charming mode of writing. I wonder somebody don’t produce one.”
“For my part,” said Aunt Nesbit, “I confine myself entirely to what is practically useful. Useful information is all I desire.”
“Well, I suppose, then, I’m very wicked,” said Nina; “but I don’t like anything useful. Why, I’ve sometimes thought, when I’ve been in the garden, that the summer-savory, sage, and sweet-marjoram were just as pretty as many other flowers; and I couldn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t like a sprig of one of them for a bouquet, except that I’ve seen them used for stuffing turkeys. Well, now, that seems very bad of me, don’t it?”
“That reminds me,” said Aunt Nesbit, “that Rose has been putting sage into this turkey again, after all that I said to her. I believe she does it on purpose.”
At this moment Harry appeared at the door, and requested to speak to Nina.
After a few moments’ whispered conversation she came back to the table, apparently disconcerted.
“I’m so sorry — so very sorry!” she said. “Harry has been riding all round the country to find a minister to attend the funeral, this evening. It will be such a disappointment to that poor fellow! You know the negroes think so much of having prayers at the grave!”
“If no one else can be found to read prayers, I will,” said Clayton.
“Oh, thank you! will you, indeed?” said Nina. “I’m glad of it, now, for poor Tiff’s sake. The coach will be out at five o’clock, and we’ll ride over together, and make as much of a party as we can.”
“Why, child,” said Aunt Nesbit to Nina, after they returned to the parlor, “I did not know that Mr. Clayton was an Episcopalian.”
“He isn’t,” said Nina. “He and his family all attend the Presbyterian church.”
“How strange that he should offer to read prayers!” said Aunt Nesbit. “I don’t approve of such things, for my part.”
“Such things as what?”
“Countenancing Episcopal errors. If we are right, they are wrong, and we ought not to countenance them.”
“But, aunt, the burial service is beautiful.”
“Don’t approve of it!” said Aunt Nesbit.
“Why, you know, as Clayton isn’t a minister, he would not feel like making an extempore prayer.”
“Shows great looseness of religious principle,” said Aunt Nesbit. “Don’t approve of it!”
CHAPTER XII
EXPLANATIONS
THE golden arrows of the setting sun were shooting hither and thither through the pine woods, glorifying whatever they touched with a life not its own. A chorus of birds were pouring out an evening melody, when a little company stood around an open grave. With instinctive care for the feeling of the scene Nina had arrayed herself in a black silk dress, and plain straw bonnet with black ribbon — a mark of respect to the deceased remembered and narrated by Tiff for many a year after.
Cripps stood by the head of the grave, with that hopeless, imbecile expression with which a nature wholly gross and animal often contemplates the symbols of the close of mortal existence. Tiff stood by the side of the grave, his white hat conspicuously draped with black crape, and a deep weed of black upon his arm. The baby, wrapped in an old black shawl, was closely fondled in his bosom, while the two children stood weeping bitterly at his side. The other side of the grave stood Mr. Carson and Mr. Clayton, while Milly, Harry, and several plantation slaves were in a group behind.
The coffin had been opened, that all might take that last look, so coveted, yet so hopeless, which the human heart will claim on the very verge of the grave. It was but a moment since the coffin had been closed; and the burst of grief which shook the children was caused by that last farewell. As Clayton, in a musical voice, pronounced the words, “I am the resurrection and the life,” Nina wept and sobbed as if the grief had been her own; nor did she cease to weep during the whole touching service. It was the same impulsive nature which made her so gay in other scenes that made her so sympathetic here. When the whole was over she kissed the children, and shaking hands with Old Tiff, promised to come and see them on the morrow. After which, Clayton led her to the carriage, into which he and Carson followed her.
“Upon my word,” said Carson briskly, “this has been quite solemn! Really, a very interesting funeral, indeed! I was delighted with the effect of our Church service; in such a romantic place, too. ‘T was really very interesting. It pleases me, also, to see young ladies in your station, Nina, interest themselves in the humble concerns of the poor. If young ladies knew how much more attractive it made them to show a charitable spirit, they would cu
ltivate it more. Singular-looking person, that old negro! Seems to be a good creature. Interesting children, too! I should think the woman must have been pretty when she was young. Seen a great deal of trouble, no doubt, poor thing! It’s a comfort to hope she is better off now.”
Nina was filled with indignation at this monologue; not considering that the man was giving the very best he had in him, and laboring assiduously at what he considered his vocation, the prevention of half an hour of silence in any spot of earth where he could possibly make himself heard. The same excitement which made Nina cry made him talk. But he was not content with talking, but insisted upon asking Nina, every moment, if she didn’t think it an interesting occasion, and if she had not been much impressed.
“I don’t feel like talking, Mr. Carson,” said Nina.
“Oh — ah — yes, indeed! You’ve been so deeply affected — yes. Naturally does incline one to silence. Understand your feelings perfectly. Very gratifying to me to see you take such a deep interest in your fellow creatures.”
Nina could have pushed him out of the carriage.
“For my part,” continued Carson, “I think we don’t reflect enough about this kind of things — I positively don’t. It really is useful sometimes to have one’s thoughts turned in this direction. It does us good.”
Thus glibly did Carson proceed to talk away the impression of the whole scene they had witnessed. Long before the carriage reached home Nina had forgotten all her sympathy in a tumult of vexation. She discovered an increasing difficulty in making Carson understand, by any degree of coolness, that he was not acceptable; and saw nothing before her but explanations in the very plainest terms, mortifying and humiliating as that might be. His perfect self-complacent ease, and the air with which he constantly seemed to appropriate her as something which of right belonged to himself, filled her with vexation. But yet her conscience told her that she had brought it upon herself.
“I won’t bear this another hour!” she said to herself, as she ascended the steps toward the parlor. “All this before Clayton, too! What must he think of me?” But they found tea upon the table and Aunt Nesbit waiting.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 76