Miles Wallingford Part 10

The different persons belonging to the mill and the farm came to me for directions, which I was compelled to give with thoughts engrossed with the state of my sister. More than once I endeavoured to arouse myself; and, for a few minutes, _seemed_ to enter, if I did not truly enter, with interest into the affairs presented to my consideration; but these little rallies were merely so many attempts at self-delusion, and I finally referred everything to the respective persons entrusted with the different branches of the duty bidding them act as they had been accustomed to do in my absence.

"Why, yes, Ma.s.ser Mile," answered the old negro who was the head man in the field, "dis berry well, if he can do it. Remember I alway hab Ma.s.ser Hardinge to talk to me about 'e crop, and sich t'ing, and dat a won'erful help to a poor n.i.g.g.e.r when he in a nonplush."

"Surely, Hiram, you are a better husbandman than Mr. Hardinge and myself put together, and cannot want the advice of either to tell you how to raise corn, or to get in hay!"

"Dat berry true, sah--so true, I wont deny him. But, you know how it be, Ma.s.ser Mile; a n.i.g.g.e.r _do_ lub to talk, and it help along work won'erfully, to get a good dispute, afore he begin."

As respects the blacks, this was strictly true. Though as respectful as slavery and habit could make them, they were so opinionated and dogmatical, each in his or her sphere, that nothing short of a downright a.s.sertion of authority could produce submission to any notions but their own. They loved to argue the different points connected with their several duties, but they did not like to be convinced. Mr. Hardinge would discuss with them, from a sense of duty, and he would invariably yield, unless in cases that involved moral principles. On all such points, and they were not of unfrequent occurrence in a family of so many blacks, he was as inflexible as the laws of the Medes and Persians; but, as respected the wheat, the potatoes, the orchards, the mill, or the sloop, he usually submitted to the experience of those more familiar with the business, after having discussed the matters in council. This rendered him exceedingly popular at Clawbonny, the persuaded usually having the same sort of success in the world as a good listener. As for the rector himself, after so many long discussions, he began to think he had actually influenced the different steps adopted; the cause of one of the illusions I have already pourtrayed.

Old Hiram did not quit me when he came for instructions alias a "dispute,"

without a word of inquiry touching Grace I could see that the alarm had pa.s.sed among the slaves, and it was quite touching to note the effect it produced on their simple minds. It would have been sufficient for them to love her, that Grace was their young mistress; but such a mistress as she had ever been, and one so winning in manner and person, they might be said almost to wors.h.i.+p her.

"I berry sorry to hear Miss Grace be onwell, sah," said old Hiram, looking at me sorrowfully. "It go hard wid us all, if anyt'ing happen _dere_! I alway s'pose, Ma.s.ser Mile, dat Miss Grace and Ma.s.ser Rupert come togeder, some time; as we all expects you and Miss Lucy will. Dem are happy days, sah, at Clawbonny, for den we all know our new ma.s.ser and new missus from de cradle. No, no--we can nebber spare Miss Grace, sah; even I should miss her in 'e field!"

The very blacks had observed the state of things which had deluded my poor sister; and the slave had penetrated his master's secret. I turned away abruptly from the negro, lest he should also detect the evidence of the weakness extorted by his speech, from the eyes of manhood.

Chapter VI.

--"Like the lily That once was mistress of the field, and flourished, I'll hang my head, and perish."

Queen Catherine.

I saw little of Lucy that night. She met us at evening prayers, and tears were in her eyes as she arose from her knees. Without speaking, she kissed her father for good night, more affectionately than ever, I thought, and then turned to me. Her hand was extended, (we had seldom met or parted for eighteen years, without observing this little act of kindness), but she did not--nay, _could not_, speak. I pressed the little hand fervently in my own, and relinquished it again, in the same eloquent silence. She was seen no more by us until next day.

The breakfast had ever been a happy meal at Clawbonny. My father, though merely a s.h.i.+p-master, was one of the better cla.s.s; and he had imbibed many notions, in the course of his different voyages, that placed him much in advance of the ordinary habits of his day and country. Then an _American_ s.h.i.+p-master is usually superior to those of other countries. This arises from some of the peculiarities of our inst.i.tutions, as well as from the circ.u.mstance that the navy is so small. Among other improvements, my father had broken in upon the venerable American custom of swallowing a meal as soon as out of bed. The breakfast at Clawbonny, from my earliest infancy, or as long as I can remember, had been eaten regularly at nine o'clock, a happy medium between the laziness of dissipation and the hurry of ill-formed habits. At that hour the whole family used to meet, still fresh from a night's repose, and yet enlivened and gay by an hour or two of exercise in the open air, instead of coming to the family board half asleep, with a sort of drowsy sulkiness, as, if the meal were a duty, and not a pleasure. We ate as leisurely as keen appet.i.tes would permit; laughed, chatted, related the events of the morning, conversed of our plans for the day, and indulged our several tastes and humours, like people who had been up and stirring, and not like so many drowsy drones swallowing our food for form's sake. The American breakfast has been celebrated by several modern writers, and it deserves to be, though certainly not to be compared to that of France. Still it might be far better than it is, did our people understand the _mood_ in which it ought to be enjoyed.

While on this subject, the reader will excuse an old man's prolixity, if I say a word on the state of the science of the table in general, as it is put in practice in this great republic. A writer of this country, one Mr.

Cooper, has somewhere said that the Americans are the grossest feeders in the civilized world, and warns his countrymen to remember that a national character may be formed in the kitchen. This remark is commented on by Captain Marryatt, who calls it both unjust and ill-natured. As for the ill-nature I shall say nothing, unless it be to remark that I do not well see how that which is undeniably true ought to be thought so very ill-natured. That it is true, every American who has seen much of other lands must know. Captain-Marryatt's allegation that the tables are good in the large towns, has nothing to do with the merits of this question. The larger American towns are among the best eating and drinking portions of the world. But what are they as compared to the whole country? What are the public tables, or the tables of the refined, as compared to the tables of the ma.s.s, even in these very towns? All things are to be judged of by the rules, and not by the exceptions. Because a small portion of the American population understand what good cookery is, it by no means follows that _all_ do. Who would think of saying that the people of England live on white bait and venison, because the n.o.bility and gentry (the aldermen inclusive) can enjoy both, in the seasons, _ad libitum?_ I suspect this Mr. Cooper knows quite as well what he is about, when writing of America, as any European. If pork fried in grease, and grease pervading half the other dishes, vegetables cooked without any art, and meats done to rags, make a good table, then is this Mr. Cooper wrong, and Captain Marryatt right, and _vice versa_. As yet, while nature has done so much in America, art has done but little. Much compared with numbers and time, certainly, but little as compared with what numbers and time have done elsewhere. Nevertheless, I would make an exception in favour of America, as respects the table of one country, though not so much in connection with the coa.r.s.eness of the feeding as in the poverty of the food. I consider the higher parts of Germany to be the portions of the Christian world where eating and drinking are in the most primitive condition; and that part of this great republic, which Mr. Alison Would probably call the _State_ of New England, to come next. In abundance and excellence of food in the native form, America is particularly favoured; Baltimore being at the very nucleus of all that is exquisite in the great business of mastication. Nevertheless, the subst.i.tution of cooks from the interior of New England, for the present glistening tenants of her kitchens, would turn even that paradise of the epicure into a sort of oleaginous waste.

Enough of cookery.

Lucy did not appear at prayers next morning! I felt her absence as one feels the certainty of some dreadful evil. Breakfast was announced; still Lucy did not appear. The table was smoking and hissing; and Romeo Clawbonny, who acted as the everyday house-servant, or footman, had several times intimated that it might be well to commence operations, as a cold breakfast was very cold comfort.

"Miles, my dear boy," observed Mr. Hardinge, after opening the door to look for the absentee half a dozen times, "we will wait no longer. My daughter, no doubt, intends to breakfast with Grace, to keep the poor dear girl company; for it _is_ dull work to breakfast by oneself. You and I miss Lucy sadly, at this very moment, though we have each other's company to console us."

We had just taken our seats, when the door slowly opened, and Lucy entered the room.

"Good morning, dearest father," said the sweet girl, pa.s.sing an arm round Mr. Hardinge's neck, with more than her usual tenderness of manner, and imprinting a long kiss on his bald head. "Good morning, Miles," stretching towards me a hand, but averting her face, as afraid it might reveal too much, when exposed fully to my anxious and inquiring gaze. "Grace pa.s.sed a pretty quiet night, and is, I think, a little less disturbed this morning than she was yesterday."

Neither of us answered or questioned the dear nurse. What a breakfast was that, compared to so many hundreds in which I had shared at that very table, and in that same room! Three of the accustomed faces were there, it is true; all the appliances were familiar, some dating as far back as the time of the first Miles; Romeo, now a grey-headed and wrinkled negro, was in his usual place; but Chloe, who was accustomed to pa.s.s often between her young mistress and a certain closet, at that meal, which never seemed to have all we wanted arranged on the table at first, was absent, as was that precious "young mistress" herself. "Gracious Providence!" I mentally e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "is it thy will it should _ever_ be thus? Am I _never_ again to see those dove-like eyes turned on me in sisterly affection from the head of my table, as I have so often seen them, on hundreds and hundreds of occasions?" Lucy's spirits had sometimes caused her to laugh merrily; and her musical voice once used to mingle with Rupert's and my own more manly and deeper notes, in something like audible mirth; not that Lucy was ever boisterous or loud; but, in early girlhood, she had been gay and animated, to a degree that often blended with the noisier clamour of us boys. With Grace, this had never happened. She seldom spoke, except in moments when the rest were still; and her laugh was rarely audible, though so often heartfelt and joyous. It may seem strange to those who have never suffered the pang of feeling that such a customary circle was broken up forever; but, that morning, the first in which I keenly felt that my sister was lost to me, I actually missed her graceful, eloquent, silence!

"Miles," said Lucy, as she rose from the table, tears trembling on her eyelids as she spoke, "half an hour hence come to the family room. Grace wishes to see you _there_ this morning, and I have not been able to deny her request. She is weak, but thinks the visit will do her good. Do not fail to be punctual, as waiting might distress her. Good morning, dearest papa; when I want _you_, I will send for you."

Lucy left us with these ominous notices, and I felt the necessity of going on the lawn for air. I walked my half-hour out, and returned to the house in time to be punctual to the appointment. Chloe met me at the door, and led the way in silence towards the family room. Her hand was no sooner laid on the latch than Lucy appeared, beckoning me to enter. I found Grace reclining on that small settee, or _causeuse_, on which we had held our first interview, looking pallid and uneasy, but still looking lovely and as ethereal as ever. She held out a hand affectionately, and then I saw her glance towards Lucy, as if asking to be left with me alone. As for myself, I could not speak. Taking my old place, I drew my sister's head on my bosom, and sat holding it in silence for many painful minutes. In that position I could conceal the tears which forced themselves from my eyes, it exceeding all my powers to repress these evidences of human grief. As I took my place, the figure of Lucy disappeared, and the door closed.

I never knew how long a time Grace and I continued in that tender att.i.tude. I was not in a state of mind to note such a fact, and have since striven hard to forget most that occurred in that solemn interview. After a lapse of so many years, however, I find memory painfully accurate on all the leading circ.u.mstances, though it was impossible to recall a point of which I took no heed at the moment. Such things only as made an impression is it in my power to relate.

When Grace gently, and I might add faintly, raised herself from my bosom, she turned on me eyes that were filled with a kind anxiety on my account rather than on her own.

"Brother," she said, earnestly, "the will of G.o.d must be submitted to--I am very, _very_ ill--broken in pieces--I grow weaker every hour. It is not right to conceal such a truth from ourselves, or from each other."

I made no reply, although she evidently paused to give me an opportunity to speak. I could not have uttered a syllable to have saved my life. The pause was impressive, rather than long.

"I have sent for you, dearest Miles," my sister continued, "not that I think it probable I shall be called away soon or suddenly--G.o.d will spare me for a little while, I humbly trust, in order to temper the blow to those I love; but he is about to call me to him, and we must all be prepared for it; you, and dear, dear Lucy, and my beloved guardian, as well as myself. I have not sent for you even to tell you this; for Lucy gives me reason to believe you expect the separation; but I wish to speak to you on a subject that is very near my heart, while I have strength and fort.i.tude to speak on it at all. Promise me, dearest, to be calm, and to listen patiently."

"Your slightest wish will be a law to me, beloved, most precious sister; I shall listen as if we were in our days of childish confidence and happiness--though I fear those days are never to return!"

"Feel not thus, Miles, my n.o.ble-hearted, manly brother. Heaven will not desert you, unless you desert your G.o.d; it does not desert me, but angels beckon me to its bliss! Were it not for you and Lucy, and my dear, dear guardian, the hour of my departure would be a moment of pure felicity. But we will not talk of this now. You must prepare yourself, Miles, to hear me patiently, and to be indulgent to my last wishes, even should they seem unreasonable to your mind at first."

"I have told you, Grace, that a request of your's will be a law to me; have no hesitation, therefore, in letting me know any, or all your wishes."

"Let us, then, speak of worldly things; for the last time, I trust, my brother. Sincerely do I hope that this will be the last occasion on which I shall ever be called to allude to them. This duty discharged, all that will remain to me on earth will be the love I bear my friends. This Heaven itself will excuse, as I shall strive not to let it lessen that I bear my G.o.d."

Grace paused, and I sat wondering what was to follow, though touched to the heart by her beautiful resignation to a fate that to most so young would seem hard to be borne.

"Miles, my brother," she continued, looking at me anxiously, "we have not spoken much of your success in your last voyage, though I have understood that you have materially increased your means."

"It has quite equalled my expectations; and, rich in my s.h.i.+p and ready money, I am content, to say nothing of Clawbonny. Do what you will with your own, therefore, my sister; not a wish of mine shall ever grudge a dollar; I would rather not be enriched by your loss. Make your bequests freely, and I shall look on each and all of them as so many memorials of your affectionate heart and many virtues."

Grace's cheeks flushed, and I could see that she was extremely gratified, though still tremblingly anxious.

"You doubtless remember that by our father's will, Miles, my property becomes your's, if I die without children before I reach the age of twenty-one; while your's would have been mine under the same circ.u.mstances. As I am barely twenty, it is out of my power to make a legal will."

"It is in your power to make one that shall be equally binding, Grace. I will go this instant for pen, ink, and paper; and, as you dictate, will I write a will that shall be even more binding than one that might come within the rules of the law."

"Nay, brother, that is unnecessary; all I wish I have already said in a letter addressed to yourself; and which, should you now approve of it, will be found among my papers as a memorandum. But there should be no misapprehension between you and me, dearest Miles. I do not wish you even fully to consent to my wishes, now; take time to consider, and let your judgment have as much influence on your decision as your own excellent heart."

"I am as ready to decide at this moment as I shall be a year hence. It is enough for me that you wish the thing done, to have it done, sister."

"Bless you--bless you--brother"--said Grace, affectionately pressing my hand to her heart--"not so much that you consent to do as I wish, as for the spirit and manner in which you comply. Still, as I ask no trifle, it is proper that I release you from all pledges here given, and allow you time for reflection. Then, it is also proper you should know the full extent of what you promise."

"It is enough for me that it will be in my power to perform what you desire; further than that I make no stipulation."

I could see that Grace was profoundly struck with this proof of my attachment; but her own sense of right was too just and active to suffer the matter to rest there.

"I must explain further," she added. "Mr. Hardinge has been a most faithful steward; and, by means of economy, during my long minority, the little cost that has attended my manner of living, and some fortunate investments that have been made of interest-money, I find myself a good deal richer than I had supposed. In relinquis.h.i.+ng my property, Miles, you will relinquish rather more than two-and-twenty thousand dollars; or quite twelve hundred a year. There ought to be no misapprehensions on this subject, between us; least of all at such a moment."

"I wish it were more, my sister, since it gives you pleasure to bestow it.

If it will render you any happier to perfect any of your plans, take ten thousand of my own, and add to the sum which is now your's. I would increase, rather than lessen your means of doing good."

"Miles--Miles"--said Grace, dreadfully agitated--"talk not thus--it almost shakes my purpose! But no; listen now to my wishes, for I feel this will be the last time I shall ever dare to speak on the subject. In the first place, I wish you to purchase some appropriate ornament, of the value of five hundred dollars, and present it to Lucy as a memorial of her friend.

Give also one thousand dollars in money to Mr. Hardinge, to be distributed in charity. A letter to him on the subject, and one to Lucy, will also be found among my papers. There will still remain enough to make suitable presents to the slaves, and leave the sum of twenty thousand dollars entire and untouched."

"And what shall I do with these twenty thousand dollars, sister?" I asked, Grace hesitating to proceed.