Afloat and Ashore Part 32

"Do I?--out of all question. Don't you remember how the girls wept--Grace as well as Lucy--when we went to sea, boy. It was all on account of the _un_gentility of the profession, if a fellow can use such a word."

I did not believe this, for I knew Grace better, to say the least; and thought I understood Lucy sufficiently, at that time, to know she wept because she was sorry to see me go away. Still, Lucy had grown from a very young girl, since I sailed in the Crisis, into a young woman, and might view things differently, now, from what she had done three years before. I had not time, however, for further discussion at that moment, and I cut the matter short.

"Well, Rupert, what am I to expect?" I asked; "Clawbonny, or no Clawbonny?"

"Why, now you say the Mertons are to be of the party I suppose I shall have to go; it would be inhospitable else. I do wish, Miles, you would manage to establish visiting relations with some of the families on the other side of the river. There are plenty of respectable people within a few hours' sail of Clawbonny."

"My father, and my grandfather, and my great-grand-father, managed, as you call it, to get along, for the last hundred years, well enough on the west side; and, although we are not quite as genteel as the _east_, we will do well enough. The Wallingford sails early in the morning, to save the tide; and I hope your lords.h.i.+p will turn out in season, and not keep us waiting. If you do, I shall be _ungenteel_ enough to leave you behind."

I left Rupert with a feeling in which disgust and anger were blended.

I wish to be understood, more particularly as I know I am writing for a stiff-necked generation. I never was guilty of the weakness of decrying a thing because I did not happen to possess it myself. I knew my own place in the social scale perfectly; nor was I, as I have just said, in the least inclined to fancy that one man was as good as another. I knew very well that this was not true, either in nature or in the social relations; in political axioms, any more than in political truths. At the same time, I did not believe nature had created men unequal, in the order of primogeniture from male to male. Keeping in view all the facts, I was perfectly disposed to admit that habits, education, a.s.sociation, and sometimes chance and caprice, drew distinctions that produced great benefits, as a whole; in some small degree qualified, perhaps, by cases of individual injustice. This last exception, however, being applicable to all things human, it had no influence on my opinions, which were sound and healthful on all these points; practical, common-sense-like, and in conformity with the decisions of the world from the time of Moses down to our own, or, I dare say, of Adam himself, if the truth could be known; and, as I have said more than once in these rambling memoir's, I was not disposed to take a false view of my own social position. I belonged, at most, to the cla.s.s of small proprietors, as they existed in the last century, and filled a very useful and respectable niche between the yeoman and gentleman, considering the last strictly in reference to the upper cla.s.s of that day. Now, it struck me that Emily Merton, with her English notions, might very well draw the distinctions Rupert had mentioned; nor am I conscious of having cared much about it, though she did. If I were a less important person on _terra firma_, with all the usages and notions of ordinary society producing their influence, than I had been when in command of the Crisis, in the centre of the Pacific, so was Miss Merton a less important young lady, in the midst of the beauty of New York, than she had been in the isolation of Marble Land. This I could feel very distinctly. But Lucy's supposed defection did more than annoy me. I felt humbled, mortified, grieved. I had always known that Lucy was better connected than I was myself, and I had ever given Rupert and her the benefit of this advantage, as some offset to my own and Grace's larger means; but it had never struck me that either the brother or sister would be disposed to look down upon us in consequence. The world is everywhere--and America, on account of its social vicissitudes, more than most other countries--constantly exhibiting pictures of the struggles between fallen consequence and rising wealth. The last may, and does have the best of it, in the mere physical part of the strife; but in the more moral, if such a word can be used, the quiet ascendency of better manners and ancient recollections is very apt to overshadow the fussy pretensions of the vulgar aspirant, who places his claims altogether on the all-mighty dollar. It is vain to deny it; men ever have done it, and probably ever will defer to the past, in matters of this sort--it being much with us, in this particular, as it is with our own lives, which have had all their greatest enjoyments in bygone days. I knew all this--felt all this--and was greatly afraid that Lucy, through Mrs. Bradfort's influence, and her town a.s.sociations, might have learned to regard me as Captain Wallingford, of the merchant-service, and the son of another Captain Wallingford of the same line in life. I determined, therefore, to watch her with jealous attention, during the few days I was to remain at Clawbonny. With such generous intentions, the reader is not to be surprised if I found some of that for which I so earnestly sought--people being very apt to find precisely the thing for which they look, when it is not lost money.

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 a.s.sisted 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 stewards.h.i.+p. 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 pa.s.sages 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 s.h.i.+pwrecked, 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 ca.n.a.l, 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 ca.n.a.ls, 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 stewards.h.i.+p, 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 sixes 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. G.o.d 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 a.s.sistance 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 grat.i.tude, 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 s.h.i.+p, 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?"