Afloat and Ashore Part 45

This was when the hectic of disease imparted to the sweetest and most saint-like eyes that were ever set in the human countenance, a species of holy illumination. Her countenance, now, was pale and colourless; however, and her look sorrowful and filled with reproach.

"Brother," she said, solemnly, "this _must_ not be. It is not what G.o.d commands--it is not what I expected from you--what I have a right to expect from one whom I am a.s.sured loves me, though none other of earth can be said to do so."

"It is not easy, my sister, for a man to forget or forgive the wretch who has so long misled you--misled us all, and then turned to another, under the impulse of mere vanity."

"Miles, my kind and manly brother, listen to me," Grace rejoined, fervently pressing one of my hands in both of hers, and scarcely able to command herself, through alarm. "All thoughts of anger, of resentment, of pride even, must be forgotten. You owe it to my s.e.x, to the dreadful imputations that might otherwise rest on my name--had I anything to reproach myself with as a woman. I could submit to _any_ punishment; but surely, surely, it is not a sin so unpardonable to be unable to command the affections, that I deserve to have my name, after I shall be dead, mixed up with rumours connected with such a quarrel. You have lived as brothers, too--then there is good, excellent, truthful, pious Mr. Hardinge; who is yet _my_ guardian, you know; and Lucy, dear, true-hearted, faithful Lucy--"

"Why is not dear, true-hearted, faithful Lucy, here, watching over you, Grace, at this very moment?" I demanded, huskily.

"She knows nothing of my situation--it is a secret, as well as its cause, from all but G.o.d, myself, and you. Ah! I knew it would be impossible to deceive your love, Miles! which has ever been to me, all that a sister could desire."

"And Lucy! how has _her_ affection been deceived?--Has she too, eyes only for those she has recently learned to admire?"

"You do her injustice, brother. Lucy has not seen me, since the great change that I can myself see has come over me. Another time, I will tell you all. At present I can only say, that as soon as I had certain explanations with Rupert, I left town, and have studiously concealed from dear Lucy the state of my declining health. I write to her weekly, and get answers; everything pa.s.sing between us as cheerfully, and apparently, as happily as ever. No, do not blame Lucy; who, I am certain, would quit everything and everybody to come to me, had she the smallest notion of the truth. On the contrary, I believe she thinks I would rather not have her at Clawbonny, just at this moment, much as she knows I love her; for, one of Lucy's observation and opportunities cannot but suspect the truth. Let me lie on your breast, brother; it wearies me to talk so much."

I sat holding this beloved sister in my arms, fully an hour, neither of us speaking. I was afraid of injuring her, by further excitement, and she was glad to take refuge in silence, from the feelings of maiden shame that could not be otherwise than mingled with such a dialogue. As my cheek leaned on her silken hair, I could see large tears rolling down the pallid cheeks; but the occasional pressure of the hands, told me how much she was gladdened by my presence. After some ten or fifteen minutes, the exhausted girl dropped into feverish and disturbed slumbers, that I would have remained motionless throughout the night to maintain. I am persuaded it was quite an hour before this scene terminated. Grace then arose, and said, with one of her most angelic smiles--

"You see how it is with me, Miles--feeble as an infant, and almost as troublesome. You must bear with me, for you will be my nurse. One promise I must have, dearest, before we leave this room."

"It is yours, my sister, let it be what it may; I can now refuse you nothing," said I, melted to feminine tenderness. "And yet, Grace, since _you_ exact a promise, _I_ have a mind to attach a condition."

"What condition, Miles, can you attach, that I will refuse? I consent to everything, without even knowing your wishes."

"Then I promise not to call Rupert to an account for his conduct---not to question him--nay, even not to reproach him," I rejoined, enlarging my pledges, as I saw by Grace's eyes that she exacted still more.

The last promise, however, appeared fully to satisfy her. She kissed my hand, and I felt hot tears falling on it.

"Now name your conditions, dearest brother," she said, after a little time taken to recover herself; "name them, and see how gladly I shall accept them all."

"I have but one--it is this. I must take the complete direction of the care of you--must have power to send for what physician I please, what friends I please, what advice or regimen I please!"

"Oh! Miles, you _could_ not--_cannot_ think of sending for _him_!"

"Certainly not; his presence would drive me from the house. With that one exception, then, my condition is allowed?"

Grace made a sign of a.s.sent, and sunk on my bosom again, nearly exhausted with the scene through which she had just gone. I perceived it would not do to dwell any longer on the subject we had been alluding to, rather than discussing; and for another hour did I sit sustaining that beloved form, declining to speak, and commanding silence on her part. At the end of this second little sleep, Grace was more refreshed than she had been after her first troubled repose, and she declared herself able to walk to her room, where she wished to lie on her own bed until the hour of dinner. I summoned Chloe, and, together, we led the invalid to her chamber. As we threaded the long pa.s.sages, my sister's head rested on my bosom, her eyes were turned affectionately upward to my face, and several times I felt the gentle pressure of her emaciated hands, given in the fervour of devoted sisterly love.

I needed an hour to compose myself, after this interview. In the privacy of my own room, I wept like a child over the wreck of the being I had left so beautiful and perfect, though even then the canker of doubt had begun to take root. I had yet her explanations to hear, and resolved to command myself so far as to receive them in a manner not to increase the pain Grace must feel in making them. As soon as sufficiently calm, I sat down to write letters. One was to Marble. I desired him to let the second-mate see the s.h.i.+p discharged, and to come up to me by the return of the sloop. I wished to see him in person, as I did not think I could be able to go out in the vessel on her next voyage, and I intended him to sail in her as master. It was necessary we should consult together personally. I did not conceal the reason of this determination, though I said nothing of the cause of my sister's state. Marble had a list of physicians given him, and he was to bring up with him the one he could obtain, commencing with the first named, and following in the order given. I had earned ten thousand dollars, nett, by the labours of the past year, and I determined every dollar of it should be devoted to obtaining the best advice the country then afforded. I had sent for such men as Hosack, Post, Bayley, M'Knight, Moore, &c.; and even thought of endeavouring to procure Rush from Philadelphia, but was deterred from making the attempt by the distance, and the pressing nature of the emergency. In 1803, Philadelphia was about three days' journey from Clawbonny, even allowing for a favourable time on the river; with a moderately unfavourable, five or six; whereas the distance can now be pa.s.sed, including the chances of meeting the departures and arrivals of the different lines, in from twelve to fifteen hours. Such is one of the prodigious effects of an improved civilization; and in all that relates to motion, and which falls short of luxury, or great personal comfort, this country takes a high place in the scale of nations. That it is as much in arrears in other great essentials, however, particularly in what relates to tavern comforts, no man who is familiar with the better civilization of Europe, can deny. It is a singular fact, that we have gone backward in this last particular, within the present century, and all owing to the increasingly gregarious habits of the population. But to return to my painful theme, from which, even at this distance of time, I am only too ready to escape.

I was on the point of writing to Lucy, but hesitated. I hardly knew whether to summon her to Clawbonny or not. That she would come, and that instantly, the moment she was apprised of Grace's condition, I did not in the least doubt. I was not so mad as to do her character injustice, because I had my doubts about being loved as I had once hoped to be.

That Lucy was attached to me, in one sense, I did not in the least doubt; this, her late reception of me sufficiently proved; and I could not question her continued affection for Grace, after all the latter had just told me. Even did Lucy prefer Andrew Drewett, it was no proof she was not just as kind-hearted, as ready to be of service, and as true in her friends.h.i.+p, as she ever had been. Still, she was Rupert's sister, must have penetration enough to understand the cause of Grace's illness, and might not enter as fully into her wrongs as one could wish in a person that was to watch the sick pillow. I resolved to learn more that day, before this portion of my duty was discharged.

Neb was summoned, and sent to the wharf, with an order to get the Wallingford ready to sail for town at the first favourable moment. The sloop was merely to be in ballast, and was to return to Clawbonny with no unnecessary delay. There was an eminent, but retired physician of the name of Bard, who had a country residence on the other bank of the Hudson, and within a few hours' sail from Clawbonny. I knew his character, though I was not acquainted with him, personally. Few of us of the right bank, indeed, belonged to the circles of the left, in that day; the increasing wealth and population of the country has since brought the western side into more notice. I wrote also to Dr. Bard, inclosing a cheque for a suitable fee; made a strong appeal to his feelings--which would have been quite sufficient with, such a man--and ordered Neb to go out in the Grace and Lucy, immediately, to deliver the missive. Just as this arrangement was completed, Chloe came to summon me to my sister's room.

I found Grace still lying on her bed, but stronger, and materially refreshed. For a moment, I began to think my fears had exaggerated the danger, and that I was not to lose my sister. A few minutes of close observation, however convinced me, that the first impression was the true one. I am not skilled in the theories of the science, if there be any great science about it, and can hardly explain, even now, the true physical condition of Grace. She had pent up her sufferings in her own bosom, for six cruel months, in the solitude of a country-house, living most of the time entirely alone; and this, they tell me, is what few, even of the most robust frames, can do with impunity. Frail as she had ever seemed, her lungs were sound, and she spoke easily and with almost all her original force, so that her wasting away was not the consequence of anything pulmonary. I rather think the physical effects were to be traced to the unhealthy action of the fluids, which were deranged through the stomach and spleen. The insensible perspiration was affected also, I believe; the pores of the skin failing to do their duty. I dare say there is not a graduate of the thousand and one medical colleges of the country, who is not prepared to laugh at this theory, while unable quite likely to produce a better,--so much easier is it to pull down than to build up; but my object is merely to give the reader a general idea of my poor sister's situation. In outward appearance, her countenance denoted that expression which the French so well describe, by their customary term of "_fatigue_," rather than any other positive indication of disease--Grace's frame was so delicate by nature, that a little falling away was not as perceptible in her, as it would have been in most persons; though her beautiful little hands wanted that fulness which had rendered their taper fingers and roseate tint formerly so very faultless. There must have been a good deal of fever, as her colour was often higher than was formerly usual. It was this circ.u.mstance that continued to render her beauty even unearthly, without its being accompanied by the emaciation so common in the latter stages of pulmonary disease, though its tendency was strongly to undermine her strength.

Grace, without rising from her pillow, now asked me for an outline of my late voyage. She heard me, I make no doubt, with real interest, for all that concerned me, in a measure concerned her. Her smile was sweetness itself, as she listened to my successes; and the interest she manifested in Marble, with whose previous history she was well acquainted, was not less than I had felt myself, in hearing his own account of his adventures. All this delighted me, as it went to prove that I had beguiled the sufferer from brooding over her own sorrows; and what might not be hoped for, could we lead her back to mingle in the ordinary concerns of life, and surround her with the few friends she so tenderly loved, and whose absence, perhaps, had largely contributed to reducing her to her present state? This thought recalled Lucy to my mind, and the wish I had to ascertain how far it might be agreeable to the latter, to be summoned to Clawbonny. I determined to lead the conversation to this subject.

"You have told me, Grace," I said, "that you send and receive letters weekly, to and from Lucy?"

"Each time the Wallingford goes and comes; and that you know is weekly.

I suppose the reason I got no letter to-day was owing to the fact that the sloop sailed before her time. The Lord High Admiral was on board; and, like wind and tide, _he_ waits for no man!"

"Bless you--bless you, dearest sister--this gaiety removes a mountain from my heart!"

Grace looked pleased at first; then, as she gazed wistfully into my face, I could see her own expression change to one of melancholy concern. Large tears started from her eyes, and three or four followed each other down her cheeks. All this said, plainer than words, that, though a fond brother might be momentarily deceived, she herself foresaw the end. I bowed my head to the pillow, stifled the groans that oppressed me, and kissed the tears from her cheeks. To put an end to these distressing scenes, I determined to be more business-like in future, and suppress all feeling, as much as possible.

"The Lord High Admiral," I resumed, "is a species of Turk, on board s.h.i.+p, as honest Moses Marble will tell you, when you see him, Grace.

But, now for Lucy and her letters--I dare say the last are filled with tender secrets, touching such persons as Andrew Drewett, and others of her admirers, which render it improper to show any of them to me?"

Grace looked at me, with earnestness, as if to ascertain whether I was really as unconcerned as I affected to be. Then she seemed to muse, picking the cotton of the spotless counterpane on which she was lying, like one at a loss what to say or think.

"I see how it is," I resumed, forcing a smile; "the hint has been indiscreet. A rough son of Neptune is not the proper confidant for the secrets of Miss Lucy Hardinge. Perhaps you are right; fidelity to each other being indispensable in your s.e.x."

"It is not that, Miles. I doubt if Lucy ever wrote me a line, that you might not see--in proof of which, you shall have the package of her letters, with full permission to read every one of them. It will be like reading the correspondence of another _sister_!"

I fancied Grace laid an emphasis on the last word she used; and I started at its unwelcome sound--unwelcome, as applied to Lucy Hardinge, to a degree that I cannot express. I had observed that Lucy never used any of these terms, as connected with me, and it was one of the reasons why I had indulged in the folly of supposing that she was conscious of a tenderer sentiment. But Lucy was so natural, so totally free from exaggeration, so just and true in all her feelings, that one could not expect from her most of the acts of girlish weakness. As for Grace, she called Chloe, gave her the keys of her secretary, and told her to bring me the package she described.

"Go and look them over, Miles," said my sister, as I received the letters; "there must be more than twenty of them, and you can read half before the dinner hour. I will meet you at table; and let me implore you not to alarm good Mr. Hardinge. He does not believe me seriously ill; and it cannot benefit him or me, to cause him pain."

I promised discretion, and hastened to my own room, with the precious bundle of Lucy's letters. Shall I own the truth? I kissed the papers, fervently, before they were loosened, and it seemed to me I possessed a treasure, in holding in my hand so many of the dear girl's epistles. I commenced in the order of the date, and began to read with eagerness.

It was impossible for Lucy Hardinge to write to one she loved, and not exhibit the truth and nature of her feelings. These appeared in every paragraph in which it was proper to make any allusions of the sort.

But the letters had other charms. It was apparent, throughout, that the writer was ignorant that she wrote to an invalid, though she could not but know that she wrote to a recluse. Her aim evidently was to amuse Grace, of whose mental sufferings she could not well be ignorant. Lucy was a keen observer, and her epistles were filled with amusing comments on the follies that were daily committed in New York, as well as in Paris, or London. I was delighted with the delicate pungency of her satire, which, however, was totally removed from vulgar scandal. There was nothing in these letters that might not have been uttered in a drawing-room, to any but the persons concerned; and yet they were filled with a humour that rose often to wit, relieved by a tact and taste that a man never could have attained. Throughout, it was apparent to me, Lucy, in order to amuse Grace, was giving a full scope to a natural talent--one that far surpa.s.sed the same capacity in her brother, being as true as his was meritricious and jesuitical--which she had hitherto concealed from us all, merely because she had not seen an occasion fit for its use. Allusions in the letters, themselves, proved that Grace had commented on this unexpected display of observant humour, and had expressed her surprise at its existence. It was then as novel to my sister as it was to myself. I was struck also with the fact, that Rupert's name did not appear once in all these letters. They embraced just twenty-seven weeks, between the earliest and the latest date; and there were nine-and-twenty letters, two having been sent by private conveyances; her father's, most probably, he occasionally making the journey by land; yet no one of them contained the slightest allusion to her brother, or to either of the Mertons. This was enough to let me know how well Lucy understood the reason of Grace's withdrawal to Clawbonny.

"And how was it with Miles Wallingford's name?" some of my fair readers may be ready to ask. I went carefully through the package in the course of the evening, and I set aside two, as the only exceptions in which my name did not appear. On examining these two with jealous care, I found each had a postscript, one of which was to the following effect: "I see by the papers that Miles has sailed for Malta having at last left those stubborn Turks. I am glad of this, as one would not wish to have the excellent fellow shut up in the Seven Towers, however honourable it may have been." The other postscript contained this: "Dear Miles has got to Leghorn, my father tells me, and may be expected home this summer.

How great happiness this will bring you, dearest Grace, I can well understand; and I need scarcely say that no one will rejoice more to see him again than his late guardian and myself."

That the papers were often looked over to catch reports of my movements in Europe, by means of s.h.i.+ps arriving from different parts of the world, was apparent enough; but I scarce knew what to make of the natural and simply affectionate manner in which my name was introduced. It might proceed from a wish to gratify Grace, and a desire to let the sister know all that she herself possessed touching the brother's movements.

Then Andrew Drewett's name occurred very frequently, though it was generally in connection with that of his mother, who had evidently const.i.tuted herself a sort of regular _chaperone_ for Lucy, more especially during the time she was kept out of the gay world by her mourning. I read several of these pa.s.sages with the most scrupulous attention, in order to detect the feeling with which they had been written; but the most practised art could not have more successfully concealed any secret of this sort, than Lucy's nature. This often proves to be the case; the just-minded and true among men daily becoming the profoundest mysteries to a vicious, cunning, deceptive and selfish world. An honest man, indeed, is ever a parodox to all but those who see things with his own eyes. This is the reason that improper motives are so often imputed to the simplest and seemingly most honest deeds.

The result was, to write, entreating Lucy to come to Clawbonny; first taking care to secure her father's a.s.sent, to aid my request. This was done in a way not to awaken any alarm, and yet with sufficient strength to render it tolerably certain she would come. On deliberate reflection, and after seeing my sister at table, where she ate nothing but a light vegetable diet, and pa.s.sing the evening with her, I thought I could not do less in justice to the invalid or her friend. I took the course with great regret on several accounts; and, among others, from a reluctance to appear to draw Lucy away from the society of my rival, into my own.

Yet what right had I to call myself the rival or compet.i.tor of a man who had openly professed an attachment, where I had never breathed a syllable myself that might not readily be mistaken for the language of that friends.h.i.+p, which time, and habit, and a respect for each other's qualities, so easily awaken among the young of different s.e.xes? I had been educated almost as Lucy's brother; and why should she not feel towards me as one?

Neb went out in the boat as soon as he got his orders and the Wallingford sailed again in ballast that very night. She did not remain at the wharf an hour after her wheat was out. I felt easier when these duties were discharged, and was better prepared to pa.s.s the night in peace. Grace's manner and appearance, too, contributed to this calm; for she seemed to revive, and to experience some degree of earthly happiness, in having her brother near her. When Mr. Hardinge read prayers that night, she came to the chair where I stood, took my hand in hers, and knelt at my side. I was touched to tears by this act of affection, which spoke as much of the tenderness of the sainted and departed spirit, lingering around those it had loved on earth, as of the affection of the world. I folded the dear girl to my bosom, as I left her at the door of her own room that night, and went to my own pillow, with a heavy heart. Seamen pray little; less than they ought, amid the rude scenes of their hazardous lives. Still, I had not quite forgotten the lessons of childhood, and sometimes practised on them. That night I prayed fervently, beseeching G.o.d to spare my sister, if in his wisdom it were meet; and I humbly invoked his blessings on the excellent divine, and on Lucy, by name. I am not ashamed to own it, let who may deride the act.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"Wherever sorrow is, relief would be; If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Were both extermin'd."

_As You Like It._

I saw but little of Grace, during the early part of the succeeding day.

She had uniformly breakfasted in her own room, of late, and, in the short visit I paid her there, I found her composed, with an appearance of renewed strength that encouraged me greatly, as to the future. Mr.

Hardinge insisted on rendering an account of his stewards.h.i.+p, that morning, and I let the good divine have his own way; though, had he asked me for a receipt in full, I would cheerfully have given it to him, without examining a single item. There was a singular peculiarity about Mr. Hardinge. No one could live less for the world generally; no one was less qualified to superintend extensive worldly interests, that required care, or thought; and no one would have been a more unsafe executor in matters that were intricate or involved: still, in the mere business of accounts, he was as methodical and exact, as the most faithful banker.

Rigidly honest, and with a strict regard for the rights of others, living moreover on a mere pittance, for the greater part of his life, this conscientious divine never contracted a debt he could not pay. What rendered this caution more worthy of remark, was the fact that he had a spendthrift son; but, even Rupert could never lure him into any weakness of this sort. I question if his actual cash receipts, independently of the profits of his little glebe, exceeded $300 in any one year; yet, he and his children were ever well-dressed, and I knew from observation that his table was always sufficiently supplied. He got a few presents occasionally, from his paris.h.i.+oners, it is true; but they did not amount to any sum of moment. It was method, and a determination not to antic.i.p.ate his income, that placed him so much above the world, while he had a family to support; whereas, now that Mrs. Bradfort's fortune was in the possession of his children, he a.s.sured me he felt himself quite rich, though he scrupulously refused to appropriate one dollar of the handsome income that pa.s.sed through his hands as executor, to his own uses. It was all Lucy's, who was ent.i.tled to receive this income even in her minority, and to her he paid every cent, quarterly; the sister providing for Rupert's ample wants.

Of course, I found everything exact to a farthing; the necessary papers were signed, the power of attorney was cancelled, and I entered fully into the possession of my own. An unexpected rise in the value of flour had raised my sh.o.r.e receipts that year to the handsome sum of nine thousand dollars. This was not properly income, however, but profits, princ.i.p.ally obtained through the labour of the mill. By putting all my loose cash together, I found I could command fully $30,000, in addition to the price of the s.h.i.+p. This sum was making me a man quite at my ease, and, properly managed, it opened a way to wealth. How gladly would I have given every cent of it, to see Grace as healthy and happy as she was when I left her at Mrs. Bradfort's, to sail in the Crisis!