Afloat and Ashore (68 page)

Notwithstanding the lateness of the season, it was a very full
house. Cooper's, in that day, was a name that filled every mouth, and
he seldom failed to fill every theatre in which he appeared. With many
first-rate qualifications for his art, and a very respectable
conception of his characters, he threw everything like competition
behind him; though there were a few, as there ever will be among the
superlatively intellectual, who affected to see excellencies in
Fennel, and others, to which this great actor could not aspire. The
public decided against these select few, and, as is invariably the
case when the appeal is made to human feelings, the public decided
right. Puffery will force into notice and sustain a false judgment, in
such matters, for a brief space; but nature soon asserts her sway, and
it is by natural decisions that such points are ever the most justly
determined. Whatever appeals to human sympathies, will be answered by
human sympathies. Popularity too often gains its ascendency behind the
hypocrite's mask in religion; it is usually a magnificent
mystification in politics; it frequently becomes the patriot's
stalking-horse, on which he rides to power; in social life, it is the
reward of empty smiles, unmeaning bows, and hollow squeezes of the
hand; but with the player, the poet, and all whose pursuits bring them
directly in contact with the passions, the imagination and the heart,
it is the unerring test of merit, with certain qualifications
connected with the mind and the higher finish of pure art. It may be
questioned if Cooper were not the greatest actor of his day, in a
certain range of his own characters.

I have said that the house was full. I got a good place, however;
though it was not in the front row. Of course I could only see the
side boxes beneath, and not even quite all of them. My eyes ran
eagerly over them, and I soon caught a glimpse of the fine, curling
hair of Rupert. He sat by the side of Emily Merton, the Major—I knew
he was a colonel or general, only by means of a regular Manhattan
promotion, which is so apt to make hundreds of counts, copper
captains, and travelling prodigies of those who are very small folk at
home—the Major sat next, and, at his side, I saw a lady, whom I at
once supposed to be Lucy. Every nerve in my system thrilled, as I
caught even this indistinct view of the dear creature. I could just
see the upper part of her face, as it was occasionally turned towards
the Major; and once I caught that honest smile of hers, which I knew
had never intentionally deceived.

The front seat of the box had two vacant places. The bench would hold
six, while it had yet only four. The audience, however, was still
assembling, and, presently, a stir in Lucy's box denoted the arrival
of company. The whole party moved, and Andrew Drewett handed an
elderly lady in, his mother, as I afterwards ascertained, and took the
other place himself. I watched the salutations that were exchanged,
and understood that the new comers had been expected. The places had
been reserved for them, and old Mrs. Drewett was doubtless the
chaperone;
though, one having a brother and the other a father
with her, the two young ladies had not hesitated about preceding the
elderly lady. They had come from different quarters of the town, and
had agreed to meet at the theatre. Old Mrs. Drewett was very
particular in shaking hands with Lucy, though I had not the misery of
seeing her son go through the same ceremony. Still he was sufficiently
pointed in his salutations; and, during the movements, I perceived he
managed to get next to Lucy, leaving the Major to entertain his
mother. All this was natural, and what might have been expected; yet,
it gave me a pang that I cannot describe.

I sat, for half an hour, perfectly inattentive to the play, meditating
on the nature of my real position towards Lucy. I recalled the days
of childhood and early youth; the night of my first departure from
home; my return, and the incidents accompanying my second departure;
the affair of the locket, and all I had truly felt myself, and all
that I had supposed Lucy herself to feel, on those several occasions.
Could it be possible I had so much deceived myself, and that the
interest the dear girl had certainly manifested in me had been nothing
but the fruits of her naturally warm and honest heart—her strong
disposition to frankness-habit, as Rupert had so gently hinted in
reference to ourselves? Then I could not conceal from myself the
bitter fact that I was, now, no equal match for Lucy, in the eyes of
the world. While she was poor, and I comparatively rich, the
inequality in social station might have been overlooked; it existed,
certainly, but was not so very marked that it might not, even in that
day, be readily forgotten; but now, Lucy was an heiress, had much more
than double my own fortune—had a fortune indeed; while I was barely
in easy circumstances, as persons of the higher classes regarded
wealth. The whole matter seemed reversed. It was clear that a sailor
like myself, with no peculiar advantages, those of a tolerable
education excepted, and who was necessarily so much absent, had not
the same chances of preferring his suit, as one of your town idlers; a
nominal lawyer, for instance, who dropped in at his office for an hour
or two, just after breakfast, and promenaded Broadway the rest of the
time, until dinner; or a man of entire leisure, like Andrew Drewett,
who belonged to the City Library set, and had no other connection with
business than to see that his rents were collected and his dividends
paid. The more I reflected, the more humble I became, he less my
chances seemed and I determined to quit the theatre, at once. The
reader will remember that I was New York born and bred, a state of
society in which few natives acted on the principle that "there was
nothing too high to be aspired to, nothing too low to be done." I
admitted I had superiors, and was willing to defer to the facts and
opinions of the world as I knew it.

In the lobby of the building, I experienced a pang at the idea of
quitting the place without getting one look at the face of Lucy. I was
in an humble mood, it is true, but that did not necessarily infer a
total self-denial. I determined, therefore, to pass into the pit, with
my box-check, feast my eyes by one long gaze at the dear creature's
ingenuous countenance, and carry away the impression, as a lasting
memorial of her whom I so well loved, and whom I felt persuaded I
should ever continue to love. After this indulgence, I would
studiously avoid her, in order to release my thoughts as much as
possible from the perfect thraldom in which they had existed, ever
since I had heard of Mrs. Bradfort's death. Previously to that time, I
am afraid I had counted a little more than was becoming on the ease of
my own circumstances, and Lucy's comparative poverty. Not that I had
ever supposed her to be in the least mercenary—this I knew to be
utterly, totally false—but because the good town of Manhattan, even
in 1803, was
tant soit peu
addicted to dollars, and Lucy's
charms would not be likely to attract so many suitors, in the modest
setting of a poor country clergyman's means, as in the golden frame by
which they had been surrounded by Mrs. Bradfort's testamentary devise,
even supposing Rupert to come in for quite one half.

I had no difficulty in finding a convenient place in the pit; one,
from which I got a front and near view of the whole six, as they sat
ranged side by side. Of the Major and old Mrs. Drewett it is
unnecessary to say much. The latter looked as all dowager-like widows
of that day used to appear, respectable, staid, and richly
attired. The good lady had come on the stage during the revolution,
and had a slightly military air—a
parade
in her graces, that
was not altogether unknown to the
èlèves
of that school. I dare
say she could use such words as "martinets," "mowhairs," "brigadiers,"
and other terms familiar to her class. Alas! how completely all these
little traces of the past are disappearing from our habits and
manners!

As for the Major, he appeared much better in health, and altogether
altered in mien. I could readily detect the influence of the world on
him; He was evidently a so much greater man in New York than he had
been whew I found him in London, that it is not wonderful he felt the
difference. Between the acts, I remarked that all the principal
persons in the front rows were desirous of exchanging nods with the
"British officer," a proof that he was circulating freely in the best
set, and had reached a point, when "not to know him, argues yourself
unknown."
[5]

Emily certainly looked well and happy. I could see that she was
delighted with Rupert's flattery, and I confess I cared very little
for his change of sentiment, or his success. That both Major and
Emily Merton were different persons in the midst of the world and in
the solitudes of the Pacific, was as evident as it was that I was a
different personage in command of the Crisis, and in the pit of the
Park theatre. I dare say, at that moment. Miss Merton had nearly
forgotten that such a man as Miles Wallingford existed, though I think
she sometimes recalled the string of magnificent pearls that were to
ornament the neck of his wife, should he ever find any one to have
him.

But, Lucy, dear, upright, warm-hearted, truth-telling, beloved Lucy!
all this time, I forget to speak of her. There she sat in maiden
loveliness, her beauty still more developed, her eye as beaming,
lustrous, feeling, as ever, her blush as sensitive, her smile as
sweet, and her movements as natural and graceful. The simplicity of
her half-mourning, too, added to her beauty, which was of a character
to require no further aid from dress, than such as was dependent
purely on taste. As I gazed at her, enthralled, I fancied nothing was
wanting to complete the appearance, but my own necklace. Powerful,
robust man as I was, with my frame hardened by exposure and trials, I
could have sat down and wept, after gazing some time at the precious
creature, under the feeling produced by the conviction that I was
never to renew my intercourse with her, on terms of intimacy at
least. The thought that from day to day we were to become more and
more strangers, was almost too much to be borne. As it was, scalding
tears forced themselves to my eyes, though I succeeded in concealing
the weakness from those around me. At length the tragedy terminated,
the curtain dropped, and the audience began to move about. The pit
which had, just before, been crowded, was now nearly empty, and I was
afraid of being seen. Still, I could not tear myself away, but
remained after nine-tenths of those around me had gone into the
lobbies.

It was easy, now, to see the change which had come over Lucy's
position, in the attentions she received. All the ladies in the
principal boxes had nods and smiles for her and half the
fashionable-looking young men in the house crowded round her box, or
actually entered it to pay their compliments. I fancied Andrew Drewett
had a self-satisfied air that seemed to say, "you are paying your
homage indirectly to myself, in paying it to this young lady." As for
Lucy, my jealous watchfulness could not detect the smallest alteration
in her deportment, so far as simplicity and nature were concerned. She
appeared in a trifling degree more womanly, perhaps, than when I saw
her last, being now in her twentieth year; but the attentions she
received made no visible change in her manners. I had become lost in
the scene, and was standing in a musing attitude, my side face towards
the box, when I heard a suppressed exclamation, in Lucy's voice. I was
too near her to be mistaken, and it caused the blood to rush to my
heart in a torrent. Turning, I saw the dear girl, with her hand
extended over the front of the box, her face suffused with blushes,
and her eyes riveted on myself. I was recognised, and the surprise had
produced a display of all that old friendship, certainly, that had
once existed between us, in the simplicity and truth of childhood.

"Miles Wallingford!" she said, as I advanced to shake the offered
hand, and as soon as I was near enough to permit her to speak without
attracting too much attention—"
you
arrived, and
we
knew
nothing of it!"

It was plain Rupert had said nothing of having seen me, or of our
interview in the street. He seemed a little ashamed, and leaned
forward to say—

"I declare I forgot to mention, Lucy, that I met Captain Wallingford
as I was going to join the Colonel and Miss Merton. Oh! we have had a
long talk together, and it will save you a history of past events."

"I may, nevertheless, say," I rejoined, "how happy I am to see Miss
Hardinge looking so well, and to be able to pay my compliments to my
old passengers."

Of course I shook hands with the Major and Emily, bowed to Drewett,
was named to his mother, and was invited to enter the box, as it was
not quite in rule to be conversing between the pit and the front
rows. I forgot my prudent resolutions, and was behind Lucy in three
minutes. Andrew Drewett had the civility to offer me his place, though
it was with an air that said plain enough "what do
I
care for
him
—he is a ship-master, and I am a man of fashion and
fortune, and can resume my seat at any moment, while the poor fellow
can only catch his chances, as he occasionally
comes into
port
." At least, I fancied his manner said something like this.

"Thank you, Mr. Drewett," said Lucy, in her sweetest
manner. "Mr. Wallingford and I are very,
very
old friends,—you
know he is Grace's brother, and you have been at Clawbonny"—Drewett
bowed, civilly enough—"and I have a thousand things to say to
him. So, Miles, take this seat, and let me hear all about your
voyage."

As half the audience went away as soon as the tragedy ended, the
second seat of the box was vacated, and the other gentlemen getting on
it, to stretch their limbs, I had abundance of room to sit at Lucy's
side, half facing her, at the same time. As she insisted on hearing my
story, before we proceeded to anything else, I was obliged to gratify
her.