Afloat and Ashore (74 page)

But, to return to the narrative.

My curiosity increased so much, as the day advanced, that I rode
towards the point to look for the sloop. There she was, sure enough;
and there was Neb, too, galloping a young horse, bare-back, to the
house, with the news. I met him with an order to proceed to the wharf
with the chaise, while I dashed on, in the same direction myself,
almost devoured with an impatience to learn the success of my
different mission's as I galloped along. I could see the upper part of
the Wallingford's sails, gliding through the leaves that fringed the
bank, and it was apparent that she and I would reach the wharf almost
at the same instant. Notwithstanding all my anxiety, it was impossible
to get a glimpse of the vessel's deck.

I did not quit the saddle until the planks of the wharf were under the
horse's hoofs. Then I got a view of the sloop's decks, for the first
time. A respectable-looking, tall, slender, middle-aged man, with a
bright dark eye, was on the quarter-deck, and I bowed to him,
inferring at once that he was one of the medical gentlemen to whom I
had sent the message. In effect, it was Post, the second named on my
list, the first not being able to come. He returned my bow, but,
before I could alight and go on board to receive him, Marble's head
rose from the cabin, and my mate sprang ashore, and shook me cordially
by the hand.

"Here I am, Miles, my boy," cried Marble, whom, off duty, I had
earnestly begged to treat me with his old freedom, and who took me at
my word—"Here I am, Miles, my boy, and farther from salt-water than I
have been in five-and-twenty years. So this is the famous Clawbonny!
I cannot say much for the port, which is somewhat crowded while it
contains but one craft; though the river outside is pretty well, as
rivers go. D'ye know, lad, that I've been in a fever, all the way up,
lest we should get ashore, on one side or the other? your having land
on both tacks at once is too much of a good thing. This coming up to
Clawbonny has put me in mind of running them straits, though we
have
had rather better weather this passage, and a clearer
horizon. What d'ye call that affair up against the hill-side, yonder,
with the jig-a-merree, that is turning in the water?"

"That's a mill, my friend, and the jig-a-merree is the very wheel on
which you have heard me say my father was crushed."

Marble looked sorrowfully at the wheel, squeezed my hand, as if to
express sorrow for having reminded me of so painful an event, and then
I heard him murmuring to himself—"Well,
I
never had a father
to lose. No bloody mill
could
do me
that
injury."

"That gentleman on the quarter-deck," I remarked, "is a physician for
whom I sent to town, I suppose."

"Ay, ay—he's some such matter, I do suppose; though I've been
generalizing so much about this here river, and the manner of sailing
a craft of that rig, I've had little to say to him. I'm always a
better friend to the cook than to the surgeon. But, Miles, my lad,
there's a rare 'un, in the ship's after-cabin, I can tell you!"

"That must be Lucy!"—and I did not stop to pay my compliments to the
strange gentleman, but almost leaped into the vessel's cabin.

There was Lucy, sure enough, attended by a respectable-looking elderly
black female, one of the half-dozen slaves that had become her's by
the death of Mrs. Bradfort. Neither spoke, but we shook hands with
frankness; and I understood by the anxious expression of my
companion's eye, all she wished to know.

"I really think she seems better, and certainly she is far more
cheerful, within his last day or two," I answered to the
appeal. "Yesterday she was twice at church, and this morning, for a
novelty, she breakfasted with me."

"God be praised!" Lucy exclaimed, with fervour. Then she sat down and
relieved her feelings in tears. I told her to expect me again, in a
few minutes, and joined the physician, who, by this time, was apprised
of my presence. The calm, considerate manner of Post, gave me a
confidence I had not felt for some days; and I really began to hope it
might still be within the power of his art to save the sister I so
dearly loved.

Our dispositions for quitting the sloop were soon made, and we
ascended the hill together, Lucy leaning on my arm. On its summit was
the chaise, into which the Doctor and Marble were persuaded to enter,
Lucy preferring to walk. The negress was to proceed in the vehicle
that had been sent for the luggage, and Lucy and I set out, arm and
arm, to walk rather more than a mile in company, and that too without
the presence of a third person. Such an occurrence, under any other
circumstances than those in which we were both placed, would have made
me one of the happiest men on earth; but, in the actual situation in
which I found myself, it rendered me silent and uncomfortable. Not so
with Lucy; ever natural, and keeping truth incessantly before her
eyes, the dear girl took my arm without the least embarrassment, and
showed no sign of impatience, or of doubt. She was sad, but full of a
gentle confidence in her own sincerity and motives.

"This is dear Clawbonny, again!" she exclaimed, after we had walked in
silence a short distance. "How beautiful are the fields, how fresh the
woods, how sweet the flowers! Oh! Miles, a day in such a spot as
this, is worth a year in town!"

"Why, then, do you, who have now so much at your command, pass more
than half your time between the heated bricks of Wall Street, when you
know how happy we should all be to see you, here, among us, again?"

"I have not been certain of this; that has been the sole reason, of my
absence. Had I known I should be welcome, nothing would have induced
me to suffer Grace to pass the last six sad, sad, months by herself."

"Known that you should be welcome! Surely you have not supposed, Lucy,
that
I
can ever regard you as anything but welcome, here?"

"I had no allusion to
you
—thought not of you, Miles, at
all"—answered Lucy, with the quiet manner of one who felt she was
thinking, acting, and speaking no more than what was perfectly
right—"My mind was dwelling altogether on Grace."

"Is it possible you could doubt of Grace's willingness to see you, at
all times and in all places, Lucy!"

"I have doubted it—have thought I was acting prudently and well, in
staying away, just at this time, though I now begin to fear the
decision has been hasty and unwise."

"May I ask
why
Lucy Hardinge has come to so singular and
violent an opinion, as connected with her bosom friend, and almost
sister, Grace Wallingford?"

"That
almost sister
! Oh! Miles, what is there I possess which I
would not give, that there might be perfect confidence, again, between
you and me, on this subject; such confidence as existed when we were
boy and girl-children, I might say."

"And what prevents it? Certain I am the alienation does not, cannot
come from me. You have only to speak, Lucy, to have an attentive
listener; to ask, to receive the truest answers. What can, then,
prevent the confidence you wish?"

"There is
one
obstacle—surely, Miles, you can readily imagine
what I mean?"

'Can it be possible Lucy is alluding to Andrew Drewett!'—I thought to
myself. 'Has she discovered my attachment, and does she, will she, can
she regret her own engagement?' A lover who thought thus, would not
be apt to leave the question long in doubt.

"Deal plainly with me, I implore of you, Lucy," I said solemnly. "One
word uttered with your old sincerity and frankness may close a chasm
that has now been widening between us for the last year or two. What
is the obstacle you mean?"

"I have seen and felt the alienation to which you allude quite as
sensibly as you can have done so yourself, Miles," the dear girl
answered in her natural, simple manner, "and I will trust all to your
generosity. Need I say more, to explain what I mean, than mention the
name of Rupert?"

"What of him, Lucy!—be explicit; vague allusions may be worse than
nothing."

Lucy's little hand was on my arm, and she had drawn its glove on
account of the heat. I felt it press me, almost convulsively, as she
added—"I do, I
must
think you have too much affection and
gratitude for my dear father, too much regard for me, ever to forget
that you and Rupert once lived together as brothers?"

"Grace has my promise already, on that subject. I shall never take the
world's course with Rupert, in this affair."

I heard Lucy's involuntary sob, as if she gasped for breath; and,
turning, I saw her sweet eyes bent on my face with an expression of
thankfulness that could not be mistaken.

"I would have given the same pledge to you, Lucy, and purely on your
own account. It would be too much to cause you to mourn for your
brother's—"

I did not name the offence, lest my feelings should tempt me to use
too strong a term.

"This is all I ask—all I desire, Miles; bless you—bless you! for
having so freely given me this assurance. Now my heart is relieved
from this burthen, I am ready to speak frankly to you; still, had I
seen Grace—"

"Have no scruples on account of your regard for womanly feeling—I
know everything, and shall not attempt to conceal from you, that
disappointed love for Rupert has brought my sister to the state she is
in. This might not have happened, had either of us been with her; but,
buried as she has been alone in this place, her wounded sensibilities
have proved too strong for a frame that is so delicate."

There was a pause of a minute, after I ended.

"I have long feared that some such calamity would befall us," Lucy
answered, in a low, measured tone. "I think you do not understand
Grace as well as I do, Miles. Her mind and feelings have a stronger
influence than common over her body; and I fear no society of ours, or
of others, could have saved her this trial. Still, we must not
despair, It is a trial—that is just the word; and by means of
tenderness, the most sedulous care, good advice, and all that we two
can do to aid, there must yet be hope. Now there is a skilful
physician here, he must be dealt fairly by, and should know the
whole."

"I intended to consult you on this subject—one has such a reluctance
to expose Grace's most sacred feelings!"

"Surely it need not go quite as far as that," returned Lucy, with
sensitive quickness, "something—
much
—must be left to
conjecture; but Dr. Post must know that the mind is at the bottom of
the evil; though I fear that young ladies can seldom admit the
existence of such a complaint, without having it attributed to a
weakness of this nature."

"That proceeds from the certainty that your sex has so much heart,
Lucy; your very existence being bound up in others."

"Grace is one of peculiar strength of affections—but, Miles, we will
talk no further of this at present. I scarce know how to speak of my
brother's affairs, and you must give me time to reflect. Now we are at
Clawbonny again, we cannot long continue strangers to each other."

This was said so sweetly, I could have knelt and kissed her shoe-ties;
and yet so simply, as not to induce misinterpretation. It served to
change the discourse, however, and the remainder of the way we talked
of the past. Lucy spoke of her cousin's death, relating various little
incidents to show how much Mrs. Bradfort was attached to her, and how
good a woman she was; but not a syllable was said of the will. I was
required, in my turn, to finish the narrative of my last voyage, which
had not been completed at the theatre. When Lucy learned that the
rough seaman who had come in the sloop was Marble, she manifested
great interest in him, declaring, had she known it during the passage,
that she would have introduced herself. All this time, Rupert's name
was not mentioned between us; and I reached the house, feeling that
something like the interest I had formerly possessed there, had been
awakened in the bosom of my companion. She was, at least, firmly and
confidingly my friend.

Chloe met Lucy at the door with a message—Miss Grace wanted to see
Miss Lucy, alone. I dreaded this interview, and looked forward to
being present at it; but Lucy begged me to confide in her, and I felt
bound to comply. While the dear girl was gone to my sister's room, I
sought the physician, with whom I had a brief but explicit conference.
I told this gentleman how much Grace had been alone, permitting sorrow
to wear upon her frame, and gave him to understand that the seat of my
sister's malady was mental suffering. Post was a cool, discriminating
man, and he ventured no remark until he had seen his patient; though I
could perceive, by the keen manner in which his piercing eye was fixed
on mine, that all I said was fully noted.

It was more than an hour before Lucy reappeared. It was obvious at a
glance that she had been dreadfully agitated, and cruelly surprised at
the condition in which she had found Grace. It was not that disease,
in any of its known forms, was so very apparent; but that my sister
resembled already a being of another world, in the beaming of her
countenance—in the bright, unearthly expression of her eyes—and in
the slightness and delicacy of the hold she seemed, generally, to have
on life. Grace had always something of this about her—
much
, I
might better have said; but it now appeared to be left nearly alone,
as her thoughts and strength gradually receded from the means of
existence.

The physician returned with Lucy to my sister's room, where he passed
more than an hour; as long a time, indeed, he afterwards told me
himself, as he thought could be done without fatiguing his
patient. The advice he gave me was cautious and discreet. Certain
tonics were prescribed; we were told to endeavour to divert the mind
of our precious charge from her sources of uneasiness, by gentle means
and prudent expedients. Change of scene was advised also, could it be
done without producing too much fatigue. I suggested the Wallingford,
as soon as this project was mentioned. She was a small sloop, it is
true, but had two very comfortable cabins; my father having had one of
them constructed especially in reference to my mother's occasional
visits to town. The vessel did little, at that season of the year,
besides transporting flour to market, and bringing back wheat. In the
autumn, she carried wood, and the products of the neighbourhood. A
holiday might be granted her, and no harm come of it. Dr. Post
approved the idea, saying frankly there was no objection but the
expense; if I could bear that, a better plan could not possibly be
adopted.