Afloat and Ashore Part 47

"No, sah! What b'e t'ing Neb like, _fel_-ler?"

"Oh! I ask your pardon--the main-mast, you mean. It is the most important spar in the s.h.i.+p, and I meant that Neb was as useful as that mast. In battle, too, Neb is as brave as a lion."

Here Chloe could stand it no longer; she fairly laughed outright, in pure, natural admiration of her suitor's qualities. When this was performed, she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed once more "De _feller_!"--dropped a curtsey, said "Good night, Ma.s.ser Mile," and left me at my own door. Alas!

alas!--Among the improvements of this age, we have entirely lost the breed of the careless, good-natured, affectionate, faithful, hard-working, and yet happy blacks, of whom more or less were to be found in every respectable and long-established family of the State, forty years ago.

The next day was one of great anxiety to me. I rose early, and the first thing was to ascertain the direction of the wind. In midsummer this was apt to be southerly, and so it proved on that occasion. Neb was sent to the point, as a look-out; he returned about ten, and reported a fleet of sloops, in sight. These vessels were still a long distance down the river, but they were advancing at a tolerable rate. Whether the Wallingford were among them, or not, was more than could yet be told.

I sent him back to his station, as soon as he had eaten; and unable to remain quiet in the house, myself, I mounted my horse, and rode out into the fields. Here, as usual, I experienced the happiness of looking at objects my ancestors loved to regard, and which always have had a strong and near interest with me.

Perhaps no country that ever yet existed has been so little understood, or so much misrepresented, as this America of ours. It is as little understood, I was on the point of saying, at home as it is abroad, and almost as much misrepresented. Certainly its possessors are a good deal addicted to valuing themselves on distinctive advantages that, in reality, they do not enjoy, while their enemies declaim about vices and evils from which they are comparatively free. Facts are made to suit theories, and thus it is that we see well-intentioned, and otherwise respectable writers, constantly running into extravagances, in order to adapt the circ.u.mstances to the supposed logical or moral inference.

This reasoning backwards, has caused Alison, with all his knowledge and fair-mindedness, to fall into several egregious errors, as I have discovered while recently reading his great work on Europe. He says we are a migratory race, and that we do not love the sticks and stones that surround us, but quit the paternal roof without regret, and consider the play-grounds of infancy as only so much land for the market. He also hazards the a.s.sertion, that there is not such a thing as a literal farmer,--that is a tenant, who _farms_ his land from a landlord--in all America. Now, as a rule, and comparing the habits of America with those of older countries, in which land is not so abundant, this may be true; but as literal fact, nothing can be less so. Four-fifths of the inhabited portion of the American territory, has a civilized existence of half a century's duration; and there has not been time to create the long-lived attachments named, more especially in the regions that are undergoing the moral fusion that is always an attendant of a new settlement. That thousands of heartless speculators exist among us, who do regard everything, even to the graves of their fathers, as only so much improvable property, is as undeniable as the fact that they are odious to all men of any moral feeling; but thousands and tens of thousands are to be found in the country, who _do_ reverence their family possessions from a sentiment that is creditable to human nature.

I will not mention Clawbonny, and its history, lest I might be suspected of being partial; but it would be easy for me to point out a hundred families, embracing all cla.s.ses, from the great proprietor to the plain yeoman, who own and reside on the estates of those who first received them from the hand of nature, and this after one or two centuries of possession. What will Mr. Alison say, for instance, of the Manor of Rensselear? A manor, in the legal sense it is no longer, certainly, the new inst.i.tutions destroying all the feudal tenures; but, as mere property, the late Patroon transmitted it as regularly to his posterity, as any estate was ever transmitted in Europe. This extensive manor lies in the heart of New York, a state about as large and about as populous as Scotland, and it embraces no less than three cities in its bosom, though their sites are not included in its owners.h.i.+p, having been exempted by earlier grants. It is of more than two centuries' existence, and it extends eight-and-forty miles east and west, and half that distance, north and south. Nearly all this vast property is held, at this hour, of the Van Rensselears, as landlords, and is farmed by their tenants, there being several thousands of the latter. The same is true, on a smaller scale, of the Livingston, the Van Cortlandt, the Philipse, the Nicoll, and various other old New York estates, though several were lost by attainder in the revolution. I explain these things, lest any European who may happen to read this book, should regard it as fiction; for, allowing for trifling differences, a hundred Clawbonnys are to be found on the two banks of the Hudson, at this very hour.{*]

{Footnote *: Even the American may learn the following facts with some surprise. It is now about five-and-twenty years since the writer, as tenant by the courtesy, came into possession of two farms, lying within twenty-three miles of New York, in each of which there had been three generations of tenants, and as many of landlords, _without a sc.r.a.p of a pen having pa.s.sed between the parties_, so far as the writer could ever discover, receipts for rent excepted! He also stands in nearly the same relation to another farm, in the same county, on which a lease for ninety years is at this moment running, one of the covenants of which prescribes that the tenant shall "frequent divine service _according to the Church of England_, when opportunity offers." What an evidence of the nature of the tyranny from which our ancestors escaped, more especially when it is seen that the tenant was obliged to submit to this severe exaction, in consideration of a rent that is merely nominal!]

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 ash.o.r.e, 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 ash.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.sage, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.h.i.+p'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."

"G.o.d 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 circ.u.mstances 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 embarra.s.sment, 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, pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 grat.i.tude 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 a.s.surance. 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 s.e.x has so much heart, Lucy; your very existence being bound up in others."