University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
DAWNING AFFECTION.

Major Willoughby had resisted frequent solicitations
from the maternal uncle of his children,
who resided in Boston, to permit Amelia to pass
a twelvemonth with his family in that metropolise.
The great length of the journey, however, and
their mutual reluctance to a separation, had been
hitherto urged against the proposal. But it was
now renewed with so much earnestness by every
member of the Cushing family, and not being objected
to by Amelia herself, it was agreed that
when her brother repaired to New-England, to
complete his preparation for entering Harvard
University, Amelia should, at the same time,
comply with the urgent wish of her mother's relatives.
This event was to take place on the following
spring.

George was already a good classical scholar,
and had, until lately, pursued his studies with
unremitting industry and assiduity. Climbing
trees and mountains had not in the least retarded
them; hunting and fishing had not once interrupted
them; his Indian associates and athletic
exercises had never hindered or delayed the performance
of a task or the getting of a lesson.

But, somehow, his harp, that fascinating harp,
seemed now to engross his whole attention.

O'Hara had agreed to give him three lessons a
week; but George was at Fleming's at least once
a day—probably to practise: but if I have any
recollection of the nature of the human heart at
that tender age, it was to practise a lesson never
included in his contract with the old harper, or
even thought of by the parties. Nay, the pupil
himself was ignorant of the subject, nor ever
dreamed what proficiency he was making, until
this course of studies was interrupted.

I have said that George became a poet to write
songs for his sister; but I feel it my duty to add
that these little juvenile productions were always
sung first by Miss Catharine Fleming. Kate
had a sweet voice, and it was very natural to try
them by that ordeal before submitting them to the
inspection of the right owner. To be sure,
Amelia would sometimes express a little surprise
at the uniform sameness of the subject, and
archly observe, that had they come from any
young man, save her brother, she should certainly
have considered them as overtures of the
tenderest regard.

It is not easy to determine how these complimentary
effusions were relished by the Hibernian
lass, but she possessed too much good breeding
to refuse rehearsing them when requested by
George; such a refusal would have been rude,
and nearly tantamount to condemning the pieces.
And so, from a principle of politeness merely, she
always sung them in her best style, while the
poet performed an accompaniment on his harp.
When George was not present she was always

repeating them, without a second. The following
is offered as a specimen.

The foregoing lines were sung extempore, by
George, at the conclusion of a lesson, when no
one was present but his old blind tutor and Catharine.
The first verse went off unnoticed; but
there was such a peculiar expression thrown into
the last, that his lovely auditor raised her soft
blue eyes from her needle, and met the ardent
gaze of the poet. A sensation at once new and
indescribable darted through her frame, raised a
slight tremor in her bosom, and called the carnation
to her cheek. George rose gently from his
seat, and repeated in a softer tone and still more
tender cadence,

Her answer was a bewitching smile. In a sudden
extacy he forgot himself and imprinted an impassioned
kiss on her lips. Catharine dared not
chide him, because that would have betrayed to
her grand-father this little breach of decorum in
his pupil. Her disposition was too gentle to bear
anger, and she smiled her forgiveness on the spot;
when, in George's hurry to express his gratitude,
he inadvertently repeated the offence.

Until this period George had exhibited no indications
of a passion for the belles-lettres, and it
was not without considerable surprise and regret
that his father noticed the sudden and extraordinary
metamorphosis. Logical disquisitions had
given place to lighter exercises, and all internal
excitements to action appeared to be at once
transferred from the head to the heart. The investigation
of the major and minor of a syllogism
was less pleasing than the modulations of those
two keys on his harp. The solution of a problem
had become dull and tedious, while the construction
of an acrostic or sonnet was productive of
amusement and delight.

Willoughby beheld in these unwelcome symptoms,
if not the total frustration of his hopes, at
least a dangerous innovation on his long-concerted
plans. His scheme of education had been
calculated to insure that energy of mind and
strength of nerve which he considered indispensible
in the cabinet or the field. To this end all
his labors had been directed, for on this point all
his wishes centered. Success kept pace with
exertion, and promised to crown his brightest
hopes. Every revolving month met his son
nearer the goal; and no obstacle had retarded
his speed—no allurement diverted his course.
No wonder then that the anxious parent was
grieved to witness his present aberration, to see

him quit the race when the prize was almost
within his reach. The major had always felt
something like contempt for the profession of a
poet, which he held in nearly the same light as
Chesterfield held that of a fiddler. Pay them for
their performances, (was the precept of both) but
never perform yourself.

“A modern poet,” he would sometimes say to
his children, “always reminds me of the story
of Little Red Ridinghood, who, being sent on an
errand, sauntered from the high road into the
fields, where she amused herself with chasing
butterflies and plucking dandelions, until the approach
of evening alarmed her, when she had to
grope the remainder of her way in darkness, and
the end of her journey was ruin.”

Had the major been aware of the real cause of
the change he lamented, it would have given him
little or no uneasiness, for he would have thought
it a mere temporary delirium, which the next
summer's novelties would quickly dissipate in air.
It would have given him no surprise to learn that
the society of so charming a girl as Miss Fleming
had produced such effects in the mind of a youth
like George, who had been brought up in seclusion,
without ever conversing with a female, save
his sister and aunt. He would have recollected
that Cupid often joins in the innocent gambols of
childhood, and though not able to pierce the
bosom with his dart, will often tickle the lips with
its feather.

Willoughby took an early opportunity of expostulating
with his son on the frivolity of his
present pursuits; and George, for the first time,
listened to paternal advice with pain, and promised
obedience with reluctance.

The winter passed rapidly away, and all the
beauties it had stolen from nature were soon restored
by spring. The period was at hand for
George to bid a long adieu to the scenes of his
childhood, and both pleasure and pain were mingled
in the contemplation of the event. His father
and sister were to accompany him on the
journey; but, his aunt—his harp—and Catharine
were to be left behind.

For several successive days previous to his departure,
he had waited on the Flemings for the
purpose of taking leave of the family; but had
always returned without introducing the subject.
He could not account for it, but he felt that every
day increased the difficulty. He had never known
the pain of parting with a dear friend, and he
shrunk from the trial. But knowing the impossibility
of avoiding it, he at length summoned resolution
to meet it.

“To-morrow I set out for New-England,” said
he to Mr. Fleming, in a tone of assumed gaiety, as
he rose to depart; “have you any commands?”

“None, sir, I thank you; but accept my most
sincere wishes that a pleasant journey and future
prosperity may attend you.”

“And do you leave us so soon?” asked Mrs.
Fleming. “Indeed, Mr. Willoughby, we shall
lack your society much.”

“Nothing, madam, but duty could induce me
to leave scenes which will always be so dear to my
recollection, and to relinquish society to whom I
am so fondly attached. But I hope to revisit
them again at every autumn vacation.”

Poor George! had he reflected on the shortness
of the vacation, and the prodigious length of
the journey, he would have expressed no such
hope.

“You and Catharine have been playmates together
so long,” said Fleming, “that the poor
girl will be quite lost without you. Will you not,
my dear?”

Catharine was marking a handkerchief for herself,
had nearly completed the C, and was too
intent on her work to reply. She, however,
stole a side glance at George, which spoke a
volume to his soul. He saw her tears, and his
own voice faltered as he said, “I think, sir,
that we shall not forget each other—at least I can
answer for myself.”

Catharine's needle flew still more rapidly.

“And do you part with your friend so unceremoniously,
my love?” asked her mother, surprised
at her daughter's apparent inattention;
“not even wish him a pleasant journey!”

Her tears fell fast on her work.

“What letter do you call that, my love,” enquired
her father, with a smile—“a C or a G?”

It was indeed a G, and the distressed girl hid
her face in the handkerchief. George pitied her
embarrassment, from his soul; and Mrs. Fleming
began to suspect that her reproof had been malapropos.

“Katy, my dear, you are ill!”

“Who is ill?” cried O'Hara. “Come hither
my darling, to your grand-father, and tell me what
ails thee.”

She darted to the old harper, clung round his
neck, and wept aloud.

“What is the matter, my little pet?” enquired
the old man, alarmed at her convulsive sobs—
who has hurt or ill-treated thee? Tell your own
grand-father what the matter is!”

“Nothing, sir, nothing at all; only I was—I
had a little—I am not ill now, indeed I am not; I
am quite well.”

“Why, how your poor cheek burns!” continued
the old man, “you have quite a fever, and
tremble all over like a leaf. Your mother must
put you to bed.”

“This is the effect of your wild-goose-chase
after a foolish bird,” observed Fleming, and then
turning to George, he continued, “the mock-bird
you gave her escaped from his cage, and Kate
has been pursuing him over hedge and ditch the
whole morning, and has probably caught cold.
But the bird mocked her pursuit.”

“And what could induce the little rogue to
leave you?” cried George, now venturing to take
her hand.

“Because I loved him, I suppose,” answered
she, smiling through her tears.

“If you love him,” replied George, with a
gentle pressure of the hand, “I am certain that
he will return to you.” More was meant than
met the ear, and the affectionate girl read it in
his speaking eye.

Her father had walked to the window, and she
stood without the sphere of her mother's observation.
It was a critical moment: if their lips
were to meet in eighteen long months, now was
the time; the request was made, and the assent
given by the eyes alone; their lips did meet, just
as Fleming was turning on his heel towards them.

“I shall certainly claim it as my property,”
cried George, affecting to have been speaking
about the handkerchief; “since you have marked
it with the initial of my name; and I will appeal
to your father for the justice of my claim.”

Fleming decided in his favor; but Catharine
objected.

“Consider it as a loan, then,” said George,
“and I will leave my harp in pledge for its safe
restoration.”

Catharine had lost her bird, and began to fear
that she should possess no visible token to remind
her of her absent friend, when the last proposition
was made. She therefore assented to it
with more pleasure than she was willing to express.

That handkerchief was still moist with the
tears of affection, and George would have sooner
parted with an eye than have relinquished it.
Had she asked in return a kingly crown, like
Flodoardo, he would have pledged himself to
procure it.