University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE LOVERS.

They rode on in silence, till their horses' feet again clattered
in the clear, pebbly water of the stream. Here Nina
checked her horse; and, pointing round the circle of pine
forests, and up the stream, overhung with bending trees
and branches, said:

“Hush! — listen!” Both stopped, and heard the swaying
of the pine-trees, the babble of the waters, the cawing
of distant crows, and the tapping of the woodpecker.

“How beautiful everything is!” she said. “It seems to
me so sad that people must die! I never saw anybody dead
before, and you don't know how it makes me feel! To think
that that poor woman was just such a girl as I am, and
used to be just so full of life, and never thought any more
than I do that she should lie there all cold and dead! Why
is it things are made so beautiful, if we must die?”

“Remember what you said to the old man, Miss Nina.
Perhaps she sees more beautiful things, now.”

“In heaven? Yes; I wish we knew more about heaven,
so that it would seem natural and home-like to us, as this
world does. As for me, I can't feel that I ever want to
leave this world — I enjoy living so much! I can't forget
how cold her hand was! I never felt anything like that
cold!”

In all the varying moods of Nina, Clayton had never seen
anything that resembled this. But he understood the peculiar
singleness and earnestness of nature which made any
one idea, or impression, for a time absolute in her mind.

They turned their horses into the wood-path, and rode on
in silence.

“Do you know,” said she, “it 's such a change coming
from New York to live here? Everything is so unformed,
so wild, and so lonely! I never saw anything so lonesome
as these woods are. Here you can ride miles and miles,
hours and hours, and hear nothing but the swaying of the
pine-trees, just as you hear it now. Our place (you never
were there, were you?) stands all by itself, miles from any
other; and I 've been for so many years used to a thickly-settled
country, that it seems very strange to me. I can't
help thinking things look rather deserted and desolate, here.
It makes me rather sober and sad. I don't know as you 'll
like the appearance of our place. A great many things are
going to decay about it; and yet there are some things
that can't decay; for papa was very fond of trees and shrubbery,
and we have a good deal more of them than usual.
Are you fond of trees?”

“Yes; I 'm almost a tree-worshipper. I have no respect
for a man who can't appreciate a tree. The only good thing
I ever heard of Xerxes was, that he was so transported with
the beauty of a plane-tree, that he hung it with chains of
gold. This is a little poetical island in the barbarism of
those days.”

“Xerxes!” said Nina. “I believe I studied something
about him in that dismal, tedious history, at Madame Ardaine's;
but nothing so interesting as that, I 'm sure. But
what should he hang gold chains on a tree for?”

“'T was the best way he knew of expressing his good
opinion.”

“Do you know,” said Nina, half checking her horse,
suddenly, “that I never had the least idea that these men
were alive that we read about in these histories, or that
they had any feelings like ours? We always studied the
lessons, and learnt the hard names, and how forty thousand
were killed on one side, and fifty thousand on the other;
and we don't know any more about it than if we never had.

That 's the way we girls studied at school, except a few
`poky' ones, who wanted to be learned, or meant to be
teachers.”

“An interesting résumé, certainly,” said Clayton, laughing.

“But, how strange it is,” said Nina, “to think that all
those folks we read about are alive now, doing something
somewhere; and I get to wondering where they are —
Xerxes, and Alexander, and the rest of them. Why, they
were so full of life they kept everything in commotion while
in this world; and I wonder if they have been keeping
a going ever since. Perhaps Xerxes has been looking round
at our trees — nobody knows. But here we are coming now
to the beginning of our grounds. There, you see that holly-hedge!
Mamma had that set out. She travelled in England,
and liked the hedges there so much that she thought she
would see what could be done with our American holly.
So she had these brought from the woods, and planted.
You see it all grows wild, now, because it has n't been cut
for many years. And this live-oak avenue my grandfather
set out. It 's my pride and delight.”

As she spoke, a pair of broad gates swung open, and
they cantered in beneath the twilight arches of the oaks.
Long wreaths of pearly moss hung swinging from the
branches, and, although the sun now was at high noon, a
dewy, dreamy coolness seemed to rustle through all the
leaves. As Clayton passed in, he took off his hat, as he
had often done in foreign countries in cathedrals.

“Welcome to Canema!” said she, riding up to him, and
looking up frankly into his face.

The air, half queenly, half childish, with which this was
said, was acknowledged by Clayton with a grave smile, as
he replied, bowing,

“Thank you, madam.”

“Perhaps,” she added, in a grave tone, “you 'll be sorry
that you ever came here.”

“What do you mean by that?” he replied.

“I don't know; it just came into my head to say it.
We none of us ever know what 's going to come of what
we do.”

At this instant, a violent clamor, like the cawing of a
crow, rose on one side of the avenue; and the moment
after, Tomtit appeared, caricoling, and cutting a somerset;
his curls flying, his cheeks glowing.

“Why, Tomtit, what upon earth is this for?” said Nina.

“Laws, missis, deres been a gen'elman waiting for you at
the house these two hours. And missis, she 's done got on
her best cap, and gone down in the parlor for him.”

Nina felt herself blush to the roots of her hair, and was
vexed and provoked to think she did so. Involuntarily her
eyes met Clayton's. But he expressed neither curiosity
nor concern.

“What a pretty drapery this light moss makes!” said
he. “I was n't aware that it grew so high up in the state.”

“Yes; it is very pretty,” said Nina, abstractedly.

Clayton, however, had noticed both the message and the
blush, and was not so ill-informed as Nina supposed as to the
whole affair, having heard from a New York correspondent
of the probability that an arrival might appear upon
the field about this time. He was rather curious to watch
the development produced by this event. They paced up
the avenue, conversing in disconnected intervals, till they
came out on the lawn which fronted the mansion — a large,
gray, three-story building, surrounded on the four sides by
wide balconies of wood. Access was had to the lower of
these by a broad flight of steps. And there Nina saw, plain
enough, her Aunt Nesbit in all the proprieties of cap and
silk gown, sitting, making the agreeable to Mr. Carson.

Mr. Frederic Augustus Carson was one of those nice little
epitomes of conventional society, which appear to such
advantage in factitious life, and are so out of place in the
undress, sincere surroundings of country life. Nina had
liked his society extremely well in the drawing-rooms and
opera-houses of New York. But, in the train of thought

inspired by the lonely and secluded life she was now leading,
it seemed to her an absolute impossibility that she
could, even in coquetry and in sport, have allowed such an
one to set up pretensions to her hand and heart. She was
vexed with herself that she had done so, and therefore not
in the most amiable mood for a meeting. Therefore, when,
on ascending the steps, he rushed precipitately forward,
and, offering his hand, called her Nina, she was ready to die
with vexation. She observed, too, a peculiar swelling and
rustling of Aunt Nesbit's plumage, — an indescribable air
of tender satisfaction, peculiar to elderly ladies who are
taking an interest in an affair of the heart, which led her
to apprehend that the bachelor had commenced operations
by declaring his position to her. 'T was with some embarrassment
that Nina introduced Mr. Clayton, whom Aunt
Nesbit received with a most stately curtsey, and Mr. Carson
with a patronizing bow.

“Mr. Carson has been waiting for you these two hours,”
said Aunt Nesbit.

“Very warm riding, Nina,” said Mr. Carson, observing
her red cheeks. “You 've been riding too fast, I fear. You
must be careful of yourself. I 've known people bring on
very grave illnesses by over-heating the blood!”

Clayton seated himself near the door, and seemed to be
intent on the scene without. And Carson, drawing his
chair close to Nina, asked, in a confidential under-tone,

“Who is that gentleman?”

“Mr. Clayton, of Claytonville,” said Nina, with as much
hauteur as she could assume.

“Ah, yes! — Hem! — hem! I 've heard of the family —
a very nice family — a very worthy young man — extremely,
I 'm told. Shall be happy to make his acquaintance.”

“I beg,” said Nina, rising, “the gentlemen will excuse
me a moment or two.”

Clayton replied by a grave bow, while Mr. Carson, with
great empressement, handed Nina to the door. The moment
it was closed, she stamped, with anger, in the entry.

“The provoking fool! to take these airs with me! And
I, too — I deserve it! What on earth could make me think
I could tolerate that man?”

As if Nina's cup were not yet full, Aunt Nesbit followed
her to her chamber with an air of unusual graciousness.

“Nina, my dear, he has told me all about it! and I assure
you I 'm very much pleased with him!”

“Told you all about what?” said Nina.

“Why, your engagement, to be sure! I 'm delighted to
think you 've done so well! I think your Aunt Maria, and
all of them, will be delighted! Takes a weight of care off
my mind!”

“I wish you would n't trouble yourself about me, or my
affairs, Aunt Nesbit!” said Nina. “And, as for this old
pussy-cat, with his squeaking boots, I won't have him purring
round me, that 's certain! So provoking, to take that
way towards me! Call me Nina, and talk as though he
were lord paramount of me, and everything here! I 'll let
him know!”

“Why, Nina! Seems to me this is very strange conduct!
I am very much astonished at you!”

“I dare say you are, aunt! I never knew the time I
did n't astonish you! But this man I detest!”

“Well, then, my dear, what were you engaged to him
for?”

“Engaged! Aunt, for pity's sake, do hush! Engaged! I
should like to know what a New York engagement amounts
to! Engaged at the opera! — Engaged for a joke! Why,
he was my bouquet-holder! The man is just an opera
libretto! He was very useful in his time. But who wants
him afterwards?”

“But, my dear Nina, this trifling with gentlemen's
hearts!”

“I 'll warrant his heart! It 's neither sugar nor salt, I 'll
assure you. I 'll tell you what, aunt, he loves good eating,
good drinking, nice clothes, nice houses, and good
times generally; and he wants a pretty wife as a part of a

whole; and he thinks he' ll take me. But he is mistaken!
Calling me `Nina,' indeed! Just let me have a chance of
seeing him alone! I 'll teach him to call me `Nina'! I 'll
let him know how things stand!”

“But, Nina, you must confess you 've given him occasion
for all this.”

“Well, supposing I have? I 'll give him occasion for
something else, then!”

“Why, my dear,” said Aunt Nesbit, “he came on to
know when you 'll fix the day to be married!”

“Married! O, my gracious! Just think of the creature's
talking about it! Well, it is my fault, as you say; but I 'll
do the best I can to mend it.”

“Well, I 'm really sorry for him,” said Aunt Nesbit.

“You are, aunt? Why don't you take him yourself,
then? You are as young and good-looking as he is.”

“Nina, how you talk!” said Aunt Nesbit, coloring and
bridling. “There was a time when I was n't bad-looking,
to be sure; but that 's long since past.”

“O, that 's because you always dress in stone-color and
drab,” said Nina, as she stood brushing and arranging her
curls. “Come, now, and go down, aunt, and do the best
you can till I make my appearance. After all, as you say,
I 'm the most to blame. There 's no use in being vexed
with the old soul. So, aunt, do be as fascinating as you
can; see if you can't console him. Only remember how you
used to turn off lovers, when you were of my age.”

“And who is this other gentleman, Nina?”

“O, nothing, only he is a friend of mine. A very good
man — good enough for a minister, any day, aunt, and not
so stupid as good people generally are, either.”

“Well, perhaps you are engaged to him?”

“No, I am not; that is to say, I won't be to anybody.
This is an insufferable business! I like Mr. Clayton, because
he can let me alone, don't look at me in that abominably
delighted way all the time, and dance about, calling

me Nina! He and I are very good friends, that 's all. I 'm
not going to have any engagements anywhere.”

“Well, Nina, I 'll go down, and you make haste.”

While the gentlemen and Aunt Nesbit were waiting in
the saloon, Carson made himself extremely happy and at
home. It was a large, cool apartment, passing, like a hall,
completely through the centre of the house. Long French
windows, at either end, opened on to balconies. The pillars
of the balconies were draped and garlanded with wreaths
of roses now in full bloom. The floor of the room was the
polished mosaic of different colors to which we have formerly
alluded. Over the mantel-piece was sculptured in oak
the Gordon arms. The room was wainscoted with dark
wood, and hung with several fine paintings, by Copley and
Stuart, of different members of the family. A grand piano,
lately arrived from New York, was the most modern-looking
article in the room. Most of the furniture was of the heavy
dark mahogany, of an antique pattern. Clayton sat by the
door, still admiring the avenue of oaks which were to be
seen across the waving green of the lawn.

In about half an hour Nina reäppeared in a flossy cloud
of muslin, lace, and gauzy ribbons. Dress was one of those
accomplishments for which the little gypsy had a natural instinct;
and, without any apparent thought, she always fell
into that kind of color and material which harmonized with
her style of appearance and character. There was always
something floating and buoyant about the arrangement of
her garments and drapery; so that to see her move across
the floor gave one an airy kind of sensation, like the gambols
of thistle-down. Her brown eyes had a peculiar resemblance
to a bird's; and this effect was increased by a
twinkling motion of the head, and a fluttering habit of movement
peculiar to herself; so that when she swept by in
rosy gauzes, and laid one ungloved hand lightly on the
piano, she seemed to Clayton much like some saucy bird —
very good indeed if let alone, but ready to fly on the slightest
approach.

Clayton had the rare faculty of taking in every available
point of observation, without appearing to stare.

“'Pon my word, Nina,” said Mr. Carson, coming towards
her with a most delighted air, “you look as if you had fallen
out of a rainbow!”

Nina turned away very coolly, and began arranging her
music.

“O, that 's right!” said Carson; “give us one of your
songs. Sing something from the Favorita. You know it 's
my favorite opera,” said he, assuming a most sentimental
expression.

“O, I 'm entirely out of practice — I don't sing at all.
I 'm sick of all those opera-songs!” And Nina skimmed
across the floor, and out of the open door by which Clayton
was lounging, and began busying herself amid the flowers
that wreathed the porch. In a moment Carson was at her
heels; for he was one of those persons who seem to think
it a duty never to allow any one to be quiet, if they can possibly
prevent it.

“Have you ever studied the language of flowers, Nina?”
said he.

“No, I don't like to study languages.”

“You know the signification of a full-blown rose?” said
he, tenderly presenting her with one.

Nina took the rose, coloring with vexation, and then,
plucking from the bush a rose of two or three days' bloom,
whose leaves were falling out, she handed it to him, and
said,

“Do you understand the signification of this?”

“O, you have made an unfortunate selection! This rose is
all falling to pieces!” said Mr. Carson, innocently.

“So I observed,” said Nina, turning away quickly; then,
making one of her darting movements, she was in the middle
of the saloon again, just as the waiter announced dinner.

Clayton rose gravely, and offered his arm to Aunt Nesbit;
and Nina found herself obliged to accept the delighted
escort of Mr. Carson, who, entirely unperceiving, was in

the briskest possible spirits, and established himself comfortably
between Aunt Nesbit and Nina.

“You must find it very dull here — very barren country,
shockingly so! What do you find to interest yourself
in?” said he.

“Will you take some of this gumbo?” replied Nina.

“I always thought,” said Aunt Nesbit, “it was a good
plan for girls to have a course of reading marked out to
them when they left school.”

“O, certainly,” said Carson. “I shall be happy to mark
out one for her. I 've done it for several young ladies.”

At this moment Nina accidentally happened to catch
Clayton's eye, which was fixed upon Mr. Carson with an air
of quiet amusement greatly disconcerting to her.

“Now,” said Mr. Carson, “I have no opinion of making
blues of young ladies; but still, I think, Mrs. Nesbit, that a
little useful information adds greatly to their charms. Don't
you?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Nesbit. “I 've been reading Gibbon's
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, lately.”

“Yes,” said Nina, “aunt 's been busy about that ever
since I can remember.”

“That 's a very nice book,” said Mr. Carson, looking
solemnly at Nina; “only, Mrs. Nesbit, an't you afraid of
the infidel principle? I think, in forming the minds of the
young, you know, one cannot be too careful.”

“Why, he struck me as a very pious writer!” said Aunt
Nesbit, innocently. “I 'm sure, he makes the most religious
reflections, all along. I liked him particularly on that
account.”

It seemed to Nina that, without looking at Clayton, she
was forced to meet his eye. No matter whether she directed
her attention to the asparagus or the potatoes, it
was her fatality always to end by a rencounter with his eye;
and she saw, for some reason or other, the conversation was
extremely amusing to him.

“For my part,” said Nina, “I don't know what sort of

principles Aunt Nesbit's history, there, has; but one thing
I 'm pretty certain of, — that I 'm not in any danger from
any such thick, close-printed, old, stupid-looking books as
that. I hate reading, and I don't intend to have my mind
formed; so that nobody need trouble themselves to mark
out courses for me! What is it to me what all these old
empires have been, a hundred years ago? It is as much as
I can do to attend to what is going on now.”

“For my part,” said Aunt Nesbit, “I 've always regretted
that I neglected the cultivation of my mind when I was
young. I was like Nina, here, immersed in vanity and
folly.”

“People always talk,” said Nina, reddening, “as if there
was but one kind of vanity and folly in the world. I think
there can be as much learned vanity and folly as we girls
have!” And she looked at Clayton indignantly, as she saw
him laughing.

“I agree with Miss Gordon, entirely. There is a great
deal of very stupid respectable trifling, which people pursue
under the head of courses of reading,” he said. “And
I don't wonder that most compends of history which are
studied in schools should inspire any lively young lady
with a life-long horror, not only of history, but of reading.”

“Do you think so?” said Nina, with a look of inexpressible
relief.

“I do, indeed,” said Clayton. “And it would have been
a very good thing for many of our historians, if they had
been obliged to have shaped their histories so that they
would interest a lively school-girl. We literary men, then,
would have found less sleepy reading. There is no reason
why a young lady, who would sit up all night reading a
novel, should not be made to sit up all night with a history.
I 'll venture to say there 's no romance can come up to the
gorgeousness and splendor, and the dramatic power, of
things that really have happened. All that 's wanting is to
have it set before us with an air of reality.”

“But, then,” said Nina, “you 'd have to make the history
into a romance.”

“Well, a good historical romance is generally truer than
a dull history; because it gives some sort of conception of
the truth; whereas, the dull history gives none.”

“Well, then,” said Nina, “I 'll confess, now, that about
all the history I do know has been got from Walter Scott's
novels. I always told our history-teacher so; but she insisted
upon it that it was very dangerous reading.”

“For my part,” said Mrs. Nesbit, “I 've a great horror
of novel-reading, particularly for young ladies. It did me
a great deal of harm when I was young. It dissipates the
mind; it gives false views of life.”

“O, law!” said Nina. “We used to write compositions
about that, and I 've got it all by heart — how it raises
false expectations, and leads people to pursue phantoms,
rainbows, and meteors, and all that sort of thing!”

“And yet,” said Clayton, “all these objections would
lie against perfectly true history, and the more so just in
proportion to its truth. If the history of Napoleon Bonaparte
were graphically and minutely given, it would lie
open to the very same objections. It would produce the
very same cravings for something out of the commonplace
course of life. There would be the same dazzling mixture
of bad and good qualities in the hero, and the same lassitude
and exhaustion after the story was finished. And common
history does not do this, simply because it is not true
— does not produce a vivid impression of the reality as it
happened.”

Aunt Nesbit only got an indefinite impression, from this
harangue, that Clayton was defending novel-reading, and
felt herself called to employ her own peculiar line of reasoning
to meet it, which consisted in saying the same thing
over and over, at regular intervals, without appearing to hear
or notice anything said in reply. Accordingly, she now
drew herself up, with a slightly virtuous air, and said to Mr.
Clayton,

“I must say, after all, that I don't approve of novel-reading.
It gives false views of life, and disgusts young people
with their duties.”

“I was only showing, madam, that the same objection
would apply to the best-written history,” said Clayton.

“I think novel-reading does a great deal of harm,” rejoined
Aunt Nesbit. “I never allow myself to read any
work of fiction. I 'm principled against it.”

“For my part,” said Nina, “I wish I could find that kind
of history you are speaking of; I believe I could read that.”

“'T would be very interesting history, certainly,” said
Mr. Carson. “I should think it would prove a very charming
mode of writing. I wonder somebody don't produce
one.”

“For my part,” said Aunt Nesbit, “I confine myself entirely
to what is practically useful. Useful information is
all I desire.”

“Well, I suppose, then, I 'm very wicked,” said Nina;
“but I don't like anything useful. Why, I 've sometimes
thought, when I 've been in the garden, that the summer-savory,
sage, and sweet-majoram, were just as pretty as
many other flowers; and I could n't see any reason why I
should n't like a sprig of one of them for a bouquet, except
that I 've seen them used so much for stuffing turkeys.
Well, now, that seems very bad of me, don't it?”

“That reminds me,” said Aunt Nesbit, “that Rose has
been putting sage into this turkey again, after all that I
said to her. I believe she does it on purpose.”

At this moment Harry appeared at the door, and requested
to speak to Nina.

After a few moments' whispered conversation, she came
back to the table, apparently disconcerted.

“I 'm so sorry — so very sorry!” she said. “Harry has
been riding all round the country to find a minister to attend
the funeral, this evening. It will be such a disappointment
to that poor fellow! You know the negroes think so much
of having prayers at the grave!”

“If no one else can be found to read prayers, I will,”
said Clayton.

“O, thank you! will you, indeed?” said Nina. “I 'm
glad of it, now, for poor Tiff's sake. The coach will be out
at five o'clock, and we 'll ride over together, and make as
much of a party as we can.”

“Why, child,” said Aunt Nesbit to Nina, after they returned
to the parlor, “I did not know that Mr. Clayton was
an Episcopalian.”

“He is n't,” said Nina. “He and his family all attend
the Presbyterian church.”

“How strange that he should offer to read prayers!” said
Aunt Nesbit. “I don't approve of such things, for my
part.”

“Such things as what?”

“Countenancing Episcopal errors. If we are right, they
are wrong, and we ought not to countenance them.”

“But, aunt, the burial-service is beautiful.”

“Don't approve of it!” said Aunt Nesbit.

“Why, you know, as Clayton is n't a minister, he would
not feel like making an extempore prayer.”

“Shows great looseness of religious principle,” said
Aunt Nesbit. “Don't approve of it!”