 | CHAPTER XI. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
“Rural recreations abroad, and books at home, are the innocent
pleasures of a man who is early wise, and gives fortune no more
hold of him than of necessity he must.”
Dryden.
The sentiment of Dryden, which we have prefixed
to this chapter, accorded with Mr. Clarence'
views, and will in part explain his preference of a
rural life. But he had other reasons—reasons that
neither began nor terminated with himself. The
formation of Gertrude's character was the first object
of his life, and he wished, while it was flexible, to secure
for it the happiest external influences. He believed
that direct instruction, the most careful inculcation
of wise precepts, and the constant vigilance of a single
individual, (even though that individual be a
parent,) are insignificant, compared with the indirect
influences that cannot be controlled, or with
what has been so happily called the `education of
circumstances.' He wished to inspire his child with
moderation and humility. She was surrounded by
the indulgencies of a luxurious town-establishment,
and exposed to the flatteries of the frivolous and
foolish. He wished to give her a knowledge and
right estimate of the just uses and responsibilities of
the fortune of which she was to be the dispenser.
His lessons would be counteracted in a society where
wealth was made the basis of aristocracy and fashion.
He wished to infuse a taste for rational and intellectual
the `dear five hundred friends' she had inherited
from her mother—the flippant idlers of fashionable
life?
Mr. Clarence was too much of a philosopher to
condemn en masse the class of fashionable society.
He knew there were individual exceptions to its general
character, but he regarded them as the golden
sands borne on the current, not giving it a new direction.
He esteemed the devotees to morning visits
and evening parties as the mere foam on the
fountain of life—as having no part in its serious uses
or purposes. He felt a benevolent compassion for
them; they seemed to him like the uninstructed deaf
and dumb, beings unconscious of the rich faculties
slumbering within them; faculties, that if awakened
and active, and directed to the ends for which they
were designed by their beneficent Creator, would
change the aspect of society.
Mr. Clarence was not diappointed in many of the
benefits he expected from his daughter passing the
noviciate of her life in the country. She learned to
love nature from an acquaintance and familiarity
with its sublimest forms, and most touching aspects.
Those glorious revelations of their Author refined
her taste, and elevated her imagination and her affections
to an habitual communion with Him.
In a simple state of society, she felt the power of
her wealth only in its wise and benevolent uses. She
learned to view people and things as they are, without
the false glare of artificial society. Her domestic
energies were called forth by the necessities of a
country-establishment, which, with all the facilities of
from the lady of the ménage the skill of an actual
operator.
In this education of circumstances, there was one
which had a paramount influence on the character
of Gertrude Clarence—her intercourse with her
father. Gibbon has said, that the affection subsisting
between a brother and sister is the only Platonic
love. Has not that sentiment that binds a father to
his daughter, the same generosity and tenderness
arising from the distinction of sexes, and with that
something higher and holier?
A parent stands, as it were, on the verage of two
worlds, and blends the fears and hopes of both. He
feels those anxieties and dreads that arise from an
experience of the uncertainties of this life, and that
inexpressible tenderness, and those illimitable desires,
that extend to the eternal hereafter.
Mr. Clarence had perhaps an undue anxiety in
regard to the possible evils of the present life. His
mind never quite recovered from the melancholy
infused into it by the relation of his father's history.
The shocking death of his son nearly destroyed
for the time his mental faculties, and permanently
impaired his health. He timidly shrunk
from every form of evil that might assail his child,
not considering that she had the unabated ardor, and
the elastic spirit that are necessary to sustain the burden
of life. Gertrude's character, originally of a
firm texture, was strengthened by her father's timidity.
Her resolution and cheerfulness were always
equal to his demands, and these were sometimes unreasonable.
His solicitude sometimes degenerated
these Gertrude opposed a resoluteness, and equanimity,
that to a careless and superficial observer
might seem coldness; but such know not how carefully
the fire that is used only for holy purposes is
concealed and guarded.
But our fair readers may be curious to know
whether Gertrude's rustication was to be perpetual?
whether the matrimonial opportunities of a rich
heiress, were to be circumscribed to the few chances
of a country-lottery? and whether she had arrived
at the age of nineteen without any pretenders to her
exclusive favor? Certainly not. The spirit of enterprise,
in every form, is too alert in our country to
permit the hand of an heiress to remain unsolicited,
and Gertrude Clarence was addressed by
suitors of every quality and degree. Clergymen,
doctors, lawyers, and forwarding merchants, addressed,
we should perhaps say approached her, for
they soon found something in the atmosphere of
Clarenceville that chilled and nipped their young
hopes—they soon felt, all but the most obtuse, that
Gertrude Clarence was no game for the mere fortune-hunter.
But, ask my fair young readers, did she pass the
most susceptible years of her life without any of
those emotions and visions that disturb all our imaginations?
She had her dreams, her beau-ideal.
Her memory had retained the image of a certain
youth who had appeared to her in all the graces of
dawning manhood when she was a very young
and unobserved child. In her memory he had
been associated with her brother, so fondly loved,
no, her thoughts did not take so definite a form—
in her visions, there was one personification of all
that to her imagination was noble, graceful, and
captivating. Her father unwittingly cherished this
preposession.
His debt to the Roscoe family, and his love to its
departed members, inspired, naturally, a very strong
interest in Gerald, now its sole representative. Gerald's
personal merit confirmed this interest. Mr.
Clarence delighted to talk of him to Gertrude, to
dwell on and magnify his rare qualities. He maintained
a constant correspondence with Mr. Clarence,
and his graceful and spirited letters seemed to impart
to her acquaintance with his character, the
vividness of personal intercourse.
It was natural that Mr. Clarence, in looking forward
to the probable contingency of Gertrude's marriage,
should in his own mind fix on Gerald Roscoe,
as the only person to whom he would willingly resign
her; but it certainly was not prudent to infuse
a predilection into her mind, and to nourish that predilection
without calculating all the chances against
its gratification, and that fatal but unthought of
chance, that her sentiment might not be reciprocated.
But we are in danger of anticipating, and we
proceed to give a day at Clarenceville which will
enable our readers to judge of our heroine's character,
from its developement in action, a mode as
much more satisfactory than mere description, as a
book than its table of contents.
Mr. Clarence' house was no `shingle palace,' but
a well built, spacious, and commodious modern edifice,
shore of one of the beautiful lakes in the western
part of the state of New York. The position of the
house was judiciously selected to economize sunshine,
and soft breezes, the luxuries of a climate
where winter reigns for six months. Literally, the
monarch of all he surveyed, Mr. Clarence' right of
property had enabled him to save from the relentless
axe of the settler, a fine extent of forest trees that
sheltered him from the biting north winds, and
rising in strait and lofty columns, a `lonely depth
of unpierced woods' offered a tempting retreat to the
romantic and the contemplative; or to those more
apt to seek its `lonely depths,' the sportsman and
deer-hunter. Between the house and the lake, not a
tree had been suffered to remain to intercept the
view of the clear sparkling sheet of water, the soul
of the scene.
The lawn was circular, and surrounded with
shrubs and flowers, which Gertrude loved better
than any thing, not of human kind.
Sweet-briars, corcoruses, passion-flowers, and
honey-suckles, wreathed the pillars of the piazza;
and the garden which was a little on the right of
the house, and filled with fruit-trees, and arranged in
terraces, covered with grapes, tempered the bolder
features of the scene with an air of civilization, refinement,
and even luxury. The opposite shore of
the lake, was mountainous, wild, and rugged, and
enriched with many an Indian tradition. The lake
was not a barren sheet of water, but dotted with
islands, some without a tree or shrub, green, fresh,
and smooth, looking as if they might have been
were embowered with trees, and overgrown with
native grape-vines, that had leaped from branch
to branch, and hung their leafy draperies on every
bough.
Less romantic, but not less agreeable objects terminated
the perspective; a thriving village, with its
churches, academy, and court-house, and all the insignia
of an advancing, busy population.
The day we have mentioned was that appointed for
Mrs. Layton and the Uptons to dine at Clarenceville.
Any interruption of his customary occupations was
apt, before breakfast, to disturb Mr. Clarence' serenity.
The demon of dyspepsia was then lord of
the ascendant. When he entered the breakfast parlor,
Gertrude and Mr. Seton only were there.
“Where is the breakfast, Gertrude?” he asked. “I
hope you do not mean to wait for Miss Emilie.
Young ladies should really learn that good manners
require them to rise at the family hours.”
“Emilie was up with the birds, papa, and has
gone to walk.”
“To walk! my dear child, how could you permit
her to expose herself to the morning air?”
“I was asleep.”
“Asleep! Nothing is more fatal to health than
sleeping in the morning. I have mentioned to you
the anecdote of Lord Mansfield, Gertrude?”
“O yes, papa.” And Gertrude could scarcely
repress a smile, when she recollected how many times
it had been mentioned to her.
“I presume, Gertrude, it is not necessary to wait
breakfast for Miss Layton.”
“Not at all, sir; I have ordered it already.”
Mr. Clarence walked to the window, and unhappily
espied his favorite riding-horse. “What a
stupid scoundrel John is!” he exclaimed, “to leave
Ranger in the sun.”
Seton started from his seat: “It was not John,
sir; I have been riding, and I took it for granted
that John would see the horse.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Seton; but really, sir,
it is not agreeable—it is not the thing to use a horse
in this way.” Poor Seton went with all possible
haste to repair his fault, while Mr. Clarence continued,
“Such imbecility is really too bad; twenty
good shades within as many yards. He `took it for
granted John would see the horse;' this `taking it
for granted' is just the difference between those that
get along in the world, and those that slump
through. Do you know why Sarah does not bring
the breakfast, Gertrude?”
“I hear her coming, sir.”
“What are you looking at, Gertrude? Oh, I
see—Ranger has got away from Louis; I expected
it. Sarah, send John instantly here.” Mr. Clarence
threw up the sash, and would have expressed
his impatient displeasure to Seton, but Gertrude laid
her hand on his arm:
“My dear father! Louis is not well this morning.”
Mr. Clarence put down the window, walked once
or twice across the room, and asked for the Edinburgh-Review.
Gertrude looked on the tables, on
the book-shelves, on the piano, on every thing that
could support a book; but the London Quarterly,
Monthly, Ladies' Magazine, the Analectic, Eclectic,
every thing but the Edinburgh, was forthcoming—
that had vanished.
“There is no use in looking, Gertrude; it's gone
of course; it's of no consequence; the breakfast is
here.” They sat down; but here a new series of
trials commenced. The coffee was burned too much,
and Mr. Clarence made his daily remark, that he
believed all the difficulty might be remedied, if people
would say roast coffee, instead of burnt coffee.
Then the dyspeptic bread had been forgotten, and
the family bread was underbaked; the fish was cold,
and the eggs were stale. Sarah was inquired of,
`why fresh eggs had not been gotten from John
Smith's.'
“Mr. Smith don't calculate to part with any
more till after Independence.”
“I dare say; it is all independence to our farming
gentry! Has Mrs. Carter brought the fowls for
dinner, Sarah?”
“No, sir; she has concluded not to.”
“What is the meaning of that?”
“Why, sir, she says poor Billy reared them, and
she don't love to spare them.”
“Nonsense! tell John to go down and tell her I
must have them.”
“I have another errand for John to do at the
same time,” whispered Miss Clarence to the girl;
“tell him to wait till after breakfast.”
While these domestic inquiries had been making,
Miss Clarence had prepared some remarkably fine
black tea, just received from New York—the gardener
product of the season—and the cook had found a
mislaid loaf of the favorite bread; and when Miss
Emilie Layton returned from her walk, all radiant
and glowing with beauty, health, and spirits, Mr.
Clarence was in the best humor possible. “Up
rose the sun, and up rose Emily!” he exclaimed.
“Pardon me, my dear little girl, I do not often
quote, even prose; but you look so like the spirit of
the jocund morning”—he drew her chair close to himself,
kissed her white dimpled hand—“the privilege
of an old man, Miss Emilie—don't look cast-down,
Louis; every dog must have his day.”
“What delightful spirits you are in, Mr. Clarence!”
said the young lady.
“Spirits! ah my dear Miss Emilie, bless your
stars that you did not see me half an hour sooner.
I have been tormenting poor Gertrude and Louis;
but I can't help it—I believe spirits, sensibility, every
thing, as a friend of mine says, depend on the
state of the stomach. Don't eat that egg—take
some of these strawberries, Miss Layton; they are
delicious haut bois.”
“I prefer the egg, sir; I am very hungry.”
“Stop, my dear girl! don't you know you should
always open an egg at the obtuse end, and if it is
perfectly full to the shell, it is fresh; I have tried the
experiment all summer, and I have not found half a
dozen good ones.”
“And I have broken all mine in the middle, and
never found a poor one,” said Miss Layton, dashing
hers out, and proceeding to eat it with the keen relish
of a youthful and stimulated appetite.
“I like that—I like that, Miss Emilie; that makes
all the difference in life, the difference between such
a poor fidgetty creature as I am, and such a happy
spirit as yours. Go on, my dear child, and break
your eggs in the middle for ever; but excuse me, I
have an errand that must be done immediately,” and
he rose to leave the room.
“Are you going to the widow Carter's?” asked
Gertrude, with a very significant smile.
“Yes,” and though Mr. Clarence bit his lip, he
smiled in return.
“It is unnecessary. John was directed not to do
the errand till after breakfast.”
“There it is—see there, Miss Emilie—My good
Gertrude has saved me from playing Blue Beard
on a poor window's chickens this morning. The
brood of a Heaven-forsaken boy of hers who
has been drowned in the lake this summer—the
only good thing the graceless little dog ever did, was
to rear these chickens. It would have been a worse
case than that of the widow's cow, immortalized by
Fenelon—all the poultry in Christendom would not
have made up the loss to her, and she would have
sent them, poor soul! she would have surrendered
her life, if either Gertrude or I had required it.”
Mr. Clarence had resumed his seat, and taken up
a newspaper, when a servant entered with letters
from the post-office; they were distributed according
to their different directions. Miss Layton
looked conscious and disturbed, and retreated to her
apartment. Mr. Clarence broke the seal of his,
saying it was a short business-letter, and that he
had left his spectacles in the library; he asked
over his shoulder, and read as follows: “I have
“thought over and over again what I told you the
“day we parted. I am right—It is all fudge—there
“is no lion in the way. I tell you again, make hay
“while the sun shines—strike while the iron is hot
“—clench the nail”—Louis started from his seat,
but Miss Clarence without observing him, read on,
“straws show which way the wind blows. If I have
“eyes, it sets from the right quarter—delays are
“dangerous. A certain person's life hangs by a
“thread, and when he's gone, she's off to the city,
“and snapped up by the dandies—three hundred
“thousand —”
“Stop, for God's sake!” cried Seton, and snatching
the letter, flushed and trembling, he instantly disappeared.
Mr. Clarence closed the door after him
and turning to Gertrude, asked her what could be
the meaning of this. Gertrude was in tears; for a
moment she could not reply, but taking up a letter
Seton had dropped, and, glancing at it and looking
at the signature, “It is so,” she said; “the letters
are both from that vulgar brother of Seton—they
were misdirected—this was meant for you.”
The letter designed for Mr. Clarence' eye, was as
follows: “Respected Sir—I take the liberty, by
“return of mail, to tender my sincere thanks to you
“and Miss Clarence, for your politeness to me
“during my late visit to my esteemed brother. It
“was very gratifying to me to find your health so
“much improved, and my brother so pleasantly
“situated in your valued family. I think I may
“say Lewis deserves his good fortune—he has al
“Louis has. It was a disappointment to my father,
“after giving him a liberal education, that he
“should take such a turn for painting; but Allston,
“our great painter, says he has a remarkable talent
“that way, so that there is a good prospect, if he
“should go to foreign countries, that he may, at some
“future day, become as celebrated as Sir Benjamin
“West; but I for one should be perfectly content to
“have him settle down in the country, and only
“handle the brush for his amusement. My wife
“would be very glad to accept Miss Gertrude's
“invitation, as she is remarkably fond of Louis, as
“indeed we all are. The rose for Miss Gertrude,
“and the calliflower for yourself, I shall do myself
“the pleasure to send by the first opportunity. Till
“then believe me, sir, with much respect and esteem,
“and gratitude, to you and to Miss Gertrude,
“Your very obedient,
“humble servant,
“William Seton.”
“It is too bad,” said Mr. Clarence, “to be expected
to be the dupe of such a vulgar, grovelling
wretch. Is it possible, Gertrude, that Louis has
any thing in common with this base fellow?”
“Nothing, my dear father, nothing.”
“Has he in any way indicated an intention of
addressing you?”
“Never.”
Mr. Clarence paused for a moment, and then
added, “Pardon me, my dear child, for catechising
you a little further: have you any reason to think
that Louis loves you?”
“I believe he does.”
Gertrude's tears dropped fast on the letter which
she still held in her hand, folding and refolding it.
Mr. Clarence walked up and down the room, till
suddenly stopping, he said; “Seton is not all I
could have wished for you, my dear Gertrude—his
delicate health—the nervous, susceptible constitution
of his mind, are, according to my view of things,
great evils—but he is pure, and disinterested, and
talented. I reverence a sentiment of genuine affection.
It is cruel to disappoint or trifle with it.
I see your emotion, Gertrude, your wishes shall
govern mine.”
Miss Clarence subdued her agitation—“You
misunderstand my emotion, sir,” she said; “I was
grieved that Mr. Seton should have been so outraged,
insulted, that I should myself have dragged
forth feelings that he has never betrayed but involuntarily—my
dear father, my only wish is to live
and die with you.”
“Do you mean deliberately to abjure matrimony,
Gertrude?” asked her father, reassured, and animated
by discovering the real state of his daughter's
heart.
“No; that would be ridiculous; but I am sure,
very sure, I shall never marry.”
“Oh! that is all. That resolution and feeling
will last, Gertrude, till you see some one worthy to
vanquish it; but that it exists now is proof enough
that you are yet fancy free. But what is to be done
for poor Seton? one thing is certain, he must leave
us.”
“Do not say so. We certainly can convince him
him—he is sick—at present incapable of the labor
of his profession—he has no refuge but the house of
his sordid brother. From you, my dear father, I
would not hide a shade of feeling—I do love Louis
Seton—with sisterly affection”—(Mr. Clarence
smiled)—“you are incredulous—I could voluntarily
confess to Louis all I feel for him—can that be
love?”
“No; but how soon may it become so?”
Never—I am confident of that—I have involuntarily
robbed Louis of his happiness—I know
the exquisite sensitiveness of his mind—If he
were to leave us now he might never recover the
shock and mortification of his brother's disclosure.
If he remains, I think we may by degrees restore
his self-respect, his self-confidence, and his serenity.
At least let us try.”
“Do as you please, my noble-minded girl. I
am satisfied to trust every thing to you, superior as
you are to the heartless coquetries and pruderies of
your sex; but remember we are handling edged
tools.”
“But not playing with them,” replied Gertrude
with a faint smile; and then kissing her father, and
thanking him for his compliance, she left him and
went to a difficult task. She met a servant in the
entry; “Have you seen Mr. Seton?” she asked.
“Yes ma'am; and Miss Clarence,” he added,
drawing closer to her, and lowering his voice,
“there's something the matter with Mr. Seton—he
just called me to pack his clothes, and he was all in
doing the least thing for himself.”
“Mr. Seton is ill, John, and insists on leaving
us; but we must prevent him. You would all be
willing to nurse him, would you not, John?”
“Indeed, that would we, Miss Clarance—a nice,
quiet young man is Mr. Louis.”
“Then I will try to persuade him to stay. Tell
him, John, I wish to speak with him in the library.”
Miss Clarence having thus adroitly averted the gossiping
suspicions of the inferior departments of the
family, repaired to the library. Seton soon followed
her. He had an expression of self-command
and offended pride, bordering on haughtiness, and
so foreign to his customary, gentle, and sentimental
demeanor, that Gertrude forgot her prepared speech
and said, “You are not offended, Louis?”
“Offended, Miss Clarence!—I am misunderstood—defamed—disgraced!”
“Louis, you are unjust to yourself, and unjust to
us; do you think that my father or I would give a
second thought to that silly letter?”
Seton was soothed. He fixed his eye on Gertrude,
and she proceeded. “It is essential to our
happiness that we should understand one another
perfectly. Have we not in two years too firmly established
our mutual confidence and friendship to
have them shaken by the accidents of this morning?”
She paused for a moment, and proceeded with more
emotion. “Louis, you know I lost my only brother.
It is long ago that he died, and I was very
young at the time, but I perfectly remember the tenderness
I felt for him—remember! I still feel it.
You know my father is all that a father can be to
me, but for perfect sympathy there must be similar
age, pursuits, and hopes.” While Gertrude dwelt in
generals, she could talk with the coolness of a philosopher;
but as she again approached particulars, her
voice became tremulous.
“I can, I do feel for you, Louis, the sentiments of
a sister—a sister's solicitude for your honor and
happiness. I would select you from all the world
to supply poor Frank's place to me. You will not
permit false delicacy, fastidious scruples, to deprive
me of the brother of my election? Forget the past.”
Seton made no reply. “You do not mean to reject
me, Louis?” she added, playfully extending
her hand to him. He turned away from her.
“Oh Gertrude! Gertrude! why should I deceive
you? why rather should I suffer you to delude yourself?
You might as well hope to distil gentle dews from
consuming fire, as to convert the sentiment I feel
for you into the tranquil, peaceful, fearless, satisfied
love of a brother. Mine was no common love—it
subsisted without hope or expectation—a self-sustaining
passion—the light of my existence—the essence
of my life—a pure flame in the inmost, secret
sanctuary of my heart—that sanctuary has been violated.
I betrayed, and another has dishonored
it. `Forget the past!' forget that my thoughts of
you have been linked with sordid expectations and
base projects. God knows I never, in one presumptuous
moment aspired to you, but not because
you were rich. In my eyes, your fortune is your
meanest attribute—my poverty makes no part of
my humility.
“You must not interrupt me, Gertrude. I know
your generosity—I know all you would say; but
hear me out, now, while I have courage to speak
of myself. I have been injured, and the worm
trodden on, you know, will turn.”
“I must interrupt you, Louis; I cannot bear to
hear you speak of yourself in these unworthy, degrading
terms.”
“You misunderstand me. I do not mean to degrade
but rather to justify myself, by making you
acquainted with the short, sad history of my mind.
I know I am weak and pusillanimous. Nature and
circumstances have been allied against me. I was
born with a constitutional, nervous susceptibility
that none of my family understood or regarded. I
was a timid, sensitive boy. My brothers were bold
and bustling. They were steel-clad in health and
hardihood, while I shrunk, as if my nerves were
bare, from every breath. This, in their estimation,
was inferiority, and so it became in mine. I was
humbled and depressed; my life was an aching
void. I rose in the morning, as poor Cowper says
he did, `like an infernal frog out of Acheron,
covered with the ooze and mud of melancholy,' and
my days flowed like a half-stagnant and turbid
stream, that gives back no image of the bright
heaven above it, and takes no hue from the pleasant
objects past which it obscurely crawls. My spirit
was crushed; I felt myself to be a useless weed in
creation, and when I first discovered that I possessed
one talent—one redeeming talent—my heart beat
with the ecstasy that an idiot may feel when his
mind is released from its physical thraldom, and
talent introduced me to you, Gertrude, gave me
estimation in your eyes, was the medium of our
daily intercourse, and I cherished and cultivated it
as if it were, as it in truth was, the principle of life
to me. The exercise of this talent, and the secret
indulgence of my love for you, were happiness
enough. I expected nothing more: I did not look
into the future—I forgot the past. I was satisfied
with the full, pervading sense of present bliss. But
you are wearied, Miss Clarence, and I am intrusive.”
“No, no, Mr. Seton,” replied Gertrude, raising
her head, and removing from her face the handkerchief
that had hidden from Seton the deep emotion
with which she listened to him. “No, Louis,” she
continued in the kindest and firmest tone, “but
such disclosures are useless—they may be worse
than useless.”
“Gertrude, I have no terms to keep with consequences,
and I pray you to hear me out. My
tranquillity vanished like a dream, when, last week,
I betrayed my passion to you. Your calmness and
gentle forbearance soothed me, but it was not, it is
not in your power to restore the self-confidence I
felt while my passion was unknown. A fever is
preying on my life; my spirits are disordered.
This cruel letter of my brother will shorten the
term of my insupportable existence—for this I thank
him. Nothing now remains but to pray you to
render me justice with your father; and to beg you,
Gertrude, to bear me kindly in your memory.”
He took her hand and pressed it to his burning lips.
Gertrude was agitated with the conflicting suggestions
of her own mind. She had sought the interview
with a definite and decided purpose. That
purpose was now nearly subdued by seeing the
strength of a sentiment which she had hoped to
modify or change. She shrunk with instinctive
delicacy from the manifestation of a passion that
had no corresponding sentiment in her own heart.
Her first and strongest impulse was to escape from
the sight of misery which she could not relieve.
But `were not these selfish suggestions?'—`Could
she not mitigate it?'—`At least,' she thought, as
the current of generous purpose flowed back through
her heart, `at least I will try what persevering
efforts may do,' and bodying her thoughts in words,
“Louis,” she said, “I will not part with you;
you must stay with us. If I have power over you,
it shall be exercised for some better purpose than to
nourish a sentiment which I can never return. It
may be because I am inferior to you—certainly not
superior—that was the suggestion of your excessive
humility, arising from circumstances to which you
have already alluded. You have erred, by your
own confession, you have all your life erred in distrusting
and undervaluing your own powers. You
have now only to put forth your strength to
subdue all of your feelings that should be subdued.”
“Do you believe this, Gertrude?”
“Believe it! I am sure of it. The frankness of
our explanation has dissolved all mystery. Hobgoblins
vanish in the light. Your feelings have
intense for any earthly object. Louis, let me use a
sister's liberty and give you sisterly counsel; let
me remind you of one of the safest passages of a
book that you have read and admired perhaps too
much for your own happiness. `Se rendre digne
de l'immortalité est le seul but de l'existence—
bonheur—souffrance-tout est moyen pour ce but.”'
Seton caught one moment of inspiration, from
the sweet tone of assurance in which Gertrude
spoke. `There is a medicament for my wounded
spirit,' he thought; but the light was faint and
transient, like the passing gleam reflected by a
dark and distant object. “Ah, Gertrude,” he
said, “you are happy, and have the energy and
hope of the happy; but for me there are no bright
realities in life; it is stripped of its illusions. Oh,
most miserable is he who survives the illusions of
life! I am yet in my youth, Gertrude, and I look
forward with the dim, disconsolate eye of age. Life
is a dreary desert to me, beset with frightful forms,
and inevitable perils. I am sick, and steeped in
melancholy; why should I drag my body of death
along your bright path?”
“You shall not, Louis; we will drive out the
foul fiend, and court the spirit of health and cheerfulness.
You know I have had all my life to contend
with the demons of disease in my father.
Practice has given me some skill in detecting and
expelling them. I will be your leech; and you
shall promise to be docile and obedient. I shall
lock up your easel for the present. My father has
Beautiful scenery should `minister to the mind diseased'
of a painter. Shall I tell papa that I have
your consent to go with us?”
“Do what you will with me. You will be
blessed in your ministry, if I am not.”
This conference, which had been long enough,
was now broken off by the entrance of Becky,
an old and privileged domestic. “I should think,
Mr. Seton,” she said, “you might have consideration
enough to put off your lessons to-day,
when there is but every thing for Miss Gertrude
to see to.” Seton tacitly acquiesced in the reprimand,
and left the apartment.
Gertrude was alarmed and oppressed with the
depth of poor Seton's sorrow; and though, to him,
she had assumed a tone of firmness and serenity,
his despondency had infected her, and as he left the
room, she sunk back in her chair, her mind abstracted
from every thing around her, and filled
with gloomy and just presentiments.
“Miss Gertrude,” said Becky.
Gertrude made no reply, she did not even hear
Becky, shrill and impatient as her tone was. Her
vacant eye accidently rested on a fine game-piece
Seton had recently finished, which was standing before
her on the library-table. Becky gave her own
interpretation to her mistress' gaze.
“It's well enough done to be sure, but,” she added
with professional scorn, “it's a shame and a silliness
to take the creaters' lives in midsummer, just to draw
their pictures, when they'd make such a relishing
be glad you would tell me what we are to do?
“Do, do about what, Becky?”
“Did not Amandy tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Why Miss Gertrude; I never saw you so with
your thoughts at the end of the world, when sure we
had never more need of them; but you will have to
make up your mind to it, for the dinner has fallen
through—the whole—entirely.”
This was indeed an alarming annunciation to the
mistress of an establishment, who expected invited
company to dinner, and who, like Gertrude, considered
a strict surveillance of her domestic concerns
as among the first of woman's temporal duties. She
therefore recalled her thoughts from their wanderings,
and roused all her powers, to avert the
shower of grievances which she saw lowering on
Becky's clouded brow.
We advise all those who have not experienced the
complicated embarrassments of giving a dinner-party
in a country-town, unprovided with a market
and other facilities, to skip the ensuing conversation,
for they will have no sympathy with the trials that
beset rural hospitality—trials that, like woes, cluster
and sometimes so thick and heavily, that their poor
victim wishes, but wishes in vain for the bottle
which the good little man in the fairy legend gave to
Mick, that did its duty so handsomely, and spread the
poor fellow's table so daintily. But alas, among all
our settlers, we have none of these kind-hearted
little people—they are the true patriots and never
emigrate, and unassisted human female ingenuity is
was not often, and certainly not on the present
occasion, of a temper to be daunted by the
minor miseries of human life, and she now demanded
of her domestic, with an air of philosophy which
Becky deemed quite inappropriate, what was the
matter?
“Matter, Miss Gertrude! matter enough to turn
a body's hair gray; and to cap all, Judge Upton
has just sent down word that he shall bring a grand
English gentleman with him.”
“Oh, is that all, Becky? Then I have nothing
to do but to order John to lay an additional plate.”
“An additional plate, indeed! I think, ma'am,
you had better order something to put on it.”
“I ordered the dinner yesterday,” said Miss
Clarence, with faint voice and faint heart; for she
well knew that the result of ordering a dinner, bore
a not very faint resemblance to that of `calling
spirits from the vasty deep.'
“Yes, ma'am, I know you ordered it; but I told
Amandy to let you know that the butcher did not
come down from the village this morning, and
we've neither lamb nor veal in the house.”
“But we have Neale's fine mutton?”
“Not a pound of it. He came up yesterday to
say his fat sheep had all strayed away.”
“Why did not you tell me?”
“You were riding out, ma'am, and I sent John
to Hilson for a roaster.”
“Oh, spare me, Becky; a roaster, you know, is
papa's aversion, and mine too.”
“I know that, Miss Gertrude, but then I thought
company invited, and not a pound of fresh to be
had for love or money; but as ill luck would have
it, Hilson had engaged the whole nine for the Independence
dinner, a delightsome sight they'll be, all
standing on their feet with each an ear of corn in
his mouth. But thinking of them,” added Becky,—
mentally reproaching herself for this gush of professional
enthusiasm,—“Thinking of them wont
fill our dishes; and so, Miss Gertrude, I want you
to send word to the Widow Carter, you must have
her fowls, whether or no. To be sure they'll be
rather tough, killed at this time of day.”
“Yes, Becky, since we know why she refuses
them, they would be too tough eating for any of us.
No, I had rather give our friends a dinner of strawberries
and cream.”
“Cream! the thunder turned all that last evening.”
“The elements against us too!”
“Elements! ice creams, you mean. No, ma'am,
they were mixed last night; but Malviny says she
can't stay to freeze them. She must go down to
the village to Mrs. Smith's funeral. She says the
general expects it.”
“It is a hard case, Becky; but we must make
the best of it. You must not let this Englishman
spy out the nakedness of our land. Your fingers
and brains never failed me yet, Becky. Now let
us think what we have to count upon.”
“There's as good a ham as ever came from
Virginia.”
“Yes, or Westphalia either, and as beautiful
for a prince, Becky; and then you can make up a
dish from the veal of yesterday with currie—bouillie
a tongue—prepare a dish of maccaroni—see that
the vermicelli soup is of your very best, Becky—
papa says nobody makes it better—and the trout,
you forgot the trout, here comes old Frank up the
avenue with them now—bless the old soul, he never
disappoints us—boil, stew, fry the trout; every
body likes fresh trout. As to the ice-creams, tell
Malvina she shall go down to the village to every
funeral for a year to come, if she will give up the
general's lady. The dinner will turn out well yet,
Becky. As you often say, `it's always darkest just
before day.”'
“And you beat all, Miss Gertrude, for making
day-light come,” replied Becky, pleased with her
mistress' compliment, and relieved by her ready
ingenuity. “There's few ladies use what little
sense they have got to any purpose. If there were
more of them had your head-work, the house-business
would not get so tangled, and that's what John
and I often say.” Thus mutually satisfied, mistress
and servant parted.
Miss Clarence' thoughts reverted to Seton; and
she repaired to her own apartment, happy in the
consciousness of a firm resolve to make every
effort to secure his tranquillity. Alas, that human
judgment should be so blind and weak, that its best
wisdom often leads to the most fearful consequences!
When Gertrude entered her own apartment, she
found Emilie Layton sitting at a writing-desk, busily
employed in answering her letters. Her face was
if no accident could disturb its sweet harmonies.
“You put me in mind, Emilie,” said Gertrude,
kissing her cheek, “you put me in mind of
a shower when the sun is shining.”
Emilie dashed off her tears. “I will not be
miserable any longer; would you, Gertrude?”
“No, I never would be miserable if I could help
it, Emilie.”
“It is too disagreeable,” replied Emilie, with
perfect naïveté, “it makes one feel too bad; but
I really have enough to make me miserable. If I
dared, I would show you all these letters; but,
dear Gertrude, you can advise me without knowing
what the real state of the case is, only that papa and
mama want me to do something that I hate to do—
that I would rather die than do. Now would you
do it if you were I?”
Gertrude did not need second sight to conjecture
what the nature of this parental requisition might be.
“It is difficult to answer your question, Emilie; but
there are things that it is not right to do, even in
compliance with parental authority. This may be
one of them.”
“Oh, it is, I am sure. You have divined it
most certainly, Gertrude; but I have not told you
a word, you know. Mama charges me not in her
letter. I am so glad you think as I do; but I am
afraid mama will persuade me. She suffers so
much when any thing crosses her. If she could
only be persuaded to think as I do about it. I
have written a letter to a certain person who has
great influence over her. You may read it, Gertrude.
Read it aloud, for I want to hear how it sounds.”
Gertrude read aloud, “To my mother's best and
dearest friend.”—“Your father, of course?” she
said, looking up a little perplexed at Emilie.
Miss Layton blushed, and there was an expression
of acute pain passed over her face, as she said
with quivering lips, “Oh no, Gertrude, I wish it
were so; but perhaps you think I have addressed it
improperly—if you do, just run the pen through
that line.” Gertrude did so, and read on, “As
“mama has told me, Mr. Roscoe, that you already
“know all about a certain affair, I trust I am not
“doing wrong in begging you to intercede with
“my dear mother in my behalf. Do convince her
“that it is not my duty to sacrifice my happiness to
“my father's wishes. It is very hard to make
“one's self miserable for life, and is it not an odd way
“to make one's parents happy? Papa says there is
“no use in being romantic. I am sure I am not
“so. I would as lief marry a rich man as a poor one,
“if I loved him. Any person, however romantic,
“might love Miss Clarence, in spite of her fortune.
“Therefore it is not, as my father says, an absurd,
“girlish notion about `love in a cottage,' that gives
“me such an antipathy to —. Do intercede
“for me, if I have not made an improper request,
“and if I have, forget it, and remember only your
“friend, E. L.” Gertrude laid down the letter
without comment. “It is a very poor letter” I
know, said Emilie, “and poorly written, for I blotted
the words with my tears as fast as I wrote
them.”
Gertrude smiled at her simplicity. “No, Emilie,
it is a very good letter, for it is true; and truth
from such a heart as yours is always good. But
would it not be best to burn the letter? It seems to
me you may trust to your own representations to
your mother. No intercessor can be so powerful
as her tenderness for you.”
“Oh, Gertrude, you do not know mama. She
can talk me out of my five senses, and she says nobody
in the world has such influence over her as
Mr.Roscoe.” On second thoughts, Gertrude believed
that Emilie might need a sturdier support
than her own yielding temper, and she acquiesced
in the letter being sent; and Emilie despatched it,
and drove from her heart every feeling of sorrow
almost as easily as she removed its traces from her
heart's bright and beautiful mirror.
| CHAPTER XI. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times | |