 | CHAPTER II. The actress of Padua, and other tales |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
Miss Mary Singleton had witnessed the foregoing
interview from the parlour window, and though she
had overheard nothing she had seen enough to convince
her that her lover had departed in a less pleasant
humour than he approached the house. She
arose from the breakfast table as Cato entered.
“Well, Cato, has Mr. Jenkins gone?”
“Yes, Miss, as fast as his horse can carry him;
and a very fine horse dat too of Mr. Jenkins—good
bit of flesh for a factory man to ride, but not to be
compared to old master's Nicodemus. Han't got
the blood no how.”
“I hope you acquitted yourself of your message
with all delicacy.”
“O, certainly, Miss—old Cato never loses sight of
the family dignity no how. But my politeness was
thrown away. Massa Jenkins has gone off in a
furious passion. Only see how he puts the spur
to his nag. Hard life that, to be a factory man's
hackney.”
Miss Singleton looked out of the window, and
beheld her lover riding along the avenue as if he
had studied the art of horsemanship in the school of
the celebrated John Gilpin.
“Poor fellow!” she sighed, “he loves me very
much!”
“Never saw a man so much in love in all my life,”
responded Cato.
“Ah! Why do you imagine so?”
“Thing's very plain, missus. Only see how he
Nick were driving him.”
The young lady, perfectly satisfied with the conclusion
of Cato, withdrew, while the old man continued
watching the progress of the manufacturer,
inwardly congratulating himself upon the diplomatic
manner in which he had upheld the dignity of the
Singleton family. Indeed, since the death of his
master, he began to look upon himself as one of the
Corinthian pillars of the ancient house—in fact
the only one to sustain the magnificent ruin.
Old Cato's meditations were interrupted by a handsome
vehicle dashing along the avenue, which drove
up to the house and stopped at the door. A handsome
young fellow dressed in a naval uniform,
alighted and rang at the bell. Cato immediately recognised
in the new comer, Arthur Singleton, and
hastened to receive him in due form; but before
opening the door, he was heard crying out, “John,
William, Thomas!” but neither of these imaginary
personages making his appearance, after growling at
their negligence he opened the door, and with an air
of importance proceeded to ring a bell, which extended
to the back buildings.
“Never mind disturbing yourself, old man,” said
Arthur, “my servant can attend to the horses.”
“These fellows, sar, are always out of the way,
since the death of the colonel. But they shall all be
discharged. Useless varment! And you shall not
see one of them under this roof to night.” He could
make that assertion with safety.
“Come, come, be pacified, and don't make so much
disturbance on my account.”
“For whom should I make it, if not for Captain
Singleton?”
“So, you know me, it seems, old fellow.”
“Yes, sar. You are the only son of Marmaduke
Singleton, who was the brother of my old master the
colonel, peace to his remainders, who married a
Howard of Howard Park in Virginny, whose mother
was a Talbot, whose grandmother was a Calvert,—
“Stop, stop, Cato, why you are a living record; and
the genealogical tree, though long since reduced to
ashes is still green in your memory.”
“Ah! sar, these matters are too important to be forgotten;
and we who belong to good families should
set a proper value on our birthright, even when
there's nothing else remaining.”
“And are you also tinctured with family pride, old
lad?”
“Yes, sar,” replied the old black, standing more
erect, “Thank heaven, I can boast that the Catos
have been born and bred in the Singleton family for
two centuries. No low black puddle in these veins.
My great grandfather was old Cudjo, who married
Quashee, whose father was a king in Guinea. Their
eldest son was Sambo, famous in his day for playing
on the banjo. Sambo he married Phillis, then come
the first Cato—”
“I will hear the remainder when I am more at leisure,
so show me into the parlour, and announce my
arrival.”
Cato, with many bows, ushered the young officer
into the parlour, then returned to the piazza, and
again rang lustily at the bell; but no one appearing,
he called over the roll of imaginary servants, and
then showed the coachman the way to the stable, all
the time muttering at the want of attention on the
part of the “useless varment.”
Mary Singleton, upon whom the care of the
family had almost exclusively devolved, in consequence
of the mental aberration of her sister,
was of a tall and stately figure, though agile as a
sylph in her movements. Her eyes and luxuriant
hair were jet black, and her beautiful and
delicate features, had an expression of masculine
firmness, that denoted more decision of character
than might have been expected from so fragile
and lovely a being, educated in seclusion. Still this
very seclusion may have produced the results referred
to, as from her childhood she had been taught to
respect herself, and to believe that her family occupied
this kind have taken root, even the harshest collision
with the world proves insufficient to dissipate the delusion.
No one can patiently bear even a sprig to be
taken from the tree of his self-esteem. It germinates
in childhood, and too frequently in our progress
through this world, we find that it is all that the
world has left us. Well, let the world take all but
that, for it is heaven's own legacy—a green spot in
the desert.
Arthur had examined the pictures, with which the
room was decorated, over and over again, with the
eye of a connoisseur, not that he had a taste for the
arts, but for the lack of something to do, when his
fair cousin Mary entered; her cheeks were flushed,
and her manner somewhat embarrassed, as she said,
“A thousand pardons, cousin Arthur, for having
made you wait.”
“Nay, cousin, I should rather ask to be excused,
as I arrive a day sooner than my letter announced.
But my impatience was natural, and now I have seen
you, I regret we had not met earlier.”
This compliment only tended to increase the embarrassment
of Miss Singleton, which doubtless will
appear very strange to my fair reader; but it should
be borne in mind that my heroine was born and educated
in the country. Arthur, who had not the gift
of ornamental flourish in conversation, proceeded, it
must be allowed, not in the most diplomatic manner,
to explain the object of his visit.
“Cousin, you are aware we are destined for each
other. Under these circumstances it is natural on
our first interview to feel some embarrassment, but
I beseech you to banish all restraint with me. Speak
frankly, and act frankly.”
Miss Singleton making no reply, Arthur continued—
“As for myself, I acknowledge without hesitation
that I find you even more lovely than I anticipated;
and faith coz, I expected much too, for well I remembered
what a little sylph you were when we were
when the ocean rolled between us, and taxed my
imagination to present me with the full development
of your early promise.”
“And are you not disappointed, Arthur?” demanded
Mary, in a tone that denoted any thing but
satisfaction at the favourable impression she had
produced. This may appear strange, but still not
the less true.
“Disappointed!—I am but too happy that our
names have been joined together in the last will of
our aunt, and for myself I will undertake that there
shall be no lapse of the legacy.”
“You increase my embarrassment. I know not
how to answer.”
“Come, come, I am not that coxcomb to imagine
that my merit on a first interview could make as
favourable an impression as your's has done. But
to-morrow—”
“To-morrow! Shall I discover all your merit in
twenty-four hours?” replied Mary, archly. “Really,
cousin, you must acknowledge the term is rather
short for such a labour.”
“Not to an apt scholar, Mary, with a good preceptor.
But there's a clause in the will which forbids
my giving you longer time. To-morrow we must
demand each other's answer, and I forewarn you
that you will obtain no delay; for it would be dangerous
for me to prolong my stay near you, when
with a single word you can destroy all my hopes.”
“Pray be seated, and explain.”
“The will in question is one of the strangest acts
that can be imagined, even in an age resolved to be
astonished at nothing. Our aunt has laid down two
principles as incontestible truths; the first, that you
are the most accomplished woman on this side of the
Atlantic, and that the possessor of your hand will
be the happiest creature in christendom.”
“The jest pleases me. Pray go on.”
“On the first point I confess I am entirely of her
opinion, but as to the second—”
“Well, well—why hesitate? Let us hear the
second.”
“Pardon my confusion—she pretends that I am
exactly such a man as you are a woman.”
“It appears that she had not a bad opinion of the
family,” replied Mary, laughing.
“O, she was a woman of discernment, coz, and
notwithstanding her modesty, out of respect to her
memory we must admit that she was right. So,
these two principles being taken for granted—”
“It is easy to foresee the consequences.”
“Plain as noonday,” continued Arthur. “We are
absolutely formed for each other—there is no escape
for either, and in marrying we shall make a match
of both convenience and inclination.”
“And have we but twenty-four hours to make up
our minds?” demanded Miss Singleton.
“That's all. The will is positive.”
“It appears, notwithstanding the perfection which
our aunt supposed us to be possessed of, that she did
not believe us capable of standing a very long examination.”
“She rather presumed an examination to be altogether
unnecessary. But this is not all; she has
taken other means to insure our union. She leaves
all her fortune between us, in case we fulfil her
wishes, but, on the contrary, should one be refused
by the other—”
“She leaves that one all, no doubt, as a consolation,”
exclaimed Miss Singleton. “Cousin, I have
a great mind to make you rich. What say you?”
“Make me rich! How?—by rejecting me?”
“Certainly. True, you will lose the most accomplished
woman on this side the Atlantic; but then
you will receive a handsome fortune, without the
incumbrance of a wife.”
“Zounds! Have a care, or you will ruin me,”
exclaimed the young sailor. “The better to insure
the success of her plan, she makes that one her
sole legatee who shall first refuse the other.”
“Ah! that alters the case. I cannot reject you
on those terms, Arthur.”
“And she forbids all kind of collusion, on the
penalty of the estate passing to distant relations.”
They were interrupted by an exclamation at the
door:—“I tell you I will go in. It is useless. I will
see him again; I will.” Isabel entered the apartment
with a hurried step. Her long auburn hair
was straying in confusion, her gentle and lovely
countenance was animated and suffused with blushes,
and an unnatural wildness kindled in her deep blue
eyes. Her sylph-like form would have served as a
model for a poet when he peoples his ideal world
with all that is delicate and beautiful, and her gentle
mind might be likened to the eolean harp, that
discourses most eloquent music when wooed by the
summer breeze, but the first rude blast jars every
string and turns all the harmony to discord.
Isabel, looking around wildly, continued:—“I
wished—I came—I know not now why I came—but
there was something! Assist me sister. I tremble
and I blush as when you sometimes scold me. But
for all that you are very good to me, sister, very
good. Ah! hide me! I'm afraid”—she concealed
her face in Mary's bosom.
“Recover yourself, dear Isabel,” said Mary, and
turning to Arthur, continued, “You see, cousin, the
situation of this poor unfortunate.”
“I am distressed that my presence has caused
this apprehension,” he replied, and at the sound of
his voice Isabel raised her head, but did not turn her
face towards him.
“Mary, I believe he spoke to me. Did he not
speak?”
“He did.”
“O! how sweet his voice is! I remember that
voice.”
“My presence, I fear, offends her; I had better
retire.”
Isabel turned to him, her face illuminated with
smiles, and exclaimed hurriedly—
“O! no, no, no! Do not leave us. Stay, stay.”
She paused and looked at him intently—“Ah! I
have it. Stay—Arthur.”
“You have not forgot my name, then?”
“I just this moment recollected it. Arthur!—
Arthur!” she repeated, and laughed. “Is it not
strange I had forgotten it! When I spoke of you
to my sister, and said `he,' he loved me much, he
was very good to me, she always asked me, what he?
She could not understand me. Nevertheless it was
very clear. He—that meant Arthur. And you have
not forgotten my name, I hope?”
“Dear Isabel!”
“Right, that is my name. I knew you would not
forget it. But years ago you used to call me your
little Bell. We were children then. Still call me
so, and I shall feel like a happy child again.”
“My gentle little Bell.”
“That's it. The same gentle tone. It has rung
in my ears since we parted. I always hear it at
night, but never in the day time. But, Arthur—
you see I do not forget—I have two names now;
they have given me another since I last saw you,
and a very terrible one it is. Whenever I go to the
village, the little children follow me, and point their
fingers at me, crying `the silly girl, there goes the
silly girl.' My sister is very good to me—very—
she always calls me Isabel; and you too, Arthur—
you see—will you not call me Isabel?'
“I will call you my little Bell, as in the days of
our childhood.”
“Do, O! do! and then I shall dream of the green
fields and the flowers, and shall hear the gay birds
sing again as sweetly as they sang in our childhood.
It is strange that the birds no longer sing as blithely
as they used to.”
The major domo of Singleton Hall, old Cato,
now entered, and with many bows announced that
Arthur's chamber was now ready for him. That
the room assigned to him was that in which Lafayette
had slept the night after the battle of Brandywine,
somewhat antiquated, as, for the honour of the family,
nothing had been changed since that memorable
epoch.
“That's well, Cato,” replied Arthur, “a seaman
is not difficult to please. Give him but sea room
and a hammock, and he is satisfied.”
“Then, sar,” continued Cato, “there is a fine view
of the river, the green meadows, and a garden of
flowers under your window.”
“A fine view, and a garden of flowers! nothing
more is wanting. I love flowers.”
“Farewell, sister. Good-by, Arthur,” exclaimed
Isabel, gaily; and was about hurrying out of the
room.
“Where are you going, child?”
Isabel approached her sister, and said, with a mysterious
air—“I will return presently; but do not betray
me. Say nothing to any one. It is a secret.
Good-by, Arthur.” She raised her finger to Mary,
as if she would impose secrecy, and ran smiling out
of the room.”
“Where is she going in such haste?”
“I know not,” replied Miss Singleton. “Some
idea has struck her, but the light of reason no sooner
breaks upon her than she becomes crazed again.
Your pardon, cousin, you are fatigued. Cato, conduct
Lieutenant Singleton to his chamber.”
She was about to retire, and Arthur handed her
to the door of the apartment. Old Cato placed his
fore-finger beside his ebony proboscis, and thus gave
vent to his cogitations:—
“Well, all goes right. The captain will carry the
day. I was half afraid of that cotton spinning Massa
Jenkins; but O! these women! An officer's coat,
with a handsome man in it, is a good excuse for
changing her mind.”
Arthur returned, and clapping the old philosopher
on the shoulder, awakened him from his reverie, and
said,
“Well, Cato, you have not shown me the La Fayette
chamber.”
“Pardon me, captain. I wait on you. This way,
this way, sar;” and he showed him out with all the
ceremony of the grand chamberlain of the court of
France, or any other court where flummery is in
fashion.
| CHAPTER II. The actress of Padua, and other tales | |