University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
MR. ROBERT EMBERTON: THE RISING GENERATION.

If hunter John Myers, with his gray hair, old fashioned
dress, and rude plain dialect, was a type of the venerable
and moving past, the young man who now entered, graceful,
smiling, ready in speech, and clad in the very latest
fashion, presented a tolerably accurate specimen of the
“new men” and the changed world which had taken the
place of the old rugged times gone by.

Robert Emberton was a handsome young man of nineteen,
with bright eyes, erect carriage, and graceful person.
There was little of the boy about him, in feature, figure,
or manner. He was perfectly easy and self-possessed;
carried his head, as the phrase goes, elegantly; and seemed
to look upon society and human existence as a rather
amusing comedy, which every one had tacitly consented
to act as well as possible for the moment—with a perfect
understanding, however, that it was all for amusement
and had no particle of reality at bottom. He was elegantly
dressed, as we have said, and in the very latest
fashion. From his fingers dangled a light whalebone
cane with a deer's foot at its top, and in the other hand he
carried easily a well smoothed beaver hat.

The young man's easy negligence of manner somewhat
changed when he perceived Doctor Courtlandt's piercing
eye fixed upon him, and he bowed to that gentleman profoundly.
Certainly he had not paid the same compliment
to any other person for a long time, and this unusual circumstance
may be accounted for, on the ground that Mr.
Robert Emberton had never yet met with so distinguished
a man in countenance and manner, as the individual who

now stood before him—with such a noble face—such
brilliant eyes full of intelligence and mental power—such
a forehead where thought sat enthroned in quiet majesty.
But perhaps the young man's unusual respect was more
still to be attributed to the accounts he had heard of Doctor
Courtlandt from his sister—more than all, possibly, to the
long travel of his new acquaintance in distant lands; for
Mr. Robert Emberton had but one ambition, which ambition
was to visit that centre of civilization—Paris. He
fancied that the very coat the silent and grave gentleman
who stood there wore, was redolent of Parisian elegance.

So Mr. Emberton, with much less easy negligence than
was his custom, replied to the courteous words vouchsafed
him by the Doctor.

The Doctor was pleased, he said, to make Mr. Emberton's
acquaintance—since he had had that pleasure when
Mr. Emberton was exceedingly young; was glad to see
him now, on his return, so much improved.

The young man had intended on that morning he said,
to call on the Doctor, both because he was sure he should
have a very pleasant visit, and because his sister had
commissioned him to say that she was now very nearly
quite well.

“Which I hope,” the Doctor said, “is not to forbid my
carrying out my promise to call on her to-day?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the young man said, “on the contrary,
she desired me to say that she would be much pleased to
see you, as your visit was very short when you called
yesterday.”

“I will then go this morning as I had intended, though
now Miss Emberton will have only an ordinary visitor in
place of a professional one.”

Having settled this matter so satisfactorily, the Doctor
left the young man to pay his addresses to the ladies,
which he however seemed in no haste to do; perhaps
because he had seen a great deal of them, and very little

of the Doctor, whom he had heard so much of. His society
was, however, by no means so attractive as to make Doctor
Courtlandt choose it in preference to that of his old
friends and his brother; and so Mr. Robert Emberton
was obliged to content himself with the ordinary conversation
of the young ladies.

They strolled out on the hill side, followed negligently
by their cavalier, who dangled his cane and yawned.

“Do you feel unwell to-day?” said Caroline, turning
her head carelessly over her shoulder, and fixing her bright
eyes satirically upon him.

“Unwell?” yawned the gentleman, somewhat surprised.
“Why, not at all; why did you ask?”

“I thought from your manner that you were not well.”

“My manner; what is peculiar in that, Miss Caroline?”

“It is so listless; one would think you were `bored' to
death, as you are fond of saying.”

“The fact is, I am bored; I was, I mean, before I had
the delight of gazing on your fair countenance. But I
was not conscious that my ennui displayed itself so unmistakably.”

“It does.”

“In my conversation, eh? That is dull, you mean?
My ennui is betrayed there?”

“In every thing.”

“Ah, there it is! The young ladies of the present day
are becoming the most extraordinary creatures. You
can not yawn or complain of any thing in the whole universe,
but, by Jove!—excuse me, fairest Miss Caroline—
they are offended. That is not so important, however,
for ladies soon recover from their ill-humor; but it really
is annoying to a man of sense, that he is expected on all
occasions to be in raptures, to smile, and simper, and
exhaust the vocabulary of compliments and pretty speeches.
I can't; it bores me.”

“Are you ever any thing but `bored,' sir?” asked Caroline.

“Very seldom any thing else—I have just come from
Bath, up there, you know. You've heard of Bath, I sup
pose.”

“Heard of Bath, Mr. Emberton!” said Alice, quietly,
“why it is just over the mountain, and is the most fashionable
watering-place in the valley.”

“Well, I was about to say when you interrupted me,
Miss Alice,” the young man replied negligently, “that I
have been bored to death there lately.”

“By what, pray?” said Alice, smiling.

“By every thing; and the dreadful part of it was, that
I could not escape it.”

“You were not obliged to talk to the ladies, were you?”

“Oh, I did nothing of the sort. The very evening I
arrived, an event happened to me which stopped all that.”

“What event?”

“A young lady very nearly made a declaration to me;
it was shocking though it is Leap Year.”

“I declare you are too bad!” said Alice, laughing, “and
if you were not so affected and meant half you say, I
would—”

“Cut me?”

“Yes, sir, and Carry too; I know she would.”

“Without hesitation,” said Caroline, pouting.

This expression upon Caroline's face seemed rather to
amuse Mr. Emberton.

“That would be dreadful,” he said carelessly, “but I
was going on with my account of the kingdom of boredom
up there—or down there, as you please. It was not the
female society—shocking phrase that, but one must use
it, it is so fashionable—not the ladies who bored me. One
can always decline being victimized by them, and I did
decline, after waltzing to that dreadful music for one whole
evening; but I could not escape the rest.”

“What else wearied Mr. Emberton? I hate the word
bored,” said Caroline, “and beg you will not use it again.”

“With pleasure. My tribulation arose then from the
awful dressing of the company. Never have I seen any
thing so horrible as the taste of those young ladies and
gentlemen; it was enough to give one a chill. I became
depressed, I was overcome—I was in doubt whether I
was present at a social meeting of the South Sea Islanders,
or the inhabitants of Nova Zembla. I came away
immediately and shall not return.”

“You came because your sister sent for you, did you
not?” asked Alice, laughing.

“Yes; but I was coming without her request. I saw no
new faces, no pretty girls—all passées, regular old stagers.
By-the-by, speaking of new faces, you have a cousin who
has just arrived have you not, my dear Miss Alice?”

“Yes; cousin Max.”

“Nice fellow?”

“Very nice, I suppose; he is Caroline's beau, not
mine,” said Alice, laughing and blushing slightly.

“Handsome?” continued Mr. Emberton.

“Exceedingly.”

“Dress well?”

“I did not observe.”

“Is he comme il faut, I mean?”

“At least he is just from Paris.”

“Then he dresses well; and as he dresses well, is exceedingly
handsome, a very nice fellow, and above all your
cousin,” said Mr. Emberton, summing up, “I have no doubt
you will fall in love with him at once, Miss Caroline.”

“I believe I shall,” the young girl replied.

This answer made the gentleman, strange to say, somewhat
moody; he had too high an opinion of persons who
had been to Paris to despise them.

“He is an admirer of yours, I believe?” asked Mr.
Emberton, with affected nonchalance.

“Oh, indeed he is,” said Alice, with some constraint,
“he and Carry are excellent friends already.”

“Keep a little corner for me in your heart, Miss Carry.”

the young gentleman said, resuming his drawl, “even if
I should be called on to dance at your wedding.”

Caroline made no reply.

“It is not arranged entirely yet, is it?” he asked.

“No, sir! it is not!”

“Why, Miss Caroline—I really feel some trepidation;
you will not eat me, will you?”

“No, sir; you are not to my taste.”

“Not to your taste! Good! That reminds me of a
friend of mine down at Bath. After half an hour's devotion
to the ice cream, he said to me pathetically, `I've
eaten so much of this thing that I've got through; but
it's not to my taste.' Now to apply my anecdote. You
can not eat me, my dear Miss Caroline, but you can imbibe
my discourse. I hope under these circumstances
you have not imbided so much of it on the present occasion
that you wish you had got through with it.”

“I am never guilty of impoliteness, sir,” said Caroline,
half offended, half ready to burst out laughing at this
ridiculous reply.

“And I am sure,” the young man said with a courtly
bow, “I would not have alluded to your engagement with
your cousin, had I imagined such an illusion would be
thought `impolite.”'

“I am not engaged.”

A well satisfied smile lit up Mr. Robert Emberton's
face at these negligent words, and the whole party having
once more recovered their good humor, continued the
jesting conversation, until after making the circuit of
the hill, they returned to the Parsonage.

The Doctor was mounting his horse; the young man
hastened up.

“Will you permit me to accompany you, sir,” he
asked, very deferentially.

“I will be very glad to have your company, sir,” the
Doctor replied; and taking leave of the family, they set
forward toward the “Glades.”