University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The happy constitution which had empowered
the young artist to contend successfully with fever
and phlebotomy, soon enabled him to exchange
his quarters under the Captain's roof for those he
had occupied so short a time in the cottage of
Elsie. This was a change he made with no little
reluctance; for, independent of the superior comfort
of Gilbert's Folly, there was a charm in the
society of the Captain's daughter, which, with all
the drawback resulting from the addition of the
Captain's company, was not to be replaced by the
attractions of the melancholy widow. Nevertheless,
a consciousness that his presence at the mansion,
however welcome to its inmates, was, at
best, an intrusion, soon forced itself upon his mind;
he felt that it was highly improper to take advantage
of the affection of a whimsical old man, and
the kindness of a solitary and almost unprotected
girl; and accordingly he revealed the determination
he had made to leave them, upon the third
visit he made Miss Loring. His resolution was
however combated with such violent hostility on
the part of the veteran, who commonly devoted
three-fourths of his time to expatiating upon the
subjects of the three great pictures, and with such

agreeable dissuasives on that of the lady, that his
resolves easily melted away, and his sojourn was
prolonged for a week or more beyond the period
of his first visit. At last, however, he grew
ashamed of his effeminate abandonment to an enjoyment
which he had no right to consider his
own; and one morning, having surveyed himself
in the glass, and discovered with peculiar satisfaction,
that his cheek-bones were burying themselves
in their former insignificance, and that his eyes
were twinkling again with their natural sunshine,
he took the sudden resolution of retreating to the
Traveller's Rest that day; and this design, maugre
all the furious opposition of the Captain, he was
strengthened to put into immediate execution, by
the frankly-expressed consent of his fair governor.

“Yes, I will go,” he soliloquized, in his chamber,
to which he had ascended for the purpose of
collecting his scattered moveables; “it is plain
enough, the girl is vastly delighted to get rid of
me. `You are now well enough to be released
from captivity.' These were her very words; and
she smiled as she uttered them, as if my discharge
were a deliverance to herself!—Well,—and why
should it not be?” he muttered, after a pause;
“Why should my presence be a pleasure to her?
and why should my departure afflict her? and
why should I care whether she be pleased or not?
A girl engaged,—betrothed,—and betrothed to a
Falconer! Tush, I am a fool. I was a fool to
come hither, too. The devil take the wars, and
the king's commission into the bargain. I will
leave the place—I would my arm were but sound,
and I would leave it to-morrow,—ay, I vow I
would!

I wonder she don't sing: for a speaking voice, she
has the richest soprano,—a mezzo-soprano, I think,
—I ever heard; it is a positive music, mellow,
rich, and wild, like the hum of a pebble in the air,
darted out of a sling—a most delicious, wondrous,
incomprehensible voice. And then her eyes—
Death! what care I for her eyes?
Pshaw! I would I were home again.—Home?
home!” he muttered, with long pauses betwixt
each interjection, and nodding his head the while,
as if surprised at his own reflections. Then, as if
these silent comets of the brain had returned to
the orbit in which they had so lately vapoured, he
resumed,—“At all events, old Elsie's is not far
off; and in common civility I must call and see
her two or three times.—And, besides, I don't
see how I can get off without painting the Captain
`that grand picture of the battle of Brandywine,
and Tom Loring dying.' What an absurd old fellow!—A
precious picture I should make of it!
Yet I must do something to requite their kindness.—Kindness!
There's no doubt she saved my
life. The Captain swears, nothing living that gets
into the deep eddy under the fall, can get out
living. His cow lay under there three days. To
think I was so near my head-and-foot-stone! and
to think this girl, this Catherine Loring, saved me
from the destiny of a crumpled-horn! The most
remarkable, fascinating.—Ah! the island's the
place for me, after all.
Well, now she's in the garden among the flowers,
and the Captain's taking his siesta. A little medicine,
with some of its concomitant starvation, is
quite a good thing for the voice.”

During all the time of this soliloquy, the young
man had ever and anon, sometimes insensibly to
himself, been humming the refrain of a familiar
air; until at last, being seduced by the sound of
his own voice, and betrayed into a mood of melody
by his reflections, he gradually fell to humming
with more confidence; and, finally, supposing
no one to be nigh, he even began to sing, though
in a low voice, the following idle stanzas, that had
been all the time jingling through his brain.

“Pshaw,—nonsense!” he went on, pursuing his
reflections; “ `the island, the bonny bright island,'
is a very fine thing, but what do I care about it?
I wonder if Elsie spoke the truth about the match?
If I thought the girl's heart were not in it.—Pshaw
again! She is the merriest-hearted creature I ever
saw,—only of quick feelings, and strangely attached

to the memory of her brother: her eyes always
fill when the Captain talks of him—the very name
makes the tears start; and good heaven! how superb
her eyes look, with tears in them! But then the
Captain is poor, and she knows it,—bent upon the
match, and she knows that, too; and young Falconer
is a soldier, and a handsome fellow, and she
knows that, too. And he was here! I wish I had
seen him. He has wealth, too—so have I; he is
gay and handsome—I am neither sour nor ugly.—
'Sdeath! where am I getting? I will find out, at
least, what are her feelings towards him: if her
heart be not in the match, why then.—Could any
man stand by and see such a saint of heaven bartered
away, sacrificed—sold to tears and captivity?”

Here he fell to musing again, and again his
spirits seeking that vent to melancholy, he began
to hum an air, extremely mournful, the words of
which were in unison with his reflections.

Having despatched this second madrigal and his
preparations together, he descended into the little
apartment in which Miss Loring was wont to
while away the time in reading, or plying her
needle,—which latter employment she often followed
in company with the girl Phœbe and the
matron. On these occasions there commonly prevailed
a proper degree of female noise and chatter;
for which reason such convocations were
strictly forbidden during that portion of the afternoon
which Captain Loring devoted to napping—
not indeed because any sound short of the blast of
a trumpet or the roar of a musket, could disturb
his slumbers, but because his brain was of too excitable
a nature to sink into repose, so long as a
single vocal murmur came to his ear. Herman
had chosen this period to take his departure, for
the sake of avoiding any altercation with his violent
host; and he now stepped into the parlour,
which opened into the garden, where he expected
to find the Captain's daughter. However, he had
no sooner entered the apartment, than he saw her
therein, sitting by herself, plying her needle with
unwonted industry, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Good heavens! Miss Loring,” said he, “I hope
nothing has happened?”

“By no means,” she replied, displaying her
countenance frankly, with a smile, and then proceeding,
without any embarrassment, to wipe
her eyes. “You must know, in the first place,
that I come of a tearful tribe, a very lachrymose

stock, and shed tears very often for no comprehensible
purpose, except to pass the time; and in
the second place, I have been paying the auditor's
tribute, and rewarding your music with the utmost
stretch of sentimentality,—that is to say, by crying.
I wonder where you could light upon such
melancholy tunes? But I like the last song extremely:
that release from captivity,—that ending
of
I should suppose you would have sung that line to
the gay whistle of a blackbird!”

“I assure you, Miss Loring,” said the painter,
“my deliverance comes to me with no such spirit
of rejoicing. I am ashamed you overheard me—
I thought you were in the garden; I would not
have otherwise presumed to hum so loud.”

“Oh, I like your singing, I protest; and if you
remain long enough in the valley, I shall claim a
future exertion of the faculty, perhaps even a serenade.
But beware of my father; if he discovers
this new virtue in you, rest assured, you will have
to sing him Yankee Doodle and God Save Great
Washington, all day long; and this too,” she added
with a mirthful smile, “without any hope of escaping
from `that grand picture of the Battle of Brandywine
and—and Tom Loring dying.'—Ah, Mr.
Hunter,” she said, apologetically, for her eyes
again glistened, and her lip quivered, as she pronounced
the familiar name, “you have perhaps
laughed at my father, perhaps you will laugh at
me, when you behold our usual insanity on the
subject of my brother. But he was one whom it
was not easy to forget,—one long to be remembered
by both sire and sister.—But I see you are
displaying your generalship; you intend to beat a

retreat, while the enemy is sleeping. Perhaps you
are wise. Richard will have the carriage ready
in a few moments.”

“Not so, Miss Loring: I will depart on foot,
like a pilgrim, as will be best. An unlucky jolt in
the carriage over a stone, might bring me under
the tender mercies of the doctor again.” And he
touched his wounded arm significantly.

“You are right,” said Catherine, after a pause.
“The distance is short; Richard shall escort you,
for fear of accident; and Phœbe and myself will
add to your retinue as far as the park-gate. Do
you really consider yourself equal to the walk?”

“I do,” replied the young man; “but pray be
not in such a hurry to discharge me. In a very
few days,—perhaps as soon as I am able to resume
the saddle, I must take up my line of march,
(to borrow your military illustration,) from Hawk-Hollow,
with but little expectation,—that is, I
think so,—of ever seeing it again.”

“Must you, indeed? I thought you were to explore
every cliff and brook in the county. However,
I cannot blame you. I am afraid my father's
strange conversation about `those grand pictures,'
must annoy you; and you are right to escape.”

“On the contrary, Miss Loring,” said the painter,
“I am sincerely desirous to gratify him in that
fancy; and, though sorely convinced of my inability
to paint him any picture worthy acceptance,
yet, were my arm well, I should do my best to
paint him something; and if I had but a portrait
or miniature of your deceased brother for a few
hours, to secure a likeness”—

“You must not think of it seriously, Mr. Hunter.
It is but a whimsical fancy, which my father will
soon forget. There is no portrait of my brother;
he was but a boy of eighteen, and his likeness was

never painted. Indeed, I wish it had been, for my
father's sake.”

“Perhaps I can yet gratify him,” said the painter.
“I owe you a deep debt of gratitude—I have some
skill in taking likenesses, and sometimes obtain
them, even with but little aid of the sitter. The
Captain has averred that you yourself bear an
extraordinary resemblance to your brother—
Perhaps, perhaps, Miss Loring, if you were to
honour me so far—that is to say”—

“Ah!” cried Catherine, with sparkling eyes,
“I see! Do you think it possible? I am indeed
like my poor brother, if I can trust my own recollections.
Do you think it practicable, from my
visage, to construct a likeness of my brother's?
Then, indeed, I would sit to you, and gladly!”

“With such a resemblance to begin upon,” said
Herman, greatly pleased with the satisfaction of
the young lady, “and the help of your recollections
and criticisms, I do not doubt of success;
and then the pleasure of presenting such a portrait!”—

“Of presenting, Mr. Hunter!” cried Catherine;
“we cannot permit you to think of that. We will
not convert your gratitude for a slight hospitality
into an excuse for taxing your professional exertions.”

“Professional, madam?” said the other, with
some little petulance; “I hope you will not consider
me a mercenary, hireling dauber?”

“A dauber, we hope not,—mercenary, assuredly
not;—and hireling is a word not to be applied to
one who receives payment for any generous labour,”
said Catherine. “If you insist upon painting
`the grand picture' for nothing, Mr. Hunter,
you will certainly escape from all trouble in relation
to it. Not even my father would think a moment

of imposing such an unrecompensed task
upon you, or such dishonour upon himself.”

“You mortify me, Miss Loring,” said Herman:
“I can scarce call myself a painter by any thing
more than inclination. If I have adopted the profession,
it is not to make my bread by it; and indeed
I can scarce say, I have adopted it at all.—
That is,” he added, in some confusion, for Catherine
regarded him with a look of surprise—“In
short, Miss Loring, it has been my good fortune
to be put above the actual necessity of adopting
this profession, or any other, for my support. I
paint, because I love the art, and have nothing
better to do; it suits my idle habits. I never have
received a recompense for my labour, (you should
have called it my amusement, for such it is,) and
perhaps I never will;—not that I scorn recompense
as being degrading, but because I need it not.
The pleasure I feel in the labour is my reward;
and I am doubly rewarded, when my poor sketches
afford pleasure to those whose good opinion I
covet. You have thrown me under obligation,
Miss Loring; and I claim of your generosity, or
if that word will not be permitted, of your justice,
an opportunity to oblige in return.”

“Your argument is singular, yet almost conclusive,”
said Catherine, with a pleasant accent,
yet with a more distant air. “And so you are no
poor painter—a wandering son of genius—after
all; but a knight of romance, roaming the world
over, with palette for buckler, and brush and
maul-stick in lieu of lance and sword? Really,
you have lost much by the transformation: it was
a great pleasure to me, to think I could patronise
you—encourage an unfriended genius. But now—
ah! my folly offends you! I beg your pardon; I
will trifle no more.”

“I am not offended, Miss Loring,” said the

youth, who had coloured deeply while she spoke;
“but I did think your tone satirical, and indicative
of a suspicion that I was not what I profess
myself to be. Suffer me then to be a poor painter,
as I really am; though not a man in very restricted
pecuniary circumstances. I confess, that I was
presumptuous, to think you—that is, your father,
—would accept any gift at my hands; yet the
persuasion that I had it in my power to give you—
that is, him,—a particular gratification, emboldened
me to think I might presume to attempt what I
thought a mere simple, allowable compliment.”

“Pray, Mr. Hunter,” said Catherine, “say nothing
more about it. I believe you are right, and
I wrong. We act here”—and here she smiled as
merrily as before—“entirely upon impulses and
instincts; and if impulses and instincts be conformable,
as doubtless, some day, they will, we
will accept the picture as freely as it is offered.
But I see you are impatient to go;”—this was a
discovery authorized by no particular symptom of
dissatisfaction on the part of the painter, who, on
the contrary, seemed well pleased to continue the
tête-à-tête;—“you are impatient to go, and here
comes Phœbe.—Phœbe, my dear, have the goodness
to call Richard, to attend Mr. Hunter to
Mrs. Bell's.—I am glad to see you walk so firmly,
and look so well.—I will positively be your escort
to the gate. It becomes me in my function of
Lieutenant-commandant; and I will dismiss you
with all the honours of war.”

Thus speaking, and whiling away the walk with
light and joyous conversation, Miss Loring conducted
the guest to the park gate; where her eye
suddenly caught sight of a little bush, of no great
beauty of appearance, but exhaling an agreeable
odour. This she instantly began to rob of its
branches, expressing pleasure at the discovery.

“It is sweet-fern,” she said, in answer to the
painter's question, “not very rare, to be sure, but
the first specimen that has come into the paddock
of its own accord; all the rest I planted myself.
Now, sir, this is neither myrtle nor sweet-grass;
but it is good to smell at; and in token that my
extreme hurry to drive you out of my father's
house proceeded from no ill will, but from true
benevolence, and as much friendship as one can
feel at a week's notice, I present you this same
odoriferous plant, and advise you to make a medicine
of it. It is said to be a fine tonic and cordial;
and, I warrant me, Elsie will know all about it.”

“I shall apply it to a better use,” said the painter,
gaily. “You know, it is fern-seed which enables
man to walk invisible.—Now, as a knight of romance,
I may have need of such a magical
auxiliary.”

“Oh, if you laugh at me for that,” said Catherine,
“I see there is peace between us.”

“You could have added but one more injunction,”
said Herman, “to make the gift agreeable.
Had you told me to follow its example—you know
it came into the paddock of its own accord!—I
should have”—

“Thought me immensely witty,” said Catherine.
“Certainly, Mr. Hunter, I will expect you to call
upon my father if you remain in the valley; and
certainly, if he do not fetch you to the Folly tomorrow,
I shall be vastly astonished. But pray,
sir,” she added, observing that the gentleman
looked mortified, and abashed, “do not consider
such an invitation necessary. A visiter at Gilbert's
Folly is too much of a Phœnix—a rara avis,
I think you scholars call it,—to be turned lightly
away. I wish you, sincerely, a happy and speedy
recovery.—Good day, sir—I commit you to
Richard's keeping.”

With these words she turned from the gate,
plucked another branch from the fern-bush, and
then, with Phœbe, pursued her way back to the
house. The painter received her valediction with
much less satisfaction than had been produced by
the fragrant present. He saw her return to the
bush, and then, looking once back, and waving
her hand, resume her steps, walking on towards
the mansion; and he was himself astonished at
the feeling of melancholy that instantly came over
his spirit. “What is there in her,” he muttered
within the recesses of his bosom, “that should interest
me so strongly? Why should I be gladdened
by the wave of her hand? why darkened at
once by the turning away of her face?—She is
unhappy after all, whatever skill she may have to
conceal it; and, by heaven, it is a piteous thing to
ponder on. Well, well.—Such an admirable creature!
so gentle, and yet so firm! so frank, yet so
modest! so merry, yet so dignified! so natural in
manners, yet so refined! so sensitive, yet sensible!
so kind,—nay,—openly affectionate of disposition,
yet so womanly in all!—sure I shall never more see
her equal!”

Thus the young man mused, remaining so long
with his eyes following the retreating figure of the
young lady, that Richard, the venerable coachman
so often mentioned before, thought fit to presume
upon the arguments of his age and standing, as a
faithful and highly-prized servant, and interrupt
the meditations of his charge. He first scraped
his feet over the gravelly road, then coughed, then
hemmed, and at last opened his lips, and spoke:

“A-well-a, massa Hunta,” he said, “werry bad
practice this here, 'sposing broken bones in the
open air, 'specially when a gemman are sickishlike.
No offence, massa,—but why we no go
down to Missus Elsie's?”

“Right, Richard, let us go,” said Hunter, walking
down the hill, but ever and anon casting his
eye over his shoulder, as long as Miss Loring was
visible, or a single flutter of her garment could be
detected among the green shades of the avenue.
“How long have you lived with Captain Loring,
Richard?”

“Ebber since he wa' born.—Wa' a mighty
fine boy, Massa John Loring!”

“Oh, then you were in the family long before
Miss Catherine was born?”

“Lorra-golly, yes!” said the negro, with a triumphant
grin; “Massa no s'pose young missus
born afo' her fader: Lorra-massy, yaugh!”

“An excellent, lovely young mistress!” said the
painter.

“Lorra, massa, yes; a lubly young missus;
and makes lubly fine hoe-cake, if massa Cap'n
would let her.—Old Nance taught her, when she
wa' no bigga naw my foot. Massa must know,
old Nance wa' my wife Nancy. So't o' nuss'd
young missus Katy, for all what missus Aunt Rachel
say; always liked old Nance betta, 'case
how? Why old Nance larned her all she knew,
make hoe-cake, corn-cake, johnny-cake, short-cake,
hominy, pie, pone, and cream-cheese.”

“Well Richard, and so you are to marry her
off, and see her no more?”

“Golly, massa, yes; what for she young lady, if
no?”

“And when's the wedding to be, Richard?
Merry times you'll have!”

“Lorra, massa, don't know. Some says one
day, some anoder. Wa' to been married soon,
but faw the white nigga Gilbert, what cut the
Colonel's throat!”

“What, so soon?” said Herman, feeling a sudden
thrill run through his frame. “Why, Richard,

they were in a hurry, for such young folks. Miss
Catherine is only seventeen—a very great hurry!”

“No, massa; long standing 'fair that; and put off,
put off, Lorra knows how long; 'case young missus
says she too young. Lorra-golly! old Nance wa'
but fo'teen o' so; and I reckon there's more naw
all that. An old nigga man, what's brought up a
gemman, knows what's what!”

“Eh, Richard! you don't say so? You have
the secret then? Come now, my old boy, here's
a dollar. Come, put it in your pocket.”

“Saddy, massa; God blessa massa!”

“Well now, Richard, what's the reason the
marriage has been put off?”

“Golly! massa gib me the dolla' to tell?” cried
Richard, looking alarmed.

“Certainly, Richard.—It's not a long secret, I
hope?”

“Lorra, massa, can't do dat. Gib back a dolla',
if massa call him back; but no tell on young missus.
Brought up a gemman, massa; and no tell
secrets out of the house.”

“Oh, well, never mind, Richard; keep the money;
I did not want to bribe you to tell any thing
improper on your mistress; and I am glad to see
you are so honest. It makes no difference: but
what's the reason your young mistress does not
like the Colonel's son?”

“Not like Massa Harry?” cried the coachman,
in great dismay. “Sure old fool Dick no tell
massa dat?”

“Oh, no; you kept the secret very well. But it
is quite odd the young lady should not like so fine
a young man?”

“Yes, massa, wery strange; but women's women,
massa. Massa Harry werry fine young
man.”

“Well!” muttered the painter to himself, “I am

playing an honest gentleman's part with this old
ass, truly! I'll befool him no more. It is true,
then!—even this dolt can tell that his mistress is
sacrificed. So young, so fair, so good!—I would I
had never seen her.”

With such reflections as these, and many others
of a painful nature, the young man continued his
path; and, finally, having come within a short distance
of the hovel, he discharged his attendant,
and bade him return to the mansion. He then
pursued his way alone, and reaching the solitary
cottage, took possession of his former quarters
with a sigh, a saddened brow, and a spirit no
longer composed and mirthful. The bunch of fern
he placed betwixt two leaves of paper, with as
much care as became the first tribute to an herbarium.