 | CHAPTER X. Home as found |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
“You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo,
Before you visit him, to make inquiry
Of his behaviour.”
Hamlet.
Ann Sidley was engaged among the dresses of
Eve, as she loved to be, although Annette held her taste
in too low estimation ever to permit her to apply a
needle, or even to fit a robe to the beautiful form that
was to wear it, when our heroine glided into the room
and sunk upon a sofa. Eve was too much absorbed
with her own feelings to observe the presence of her
quiet unobtrusive old nurse, and too much accustomed
to her care and sympathy to heed it, had it been seen.
For a moment she remained, her face still suffused
with blushes, her hands lying before her folded, her
eyes fixed on the ceiling, and then the pent emotions
found an outlet in a flood of tears.
Poor Ann could not have felt more shocked, had
she heard of any unexpected calamity, than she was
at this sudden outbreaking of feeling in her child.
She went to her, and bent over her with the solicitude
of a mother, as she inquired into the causes of her
apparent sorrow.
“Tell me, Miss Eve, and it will relieve your mind,”
said the faithful woman; “your dear mother had such
feelings sometimes, and I never dared to question her
about them; but you are my own child, and nothing
can grieve you without grieving me.”
The eyes of Eve were brilliant, her face continued
to be suffused, and the smile which she gave through
her tears was so bright, as to leave her poor attendant
in deep perplexity as to the cause of a gush of feeling
that was very unusual in one of the other's regulated
mind.
“It is not grief, dear Nanny,”—Eve at length murmured—“any
thing but that! I am not unhappy. Oh!
no; as far from unhappiness as possible.”
“God be praised it is so, ma'am! I was afraid that
this affair of the English gentleman and Miss Grace
might not prove agreeable to you, for he has not behaved
as handsomely as he might, in that transaction.”
“And why not, my poor Nanny?—I have neither
claim, nor the wish to possess a claim, on Sir George
Templemore. His selection of my cousin has given
me sincere satisfaction, rather than pain; were he a
countryman of our own, I should say unalloyed satisfaction,
for I firmly believe he will strive to make her
happy.”
Nanny now looked at her young mistress, then at
the floor; at her young mistress again, and afterwards
at a rocket that was sailing athwart the sky. Her
eyes, however, returned to those of Eve, and encouraged
by the bright beam of happiness that was glowing
in the countenance she so much loved, she ventured to
say—
“If Mr. Powis were a more presuming gentleman
than he is, ma'am—”
“You mean a less modest, Nanny,” said Eve, perceiving
that her nurse paused.
“Yes, ma'am—one that thought more of himself,
and less of other people, is what I wish to say.”
“And were this the case?”
“I might think he would find the heart to say what
I know he feels.”
“And did he find the heart to say what you know
he feels, what does Ann Sidley think should be my
answer?”
“Oh, ma'am, I know it would be just as it ought to
be. I cannot repeat what ladies say on such occasions,
but I know that it is what makes the hearts of the gentlemen
leap for joy.”
There are occasions in which woman can hardly
dispense with the sympathy of woman. Eve loved
her father most tenderly, had more than the usual confidence
in him, for she had never known a mother; but
had the present conversation been with him, notwithstanding
all her reliance on his affection, her nature
would have shrunk from pouring out her feelings as
freely as she might have done with her other parent,
had not death deprived her of such a blessing. Between
our heroine and Ann Sidley, on the other hand,
there existed a confidence of a nature so peculiar, as
to require a word of explanation before we exhibit its
effects. In all that related to physical wants, Ann
had been a mother, or even more than a mother to
Eve, and this alone had induced great personal dependence
in the one, and a sort of supervisory care in the
other, that had brought her to fancy she was responsible
for the bodily health and well-doing of her charge.
But this was not all. Nanny had been the repository
of Eve's childish griefs, the confidant of her girlish secrets;
and though the years of the latter soon caused
her to be placed under the management of those who
were better qualified to store her mind, this communication
never ceased; the high-toned and educated young
woman reverting with unabated affection, and a reliance
that nothing could shake, to the long-tried tenderness
of the being who had watched over her infancy.
The effect of such an intimacy was often amusing; the
one party bringing to the conferences, a mind filled
with the knowledge suited to her sex and station, habits
that had been formed in the best circles of christendom,
and tastes that had been acquired in schools of high
reputation; and the other, little more than her single-hearted
love, a fidelity that ennobled her nature, and a
Nor was this extraordinary confidence without its advantages
to Eve; for, thrown so early among the artificial
and calculating, it served to keep her own ingenuousness
of character active, and prevented that
cold, selfish, and unattractive sophistication, that mere
women of fashion are apt to fall into, from their isolated
and factitious mode of existence. When Eve,
therefore, put the questions to her nurse, that have already
been mentioned, it was more with a real wish
to know how the latter would view a choice on which
her own mind was so fully made up, than any silly trifling
on a subject that engrossed so much of her best
affections.
“But you have not told me, dear Nanny,” she continued,
“what you would have that answer be.
Ought I, for instance, ever to quit my beloved father?”
“What necessity would there be for that, ma'am?
Mr. Powis has no home of his own; and, for that matter,
scarcely any country—”
“How can you know this, Nanny?” demanded Eve,
with the jealous sensitiveness of a young love.
“Why, Miss Eve, his man says this much, and he
has lived with him long enough to know it, if he had
a home. Now, I seldom sleep without looking back
at the day, and often have my thoughts turned to Sir
George Templemore and Mr. Powis; and when I have
remembered that the first had a house and a home,
and that the last had neither, it has always seemed to
me that he ought to be the one.”
“And then, in all this matter, you have thought of
convenience, and what might be agreeable to others,
rather than of me.”
“Miss Eve!”
“Nay, dearest Nanny, forgive me; I know your
last thought, in every thing, is for yourself. But,
surely, the mere circumstance that he had no home,
ought not to be a sufficient reason for selecting any
an objection.”
“I pretend to know very little of these feelings, Miss
Eve. I have been wooed, I acknowledge; and once I
do think I might have been tempted to marry, had it
not been for a particular circumstance.”
“You! You marry, Ann Sidley!” exclaimed Eve,
to whom the bare idea seemed as odd and unnatural,
as that her own father should forget her mother, and
take a second wife. “This is altogether new, and I
should be glad to know what the lucky circumstance
was, which prevented what, to me, might have proved
so great a calamity.”
“Why, ma'am, I said to myself, what does a woman
do, who marries? She vows to quit all else to go with
her husband, and to love him before father and mother,
and all other living beings on earth—is it not so, Miss
Eve?”
“I believe it is so, indeed, Nanny—nay, I am quite
certain it is so,” Eve answered, the colour deepening
on her cheek, as she gave this opinion to her old nurse,
with the inward consciousness that she had just experienced
some of the happiest moments of her life,
through the admission of a passion that thus overshadowed
all the natural affections. “It is, truly, as
you say.”
“Well, ma'am, I investigated my feelings, I believe
they call it, and after a proper trial, I found that I loved
you so much better than any one else, that I could not,
in conscience, make the vows.”
“Dearest Nanny! my kind, good, faithful old nurse!
let me hold you in my arms; and, I, selfish, thoughtless,
heartless girl, would forget the circumstance that
would be most likely to keep us together, for the remainder
of our lives! Hist! there is a tap at the door.
It is Mrs. Bloomfield; I know her light step. Admit
her, my kind Ann, and leave us together.”
The bright searching eye of Mrs. Bloomfield was
room; and her smile, usually so gay and sometimes
ironical, was now thoughtful and kind.
“Well, Miss Effingham,” she cried, in a manner
that her looks contradicted, “am I to condole with
you, or to congratulate?—For a more sudden, or
miraculous change did I never before witness in a
young lady, though whether it be for the better or the
worse—These are ominous words, too—for `better
or worse, for richer or poorer'—”
“You are in fine spirits this evening, my dear Mrs.
Bloomfield, and appear to have entered into the gaieties
of the Fun of Fire, with all your—”
“Might, will be a homely, but an expressive word.
Your Templeton Fun of Fire is fiery fun, for it has
cost us something like a general conflagration. Mrs.
Hawker has been near a downfall, like your great
namesake, by a serpent's coming too near her dress;
one barn, I hear, has actually been in a blaze, and Sir
George Templemore's heart is in cinders. Mr. John
Effingham has been telling me that he should not have
been a bachelor, had there been two Mrs. Bloomfields
in the world, and Mr. Powis looks like a rafter dug out
of Herculaneum, nothing but coal.”
“And what occasions this pleasantry?” asked Eve,
so composed in manner that her friend was momentarily
deceived.
Mrs. Bloomfield took a seat on the sofa, by the
side of our heroine, and regarding her steadily for
near a minute, she continued—
“Hypocrisy and Eve Effingham can have little in
common, and my ears must have deceived me.”
“Your ears, dear Mrs. Bloomfield!”
“My ears, dear Miss Effingham. I very well
know the character of an eaves-dropper, but if gentlemen
will make passionate declarations in the walks
of a garden, with nothing but a little shrubbery between
his ardent declarations and the curiosity of those
overheard.”
Eve's colour had gradually increased as her friend
proceeded; and when the other ceased speaking, as
bright a bloom glowed on her countenance, as had
shone there when she first entered the room.
“May I ask the meaning of all this?” she said, with
an effort to appear calm.
“Certainly, my dear; and you shall also know the
feelings that prompt it, as well as the meaning,” returned
Mrs. Bloomfield, kindly taking Eve's hand in a
way to show that she did not mean to trifle further on
a subject that was of so much moment to her young
friend. “Mr. John Effingham and myself were stargazing
at a point where two walks approach each other,
just as you and Mr. Powis were passing in the adjoining
path. Without absolutely stopping our ears, it was
quite impossible not to hear a portion of your conversation.
We both tried to behave honourably; for I
coughed, and your kinsman actually hemmed, but we
were unheeded.”
“Coughed and hemmed!” repeated Eve, in greater
confusion than ever. “There must be some mistake,
dear Mrs. Bloomfield, as I remember to have heard no
such signals.”
“Quite likely, my love, for there was a time when
I too had ears for only one voice; but you can have
affidavits to the fact, à la mode de New England, if you
require them. Do not mistake my motive, nevertheless,
Miss Effingham, which is any thing but vulgar
curiosity”—here Mrs. Bloomfield looked so kind and
friendly, that Eve took both her hands and pressed
them to her heart—“you are motherless; without even
a single female connexion of a suitable age to consult
with on such an occasion, and fathers after all are but
men—”
“Mine is as kind, and delicate, and tender, as any
woman can be, Mrs. Bloomfield.”
“I believe it all, though he may not be quite as
quick-sighted, in an affair of this nature.—Am I at
liberty to speak to you as if I were an elder sister?”
“Speak, Mrs. Bloomfield, as frankly as you please,
but leave me the mistress of my answers.”
“It is, then, as I suspected,” said Mrs. Bloomfield,
in a sort of musing manner; “the men have been
won over, and this young creature has absolutely been
left without a protector in the most important moment
of her life!”
“Mrs. Bloomfield!—What does this mean?—What
can it mean?”
“It means merely general principles, child; that
your father and cousin have been parties concerned,
instead of vigilant sentinels; and, with all their pretended
care, that you have been left to grope your
way in the darkness of female uncertainty, with one
of the most pleasing young men in the country constantly
before you, to help the obscurity.”
It is a dreadful moment, when we are taught to
doubt the worth of those we love; and Eve became
pale as death, as she listened to the words of her friend.
Once before, on the occasion of Paul's return to England,
she had felt a pang of that sort, though reflection,
and a calm revision of all his acts and words since
they first met in Germany, had enabled her to get the
better of indecision, and when she first saw him on the
mountain, nearly every unpleasant apprehension and
distrust had been dissipated by an effort of pure reason.
His own explanations had cleared up the unpleasant
affair, and, from that moment, she had regarded him altogether
with the eyes of a confiding partiality. The speech
of Mrs. Bloomfield now sounded like words of doom to
her, and, for an instant, her friend was frightened with
the effects of her own imperfect communication. Until
that moment Mrs. Bloomfield had formed no just idea
of the extent to which the feelings of Eve were interested
in Paul, for she had but an imperfect knowledge
repented having introduced the subject at all. It was
too late to retreat, however, and, first folding Eve in
her arms, and kissing her cold forehead, she hastened
to repair a part, at least, of the mischief she had done.
“My words have been too strong, I fear,” she said,
“but such is my general horror of the manner in which
the young of our sex, in this country, are abandoned
to the schemes of the designing and selfish of the other,
that I am, perhaps, too sensitive when I see any one
that I love thus exposed. You are known, my dear, to
be one of the richest heiresses of the country; and, I
blush to say that no accounts of European society that
we have, make fortune-hunting a more regular occupation
there, than it has got to be here.”
The paleness left Eve's face, and a look of slight
displeasure succeeded.
“Mr. Powis is no fortune-hunter, Mrs. Bloomfield,”
she said, steadily; “his whole conduct for three years
has been opposed to such a character; and, then, though
not absolutely rich, perhaps, he has a gentleman's income,
and is removed from the necessity of being
reduced to such an act of baseness.”
“I perceive my error, but it is now too late to retreat.
I do not say that Mr. Powis is a fortune-hunter,
but there are circumstances connected with his history,
that you ought at least to know, and that immediately.
I have chosen to speak to you, rather than to speak to
your father, because I thought you might like a female
confidant on such occasion, in preference even to your
excellent natural protector. The idea of Mrs. Hawker
occurred to me, on account of her age; but I did
not feel authorised to communicate to her a secret of
which I had myself become so accidentally possessed.”
“I appreciate your motive fully, dearest Mrs. Bloomfield,”
said Eve, smiling with all her native sweetness,
and greatly relieved, for she now began to think that
too keen a sensitiveness on the subject of Paul had
reserves between us. If you know a reason why Mr.
Powis should not be received as a suitor, I entreat you
to mention it.”
“Is he Mr. Powis at all?”
Again Eve smiled, to Mrs. Bloomfield's great surprise,
for, as the latter had put the question with sincere
reluctance, she was astonished at the coolness
with which it was received.
“He is not Mr. Powis, legally perhaps, though he
might be, but that he dislikes the publicity of an application
to the legislature. His paternal name is Assheton.”
“You know his history, then!”
“There has been no reserve on the part of Mr.
Powis; least of all, any deception.”
Mrs. Bloomfield appeared perplexed, even distressed;
and there was a brief space, during which her mind
was undecided as to the course she ought to take.
That she had committed an error by attempting a consultation,
in a matter of the heart, with one of her own
sex, after the affections were engaged, she discovered
when it was too late; but she prized Eve's friendship
too much, and had too just a sense of what was due
to herself, to leave the affair where it was, or without
clearing up her own unasked agency in it.
“I rejoice to learn this,” she said, as soon as her
doubts had ended, “for frankness, while it is one of the
safest, is one of the most beautiful traits in human character;
but beautiful though it be, it is one that the
other sex uses least to our own.”
“Is our own too ready to use it to the other?”
“Perhaps not: it might be better for both parties,
were there less deception practised during the period
of courtship, generally: but as this is hopeless, and
might destroy some of the most pleasing illusions of
life, we will not enter into a treatise on the frauds of
Cupid. Now to my own confessions, which I make
to the ear of one of a forgiving temperament,
and who is disposed to view even my follies favourably.”
The kind but painful smile of Eve, assured the
speaker she was not mistaken, and she continued, after
taking time to read the expression of the countenance
of her young friend—
“In common with all of New-York, that town of
babbling misses, who prattle as water flows, without
consciousness or effort, and of whiskered masters, who
fancy Broadway the world, and the flirtations of miniature
drawing-rooms, human nature, I believed, on
your return from Europe, that an accepted suitor followed
in your train, in the person of Sir George Templemore.”
“Nothing in my deportment, or in that of Sir George,
or in that of any of my family, could justly have given
rise to such a notion,” said Eve, quickly.
“Justly! What has justice, or truth, or even probability,
to do with a report, of which love and matrimony
are the themes? Do you not know society better
than to fancy this improbability, child?”
“I know that our own sex would better consult their
own dignity and respectability, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield,
if they talked less of such matters; and that
they would be more apt to acquire the habits of good
taste, not to say of good principles, if they confined
their strictures more to things and sentiments than they
do, and meddled less with persons.”
“And pray, is there no tittle-tattle, no scandal, no
commenting on one's neighbours, in other civilized nations
besides this?”
“Unquestionably; though I believe, as a rule, it is
every where thought to be inherently vulgar, and a
proof of low associations.”
“In that, we are perfectly of a mind; for, if there
be any thing that betrays a consciousness of inferiority,
it is our rendering others of so much obvious
of our constant conversation. We may speak of virtues,
for therein we pay an homage to that which is
good; but when we come to dwell on personal faults,
it is rather a proof that we have a silent conviction of
the superiority of the subject of our comments to ourselves,
either in character, talents, social position, or
something else that is deemed essential, than of our
distaste for his failings. Who, for instance, talks scandal
of his grocer, or of his shoemaker? No, no, our
pride forbids this; we always make our betters the
subject of our strictures by preference, taking up with
our equals only when we can get none of a higher
class.”
“This quite reconciles me to having been given to
Sir George Templemore, by the world of New-York,”
said Eve, smiling.
“And well it may, for they who have prattled of
your engagement, have done so principally because
they are incapable of maintaining a conversation on
any thing else. But, all this time, I fear I stand accused
in your mind, of having given advice unasked,
and of feeling an alarm in an affair that affected others,
instead of myself, which is the very sin that we lay at
the door of our worthy Manhattanese. In common
with all around me, then, I fancied Sir George Templemore
an accepted lover, and, by habit, had gotten
to associate you together in my pictures. On my
arrival here, however, I will confess that Mr. Powis,
whom, you will remember, I had never seen before,
struck me as much the most dangerous man.—Shall
I own all my absurdity?”
“Even to the smallest shade.”
“Well, then, I confess to having supposed that,
while the excellent father believed you were in a fair
way to become Lady Templemore, the equally excellent
daughter thought the other suitor, infinitely the
most agreeable person.”
“What! in contempt of a betrothal?”
“Of course I, at once, ascribed that part of the
report to the usual embellishments. We do not like to
be deceived in our calculations, or to discover that
even our gossip has misled us. In pure resentment at
my own previous delusion, I began to criticise this
Mr. Powis—”
“Criticise, Mrs. Bloomfield!”
“To find fault with him, my dear; to try to think
he was not just the handsomest and most engaging
young man I had ever seen; to imagine what he ought
to be, in place of what he was; and among other
things, to inquire who he was?”
“You did not think proper to ask that question of
any of us,” said Eve, gravely.
“I did not; for I discovered by instinct, or intuition,
or conjecture—they mean pretty much the same thing,
I believe—that there was a mystery about him; something
that even his Templeton friends did not quite
understand, and a lucky thought occurred of making
my inquiries of another person.”
“They were answered satisfactorily,” said Eve,
looking up at her friend, with the artless confidence
that marks her sex, when the affections have gotten
the mastery of reason.
“Cosi, cosi. Bloomfield has a brother who is in the
Navy, as you know, and I happened to remember that
he had once spoken of an officer of the name of
Powis, who had performed a clever thing in the West
Indies, when they were employed together against the
pirates. I wrote to him one of my usual letters, that
are compounded of all things in nature and art, and
took an occasion to allude to a certain Mr. Paul
Powis, with a general remark that he had formerly
served, together with a particular inquiry if he knew
any thing about him. All this, no doubt, you think
very officious; but believe me, dear Eve, where there
very natural.”
“So far from entertaining resentment, I am grateful
for your concern, especially as I know it was manifested
cautiously, and without any unpleasant allusions
to third persons.”
“In that respect I believe I did pretty well. Tom
Bloomfield—I beg his pardon, Captain Bloomfield, for
so he calls himself, at present—knows Mr. Powis well;
or, rather did know him, for they have not met for
years, and he speaks of his personal qualities and professional
merit highly, but takes occasion to remark
that there was some mystery connected with his birth,
as, before he joined the service he understood he was
called Assheton, and at a later day, Powis, and this
without any public law, or public avowal of a motive.
Now, it struck me that Eve Effingham ought not to be
permitted to form a connection with a man so unpleasantly
situated, without being apprised of the fact.
I was waiting for a proper occasion to do this ungrateful
office myself, when accident made me acquainted
with what has passed this evening, and perceiving that
there was no time to lose, I came hither, more led by
interest in you, my dear, perhaps, than by discretion.”
“I thank you sincerely for this kind concern in my
welfare, dear Mrs. Bloomfield, and give you full credit
for the motive. Will you permit me to inquire how
much you know of that which passed this evening?”
“Simply that Mr. Powis is desperately in love, a
declaration that I take it is always dangerous to the
peace of mind of a young woman, when it comes
from a very engaging young man.”
“And my part of the dialogue—” Eve blushed to
the eyes as she asked this question, though she made
a great effort to appear calm—“my answer?”
“There was too much of woman in me—of true,
genuine, loyal, native woman, Miss Effingham, to listen
to that, had there been an opportunity. We were but
moment sufficed to let us know the state of feelings of
the gentleman. I ask no confidences, my dear Eve,
and now that I have made my explanations, lame
though they be, I will kiss you and repair to the drawing-room,
where we shall both be soon missed. Forgive
me, if I have seemed impertinent in my interference,
and continue to ascribe it to its true motive.”
“Stop, Mrs. Bloomfield, I entreat, for a single moment;
I wish to say a word before we part. As you
have been accidentally made acquainted with Mr.
Powis's sentiments towards me, it is no more than just
that you should know the nature of mine towards
him—”
Eve paused involuntarily, for, though she had commenced
her explanation, with a firm intention to do
justice to Paul, the bashfulness of her sex held her
tongue tied, at the very moment her desire to speak
was the strongest. An effort conquered the weakness,
and the warm-hearted, generous-minded girl succeeded
in commanding her voice.
“I cannot allow you to go away with the impression,
that there is a shade of any sort on the conduct
of Mr. Powis,” she said. “So far from desiring to
profit by the accidents that have placed it in his power
to render us such essential service, he has never spoken
of his love until this evening, and then under circumstances
in which feeling, naturally, perhaps I might
say uncontrollably, got the ascendency.”
“I believe it all, for I feel certain Eve Effingham
would not bestow her heart heedlessly.”
“Heart!—Mrs. Bloomfield!”
“Heart, my dear; and now I insist on the subject's
being dropped, at least, for the present. Your decision
is probably not yet made—you are not yet an
hour in possession of your suitor's secret, and prudence
demands deliberation. I shall hope to see you in the
drawing-room, and until then, adieu.”
Mrs. Bloomfield signed for silence, and quitted the
room with the same light tread as that with which she
had entered it.
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