University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

“Dus!” I repeated to myself—“This, then, is Dus, and
no Indian girl; the Chainbearer's `Dus;' Priscilla Bayard's
`Dus;' and Sureflint's `wren!”'

Andries must have overheard me, in part; for he stopped
just within the court on which the gate opened, and said—

“Yes, t'at is Dus, my niece. The girl is like a mockingpird,
and catches the songs of all languages and people.
She is goot at Dutch, and quite melts my heart, Mortaunt,
when she opens her throat to sing one of our melancholy
Dutch songs; and she gives the English too, as if she knowet
no ot'er tongue.”

“But that song was Indian — the words, at least, were
Mohawk or Oneida.”

“Onondago—t'ere is little or no tifference. Yes, you 're
right enough; the worts are Indian, and they tell me t'e
music is Scotch. Come from where it will, it goes straight
to the heart, poy.”

“How came Dus—how came Miss Ursula—that is, your
niece, to understand an Indian dialect?”

“Didn't I tell you she is a perfect mocking-bird, and that
she imitates all she hears? Yes, Dus would make as goot
a surveyor as her brot'er, after a week's trial. You 've
heart me say how much I livet among the tripes before t'e
war, and Dus was t'en wit' me. In that manner she has
caught the language; and what she has once l'arnet she
nefer forgets. Dus is half wilt from living so much in the
woots, and you must make allowances for her; put she is
a capital gal, and t'e very prite of my heart!”

“Tell me one thing before we enter the house; — does
any one else sing Indian about here? — has Sureflint any
women with him?”

“Not he! — t'e creatur' hast not'ing to do wit' squaws.
As for any one else's singing Intian, I can only tell you I
never heart of such a person.”

“But, you told me you were down the road to meet me
this morning—were you alone?”

“Not at all—we all went; Sureflint, Frank, Dus and I.
I t'ought it due to a lantlort, Mortaunt, to gif him a hearty
welcome; t'ough Dus did mutiny a little, and sait t'at
lantlort or no lantlort, it was not proper for a young gal
to go forth to meet a young man. I might have t'ought so
too, if it hadn't peen yourself, my poy; but, with you, I
couldn't play stranger, as one woult wit' a straggling Yankee.
I wishet to welcome you wit' the whole family; put
I 'll not conceal Dus's unwillingness to pe of t'e party.”

“But Dus was of your party! It is very odd we did not
meet!”

“Now, you speak of it, I do pelief it wast all owin' to a
scheme of t'at cunnin' gal! You must know, Mortaunt, a'ter
we had got a pit down t'e roat, she persuatet us to enter a
t'icket of pines, in order to eat a mout'ful; and I do pelief
the cunnin' hussey just dit it t'at you might slip past, and
she safe her female dignity!”

“And from those pines Sureflint came, just after Dus, as

you call her, but Miss Ursula Malbone as I ought to style
her, had been singing this very song?”

“Wast you near enough to know all t'is, poy, and we
miss you! The gal dit sing t'at ferry song; yes, I rememper
it; and a sweet, goot song it is. Call her Miss Ursula
Malbone? — Why shouldn't you call her Dus, as well as
Frank and I?”

“For the simple reason that you are her uncle, and
Frank her brother, while I am a total stranger.”

“Poh—poh—Morty; t'is is peing partic'lar. I am only
a half-uncle, in the first place; and Frank is only a half-brot'er;
and I dares to say you wilt pe her whole frient.
T'en, you are not a stranger to any of t'e family, I can
tell you, lat; for I haf talket enough apout you to make bot'
t'e poy and t'e gal lofe you almost as much as I do myself.”

Poor, simple-hearted, upright old Andries! What an
unpleasant feeling did he give me, by letting me into the
secret that I was about to meet persons who had been listening
to his partial accounts for the last twelve months. It is
so difficult to equal expectations thus awakened; and I will
own that I had begun to be a little sensitive on the subject
of this Dus. The song had been ringing in my ears from
the moment I first heard it; and, now that it became associated
with Priscilla Bayard's Ursula Malbone, the latter
had really become a very formidable person to my imagination.
There was no retreating, however, had I wished it;
and a sign induced the Chainbearer to proceed. Face the
young woman I must, and the sooner it was done the
better.

The Nest-house, as my homely residence was termed,
had been a sort of fortress, or “garrison,” in its day, having
been built around three sides of a parallelogram, with all its
windows and doors opening on the court. On the fourth
side were the remains of pickets, or palisades, but they were
mostly rotted away, being useless as a fence, from the circumstance
that the buildings stood on the verge of a low
cliff that, of itself, formed a complete barrier against the invasions
of cattle, and no insignificant defence against those
of man.

The interior of the Nest-house was far more inviting than

its exterior. The windows gave the court an appearance
of life and gaiety, at once converting that which was otherwise
a pile of logs, thrown together in the form of a building,
into a habitable and inhabited dwelling. One side of
this court, however, was much neater, and had much more
the air of comfort than the other; and towards the first
Andries led the way. I was aware that my grandfather
Mordaunt had caused a few rooms in this building to be
furnished for his own particular purposes, and that no orders
had ever been given to remove or to dispose of the articles
thus provided. I was not surprised, therefore, on entering
the house, to find myself in apartments which, while they
could not be called in any manner gaily or richly furnished,
were nevertheless quite respectably supplied with most of
the articles that are thought necessary to a certain manner
of living.

“We shall fint Dus in here, I dare say,” observed the
Chainbearer, throwing open a door, and signing for me to
precede him. “Go in, and shake t'e gal's hand, Mortaunt;
she knows you well enough, name and natur', as a poty
may say.”

I did go in, and found myself within a few feet of the fair,
golden-haired girl of the raising; she who had saved the
frame from falling on us all, by a decision of mind and
readiness of exertion that partook equally of courage and
dexterity. She was in the same dress as when first seen by
me, though the difference in attitude and employment certainly
gave her air and expression a very different character.
Ursula Malbone was now quietly occupied in hemming one
of those coarse checked handkerchiefs that the poverty of
her uncle compelled him, or at least induced him to use,
and of which I had seen one in his hands only a minute
before. On my entrance she rose, gravely but not discourteously
answering my bow with a profound curtsey. Neither
spoke, though the salutes were exchanged as between
persons who felt no necessity for an introduction in order to
know each other.

“Well, now,” put in Andries, in his strongest Dutch accent,
“t'is wilt never do, ast petween two such olt frients.
Come hit'er, Dus, gal, and gif your hant to Mortaunt Littlepage,
who ist a sort of son of my own.”

Dus obeyed, and I had the pleasure of holding her soft
velvet-like hand in mine for one moment. I felt a gratification
I cannot describe in finding the hand was so soft,
since the fact gave me the assurance that necessity had not
yet reduced her to any of the toil that is unsuited to a gentlewoman.
I knew that Andries had slaves, his only possession,
indeed, besides his compass, chains and sword, unless
a few arms and some rude articles of the household were
excepted; and these slaves, old and worn out as they must
be by this time, were probably the means of saving the
niece from the performance of offices that were menial.

Although I got the hand of Ursula Malbone, I could not
catch her eye. She did not avert her face, neither did she
affect coldness; but she was not at her ease. I could readily
perceive that she would have been better pleased had her
uncle permitted the salutations to be limited to the bows and
curtsies. As I had never seen this girl before, and could
not have done anything to offend her, I ascribed the whole
to mauvaise honte, and the embarrassment that was natural
enough to one who found herself placed in a situation so
different from that in which she had so lately been. I
bowed on the hand, possibly gave it a gentle pressure in
order to reassure its owner, and we separated.

“Well, now, Dus, haf you a cup of tea for the lantlort—
to welcome him to his own house wit'?” demanded Andries,
perfectly satisfied with the seemingly amicable relations he
had established between us. “T'e major hast hat a long
march, for peaceable times, and woult peglat to get a little
refreshment.”

“You call me major, Chainbearer, while you refuse to
accept the same title for yourself.”

“Ay, t'ere ist reason enough for t'at. You may lif to be
a general; wilt probably be one before you 're t'irty; but I
am an olt man, now, and shall never wear any ot'er uniform
than this I have on again. I pegan t'e worlt in this
corps, Morty, and shall end it in the rank in which I began.”

“I thought you had been a surveyor originally, and that
you fell back on the chain because you had no taste for
figures. I think I have heard as much from yourself.”

“Yes, t'at is t'e fact. Figures and I didn't agree; nor

do I like 'em any petter at seventy t'an I liket 'em at seventeen.
Frank Malbone, now, Dus' brother, t'ere, ist a lat
that takes to 'em nat'rally, and he works t'rough a sum
ast your fat'er would carry a battalion t'rough a ravine.
Carrying chain I like; it gives sufficient occupation to t'e
mind; put honesty is the great quality for the chainbearer.
They say figures can't lie, Mortaunt; but t'is is not true
wit' chains; sometimes they do lie, desperately.”

“Where is Mr. Francis Malbone? I should be pleased
to make his acquaintance.”

“Frank remainet pehint to help 'em up with their timber.
He is a stout chap, like yourself, and can lent a hant;
while, poor fellow! he has no lantlort-tignity to maintain.”

I heard a gentle sigh from Dus, and involuntarily turned
my head; for she was occupied directly behind my chair.
As if ashamed of the weakness, the spirited girl coloured,
and for the first time in my life I heard her voice, the two
instances of the Indian songs excepted. I say heard her
voice; for it was an event to record. A pleasant voice, in
either sex, is a most pleasant gift from nature. But the
sweet tones of Ursula Malbone were all that the most fastidious
ear could have desired; being full, rich, melodious,
yet on the precise key that best satisfies the taste, bringing
with it assurances of a feminine disposition and regulated
habits. I detest a shrill, high-keyed female voice, more than
that of a bawling man, while one feels a contempt for those
who mumble their words in order to appear to possess a
refinement that the very act itself contradicts. Plain, direct,
but regulated utterance, is indispensable to a man or woman
of the world; anything else rendering him or her mean or
affected.

“I was in hopes,” said Dus, “that evil-disposed frame was
up and secured, and that I should see Frank in a minute or
two. I was surprised to see you working so stoutly for the
Presbyterians, uncle Chainbearer!”

“I might return t'e compliment, and say I wast surpriset
to see you doing the same t'ing, Miss Dus! Pesides, the
tenomination is Congregational, and not Prespyterian; and
one is apout as much to your taste as t'e ot'er.”

“The little I did was for you, and Frank, and — Mr.
Littlepage, with all the rest who stood under the frame.”

“I am sure, Miss Ursula,” I now put in, “we all ought,
and I trust we all do feel truly grateful for your timely aid.
Had that timber come down, many of us must have been
killed, and more maimed.”

“It was not a very feminine exploit,” answered the girl,
smiling, as I thought, a little bitterly. “But one gets accustomed
to being useful in the woods.”

“Do you dislike living in the forest, then?” I ventured
to ask.

“Certainly not. I like living anywhere that keeps me
near uncle Chainbearer, and Frank. They are all to me,
now my excellent protectress and adviser is no more; and
their home is my home, their pleasure my pleasure, their
happiness mine.”

This might have been said in a way to render it suspicious
and sentimental; but it was not. On the contrary, it
was impulsive, and came from the heart. I saw by the
gratified look of Andries that he understood his niece, and
was fully aware how much he might rely on the truthful
character of the speaker. As for the girl herself, the moment
she had given utterance to what she felt, she shrunk
back, like one abashed at having laid bare feelings that
ought to have been kept in the privacy of her own bosom.
Unwilling to distress her, I turned the conversation in a
way to leave her to herself.

“Mr. Newcome seems a skilful manager of the multitude,”
I remarked. “He contrived very dexterously to give
to the twenty-six Congregationalists he had with him the
air of being a majority of the whole assembly; while, in
truth, they were barely a third of those present.”

“Let Jason Newcome alone for t'at!” exclaimed Andries.
“He unterstants mankint, he says, and sartainly he hast a
way of marching and countermarching just where he pleases
wit' t'ese people, makin' 'em t'ink t'e whole time t'ey are
doing just what t'ey want to do. It ist an art! major—it ist
an art!”

“I should think it must be, and one worth possessing; if,
indeed, it can be exercised with credit.”

“Ay, t'ere's the rub! Exerciset it is; but as for t'e credit,
t'at I will not answer for. It sometimes makes me
angry, and sometimes it makes me laugh, when I look on,

and see t'e manner in which Jason makes t'e people rule
t'emselves, and how he wheels 'em apout, and faces 'em,
and t'rows 'em into line, and out of line, at t'eir own wort of
commant! His Excellency coult hartly do more wit' us,
a'ter t'e Baron[1] had given us his drill.”

“There must be some talent necessary, in order to possess
so much influence over one's fellow-creatures.”

“It is a talent you woult be ashamet to exercise, Mortaunt
Littlepage, t'ough you hat it in cart-loats. No man
can use such a talent wit'out peginning wit' lying and deceifing;
and you must be greatly changet, major, if you
are at the he't of your class, in such a school.”

“I am sorry to see, Chainbearer, that you have no better
opinion of my agent; I must look into the matter a little,
when this is the case.”

“You wilt fint him law-honest enough; for he swears
py t'e law, and lifs py t'e law. No fear for your tollars,
poy; t'ey pe all safe, unless inteet, t'ey haf all vanishet in
t'e law.”

As Andries was getting more and more Dutch, I knew he
was growing more and more warm, and I thought it might
be well to defer the necessary inquiries to a cooler moment.
This peculiarity I have often observed in most of those who
speak English imperfectly, or with the accent of some other
tongue. They fall back, as respects language, to that nearest
to nature, at those moments when natural feeling is asserting
its power over them, the least equivocally.

I now began to question the Chainbearer concerning the
condition in which he found the Nest-house and farm, over
which I had given him full authority, when he came to
the place, by a special letter to the agent. The people in
possession were of very humble pretensions, and had been
content to occupy the kitchen and servants' rooms, ever
since my grandfather's death, as indeed they had done long
before that event. It was owing to this moderation, as well
as to their perfect honesty, that I found nothing embezzled,
and most of the articles in good condition. As for the farm,

it had flourished, on the “let alone” principle. The orchards
had grown, as a matter of course; and if the fields had not
been improved by judicious culture, neither had they been
exhausted by covetous croppings. In these particulars there
was nothing of which to complain. Things might have been
better, Andries thought; but, he also thought it was exceedingly
fortunate they were no worse. While we were conversing
on this theme, Dus moved about the room silently,
but with collected activity, having arranged the tea-table
with her own hands. When invited to take our seats at it—
everybody drew near to a tea-table in that day, unless when
there was too large a party to be accommodated — I was
surprised to find everything so perfectly neat, and some
things rich. The plates, knives, &c., were of good quality,
but the tray was actually garnished with a set of old-fashioned
silver, such as was made when tea was first used, of
small size, but very highly chased. The handles of the
spoons represented the stem of the tea-plant, and there was
a crest on each of them; while a full coat of arms was
engraved on the different vessels of the service, which were
four in all. I looked at the crest, in a vague but surprised
expectation of finding my own. It was entirely new to me.
Taking the cream-jug in my hand, I could recall no arms
resembling those that were engraved on it.

“I was surprised to find this plate here,” I observed;
“for, though my grandfather possessed a great deal of it,
for one of his means, I did not think he had enough to be
as prodigal of it as leaving it here would infer. This is
family plate, too; but those arms are neither Mordaunt nor
Littlepage. May I ask to whom they do belong?”

“The Malpones,” answered the Chainbearer. “T'e t'ings
are t'e property of Dus.”

“And you may add, uncle Chainbearer, that they are all
her property”—added the girl, quickly.

“I feel much honoured in being permitted to use them,
Miss Ursula,” I remarked; “for a very pretty set they
make.”

“Necessity, and not vanity, has brought them out to-day.
I broke the only tea-pot of yours there was in the house this
morning, and was in hopes Frank would have brought up
one from the store to supply its place, before it would be

wanted; but he does not come. As for spoons, I can find
none belonging to the house, and we use these constantly.
As the tea-pot was indispensable, I thought I might as well
display all my wealth at once. But, this is the first time
the things have been used in many, many years!”

There was a plaintive melody in Dus's voice, spite of her
desire and her effort to speak with unconcern, that I found
exceedingly touching. While few of us enter into the exultation
of successful vulgarity, as it rejoices in its too often
random prosperity, it is in nature to sympathize with a
downward progress, and with the sentiments it leaves, when
it is connected with the fates of the innocent, the virtuous,
and the educated. That set of silver was all that remained
to Ursula Malbone of a physical character and which
marked the former condition of her family; and doubtless
she cherished it with no low feeling of morbid pride, but as
a melancholy monument of a condition to which all her
opinions, tastes and early habits constantly reminded her
she properly belonged. In this last point of view, the sentiment
was as respectable, and as much entitled to reverence,
as in the other case it would have been unworthy, and
meriting contempt.

There is a great deal of low misconception, as well as a
good deal of cant, beginning to prevail among us, on the
subject of the qualities that mark a gentleman, or a lady.
The day has gone by, and I trust for ever, when the mere
accidents of birth are to govern such a claim; though the
accidents of birth are very apt to supply the qualities that
really form the caste. For my own part, I believe in the
exaggerations of neither of the two extremes that so stubbornly
maintain their theories on this subject; or, that a
gentleman may not be formed exclusively by birth on the
one hand, and that the severe morality of the bible on the
other is by no means indispensable to the character. A
man may be a very perfect gentleman, though by no means
a perfect man, or a Christian; and he may be a very good
Christian, and very little of a gentleman. It is true, there
is a connection in manners, as a result, between the Christian
and the gentleman; but it is in the result, and not in
the motive. That Christianity has little necessary connection
with the character of a gentleman, may be seen in the

fact that the dogmas of the first teach us to turn another
cheek to him who smites; while the promptings of the gentleman
are—not to wipe out the indignity in the blood of the
offender, but — to show that rather than submit to it, he is
ready to risk his own life.[2]

But, I repeat, there is no necessary connection between
the Christian and the gentleman, though the last who is the
first attains the highest condition of humanity. Christians,
under the influence of their educations and habits, often do
things that the code of the gentleman rejects; while it is
certain that gentlemen constantly commit unequivocal sins.
The morality of the gentleman repudiates meannesses and
low vices, rather than it rigidly respects the laws of God;
while the morality of the Christian is unavoidably raised or
depressed by the influence of the received opinions of his
social caste. I am not maintaining that “the ten commandments
were not given for the obedience of people of quality,”
for their obligations are universal; but, simply, that the
qualities of a gentleman are the best qualities of man unaided
by God, while the graces of the Christian come directly
from his mercy.

Nevertheless, there is that in the true character of a gentleman
that is very much to be respected. In addition to the
great indispensables of tastes, manners and opinions, based
on intelligence and cultivation, and all those liberal qualities
that mark his caste, he cannot and does not stoop to meannesses
of any sort. He is truthful out of self-respect, and
not in obedience to the will of God; free with his money,
because liberality is an essential feature of his habits, and
not in imitation of the self-sacrifice of Christ; superior to

scandal and the vices of the busy-body, inasmuch as they
are low and impair his pride of character, rather than because
he has been commanded not to bear false witness
against his neighbour. It is a great mistake to confound
these two characters, one of which is a mere human embellishment
of the ways of a wicked world, while the other
draws near to the great end of human existence. The last
is a character I revere; while I am willing to confess that
I never meet with the first without feeling how vacant and
repulsive society would become without it; unless, indeed,
the vacuum could be filled by the great substance, of which,
after all, the gentleman is but the shadow.

Ursula Malbone lost nothing in my respect by betraying
the emotion she did, while thus speaking of this relic of old
family plate. I was glad to find, however, that she could
retain it; for, though dressed in no degree in a style unbecoming
her homely position as her uncle's housekeeper,
there were a neatness and taste in her attire that are not
often seen in remote parts of this country. On this subject,
the reader will indulge my weaknesses a little, if I pause to
say a word. Ursula had neither preserved in her dress the
style of one of her sex and condition in the world, nor yet
entirely adopted that common to girls of the class to which
she now seemingly belonged. It struck me that some of
those former garments that were the simplest in fashion,
and the most appropriate in material, had been especially
arranged for present use; and sweetly becoming were they,
to one of her style of countenance and perfection of form.
In that day, as every one knows, the different classes of
society — and, kingdom or republic, classes do, and ever
will exist in this country, as an incident of civilization; a
truth every one can see as respects those below, though his
vision may be less perfect as respects those above him —
but, every one knows that great distinctions in dress existed,
as between classes, all over the Christian world, at the close
of the American war, that are fast disappearing, or have
altogether disappeared. Now, Ursula had preserved just
enough of the peculiar attire of her own class, to let one
understand that she, in truth, belonged to it, without rendering
the distinction obtrusive. Indeed, the very character
of that which she did preserve, sufficiently told the story of

her origin, since it was a subdued, rather than an exaggerated
imitation of that to which she had been accustomed,
as would have been the case with a mere copyist. I can
only add, that the effect was to render her sufficiently
charming.

“Taste t'ese cakes,” said old Andries, who, without the
slightest design, did love to exhibit the various merits of his
niece—“Dus mate t'em, and I 'll engage Matam Washington,
herself, couldn't make pleasanter!”

“If Mrs. Washington was ever thus employed,” I answered,
“she might turn pale with envy here. Better cakes
of the sort I never ate.”

“Of the sort is well added, Mr. Littlepage,” the girl
quietly observed; “my protectress and friend made me
rather skilful in this way, but the ingredients are not to be
had here as they were in her family.”

“Which, being a boarding-school for young ladies, was
doubtless better supplied than common, with the materials
and knowledge necessary for good cakes.”

Dus laughed, and it startled me, so full of a wild but
subsued melody did that laugh seem to be.

“Young ladies have many foibles imputed to them, of
which they are altogether innocent,” was her answer.
“Cakes were almost forbidden fruit in the school, and we
were taught to make them in pity to the palates of the
men.”

“Your future huspants, gal,” cried the Chainbearer, rising
to quit the room.

“Our fathers, brothers and uncles,” returned his niece,
laying an emphasis on the last word.

“I believe, Miss Ursula,” I resumed, as soon as Andries
had left us alone, “that I have been let behind the curtain
as respects your late school, having an acquaintance, of a
somewhat particular nature, with one of your old schoolfellows.”

My companion did not answer, but she fastened those
fascinating blue eyes of her's on me, in a way that asked a
hundred questions in a moment. I could not but see that
they were suffused with tears; allusions to her school often
producing that effect.

“I mean Miss Priscilla Bayard, who would seem to be,

or to have been, a very good friend of your's.” I added, observing
that my companion was not disposed to say any
thing.

“Pris. Bayard!” Ursula now suffered to escape her, in
her surprise — “and she an acquaintance of a somewhat
particular nature!”

“My language has been incautious; not to say that of a
coxcomb. Certainly, I am not authorized to say more than
that our families are very intimate, and that there are some
particular reasons for that intimacy. I beg you to read
only as I have corrected the error.”

“I do not see that the correction changes things much;
and you will let me say I am grieved, sadly grieved, to
learn so much.”

This was odd! That Dus really meant what she said,
was plain enough by a face that had actually lost nearly all
of its colour, and which expressed an emotion that was most
extraordinary. Shall I own what a miserably conceited
coxcomb I was for a single moment? The truth must be
said, and I will confess it. The thought that crossed my
mind was this: — Ursula Malbone is pained at the idea that
the only man whom she had seen for a year, and who could,
by possibility, make any impression on one of her education
and tastes, was betrothed to another! Under ordinary circumstances,
this precocious preference might have caused
me to revolt at its exhibition; but there was far too much
of nature in all of Dus's emotions, acts and language, to produce
any other impression on me than that of intense interest.
I have always dated the powerful hold that this girl
so soon obtained on my heart, to the tumult of feeling
awakened in me, at that singular moment. Love at first
sight may be ridiculous, but it is sometimes true. That a
passion may be aroused by a glance, or a smile, or any
other of those secret means of conveying sympathy with
which nature has supplied us, I fully believe; though its
duration must depend on qualities of a higher and more
permanent influence. It is the imagination that is first excited;
the heart coming in for its share by later and less
perceptible degrees.

My delusion, however, did not last long. Whether Ursula
Malbone was conscious of the misconstruction to which

she was liable, I cannot say; but I rather think not, as she
was much too innocent to dread evil; or whether she saw
some other necessity for explaining herself remains a secret
with me to this hour; but explain she did. How judiciously
this was done, and with how much of that female tact that
taught her to conceal the secrets of her friend, will appear
to those who are sufficiently interested in the subject to pursue
it.