University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

“I ought not to leave you in any doubts as to my meaning,
Mr. Littlepage,” resumed Ursula, after a short pause.
“Priscilla Bayard is very dear to me, and is well worthy
of all your love and admiration—”

“Admiration if you please, and as much as you please,
Miss Ursula; but there is no such feeling as love, as yet
certainly, between Miss Bayard and myself.”

The countenance of Dus brightened sensibly. Truth herself,
she gave immediate credit to what I said; and I could
not but see that she was greatly relieved from some unaccountable
apprehension. Still, she smiled a little archly,
and perhaps a little sadly, as she continued,—

“`As yet, certainly,' is very equivocal on your side, when
a young woman like Priscilla Bayard is concerned. It may
at any moment be converted into `now, certainly,' with that
certainty the other way.”

“I will not deny it. Miss Bayard is a charming creature—yet,
I do not know how it is—there seems to be a fate
in these things. The peculiar relation to which I alluded,
and alluded so awkwardly, is nothing more than the engagement
of my youngest sister to her brother. There is no
secret in that engagement, so I shall not affect to conceal
it.”

“And it is just such an engagement as might lead to one
between yourself and Priscilla!” exclaimed Dus, certainly
not without alarm.

“It might, or it might not, as the parties happen to view
such things. With certain temperaments it might prove an
inducement; while, with others, it would not.”

“My interest in the subject,” continued Dus, “proceeds
altogether from the knowledge I have that another has
sought Miss Bayard; and I will own with my hearty good
wishes for his success. You struck me as a most formidable
rival; nor do you seem any the less so, now I know that
your families are to be connected.”

“Have no fears on my account, for I am as heart-whole
as the day I first saw the lady.”

A flash of intelligence — a most meaning flash it was —
gleamed on the handsome face of my companion; and it
was followed by a mournful, though I still thought not an
entirely dissatisfied smile.

“These are matters about which one had better not say
much,” Dus added, after a pause. “My sex has its `peculiar
rights,' and no woman should disregard them. You
have been fortunate in finding all your tenants collected together,
Mr. Littlepage, in a way to let you see them at a
single glance.”

“I was fortunate in one sense, and a most delightful introduction
I had to the settlement — such an introduction as
I would travel another hundred miles to have repeated.”

“Are you, then, so fond of raising? — or, do you really
love excitement to such a degree as to wish to get under a
trap, like one of the poor rabbits my uncle sometimes
takes?”

“I am not thinking of the raising, or of the frame; although
your courage and presence of mind might well indelibly
impress both on my mind” — Dus looked down, and
the colour mounted to her temples — “but, I was thinking
of a certain song, an Indian song, sung to Scotch music,
that I heard a few miles from the clearings, and which was
my real introduction to the pleasant things one may both
hear and see, in this retired part of the world.”

“Which is not so retired after all, that flattery cannot
penetrate it, I find. It is pleasant to hear one's songs extolled,

even though they may be Indian; but, it is not half
so pleasant as to hear tidings of Priscilla Bayard. If you
wish truly to charm my ear, talk of her!”

“The attachment seems mutual, for I can assure you
Miss Bayard manifested just the same interest in you.”

“In me! Priscilla then remembers a poor creature like
me, in her banishment from the world! Perhaps she remembers
me so much the more, because I am banished. I
hope she does not, cannot think I regret my condition —
that, I could hardly forgive her.”

“I rather think she does not; I know she gives you
credit for more than common excellencies.”

“It is strange that Priscilla Bayard should speak of me
to you! I have been a little unguarded myself, Mr. Littlepage,
and have said so much, that I begin to feel the necessity
of saying something more. There is some excuse for
my not feeling in your presence as in that of a stranger;
since uncle Chainbearer has your name in his mouth at
least one hundred times each day. Twelve different times
in one hour did he speak of you yesterday.”

“Excellent old Andries! It is the pride of my life that
so honest a man loves me; and now for the explanation I
am entitled to receive as his friend, by your own acknowledgment.”

Dus smiled, a little saucily I thought—but saucily or not,
that smile made her look extremely lovely. She reflected a
moment, like one who thinks intensely, even bending her
head under the painful mental effort; then she drew her
form to its usual attitude, and spoke.

“It is always best to be frank,” she said, “and it can do
no harm, while it may do good, to be explicit with you.
You will not forget, Mr. Littlepage, that I believe myself to
be conversing with my uncle's very best friend?”

“I am too proud of the distinction to forget it, under any
circumstances; and least of all in your presence.”

“Well, then, I will be frank. Priscilla Bayard was, for
eight years, my associate and closest friend. Our affection
for each other commenced when we were mere children,
and increased with time and knowledge. About a year before
the close of the war, my brother Frank, who is now
here as my uncle's surveyor, found opportunities to quit his

regiment, and to come to visit me quite frequently—indeed,
his company was sent to Albany, where he could see me as
often as he desired. To see me, was to see Priscilla; for
we were inseparable; and to see Priscilla was, for poor
Frank at least, to love her. He made me his confidant, and
my alarm was nothing but natural concern lest he might
have a rival as formidable as you.”

A flood of light was let in upon me by this brief explanation,
though I could not but wonder at the simplicity, or
strength of character, that induced so strange a confidence.
When I got to know Dus better, the whole became clear
enough; but, at the moment, I was a little surprised.

“Be at ease on my account, Miss Malbone—”

“Why not call me Dus at once? — You will do it in a
week, like every one else here; and it is better to begin our
acquaintance as I am sure it will end. Uncle Chainbearer
calls me Dus; Frank calls me Dus; most of your settlers
call me Dus, to my very face; and even our blacks call me
Miss Dus. You cannot wish to be singular.”

“I will gladly venture so far as to call you Ursula; but
Dus does not please me.”

“No! — I have become so accustomed to be called Dus
by all my friends, that it sounds distant to be called by any
other name. Do you not think Dus a pretty diminutive?”

“I did not, most certainly; though all these things depend
on the associations. Dus Malbone sounded sweetly
enough in Priscilla Bayard's mouth; but I fear it will not
be so pleasant in mine.”

“Do as you please—but do not call me Miss Ursula, or
Miss Malbone. It would have displeased me once, not to
have been so addressed by any man; but it has an air of
mockery, now that I know myself to be only the companion
and housekeeper of a poor chainbearer.”

“And yet, the owner of that silver, the lady I see seated
at this table, in this room, is not so very inappropriately
addressed as Miss Ursula!”

“You know the history of the silver, and the table and
room are your own. No — Mr. Littlepage, we are poor —
very, very poor — uncle Chainbearer, Frank and I — all
alike, have nothing.”

This was not said despairingly, but with a sincerity that
I found exceedingly touching.

“Frank, at least, should have something” — I answered.
“You tell me he was in the army?”

“He was a captain at the last, but what did he receive
for that? We do not complain of the country, any of us;
neither my uncle, my brother, nor myself; for we know it
is poor, like ourselves, and that its poverty even is like our
own, that of persons reduced. I was long a charge on my
friends, and there have been debts to pay. Could I have
known it, such a thing should not have happened. Now I
can only repay those who have discharged these obligations
by coming into the wilderness with them. It is a terrible
thing for a woman to be in debt.”

“But, you have remained in this house; you surely have
not been in the hut, at Mooseridge!”

“I have gone wherever uncle Chainbearer has gone, and
shall go with him, so long as we both live. Nothing shall
ever separate us again. His years demand this, and gratitude
is added to my love. Frank might possibly do better
than work for the little he receives; but he will not quit us.
The poor love each other intensely!”

“But I have desired your uncle to use this house, and
for your sake I should think he would accept the offer.”

“How could he, and carry chain twenty miles distant?
We have been here, occasionally, a few days at a time;
but the work was to be done, and it must be done on the
land itself.”

“Of course, you merely gave your friends the pleasure
of your company, and looked a little to their comforts, on
their return from a hard day's work?”

Dus raised her eyes to mine; smiled; then she looked
sad, her under-lip quivering slightly; after which a smile
that was not altogether without humour succeeded. I watched
these signs of varying feeling with an interest I cannot
describe; for the play of virtuous and ingenuous emotion on
a lovely female countenance is one of the rarest sights in
nature.

“I can carry chain” — said the girl, at the close of this
exhibition of feeling.

“You can carry chain, Ursula — Dus, or whatever I am
to call you—”

“Call me Dus—I love that name best.”

“You can carry chain, I suppose is true enough — but,
you do not mean that you have?”

The face of Dus flushed; but she looked me full in the
eye, as she nodded her head to express an affirmative; and
she smiled as sweetly as ever woman smiled.

“For amusement—to say you have done it—in jest!”

“To help my uncle and brother, who had not the means
to hire a second man.”

“Good God! Miss Malbone—Ursula—Dus—”

“The last is the most proper name for a Chainbearess,”
rejoined the girl, smiling; and actually taking my hand by
an involuntary movement of her sympathy in the shock I so
evidently felt — “But, why should you look upon that little
toil as so shocking, when it is healthful and honest? You
are thinking of a sister reduced to what strikes you as man's
proper work.”

Dus relinquished my hand almost as soon as she had
touched it; and she did it with a slight start, as if shocked
at her own temerity.

“What is man's work, and man's work, only.”

“Yet, woman can perform it; and, as uncle Chainbearer
will tell you, perform it well. I had no other concern, the
month I was at work, than the fear that my strength would
not enable me to do as much as my uncle and brother, and
thus lessen the service they could render you each day.
They kept me on the dry land, so there were no wet feet,
and your woods are as clear of underbrush as an orchard.
There is no use in attempting to conceal the fact, for it is
known to many, and would have reached your ears sooner
or later. Then concealment is always painful to me, and
never more so than when I hear you, and see you treating
your hired servant as an equal.”

“Miss Malbone!—For God's sake, let me hear no more
of this — old Andries judged rightly of me, in wishing to
conceal this; for I should never have allowed it to go on for
a moment.”

“And in what manner could you have prevented it, major
Littlepage? My uncle has taken the business of you at so

much the day, finding surveyor and labourers — poor dear
Frank! He, at least, does not rank with the labourers;
and as for my uncle, he has long had an honest pride in
being the best chainbearer in the country — why need his
niece scruple about sharing in his well-earned reputation?”

“But you, Miss Malbone—dearest Dus—who have been
so educated, who are born a lady, who are loved by Priscilla
Bayard, the sister of Frank, are not in your proper
sphere, while thus occupied.”

“It is not so easy to say what is the proper sphere of a
woman. I admit it ought to be, in general, in the domestic
circle, and under the domestic roof; but circumstances must
control that. We hear of wives who follow their husbands
to the camp, and we hear of nuns who come out of their
convents to attend the sick and wounded in hospitals. It
does not strike me, then, as so bad in a girl who offers to
aid her parent, as I have aided mine, when the alternative
was to suffer by want.”

“Gracious Providence! And Andries has kept me in
ignorance of all this! He knew my purse would have been
his, and how could you have been in want in the midst of
the abundance that reigns in this settlement, which is only
fifteen or twenty miles from your hut, as I know from the
Chainbearer's letters.”

“Food is plenty, I allow, but we had no money; and
when the question was between beggary or exertion, we
merely chose the last. My uncle did try old Killian, the
black, for a day; but you know how hard it is to make one
of those people understand anything that is a little intricate;
and then I offered my services. I am intelligent enough, I
trust” — the girl smiled a little proudly as she said this —
“and you can have no notion how active and strong I am,
for light work like this, and on my feet, until you put me to
the proof. Remember, carrying chain is neither chopping
wood nor piling logs; nor is it absolutely unfeminine.”

“Nor raising churches” — I answered, smiling; for it
was not easy to resist the contagion of the girl's spirit—“at
which business I have been an eye-witness of your dexterity.
However, there will now be an end of this. It is fortunately
in my power to offer such a situation and such emoluments
to Mr. Malbone, as will at once enable him to place his sister

in this house as its mistress, and under a roof that is at least
respectable.”

“Bless you for that!” cried Dus, making a movement
towards catching my hand again; but checking it in time
to render the deep blush that instantly suffused her face,
almost unnecessary. “Bless you for that! Frank is willing
to do anything that is honest, and capable of doing anything
that a gentleman should do. I am the great encumbrance
on the poor fellow; for, could he leave me, many situations
must be open to him in the towns. But, I cannot quit my
uncle, and Frank will not quit me. He does not understand
uncle Chainbearer.”

“Frank must be a noble fellow, and I honour him for his
attachment to such a sister. This makes me only the more
anxious to carry out my intentions.”

“Which are such, I hope, that there is no impropriety in
his sister's knowing them?”

This was said with such an expression of interest in the
sweet, blue eyes, and with so little of the air of common
curiosity, that it completely charmed me.

“Certainly there is none,” I answered, promptly enough
even for a young man who was acting under the influence
of so much ingenuous and strong native feeling; “and I
shall have great pleasure in telling you. We have long been
dissatisfied with our agent on this estate, and I had determined
to offer it to your uncle. The same difficulty would
have to be overcome in this case as there was in making
him a safe surveyor—the want of skill in figures; now, this
difficulty will not exist in the instance of your brother; and
the whole family, Chainbearer as well as the rest, will be
benefited by giving the situation to Frank.”

“You call him Frank!” cried Dus, laughing, and evidently
delighted with what she heard. “That is a good
omen; but, if you raise me to the station of an agent's sister,
I do not know but I shall insist on being called Ursula, at
least, if not Miss Ursula.”

I scarce knew what to make of this girl; there was so
much of gaiety, and even fun, blended with a mine of as
deep feeling as I ever saw throwing up its signs to the
human countenance. Her brother's prospects had made

her even gay; though she still looked as if anxious to hear
more.

“You may claim which you please, for Frank shall have
his name put into the new power of attorney within the hour.
Mr. Newcome has had a hint, by letter, of what is to come,
and professes great happiness in getting rid of a vast deal
of unrequited trouble.”

“I am afraid there is little emolument, if he is glad to be
rid of the office.”

“I do not say he is glad; I only say he professes to be
so. These are different things with certain persons. As
for the emolument, it will not be much certainly; though it
will be enough to prevent Frank's sister from carrying chain,
and leave her to exercise her talents and industry in their
proper sphere. In the first place, every lease on the estate
is to be renewed; and, there being a hundred, and the tenant
bearing the expense, it will at once put a considerable sum
at your brother's disposition. I cannot say that the annual
commissions will amount to a very great deal, though they
will exceed a hundred a year by the terms on which the
lands will be re-let. The use of this house and farm, however,
I did intend to offer to your uncle; and, for the same
reason, I shall offer them to Frank.”

“With this house and farm we shall be rich!” exclaimed
Dus, clasping her hands in delight. “I can gather a school
of the better class of girls, and no one will be useless — no
one idle. If I teach your tenants' daughters some of the
ideas of their sex and station, Mr. Littlepage, you will reap
the benefit in the end. That will be some slight return for
all your kindness.”

“I wish all of your sex, and of the proper age, who are
connected with me, no better instructress. Teach them your
own warmth of heart, your own devotedness of feeling, your
own truth, and your own frankness, and I will come and
dwell on my own estate, as the spot nearest to paradise.”

Dus looked a little alarmed, I thought, as if she feared
she might have uttered too much; or, perhaps, that I was
uttering too much. She rose, thanked me hurriedly, but in
a very lady-like manner, and set about removing the breakfast
service, with as much diligence as if she had been a
mere menial.

Such was my very first conversation with Ursula Malbone;
her, with whom I have since held so many, and those
that have been very different! When I rose to seek the
Chainbearer, it was with a feeling of interest in my late
companion that was as strong as it was sudden. I shall
not deny that her beauty had its influence—it would be unnatural
that it should not — but it was less her exceeding
beauty, and Ursula Malbone would have passed for one of
the fairest of her sex — but it was less her beauty that attracted
me than her directness, truth, and ingenuousness,
so closely blended as all were with the feelings and delicacy
of her sex. She had certainly done things which, had I
merely heard of them, would have struck me unpleasantly,
as even bold and forward, and which may now so strike the
reader; but this would be doing Dus injustice. No act, no
word of her's, not even the taking of my hand, seemed to
me, at the time, as in the least forward; the whole movement
being so completely qualified by that intensity of feeling
which caused her to think only of her brother. Nature
and circumstances had combined to make her precisely the
character she was; and I will confess I did not wish her to
be, in a single particular, different from what I found her.

Talk of Pris. Bayard in comparison with Ursula Malbone!
Both had beauty, it is true, though the last was far the handsomest;
both had delicacy, and sentiment, and virtue, and
all that pertains to a well-educated young woman, if you
will; but, Dus had a character of her own, and principles,
and an energy, and a decision, that made her the girl of ten
thousand. I do not think I could be said to be actually in
love when I left that room, for I do not wish to appear so
very easy to receive impressions as all that would come to;
but I will own no female had ever before interested me a
tenth part as much, though I had known, and possibly admired
her, a twelvemonth.

In the court I found Andries measuring his chains. This
he did periodically; and it was as conscientiously as if he
were weighing gold. The old man manifested no consciousness
of the length of the tête-à-tête I had held with his niece;
but, on the contrary, the first words he uttered were to an
effect that proved he fancied I had been alone.

“I peg your parton, lat,” he said, holding his measuring-rod

in his mouth while he spoke. “I peg your parton, put
this is very necessary work. I do not wish to haf any of
your Yankee settlers crying out hereafter against the chainpearer's
surveys. Let 'em come a huntret or a t'ousant
years hence, if t'ey will, and measure t'e lant; I want olt
Andries' survey to stant.”

“The variation of the compass will make some difference
in the two surveys, my good friend, unless the surveyors
are better than one commonly finds.”

The old man dropped his rod and his chain, and looked
despondingly at me.

“True,” he said, with emphasis. “You haf hit t'e nail
on t'e heat, Mortaunt—t'at fariation is t'e ferry teffil to get
along wit'! I haf triet it t'is-a-way, and I haf triet it t'at-a-way,
and never coult I make heat or tail of it! I can see
no goot of a fariation at all.”

“What does your pretty assistant Dus, think of it? Dus,
the pretty Chainbearer? You will lose your old, hard-earned
appellation, which will be borne off by Miss Malbone.”

“T'en Dus hast peen telling you all apout it! A woman
never can keep a secret. No, natur' hast mate 'em talkatif,
and t'e parrot will chatter.”

“A woman likes variation, notwithstanding — did you
consult Dus on that difficulty?”

“No, no, poy; I sait not'ing to Dus, ant I am sorry she
hast sait anyt'ing to you apout t'is little matter of t'e chain.
It was sorely against my will, Mortaunt, t'at t'e gal ever
carriet it a rot; and was it to do over ag'in, she shoult not
carry it a rot—yet it woult have tone your heart goot to see
how prettily she did her work; and how quick she wast;
and how true; and how accurate she put down t'e marker;
and how sartain was her eye. Natur' made t'at fery gal
for a chainpearer!”

“And a chainbearer she has been, and a chainbearer she
ever will be, until she throws her chains on some poor fellow,
and binds him down for life. Andries, you have an angel
with you here, and not a woman!”

Most men in the situation of the Chainbearer might have
been alarmed at hearing such language coming from a young
man, and under all the circumstances of the case. But

Andries Coejemans never had any distrust of mortal who
possessed his ordinary confidence; and I question if he ever
entertained a doubt about myself on any point, the result of
his own, rather than of my character. Instead of manifesting
uneasiness or displeasure, he turned to me, his whole
countenance illuminated with the affection he felt for his
niece, and said—

“T'e gal ist an excellent gal, Mortaunt; a capital creature!
It woult haf tone your heart goot, I tell you, to see
her carry chain! Your pocket is none t'e worse for t'e
mont' she worked, t'ough I woult not haf you t'ink I charget
for her ast for a man—no—she is town at only half-price,
woman's work peing woman's work; yet I do pelieve, on
my conscience, t'at we went over more grount in t'at mont',
t'an we coult haf tone wit' any man t'at wast to pe hiret in
t'is part of t'e worlt—I do, inteet!”

How strange all this sounded to me! Charged for work
done by Ursula Malbone, and charged at half-price! We
are the creatures of convention, and the slaves of opinions
that come we know not whence. I had got the notions of
my caste, obtained in the silent, insinuating manner in
which all our characters are formed; and nothing short of
absolute want could have induced me to accept pecuniary
compensation from an individual for any personal service
rendered. I had no profession, and it did not comport with
our usages for a gentleman to receive money for personal
service out of the line of a profession; an arbitrary rule,
but one to which most of us submit with implicit obedience.
The idea that Dus had been paid by myself for positive toil,
therefore, was extremely repugnant to me; and it was only
after reflection that I came to view the whole affair as I
ought, and to pass to the credit of the noble-minded girl,
and this without any drawback, an act that did her so much
honour. I wish to represent myself as no better, or wiser,
or more rational than I was; and, I fancy few young men
of my age and habits would hear with much delight, at first,
that the girl he felt himself impelled to love had been thus
employed; while, on the other hand, few would fail to arrive
at the same conclusions, on reflection, as those I reached
myself.

The discourse with Andries Coejemans was interrupted

by the sudden entrance of Frank Malbone into the court.
This was my first meeting with my young surveyor, and
Chainbearer introduced us to each other in his usual hearty
and frank manner. In a minute we were acquainted; the
old man inquiring as to the success of the settlers in getting
up their “meetin'-us.”

“I staid until they had begun to place the rafters,” answered
young Malbone, cheerfully, “and then I left them.
The festivities are to end with a ball, I hear; but I was too
anxious to learn how my sister reached home — I ought to
say reached the 'Nest — to remain. We have little other
home now, Mr. Littlepage, than the hut in the woods, and
the roof your hospitality offers.”

“Brother soldiers, sir, and brother soldiers in such a
cause, ought to have no more scruples about accepting such
hospitalities, as you call them, than in offering them. I am
glad, however, that you have adverted to the subject, inasmuch
as it opens the way to a proposition I have intended
to make; which, if accepted, will make me your guest, and
which may as well be made now as a week later.”

Both Andries and Frank looked surprised; but I led them
to a bench on the open side of the court, and invited them
to be seated, while I explained myself. It may be well to
say a word of that seat, in passing. It stood on the verge of
a low cliff of rocks, on the side of the court which had been
defended by palisades, when the French held the Canadas,
and the remains of which were still to be seen. Here, as I
was told before we left the spot, Dus, my pretty chainbearer,
with a woman's instinct for the graceful and beautiful, had
erected an arbour, principally with her own hands, planted
one of the swift-growing vines of our climate, and caused a
seat to be placed within. The spot commanded a pleasing
view of a wide expanse of meadows, and of a distant hillside,
that still lay in the virgin forest. Andries told me that
his niece had passed much of her leisure time in that arbour,
since the growth of the plant, with the advance of the season,
had brought the seat into the shade.

Placing myself between the Chainbearer and Malbone, I
communicated the intention I had formed of making the
latter my agent. As an inducement to accept the situation,
I offered the use of the Nest-house and Nest-farm, reserving

to myself the room or two that had been my grandfather's,
and that only at the times of my annual visits to the property.
As the farm was large, and of an excellent quality
of land, it would abundantly supply the wants of a family
of modest habits, and even admit of sales to produce the
means of purchasing such articles of foreign growth as might
be necessary. In a word, I laid before the listeners the whole
of my plan, which was a good deal enlarged by a secret wish
to render Ursula comfortable, without saying anything about
the motive.

The render is not to suppose I was exhibiting any extraordinary
liberality in doing that which I have related. It
must not be forgotten that land was a drug in the State of
New York in the year 1784, as it is to-day on the Miami,
Ohio, Mississippi, and other inland streams. The proprietors
thought but little of their possessions as the means of present
support, but rather maintained their settlements than their
settlements maintained them; looking forward to another
age, and to their posterity, for the rewards of all their trouble
and investments.[1]

It is scarcely necessary to say my proposals were gladly
accepted. Old Andries squeezed my hand, and I understood
the pressure as fully as if he had spoken with the eloquence
of Patrick Henry. Frank Malbone was touched; and all
parties were perfectly satisfied. The surveyor had his fieldinkstand
with him, as a matter of course, and I had the
Power-of-Attorney in my pocket ready for the insertion of
the Chainbearer's name, would he accept the office of agent.
That of Malbone was written in its stead; I signed; Andries
witnessed; and we left the seat together; Frank Malbone,
in effect, temporarily master of the house in which we were,

and his charming sister, as a necessary consequence, its
mistress. It was a delicious moment to me, when I saw
Dus throw herself into her brother's arms, and weep on his
bosom, as he communicated to her the joyful intelligence.