University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
STRANGE SYMPTOMS.

My reader will recollect, that before my digression
to show the merits of the question touching the
boundary line, I left Mr. Swansdown seated, after
tea, at a game of whist. This game is a special favourite
in the low country of Virginia, and possesses
an absorbing interest for Meriwether. Prudence
is not behind her brother either in the skill or the devotion
of a thorough-bred player; and Harvey Riggs
may very justly be set down as pre-eminent in this
accomplishment. The poet and philosopher was the
only one of the party at the table who may be said
to have ever been at fault during the evening.

I do not pretend myself to be well versed in the
mysteries of this silent and cogitative recreation; but
I have often had occasion to observe that a genuine
whist-player is apt, for the time, to be one of the most
querulous of mortals. He makes fewer allowances
for the frailty of his brethren than any other member
of society. The sin of not following suit, or losing a
trick, or not throwing out a good card in the right
place, is, in his eyes, almost inexpiable, and does not
fail to bring down upon the delinquent that sharp,
unmitigated and direct rebuke that implies, “you

must be a blockhead, or you never would have
thought of doing so stupid a thing!” This is sometimes
insinuated in a look, sometimes conveyed in
a question, and often inferred by a simple ejaculation.

Swansdown was not unfrequently taken to task
by his antagonists. Harvey Riggs would stop, put
down his cards upon the table, and, with a biting affectation
of mildness, observe, “Really, Mr. Swansdown,
if I could only count upon your observing the
rules of the game, I should know what to play; but
as it is, I am exceedingly perplexed!” Even Frank
Meriwether, with all his benignant impulses, would
sometimes throw himself back into his chair, and
putting his hand across his forehead, would draw it
slowly down to his chin, as if studying a contingency
which, from the play of the other party, had baffled
his calculations: and sometimes he would break out
into an interjectional whistle, and come down suddenly
with a card upon the table, as he said, “Now,
Mr. Swansdown, I believe you have given me that
trick!” To all these implied imputations against his
dexterity, the gentleman would reply in the most polite
manner imaginable,—with a lambent smile upon
his features,—by a compliment to the superior address
of his partner, expressive of his reliance upon
her ability to rescue him from the fatal tendency of
his own errors.

It was quite perceivable that Prudence by no
means joined in this vituperation of her coadjutor;
but, on the contrary, frequently checked the license

of the other two, and said many things in extenuation
of his aberrations from the laws of the game.
Indeed, I thought she carried this vindication further
than his case required. But it never failed to produce
a grateful recognition from him, and a frequent
attempt to excuse himself upon the ground, that Miss
Prudence had herself to blame, as her conversation
was very much calculated to seduce such a tyro as
he was, from the proper study of his part in the play.
At all such sallies, Prudence looked modestly; readjusted
herself in her seat, and smiled upon the
poet.

Before the party broke up, the lady was quite animated.
Her demeanour was characterized by a certain
restless attempt at composure, and a singularly
vivacious kind of sobriety,—partly sentimental, partly
witty, and exceedingly lady-like. I will not say
she had designs upon the peace of our new guest,
but it looked prodigiously like it!

When she retired to her chamber, she was manifestly
under some serious or strange influences. It is
reported of her, that she sang one or two plaintive
songs; showed a slight disposition to romp, above
stairs, with Lucy and Vic; then she took a seat in
her open window, looked out on the moon, and
“fette a gentil sigh”—in the phrase of the lady of
the ballads. It is, moreover, reported, that she remained
in the window until long past midnight.
Something ailed her; but it was not told! Perhaps
some soft and blandishing vision floated before her
pensive eye; some form from the fairy world of her

imagination, at this hour wore its robes of light, and
careered upon the moonbeam, or bounded with the
silver ray along the tree-tops that fluttered in the
dewy breeze! or, perchance, in the deep shades of
the grove that slept in dark masses before her chamber
lattice, the spectres of her thought beckoned her
regards, and filled her mind with new and holy contemplations!
I am all unlearned in the mystery of so
serene a creature's secret communions; and it does
not become me to indulge conjecture upon such a
perilous question. I therefore content myself with
reporting the simple fact, that in that window she
sate, to all appearance doing nothing, until every
other sentient being at Swallow Barn was hushed in
sleep. What could it mean?

The next morning there was another phenomenon
exhibited in the family, equally strange. An hour
before breakfast, Prudence, arrayed with unusual
neatness, was seated at the piano, apparently beguiling
the early day with the rehearsal of a whole volume
of sonnets. This was an unwonted effort,
for her music had fallen, of late, into disrelish,—and
it had been supposed, for a year past, that she had
bidden a careless adieu to all its charms. But this
morning she resumed it with a spirit and a perseverance
that attracted the notice of all the domestics.
It boded, in their simple reckonings, some impending
disaster. Such a change in the lady's habits could
import no good! They intimated, that when people
were going to give up the ghost, such marvels were
the not unusual precursors of the event. “It was

as bad,” one of the servant maids remarked, “as to
hear a hen crow at night from the roost, and she
should'nt wonder if something was going to happen,
—a burying, or a wedding, or some such dreadful
thing!”

But Prudence was not melancholy. On the contrary,
she smiled, and seemed more cheerful than
ever.

After breakfast, Mr. Swansdown passed an hour
or two in the parlour, and fascinated the ladies by
the pleasantry of his discourse. He fell into a conversation
with Prudence upon literary topics, and
nothing could be more refreshing than to hear how
much she had read, and how passionately she admired!
It was hard to tell which was best pleased
with this comparison of opinions—it was so congenial!
Prudence proclaimed Cowper to be her favourite
bard, and that was exactly Swansdown's preference.
They both disliked the immorality of Byron,
and admired Scott. And both recited delicious lines
from “The Pleasures of Hope.”—“'Tis distance
lends enchantment to the view,” declaimed Swansdown,
following the line up with twenty more. “Tis
distance,” echoed Prudence,—as if it had been a simultaneous
thought,—and responded throughout, in
a softer voice, and with an enraptured eye, to the
whole recitation. Good souls! Delightful unison!
Why has cruel fate—Pooh! Nonsense! I shall grow
sentimental myself, if I say another word about
them!

Before noon, Swansdown's equipage was at the

door. Meriwether had arranged the examination of
the boundary line to take place on Wednesday next.
In the mean time, the belligerent parties, on either
side, were to make their hostile preparations.

With the most gracious condescension, the philosopher,
poet, patron, arbitrator, and aspiring statesman,
ascended his radiant car, and whisked away
with the brisk and astounding flourish that belongs
to this race of gifted mortals.