University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
AN INTERLUDE.

About the same hour of the night when Hafen
Blok was regaling his circle of auditors in the porch
at Swallow Barn, it fell out that two sympathetic
souls, who have frequently been brought to view in
this narrative, were weaving closer the network of
sentimental affinities in a quiet conference in one of
the chambers at the Brakes. As this contemporary
incident may serve to give my readers some insight
into the family history, I will relate it as it was told
to me by Harvey Riggs; only premising that Harvey
is somewhat dramatic in his nature, and therefore
apt to put words into the mouths of his actors,
which, if the matter were investigated, it might be
discovered that they never spoke. Be that as it
may, if the story be not a positive fact, (Harvey
makes a distinction between a positive and a simple
fact,) it is at least founded on a real event.

The bustle attending the negotiation of the treaty
that had just been concluded by our plenipotentiaries
at the Brakes, had subsided, upon the departure of
the Swallow Barn cavalcade, into an unusual calm.
The family retired from the tea table with a sedateness
that might be ascribed to exhausted spirits;
and, what was most worthy of observation, Swansdown,

neglectful of his customary assiduities, relinquished
the company of the ladies, and sauntered
with Mr. Tracy towards the backdoor, where, in a
chair inclined against a column of the portico, he
fixed himself, with one foot resting against the front
bar, and with his right leg thrown across his left
knee in such fashion as to point upwards at an angle
of forty-five; and in this posture he incontinently
launched into a long, prosing discourse with Mr.
Tracy, who sat opposite to him, that lasted, for
aught I know, three hours or more. He was tuned
to too high a key for light company. The achievement
of the award had wrought him into that state
of self-complacency that generally attends upon ambition
when saturated with a great exploit. He had
done a deed of mould, and was pleased to float upon
the billow of his vanity, high borne above all frivolous
things.

This humour did not pass unobserved, nor, perhaps,
unresented: for as soon as affairs had fallen
into the posture I have described, Prudence Meriwether
and Catharine Tracy, in an apparently careless
spirit, set to walking up and down the hall, and
afterwards sallied forth, amidst the lingerings of the
twilight, upon the open hill side, and, with no better
protection against the damps of the evening than
their handkerchiefs thrown across their shoulders,
strolled at a snail's pace towards the river; and
talked—heaven knows what!—or, at least, they
only know, who know what ruminative virgins, on
river banks at dewy eve, are wont to say.

It was nine by the clock,—or even later,—when

they returned to the front door and sat down upon
the steps, still intent upon the exchange of secret
thoughts. After a brief space, they rose again, and
with locked arms stepped stately through the hall,
to and fro. Still the interminable Swansdown pursued
his incessant discourse. Another interval, and
the two ladies slowly wended their way up stairs,
and in the eastern chamber, looking towards the
river, lighted by a solitary taper that threw a murky
ray across the room, they planted their chairs at the
window; beneath which, until late at night, was
heard a low, murmuring, busy note of ceaseless
voices, like the flutter of the humming-bird in a wilderness
of honeysuckles.

Harvey pretends that the subject of this long
communing between our thoughtful dames had a
special regard to that worthy personage whom but
now my reader has seen seated at the porch, with
his foot as high as his head. I have said somewhere
that Prudence was oratorical; and, indeed, I have
heard it remarked that the ladies of the Old Dominion,
in general, are not sparing of their tropes.
Upon that subject I have no opinion to give, but
leave the world to draw its own conclusions from
the following authentic conversation; authentic as
far as Harvey Riggs is a credible witness.

It is characteristic of Prudence Meriwether,—as
it is of sundry other ladies of my acquaintance,—to
throw the whole fervour of her imagination into the
advocacy of any favourite opinion. The glow of
her feelings is, of course, reflected upon her subject,
and the glow of her subject is again reflected back

upon her feelings; and thence, backward and forward
successively, until the greatest possible degree
of heat is obtained by the process; exactly as we
see the same result produced between two concave
mirrors. It seems to me that an attentive observation
of this phenomenon may go a great way to explain
the mystery of a love affair.

The present theme was one of those upon which
Prudence was wont to expatiate with a forcible
emphasis. Her rhetoric might be said to be even
hyperbolical, and her figures of speech were certainly
of the most original stamp. First, she gave an inventory
of Swansdown's gentle qualities. “He was
amiable, mild, soft and polished.” Then again,
“his voice was silvery, his motion graceful, his manners
delicate.” In this enumeration of dainty properties
she sometimes paused to ask Catharine if she
did not think so.

Catharine thought exactly so.

“There was a gravity in his demeanor,” said Prudence,
“which gave authority to his presence, and
seemed to rebuke familiarity; and yet it was so
mixed up with the sallies of a playful imagination,
that it won the good opinion of the world almost by
stealth.”

“He is very generally respected,” said Catharine.

Prudence continued the catalogue with increasing
warmth; and although Catharine was not so figurative,
she was not less energetic in her panegyric.
She not only echoed Pru's sentiments, but even magnified
their proportions. Where two persons agree,
the debate must be short. Such congeniality of

thinking occludes discussion, and the two ladies,
therefore, travelled rapidly through the inventory.

Prudence rose to the height of the stature of his
mind, and descanted upon his abilities.

“He had the art,” she said, “to impart a charm
to the dullest subjects. His discrimination was intuitive,
and facilitated his journey through the mazes
of research, like one that wandered over a shorn
meadow. Who but a man of genius could unravel
the occult darkness of the boundary line, and shed
certainty, in one day, upon an important question, in
opposition to all the courts and all the lawyers of a
state that boasted of both? with that forensic jurist
Mr. Wart (manifestly prejudiced against his opinion,)
on the other side! There was a moral romanticity
in it. It was like casting a spell of “gramarie”
over his opponents. The world would talk of
this thing hereafter!”

“It is very surprising,” muttered Catharine.

“Think of it, my dear!” cried Prudence. “The
country, before long, will discover his dormant talents,
and he will be compelled to forego his reluctance
to guide the destinies of his native state.”

“It can be nothing but his modesty,” rejoined
Kate, “that keeps him in the back ground now.
He never would have been beaten three times for
congress, if he had not been so diffident.”

“He is what I denominate emphatically,” said
Prudence, “a man of lofty sentiments: nothing sordid,
nothing paltry, nothing tawdry, nothing—”

“Nothing,” replied Kate, “nothing of the sort.”

“Such sound opinions!”

“And spoken in such chaste language!”

“Such a strain of charity! such a beautiful commingling
of the virtues that mollify, with the principles
that fortify, the heart!”

“Such a rare union!” echoed Kate.

Never has the world seen more perfect harmony
than that which ruled in the counsels of our two
damsels.

At length they fell into a speculation upon the
question, why he did not marry. Women consider,
very naturally, life to be a sort of comedy, and constantly
look to see the hero pairing off by way of
preparation for the catastrophe. They agreed that
there were not many of the sex who would not think
themselves blessed by an overture from Mr. Swansdown.
But it was allowed that he was fastidious.
It resulted from the peculiar nature of his organization.

“I confess,” said Prudence, “it puzzles me. It is
one of the inexplicable arcana of human action that
I cannot dissolve.”

“Nor I, neither,” replied Kate.

“There are men,” said Miss Meriwether, “of
such attenuated fibre, that they shrink at the rude
touch of reality. They have the sensitiveness of the
mimosa, and find their affections withering up where
the blast of scrutiny blows too roughly upon them.
Such a man is Singleton.”

“I believe that is very true,” rejoined Miss Tracy;
“and besides, I think Mr. Swansdown is a little
dashed by being refused so often.”

To this succeeded a shrewd inquiry as to what
was his present purpose.

“For,” said Prudence, “it is quite clear to me
that he mediates an important revolution in his
fate.”

“On my word, Prudence, I have lately taken up
the same idea.”

“There is something,” continued Prudence, “in
his thoughts that disturbs him. He is variable, vacillating
and visionary: sometimes, you would suppose,
all mirthful exuberance,—if you were governed
by the beaming expression of his face,—but, when he
speaks, it is only to say some common-place thing,
with an air of earnestness, that shows his thoughts to
be looking upon some invisible idea. He is, at other
times, so pensive, that one would think `melancholy
had marked him for her own.' What can it signify?”

“Can he have taken a religious turn?” asked Kate,
with an air of wonder.

“No,” replied the other, thoughtfully. “It has the
fitfulness of genius distracted by its own emotions.
It is not religion: we should wish it were so. But it
is not that. It is the aspen agitation of sensibility.
An imaginative temperament recreating amidst the
attractive creations of its own handiwork.”

“Oh, Prudence! how much that is like Swansdown
himself?”

“I think,” returned Miss Meriwether, “I have
studied his character well. There is a kindred congeniality
in our natures, which attaches me to his eccentricities.
My life has been a tissue of similar emotions.
And, to tell you the truth, my dear Catharine,
I fancy he recognizes some affinity between us. I

perceive that when he is anxious to share his
thoughts with a friend, he flies to me; and it strangely
happens, that some secret instinct brings us into
that holy confidence, where friendship puts on its
garb of naked simplicity, and ideas flow together on
the same high road, without reserve.”

“Indeed! I did not know you were so intimate
with Mr. Swansdown. It is strange it should have
escaped me.”

“Why, it was a sudden thing. It is wonderful to
think how long two spirits may associate in the same
sphere without striking upon that chord which undulates
in unison in the hearts of both. But for an
accidental walk we took three or four mornings ago,
before breakfast, I doubt if I should ever have been
brought to that effulgent conviction which I entertain
of his high qualities. And, take him altogether,
Kate, I think him a timid man. He is even timid in
his intercourse with me; although he passes almost
every unoccupied moment in my company.”

“I did not think him timid,” said Kate.

“Oh, I am sure that he is so, my dear! To tell
you the truth, with that frankness which should preside
over the breathings of inviolable friendship, I have
no question, from his manner, that he has something
of a very delicate nature to communicate to me.”

“No! Prudence! You don't think so! My dear,
you deceive yourself. You are entirely mistaken in
his views. Indeed, I know you are,” cried Catharine
with energy.

“Indeed, I am sure I am not, Kate. I have it in
every thing but words.”

“Then,” said Kate with emphasis, “there's no
faith in man!”

“Why not, my dear Catharine?”

“It is of no consequence,” replied the other, in a
tremulous, murmuring voice. “The thing is not
worth investigating. From any other lips than
yours, Pru, I never would have believed that Swansdown
harboured a deceitful thought. Well, I wish
you joy of your conquest. I renounce—”

“Heavens, Catharine! Do I understand you right?
What a dreadful truth do you divulge to my mind!
I comprehend your silence, my dearest Catharine,
and do not ask an explanation, because I see it all.
This is one of the cruelest bolts that Fate has treasured
up in her quiver in order that she might launch
it at a heart consecrated by its sensibility, and torn
by misfortune.”

“What shall we do, my dear Prudence? I am all
amazement!”

“Do! What ought we to do, but banish him from
our favour as a false-hearted minion; banish him to
the antarctic circle of our regard, and fix upon him
the indelible stain of our contempt? From this moment
I discard him from my heart.”

“And I from mine,” said Catharine.

“Now we are free,” cried Prudence. “Is it not
lucky that we have had this interview?”

“Most fortunate. But are you sure, my dear Prudence,
that you have not made some mistake? Do
you think he seriously aimed at entrapping your affections?”

“Sure, my love! He did every thing that man
could do, and said every thing that man could say,

short of falling on his knee and offering me his
hand.”

“What unparalleled perfidy! When I contrast
what you tell me with what I know, and for seven
long months have so frequently experienced—”

“For seven months?”

“For seven months, believe me, my dear Prudence,
for seven months.”

“Why he told me, Catharine, only this morning,
that he never could grow intimate with you. That
you had a reserve in your manners that repelled all
advances; that—”

“Good heavens! does Swansdown say so? There
is a hypocrisy in that, my dear Prudence, that shocks
me. He has had some sinister design in this falsehood.”

“Oh! forbear, Catharine. Do not mention it. I
always thought him somewhat worldly-minded; a
little hollow-hearted. He shows it in the expression
of his countenance.”

“Particularly,” replied Catharine, “about the eyes,
when he smiles. Do you know, I always suspected
him. I have a perfect horror of a man of extravagant
professions, and have often doubted the sincerity
of Swansdown.”

“Sincerity! Let not the word be profaned by wedding
it with his name. It is plain, that all those deep
and solemn emotions by which he vainly endeavoured
to wrench from me—yes, to wrench from me, my
affections, were nothing more than the false glitter
that plays about the sunny summit of unsubstantial
deceit.”

“But when you tell me,” said Catharine, interrupting

her friend, “that he has made an assault upon
your affections, I am lost in amazement. He has
twenty times insinuated to me, that although he
thought you a woman of some pretensions, yet you
were the last woman in the world that could interest
his regard. He said he thought your manners
unnatural, and your tone of feeling superficial. I recollect
his very words.”

“What reason have I to be thankful,” exclaimed
Prudence, clasping her hands, “that I have escaped
the snare he has infused into my cup! He has been
lavish of expedients to entrap me. Would you believe
it, Catharine, he has actually written a long,
and, I must do him the justice to say, talented letter,
depicting the misery of the Greek matrons, and their
devotion to the cause of their country, with a view to
gratify me, and inspire me with a loftier sentiment of
admiration for him. He was aware of my zeal in
that cause.”

“The Greeks!” said Catharine. “Does he pretend
to be an advocate for the cause of the Greeks? His
precise words to me were, that he thought the Greeks
the most barbarous, the most uninteresting, and the
vilest wretches in the world.”

“The infidel! the preposterous man! What a fatal
mildew must have struck its fangs into the understanding
and the heart of the wretch that uttered
such a sentiment! And then, what immeasurable
hypocrisy must have varnished his face, whilst his
pen traced his appeal to the sensibilities of Virginia
in behalf of the suffering patriots!

“It could not have been his own,” replied Catharine.

“Indeed, I should doubt it myself,” said Prudence,
“if it were not remarkable for those meretricious ornaments
of style that disfigure even the best of his
effusions. It has, however, the marks of the beast
upon it. You may very easily see that it abounds
in those vicious decorations that betray a false taste,
those turgid, inflated, bombastic, superfluous redundancies
that sparkle out in his compositions, like the
smothered embers of an extinguished furnace.”

“I think,” added Catharine, “that it will invariably
be found that a bad heart —”

“Yes, my dear, that is perfectly true: a bad heart
never puts pen to paper, but its guardian imp stands
at its elbow, and infuses into the composition his corrupt
effluvia. And had he the assurance to say that
he thought my manners unnatural?”

“Yes; he said you were stiff and formal, and almost
inaccessible.”

“That shows his poverty of thought, Catharine;
for he made use of the same terms in reference to
you.”

“He said he thought it strange, too,” continued
Catharine, “that you should fancy you were doing
good by circulating tracts. He observed this was
another of your follies; that these tracts —”

“And so he had the effrontery to attack the
Tract Society!”

“He had, and went further; he remarked that
the society was a mere invention to give employment
to busy-bodies and country-gossips.”

“Heavens and earth! had he the rashness to
question my motives?”

“To be sure he had; and called you one of the
immaculates.”

“Then, I am done with man. Depend upon it,
Catharine, the sex is not to be trusted. There is a
natural propinquity—proclivity I mean—in this baser
part of creation, to undervalue all that is glorious.
I never saw one man whose impulses were not essentially
wicked.”

“Nor I, neither, except my father,” replied Catharine.

“Of course, I except my brother Frank,” said
Prudence. “Henceforward I abjure the sex.”

“I think I will too,” said Catharine in a lower
tone.

“Well now, Catharine,” continued Miss Meriwether,
“it becomes us to take a decided part in
reference to this Mister Swansdown.”

“What do you propose, Pru?”

“To treat him with that cutting coldness that we
both so well know how to assume.”

“I don't think we ought to make him of so much
importance.”

“My dear,” said Prudence, after a moment's hesitation,
“perhaps you are right. There is nothing
puffs up these lords of creation so much as to find
our sex guilty of the weakness of even the homage
of contempt. Suppose we indicate to him by our
manner that we have unveiled his treachery, and
show him, that although it has been the labour of
his life to insinuate himself into our good opinion,
we regard him as an object of perfect indifference.”

“As one,” added Catharine, “whose ways were
known to us.”

“Whose fate,” said Prudence, in continuation,
“is a subject that has never occupied our thoughts.”

“Whose duplicity has failed of its aim,” said
Catharine.

“Whose tergiversation and ambidexterity have
alike excited our ridicule,” replied Prudence.

“Agreed! let us do so,” continued Catharine;
“how shall we manage it?”

“By our looks, my dear Catharine! I will look into
the deepest recesses of his heart with a glance,
and wither him into a spectacle of scorn.”

“Looks may do a great deal,” replied Catharine,
“and I will regulate my demeanor by yours.”

“The heathen! the Turk! the pretender! the
cormorant!” said Miss Meriwether.

“I am glad we have found him out!” cried Miss
Tracy.

“Let us retire to rest my dear,” said the other.
“Let us to our prayers, and be thankful that we
have escaped these impending dangers.”

For a while, all was silent. But at midnight
again, and long afterwards, a buzzing sound of suppressed
voices was heard from the chamber.