The Tennessean a novel, founded on facts |
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| 28. | CHAPTER XXVIII. |
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 | CHAPTER XXVIII. The Tennessean |  |
28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
“I was born and educated in England, and was an
only child.—My father was a poor curate in the parish
of —, in the county of Herfordshire. He was a man
of piety and learning, but having few friends, and those
proving treacherous and deceitful, he never was advanced.
He however kept a school, in which he taught the
common branches of learning, usually taught in country
schools; the profits of which, with the stipend of his curacy,
furnished him barely with the necessaries of life.
As his family was small, he might have laied up some
thing at the years end; but he was continually preyed
upon by the poor of his parish, and the generosity of his
nature (which he possessed even to weakness) led him,
contrary to the advice of his friends, to be not only the
supporter, but the dupe of many of his parishioners.
“My mother died when I was only three years of
age—I remember nothing of her. My father upon her
death, resolved never to marry, and kept his word. He
kept a house-keeper and gardiner, which with myself
constituted his family, though he was seldom without
company, which his hospitality never failed to entertain.
This was the case from the time I can remember, and
Margaret, the house keeper, has often told me that it had
always been the case, though she said, “if it had a been
her, she would a sent 'um away with a flea in their ear to
be eatin his honour out of house and home.”
“When I became old enough to learn, my father sent me
to a school mistress, who taught little children their letters,
and a b ab's, I remember very well the first morning
I was taken there by Margaret. I had a little book
with a red cover, I did nothing however but admire my
book, play with the children, and cry for my papa. In
a few days however, I began to learn and became reconciled
to the school.
“I remained there about eighteen months, when my father
removed me to his own school, where he taught me
all that he thought necessary on the score of literature.
“I was now thirteen years of age, and my father designing
to give me an opportunity of acquiring higher
accomplishments, sent me to a female boarding school
in the town of —.
“At this school I remained three years. I learned
needle-work, drawing, painting and music.
“At the end of three years, my father came to bring
me home, not being able to keep me there any longer.
This was a sore trial to me, as I had contracted friendships
with my young school mates. Though glad to see
my father, I wept bitterly upon taking leave of my
friends.
“My father strove to amuse me, by pointing out the
beautiful country seats through which we passed; this,
and the prospect of seeing aunt Margaret and old Daniel,
the gardener, served in a great measure to restore
my spirits. Old Daniel, with his hat under his arm,
met us at the gate; he was quite transported to see me.
`Why I had grown a big woman, and quite handsome; I
declare, why you'll be a match for some of our grandees,
who knows but you'll be a great lady yet, and take old
Dan to wait on you?'
“Margaret by this time had me in her arms, and such
wonders—I was grown to be sure, how high? let me
see? wants but half a head to be as tall as I. They
nearly tore me to pieces between them.
“I told Margaret I wanted something to eat.
“And I have as fat a turkey as ever you tasted, said
she, at the fire: it's been done these two hours. And I
have good ale of my own brewing, and master said it
wouldn't keep: but I knowed as how it would keep, by
putting a whir o' hops, and I've got pickles, and I've
got jam, and jellies, and sweet meats.
“Dear Margaret, said I, get any thing at all—I have
eat nothing since yesterday morning, which was true.
“We were scarcely seated at table, when the parishioners
hearing of my arrival, came pouring in upon me
without ceremony. I was really provoked with them
very glad to see them, had they not come in such crowds.
They, or at least a great many of them, staid till late:
eat and drank, and sending for a fiddle, tired as I was,
I was obliged to dance. The whole neighbourhood next
morning resounded with the praises of Miss Cary, for
Cary was the name of my father.
“In the meantime I was visited by many of the gentry
of the country; some of them I presume came merely
out of curiosity—many of them would, however, take
me home with them in their carriages. I was often called
on to sing, dance and play, but I gave myself no airs
on that account, for I knew whom I was—a poor man's
daughter.
While I remained at the female school, I had forgotten
much of the more essential parts of education; my father,
as I was fond of reading, put history, travels, and
natural and moral philosophy into my hands; I also reviewed
geography, English grammar, &c. My father
would suffer me sometimes to read a play, but would
never allow me to look into a novel; but, dear old man,
how often I cheated him—I read every novel I met with
at the houses of those I visited. The old gentleman,
however, seldom consented to the importunities of those
who often called for the purpose of taking me home with
them, and without his consent I never visited.
“About a year after I returned from school, I was
sitting with my father one night—the candle had just
been lighted, and each of us with a book were preparing
to read. It was a very dark night, neither moon nor
stars were to be seen. Margaret was in the parlour,
where we were sitting—after lighting the candle, she
must sweep the hearth for the second time.
“While she was figiting about, and my father sitting
with a book in his hand, looking over his spectacles at
her, to see when she would be done, we heard the trampling
of horses, and in the same instant somebody halloed
at the gate.
“Go,” said my father, “and see what they want. I
suspect it is somebody who have lost their way; I heard
hounds late this evening, and I'll be bound its some of
the sportsmen.”
“Margaret went to see what they wanted?
“They had missed their way, and wanted somebody
to put them into the road to Woodgrove.”
“She didn't know the road.”
“They bid her open the gate—and my father hearing
them ride up to the door, went to meet them.
“They begged the favour of him “to send some one
to put them in the road—it's so d—n dark,” said one of
them, “that we can't see our way.”
“I believe we'll alight and warm awhile; its quite
chilly this evening,” said one of them.
“My father did not invite him with that cordiality
he was wont to express generally, being disgusted with
his abrupt manners.
“He told them, however, “they were welcome to
warm, and he would likewise send his servant to put
them in the road.”
“I arose and saluted them when they entered the room,
and making room for them to approach the fire, I betook
myself to reading with perfect unconcern.
“The one who spoke at the door, looked at me some
time, and asked my father “if I was his daughter?”
“He replied that “I was.”
“D—n fine girl, faith! Old gentleman, how did it
happen that you have such a handsome daughter? she is
an angel, by G—d.”
“I turned my eyes upon him with a look of contempt.
By his dress he appeared to be a nobleman, and on that
account he presumed, no doubt, to take the liberty he
did.
“The other gentleman was an officer, from his uniform,
of an humble grade, and much more agreeable manners,
his countenance was prepossessing and modest, he blushed
at the insolent language of his companion, and seeing
their presence was by no means acceptable, he addressed
his companion with “Come my lord, let us ride.”
“D—n it Warberton don't be in such haste, it's as
dark as it will be.—Old gentleman I should like to hear
a little about your cirumstances and this young woman.
I can't believe she's your daughter.
“I am surprised, sir,” said my father, “to hear a
do,” adding with great warmth, “that though he was
poor he ought not to be insulted in his own house.”
“Hoity toity—you know but little of politeness or even
common sense, sir, (said my father with spirit) not to know
that what you call praise, is a gross insult. The servant
is ready, sir, to show you into the great road,” as
Daniel appeared, with a lanthorn in his hand.
“Well,” said his lordship, “I suppose we must go—
I'm sorry I affronted you, sir, but you'll make friends,
won't you?” offering his hand to my father, who took
the offered hand, saying “He was no man's foe.”
“That's clever, my old dad—I've come down to tarry
awhile amongst you. My estate lies not far from
here, and you must come and see me, old buck—I should
like to be better acquainted,” and giving me a significant
look, he bid me good night and started, his companion
following his example.
“I do not know that I ever was more hurt in my life,
except when I lost my husband. True, I have had more
serious cause of affliction, but I was better prepared to
meet it.
“The whole matter was explained the following day;
the clerk of the parish called in, as he frequently did,
to tell us the news. Well, what was it?—why lord D.
has come down to spend a few weeks at his estate, the
old lord, his father, is dead.
“They say he came down in a wonderful fine carriage,
and a heap of servants, and there's the greatest doings at
Woodgrove ever was heard on. Dorothy, the old house-keeper,
slipped down to our house last night to tell us
all about it. But she says he's no more like his father
than she is like the queen.
“She says her old lord always shook hands with her
and enquired how she had been and how old Busky was,
an old favourite dog, but as for her young lord, when
she met him at the door, and drapped a low curtesy, and
said “you're welcome my lord,” he just flew by her as
though she'd been a witch, with a “how fares ye, how
fares ye, old woman.
“I be afeared he'll be a tightsome lord—Lord, I hear
desired him to be ready with his books and papers by
the next morning.
“They say he's one of your ranting, haughty, extravagant
sort of men, that don't care what they do—
Why he was near running over old mother Barns
yesterday, if it hadn't a been that his horse took fright
at her as she screamed out for fear.” After much more
such talk, the loquacious clerk departed.
“My father appeared thoughtful all the morning, and
seeing him still inclined to silence after the clerk left us,
I first spoke—
“I don't like the character nor the appearance of our
new neighbour at all,” said father.
“Neither do I,” said Margaret; “but we must keep
this to ourselves.”
“I have no fears but for you my child. He has the looks
of a libertine, and how we are o behave to him I know
not, but to offend him would be certain ruin to us both,
he will certainly be here again, he has impudence enough
to bear him out.”
“I won't appear,” said I, “if he should come.”
“Ah, that would not do Martha, that would enrage
him, for you know that I could not tell him a falsehood,
and he would resent it as an insult were he to learn the
truth.
“I think you had better go and spend a few weeks at
Mr. Camel's, you will be safe there, and you can write
to me every mail or two, so get ready as quick as you
can, and take the stage in the morning.”
“I was quite charmed to hear this—I was fond of
Mr. Camel's family; it was one of those I had visited
since my return from school. To Mr. Camel's I went,
the distance being only seven miles, I arrived there before
dinner the next day.
“You may guess my surprise upon entering the house
to find the same gentleman there who was with lord D.
at my father's the preceding night. I was presented to
him in spite of my objections to the contrary. He was
a nephew of Mr. Camel, and a lieutenant in the army.
He had just got leave of absence a few days to visit his
him, with several other young men, from London
—his name was Warberton
“These particulars I had learned from Lucretia, the
eldest Miss Camel. I must confess I felt a partiality
for this young man at first sight, which perhaps only
arose from the contrast between him and his impertinent
companion.
“I was both pleased and sorry to meet this young man
—I was pleased, I could not tell why, and was sorry that
my purpose would be completely defeated, as through him
lord D. would discover my retreat. Shortly after my
arrival dinner was announced, and the Lieutenant and
myself were placed directly opposite to each other at
table.
“I dare say I never behaved so awkwark in my life;
I shall remember it while I live. I let my fork fall first,
and then my knife—I was so confused at these accidents
that when I was asked what I would have, I would say
sir, when I ought to have said madam.
“I never looked at Warberton during the time, and
the moment I could rise with decency I made my escape
—took one of the little girls with me and withdrew to
one of the chambers, fully determined not to appear at
the table while Warberton remained in the house.
“The two elder Miss Camels came into the chamber
shortly afterwards and would have had me return to the
parlour, but I refused, saying I was not very well, and
besides I did not like to be in company with strangers.
They insisted, but I positively refused—and they left
me.
“Their mother came in some time afterwards and
expressed much uneasiness that I was unwell. She sat
with me some time and then left me to prepare tea, saying
a cup of tea would relieve me.
“Now, thought I, I shall be obliged to appear, or affront
the family. When tea was ready the girls came
again, saying—
“You shall go, Martha, and take tea with the handsome
Lieutenant, he is in raptures with you, he related
the adventure of going to your house, and how impudent
enough to beat him for the language he used to you.
“Come, come along, it's nothing but a love fit, Martha,
nothing else in the world.”
“Come, fix your ruffles and curls neat,” said little
Ann, “I want you to look pretty.” I followed them to
the parlour, and took the remotest seat I could find.
“I had not been long seated before Warburton came
and sat down by me, observing, this was a pleasure
quite unexpected, that he little thought of seeing me
again so soon, and asked if I was not much displeased
at their intrusion at my father's.
“I replied that I was very much hurt at the impertinence
of lord D. as you call him.”
“I saw that you were hurt, which made me urge him
to depart. Indeed I objected to going in, but lord D.
seeing you by the light of the candle, which was burning
near you, whispered “Do you see that, Warberton? by
the Lord I'll go in, I don't care who lives here.”
“I told Warberton I hoped I should never see him
again. I had not uttered the last word before lord D.
was in the room! and almost at the same instant the servant
entered with tea. I took a cup, but my terror was
such at the sight of this hated man, that Warberton had
to take the cup out of my hand. I told him I believed
I would retire.
“Miss Cary, favour us with your presence,” said he,
“you will get over this presently.”
“In the meantime lord D. had saluted the rest of the
family, and stepping up to where we were, accosted
Warberton thus:
“By G—d Warberton you're in fine business—I fancy
you'll cut me out with the parson's daughter.”
“Warberton's face kindled at this, and without noticing
the vulgar observation, asked him “if he should
have the pleasure of making him acquainted with his uncle's
family?” and introduced him very coldly; after
which he took his seat again by my side, and asked lord
D. how he was so fortunate as to find the way; adding
that his presence was a pleasure quite unexpected.
“— Why, he just came on—sometimes he was right,
one road from another--I might as well have asked for
the man in the moon, as to ask for Mount-pleasant, (the
name of Mr. Camel's seat.) I missed it only a few
miles.”
“Mr. Camel, hearing this, asked if he had dined—
he had not, and a cold cheek was prepared for him in the
dining-room. I was glad to hear this, as I intended
once more to make my escape to my room. I observed
to Warberton that I would retire, and hoped he would
excuse me.
“He remarked (which was very true) that it would be
almost impossible to avoid lord D. while he remained in
the neighbourhood, and it was as well to come to an understanding
with him one time as another—that perhaps
he flattered himself too much, but if he did not he would
keep his seat, and if his lordship offered any disrespectful
language to me, he would affront him.”
“I objected to this, alleging that it would involve him
in a quarrel with lord D. perhaps, which would render
me unhappy. The word escaped me inadvertently, nor
did it escape the notice of Warberton. But before he had
time to reply I said, I would be very sorry on account of
Mr. Camel's family, to whom I was under many obligations.”
“Make yourself easy, madam,” said he, “his lordship
is no ways dangerous, I know him too well, and
he knows me full as well.”
“Lord D. having dined, returned to the parlour,
and throwing a sarcastic glance at Warberton, entered
into conversation with the elder Miss Camel. In short
in the course of an hour, getting up from his chair, he
approached Warberton, and accosted him with--
“Well, Warberton, I was going to invite you to ride
home with me, but I suspect your inclination leads you
to stay where you are, and by heavens if I was in your
shoes I would not see Woodgrove to-night.”
“You can do as you please, my lord,” said the other.
“Why, to tell the truth I would be glad of your company,
it's so cursed lonesome, that is, I don't wish to intrude
upon your time, Ned, or upon your pleasures, but
last night, no one else, Robertson and D. rode out in
the evening, they had not returned when I left home.”
“Well, order the horses,” said Warberton, “I'll
go.”
“While lord D. was absent, Warberton said he was
sorry to leave his uncle's that evening; but he would go
to get his lordship off, that he was the most unpleasant
acquaintance he had—he found it impossible to shake
him off to-day, and see, he has followed me; if he had
any delicacy he would not have come here without an
invitation.”
“Their horses came, and they left Mr. Camel's, and
again I was glad and sorry.
“They were hardly out of sight, when the Miss
Camels both observed “they were glad they were
gone.”
“Why he's the greatest fool I ever saw,” said Lucretia;
“but come into our chamber, Martha, I have something
to tell you.”
“I followed them into the room.
“You have come in good time, Martha; I was going
to send for you to assist me—I am afraid I will not be
ready in time. You must know that I am to be married
Thursday-week, and I wish you to assist me in getting
ready—and you must be bride's-maid too.”
“I felt rather in a delicate situation, and was afraid I
had intruded: and told them candidly “that I came up
to avoid Lord D—. I knew that it was expected Miss
Camel would be married to a gentleman whom I had
often seen there, but had no idea that it was so near.”
“Yes, indeed, and I am very glad you came to-day.
Cousin Ned is going to stay till it is all over with me,”
said she, laughing, “and so let us get to work. I am
glad they are gone, as they would only have hindered
us.”
“I wrote to my father in the first place, and then assisted
the ladies. All three sat down to sew; the old
lady was very busy arranging matters for the occasion.
We kept the little girl (Ann) to run errands for us, and
the old man amused us with funny stories.
“Every one was employed, from the oldest to the
youngest. The girls did rally me a little about Cousin
Ned: but we were too busily, and too seriously engaged
to spend our time in jesting.
“Hang that ugly lord,” said Sarah. (the second daughter)
“how impudent he looks—don't you hate him, Martha?”
“I told her “I certainly had very little love for him.”
“And he talked so impudent to Cousin,” said Ann,
“when he was sitting by Miss Martha; I could have
slapped his jaws. He thinks because he's a lord, he can
talk big—he's nothing but a fool for all his gold lace. I
always thought a lord was some grand thing—why, he
hasn't half as much sense as Cousin. If that be a lord,
keep lords from me.”
“Next morning, after breakfast, we had resumed our
work but a short time, before Warberton was announced.
“Now he will hinder us,” said Lucretia; “I wish he
had staid away until I had my robe trimmed.”
“We won't admit him,” said I—“let the old gentleman
keep him company.”
“I had hardly said this, when Warberton stood in
the chamber door.
“May I come in, ladies?”
“No, you must not, indeed Cousin,” said Sarah,
pushing him out. But it was all in vain.
“Why ladies,” said he, “you have a world of work
here,” after saluting, and seating himself. “I can sew
very well, give me a needle, I'll assist you,” taking up
some of the work.
“Get you gone—I wonder how you come to find us
out,” said Sarah.
“The old gentleman, who had been listening all the
while, now bolted in, laughing. “Why it was all my
doings, girls; I sent him—I wouldn't have missed the
fun for a crown.”
“In short, Wharberton remained there the whole
week, the most of his time in our company. None of us
enquired after lord D—, but little Ann; she asked
“how he was, and what he said?”
“Warberton answered “that he was well, and very
much pleased with his new acquaintances.”
“It's more than we are of him, then,” said Ann; “I'll
bet my life pa invites him to sister's wedding, and that's
just what he came for.”
“When we completed our work, which we did in five
days. I was forced to go home. I had clothes suitable
for the occasion, but not dreaming of such a thing, I
brought nothing but a few ordinary dresses from home.
“There was the carriage,” said Mrs. Camel, “Sarah
can go with you, and Ned will escort: he will go with
pleasure. I dare say. You can set out early in the morning—I'll
have an early breakfast, and you can return by
dinner; you will have no time to lose, for I dare say
when you come to look, you will have many things to fix
too.” This was Tuesday evening.
“I did not approve the plan altogether, as I thought
it might not please my father, to see me so young as I
was (only seventeen) so familiar with a stranger; however,
I made no objection, and we set out accordingly.
“When I arrived at home, I had to introduce War,
berton of course, to my father, and retiring to my chamber
with Sarah, procured such things as I wanted, and
was ready to return to Mr. Camel's in less than an hour.
“While I had been engaged in the chamber, my father
in a conversation he had with Warberton, discovered he
was the son of an old school-fellow of his youthful days,
and here was great joy at the discovery; but Sarah and
I broke in upon it, alleging there was no time to spare,
they would see each other again—for my father was to
ride his poney up at his leisure the same evening, as he
was to marry Miss Camel.
“We returned in time for dinner, and every thing
was got ready for the occasion, and as little Ann had
foretold, lord D— was invited, together with several
gentlemen who came with him from London, and some
from the neighbourhood, about twelve or thirteen in all,
and as many ladies, all strangers to me. Warberton
and myself were the attendants on the bride.—After the
ceremony, dinner, &c. was over, we all stood up to
dance; lord D— desired me for a partner, I was engaged
of course to Warberton.
“By G—d, he is a d—n clever fellow.”
“He said this, though not intentionally, in Warberton's
hearing.
“Not quite so clever as your lordship, but I am clever
enough to support my privilege,” said Warberton. No
reply was made, and the dance commenced, my lord providing
himself with a partner from among the guests.
“My feelings were much wounded in the course of the
evening, by the females of the party—`who is she?' `who
is she?' some would ask. `O, she is nothing but old
parson Cary's daughter.'—`Humph!' another would say,
`she gives herself a great many airs, to be-sure: I wonder
at the Camels for inviting the poor thing, she will
only expose herself.'
“This was heard both by Warberton and myself—I
was very near bursting into tears, made several blunders
in the dance, and would have made a great many
more, had it not been for my partner, who saw my confusion,
and knowing the cause, engaged me in conversation.
“I suppose I must tell the whole truth? said Mrs.
Cary, at this part of her story.
“Yes, indeed madam,” said Mary, “I know you have
slipped over a great deal already, that I would much
rather have heard than that which you have told, for I
am sure that lieutenant must have said many handsome
things to you while you were in the carriage together,
and during the five days you spent at Mrs Camel's.”
“Oh, its so long ago that I have forgotten, Mary.”
She resumed—
“While the ladies were indulging in their ill-natured
remarks, the gentlemen were engaged in those of a different
sort—`I'll swear she is an angel!'—`is she that
old man's daughter? why, I have been at his church often,
I never saw any one but himself, I thought he was an old
bachelor?'—`Oh, she was at school all her life, she was
never at home.'—`Who is that partner of hers? good-looking
fellow, they are in love with each other, I'll bet
my salvation'—`And I'll go you halves,' said another;
`but they had better have been asleep, for he will soon
be ordered to the East Indies, so I understand from his
grieve herself to death.'
“When we finished the set, I was glad you may be
sure—I said I was not well, and would walk into the
dining-room for air; Warberton led me thither, and persuaded
me to try a glass of wine. Whilst we remained
there, what I had expected took place—that was, that
he declared—”
“He was your devoted admirer,” said Mary, “for
you will never get it out yourself—now go on.”
“It was something like it,” said Mrs. Cary, and resumed,
“To be brief, I danced no more that night. I returned,
however, to the ball-room, and continued there about
an hour, with feelings none of the pleasantest. Lord
D— seeing me disengaged, approached, enquiring after
my health, and `would I honour him with my company
the next set?' and abundance of stuff.
“My replies were all short, cold, and decisive. He
turned off from me much displeased, and I continued to
look on for some time, when making an apology to Mrs.
Camel, I retired alone to my chamber, where I remained
until the company broke up.
“I should have been glad to have returned home the
next day, but the family would by no means consent.—
The following day, however, I would go home: my father
had returned the next after the wedding.
“Mrs. Chambers, (Miss Camel that was.) said, “we
will have an early dinner, and see you safe home.”
“After dinner, Mrs. Chambers, Sarah, and myself
got into the carriage, Mr. Chambers and Warberton on
horseback, and thus accompanied I reached home. The
ladies would not alight, fearing it would be late, and as
soon as Warberton assisted me out of the carriage, they
returned, and I determined not to leave home shortly.
I was very low-spirited all the evening.
“The East Indies ran in your head,” said Mary.
Mrs. Cary resumed—
“A great many things ran in my head, and that
amongst the rest. A little after dusk, just as I was
thinking of going to bed, who should knock at the door
been a hunting and thought the parson was alone, called
to chat awhile, told my father he had never been to see
him yet. I arose and went to my chamber, without a
word of apology, and went to bed. He had no attendant
whatever.
“Next day about ten o'clock Warberton came. After
some conversation between him and my father, he told
me he was going to London, and could not depart without
coming to take leave; he said a great deal more, for
he spent the day there.
“Next morning, however, he set out for London. When
he was about to depart, I requested him, as he was going
by lord D's. to take him back with him to London, and
informed him of his intrusion the preceding evening.
“He replied, that if it would give me pleasure, he
would be happy to comply with my request.
He inforded me he would return in the course of two
weeks, that his honour was pledged to return by a certain
time to London, or he would not have left his uncles'
so soon.
The two weeks passed, and two weeks more, without
my seeing Warberton. Meanwhile, my father suspecting
an attachment, I confessed the truth. He was certainly
the tenderest of parents, or it would have gone much
harder with me than it did.
Instead of chiding as most parents would have done,
he endeavoured to sooth and comfort me.
Lord D. still remained at his seat, or galloping over
the country, rather, with his hounds and his hunting, to
the great annoyance of the poor.
He would often call at my father's, and try to draw me
into conversation, which I repelled with the utmost disdain.
One morning however, he called and asked me if
I had heard from Warberton since he went to London?
I answered I had not. He has gone to the East Indies,
said he —His company was ordered there last week—
poor Warberton, he is a good soul, but he will hardly
live to return—the climate there makes great havoc of
our people.
After he uttered this speech, which nearly annihilated
with a brutal triumph, and shortly left the house.
Although Warberton had never hinted any thing of
the sort to me, yet upon revolving every circumstance
in my mind. I concluded that it must he true, and probably
he had not heard of his destination when he left our
neighbourhood; but that he should quit the country
without letting us know, without writing, was unaccountable!
You will all guess how I felt upon hearing
this intelligence.
My father was alarmed for my situation, and strove
by every argument in his power to reconcile me, remarking
what he had always done, that this was a world of
sorrow, and begged of me to be patient, and resigned to
the will of my maker.
I think it was a week after hearing this news, my father
and myself had been sitting up reading, the clock
had struck nine—my father had laid down his book and
glasses.
Old Margaret had a wine posset sitting by the fire
for him to drink upon lying down, as he complained of a
cold.
Lord D. (our daily visitor, the clerk informed us) set
out for London, perhaps the next day from that on which
he communicated the unpleasant news.
Old Margaret having arranged every thing for the
night, was in the act of pulling off my father's stockings,
and I had set off to my chamber, when a bold wrap at
the door alarmed us. The door was opened by Margaret,
and Warberton entered!
He apologized for intruding, and said that he arrived
late at the next village, where he had left his
horses, and walked across the fields afoot, being anxious
to know how we were.
My father observed, when you entered the house, I
could'nt tell whether it was you or your ghost, as we
heard you had sailed to the Indies.
He replied that he came very near it, but I suspect
you received a letter (addressing himself to me) which
explained my situation.
“No I received no letter,” said I. He was amazed.
“No letter!”
“No.”
“Well that exceeds all the rest!” he exclamed, and
seemed for some time lost in thought.
At length he resumed, as it is late, I will return to the
village, and call in the morning.
My father objected, telling him he would send Daniel
to see about his horse—he must be tired, and must tarry
all night.—Go, said my father to Margaret, and prepare
supper.
He had supped at the tavern, and expressed something
about giving trouble.
Make yourself happy, said my father, we are lonesome
—the obligation will be on our side, and he consented to
stay.
Margaret was desired to prepare a bed, and he retired
to his chamber, and I to mine.
Next morning he gave us the following account:—
“When I went to London, I was surprised to find
the regiment to which I belonged, under marching
orders to the East Indies. The Colonel of my regiment,
had changed places with another Colonel, who with his
regiment were actually ordered to the East Indies before
my visit to see my uncle Camel; and this new arrangement,
had just taken place the day before my arrival
in the city.
“I sought my Colonel, and remonstrated against
such proceeding, saying “I would resign rather than
go.”
“He advised me to get a man to take my place—that
several of the officers had already done so—he would aid
me with his interest, and perhaps for a small sum, I
might prevail on some of the officers, then under him, to
take my place. Money, he said, he had not, but he would
do any thing else in his power.
“I went to my new Colonel, and obtained a parole for
a week or ten days. I found great difficulty in obtaining
this leave, it took up several days.
“I had a maiden aunt in the cuntry, who was very fond
of me, and as she, I knew, could assist me though very
covetous; yet I expected, rather than see me go to the
she did. She gave me five hundred pounds, and I returned.
“My old Colonel and myself next thing obtained a
man, or at least his promise, to go in my stead, for
which I was to give him three hundred pounds. Then he
set sail. It was after this arrangement I wrote to you.
“I waited on my new Colonel, and gave him to understand
my determination not to march with the regiment,
and that I had provided a person to take my place.
“He replied, that I ought not to be quite so sure; he
didn't think he could let me off.
“In short, after much perplexity and trouble, I sold
my commission, and have bid adieu to the army.
“Before I left London, however, I learned that lord
D. was at the bottom of the whole, and it has been
through his means, no doubt, that the letter has been
purloined; for he was base enough to bribe my servant
in cases of equal turpitude.” Warberton finished his
story, and many others, which it is needless to dwell on:
and waving other particulars, we were married not long
afterwards, resolving to encounter every difficulty.
“We, however, had prospects on both sides; Warberton
expected to inherit the property of his old covetous
aunt already named, which he did—and my father had
expectations of a similar sort from an uncle of his, who
lived in Boston, a very old man and a very great miser:
he was his grand-uncle, had never been married, and
would not have given a dollar from all accounts, to have
saved the lives of a whole parish.
“We lived with my father, though Warberton rented
a small piece of ground, which he would often cultivate
himself, while I would sit under a shade hard by. In
the course of a year I was the mother of a beautiful
boy.” Here she became extremely affected. “When
he was about a year old, which was nearly two years
after our marriage, my husband's aunt died, and
left him, exclusive of some trifling legacies, the whole of
her estate: which though not more than half as much as
he had conjectured, amounted (furniture and all) to eleven
hundred peunds, but we owed nearly half of the sum.
“However, in about six months the old miser in Boston
died, and my father understood by letter, that he had
bequeathed him two valuable houses, a large quantity of
goods, and ten thousand dollars in cash. Here again
we were disappointed; we had expected three times as
much—but he had thought proper to endow public institutions
with it.
“My father and my husband now concluded to remove
to the United States as quick as possible, and pursue the
mercantile business there without delay. It was settled
that my father should go, as the heir, and take possession
of the property in America, and my husband and I
could follow as soon as we could make final arrangements
for quitting England forever. This was in the
fall, and we determined to sail in the spring.
“Accordingly, my father left England and arrived
safe in Boston. We set sail in March following, and
had a favourable voyage until we arrived at Newfoundland,
when a dreadful storm arose, in which the ship
and cargo was lost, and only four persons escaped.
“Had we taken to the boat at the beginning of the
tempest, I am of the opinion we could all have been saved,
as we were not far from land; but the captain
thought there was no danger, when the ship in an instant
of time, was dashed to pieces. The boat, however, was
got into the water, and my husband ran to give the child
out of his hands to assist me into the boat, and I never
saw him since. The moment he left me, a sailor caught me
by the arm and cried out, `bear a hand here,' and assisted
by another he lifted me into the boat, and jumped in
at the same instant with three others, when the boat was
swept from the ship by a wave mountain-high, before
another soul got in, and the last I heard of the ship was
that she was going down.
“The second wave, however, dashed the boat against
a rock, shivered it to pieces, and we gave ourselves up
for lost. I caught hold of one of the sailors, as he says,
though I remember nothing of it, and begged of him
not to leave me: for they had seen a light as they
thought, while they were taking breath, and the next
wave swept them from the boat and threw them on the
the generous creature never offered to disengage me;
four of us only escaped, one, if there was one, was
drowned. We were hospitably entertained by the people
of the island, who lived in wretched hovels, and had
very few of the comforts of life.
“About six o'clock in the morning, the wind ceased,
and these people ventured out to see what discovery they
could make. They were out all day; when they returned,
what I related was confirmed. They saw nothing
but a few spars of the ship floating on the surface of
the water.
“I spent two days on the Island, and during the time,
the kindness I received from the man who saved my life,
was never exceeded.
“I was in every respect an object of pity, it being
but a short time after that calamity, before I had Martha.
“We now set sail for Boston—my kind friend whom
I wished to reward, attended me thither. In the meantime,
my father had received news, that the Phœnix[1]
was
wrecked, and every soul lost. You may guess his joy
at our meeting—he devoted all his attention to me.
“Being very ill when I landed, three of the best physicians
in the place attended me night and day.—Martha
was born the sixth day after I landed.
“I recovered very slow, it was six or seven weeks before
I left my chamber.
“My father wrote often to St. Johns' to enquire about
the fate of the Phenix. All the intelligence he obtained,
was that the whole was lost. Being bereaved of my
husband and son, I resumed the name of Cary.
“My father never enjoyed his health after he came to
America. I shall always think, that the shock he received
at the news of our having perished at sea, was ultimately
the cause of his death.
“He lamented deeply the death of my husband, and
still more his little Cyrus, which was my son.
“The business of a merchant, required more application
than he was able to bestow; and besides, he was
claim against the estate he inherited. At length he
sold out his stock, and quit the business of merchant.
“It was with infinite grief, I saw him gradually sinking
to the grave, which he did in about six years after
he came to the United States.
“Meanwhile, the law suit was still pending, nor was
it determined until about four years since, when it went
against my father's estate, though I have all the reason
in the world to believe, that had justice been done, and
the proper attention been paid to it, he would have proved
successful.
“I was now thrown poor, and destitute, on a pitiless
world. I had bestowed on Martha, the best education
the country afforded—my whole attention had been devoted
to her.
“We were now stripped almost of every thing. I had
to give up the house; what money I had, was spent in
defending the suit, and the property hardly paid the cost.
Martha and I, had our clothes and jewels, and about
fifty or sixty dollars in cash; we were however blessed
with health, and bore the misfortune better than might
be expected.
“I rented a small house, and Betsey Watson, whom
I had almost reared in my family, Martha, and myself,
took in work, and maintained ourselves comfortably, and
in this humble situation it was Mary, that fortune and
my son, as I may now call him, brought you to my
home.”
Mrs. Cary having finished her narrative, Mary, as
though she wished to dispel the melancholy impressions
it occasioned, observed, “You forgot to tell us, madam,
what lord D. said, and how he behaved, when his treacherous
plan was defeated—of all things I should like to
have seen him then.”
“His disappointment was a complete triumph.”
Mrs. Cary replied, “I never heard, but lord D. was
a notorious coward—Warberton had saved him from being
caned, a few days only prior to their visit to Woodgrove,
by taking up the quarrel himself; and although
he was convinced to a certainty that lord D. and no other,
arrangement of the army—he never resented it, at least
to my knowledge, as in the first place he conceived lord
D. beneath his notice, and in the second place it would
have displeased my father.”
Thus ended Mrs. Cary's narrative of her eventful
life. It was evident from her modesty and extreme
sensibility, she suppressed those parts of it which would
have rendered it more entertaining. It was, however,
very moving, and frequently drew tears from some of us
—we were silent several minutes, when it was interrupted
by my uncle, who fetching a deep sigh, said—
“Let's have some wine—these seas have been a sore
scourge to us all—albeit it seems as 'twere ordained.
—'Didn't think any body so bereav'd as myself—”
I broke in upon him here, by telling Jinkins “he must
entertain us, agreeably to promise, the next evening with
the particulars of his life.”
“Ah,” said my uncle, “Dick 'll have to get me to
help him out wi' his story.”
| CHAPTER XXVIII. The Tennessean | |