University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Bred up amid privation, and tutored as much by
its necessities as by a careful superintendence, Bess
Matthews was a girl of courage, not less than of feeling.
She could endure and enjoy; and the two capacities

were so happily balanced in her character, that,
while neither of them invaded the authority of the
other, they yet happily neutralized any tendency to excess
on either side. Still, however, her susceptibilities
were great, for at seventeen the affections are not apt
to endure much provocation; and deeply distressed
with the previous scene, and with that gentleness
which was her nature, grieved sincerely at the condition
of a youth, of whom she had heretofore thought so
favourably—but not to such a degree as to warrant the
hope which he had entertained, and certainly without
having held out to it any show of encouragement—she
re-entered her father's dwelling, and immediately proceeded
to her chamber. Though too much excited
by her thoughts to enter with her father upon the topic
suggested by Harrison, and upon which he had dwelt
with such emphasis, she was yet strong and calm
enough for a close self-examination. Had she said or
done any thing which might have misled Hugh Grayson?
This was the question which her fine sense of
justice, not less than of maidenly propriety, dictated
for her answer; and with that close and calm analysis
of her own thoughts and feelings, which must always
be the result of a due acquisition of just principles in
education, she referred to all those unerring standards
of the mind which virtue and common sense establish,
for the satisfaction of her conscience, against those
suggestions of doubt with which her feeling had assailed
it, on the subject of her relations with that person.
Her feelings grew more and more composed as the
scrutiny progressed, and she rose at last from the
couch upon which she had thrown herself, with a heart
lightened at least of the care which a momentary doubt
of its own propriety had inspired.

There was another duty to perform, which also had
its difficulties. She sought her father in the adjoining
chamber, and if she blushed in the course of the
recital, in justice to maidenly delicacy, she at least did
not scruple to narrate fully in his ears all the particulars
of her recent meeting with Harrison, with a sweet

regard to maidenly truth. We do not pretend to say
that she dwelt upon details, or gave the questions and
replies—the musings and the madnesses of the conversation—for
Bess had experience enough to know
that in old ears, such matters are usually tedious
enough, and in this respect, they differ sadly from
young ones. She made no long story of the meeting,
though she freely told the whole; and with all her
warmth and earnestness, as Harrison had counselled,
she proceeded to advise the old man of the dangers
from the Indians, precisely as her lover had counselled
herself.

The old man heard, and was evidently less than
satisfied with the frequency with which the parties met.
He had not denied Bess this privilege—he was not
stern enough for that; and, possibly, knowing his
daughter's character not less than her heart, he was by
no means unwilling to confide freely in her. But still
he exhorted, in good set but general language, rather
against Harrison than with direct reference to the intimacy
between the two. He gave his opinion on that
subject too, unfavourably to the habit, though without
uttering any distinct command. As he went on and
warmed with his own eloquence, his help-mate,—an
excellent old lady, who loved her daughter too well to
see her tears and be silent—joined freely in the discourse,
and on the opposite side of the question: so
that, on a small scale, we are favoured with the glimpse
of a domestic flurry, a slight summer gust, which
ruffles to compose, and irritates to smooth and pacify.
Rough enough for a little while, it was happily of no
great continuance; for the old people had lived too
long together, and were quite too much dependant on
their mutual sympathies, to suffer themselves to play
long at cross purposes. In ceasing to squabble, however,
Mrs. Matthews gave up no point; and was too
much interested in the present subject readily to forego
the argument upon it. She differed entirely from
her husband with regard to Harrison, and readily sided
with her daughter in favouring his pretensions. He had

a happy and singular knack of endearing himself to
most people; and the very levity which made him
distasteful to the pastor, was, strange to say, one of
the chief influences which commended him to his lady.

“Bess is wrong, my dear,” at length said the pastor,
in a tone and manner meant to be conclusive on the
subject—“Bess is wrong—decidedly wrong. We
know nothing of Master Harrison—neither of his
family nor of his pursuits—and she should not encourage
him.”

“Bess is right, Mr. Matthews,” responded the old
lady, with a doggedness of manner meant equally to
close the controversy, as she wound upon her fingers
from a little skreel in her lap, a small volume of the
native silk.[1] —“Bess is right—Captain Harrison is a
nice gentleman—always so lively, always so polite,
and so pleasant.—I declare, I don't see why you don't
like him, and it must be only because you love to go
against all other people.”

“And so, my dear,” gently enough responded the
pastor, “you would have Bess married to a—nobody
knows who or what.”

“Why, dear me, John—what is it you don't know?
I'm sure I know every thing I want to know about the
captain. His name's Harrison—and—”

“What more?” inquired the pastor with a smile,
seeing that the old lady had finished her silk and
speech at the same moment.

“Why nothing, John—but what we do know, you
will admit, is highly creditable to him; and so, I do
not see why you should be so quick to restrain the
young people, when we can so easily require to know
all that is necessary before we consent, or any decisive
step is taken.”

“But, my dear, the decisive step is taken when the
affections of our daughter are involved.”

The old lady could say nothing to this, but she had
her word.

“He is a nice, handsome gentleman, John.”

“Beauty is, that beauty does,” replied the pastor in
a proverb.

“Well, but John, he's in no want of substance.
He has money, good gold in plenty, for I've seen it
myself—and I'm sure that's a sight for sore eyes, after
we've been looking so long at the brown paper that
the assembly have been printing, and which they call
money. Gold now is money, John, and Captain Harrison
always has it.”

“It would be well to know where it comes from,”
doggedly muttered the pastor.

“Oh, John, John—where's all your religion? How
can you talk so? You are only vexed now—I'm certain
that's it—because Master Harrison won't satisfy
your curiosity.”

“Elizabeth!”

“Well, don't be angry now, John. I didn't mean
that exactly, but really you are so uncharitable. It's
neither sensible nor Christian in you. Why will you
be throwing up hills upon hills in the way of Bess'
making a good match?”

“I do not, Elizabeth; that is the very point which
makes me firm.”

“Stubborn, you mean.

“Well, perhaps so, Elizabeth, but stubborn I will
be until it in shown to be a good match, and then he

may have her with all my heart. It is true, I love not
his smart speeches, and then he sometimes makes quite
too free. But I shall not mind that, if I can find out certainly
who he is, and that he comes of good family, and
does nothing disreputable. Remember, Elizabeth, we
come of good family ourselves,—old England can't
show a better; and we must be careful to do it no discredit
by a connexion for our child.”

“That is all true and very sensible, Mr. Matthews,
and I agree with you whenever you talk to the point.
Now you will admit, I think, that I know when a gentleman
is a gentleman, and when he is not—and I tell
you that if Master Harrison is not a gentleman, then
give me up, and don't mind my opinion again. I
don't want spectacles to see that he comes of good
family and is a gentleman.”

“Yes, your opinion may be right, but if it is wrong—
what then? The evil will be past remedy.”

“It can't be wrong. When I look upon him, I'm
certain—so graceful and polite, and then his dignity
and good-breeding.”

“Good-breeding, indeed!” and this exclamation the
pastor accompanied with a most irreverend chuckle,
which had in it a touch of bitterness. “Go to your
chamber, Bess, my dear,” he said, turning to his daughter,
who, sitting in a corner rather behind her mother,
with head turned downwards to the floor, had heard
the preceding dialogue with no little interest and disquiet.
She obeyed the mandate in silence, and when
she had gone, the old man resumed his exclamation.

“Good-breeding, indeed! when he told me, to my
face, that he would have Bess in spite of my teeth.”

The old lady now chuckled in earnest, and the pastor's
brow gloomed accordingly.

“Well, I declare, John, that only shows a fine-spirited
fellow. Now, as I live, if I were a young man,
in the same way, and were to be crossed after this
fashion, I'd say the same thing. That I would. I
tell you, John, I see no harm in it, and my memory's

good, John, that you had some of the same spirit in
our young days.”

“Your memory's quite too good, Elizabeth, and the
less you let it travel back the better for both of us,”
was the somewhat grave response. “But I have
something to say of young Hugh—Hugh Grayson, I
mean. Hugh really loves Bess—I'm certain quite
as much as your Captain Harrison. Now, we know
him!”

“Don't speak to me of Hugh Grayson, Mr. Matthews—for
it's no use. Bess don't care a straw for
him.”

“A fine, sensible young man, very smart, and likely
to do well.”

“A sour, proud upstart—idle and sulky—besides,
he's got nothing in the world.”

“Has your Harrison any more?”

“And if he hasn't, John Matthews—let me tell you
at least, he's a very different person from Hugh Grayson,
besides being born and bred a gentleman.”

“I'd like to know, Elizabeth, how you come at that,
that you speak it so confidently.”

“Leave a woman alone for finding out a gentleman
bred from one that is not; it don't want study and
witnesses to tell the difference betwixt them. We
can tell at a glance.”

“Indeed! But I see it's of no use to talk with you
now. You are bent on having things all your own
way. As for the man, I believe you are almost as
much in love with him as your daughter.” And this
was said with a smile meant for compromise; but the
old lady went on gravely enough for earnest.

“And it's enough to make me, John, when you are
running him down from morning to night, though you
know we don't like it. But that's neither here nor
there. His advice is good, and he certainly means it
for our safety. Will you do as Bess said, and shall
we go to the Block House, till the Indians come quiet
again?”

“His advice, indeed! You help his plans wondrously.

But I see through his object if you do not.
He only desires us at the Block House, in order to be
more with Bess than he possibly can be at present.
He is always there, or in the neighbourhood.”

“And you are sure, John, there's no danger from
the Indians?”

“None, none in the world. They are as quiet as
they well can be, under the repeated invasion of their
grounds by the borderers, who are continually hunting
in their woods. By the way, I must speak to young
Grayson on the subject. He is quite too frequently
over the bounds, and they like him not.”

“Well, well—but this insurrection, John?”

“Was a momentary commotion, suppressed instantly
by the old chief Sanutee, who is friendly to us; and
whom they have just made their great chief, or king,
in place of Huspah, whom they deposed. Were they
unkindly disposed, they would have destroyed, and not
have saved, the commissioners.”

“But Harrison knows a deal more of the Indians
than any body else; and then they say that Sanutee
himself drove Granger out of Pocota-ligo.”

“Harrison says more than he can unsay, and pretends
to more than he can ever know; and I heed not
his opinion. As for the expulsion of Granger, I do
not believe a word of it.”

“I wish, John, you would not think so lightly of
Harrison. You remember he saved us when the Coosaws
broke out. His management did every thing
then. Now, don't let your ill opinion of the man
stand in the way of proper caution. Remember,
John,—your wife—your child.”

“I do, Elizabeth; but you are growing a child
yourself.”

“You don't mean to say I'm in my dotage?” said the
old lady, quickly and sharply.

“No, no, not that,” and he smiled for an instant—
“only, that your timidity did not suit your experience.
But I have thought seriously on the subject of this
threatened outbreak, and, for myself, can see nothing to

fear from the Yemassees. On the contrary, they have
not only always been friendly heretofore, but they appear
friendly now. Several of them, as you know,
have professed to me a serious conviction of the truth
of those divine lessons which I have taught them;
and when I know this, it would be a most shameful
desertion of my duty were I to doubt those solemn
avowals which they have made, through my poor instrumentality,
to the Deity.”

“Well, John, I hope you are right, and that Harrison
is wrong. To God I leave it to keep us from evil:
in his hands there are peace and safety.”

“Amen, amen!” fervently responded the pastor, as
he spoke to his retiring dame, who, gathering up her
working utensils, was about to pass into the adjoining
chamber. “Amen, Elizabeth—though, I must say, the
tone of your expressed reliance upon God has still in
it much that is doubtful and unconfiding. Let us add
to the prayer, one for a better mood along with the
better fortune.”

Here the controversy ended; the old lady, as her
husband alleged, still unsatisfied, and the preacher
himself not altogether assured in his own mind that a
lurking feeling of hostility to Harrison, rather than a just
sense of his security, had not determined him to risk
the danger from the Indians, in preference to a better
hope of security in the shelter of the Block House.