University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
The story hastens slowly.

The father of Lucia, though he had not become
quite a sage had yet derived considerable benefit
from experience. Time is as much the friend, as the
enemy of man; and while he plants the wrinkles on
our foreheads, makes some amends, by sowing the
seeds of wisdom in the mind. Mr. Lee had come
to the conclusion, that the best way of bringing
about a union of hearts, was to keep the secret of
his wishes to himself; and let Lucia and Highfield
follow the guidance of dame nature. There is
something in the stubborn heart of man, and woman,

that revolts at becoming the dupe of a plan, even if
it be one for bringing about exactly what it wishes
above all things. I have seen an over anxious mother
drive a young man from her house, only by discovering
a vehement desire to forward a match between
him, and the very daughter he would have selected,
if left to himself. In truth, we overdo things
in this world, quite as often as we neglect what is
necessary to be done. The parent, who is perpetually
watching the little child, and cautioning it
against harm, for the most part, only excites a curious
longing, to try the experiment, and judge for itself;
and so it is with grown-up children, who, like
infants, are only to be warned by their own experience;
and whom perpetual cautions, recommendations,
and supervision, too often only incite to mischiefs,
of which they might otherwise never have
dreamed. If there ever was a period of the world,
in which these maxims were exemplified, it is doubtless
the present; when, if the truth must be told, so
much pains have been taken, by well meaning people,
with better hearts than heads, to improve mankind,
that they have at length, become, as it were,
little better than good for nothing. But let us return
to our story.

Both Highfield and Lucia, it is believed, remained
quite unconscious of the intentions of the
old gentleman towards them. The former, was every
day hinting, in the most delicate manner, his wish
to enter upon some honourable pursuit, by which he

might attain to independence, if not distinction.
But the old gentleman always put him off, with
“Time enough, Charles—time enough; look round
a little, and consider a good deal, before you make
your choice.” Highfield was in a situation of peculiar
delicacy, for a high spirited, honourable man; and he
refrained from further importunity. Yet still he did
not feel satisfied; he was dependent; and if I
were to mark out the dividing line, that separates
man from other men, it should be here. On one
side I would place those, whose manhood rises above
the degradation of a dependence on any thing but
their own heads, hands, and hearts; and on the
other, those inferior beings, who are content to be
a burthen upon their fathers, or their friends, rather
than launch into the ocean of life, and buffet the
billows.

Highfield belonged to the former class. He
longed to make himself a useful and honourable
citizen, by the exercise of his talents and industry.
He had also another motive. It is quite
impossible for two persons, especially of different
sexes, to live together, in the same house, and preserve
a perfect indifference towards each other.
They will either take a liking, or a decided dislike.
If they are very young, this will probably
ripen into love, or antipathy. Lucia was a little too
much of the azure; but I have seen the time, not
quite half a century ago, when such a woman, would
have wakened, in my heart a hundred sleeping cupids.

There was that about her, which, for want of
some other phrase, we call attractive—a charm,
which, so far as I have ever analyzed it, consists in a
well made figure not tall; a face of mild gentleness
mingled with vivacity; not always laughing,
nor ever gloomy; always neat, yet never over-dressed,
for no woman can ever touch the heart, though
she may overpower the senses by her splendours; a
graceful quiet motion; a soft, melting, mellow
voice; and a heart, and an understanding, the one,
all nature, the other nature embellished not spoiled,
by culture and accomplishments. Such a woman,
though she may not dazzle or mislead the
imagination, carries with her, the true, moral, magnetic
influence, which lurks as it were unseen;
emits no gaudy splendours, but with a mysterious
inscrutable power attracts, and fixes every kindred
sympathy with which it comes in contact. Such, in
her natural state, was Lucia Lightfoot Lee, a lovely
maiden, but alas! a little too much of the azure.
Highfield had not been long an inmate of his uncle's
house, before he began to feel the force of that
magnetic influence I have just described; and, the
moment he became conscious of it, his anxiety to
leave his uncle, and pursue some mode of independent
existence, became stronger.

His sense of honour was not only nice, but punctilious.
He was poor and dependent; Lucia was
an heiress. Had he believed it in his power to gain
the affections of his cousin, he would have despised

himself for the attempt. But he saw that her imagination,
if not her heart, was captivated by the
empty but showy accomplishments of Mr. Goshawk;
and the hope of success was not strong enough to
blind him to the meanness of the attempt. He
began to be much from home; and when at home,
absent and inattentive; though his natural spirits
kept him from being gloomy or unsocial. Lucia
was too much occupied with Mr. Fitzgiles Goshawk
and his mysterious sorrows, to notice this; but the
old gentleman began to be fidgety and impatient
at the unpromising prospect of his favourite plan.

“What is the matter with you and Lucia?” said
he one day.

“Nothing, sir,” replied Highfield, “we are very
good friends.”

“Friends! hum—ha—but you don't seem to like
each other as well as you did—hey?

“Like, sir—uncle—I am sure I have a great
friendship for Miss Lee.”

“Ah! hum—ha—friendship—but don't you think
her a d—d fine girl—hey, boy?”

“I do, indeed, sir. I think her a sensible, discreet,
well behaved, promising young lady as you
will see.”

“Ah! yes—sixteen hands high—star in the forehead—trots
well—canters easy—full blooded—and
three years old last grass—hey?—one would think
you were praising a horse, instead of my daughter,”
said the old gentleman, getting into a passion apace.

“My dear uncle, excuse me. It does not become
me to speak of my cousin in such terms of admiration
as I would do under different circumstances.”

“Circumstances! sir—is there any circumstance
that ought to prevent your seeing like other young
men, and feeling and expressing yourself as they
do?”

“Pardon me, sir; but I am just now thinking of
quite a different matter.”

“You don't say so, sir! upon my word, my
daughter is very much obliged to you. But what
is the mighty affair?”

“My excellent friend, don't be angry. If you
knew all, perhaps you would pity me. But I must
leave you, and seek my fortune—indeed, I must. I
am wasting the best portion of my life in idleness.”

“And suppose you are, what is that to you, sir, if
it is my pleasure?”

“You have been a father to me, sir, and I owe
you both gratitude and obedience. But there are
duties to ourselves, which ought to be attended to.
I am but a dependent on your bounty, after all—a
beggar”—

“A beggar!—'tis false, sir, you're not a beggar.
But I see how it is; you want to be made independent;
you want me to make a settlement on
you; you are not content to wait till an old man
closes his eyes—you”—

“Uncle,” said Highfield, with his cheek burning

and his eye glistening, “do you really believe me
such a despicable scoundrel?”

“Why—no—I believe you are only a fool, that
is all. But I'll never forgive you; you have deranged
all my plans; you have rejected the happiness
I had in store for you; you will bring my gray
hairs with sorrow to the grave. Yes, yes, yes, I
see it, I see it—I am doomed to be a miserable,
disappointed, heart-broken old man.”

“For Heaven's sake, uncle, what is the matter?”

“Matter! why the matter is, you are a blockhead;
you are dumb, deaf, blind; you haven't one
of the five senses in perfection, or you might have
known.”

“Known what, sir?”

“Why,” roared the old gentleman, in a transport
of rage, “you might have seen that I intended you
for my son-in-law—you blockhead; that I meant to
leave you and Lucia all my estate—you fool; that
I had set my heart on it—you—you ungrateful
villain. But I'll be even with—I'll disinherit you
—I'll disown you—I'll send you to the d—l,
sir, for your bare ingratitude—I will.”

Highfield stood a moment or two overpowered by
this unexpected disclosure of his uncle. He actually
trembled at the prospect it opened before him. At
length he exclaimed:

“My best of friends, I never dreamed that such
was your intention.”

“Why, sir, I have cherished it, lived upon it,

ever since Lucia was born. Not know it? why
what a blind fool you must be!”

“But you never communicated it, sir, and how
could I know it?”

“Why, ay, that is true indeed. When I think of
it, there is some excuse for you, as I never hinted my
intention. But it is all over now; you want to
leave us; and you think Lucia `a sensible, discreet,
well behaved, promising young woman,'—sixteen
hands high;” mimicking poor Highfield, as he
repeated these panegyrics.

“I think her,” said Highfield, “for now I dare
speak what I think—I think her all that a father
could wish; all that a lover could desire, in his
moments of most glowing anticipation. I think her
the loveliest, the best, the most accomplished, the
most angelic, the most divine!”

“Ah! that will do, that will do, boy; you talk
like a hero—tol-de-rol-lol!” and the old gentleman
cut a most unprecedented caper. “Give me your
hand boy; it's a bargain—we'll have the wedding
next week.”

“Ah, sir!” said the young man, with a sigh, “I
doubt—you know there is another person to be consulted.”

“Another person! who do you mean, sir?”

“Your daughter, sir.”

“Bless me! that is true, indeed. I had forgot
that. But I'll soon bring the matter about. I'll
tell her it is the first wish of my heart: if she reuses,

I'll talk reason to her. If she wont listen to
reason, I will talk to her like a father—I'll let her
know who is master in this house, I warrant you.
I'll go this instant, and settle the matter.” And the
old gentleman was proceeding to make good his
words.

“For Heaven's sake, sir, don't be in such a
hurry,” cried Highfield eagerly; “you will ruin me
and my hopes, if you proceed in such a hurry.
Alas! sir, I fear it is too late now.”

“What does the puppy mean?”

“I fear my cousin's affections are already engaged.”

“To whom, sir? tell me quick, quick, sir; to
whom? I'll engage her, the baggage; I'll let her
know who is who; I'll teach her to throw away her
affections without consulting me—I'll shut the door
in the scoundrel's face, and shut my daughter up in
her chamber—I'll—why the d—l, sir, don't you
answer me; what do you stand there for, playing
dummy? Tell me, sir, who is the villain that has
stolen my daughter's affections.?”

“I do not say positively, sir, and I have no right
to betray the young lady's secrets; but I fear Mr.
Goshawk has made a deep impression on her heart.”

Mr. Lee was never in so great a passion before:
not even with his man, Juba, of whom I could never
make up my mind to my satisfaction, whether he
was his master's master, or which was the better
man of the two. Juba was of the blood royal of
Monomotapa, a mighty African kingdom. He had

been in the family long enough to outlive three
generations, and thus fairly acquired a right to be
as crusty as his master, who, if the truth must be
told, was terribly henpecked by the royal exile. The
old gentleman once had a dispute at his own table
with one of his neighbours at the south, and some
words passed between them.

“Massa,” said Juba, when the company had
retired, “massa, we can't put up wid dat—must call
um out.”

The good gentleman quietly submitted, and
called out his neighbour, who fortunately apologized.

“Icod, massa,” said Juba, “we brought um to
de bull-ring, didn't we?”

But to return from this commemoration of our old
friend, Juba.

Mr. Lee was in a towering passion. Of all the
men he had ever seen, known, or read of, Mr.
Goshawk was the one for whom he cherished the
most special and particular antipathy. He considered
him an empty, idle, shallow, affected coxcomb,
without heart or intellect; a pretender to literary
taste and acquirements; a contemner of useful
knowledge and pursuits, whose sole business was to
exhibit feelings to which he was a stranger; to excite
sympathy for affected sorrows; and to impose
upon the susceptible follies of ancient spinsters or
inexperienced girls. “The fellow carries a drum
in his head,” would he say, “and is for ever sounding

false alarms. You think he is going to play a
grand march, but it is nothing but rub-a-dub rub-a-dub,
over and over again.”

“Goshawk!” at length he cried, “I'll disinherit
her, as sure as I am alive. What! that starved
epitome of a wind-dried rhymester; that shadow of
a shadow of a shadow of a stringer of doggrel;
that imitator of an imitator in the sixteenth degree
of consanguinity to an original; that blower of the
bellows to the last spark of an expiring fancy! Confound
me, if I had not rather have heard she had
fallen in love with the trumpeter to a puppet show.”

“My dear uncle, I don't say my cousin is actually
in love with Mr. Goshawk; but I think she has a
preference; a—a—at least, I am pretty sure, her
imagination is full of his genius, eloquence, and
beautiful poetry.”

“Genius, eloquence, poetry—pish! I could make
a better poem out of a confectioner's mottos, than
he will ever write. But she shall either renounce
him this minute, or I will renounce her.”

Highfield begged his uncle to pause, before he
proceeded to such extremities. He reasoned with
him on the bad policy of rousing into opposition, a
feeling, which was perhaps only latent, and giving
it the stimulus of anger, by assailing it too roughly.
He cautioned him against the common error of supposing,
that to forbid a thing, was the best possible
way of preventing its coming to pass; or that love
was to be quelled by a puff of opposition. He conjured

him to say nothing on the subject; to look on
without interfering; to appear as if he neither saw,
or participated in any thing going forward.

“If,” said he, “I am not deceived in my lovely
and sensible cousin, it is only necessary to leave
her good sense and growing experience to operate,
and before long they will, of themselves, indicate
to her the error of her taste and imagination. But
if I should be deceived in this rational anticipation,”
added he, proudly and firmly; “if I find that her
heart is seriously and permanently attached, I give
you my honour, I pledge my unalterable determination,
that I will not permit myself to be either the
motive or the instrument, for forcing her inclinations.
If I cannot win her fairly, and against the
field, so help me Heaven, I will never wear her.”

“You talk like a professor, and a blockhead to
boot,” said Mr. Lee, half pleased and half offended—“But
hark ye, Mr. Highfield, if I take your advice,
and it turns out badly, I'll disinherit you both.”

“With all my heart, uncle, so far as respects myself.
Only say nothing; do nothing; and let matters
take their course. We often make things crooked
by taking too much pains to straighten them. `Let
us alone,' as the anti-tariff folks say.”

“Your most humble servant, sir,” quoth Mr.
Lee, with a profound bow—“I am to play Mr. Nobody
then, in this trifling affair of the disposal of
my only child?”

“Only for a little while sir, when you shall resume
the sceptre again.”

“And with which, I shall certainly break thy
head, if thy wise plan should happen to fail.”

“Agreed, uncle. I shall then be broken headed,
as well as broken hearted. For, by heaven, I love
my cousin, well enough to”—

“To resign her to an empty, heartless, brainless
coxcomb. But come, I give up the reins to my wise
Phæton, who, if he don't burn up the world, I dare
swear will set the North river on fire. Here comes
Fairweather, I will consult him, though I know the
old blockhead will be of a contrary opinion, as he
always is. Go, and make a bow to Lucia; play
Mr. Goshawk, and talk as much like a madman as
possible.”