University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

The estate of Mr. Fitzhurst was called “Holly,” from
a singular event, which was the subject of a tradition in
the family. The first Fitzhurst who came from England
received a large tract—a grant from the crown. He
was fond of hunting; and one day, in an excursion of the
kind, he ascended a precipitous hill. In the reckless
pursuit of game, his foot slipped on the very brow of a
precipice, and he would have been dashed to pieces
in the valley below, had he not seized on the instant
a holly bush, and regained his foothold. One of his
descendants subsequently built a house near this hill,
and in commemoration of the event called his estate
Holly.

The evening of the day on which we introduced
Sidney Fitzhurst to our readers, he made his appearance
at Holly a little after dusk; but without his friend
Pinckney. When he had disencumbered himself of his
cloak and riding cap, Fanny took a seat on his
knee, and passing her hand playfully through his hair,
asked:—

“Well, brother, what news do you bring from the
city? Did you see Jane Moreland? What did she
say?”

“Fanny, Howard Pinckney has arrived.”

“Has he—come at last—but, I suppose, as he cannot
bear the dulness of the country, he will only pay
us a flying visit, and then flit away like a summer
bird.”

“Daughter,” said Mr. Paul Fitzhurst, who, with his
gouty limb on a cushion, was seated in a velvet-covered
arm-chair, which would have delighted the Sybarite,
provided he were goutless, “I hope we have inducements
enough even in the country at Holly to interest
even Mr. Pinckney. His father was an old friend of
mine, a gentleman of capacity and distinguished, and
he found amusement enough here when we were
young men together to spend some time with me.”

“Ah, but father, that was in the summer.”

“In the summer—yes, it was in the summer. His
duties required his presence in Washington City in
the winter; and if they had not, I trust he would not
have died of ennui if he had spent a winter with me;
upon my word, daughter, it is a bad habit you are getting
into of jeering at the country.”

“Oh, father! this is the very first intimation I have
uttered, that could lead to the suspicion that I did not
think the country a very paradise. I am satisfied that
such an intellectual gentleman as the elder Mr. Pinckney
could easily have killed a winter in the country.
That is (and she spoke in a whisper to her brother), if
the winter did not kill him. But (aloud) do, brother,
tell us what kind of a gentleman is your Mr. Howard
Pinckney.”

“Why, my dear Fanny,” replied her brother,
playing with her side curl as he spoke, “a very
clever fellow—so you must look out for your heart.”

“Look out for my heart—heigh ho, there is no need
of looking out for it here—it's of no use to me—I can
let it run entirely at large. Who's here to catch it?
I'd give it for the asking.”

“That's right; but mind and keep it till it is asked
for; don't let any one steal the stray, Fanny.”

“But, brother, tell me what kind of a looking man
is Mr. Pinckney; is he tall or short, or ugly or handsome?”

“Fanny, you have heard me speak of him before.”

“I know it—but now that he has returned from
his travels I suppose his head's turned, and indeed I
have forgotten your description of him, if you ever
did describe him—I think you said he was good
looking.”

“Good looking! yes, I should say so—very.”

“But tell me,—particularize.”

Sidney laughed—“Fanny, you are a regular descendant
of Mother Eve—well, then, he is tall, and
very slim.”

“Like his father,” remarked Mr. Paul Fitzhurst.

“He has a high forehead, shaded with dark hair
that is rather thin—he has a deep, sunken, and very
black eye; a nose inclining to the Roman; a dimple
on his left cheek and chin.”

“Dimples! that's a woman's beauty.”

“And whiskers that meet under his chin according
to the fashion.”

“Whiskers!” exclaimed Mr. Paul Fitzhurst,—
“that's a most disgusting fashion. The old school of
dress,—the old school of dress, Sidney, is the true
habit for a gentleman.”

“Father,” said Fanny, mischievously, “I don't
think—indeed I don't, that whiskers are stranger looking
appendages than a queue.”

“A queue—why, daughter, all the most distinguished
men of England of the last age wore queues—
most all the signers of the Declaration of Independence
wore queues.”

“Father, if you won't think I am saucy, I'll say that
in the progress of human events they should have

made a Declaration of Independence against them—
that when they cut off their allegiance from the crown
they should have cut—”

“Daughter,” interrupted her father, a disagreeable
reminiscence crossing his mind at the moment, “that is
being saucy,”—and after an instant he added, smiling,
“you are a rebel, you—in all respects, but I forgive
you.”

“You should, my dear Pa,” said Fanny, laughing;
“for, to tell the truth, I do think powder and a queue
set off a fine face admirably.”

“I think so,” said the old gentleman complaisantly.

“But, father,” continued Fanny, “there are some faces
that a queue makes very funny—there's Mr. Hartley's
(here the old gentleman laughed), his nose sticks up
before, and his queue sticks out behind, just as if there
was a rivalry between them (at this the father laughed
heartily); indeed I never see his queue sticking out so
but I want to cut it off.”

This last remark caused a frown to gather on the
parental brow. Sidney turned his face from his
father to hide a smile, and said:

“Fanny, Mr. Pinckney will come out with me to-morrow—he
talks as if he would spend the greater
part of the winter with us.”

“Does he?—well I hope he'll like the country.
Now I must play my lady—throw off my dishabille,
and prim myself up.”

“Fanny, Fanny,” said her father, reprovingly, “I
hope you always play the lady.”

“To be sure I do, father; but, you know, I sometimes
play it in dishabille, and that won't do before a
strange gentleman.”

“Daughter, it won't do before any gentleman,—
there's excuse for me in my age, my gout, and my
infirmities, but a lady,—fie, Fanny! there's none
whatever.”

“There, father, you agree with Aunt Rachellina—
you said that precisely like her. Now, brother, as
you have told us how very good looking Mr. Pinckney
is, pray what are his other good qualities?”

“He is a man of talents, sister—his fellow collegians
thought, of genius; he has a large fortune, does
nothing, and is of course sometimes afflicted with
ennui.”

“Well, well,” said Fanny, and she sighed, and
turning to her father, said: “father, I did not mean
that sigh for town, but I could not help thinking
that sometimes when it is my lot to entertain Mr.
Pinckney, while you are lying down, and brother is
out, and Aunt Rachellina is at Miss Bentley's, particularly
when this Mr. Pinckney is affected with ennui,
that he will sit on one side of the fire-place and I on
the other, and we will yawn at each other so sentimentally.
No, father! don't frown so, you know it's
the captive's privilege to complain, and I am in a very
bad humour to-night. But,” she continued, rising
from her brother's knee, “I must go and tell aunt, that
all due preparations may be made for the reception of
this courtly Mr. Pinckney from abroad—I do believe
that aunt will find out that Mr. P.'s father was
an old beau of hers.”

So saying, Fanny, with the agile and graceful
steps of youth and health, and hope and beauty, glided
out of the room.