University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

As the season advanced Pinckney frequently visited
Miss Grattan, and frequently attended Fanny to Mr.
Elwood's; for between her and Miss Sarah there was
a much greater social intercourse than formerly.
Fanny began to understand Miss Grattan's character;
she perceived that there was a settled melancholy
preying upon her mind, which seemed to be increasing.
Yet it was evident that, while Miss Grattan's sensitiveness
appeared to be augmented to an almost nervous
degree, she loved Fanny's company more and more,
she would press her with almost weeping earnestness
not to leave her yet, when Fanny would rise to depart.
This was particularly the case when Mr.
Bronson was present. Fanny considered Bronson as
a low, vulgar, unfeeling man, and she could not be
made to believe, notwithstanding the reports she had
heard, that Miss Grattan could, under any circumstances,
possibly consider him as a suitor. She thought
that Bronson was the friend of Mr. Elwood, and that
Miss Grattan received him as such, and was possessed
of so shrinking a sensibility, that she knew not how
to reject attentions which were evidently revolting
to her.

One afternoon, while the girls were sitting together

at Mr. Elwood's alone, Fanny interrupted the silence
of several minutes, by saying, with the abruptness of
one who cannot refrain from giving utterance to the
thought over which she has been brooding—

“Sarah, is it possible that what I hear is true; that
you and Mr. Bronson are engaged?”

Sarah clasped her hands together, as if startled by
an electric shock, fixed her eyes vacantly on the wall
for a moment, and then turning them imploringly on
Fanny, burst into tears.

Fanny was shocked at the effect which her hasty
question had produced. After a moment of amazement
she said, taking the hand of Sarah,

“My dear Sarah, you must forgive me; indeed, I
would not have wounded your feelings for the world;
I am prejudiced against Mr. Bronson.”

“Oh! no, no; I know you would not wish to wound
my feelings. It's not prejudice; but what shall I do?
I owe my uncle everything; what shall I do? what
can I do if he wishes it?”

“But, Sarah, I can't think that he does wish it.
You are mistaken, if you do not like Mr. Bronson;
your uncle would not certainly have you make a
sacrifice of your feelings.”

“But, Miss Fitzhurst, uncle does not think that
there is much feeling on such subjects.”

“You do him injustice.”

“No, no, no; but no matter, no matter.”

“I am sorry, indeed I am, that I should have spoken
so unguardedly,” said Fanny; “but, Sarah, you must
not consider me other than as a friend.”

“A friend; I want a friend. Oh! I have so wished
that I could find some one to whom I could unbosom
myself. Indeed, Fanny, when I first saw you I thought
I should be so happy if I could only find a friend in
you, one to whom I might say what I thought, and
who would feel for me. Will you listen to me.”

“Listen to you, yes, Sarah; but be comforted. I
don't see why you should be so cast down.”

“Fanny, Miss Fitzhurst, my character and situation
have been entirely different from that of most
girls. I am an orphan; I lost my parents when I was
so young that I do not even faintly remember them.
On their death my uncle brought me to the country,
where I was nursed by Aunty Agnes, you know her,
she watched over my infancy. As I grew up I saw
no company at all but those who came to visit my
uncle. I am entirely ignorant of the formalities of
fashionable society, and I have suffered more on that
account than I could possibly tell you; I have had
no one to talk with; to exchange thoughts with. I
brooded over my thoughts and feelings in my own
mind until I hardly know what I thought or felt
myself. What I had seen and heard, and known,
seemed mingled in a confused mass in my memory,
and from the want of companionship, and maybe the
bias of my character, I grew into a dread of the
very society that I panted so much for, which I felt
to be a want. I don't know how it was, but an indefinable
dread of something that was to happen to me,
hung over me like a cloud. I could not escape the
idea—it followed me like a shadow; I had no mother
to watch over me, to advise me, to tell me of things
of the world, of all around me. If I could write down
all the strange and awful feelings I have had, it
would fill a volume; but my life is without an incident.
But I was saying, just from this loneliness
and want of communion with some one of my own
sex whom I could look up to, this dread grew over
me. Indeed, I became so superstitious that a thousand
things disturb me that I know should not—which
have no reason in them; but it seems a kind of fatality
that they should perplex me. But I've nothing to say
—what should—what have I to tell you—yes. Well,

Mr. Bronson has been visiting my uncles for years
past, and some months since he addressed me. I was
startled; I had no idea he thought of such a thing. He
said I had given him encouragement, he spoke to my
uncle the other day. He—my uncle—had often hinted
to me his wishes with regard to Mr. Bronson, but
lately he has spoken them out directly—indeed, Miss
Fitzhurst, almost like a command. He says, but don't
mention it for the world—that there is a necessity that
I should marry—should marry Mr. Bronson.”

“What necessity can there be for such a step,
Sarah?” asked Fanny.

“Indeed I cannot tell, but my uncle says that there
is a stern necessity; my God, it is a necessity to me,
indeed.”

“And you, Sarah—”

“I have asked for time, for time to think; but I
should not have told you this, should I—was it not wrong?
Certainly if I can please my uncle, should I not do
it?”

“No, you should not do it at the sacrifice of your
happiness; certainly not. Marry that Bronson—why
I see, Sarah, that you do not love him—that you cannot
bear him. I would'nt—father, aunt, and brother,
all combined, could not induce me to marry such a
man.”

“Don't speak so, Fanny—Miss Fitzhurst, it tortures
me. I cannot tell you all now, but—”

The further conversation of the ladies was interrupted
by the entrance of Mr. Elwood. He was
much more kind to his niece than usual, and seemed
anxious to keep her in good spirits. Fanny exerted
herself for the same purpose. In the evening her
brother called with the carriage to take her home,
and on the way Fanny could not resist telling him
what Sarah had told her. Sidney was very much
surprised. As soon as Fanny arrived at home, she

hurried to her aunt's room, and after enjoining secrecy
on her, as she had on her brother, narrated to
Miss Rachellina, with feelings of tearful sympathy
for Sarah, and of deep detestation for Bronson, and
of condemnation of Mr. Elwood, every word that Sarah
had uttered. Fanny's heart was full of various
emotions; for after this she gave her aunt an account
of the loss of Bronson's wig, to which Miss Rachellina
listened with most portentous solemnity, and
Fanny recurred to poor Sarah again, and burst into
a flood of tears.

“I declare, my niece,” said Miss Rachellina, “you
are quite hysterical; you act worse than if you had
been reading a novel.”

“This is worse than a novel, my dear aunt—it is a
reality.”

“It is shocking, certainly, my niece; but I cannot
think that Mr. Elwood would wish to force his niece
into a marriage connection against her will with such
a man; though, for my part, I can see not the least
harm in the mere circumstance of his wearing false
hair, nor why you should laugh one moment and
cry the next, in such a childish manner. It is decidedly
unbecoming of you as Miss Frances Fitzhurst.
There, you have your bonnet on. You come rushing
into my room, my niece, as nervous as if the house
was on fire. See, you have spoilt that new satin ribbon
on your bonnet with your tears. Upon my word
and honor you wiped your eyes with it. Now, Fanny,
that is acting without the least reflection—a child,
Fanny, a child would have done just so. I don't blame
you, niece, for having your sympathies awakened for
Miss Grattan. Mr. Bronson is certainly a very common,
vulgar spoken person, and not fit even to be the
waiter of a lady of refinement and delicacy, both of
which qualities Miss Grattan, considering her advantages
and education, eminently possesses. Indeed, I

have wondered, repeatedly, why Miss Bentley receives
him as she does; but she must be polite to him, as he
transacts her business for her. Still, there is reason
in all things. But, niece, I wish to impress upon you,
that you should on no occasion loose your self-control.
It is unbecoming in a lady, and it often leads
her into a great many misdeeds.”

“My dear aunt,” exclaimed Fanny, rather pettishly,
“by the time I have learned to control all my feelings
I shall have lost them all.”

“No, niece, that is speaking irreverently,” said
Miss Rachellina, fondly; “I hope I have all the
warmth of my early feelings; I am sure my young
days have not been gone so long that I should not
have them—but I pride myself on my self-control.
No woman can be a perfect and finished lady, I
assure you, niece, who has it not. I have had to
school myself to acquire it, I don't deny. All that I
wish is to impress upon you the necessity of doing so,
too. You have no idea in what a flurry you entered
my chamber! Your bonnet-strings were all flying
loose. I suppose you had not tied them at all. The
collar of your cloak—your new cloak—was all rumpled
in; enough to put it out of set for ever; and
your side hair was all uncurled and draggling on
your cheek. My child, I would not wound your
feelings unnecessarily, but you looked frightful. Suppose
I had been in the parlour, and I might just as
likely as not have been there, and suppose Mr. Pinckney
had been sitting with me; you would, I suppose,
have bounced right in to tell me this, looking as you
do. Indeed, if you had, I should have wished the
floor to open and swallow me up. I can assure you,
niece, I have known engagements broken off by gentlemen,
yes, by gentlemen, on discovering the lady's
extreme want of personal neatness. There is no excuse
for the want of it in a lady. I say, decidedly,

no excuse whatever. Let me beg of you, never to
make your appearance anywhere—not even in my
room, looking so dowdy, when you have pretended
to dress yourself. I tremble to think if I had been
in the parlour with Mr. Pinckney, such a polished
and accomplished gentleman, and you had come
dashing in in such a flurry of face and dress. Niece,
I am exceedingly sorry to learn that Mr. Pinckney
leaves us in a few days.”

“Leave us in a few days!” ejaculated Fanny;
“this is the first I've heard of it.”

“Yes, niece; he told me so this afternoon, after he
returned from town, where he received a letter,
which, he says, requires him to be at home soon. I
regret it very much; we shall all miss him. I discovered
the other day that an uncle of his, who is
dead, was an old beau of mine. Where are you
going, Fanny?”

“I am going to my room to arrange my dress,
aunt.”

“My dear niece, what you have told me about
Miss Grattan, poor thing, and then Mr. Pinckney's
going to leave us, too, has quite unsettled me. Fanny,
if you see Pompey, tell him to bring me a slice
of the poundcake which he will find in the sideboard;
that which has plumbs in it; the other is not
quite done. Dickson is getting quite careless with
the pastry and cakes lately: tell him to bring me
that on the salver, with a glass of wine.”

Fanny obeyed her aunt's request. She then went
to her room, where she with much care removed all
the traces of negligence and “flurry,” as her aunt
expressed it, from her dress and fair countenance,
and then proceeded to the drawing-room. On looking
in, she discovered no one there but her father asleep on
the sofa; and wanting a book to amuse her, we suppose,

she entered the library, and there found Pinckney
seated alone.

“Ah! Miss Fitzhurst,” said he, rising as the lady
entered, “you have the impulses of Mother Eve, I
discover.”

“Yes, sir; and instead of riding over with brother,”
replied Fanny, taking a novel from a book-case, and
opening it carelessly, as if she were about to leave the
room, but lingering for a moment, “instead of riding
over with brother, and thereby showing your gallantry
to forlorn ladies imprisoned in the country,
you choose to mope in the library, and pretend to be
literary.”

“I was moping, indeed, fairest flower of the wilderness
and brightest belle of the city; but it was in
trying to reconcile myself to your absence.”

“Then you do leave us, Mr. Pinckney?”

“Yes, Miss Fitzhurst, such is my necessity; and in
a few days. Business! Hours were made for slaves,
and for what was business made, but for the same
animals. Business brought me here—other influences
threw their fascinations around me, and held me here;
and now business, like the disenchanting wand in
some glorious spell, bears me away. In truth, Miss
Fitzhurst, my estate has suffered much in my absence.
I have been squandering money; and now I must
nurse and attend to it. When shall we two meet
again?”

“Heigh, ho! I am indeed sorry that you're going.
Only think, I shall have no one to dispute with about
love, and poetry, and romance, when you are gone.
And Miss Grattan—do not fail to made your adieus
to her.”

“I shall not, indeed: she is a most interesting lady;
she is deeply attached to you, Miss Fitzhurst; and
you should go frequently to see her. I am persuaded
she has `a silent sorrow here,”' said Pinckney, laying

his hand on his heart. “I feel greatly indebted to
your family for their hospitality, Miss Fitzhurst.”

“We shall see you again, Mr. Pinckney, certainly
—you will come this way in the summer, will you
not?”

“Will you bid me come, Miss Fitzhurst?” said
Pinckney, advancing to her, and taking her hand.

At this moment the servant entered, and announced
tea.