University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
OUR AFFAIRS BECOME MUCH COMPLICATED.

Ned Bulmer was too eager and anxious about his affaire du
cœur to give me much respite. His buggy was at the door soon
after breakfast the next morning.

“Whither”—asked the Major of his son,—“whither are you
going to carry Richard to-day? Certainly, there is nothing so
important as to deny him one day's rest when he gets here.”

“I want him to go with me and see this place of Gendron's
I am willing to take his opinion of the lands.”

“Why, what the deuce can a lawyer know of lands?”

“I shall want him, possibly, to look into the titles and draw up
the papers. And as he is something of a surveyor, he can help
me to find the lines.”

Aunt Janet smiled quietly and whispered to me—“see that you
do not trespass upon the lands of Madame Girardin.”

I saw that our proceedings were no mystery to her, and guessed
that she was not unfriendly to Ned's passion. The Major growled
meanwhile, and, at length, said—

“Don't be persuaded any where at present, boys, for we must
get up a hunt to-morrow. Bryce tells me that there is a fine old
buck that haunts the wood down by the Andrew's bottom field;
he saw fresh tracks only this morning. If we turn out early to-morrow,
we can start him, and, perhaps, others. At all events, I
am for trying. We will see if you youngsters can draw as fine a
sight, and pull as quick a trigger, as the old man of sixty.”

We promised, and the impatient Ned scored, with a flourish,
the brown sides of his bay, sending him forward at a fast city trot,
which took us to Gendron's—about five miles—in half an hour.
Here we drew up and went into the house which was in charge of
the overseer. But here we did not linger. After we had got a
draught of cold water and had a little chat with the overseer, Ned
thrust into my hands a morsel of a billet which he had prepared
before we left “the Barony,” which had no address, but was meant
for Paula.

“Take the buggy and boy, old fellow, and visit your friend
Madame Agnes-Theresa. It is a mile round to the entrance, but
the estates join, and—do you see yonder pine woods? They are
about eight hundred yards from this spot, but only two hundred
from the house at Rougemont. My note says only that I shall be
there, and if you can entertain the old lady, so that the young
one can make her escape unseen, I am in hopes that she will suffer

me to entertain her there for a season. Only keep the grandmother
quiet for a good half hour.”

I was successful; being so fortunate as to find Paula alone in
the drawing-room. I gave her the note, which she was able to
read and conceal from the grandmother. I found the old lady in
the best of humours, quite satisfied with her own purchases in the
city, and particularly pleased with those which I had selected for
her. Upon the raisins, crushed sugar, and almonds, she was especially
eloquent, and was graciously pleased to assure me—to my
horror—that hereafter she should employ me to make all her purchases
of this nature. My judgment was so highly extolled in
this matter, that I trembled lest she should conclude by proposing
to invest a few thousands, and to go into the grocery business
with me. While she talked, Paula disappeared. Of course, I
encouraged the eloquence of the grandmother. I knew the topics
to provoke it; but the reader has already had a sufficient sample
of them, and I will not require him to partake of my annoyances.
I was patient, and held on for nearly an hour, until the sweet face
of pretty Paula once more lightened the parlour. Of course, I
had something to say to her, interrupted, however, by the grandmother,
who sharply rebuked her for leaving me during the whole
time of my visit. Paula looked to me with the sweetest gravity
in the world, and made the most gracefully evasive apology, which
I perfectly understood, though it was by no means satisfactory to
Madame Girardin. Invitations from both of them, to renew my
visit, dine, and spend the day, were gratefully acknowledged, and,
shaking affectionate hands, I took my departure.

I found Ned Bulmer rather under a cloud. The interview between
himself and Paula, under those famous and friendly pines,
had not been quite satisfactory to his ardent and impetuous nature.
Paula entertained some natural feminine scruples at an intercourse
not only secretly carried on, but notoriously against the desires of

both their parents. The little creature had shown herself quite
chary and somewhat sad.

“I urged upon her,” said Ned, “all that I could in the way of
argument to convince her that there was a natural limit to parental
rights—that parents had no right to oppose their own mere antipathies
to the sympathies of others—that, to indulge these antipathies
at the expense of our affections, was a gross and unfeeling
injustice—that the right of the parent simply consisted in being
assured of the morals and the character of the parties concerned—
perhaps, to see, farther, that the means of life were at their command.
Beyond this, I contended, that any attempt at authority
was usurpation. I urged upon her, in the event of our parents
continuing to refuse, that we should marry without regard to their
objections. To this, the dear girl positively objected. This roused
me a little, and I showed some temper. Then she wept bitterly
and called me unkind,—and I—would you believe it, Dick, I wept
too,—I suppose for sympathy, and then she was more distressed
than ever. The tears of a man, to a woman, are certainly very
awful, or very ridiculous. They either show great weakness, or
great suffering. Certainly, when Paula saw the drops on my
cheek she was positively terrified. But, she was firm still. She
would consent to nothing. Dick,—I half doubt if she loves me.”

“Pooh! pooh! you are unreasonable. I don't see what more
you could require. She gives you the highest proof of love she
can,—and you expect her to tear herself away, in defiance, from
her only kinswoman—she who has trained her, protected her, been
to her a mother. Nonsense! you are too fast! Patience, we
must work upon the rock with water. Time! time, man! That
is all that you want. The game is more than half won when the
lady herself is willing.”

“But, I see no progress.”

“That is because you only see through the medium of your
impatient desires. Time, I say! That is what you require.”

We looked about the Gendron plantation of course, which Ned
was really disposed to buy, and I gave my opinion in concurrence
with his. This task done, we drove to the “Barony,” and got in
in good time for dinner. There were several guests, several old
friends, parishioners, and a couple of strangers. The dining-saloon
was a large one, and a noble board was spread. The supplies of
such a board in the South need no recital. But I may mention
that Major Bulmer was famous for his muttons, and he had a
choice specimen on table. The Madeira of rare old vintage circulated
freely, and there was no deficiency in the dessert. When
the ladies had retired, and we had finished a bumper or two, we
adjourned to the library, where we rather drowsed and dawdled
away the remnant of the afternoon than conversed. We did not
return to the supper table, but coffee was brought in to us where
we sate, and after a while the guests departed, leaving me pledged
to several houses in the neighbourhood, for dinner in some, and
lodging and a long visit in others. When they were all gone, the
Major brought up the subject of the Gendron estate.

“Well, what think you of the tract?”—this to me.

“There is a good deal of uncleared land, pretty heavily timbered.”

“Only five or six hundred acres, I think.”

“But oak and hickory.”

“Yes; but not remarkable. Light, Dick, very light, and sandy.”

“Better than you think for. There is also some good pine land
too.”

“Not much I fancy. You, perhaps, confounded with it that of
the old French woman, Girardin, alongside of it. By the way,
did you think to go and see her. She is an old friend of your
family, at least, and very exacting. If you did not call upon her,
and she hears of you in the neighbourhood, you are out of her
books forever.”

“I did call. I left Ned at Gendron's, and went over and saw

the ladies. Madame Girardin and myself confabulated for an hour.
I saw her in the city, and have fortunately found favour in her
right by a successful selection of groceries. I so pleased her, that,
to my horror, she assures me I shall always be permitted to choose
her groceries,—the sugars, raisins, citron, almonds, &c., in particular.”

“Ha! ha! ha! What a creature! Yet she has some good
points. She is a fast friend, and hates like the devil! And I call
these the inevitable companion-virtues, as clearly indispensable to
each other as good and evil in the world. What a bunch of prejudices
she is, tied up like a bundle of vipers in a hole throughout
the winter. I believe she hates every thing English.”

I smiled in my sleeve, and was about to add,—“as you hate
every thing French,”—but in truth, Major Bulmer's prejudices did
not amount to hates. There was really no passion in them at all.
He had simply imbibed certain habits of speech,—perhaps certain
prescriptive thoughts—nay, notions would be the better word—and
simply stuck to them as persons of insulated life will naturally do,
wanting that attrition of intellectual society which rubs off salient
angles, and deforming protuberances. It struck me, however,
while thinking thus indulgently of the Major's prejudices, that it
might be no bad policy to show up those of Madame Girardin in
their true colours. His dislike of her would perhaps enable him
to see how equally loathsome and ridiculous is the indulgence of
a blind, insane hostility to things and persons of whom, and which,
we really know no evil. Accordingly, I was at pains to report the
conversation which was had between the old lady and myself in
our shopping expedition, in which she emptied so freely her bag
of gall upon trade and tradesmen, parvenus and clever people. I
did not spare her, you may be sure, and made the portrait as fantastically
true as possible. The Major laughed and clapped his
hands delightedly.

“What an atrocious old monster. Who ever heard the like?

To think favourably of such a meanspirited, unperforming, snivelling
creature as —, to think indulgently even of such a base
fardel of inanities, seems to me an equal outrage upon decency and
common sense; but to denounce commerce, which has made
England queen of the seas, mistress of the destinies of nations,
which carries civilization and art wherever it goes, which stirs up
and inspirits intellect, endows the animal with soul, and informs
the clay with energy and action. What a diabolical old fool.
But she hates commerce because it is so thoroughly English!
That's it! And yet to think that Ned Bulmer is really anxious to
marry into such a family, so blind, ignorant, conceited, and bitterly
prejudiced. It can't be but that the granddaughter shares in all
the foolish notions of the grandmother. She has been trained up
in the same school. She thinks and feels precisely as the old woman
does. That a son should desire to wed a woman who hates
and despises the very race to which his father owes his origin!”

I must here advise the reader that this was said after Ned Bulmer
had left us for the night, and when the Major and myself were
lingering over our cigars, and a hot vessel of whiskey punch. Ned
had disappeared purposely, in order that I might have every opportunity
of subduing, if that were possible, the asperities and objections
of the old man.

“You are mistaken, Major,” said I, in reply, “in your opinion
of Paula Bonneau. She shares in none of the prejudices of her
grandmother, which she properly regards as most unhappy weaknesses.
She is, herself, as liberal and intelligent a young woman
as you will find in the country, noways arrogant or presumptuous,
noways conceited or bigoted, and I believe quite as much an admirer
of the English as of the Huguenot stock. Nay, the very favour
with which she regards Ned seems to me quite conclusive on this
point.”

“Favour with which she regards Ned!” exclaimed the Major.
“Why you don't mean to say it has got to that? You don't mean

to tell me that they have already come to an understanding—that
Ned has been so d—d precipitate as to propose, knowing my
objections, and—”

Here he started to his feet, clapt his doubled fists into his ribs,
and stood, arms akimbo, confronting me as if prepared for a regular
engagement. I saw that I had been guilty of a lapse—had gone
a step too far—and must recover.

“By no means,” I answered with laborious coolness and deliberation,
stirring my whiskey punch and blowing off the smoke.
“That Paula favoured Ned is only a natural conclusion from her
demeanour when they meet, and from the manner in which she
speaks of him and of yourself. She looks as if she might love
him, and speaks very kindly to and of him.”

“Oh that is all, is it! and well she may love him, and perfectly
natural that she should desire him for a husband, for a better fellow
and a better looking fellow—though his own father I make
bold to say it,—is nowhere to be found between the Santee and
the Savannah. And she, too, is a clever girl enough, in her way,
I do not doubt. I don't deny that she is pretty, and people
every where say that she is amiable and intelligent; but nevertheless
she is not the girl for Ned. She is too — small, Dick;
that is one objection.”

“Rather a recommendation, I should suppose, if, according to
the proverb, a wife is, at best, a necessary evil.”

“What! of evils choose the least. But the smartness of the
saying don't prove the philosophy to be good. Still, the objection
of size might be overcome, if there were others not also insuperable.
There's our family prejudice, Dick, against the race.”

“Certainly—that objection could not be more impressively
urged than by Madame Girardin, speaking of the English!”

“Confound her impudence. But there's no sense, Dick, in
that. Her prejudices against the English, indeed! What an old
fool. Prejudices against the noblest people that God ever created,

and whom he created to be the masters of the world,—the
true successors to the Romans.”

“That's just what she thinks of the French.”

“Pshaw! the stubborn old dolt. Dont bring her up to me,
Dick Cooper. The antipathy of the English to the French is
based upon reason and experience. That of the French to the
English is the natural result of fear and hatred, as the whipt dog
dreads the scourge that has made him writhe and tremble. But,
putting all this matter aside, Dick, there is still a better reason for
my opposition to this passion of my son. The truth is,—and, for
the present, this must be a secret between us,—I have already
chosen a wife for Ned—”

“The d—l you have!” I exclaimed, starting up in my turn.

“No! But an angel I have; one of the most lovely creatures
in the world—the very ideal of feminine beauty—a noble person,
an exquisite skin, the sweetest and most brilliant eyes, lips that
would make the mouth of a saint to water, and persuade an anchorite
perpetually to sip,—and,—but enough. The woman upon
whom I have set my eyes for Ned is, I hold, the perfection of
woman!”

“And pray who is she?” I demanded, somewhat curious to
know who could have inspired the Major with such raptures.

“Who! Can you doubt. Why, man, Beatrice Mazyck, to be
sure!”

It was my turn to be confounded. Beatrice Mazyck! I wae
staggered. You could have felled me with a feather. Beatrice
Mazyck! My heart whirled about like the wheels of a locomotive.
Beatrice Mazyck! What, the d—l, thought I, can the
Fates be about? What do they design? What should put this
notion into Major Bulmer's head, for my particular disquiet—perhaps
defeat and disappointment. His wealth, his rank in the
parish, his son's personal claims,—all rushed through my brain in

a moment, filling me with terror, and seeming conclusive of my
own fate. I showed my consternation in my face.

“What's the matter with you, Dick,—you seem flurried?”

“Nothing, I thank you, Major; only I fancy this whiskey punch
is a trifle too strong for my brain.”

“Too strong! Too weak rather! Why, man, when I was of
your age, we made no mouths at a pint of such liquor as that.
A liquor which would laugh to shame all the nectar that the
Greek gods stored away in their Olympian cellars. But the
young men of this day are mere milksops. They have no heads—
I may add no hearts also—such as they had when I was a boy.
But what say you to Beatrice Mazyck? Don't you approve of
my choice?”

The speech of the Major on the days of his youth, the strong
heads and better hearts which they then enjoyed, afforded me time
to recover from my consternation.. I felt that it was necessary for
me to clothe myself in all my stoicism and meet the danger with
becoming fortitude. I succeeded in the effort, and said—

“But, Major, how do you reconcile it to your English prejudices
to think of Beatrice. She's as much French as Paula!”

“Hem!—yes!—not exactly. She has French blood in her
veins, I grant you. But she is decidedly not French. The English
predominates. Look at her figure. How thoroughly English.
What a noble stature—what a fine bust—how well developed
everywhere—then her face is Saxon—her skin fair, her eyes
blue, her hair auburn—English all over!”

I laughed, in spite of my disquiet, at the ease with which prejudices
may be overcome, when there's a will for it.

“You have reasoned yourself very happily into a new conviction,
Major.”

“Well, sir, and how should a man acquire new convictions, but
through his reason. I claim to be a reasoning animal. Now,
what objection have you to Beatrice Mazyck?”

“For myself, none; but for Ned—”

“Well, sir, for Ned? What objections do you make to her as
a wife for Ned?”

“First, then, I fancy he does not desire her.”

“He's a fool, then, for his pains—but he will desire her, if his
eyes can be reasonably opened. And you, my dear Dick, must
assist me in becoming his occulist.”

“Me, sir!—me, Major!”

“Yes, you! Why not! Why do you look so amazed at the
suggestion? You are the very man to do it! You are Ned's friend—
his confidant, his counsellor,—I may say his oracle. Give me
your assistance, and we shall soon contrive to persuade him that
Beatrice is worth a hundred of his little French Paula.”

“But, Major, suppose Beatrice should not altogether favour the
arrangement. What does she say about it?”

“She will favour it, I'm sure. Ned's not the fellow to sue for a
lady's smiles in vain.”

“Do you build solely on this. Has Beatrice been sounded on
the subject?”

“Not yet, but she will be. Her mother favours it.”

“Ah!—well, sir;—I am not sure that I can, for two reasons at
least.”

“Indeed!—well!—what are they.”

“Firstly, as I said before, I'm pretty certain that Ned will never
consent to substitute Paula for Beatrice. He will never love Beatrice.
Secondly, my dear Major, I want Beatrice for myself.”

“The devil you do!” exclaimed the Major aghast, starting to
his feet, and seizing me by the shoulder.

“Richard Cooper,—do you really mean it?—are you in earnest.”

“As a prophet, sir.”

“You love Beatrice Mazyck?”

“From the bottom of my heart. I have loved her for two
years.”

“And she?”—

“I have never approached her on the subject, sir.”

“Then you are both uncommitted?”

“Entirely—to each other.”

“But has any thing served to encourage you, Dick?”

“Nothing, sir, which a merely reasonable man would construe
into a hope. I have sometimes fancied that she was not indifferent
to me, and I have perhaps estimated her looks and words as
significant of more than I could define or assert. But, beyond
this, which may be wholly in my imagination, I have nothing upon
which to found a hope.”

“But, Dick, even did she favour you, are you in a condition to
marry? She is not rich, you know, and you—”

“Less so! But that, Major, is a sufficient reason why we
should both assert our independence. Poverty must not always
stand upon ceremony. But, I frankly tell you, Major, were Beatrice
willing, I should fearlessly venture upon matrimony with all
its perils and expense!”

The old man strode the room with cloudy forehead and irregular
motion. I, meanwhile, lighted a fresh cigar, and suffered my
head to subside heavily between my shoulders, while I gazed into
the fire sullenly, brooding upon newly aroused anxieties. After a
while, the Major stopt in his walk, and confronted me:

“Dick, my boy, this is devilish unfortunate. You know my
friendship for you, Dick,—my love for you, in fact,—for, in truth,
I feel for you, next to my own boy, as if you were my own son.
You rank next after him. I loved your father,—we were bosom
friends, and stood beside each other in many a fight and frolic,
even as you and Ned would, I am sure, stand up for each other.
I would do a great deal for you, Dick, and should be glad to see
you happy with the woman that you love; but Dick, my heart is

set upon this marriage between Beatrice and Ned. I must do all
I can to promote it. I can think of no other woman for him, and,
in fact, have committed myself to her mother. But, Dick, it shall
be fair play between us. All shall be open and above board. You
will say nothing to Ned of my present objects, as I can now not
hope that you will say any thing in their favour; but I give you
notice, my boy, that I shall now go to work in earnest. What you
have so frankly told me compels me to anticipate as much as possible,
and to urge, as rapidly as I can, an affair about which I had
meant to be deliberate. You, meanwhile, will do your best, and if
you can win the girl, in spite of all that I can do for Ned, then it
will prove that she is the proper person for you; and your success
shall be as satisfactory to me as to yourself. Nay, further, Dick, if
money can help you to a start in the world with Beatrice, you
shall have it. I can spare to you, without making bare myself,
and Ned, I'm sure, will do his part. Do your devoir, therefore, my
boy, with all your skill and spirit, as I am in honour bound to do
mine, and, as the old judges cried out in the courts of chivalry,
`God defend the right!' What's the old Norman French of it?
But, d—n the French of it! The English is good enough for my
purpose! Go ahead bravely,—there shall be no want of money,
Dick, for your progress, and we shall both equally acknowledge
that vital maxim to which our English ancestors owe, perhaps,
nine-tenths of their successes—`fair play!'”

The old man seized my hand, and shook it with a sternly sincere
emphasis. I answered the grasp with like fervour, but I could say
nothing. I was very deeply touched with his nobleness and
generosity. Certainly, with all his prejudices, the Major is one of
the most noble specimens of modern manhood.

“And now, Dick,” said he, “to bed. Finish your punch, and
we'll be off. We must rise by daylight for the hunt to-morrow.
`This day a deer must die!'”

And he went off humming the ballad.