University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
WHAT TURNS UP ON A DRIVE, AND WHO TURNS OVER.

To drive by night, two or four in hand, through our dim but
picturesque avenues of pine, faintly lighted only by moon or stars,
is an operation that is apt to try the nerves and skill of the city
bred Jehu, accustomed only to broad streets, under the full blaze
of gas lamps every fifty yards. But to the country gentleman, the
thing is as familiar as one's garter, and without a thought of accidents,
he will start for home at midnight, the darkest night, or
drive to a frolic five or ten miles off, and never give the mere compassing
of that distance a moment's consideration. Persons bred
in the country see farther and better than citizens. So do sailors.
Neither of these classes, accustomed to broad and spacious land and
water scopes, is ever troubled with the infirmity of nearsightedness.
This belongs wholly to city life, where the eye, from the earliest

period, is made familiar to certain bounds, high-walled streets and
contracted chambers. A faculty grows from its use and exercise,
and is more or less enfeebled by non-user. The eye, tasked only
within certain limits, loses the capacity to extend its range of vision
when the occasion requires it. The muscles contract, and the
shape of the eye itself undergoes a change corresponding immediately
with the sort of use which is given it. But, I digress.

Exercised in the woods, night and day, the country gentleman
never hesitates about the darkness, and starts for home, at all
hours. Nobody, therefore, leaving the party at Mrs. Mazyck's,
between one and two in the morning, ever regarded the lateness of
the hour as a reason for not departing. Some few old ladies remained
at Mazyck Place all night. The rest, in backwoods
parlance, `put out,' as soon as supper was fairly over. Some had
a mile or two only to go, and others found quarters among the
neighbours, as is the custom of the country everywhere in the
South. Others pushed on for home, and some few went probably
eight or ten miles. We had barely five to go, and counted it
as nothing. The night was clear but dark. The stars gave but a
faint light, sprinkling their pale beams upon us through crowding
tree tops. The young moon had gone down early; but the horses
knew the way as well as the driver, or better, and were bound
homewards. Ours was a negro driver, and one of that class, with
owl faculty and visage, which sees rather better in the night than
the day. It was this faculty, rather than his personal beauty,
which secured for Jehu—that was really his name—the honourable
place of coachman to Miss Bulmer. Off we went spinningly,
whirling out of the court and into the open road at a keen pace,
which promised to bear us home in short order. Miss B., well
wrapped up, occupied the back seat of the carriage. I took my
place with Jehu, preferring a mouthful of the cool, bracing air of
morning. Merrily danced the pines beside us,—oaks nodded to
us, doffing their green turbans as we sped; now we rolled through

a little sand hill, now we dashed the waters up from the bottom
of a sandy brooklet. The faint light of the stars gives a strange,
wild beauty to such a scene and drive, and I was lost in mixed
meditations, in which groves were found pleasantly convenient,
and through which I caught glimpses of a damsel, well veiled,
coming to meet me, when I was disturbed in my reveries by Jehu
suddenly pulling up the horses, and coming to a dead halt.

“What's the matter, Jehu?”

“There's a break down here, sir,” quoth he, calling to the boy
to descend, who rode behind the carriage,—“Go look, boy, see
what's happen.”

I could now distinguish a carriage ahead, and a confused group
beyond it. A lantern was borne in the hands of some person who
seemed moving with it across the road. Of course, I leapt down
in a moment, and, begging Miss Bulmer to keep quiet, and bidding
Jehu keep back, I went forward to see into the extent of the
misfortune, and ascertain who were the sufferers by it. This was
quickly known;—but, perhaps, I had better go back in my history,
and report the progress of those whom the matter most concerned.
I give particulars, now, which I gathered subsequently from certain
of the parties.

It appears that, from the moment of starting with his son, Major
Bulmer began reproaching him with his conduct during the evening,
and his neglect of Miss Mazyck. He barely suffered the
buggy to get out of the court yard and into the main road, when
his indignation broke forth into angry words.

“Well, sir; and how do you propose to excuse your conduct this
evening.”

“My conduct, sir? I don't understand you. I really flattered
myself that I had been doing the handsome thing all the evening,
making myself very agreeable all round, and certainly finding a
great deal that was greatly agreeable to myself.”

“You are a puppy, sir, and a fool, with your self-complaisance.
I can tell you that, sir.”

“Choice epithets, certainly, and very complimentary.”

“Well, sir, you deserve them. Why do you provoke me?”

“You provoke yourself, father. Speaking reasonably, sir, I see
nothing of which you can properly complain in my conduct.”

“Indeed, sir; and who, pray, taught you to speak reasonably.
No man, sir, speaks reasonably, unless he thinks rationally.”

“A logical conclusion, truly.”

“So it is,—and no man who acts like a fool, can be held a reasoning
animal.”

“True, again, logically.”

“I say, sir, you are a dolt, a mere driveller, committing suicide
morally, and striving against those who would help you out of
deep water.”

“Who would drown me rather—deny me the privilege to swim
in the places which I most prefer.”

“Hear me, Ned Bulmer,—why do you not listen to what I'm
saying?”

“I have been listening, sir, very patiently. Go ahead!”

“Go ahead! Why will you, sir, knowing your family and
breeding, indulge in those vile samples of Western slang? Speak
like a gentleman, sir, even if you do not understand how to behave
like one!',

Ned said nothing, gave the horse the goad, and waited for the
next volley.

“Well, sir; after what I said to you on our way to Mrs. Mazyck's,—after
a full showing to you of what I desired—what did
you mean, sir, by so entirely slighting my wishes?”

“Your wishes were not mine, sir,” answered Ned very coolly,
“and even if they were, sir, a ball room, though a very good place
for a flirtation, is not exactly the scene for a bona fide courtship.”

“I may grant you that, sir, but I did not ask that you would

would make it the scene of a courtship. I only asked that you
would offer such civilities and attentions to Miss Mazyck,—”

“As she, her mother, and everybody else might construe to
mean courtship.”

“You will oblige me not to finish my sentences for me, sir. I
say, Edward Bulmer, that you were not even decently civil to Mrs.
Mazyck and daughter.”

“There I must deny you, sir. The matter is one of opinion.
I contend that I was as civil, considerate and respectful in my attentions
to both the ladies, as the elder had a right to require, and
the younger desired to receive.”

“And how know you, sir, what the younger desired to receive?”

“By infallible instincts. The fact is, father, it is of no use to
trouble me or yourself in regard to Beatrice Mazyck. I assure
you, sir, that every body sees, if you do not, that another man has
won her heart.”

“You mean Dick Cooper.”

“I do.”

“Well, sir, I have Dick's assurance, from his own lips, that
there have been no love passages between them; that they are entirely
uncommitted to each other.”

“And no doubt what Dick told you, sir, is perfectly true; but
things have changed since your day, sir. People have become
more refined and less formal. It don't need, now-a-days, to make
a declaration in words in order to be understood. In your day,
when all gentlemen were moulded upon one model, and all affections
spoke through one medium, and after a particular form—
when, in fact, the affections were not recognized at all—and when
father or mother could swap off their children as the condition by
which alone they could unite certain acres of swamp and uplands,—
such an intercourse as that of Beatrice Mazzyck and Dick Cooper
would pass for nothing. Mais, nous avons changé tout cela!”

“Ah! d—n that gibberish. Speak in English if you will speak.

Though, by the way, speaking such consummate nonsense and
stuff as you do, perhaps French is the proper dialect. Well, sir,
what more;—use what lingo you please.”

“Oh! sir, any thing to please you. I have few more words to
say; and I do say, that, though no words may have been exchanged
between Beatrice Mazyck and Dick Cooper on the subject, yet
their hearts, sir, are as irrevocably engaged, as if the Reverend Mr.
Hymen, of the old Greek Church, had been called in to officiate.
Hearts, sir, have a language in our day, which was denied them in
yours. Perhaps this is one of the redeeming features of ultra
democracy!”

“You have talked a long farrago of nonsense, Edward Bulmer,
in which, as far as I can perceive, you have aimed at nothing more
than to accumulate together all those topics which, in their nature,
might offend me. I will meditate this hereafter. To make my
complaints of your conduct more specific, why, sir, did you attach
yourself the whole evening to the Bonneau fiction, neglecting
wholly Mrs. Mazyck and her daughter.”

“Your charge is not more specific now than before. It is quite
as easily answered. I join issue with you on the fact, sir.”

“What, do you question my word?”

“No, sir, by no means,—only the correctness of your opinion.”

“Sir, it is a matter of mere testimony. I beheld it with my own
eyes.”

“Your eyes deceived you, father.”

“How, sir? Did you not dance repeatedly with Miss Bonneau?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did you ever dance once with Miss Mazyck?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Well, sir;—yet you persist that you were attentive to the latter
lady.”

“I do, sir, as far as it was possible. I proposed to dance with

her, and she was engaged. This sir, on two occasions—quite often
enough, I think, to try a lady's mood towards you.”

“Edward Bulmer, is it possible that you resort to evasion! Sir,
I know too well what is the practice with young men, where they
wish to escape a duty. In my day, sir, and I confess I was guilty
of this conduct myself, it was not unfrequently the trick—trick, I
I say, sir, trick!—to ask a lady after she was known to be engaged
for the coming set. Now, sir, answer me honestly, was not this
your trick, sir, on this occasion.”

“A practice deemed honourable in your day, cannot surely be
regarded as discreditable; and I have now only to plead your own
example, sir, if I desired to escape your anger. But, in truth, sir,
I did not, on any occasion, know that Miss Mazyck was engaged
to another partner when I asked.”

“But you conjectured it, sir,—you kept off untill the last moment,
sir. You well know that Beatrice Mazyck is not likely to
hang as a wall-flower, and you gave everybody the desired opportunity,
sir. Edward Bulmer, it was a mere mockery of Miss Mazyck,
to solicit her hand when you did.”

“She, I fancy, was very well pleased with that sort of mockery.”

“Sir, did you ever, on any one occasion, offer yourself to her
for the second or third dance, when she pleaded previous engagement.
That, sir, is a common custom with young gentlemen—is
it not.”

“Yes, sir,—and one more honoured in the breach than the observance.
I don't approve of it myself, and don't encourage it in
others.”

“You don't, eh! Well, sir, I made you a special request that
you would see Miss Mazyck to the supper-table. Why did you
not?”

“Dick Cooper was before me, sir.”

'`Dick Cooper before you! Yes, indeed, he will go before you
all your life; That man will be somebody yet. Not a mere Jehu

or Jockey, sir. He will not waste his life among the pumpkins. I
would to God he could drive into your empty noddle some of that
good sense and proper veneration which distinguish himself.”

“Well, sir, you will admit that if I'm unworthy of Miss Mazyck,
he is not.”

“Who says you are unworthy, sir?”

“My humility, sir.”

“D—n your humility. I wish you knew how to exercise it in
the right place. You are a puppy and a scrub, and fit only for
such a petty little French popinjay as that—”

“Stop now, father, or I'll be sure to upset you! If you speak
disrespectfully of Paula Bonneau, you will certainly so outrage my
nervous sensibility, that I shall turn the buggy over into the first
bramble bush that I see; and then, sir, you'll be in the condition of
the man who lost both his eyes in a similar situation. You remember
the pathetic ditty—

But that feat's not to be performed every day. You might try
from bush to bush between here and home, and fail to scratch back
your pupils.”

`'Pshaw—you blockhead! But where the deuce are you driving,
sir? You are out of the road.”

“No, sir,—I am in the road far enough. I confess I'm on the
look-out for the briar patch; and should I see one,—”

“Zounds, man, you are out of the road. I see the track to the
left.”

“No, sir, it runs to the right. I see it well enough. Don't
touch the reins, sir,—you'll do mischief.”

“Do mischief! You would teach your grandmother how to
eat her eggs, would you? Teach me to drive! You would provoke

a saint, Ned Bulmer! Give me the reins, or you will have
us in the woods.”

“Fear nothing, sir; I see exactly where I am going. I see the
road perfectly, every step of it!”

“You see nothing, sir, I tell you, but your own perverse disposition
to foil me in every thing. If I did not know, sir, that you
are a temperate man, I should suspect you of taking quite too
much champagne to-night”

Ned Bulmer could not resist the disposition to chuckle.

“What do you mean by that laugh, sir? There, again,—you
will have us in the woods. It is either your hands that are unsteady,
or it is your horse that shies?”

“Isn't it barely possible, sir, that it is the stars that shy?” was
the response of Ned, conveying thus what was designed to be a
very sly insinuation. But the Major's faculties had not been so
much bedevilled as his eye sight. He caught the equivocal import
of the suggestion in a moment.

“Really, sir, this is most insolent. You are drunk, sir, positively
drunk, and will break both our necks, in this atrocious
buggy. Give me the reins, I tell you.”

“Hold off, father,” cried the son earnestly; “we are going right.
There is no danger, but the road here is narrow and the fence on
the left is pretty close.”

“Fence on the left! Where the d—l do you see any fence on
the left? Where do you think we are, sir?”

This was the first time that Ned suspected that his father's sight
was becoming bad. He knew not whether to ascribe it to his own
age, or that of the wine.

“At Gervais's corner.”

“Pshaw! we have passed it long ago. You are in no condition
to drive. That's plain enough.”

With the words he grasped one of the reins furiously, whirled
the tender-mouthed grey round before Ned could guard against the

proceeding, and in a moment, striking the corner of the rail fence,
the buggy was turned over, and the horse off with it. The Major
made a sudden evolution in the air and came down heavily against
the fence. Ned was pitched in among the pines, on the opposite
side of the road, and both lay for a time insensible.