One great reason of the ascendency which Clayton had thus far gained over her, was that his nature, so quiet, speculative, and undemonstrative, always left her such perfect liberty to follow the more varying moods of her own. A man of a different mould would have sought to awake her out of the trance—would have remarked on her abstracted manner, or rallied her on her silence. Clayton merely mounted his horse and rode quietly by her side, while Harry, passing on before them, was soon out of sight.
They rode on in silence, till their horses' feet again clattered in the clear, pebbly water of the stream. Here Nina checked her horse; and, pointing round the circle of pine forests, and up the stream, overhung with bending trees and branches, said:
"Hush!—listen!" Both stopped, and heard the swaying of the pine-trees, the babble of the waters, the cawing of distant crows, and the tapping of the woodpecker.
"How beautiful everything is!" she said. "It seems to me so sad that people must die! I never saw anybody dead before, and you don't know how it makes me feel! To think that that poor woman was just such a girl as I am, and used to be just so full of life, and never thought any more than I do that she should lie there all cold and dead! Why is it things are made so beautiful, if we must die?"
"Remember what you said to the old man, Miss Nina. Perhaps she sees more beautiful things, now."
"In heaven? Yes; I wish we knew more about heaven, so that it would seem natural and home-like to us, as this world does. As for me, I can't feel that I ever want to leave this world—I enjoy living so much! I can't forget how cold her hand was! I never felt anything like that cold!"
In all the varying moods of Nina, Clayton had never seen anything that resembled this. But he understood the peculiar singleness and earnestness of nature which made any one idea, or impression, for a time absolute in her mind. They turned their horses into the wood-path, and rode on in silence.
"Do you know," said she, "it's such a change coming from New York to live here? Everything is so unformed, so wild, and so lonely! I never saw anything so lonesome as thesewoods are. Here you can ride miles and miles, hours and hours, and hear nothing but the swaying of the pine-trees, just as you hear it now. Our place (you never were there, were you?) stands all by itself, miles from any other; and I've been for so many years used to a thickly-settled country, that it seems very strange to me. I can't help thinking things look rather deserted and desolate, here. It makes me rather sober and sad. I don't know as you'll like the appearance of our place. A great many things are going to decay about it; and yet there are some things that can't decay; for papa was very fond of trees and shrubbery, and we have a good deal more of them than usual. Are you fond of trees?"
"Yes; I'm almost a tree-worshipper. I have no respect for a man who can't appreciate a tree. The only good thing I ever heard of Xerxes was, that he was so transported with the beauty of a plane-tree, that he hung it with chains of gold. This is a little poetical island in the barbarism of those days."
"Xerxes!" said Nina. "I believe I studied something about him in that dismal, tedious history at Madame Ardaine's; but nothing so interesting as that, I'm sure. But what should he hang gold chains on a tree for?"
"'Twas the best way he knew of expressing his good opinion."
"Do you know," said Nina, half checking her horse, suddenly, "that I never had the least idea that these men were alive that we read about in these histories, or that they had any feelings like ours? We always studied the lessons, and learnt the hard names, and how forty thousand were killed on one side, and fifty thousand on the other; and we don't know any more about it than if we never had. That's the way we girls studied at school, except a few 'poky' ones, who wanted to be learned, or meant to be teachers."
"An interestingrésumé, certainly," said Clayton, laughing.
"But how strange it is," said Nina, "to think that all those folks we read about are alivenow, doing something somewhere; and I get to wondering where they are—Xerxes, and Alexander, and the rest of them. Why, they were so full of life they kept everything in commotion while in this world; and I wonder if they have been keeping a going ever since. Perhaps Xerxeshas been looking round atourtrees—nobody knows. But here we are coming now to the beginning of our grounds. There, you see that holly-hedge! Mamma had that set out. She travelled in England, and liked the hedges there so much that she thought she would see what could be done with our American holly. So she had these brought from the woods, and planted. You see it all grows wild, now, because it hasn't been cut for many years. And this live-oak avenue my grandfather set out. It's my pride and delight."
As she spoke, a pair of broad gates swung open, and they cantered in beneath the twilight arches of the oaks. Long wreaths of pearly moss hung swinging from the branches, and, although the sun now was at high noon, a dewy, dreamy coolness seemed to rustle through all the leaves. As Clayton passed in, he took off his hat, as he had often done in foreign countries in cathedrals.
"Welcome to Canema!" said she, riding up to him, and looking up frankly into his face.
The air, half queenly, half childish, with which this was said, was acknowledged by Clayton with a grave smile, as he replied, bowing,—
"Thank you, madam."
"Perhaps," she added, in a grave tone, "you'll be sorry that you ever came here."
"What do you mean by that?" he replied.
"I don't know; it just came into my head to say it. We none of us ever know what's going to come of what we do."
At this instant, a violent clamor, like the cawing of a crow, rose on one side of the avenue; and the moment after Tomtit appeared, caricoling, and cutting a somerset; his curls flying, his cheeks glowing.
"Why, Tomtit, what upon earth is this for?" said Nina.
"Laws, missis, deres been a gen'elman waiting for you at the house these two hours. And missis, she's done got on her best cap, and gone down in the parlor for him."
Nina felt herself blush to the roots of her hair, and was vexed and provoked to think she did so. Involuntarily her eyes met Clayton's. But he expressed neither curiosity nor concern.
"What a pretty drapery this light moss makes!" said he. "I wasn't aware that it grew so high up in the state."
"Yes; it is very pretty," said Nina, abstractedly.
Clayton, however, had noticed both the message and the blush, and was not so ill-informed as Nina supposed as to the whole affair, having heard from a New York correspondent of the probability that an arrival might appear upon the field about this time. He was rather curious to watch the development produced by this event. They paced up the avenue, conversing in disconnected intervals, till they came out on the lawn which fronted the mansion—a large, gray, three-story building, surrounded on the four sides by wide balconies of wood. Access was had to the lower of these by a broad flight of steps. And there Nina saw, plain enough, her Aunt Nesbit in all the proprieties of cap and silk gown, sitting, making the agreeable to Mr. Carson.
Mr. Frederic Augustus Carson was one of those nice little epitomes of conventional society, which appear to such advantage in factitious life, and are so out of place in the undress, sincere surroundings of country life. Nina had liked his society extremely well in the drawing-rooms and opera-houses of New York. But, in the train of thought inspired by the lonely and secluded life she was now leading, it seemed to her an absolute impossibility that she could, even in coquetry and in sport, have allowed such an one to set up pretensions to her hand and heart. She was vexed with herself that she had done so, and therefore not in the most amiable mood for a meeting. Therefore, when, on ascending the steps, he rushed precipitately forward, and, offering his hand, called her Nina, she was ready to die with vexation. She observed, too, a peculiar swelling and rustling of Aunt Nesbit's plumage,—an indescribable air of tender satisfaction, peculiar to elderly ladies who are taking an interest in an affair of the heart, which led her to apprehend that the bachelor had commenced operations by declaring his position to her. 'Twas with some embarrassment that Nina introduced Mr. Clayton, whom Aunt Nesbit received with a most stately curtsey, and Mr. Carson with a patronizing bow.
"Mr. Carson has been waiting for you these two hours," said Aunt Nesbit.
"Very warm riding, Nina," said Mr. Carson, observing her red cheeks. "You've been riding too fast, I fear. You mustbe careful of yourself. I've known people bring on very grave illnesses by over-heating the blood!"
Clayton seated himself near the door, and seemed to be intent on the scene without. And Carson, drawing his chair close to Nina, asked, in a confidential under-tone,—
"Who is that gentleman?"
"Mr. Clayton, of Claytonville," said Nina, with as muchhauteuras she could assume.
"Ah, yes!—Hem!—hem! I've heard of the family—a very nice family—a very worthy young man—extremely, I'm told. Shall be happy to make his acquaintance."
"I beg," said Nina, rising, "the gentlemen will excuse me a moment or two."
Clayton replied by a grave bow, while Mr. Carson, with greatempressement, handed Nina to the door. The moment it was closed, she stamped, with anger, in the entry.
"The provoking fool! to take these airs with me! And I, too—I deserve it! What on earth could make me think I could tolerate that man?"
As if Nina's cup were not yet full, Aunt Nesbit followed her to her chamber with an air of unusual graciousness.
"Nina, my dear, he has told me all about it! and I assure you I'm very much pleased with him!"
"Told you all aboutwhat?" said Nina.
"Why, your engagement, to be sure! I'm delighted to think you've done so well! I think your Aunt Maria, and all of them, will be delighted! Takes a weight of care off my mind!"
"I wish you wouldn't trouble yourself about me, or my affairs, Aunt Nesbit!" said Nina. "And, as for this old pussy-cat, with his squeaking boots, I won't have him purring roundme, that's certain!Soprovoking, to take that way towards me! Call me Nina, and talk as though he were lord paramount of me, and everything here! I'll let him know!"
"Why, Nina! Seems to me this is very strange conduct! I am very much astonished at you!"
"I dare say you are, aunt! I never knew the time I didn't astonish you! But this man I detest!"
"Well, then, my dear, what were you engaged to him for?"
"Engaged!Aunt, for pity's sake, do hush! Engaged! Ishould like to know what a New York engagement amounts to! Engaged at the opera!—Engaged for a joke! Why, he was my bouquet-holder! The man is just an opera libretto! He was very useful in his time. But who wants him afterwards?"
"But, my dear Nina, this trifling with gentlemen's hearts!"
"I'll warrant his heart! It's neither sugar nor salt, I'll assure you. I'll tell you what, aunt, he loves good eating, good drinking, nice clothes, nice houses, and good times generally! and he wants a pretty wife as a part of a whole; and he thinks he'll take me. But he is mistaken. Calling me 'Nina,' indeed! Just let me have a chance of seeing him alone! I'll teach him to call me 'Nina'! I'll let him know how things stand!"
"But, Nina, you must confess you've given him occasion for all this."
"Well, supposing I have? I'll give him occasion for something else, then!"
"Why, my dear," said Aunt Nesbit, "he came on to know when you'll fix the day to be married!"
"Married! Oh, my gracious! Just think of the creature's talking about it! Well, itismy fault, as you say; but I'll do the best I can to mend it."
"Well, I'm really sorry for him," said Aunt Nesbit.
"You are, aunt? Why don't youtakehim yourself, then? You are as young and good-looking as he is."
"Nina, how you talk!" said Aunt Nesbit, coloring and bridling. "Therewasa time when I wasn't bad-looking, to be sure; but that's long since past."
"Oh, that's because you always dress in stone-color and drab," said Nina, as she stood brushing and arranging her curls. "Come, now, and go down, aunt, and do the best you can till I make my appearance. After all, as you say, I'm the most to blame. There's no use in being vexed with the old soul. So, aunt, do be as fascinating as you can; see if you can't console him. Only remember howyouused to turn off lovers, when you were of my age."
"And who is this other gentleman, Nina?"
"Oh, nothing, only he is a friend of mine. A very good man—good enough for a minister, any day, aunt, and not so stupid as good people generally are, either."
"Well, perhaps you are engaged tohim?"
"No, I am not; that is to say, I won't be to anybody. This is an insufferable business! IlikeMr. Clayton, because he can let me alone, don't look at me in that abominably delighted way all the time, and dance about, calling meNina! He and I are very good friends, that's all. I'm not going to have any engagementsanywhere."
"Well, Nina, I'll go down, and you make haste."
While the gentlemen and Aunt Nesbit were waiting in the saloon, Carson made himself extremely happy and at home. It was a large, cool apartment, passing, like a hall, completely through the centre of the house. Long French windows, at either end, opened on to balconies. The pillars of the balconies were draped and garlanded with wreaths of roses now in full bloom. The floor of the room was the polished mosaic of different colors to which we have formerly alluded. Over the mantel-piece was sculptured in oak the Gordon arms. The room was wainscoted with dark wood, and hung with several fine paintings, by Copley and Stuart, of different members of the family. A grand piano, lately arrived from New York, was the most modern-looking article in the room. Most of the furniture was of heavy dark mahogany, of an antique pattern. Clayton sat by the door, still admiring the avenue of oaks which were to be seen across the waving green of the lawn.
In about half an hour Nina reappeared in a flossy cloud of muslin, lace, and gauzy ribbons. Dress was one of those accomplishments for which the little gypsy had a natural instinct; and, without any apparent thought, she always fell into that kind of color and material which harmonized with her style of appearance and character. There was always something floating and buoyant about the arrangement of her garments and drapery; so that to see her move across the floor gave one an airy kind of sensation, like the gambols of thistle-down. Her brown eyes had a peculiar resemblance to a bird's; and this effect was increased by a twinkling motion of the head, and a fluttering habit of movement peculiar to herself; so that when she swept by in rosy gauzes, and laid one ungloved hand lightly on the piano, she seemed to Clayton much like some saucy bird—very good indeed if let alone, but ready to fly on the slightest approach.
Clayton had the rare faculty of taking in every available point of observation, without appearing to stare.
"'Pon my word, Nina," said Mr. Carson, coming towards her with a most delighted air, "you look as if you had fallen out of a rainbow!"
Nina turned away very coolly, and began arranging her music.
"Oh, that's right!" said Carson; "give us one of your songs. Sing something from the Favorita. You know it's my favorite opera," said he, assuming a most sentimental expression.
"Oh, I'm entirely out of practice—I don't sing at all. I'm sick of all those opera-songs!" And Nina skimmed across the floor, and out of the open door by which Clayton was lounging, and began busying herself amid the flowers that wreathed the porch. In a moment Carson was at her heels; for he was one of those persons who seem to think it a duty never to allow any one to be quiet, if they can possibly prevent it.
"Have you ever studied the language of flowers, Nina?" said he.
"No, I don't like to study languages."
"You know the signification of a full-blown rose?" said he, tenderly presenting her with one.
Nina took the rose, coloring with vexation, and then, plucking from the bush a rose of two or three days' bloom, whose leaves were falling out, she handed it to him, and said,—
"Do you understand the signification of this?"
"Oh, you have made an unfortunate selection! This rose is all falling to pieces!" said Mr. Carson, innocently.
"So I observed," said Nina, turning away quickly; then, making one of her darting movements, she was in the middle of the saloon again, just as the waiter announced dinner.
Clayton rose gravely, and offered his arm to Aunt Nesbit; and Nina found herself obliged to accept the delighted escort of Mr. Carson, who, entirely unperceiving, was in the briskest possible spirits, and established himself comfortably between Aunt Nesbit and Nina.
"You must find it very dull here—very barren country, shockingly so! What do you find to interest yourself in?" said he.
"Will you take some of this gumbo?" replied Nina.
"I always thought," said Aunt Nesbit, "it was a good plan for girls to have a course of reading marked out to them when they left school."
"Oh, certainly," said Carson. "I shall be happy to mark out one for her. I've done it for several young ladies."
At this moment Nina accidentally happened to catch Clayton's eye, which was fixed upon Mr. Carson with an air of quiet amusement greatly disconcerting to her.
"Now," said Mr. Carson, "I have no opinion of makingbluesof young ladies; but still, I think, Mrs. Nesbit, that a little useful information adds greatly to their charms. Don't you?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Nesbit. "I've been reading 'Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,' lately."
"Yes," said Nina, "aunt's been busy about that ever since I can remember."
"That's a very nice book," said Mr. Carson, looking solemnly at Nina; "only, Mrs. Nesbit, an't you afraid of the infidel principle? I think, in forming the minds of the young, you know, one cannot be too careful."
"Why, he struck me as a very pious writer!" said Aunt Nesbit, innocently. "I'm sure, he makes the most religious reflections, all along. I liked him particularly on that account."
It seemed to Nina that, without looking at Clayton, she was forced to meet his eye. No matter whether she directed her attention to the asparagus or the potatoes, it was her fatality always to end by a rencounter with his eye; and she saw, for some reason or other, the conversation was extremely amusing to him.
"For my part," said Nina, "I don't know what sort of principles Aunt Nesbit's history, there, has; but one thing I'm pretty certain of,—thatI'm not in any danger from any such thick, close-printed, old, stupid-looking books as that. I hate reading, and I don't intend to have my mind formed; so that nobody need trouble themselves to mark out courses for me! What is it to me what all these old empires have been, a hundred years ago? It is as much as I can do to attend to what is going on now."
"For my part," said Aunt Nesbit, "I've always regretted that I neglected the cultivation of my mind when I was young. I was like Nina, here, immersed in vanity and folly."
"People always talk," said Nina, reddening, "as if there was but one kind of vanity and folly in the world. I think there can be as much learned vanity and folly as we girls have!" And she looked at Clayton indignantly, as she saw him laughing.
"I agree with Miss Gordon, entirely. There is a great deal of very stupid respectable trifling, which people pursue under the head of courses of reading," he said. "And I don't wonder that most compends of history which are studied in schools should inspire any lively young lady with a life-long horror, not only of history, but of reading."
"Do you think so?" said Nina, with a look of inexpressible relief.
"I do, indeed," said Clayton. "And it would have been a very good thing for many of our historians, if they had been obliged to have shaped their histories so that they would interest a lively school-girl. We literary men, then, would have found less sleepy reading. There is no reason why a young lady, who would sit up all night reading a novel, should not be made to sit up all night with a history. I'll venture to say there's no romance can come up to the gorgeousness and splendor, and the dramatic power, of things that really have happened. All that's wanting is to have it set before us with an air of reality."
"But, then," said Nina, "you'd have to make the history into a romance."
"Well, a good historical romance is generally truer than a dull history; because it gives some sort of conception of the truth; whereas, the dull history gives none."
"Well, then," said Nina, "I'll confess, now, that about all the history I do know has been got from Walter Scott's novels.Ialways told our history-teacher so; but she insisted upon it that it was very dangerous reading."
"For my part," said Mrs. Nesbit, "I've a great horror of novel-reading, particularly for young ladies. It did me a great deal of harm when I was young. It dissipates the mind; it gives false views of life."
"Oh, law!" said Nina. "We used to write compositions about that, and I've got it all by heart—how it raises false expectations, and leads people to pursue phantoms, rainbows, and meteors, and all that sort of thing!"
"And yet," said Clayton, "all these objections would lie againstperfectlytrue history, and the more so just in proportion to its truth. If the history of Napoleon Bonaparte were graphically and minutely given, it would lie open to the very same objections. It would produce the very same cravings for something out of the commonplace course of life. There would be the same dazzling mixture of bad and good qualities in the hero, and the same lassitude and exhaustion after the story was finished. And common history does not do this, simply because it is not true—does not produce a vivid impression of the reality as it happened."
Aunt Nesbit only got an indefinite impression, from this harangue, that Clayton was defending novel-reading, and felt herself called to employ her own peculiar line of reasoning to meet it, which consisted in saying the same thing over and over, at regular intervals, without appearing to hear or notice anything said in reply. Accordingly, she now drew herself up, with a slightly virtuous air, and said to Mr. Clayton,—
"I must say, after all, that I don't approve of novel-reading. It gives false views of life, and disgusts young people with their duties."
"I was only showing, madam, that the same objection would apply to the best-written history," said Clayton.
"I think novel-reading does a great deal of harm," rejoined Aunt Nesbit. "I never allow myself to read any work of fiction. I'm principled against it."
"For my part," said Nina, "I wish I could find that kind of history you are speaking of; I believe I could read that."
"'Twould be very interesting history, certainly," said Mr. Carson. "I should think it would prove a very charming mode of writing. I wonder somebody don't produce one."
"For my part," said Aunt Nesbit, "I confine myself entirely to what is practically useful. Useful information is all I desire."
"Well, I suppose, then, I'm very wicked," said Nina; "butI don't like anything useful. Why, I've sometimes thought, when I've been in the garden, that the summer-savory, sage, and sweet-marjoram, were just as pretty as many other flowers; and I couldn't see any reason why I shouldn't like a sprig of one of them for a bouquet, except that I've seen them used for stuffing turkeys. Well, now, that seems very bad of me, don't it?"
"That reminds me," said Aunt Nesbit, "that Rose has been putting sage into this turkey again, after all that I said to her. I believe she does it on purpose."
At this moment Harry appeared at the door, and requested to speak to Nina.
After a few moments' whispered conversation, she came back to the table, apparently disconcerted.
"I'm so sorry—so very sorry!" she said. "Harry has been riding all round the country to find a minister to attend the funeral, this evening. It will be such a disappointment to that poor fellow! You know the negroes think so much of having prayers at the grave!"
"If no one else can be found to read prayers, I will," said Clayton.
"Oh, thank you! will you, indeed?" said Nina. "I'm glad of it, now, for poor Tiff's sake. The coach will be out at five o'clock, and we'll ride over together, and make as much of a party as we can."
"Why, child," said Aunt Nesbit to Nina, after they returned to the parlor, "I did not know that Mr. Clayton was an Episcopalian."
"He isn't," said Nina. "He and his family all attend the Presbyterian church."
"How strange that he should offer to read prayers!" said Aunt Nesbit. "I don't approve of such things, for my part."
"Such things as what?"
"Countenancing Episcopal errors. If we are right, they are wrong, and we ought not to countenance them."
"But, aunt, the burial-service is beautiful."
"Don't approve of it!" said Aunt Nesbit.
"Why, you know, as Clayton isn't a minister, he would not feel like making an extempore prayer."
"Shows great looseness of religious principle," said Aunt Nesbit. "Don't approve of it!"
The golden arrows of the setting sun were shooting hither and thither through the pine woods, glorifying whatever they touched with a life not its own. A chorus of birds were pouring out an evening melody, when a little company stood around an open grave. With instinctive care for the feeling of the scene, Nina had arrayed herself in a black silk dress, and plain straw bonnet with black ribbon—a mark of respect to the deceased remembered and narrated by Tiff for many a year after.
Cripps stood by the head of the grave, with that hopeless, imbecile expression with which a nature wholly gross and animal often contemplates the symbols of the close of mortal existence. Tiff stood by the side of the grave, his white hat conspicuously draped with black crape, and a deep weed of black upon his arm. The baby, wrapped in an old black shawl, was closely fondled in his bosom, while the two children stood weeping bitterly at his side. The other side of the grave stood Mr. Carson and Mr. Clayton, while Milly, Harry, and several plantation slaves, were in a group behind.
The coffin had been opened, that all might take that last look, so coveted, yet so hopeless, which the human heart will claim on the very verge of the grave. It was but a moment since the coffin had been closed; and the burst of grief which shook the children was caused by that last farewell. As Clayton, in a musical voice, pronounced the words, "I am the resurrection and the life," Nina wept and sobbed as if the grief had been her own; nor did she cease to weep during the whole touching service. It was the same impulsive nature which made her so gay in other scenes that made her so sympathetic here. When the whole was over, she kissed the children, and, shaking hands with old Tiff, promised to come and see them on the morrow.After which, Clayton led her to the carriage, into which he and Carson followed her.
"Upon my word," said Carson, briskly, "this has been quite solemn! Really, a very interesting funeral, indeed! I was delighted with the effect of our church service; in such a romantic place, too! 'Twas really very interesting. It pleases me, also, to see young ladies in your station, Nina, interest themselves in the humble concerns of the poor. If young ladies knew how much more attractive it made them to show a charitable spirit, they would cultivate it more. Singular-looking person, that old negro! Seems to be a good creature. Interesting children, too! I should think the woman must have been pretty when she was young. Seen a great deal of trouble, no doubt, poor thing! It's a comfort to hope she is better off now."
Nina was filled with indignation at this monologue; not considering that the man was giving the very best he had in him, and laboring assiduously at what he considered his vocation, the prevention of half an hour of silence in any spot of earth where he could possibly make himself heard. The same excitement which made Nina cry made him talk. But he was not content with talking, but insisted upon asking Nina, every moment, if she didn't think it an interesting occasion, and if she had not been much impressed.
"I don't feel like talking, Mr. Carson," said Nina.
"Oh—ah—yes, indeed! You've been so deeply affected—yes. Naturallydoesincline one to silence. Understand your feelings perfectly. Very gratifying to me to see you take such a deep interest in your fellow-creatures."
Nina could have pushed him out of the carriage.
"For my part," continued Carson, "I think we don't reflect enough about this kind of thing—I positively don't. It really is useful sometimes to have one's thoughts turned in this direction. It does us good."
Thus glibly did Carson proceed to talk away the impression of the whole scene they had witnessed. Long before the carriage reached home, Nina had forgotten all her sympathy in a tumult of vexation. She discovered an increasing difficulty in making Carson understand, by any degree of coolness, that he was not acceptable; and saw nothing before her but explanationsin the very plainest terms, mortifying and humiliating as that might be. His perfect self-complacent ease, and the air with which he constantly seemed to appropriate her as something which of right belonged to himself, filled her with vexation. But yet her conscience told her that she had brought it upon herself.
"I won't bear this another hour!" she said to herself, as she ascended the steps toward the parlor. "All this before Clayton too! What must he think of me?" But they found tea upon the table and Aunt Nesbit waiting.
"It's a pity, madam, you were not with us. Such an interesting time!" said Mr. Carson, launching, with great volubility, into the tide of discourse.
"It wouldn't have done for me at all," said Mrs. Nesbit. "Being out when the dew falls, always brings on hoarseness. I have been troubled in that way these two or three years. Now I have to be very careful. Then I'm timid about riding in a carriage with John's driving."
"I was amused enough," said Nina, "with Old Hundred's indignation at having to get out the carriage and horses to go over to what he called a 'cracker funeral.' I really believe, if he could have upset us without hurting himself, he would have done it."
"For my part," said Aunt Nesbit, "I hope that family will move off before long. It's very disagreeable having such people round."
"The children look very pretty and bright," said Nina.
"Oh, there's no hope for them! They'll grow up and be just like their parents. I've seen that sort of people all through and through. I don't wish them any evil; only I don't want to have anything to do with them!"
"For my part," said Nina, "I'm sorry for them. I wonder why the legislature, or somebody, don't have schools, as they do up in New York State? There isn't anywhere there where children can't go to school, if they wish to. Besides, aunt, these children really came from an old family in Virginia. Their old servant-man says that their mother was a Peyton."
"I don't believe a word of it! They'll lie—all of them. They always do."
"Well," said Nina, "I shall do something for these children, at any rate."
"I quite agree with you, Nina. It shows a very excellent spirit in you," said Mr. Carson. "You'll always find me ready to encourage everything of that sort."
Nina frowned, and looked indignant. But to no purpose. Mr. Carson went on remorselessly with his really good-hearted rattle, till Nina, at last, could bear it no longer.
"How dreadfully warm this room is!" said she, springing up. "Come, let's go back into the parlor."
Nina was as much annoyed at Clayton's silence, and his quiet, observant reserve, as with Carson's forth-putting. Rising from table, she passed on before the company, with a half-flying trip, into the hall, which lay now cool, calm, and breezy, in the twilight, with the odor of the pillar-roses floating in at the window. The pale white moon, set in the rosy belt of the evening sky, looked in at the open door. Nina would have given all the world to be still; but, well aware that stillness was out of the question, she determined to select her own noise; and, sitting down at the piano, began playing very fast, in a rapid, restless, disconnected manner. Clayton threw himself on a lounge by the open door; while Carson busied himself fluttering the music, opening and shutting music-books, and interspersing running commentaries and notes of admiration on the playing.
At last, as if she could bear it no longer, she rose, with a very decided air, from the piano, and, facing about towards Mr. Carson, said:—
"It looks very beautifully out doors. Don't you want to come out? There's a point of view at the end of one of the paths, where the moon looks on the water, that I should like to show you."
"Won't you catch cold, Nina?" said Aunt Nesbit.
"No, indeed! I never catch cold," said Nina, springing into the porch, and taking the delighted Mr. Carson's arm. And away she went with him, with almost a skip and a jump, leaving Claytontête-à-têtewith Aunt Nesbit.
Nina went so fast that her attendant was almost out of breath. They reached a little knoll, and there Nina stopped suddenly, and said, "Look here, Mr. Carson; I have something to say to you."
"I should be delighted, my dear Nina! I'm perfectly charmed!"
"No—no—if you please—don't!" said Nina, putting up her hand to stop him. "Just wait till you hear what I have to say. I believe you did not get a letter which I wrote you a few days ago, did you?"
"A letter! no, indeed. How unfortunate!"
"Very unfortunate for me!" said Nina; "and for you, too. Because, if you had, it would have saved you and me the trouble of this interview. I wrote that letter to tell you, Mr. Carson, that I cannotthinkof such a thing as an engagement with you! That I've acted very wrong and very foolishly; but that I cannot do it. In New York, where everybody and everything seemed to be trifling, and where the girls all trifled with these things, I was engaged—just for frolic—nothing more. I had no idea what it would amount to; no idea what I was saying, nor how I should feel afterwards. But every hour since I've been home, here, since I've been so much alone, has made me feel how wrong it is. Now, I'm very sorry, I'm sure. But I must speak the truth, this time. But it is—I can't tell you how—disagreeable to me to have you treat me as you have since you've been here!"
"Miss Gordon!" said Mr. Carson, "I am positively astonished! I—I don't know what to think!"
"Well, I only want you to think that I am in earnest; and that, though I canlikeyou very well as an acquaintance, and shall always wish you well, yet anything else is just as far out of the question as that moon there is from us. I can't tell you how sorry I am that I've made you all this trouble. I really am," said she, good-naturedly; "but please now to understand how we stand." She turned, and tripped away.
"There!" said she, to herself, "at any rate, I've doneonething!"
Mr. Carson stood still, gradually recovering from the stupor into which this communication had thrown him. He stretched himself, rubbed his eyes, took out his watch and looked at it, and then began walking off with a very sober pace in the opposite direction from Nina. Happily-constituted mortal that he was, nothing ever could be subtracted from his sum ofcomplacence that could not be easily balanced by about a quarter of an hour's consideration. The walk through the shrubbery in which he was engaged was an extremely pretty one, and wound along on the banks of the river through many picturesque points of view, and finally led again to the house by another approach. During the course of this walk Mr. Carson had settled the whole question for himself. In the first place, he repeated the comfortable old proverb, that there were as good fish in the sea as ever were caught. In the second place, as Mr. Carson was a shrewd business-man, it occurred to him, in this connection, that the plantation was rather run down, and not a profitable acquisition. And, in the third place, contemplating Nina as the fox of old did his bunch of sour grapes, he began to remember that, after all, she was dressy, expensive, and extravagant. Then, as he did not want that imperturbable good-nature which belongs to a very shallow capability of feeling, he said to himself that he shouldn't like the girl a bit the less. In fact, when he thought of his own fine fortune, his house in New York, and all the accessories which went to make up himself, he considered her, on the whole, as an object of pity; and, by the time that he ascended the balcony steps again, he was in as charitable and Christian a frame as any rejected suitor could desire.
He entered the drawing-room. Aunt Nesbit had ordered candles, and was sitting up with her gloves on, alone. What had transpired during his walk, he did not know; but we will take our readers into confidence.
Nina returned to the house with the same decided air with which she went out, and awakened Mr. Clayton from a reverie with a brisk little tap of her fan on his shoulder.
"Come up here with me," she said, "and look out of the library window, and see this moonlight."
And up she went, over the old oaken staircase, stopping on each landing; and, beckoning to Clayton, with a whimsically authoritative gesture, threw open the door of a large, black-wainscoted room, and ushered him in. The room lay just above the one where they had been sitting, and, like that, opened on to the veranda by long-sashed windows, through which, at the present moment, a flood of moonlight was pouring. A large, mahogany writing-table, covered with papers, stood in themiddle of the room, and the moon shone in so brightly that the pattern of the bronze inkstand, and the color of the wafers and sealing-wax, were plainly revealed. The window commanded a splendid view of the river over the distant tree-tops, as it lay shimmering and glittering in the moonlight.
"Isn't that a beautiful sight?" said Nina, in a hurried voice.
"Very beautiful!" said Clayton, sitting down in the large lounging-chair before the window, and looking out with the abstracted air which was habitual with him.
After a moment's thought, Nina added, with a sudden effort,—
"But, after all, that was not what I wanted to speak to you about. I wanted to see you somewhere, and say a few words which it seems to me it is due to you that I should say. I got your last letter, and I'm sure I am very much obliged to your sister for all the kind things she says; but I think you must have been astonished at what you have seen since you have been here."
"Astonished at what?" said Clayton, quietly.
"At Mr. Carson's manners towards me."
"I have not been astonished at all," replied Clayton, quietly.
"I think, at all events," said Nina, "I think it is no more than honorable that I should tell you exactly how things have stood. Mr. Carson has thought that he had a right to me and mine; and I was so foolish as to give him reason to think so. The fact is, that I have been making a game of life, and saying and doing anything and everything that came into my head, just for frolic. It don't seem to me that there has been anything serious or real about me, until very lately. Somehow, my acquaintance with you has made things seem more real to me than they ever did before; and it seems to me now perfectly incredible, the way we girls used to play and trifle with everything in the world. Just for sport, I was engaged to that man; just for sport, too, I have been engaged to another one."
"And," said Clayton, breaking the silence, "just for sport, have you been engaged to me?"
"No," said Nina, after a few moments' silence, "not in sport, certainly; but, yet, not enough in earnest. I think I am about half waked up. I don't know myself. I don't know where orwhat I am, and I want to go back into that thoughtless dream. I do really think it's too hard to take up the responsibility of living in good earnest. Now, it seems to me just this,—that I cannot be bound to anybody. I want to be free. I have positively broken all connection with Mr. Carson; I have broken with another one, and I wish"—
"To break with me?" said Clayton.
"I don't really know as I can say what I do wish. It is a very different thing from any of the others, but there's a feeling of dread, and responsibility, and constraint, about it; and, though I think I should feel very lonesome now without you, and though I like to get your letters, yet it seems to me that I cannot be engaged,—that is a most dreadful feeling to me."
"My dear friend," said Clayton, "if that is all, make yourself easy. There's no occasion for our being engaged. If you can enjoy being with me and writing to me, why, do it in the freest way, and to-morrow shall take care for the things of itself. You shall say what you please, do what you please, write when you please, and not write when you please, and have as many or as few letters as you like. There can be no true love without liberty."
"Oh, I'm sure I'm much obliged to you!" said Nina, with a sigh of relief. "And, now, do you know, I like your sister's postscript very much; but I can't tell what it is in it, for the language is as kind as can be, that would give me the impression that she is one of those very proper kind of people, that would be dreadfully shocked if she knew of all my goings on in New York."
Clayton could hardly help laughing at the instinctive sagacity of this remark.
"I'm sure I don't know," said he, "where you could have seen that,—in so short a postscript, too."
"Do you know, I never take anybody's handwriting into my hand, that I don't feel an idea of them come over me, just as you have when you see people? And that idea came over me when I read your sister's letter."
"Well, Nina, to tell you the truth, sister Anne is a little bit conventional—a little set in her ways; but, after all, a large-hearted, warm-hearted woman. You would like each other, I know."
"I don't know about that," said Nina. "I am very apt to shock proper people. Somehow or other, they have a faculty of making me contrary."
"Well, but, you see, Anne isn't merely a conventional person; there's only the slightest crust of conventionality, and a real warm heart under it."
"Whereas," said Nina, "most conventional people are like a shallow river, frozen to the bottom. But, now, really, I should like very much to have your sister come and visit us, if I could think that she would come as any other friend; but, you know, it isn't very agreeable to have anybody come to look one over to see if one will do."
Clayton laughed at the naïve, undisguised frankness of this speech.
"You see," said Nina, "though I'm nothing but an ignorant school-girl, I'm as proud as if I had everything to be proud of. Now, do you know, I don't much like writing to your sister, because I don't think I write very good letters! I never could sit still long enough to write."
"Write exactly as you talk," said Clayton. "Say just what comes into your head, just as you would talk it. I hope you will do that much, for it will be very dull writing all on one side."
"Well," said Nina, rising, with animation, "now, Mr. Edward Clayton, if we have settled about this moonlight, we may as well go down into the parlor, where Aunt Nesbit and Mr. Carson aretête-à-tête."
"Poor Carson!" said Clayton.
"Oh, don't pity him! Good soul! he's a man that one night's rest would bring round from anything in creation. He's so thoroughly good-natured! Besides, I shall like him better, now. He did not use to seem to me so intrusive and disagreeable. We girls used to like him very well, he was such a comfortable, easy-tempered, agreeable creature, always brisk and in spirits, and knowing everything that went on. But he is one of those men that I think would be really insufferable, if anything serious were the matter with me. Now, you heard how he talked coming from that funeral! Do you know, that if he had been coming frommyfuneral, it would have been just so?"
"Oh, no, not quite so bad," said Clayton.
"Indeed he is," said Nina. "That man! why, he just puts me in mind of one of these brisk blue-flies, whirring and whisking about, marching over pages of books, and alighting on all sorts of things. When he puts on that grave look, and begins to talk about serious things, he actually looks to me just as a fly does when he stands brushing his wings on a Bible! But, come, let's go down to the good soul."
Down they went, and Nina seemed like a person enfranchised. Never had she seemed more universally gracious. She was chatty and conversable with Carson, and sang over for him all her old opera-songs, with the better grace that she saw that Clayton was listening intently.
As they were sitting and conversing together, the sound of a horse's heels was heard coming up the avenue.
"Who can that be, this time of night?" said Nina, springing to the door, and looking out.
She saw Harry hastening in advance to meet her, and ran down the veranda steps to speak to him.
"Harry, who is coming?"
"Miss Nina, it's Master Tom," said Harry, in a low voice.
"Tom! Oh, mercy!" said Nina, in a voice of apprehension. "What sent him here, now?"
"What sends him anywhere?" said Harry.
Nina reascended the steps, and stood looking apprehensively towards the horseman, who approached every moment nearer. Harry came up on the veranda, and stood a little behind her. In a few moments the horse was up before the steps.
"Hallo, there!" said the rider. "Come, take my horse, you rascal!"
Harry remained perfectly still, put his arms by his side, and stood with a frowning expression on his forehead.
"Don't you hear?" said the horseman, throwing himself off, with an oath. "Come here, boy, and take my horse!"
"For pity's sake," said Nina, turning and looking in Harry's face, "don't have a scene here! Do take his horse, quick!Anythingto keep him quiet!"
With a sudden start, Harry went down the steps, and took the bridle from the hand of the newly-arrived in silence.
The horseman sprang up the steps.
"Hallo, Nin, is this you?" And Nina felt herself roughly seized in the arms of a shaggy great-coat, and kissed by lips smelling of brandy and tobacco. She faintly said, as she disengaged herself,—
"Tom, is it you?"
"Yes, to be sure! Who did you think it was? Devilish glad to see me, an't you? Suppose you was in hopes I wouldn't come!"
"Hush, Tom, do! Iamglad to see you. There are gentlemen in there; don't speak so loud!"
"Some of your beaux, hey? Well, I am as good a fellow as any of 'em! Free country, I hope! No, I an't going to whisper, for any of them. So now, Nin— If there isn't old Starchy, to be sure!" said he, as Aunt Nesbit came to the door. "Hallo, old girl, how are you?"
"Thomas!" said Mrs. Nesbit, softly, "Thomas!"
"None of your Thomasing me, you old pussy-cat! Don't you be telling me, neither, to hush! I won't hush, neither! I know what I am about, I guess! It's my house, as much as it is Nin's, and I'm going to do as I have a mind to here! I an't going to have my mouth shut on account of her beaux! So, clear out, I tell you, and let me come in!" and Aunt Nesbit gave back. He pushed his way into the apartment.
He was a young man, about twenty-five years old, who evidently had once possessed advantages of face and figure; but every outline in the face was bloated and rendered unmeaning by habits of constant intemperance. His dark eyes had that muddy and troubled expression which in a young man too surely indicates the habitual consciousness of inward impurity. His broad, high forehead was flushed and pimpled, his lips swollen and tumid, and his whole air and manner gave painful evidence that he was at present too far under the influence of stimulus justly to apprehend what he was about.
Nina followed him, and Clayton was absolutely shocked at the ghastly paleness of her face. She made an uncertain motion towards him, as if she would have gone to him for protection. Clayton rose; Carson, also; and all stood for a moment in silent embarrassment.
"Well, this is a pretty business, to be sure! Nina," said he, turning to her, with a tremendous oath, "why don't you introduce me? Pretty way to meet a brother you haven't seen for three or four years! You act as if you were ashamed of me! Confound it all! introduce me, I say!"
"Tom, don't speak so!" said Nina, laying her hand on his arm, in a soothing tone. "This gentleman is Mr. Clayton; and, Mr. Clayton," she said, lifting her eyes to him, and speaking in a trembling voice, "this is my brother."
Mr. Clayton offered his hand, with the ordinary expressions of civility.
"Mr. Carson," said Nina, "my brother."
There was something inexpressibly touching and affecting in the manner in which this was said. One other person noticed it. Harry, who had given the horse to a servant, stood leaning against the doorway, looking on. A fiery gleam, like that of a steel blade, seemed to shoot from his blue eyes; and each time that Nina said "my brother," he drew in his breath, as one who seeks to restrain himself in some violent inward emotion.
"I suppose you don't any of you want to see me much," said the new-comer, taking a chair, and sitting down doggedly in the centre of the group, with his hat on his head.
"Well, I have as good a right as anybody to be here!" he continued, spitting a quid of tobacco at Aunt Nesbit's feet.
"For my part, I think relations ought to have natural affection, and be glad to see one another. Well, now, you can see, gentlemen, with your own eyes, just how it is here! There's my sister, there. You better believe me, she hasn't seen me for three years! Instead of appearing glad, or anything, there she sits, all curled up in a corner! Won't come near me, more than if I had the plague! Come here, now, you little kit, and sit in my lap!"
He made a movement to pull Nina towards him, which she resisted with an air of terror, looking at her aunt, who, more terrified still, sat with her feet drawn up on the sofa, as if he had been a mad dog. There was reason enough for the terror which seemed to possess them both. Both had too vivid recollections of furious domestic hurricanes that had swept over the family when Tom Gordon came home. Nina remembered the stormsof oaths and curses that had terrified her when a child; the times that she had seen her father looking like death, leaning his head on his hand, and sighing as only those sigh who have an only son worse than dead.
It is no wonder, therefore, that Nina, generally courageous and fearless as she was, should have become fearful and embarrassed at his sudden return.
"Tom," she said, softly, coming up to him, "you haven't been to supper. Hadn't you better come out?"
"No you don't!" said he, catching her round the waist, and drawing her on his knee. "You won't get me out of the room, now! I know what I am about! Tell me," continued he, still holding her on his knee, "which of them is it, Nin?—which is the favored one?"
Clayton rose and went out on the veranda, and Mr. Carson asked Harry to show him into his room.
"Hallo! shelling out there, are they? Well, Nin, to tell the truth, I am deuced hungry. For my part, I don't see what the thunder keeps my Jim out so long. I sent him across to the post-office. He ought to have been back certainly as soon as I was. Oh, here he comes! Hallo! you dog, there!" said he, going to the door, where a very black negro was dismounting. "Any letters?"
"No, mas'r. I spect de mails have gin up. Der an't been no letters dere, for no one, for a month. It is some 'quatic disorganization of dese yer creeks, I s'pose. So de letter-bags goes anywhere 'cept der right place."
"Confound it all! I say, you Nin," turning round, "why don't you offer a fellow some supper? Coming home, here, in my own father's house, everybody acts as if they were scared to death! No supper!"
"Why, Tom, I've been asking you, these three or four times."
"Bless us!" said Jim, whispering to Harry. "De mischief is, he an't more than half-primed! Tell her to give him a little more brandy, and after a little we will get him into bed as easy as can be!"
And the event proved so; for, on sitting down to supper, Tom Gordon passed regularly through all the stages of drunkenness; became as outrageously affectionate as he had been before surly,kissed Nina and Aunt Nesbit, cried over his sins and confessed his iniquities, laughed and cried feebly, till at last he sank in his chair asleep.
"Dar, he is done for, now!" said Jim, who had been watching the gradual process. "Now, just you and I, let's tote him off," said he to Harry.
Nina, on her part, retired to a troubled pillow. She foresaw nothing before her but mortification and embarrassment, and realized more than ever the peculiar loneliness of her situation.
For all purposes of consultation and aid, Aunt Nesbit was nobody in her esteem, and Nina was always excited and vexed by every new attempt that she made to confide in her.
"Now, to-morrow," she said to herself, as she lay down, "no one knows what will turn up. He will go round as usual, interfering with everything—threatening and frightening my servants, and getting up some difficulty with Harry. Dear me! it seems to me life is coming over me hard enough, and all at once, too!"
As Nina said this, she saw some one standing by her bed. It was Milly, who stooped tenderly over her, smoothing and arranging the bed-clothes in a motherly way.
"Is that you, Milly? Oh, sit down here a minute! I am so troubled! It seems to me I've had so much trouble to-day! Do you know Tom came home to-nightsodrunk! Oh, dear Milly, it was horrid! Do you know he took me in his arms and kissed me; and, though he is my only brother, it's perfectly dreadful to me! And I feel so worried, and so anxious!"
"Yes, lamb, I knows all about dese yer things," said Milly. "I's seen him many and many times."
"The worst of it is," said Nina, "that I don't know what he will do to-morrow—and before Mr. Clayton, too! It makes me feel so helpless, ashamed, and mortifies me so!"
"Yes, yes, chile," said Milly, gently stroking her head.
"I stand so much alone!" said Nina. "Other girls have some friend or relation to lean on; but I have nobody!"
"Why don't you ask yourFatherto help you?" said Milly to Nina, in a gentle tone.
"Askwho?" said Nina, lifting up her head from the pillow.
"Your Father!" said Milly, with a voice of solemnity."Don't you know 'Our Father who art in Heaven'? You haven't forgot your prayers, I hope, honey."
Nina looked at her with surprise. And Milly continued, "Now, if I was you, lamb, I would tell my Father all about it. Why, chile, He loves you! He wouldn't like nothing better, now, than to have you just come to Him and tell Him all about your troubles, and He'll make 'em all straight. That's the way I does, and I's found it come out right, many and many a time."
"Why, Milly, you wouldn't have me go to God aboutmylittle foolish affairs?"
"Laws, chile, what should you go to Him 'bout, den? Sure dese are all de 'fairs you's got."
"Well, but, Milly," said Nina, apprehensively, "you know I've been a very bad girl about religion. It's years and years since I've said any prayers. At school, the girls used to laugh at anybody who said prayers; and so I never did. And, since I've neglected my heavenly Father when things went well with me, it wouldn't be fair to call on Him now, just because I've got into trouble. I don't think it would be honorable."
"De Lord bless dis yer chile! Do hear her talk! Just as if de heavenly Father didn't know all about you, and hadn't been a loving and watching you de whole time! Why, chile, He knows what poor foolish creatures we be; and He an't noways surprised, nor put out. Why, laws, don't you know He's de good shepherd? And what you suppose dey has shepherds fur, 'cept de sheeps are all de time running away, and getting into trouble? Why, honey,dat's what dey's fur."
"Well, but it is so long since I prayed, that I don't know anything how to pray, Milly."
"Bless you, chile, who wanted you to pray? I never prays myself. Used to try, but I made such drefful poor work on it that I gin it up. Now, I just goes andtalksto de Father, and tells Him anything and everything; and I think He likes it a great deal better. Why, He is just as willing to hear me now, as if I was the greatest lady in the land. And he takes such an interest in all my poor 'fairs! Why, sometimes I go to Him when my heart issoheavy; and, when I tells Him all about it, I comes away as light as a feather!"
"Well, but, after I've forgotten Him so many years!"
"Why, honey, now just look yere! I 'member once, when you was a little weety thing, that you toddles down dem steps dere, and you slips away from dem dat was watching you, and you toddles away off into de grove, yonder, and dere you got picking flowers, and one thing and another, mighty tickled and peart. You was down dere 'joying yourself, till, by and by, your pa missed you; and den such another hunt as dere was! Dere was a hurrying here, and a looking dere; and finally your pa run down in de woods, and dere you'd got stuck fast in de mud! both your shoes off, and well scratched with briers; and dere you stood a crying, and calling your pa. I tell you he said dat ar was de sweetest music he ever heard in his life. I 'member he picked you up, and came up to de house kissing you. Now, dere 'twas, honey! You didn't call on your pa till you got into trouble. And laws, laws, chile, dat's de way with us all. We never does call on de Father till we gets into trouble; and it takes heaps and heaps of trouble, sometimes, to bring us round. Some time, chile, I'll tell you my sperence. I's got a sperence on this point. But, now, honey, don't trouble yourself no more; but just ask your Father to take care of your 'fairs, and turn over and go to sleep. And He'll do it. Now you mind."
So saying, Milly smoothed the pillow with anxious care, and, kissing Nina on the forehead, departed.