CHAPTER XI.

Ladies' honours Were ever, in my thoughts, unspotted ermines; Their good deeds holy temples, where the incense Burns not to common eyes. Your fears are virtuous, And so I shall preserve them. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

The happy constitution which had empowered the young artist to contend successfully with fever and phlebotomy, soon enabled him to exchange his quarters under the Captain's roof for those he had occupied so short a time in the cottage of Elsie. This was a change he made with no little reluctance; for, independent of the superior comfort of Gilbert's Folly, there was a charm in the society of the Captain's daughter, which, with all the drawback resulting from the addition of the Captain's company, was not to be replaced by the attractions of the melancholy widow. Nevertheless, a consciousness that his presence at the mansion, however welcome to its inmates, was, at best, an intrusion, soon forced itself upon his mind; he felt that it was highly improper to take advantage of the affection of a whimsical old man, and the kindness of a solitary and almost unprotected girl; and accordingly he revealed the determination he had made to leave them, upon the third visit he made Miss Loring. His resolution was however combated with such violent hostility on the part of the veteran, who commonly devoted three-fourths of his time to expatiating upon the subjects of the three great pictures, and with such agreeable dissuasives on that of the lady, that his resolves easily melted away, and his sojourn was prolonged for a week or more beyond the period of his first visit. At last, however, he grew ashamed of his effeminate abandonment to an enjoyment which he had no right to consider his own; and one morning, having surveyed himself in the glass, and discovered with peculiar satisfaction, that his cheek-bones were burying themselves in their former insignificance, and that his eyes were twinkling again with their natural sunshine, he took the sudden resolution of retreating to the Traveller's Rest that day; and this design, maugre all the furious opposition of the Captain, he was strengthened to put into immediate execution, by the frankly-expressed consent of his fair governor.

"Yes, I will go," he soliloquized, in his chamber, to which he had ascended for the purpose of collecting his scattered moveables; "it is plain enough, the girl is vastly delighted to get rid of me. 'You are now well enough to be released from captivity.' These were her very words; and she smiled as she uttered them, as if my discharge were a deliverance to herself!--Well,--and why should it not be?" he muttered, after a pause; "Why should my presence be a pleasure to her? and why should my departure afflict her? and why should I care whether she be pleased or not? A girl engaged,--betrothed,--and betrothed to a Falconer! Tush, I am a fool. I was a fool to come hither, too. The devil take the wars, and the king's commission into the bargain. I will leave the place--I would my arm were but sound, and I would leave it to-morrow,--ay, I vow I would!

'Oh, the bonny bright island.'--

I wonder she don't sing: for a speaking voice, she has the richest _soprano_,--a _mezzo-soprano_, I think,--I ever heard; it is a positive music, mellow, rich, and wild, like the hum of a pebble in the air, darted out of a sling--a most delicious, wondrous, incomprehensible voice. And then her eyes----Death! what care I for her eyes?

'Oh, the bonny bright island'--

Pshaw! I would I were home again.--Home? _home!_" he muttered, with long pauses betwixt each interjection, and nodding his head the while, as if surprised at his own reflections. Then, as if these silent comets of the brain had returned to the orbit in which they had so lately vapoured, he resumed,--"At all events, old Elsie's is not far off; and in common civility I must call and see her two or three times.----And, besides, I don't see how I can get off without painting the Captain 'that grand picture of the battle of Brandywine, and Tom Loring dying.' What an absurd old fellow!--A precious picture I should make of it! Yet I must do something to requite their kindness.--Kindness! There's no doubt she saved my life. The Captain swears, nothing living that gets into the deep eddy under the fall, can get out living. His cow lay under there three days. To think I was so near my head-and-foot-stone! and to think this girl, this Catherine Loring, saved me from the destiny of a crumpled-horn! The most remarkable, fascinating.----Ah! the island's the place for me, after all.

'Oh, the island! the bonny bright island!'

Well, now she's in the garden among the flowers, and the Captain's taking his siesta. A little medicine, with some of its concomitant starvation, is quite a good thing for the voice."

During all the time of this soliloquy, the young man had ever and anon, sometimes insensibly to himself, been humming the _refrain_ of a familiar air; until at last, being seduced by the sound of his own voice, and betrayed into a mood of melody by his reflections, he gradually fell to humming with more confidence; and, finally, supposing no one to be nigh, he even began to sing, though in a low voice, the following idle stanzas, that had been all the time jingling through his brain.

I.

Oh the island! the bonny bright island! Ah! would I were on it again, Looking out from the wood-cover'd highland, To the blue surge that rolls from the main. How sweet on the white beach to wander, When the moon shows her face on the sea, And an eye that is brighter and fonder, Looks o'er her bright pathway with me!

II.

Oh the island! the bonny bright island! Never more shall I see it again, Never look from the wood-covered highland, To the blue surge that rolls from the main. Never more shall I walk with the maiden, On the beach I remember so well: Farewell to my hope's vanished Eden-- Oh my bonny bright island, farewell!

"Pshaw,--nonsense!" he went on, pursuing his reflections; "'the island, the bonny bright island,' is a very fine thing, but what do I care about it? I wonder if Elsie spoke the truth about the match? If I thought the girl's heart were not in it.--Pshaw again! She is the merriest-hearted creature I ever saw,--only of quick feelings, and strangely attached to the memory of her brother: her eyes always fill when the Captain talks of him--the very name makes the tears start; and good heaven! how superb her eyes look, with tears in them! But then the Captain is poor, and she knows it,--bent upon the match, and she knows that, too; and young Falconer is a soldier, and a handsome fellow, and she knows that, too. And he was here! I wish I had seen him. He has wealth, too--so have _I_; he is gay and handsome--I am neither sour nor ugly.--'Sdeath! where am I getting? I will find out, at least, what are her feelings towards him: if her heart be not in the match, why then.----Could any man stand by and see such a saint of heaven bartered away, sacrificed--sold to tears and captivity?"

Here he fell to musing again, and again his spirits seeking that vent to melancholy, he began to hum an air, extremely mournful, the words of which were in unison with his reflections.

I.

Darkly the wretch that in prison is pining, Turns to the dim, dismal grating his eye; Darkly he looks on the day-star that's shining, The far-soaring eagles that float in the sky. In the pale cheek, so furrow'd and wet, The story of anguish is spoken; The sun of his hope it is set, The wing of his spirit is broken. Darkly the wretch, &c.

II.

Heart! in thy dreary captivity heaving, The fate of the poor, hopeless pris'ner is thine-- To look through a grate at the world thou art leaving, And slowly the long silent sorrow resign. But the vial is emptied at last, The bolts have been shot from the quiver, And the future has buried the past, With the tears of the captive, for ever. Heart! in thy dreary, &c.

Having despatched this second madrigal and his preparations together, he descended into the little apartment in which Miss Loring was wont to while away the time in reading, or plying her needle,--which latter employment she often followed in company with the girl Phoebe and the matron. On these occasions there commonly prevailed a proper degree of female noise and chatter; for which reason such convocations were strictly forbidden during that portion of the afternoon which Captain Loring devoted to napping--not indeed because any sound short of the blast of a trumpet or the roar of a musket, could disturb his slumbers, but because his brain was of too excitable a nature to sink into repose, so long as a single vocal murmur came to his ear. Herman had chosen this period to take his departure, for the sake of avoiding any altercation with his violent host; and he now stepped into the parlour, which opened into the garden, where he expected to find the Captain's daughter. However, he had no sooner entered the apartment, than he saw her therein, sitting by herself, plying her needle with unwonted industry, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Good heavens! Miss Loring," said he, "I hope nothing has happened?"

"By no means," she replied, displaying her countenance frankly, with a smile, and then proceeding, without any embarrassment, to wipe her eyes. "You must know, in the first place, that I come of a tearful tribe, a very lachrymose stock, and shed tears very often for no comprehensible purpose, except to pass the time; and in the second place, I have been paying the auditor's tribute, and rewarding your music with the utmost stretch of sentimentality,--that is to say, by crying. I wonder where you could light upon such melancholy tunes? But I like the last song extremely: that release from captivity,--that ending of

'The tears of the captive for ever,'--

I should suppose you would have sung that line to the gay whistle of a blackbird!"

"I assure you, Miss Loring," said the painter, "my deliverance comes to me with no such spirit of rejoicing. I am ashamed you overheard me--I thought you were in the garden; I would not have otherwise presumed to hum so loud."

"Oh, I like your singing, I protest; and if you remain long enough in the valley, I shall claim a future exertion of the faculty, perhaps even a serenade. But beware of my father; if _he_ discovers this new virtue in you, rest assured, you will have to sing him Yankee Doodle and God Save Great Washington, all day long; and this too," she added with a mirthful smile, "without any hope of escaping from 'that grand picture of the Battle of Brandywine and--and Tom Loring dying.'--Ah, Mr. Hunter," she said, apologetically, for her eyes again glistened, and her lip quivered, as she pronounced the familiar name, "you have perhaps laughed at my father, perhaps you will laugh at me, when you behold our usual insanity on the subject of my brother. But he was one whom it was not easy to forget,--one long to be remembered by both sire and sister.--But I see you are displaying your generalship; you intend to beat a retreat, while the enemy is sleeping. Perhaps you are wise. Richard will have the carriage ready in a few moments."

"Not so, Miss Loring: I will depart on foot, like a pilgrim, as will be best. An unlucky jolt in the carriage over a stone, might bring me under the tender mercies of the doctor again." And he touched his wounded arm significantly.

"You are right," said Catherine, after a pause. "The distance is short; Richard shall escort you, for fear of accident; and Phoebe and myself will add to your retinue as far as the park-gate. Do you really consider yourself equal to the walk?"

"I do," replied the young man; "but pray be not in such a hurry to discharge me. In a very few days,--perhaps as soon as I am able to resume the saddle, I must take up my line of march, (to borrow your military illustration;) from Hawk-Hollow, with but little expectation,--that is, I think so,--of ever seeing it again."

"Must you, indeed? I thought you were to explore every cliff and brook in the county. However, I cannot blame you. I am afraid my father's strange conversation about 'those grand pictures,' must annoy you; and you are right to escape."

"On the contrary, Miss Loring," said the painter, "I am sincerely desirous to gratify him in that fancy; and, though sorely convinced of my inability to paint him any picture worthy acceptance, yet, were my arm well, I should do my best to paint him something; and if I had but a portrait or miniature of your deceased brother for a few hours, to secure a likeness"----

"You must not think of it seriously, Mr. Hunter. It is but a whimsical fancy, which my father will soon forget. There is no portrait of my brother; he was but a boy of eighteen, and his likeness was never painted. Indeed, I wish it had been, for my father's sake."

"Perhaps I can yet gratify him," said the painter. "I owe you a deep debt of gratitude--I have some skill in taking likenesses, and sometimes obtain them, even with but little aid of the sitter. The Captain has averred that you yourself bear an extraordinary resemblance to your brother----Perhaps, perhaps, Miss Loring, if you were to honour me so far--that is to say"----

"Ah!" cried Catherine, with sparkling eyes, "I see! Do you think it possible? I am indeed like my poor brother, if I can trust my own recollections. Do you think it practicable, from _my_ visage, to construct a likeness of my brother's? Then, indeed, I would sit to you, and gladly!"

"With such a resemblance to begin upon," said Herman, greatly pleased with the satisfaction of the young lady, "and the help of your recollections and criticisms, I do not doubt of success; and then the pleasure of presenting such a portrait!"----

"Of _presenting_, Mr. Hunter!" cried Catherine; "we cannot permit you to think of that. We will not convert your gratitude for a slight hospitality into an excuse for taxing your professional exertions."

"Professional, madam?" said the other, with some little petulance; "I hope you will not consider me a mercenary, hireling dauber?"

"A dauber, we hope not,--mercenary, assuredly not;--and hireling is a word not to be applied to one who receives payment for any generous labour," said Catherine. "If you insist upon painting 'the grand picture' for nothing, Mr. Hunter, you will certainly escape from all trouble in relation to it. Not even my father would think a moment of imposing such an unrecompensed task upon you, or such dishonour upon himself."

"You mortify me, Miss Loring," said Herman: "I can scarce call myself a painter by any thing more than inclination. If I have adopted the profession, it is not to make my bread by it; and indeed I can scarce say, I have adopted it at all.--That is," he added, in some confusion, for Catherine regarded him with a look of surprise--"In short, Miss Loring, it has been my good fortune to be put above the actual necessity of adopting this profession, or any other, for my support. I paint, because I love the art, and have nothing better to do; it suits my idle habits. I never have received a recompense for my labour, (you should have called it my amusement, for such it is,) and perhaps I never will;--not that I scorn recompense as being degrading, but because I need it not. The pleasure I feel in the labour is my reward; and I am doubly rewarded, when my poor sketches afford pleasure to those whose good opinion I covet. You have thrown me under obligation, Miss Loring; and I claim of your generosity, or if that word will not be permitted, of your justice, an opportunity to oblige in return."

"Your argument is singular, yet almost conclusive," said Catherine, with a pleasant accent, yet with a more distant air. "And so you are no poor painter--a wandering son of genius--after all; but a knight of romance, roaming the world over, with palette for buckler, and brush and maul-stick in lieu of lance and sword? Really, you have lost much by the transformation: it was a great pleasure to me, to think I could patronise you--encourage an unfriended genius. But now--ah! my folly offends you! I beg your pardon; I will trifle no more."

"I am not offended, Miss Loring," said the youth, who had coloured deeply while she spoke; "but I _did_ think your tone satirical, and indicative of a suspicion that I was not what I profess myself to be. Suffer me then to be a poor painter, as I really am; though not a man in very restricted pecuniary circumstances. I confess, that I was presumptuous, to think you--that is, your father,--would accept any gift at my hands; yet the persuasion that I had it in my power to give you--that is, _him_, a particular gratification, emboldened me to think I might presume to attempt what I thought a mere simple, allowable compliment."

"Pray, Mr. Hunter," said Catherine, "say nothing more about it. I believe you are right, and I wrong. We act here"--and here she smiled as merrily as before--"entirely upon impulses and instincts; and if impulses and instincts be conformable, as doubtless, some day, they will, we will accept the picture as freely as it is offered. But I see you are impatient to go;"--this was a discovery authorized by no particular symptom of dissatisfaction on the part of the painter, who, on the contrary, seemed well pleased to continue the tête-à-tête;--"you are impatient to go, and here comes Phoebe.--Phoebe, my dear, have the goodness to call Richard, to attend Mr. Hunter to Mrs. Bell's.--I am glad to see you walk so firmly, and look so well.--I will positively be your escort to the gate. It becomes me in my function of Lieutenant-commandant; and I will dismiss you with all the honours of war."

Thus speaking, and whiling away the walk with light and joyous conversation, Miss Loring conducted the guest to the park gate; where her eye suddenly caught sight of a little bush, of no great beauty of appearance, but exhaling an agreeable odour. This she instantly began to rob of its branches, expressing pleasure at the discovery.

"It is sweet-fern," she said, in answer to the painter's question, "not very rare, to be sure, but the first specimen that has come into the paddock of its own accord; all the rest I planted myself. Now, sir, this is neither myrtle nor sweet-grass; but it is good to smell at; and in token that my extreme hurry to drive you out of my father's house proceeded from no ill will, but from true benevolence, and as much friendship as one can feel at a week's notice, I present you this same odoriferous plant, and advise you to make a medicine of it. It is said to be a fine tonic and cordial; and, I warrant me, Elsie will know all about it."

"I shall apply it to a better use," said the painter, gaily. "You know, it is fern-seed which enables man to walk invisible.--Now, as a knight of romance, I may have need of such a magical auxiliary."

"Oh, if you laugh at me for that," said Catherine, "I see there is peace between us."

"You could have added but one more injunction," said Herman, "to make the gift agreeable. Had you told me to follow its example--you know it came into the paddock of its own accord!--I should have"----

"Thought me immensely witty," said Catherine. "Certainly, Mr. Hunter, I will expect you to call upon my father if you remain in the valley; and certainly, if he do not fetch you to the Folly to-morrow, I shall be vastly astonished. But pray, sir," she added, observing that the gentleman looked mortified, and abashed, "do not consider such an invitation necessary. A visiter at Gilbert's Folly is too much of a Phoenix--a _rara avis_, I think you scholars call it,--to be turned lightly away. I wish you, sincerely, a happy and speedy recovery.--Good day, sir--I commit you to Richard's keeping."

With these words she turned from the gate, plucked another branch from the fern-bush, and then, with Phoebe, pursued her way back to the house. The painter received her valediction with much less satisfaction than had been produced by the fragrant present. He saw her return to the bush, and then, looking once back, and waving her hand, resume her steps, walking on towards the mansion; and he was himself astonished at the feeling of melancholy that instantly came over his spirit. "What is there in her," he muttered within the recesses of his bosom, "that should interest me so strongly? Why should I be gladdened by the wave of her hand? why darkened at once by the turning away of her face?--She _is_ unhappy after all, whatever skill she may have to conceal it; and, by heaven, it is a piteous thing to ponder on. Well, well.--Such an admirable creature! so gentle, and yet so firm! so frank, yet so modest! so merry, yet so dignified! so natural in manners, yet so refined! so sensitive, yet sensible! so kind,--nay,--openly affectionate of disposition, yet so womanly in all!--sure I shall never more see her equal!"

Thus the young man mused, remaining so long with his eyes following the retreating figure of the young lady, that Richard, the venerable coachman so often mentioned before, thought fit to presume upon the arguments of his age and standing, as a faithful and highly-prized servant, and interrupt the meditations of his charge. He first scraped his feet over the gravelly road, then coughed, then hemmed, and at last opened his lips, and spoke:

"A-well-a, massa Hunta," he said, "werry bad practice this here, 'sposing broken bones in the open air, 'specially when a gemman are sickish-like. No offence, massa,--but why we no go down to Missus Elsie's?"

"Right, Richard, let us go," said Hunter, walking down the hill, but ever and anon casting his eye over his shoulder, as long as Miss Loring was visible, or a single flutter of her garment could be detected among the green shades of the avenue. "How long have you lived with Captain Loring, Richard?"

"Ebber since he wa' born.--Wa' a mighty fine boy, Massa John Loring!"

"Oh, then you were in the family long before Miss Catherine was born?"

"Lorra-golly, yes!" said the negro, with a triumphant grin; "Massa no s'pose young missus born afo' her fader: Lorra-massy, yaugh!"

"An excellent, lovely young mistress!" said the painter.

"Lorra, massa, yes; a lubly young missus; and makes lubly fine hoe-cake, if massa Cap'n would let her.--Old Nance taught her, when she wa' no bigga naw my foot. Massa must know, old Nance wa' _my_ wife Nancy. So't o' nuss'd young missus Katy, for all what missus Aunt Rachel say; always liked old Nance betta, 'case how? Why old Nance larned her all she knew, make hoe-cake, corn-cake, johnny-cake, short-cake, hominy, pie, pone, and cream-cheese."

"Well Richard, and so you are to marry her off, and see her no more?"

"Golly, massa, yes; what for she young lady, if no?"

"And when's the wedding to be, Richard? Merry times you'll have!"

"Lorra, massa, don't know. Some says one day, some anoder. Wa' to been married soon, but faw the white nlgga Gilbert, what cut the Colonel's throat!"

"What, so soon?" said Herman, feeling a sudden thrill run through his frame. "Why, Richard, they were in a hurry, for such young folks. Miss Catherine is only seventeen--a very great hurry!"

"No, massa; long standing 'fair that; and put off, put off, Lorra knows how long; 'case young missus says she too young. Lorra-golly! old Nance wa' but fo'teen o' so; and I reckon there's more naw all that. An old nigga man, what's brought up a gemman, knows what's what!"

"Eh, Richard! you don't say so? You have the secret then? Come now, my old boy, here's a dollar. Come, put it in your pocket."

"Saddy, massa; God blessa massa!"

"Well now, Richard, what's the reason the marriage has been put off?"

"Golly! massa gib me the dolla' to tell?" cried Richard, looking alarmed.

"Certainly, Richard.--It's not a long secret, I hope?"

"Lorra, massa, can't do dat. Gib back a dolla', if massa call him back; but no tell on young missus. Brought up a gemman, massa; and no tell secrets out of the house."

"Oh, well, never mind, Richard; keep the money; I did not want to bribe you to tell any thing improper on your mistress; and I am glad to see you are so honest. It makes no difference: but what's the reason your young mistress does not like the Colonel's son?"

"Not like Massa Harry?" cried the coachman, in great dismay. "Sure old fool Dick no tell massa dat?"

"Oh, no; you kept the secret very well. But it is quite odd the young lady should not like so fine a young man?"

"Yes, massa, wery strange; but women's women, massa. Massa Harry werry fine young man."

"Well!" muttered the painter to himself, "I am playing an honest gentleman's part with this old ass, truly! I'll befool him no more. It is true, then!--even this dolt can tell that his mistress is sacrificed. So young, so fair, so good!--I would I had never seen her."

With such reflections as these, and many others of a painful nature, the young man continued his path; and, finally, having come within a short distance of the hovel, he discharged his attendant, and bade him return to the mansion. He then pursued his way alone, and reaching the solitary cottage, took possession of his former quarters with a sigh, a saddened brow, and a spirit no longer composed and mirthful. The bunch of fern he placed betwixt two leaves of paper, with as much care as became the first tribute to an herbarium.